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fayes-fics · 1 year

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Atonement

Paring: Anthony Bridgerton x fem!reader

Summary: Anthony returns home early and catches you breaking his rules.

Warnings: 18+ smut, minors DNI, light d/s tones, innocence/corruption kink, spanking, fingering, squirting.

Word count: 2.4k. These might as well be subtitled Faye cannot write short Drabbles

Build a blurb prompt: Anthony + 👅 smut + 😇innocence kink + 💦squirting + 🏓 spanking (from @iboopedyournose)

Authors note: Fourth 1k follower celebration fic. Betaed by the fab makaylan. This is for the lovely Emmy as she battles through her finals. I hope you enjoy <3

“Anthony!” you exclaim in shock, rapidly attempting to smooth out the bedding as he strides in, looking very handsome. He’s been away on a trip for three days, less than two weeks into your marriage, and you have missed him terribly.

“Y/n,” he greets, his brow knitting slightly, “not quite the welcome home I was expecting; why did you retire to bed so early?” he asks, obviously expecting to find you downstairs upon his arrival.

You are reluctant to speak the truth. You are not unwell or tired, not even slightly. You retired to bed to think on him, more precisely, to touch yourself and think on him. Even though he asked you not to, expressly saying he wished for you to remain untouched until his return so that you might be mindless for him. Those were the exact words he whispered in your ear as he took you on the morning he left.

He pulls off his jacket and unloops his cravat, looking at you expectantly. Like he is awaiting an answer, or at least for you to get out of bed and greet him. When you do neither, he looks intrigued.

“You seemed to call my name in surprise when I walked in. What exactly did I catch you doing?” his tone is laced with something else you can't put your finger on as he draws closer to the bed.

“Nothing,” you fib, smoothing over the bedding unnecessarily again, the nervous energy and built-up arousal making you fidgety.

“Wife,” he drawls slowly as he reaches the bed. “I know when you are lying to me,” he tuts.

Your cheeks blush hard, but you stay quiet.

“Were you… touching yourself?” Anthony questions, his pitch much lower this time, leaning over and looking deep into your eyes as you instinctually lean further back into the pillows, gripping tightly onto the cover pulled up around your neck.

“You’ve been away for three days, Anthony. I… I… missed you,” you answer honestly but with a hint of a defensive tone, staring up into his eyes.

“Hmmm indeed,” he smirks, lowering his face right over yours so all you see are his beautiful brown eyes blazing at you, making your heart pound in your chest. His gaze falls to your lips briefly, and then his hand rounds behind your neck and cranes you up slightly, your lips meeting. You make a whimper into his mouth as he kisses you fiercely, demanding entry into your mouth and swallowing your little noises. He tastes of cigars and expensive brandy.

“What did I expressly ask you not to do while I was gone?” he questions as he ends the kiss, pulling away slightly with a raised eyebrow and brushing his fingers over your face.

“Touch myself,” you exhale onto his cheek.

“And what did I catch you just doing?” He queries, resting his forehead against yours, licking his lips almost predatory. He knows; you should have guessed.

“You are home earlier than you said you would be,” you whisper, divulging the truth through deflection.

“Indeed. How many times did you touch yourself while I was away? Every night?” His questions are across your lips as you are so close you breathe each other's air, his mouth ghosting over yours as his hands are buried in your hair, holding your head.

You bite your lip.

“More than that?” he intuits. “Dear god, what have I created? I took your innocence a mere two weeks ago, and now you are touching yourself like a harlot. Is that what you are?” Anthony demands, moving to cup your jaw firmly. “Are you a naughty little harlot?” he asks again, his breathing becoming slightly laboured. His pupils dilated. His touch firmer.

“No, husband,” you whisper, this seems to be a new game he wants to play, and you are unsure that is the answer he wants from you. You so desperately want to please him.

“Hmmm, the evidence would suggest otherwise,” he hums and pulls away quickly, yanking back the covers from you.

He gasps raggedly at the sight before him. You are entirely naked save your wedding ring.

“You have been sleeping without a nightgown? Completely nude?” he growls, his eyes finally tearing from ogling your body, returning to your face. His eyes are on fire now.

“Yes, but sometimes… I… sometimes sleep with your shirts; they smell of you,” you confess quickly, lowering your gaze, almost ashamed.

“Wife,” his hand is back on your jaw, tilting your head to look up at him towering over you, standing next to your martial bed. “I think it’s time you learned when I ask you to do so something, you need to obey me. Or there will be consequences,” he warns, his eyes glittering.

You inhale sharply. “What sort of consequences?” you query, something sparking in your belly, a tang in the air that suggests they will be pleasant. His grip on your face tightens, a thumb in the divot under your cheekbone, pressing your cheek against your molar teeth.

“I will need to spank you to atone for your defiance,” he states firmly.

You gasp and stare up at him wide-eyed. You have heard rumours of this from your ladies' maid—husbands who like to provide discipline to their wives via something called ‘spanking’. You only know it as something you experienced as a child as punishment; you assume this must be something different. But you are innocent of what it might entail—yet something hot flares between your legs.

“Turn over,” he says, almost menacing, staring down.

You do as you are told, an oily feeling of fear mingled with suspense low in your belly. A warm hand touches your bare bottom, rubbing a gentle circle.

“What did I tell you not to do, wife?” he challenges his tone a little steely.

“Touch myself,” you breathe against the pillow, craning to look at him over your shoulder.

“That's correct,” his hand moves to your other cheek. “And how many times did you touch yourself while I was away? How many times did you disobey me?”

“Six times,” you exhale.

“Six times in three days?!?” he exclaims. “That is twice a day, my darling little harlot of a wife. Do you know what that means?” he checks, clawing his hand so his fingernails scratch the globe of your bottom.

“No.”

“You get one spank for every time you disobeyed me,” he tuts, “that is six spanks, three on each cheek,” he explains, his tone clipped. He leans down and whispers quickly into your ear. “Should you wish me to stop, dear wife, say red. But I really hope you do not.” As it is muttered, he is back, standing up straight.

You realise he has given you a way to stop the process should you not enjoy it. But an insistent buzz between your legs suggests you at least like the idea.

His hand raises briefly from your skin, then slaps back down, spanking your right cheek.

You squeak in surprise. Your skin tingles where he made contact, and you feel your muscles flex.

“Ohhh,” escapes your lips unsolicited. You realise this is the same action you encountered as a misbehaving child, but this experience is different—something teasing and indeed exciting. Being spanked by your husband naked in bed is a new sensation you find quite intriguing; you definitely don't want him to stop.

“I would like you to count your punishments, wife,” he lectures as his hand gently rubs where the sting fades.

“One,” you reply quickly.

“Good girl,” he compliments, and you feel a flood between your legs at his praise. Nothing brings you more pleasure than pleasing him.

The warmth of his palm is gone again then there is a mirroring smack on your other cheek. The sensation is similar, and you feel a throb at the juncture of your thighs now.

“Two.”

“Excellent. Are you enjoying learning new things, wife?” he buzzes gently, again soothing the sting.

“Yes,” you whisper quietly.

“Mmm, I thought you might.”

Then there is another spank. This one is harder than the last two; back to your other cheek. You jump slightly at the feeling.

“Three.”

Rapidly he repeats the action on the other cheek, hitting the same spot, and you feel warmth spreading there like your skin is blooming a new shade under his attention.

“Four,” you count obediently. This time as Anthony made contact, you pushed your bottom up a fraction, pushed up onto his stroke, and it did not go unnoticed.

“Oh, you are enjoying this, aren't you?” he gloats.

“Yes, husband,” you admit softly, almost ashamed but going with the feeling. He has been the person to teach you that.

“Just two more, then perhaps there is a treat I can give you, seeing as you are doing so very well with your first spanking,” he flatters, his fingers digging into your bottom a fraction as he grips your flesh.

This time you actively jump as his hand slaps onto your cheek with a sound that echoes around the walls of your bed-chamber. You make a noise halfway between a squeal and a groan at the pleasurable pain that radiates from the impact.

“Five,” you choke out.

You puff out a little air to deal with the resulting sting just as you feel his hand slip down between your cheeks and lightly brush your core. You inhale sharply, your legs parting on instinct as you press against his fingers ploughing between your lips and catching against your clit.

“Anthony,” you breathe so, so desperate for him.

“Someone is enjoying their punishment far too much,” he chuckles darkly, bending over and biting your earlobe. “I think you’ll really enjoy what comes next,” is a hot breath against your cheek.

Just as he finishes his promise, he deals your last blow. Again it is loud and on the edge of pain; you feel the sting radiate across your skin as you blow out a breath to lessen the ache.

“Six,” you dutifully end your count with a tremulous exhale.

“Well done,” he lavishes praise, rubbing your sore bottom with soothing strokes as he kisses your shoulder and up your neck to your mouth, your lips meeting in a lingering passionate kiss. “Would you like a little treat for being such a good, dutiful wife?”

Then his hand is slipping between your thighs and forcing them wider apart.

“Keep your head down but bring your knees up, please,” he orders, moving closer to your feet.

You heed his instructions without a second thought. The position feels lewd and vulnerable, your face on the pillow, your hips up high off the bed.

Anthony climbs onto the bed between your legs, and you crane your neck to look around, assuming he will remove his trousers and enter you from behind, as he has done before. You are more than ready for him, aching, in fact, from your enjoyment of the discipline he metered out.

But he does not undress further; instead, he leans over your back and places a kiss there.

“Are you ready to try something new?” he asks gently, his tongue tracing over your spine.

“Yes, husband,” you pant, intrigued.

The fingers of one hand drag across your bottom, then sink between your legs again, teasing your clit, and you gasp and push back against his feather-light touch. As you chase more, he moves, and two fingers slip inside you, sliding deep; you exhale and moan at the sensation. You make a surprised noise as he brushes a particularly sensitive spot, and you feel him chuckle quiet but triumphant against your skin. He shuffles, and suddenly, there is a rocking force on that spot inside.

“Oh my god,” you whisper to yourself as much as him, an entirely different sensation blooming.

You feel his fingers moving in and out of you at rapid speed, the squelching noises he is drawing from your body making you blush even as you push back against his actions. You look around to see a handsome smug smile on his face as he pulls upright.

“How is that wife?” he inquires, his voice a touch breathless from continued exertion.

“What the….” your words die out on a long groan as your channel convulses tightly around his fingers, almost trying to push them out.

Your legs start to twitch and spasm, and he has to remind you to focus, stay up on your knees and open for him. All the while, his fingers push hard, jabbing against a place that feels like a shortcut to your clit.

“Ready?” he warns.

“What on earth for?” you wonder, but the answer comes with actions. You start squealing and clawing at the pillow, gripping the headboard above your head for dear life as your body writhes unbidden, an unrelenting pressure building up inside around his fingers. His thumb now catches your clit and flicks against it rapidly. You feel like you are dandling breathlessly over a precipice but scared to release, something foreign feeling so ready to burst.

“Let it go,” he instructs, and you break—a massive release of white-hot pleasure, exhaling a scream instead of fighting your instincts. Your core pulses in strong waves as you bite the pillow, and shudders wrack all of your limbs. You are floating somewhere both routed within and miles away from your overwrought body.

“Well done, darling, that was perfect,” he praises as you return to the room, feeling a wetness dripping down your thighs. You shift your knee, and it lands on a wet patch of bedding.

“What the…?” you whip around to see Anthony has pulled off his white shirt and is wiping his arm. “Anthony, what was that…?” you demand, “What is all this…?” you curl away from the spot, stunned by what you see.

“That is all you, darling,” he crows, gently manoeuvring your legs so he can wipe down your thighs. He chuckles as you spy the dampness on his trousers. “You made such a beautiful mess everywhere; you should not be ashamed of what happened, what I can make your body do. I could not be prouder,” he smiles.

Still not wholly comprehending, you curl up on your side, feeling spent and exhausted, and he spoons around you.

“Although I will have to sleep on your side of the bed with you tonight, wife, as you have made mine unusable. What a terrible shame,” he smiles warmly against your neck.

“What about you, husband?” you ask drowsily, feeling something hard and hot pressed up against your bottom.

“You can wake me up with your mouth on my cock,” he murmurs gently with a yawn.

“Sounds nice,” you hum sleepily.

“Yes, it truly does,” he opines as you both slip into a slumber wrapped together.

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the-fandom-abyss · 4 months

Note

how about first sentence prompt of "I didn't mean for it to get this far"?

“I didn’t mean for it to get this far” with an eye roll and a scoff, you pushed passed Natasha, reaching for your belongings.

“Like fuck you didn’t. I was only a mission to you” the venom that laced your words was enough to outdo the black widow. It was only in this moment that Natasha fully comprehended the consequences. That you could be lost in the process.

“You were so much more than that” At a gentle attempt to stop you, her hand reached out for your arm. For a second, it held you captive, just enough for it to all sink in. She used you, what’s to say she won’t do it again?

With a shrug of your shoulder, the connection was lost. “Try that bullshit on your next target”

“Please. Don’t go” the waver in her voice, drew your eyes back to her. For the first time since she broke the news, you had looked at her, really looked at her. Tears threatened to spill, her fingers anxiously fiddled with her rings, her posture was curled within. This was far from the Natasha you knew, but did you even know the real version?

1k Follower Celebration

#natasha romanoff imagine #natasha romanoff x reader #black widow imagine #black widow x reader #marvel imagine #marvel x reader #first sentence prompt #1k follower celebration #1k celebration

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burning-academia-if · 5 months

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1k follower celebration: Rook's short story

Word count: 4.5k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a boy who almost stood a chance.

CW: While violence is not shown on page, this deals heavily with child abuse and PTSD.

A/N: Quick crash course on magic: there are two types of magicians. Heart magicians whose magic is from emotions and Soul magicians whose magic is from core beliefs/morals. You'll learn more in game, but that's what you need to know for this to make sense lol. Hope you enjoy the first story!

At some point he considered the fall. With eyes glazed over, forehead resting against the cold glass of a dusty window. His breath created a consistent fog. The endless arguing in the next room created a hellish ambiance.

He could already imagine what it was his mother was saying, as muffled as her voice was. He was not, and would never be, another second-rate child overflowing with unstable magic. He did not shatter all the windows in a room because of a fatal miscalculation. She would not be paying for damages.

It wouldn’t be far if he jumped, and it wasn’t like he didn’t know how to catch himself. The meeting house rested snug against a long stretch of buildings, and he could vanish between any of them. Duck his head into a store somewhere and wait out the storm.

He could take the metaphorical fall, too. The persistence of his mother’s voice had his teeth set until his jaw ached. He counted the ticking seconds of the clock, desperate for it to end. The room was so small, encasing him as though caged. There was no freedom like this.

After a moment, he pushed himself up. The remnants of where he’d laid remained on the glass. It watched as he pushed his heavy legs to make it to the door. To take a moment to stop shaking hands, and push open the door.

The voices stopped immediately. His mother eyed him, brown eyes burning fierce as she took note of him. The man looked decidedly calmer, and so, he kept his attention on him. Never his mother. He’d never survive.

“I lost control,” he said in a rush, feeling the growing intensity of his mother’s stare, “I’ll take full responsibility so—”

“Oh please, you think you’re the first child to have done such a thing.” The man waved his hand, dismissing him completely. “You just turned thirteen, correct? Hormones and puberty and all of that make kids’ magic go wild. It should grow stronger and more stable the more you age. It’s why we have tests like this, to track where every child is at.”

“As I’ve been trying to tell you, he has more control than the average child. It was merely his nerves.”

Nerves from what? The test? The unknown adults all staring him down, tearing into him vein by vein to decode his magic? His mother, front and center, lip curled back with a warning if he dared disappoint, but already certain he would?

“Sure, sure. Once he gets used to it, we’ll be able to tell for sure. As it stands, being able to use magic is a miracle enough already. I hope to see you again.” The man smiled and he couldn’t remember his name, and even his face was blurring though it remained in front of him.

His smile was easy and automatic and it didn’t feel like his face, “Thank you, sir. I’m sorry again for the damage.”

The man nodded before leading them outside. There were more words from his mother, sinking into the shadows cast by various wall decorations hanging throughout the endless halls. It was a maze of wood and rolled out carpets and doors full of symbols he couldn’t quite recognize. It was another decade before they were out the door and going into the average parking lot of a shopping district. The dissonance rang in his ears.

“I taught you better, didn’t I? Hand.”

“Mom—”

She snatched his hand and dragged it towards her, wrist up. She pressed a nail, long and red and sharp, against the tender tendons there. His mind went blank as she pressed against it, trailing along the artery, “There are three places we feel our magic the most; the head, the heart, and the hands. So tell me, did you really not feel what you were doing?”

The answer didn’t matter, he knew. There was only one outcome waiting for him at the end of this.

“Rook Bellerose.”

“The one and only. Did you miss me Mr. Strauss? It’s been a while since I landed myself in detention.” He kicked back in the chair, arms folded across his chest as he glanced at his other inmates. He knew some of them, vaguely, although names were like water to him. There was no need to retain something when they’d mean nothing to him, even if they tried.

Mr. Strauss, for his part, did not look as put off as he should, “Ah yes, this is the first time since you started tenth grade. I’m not sure what’s more impressive. Refraining from getting sent here right away, or your reason for detention being that you somehow managed to completely ruin the salad bar to the point the metal holders need to be replaced.”

He laughed, mirroring the noise around him, pairing with the various comments of, “No, that shit was insane dude—”

The whole thing had, by all accounts, been recorded as a freak accident, because what else could it be? It wasn’t properly secured and sure, he had maybe tested its durability in a series of actions which could only be described as ‘boys will be boys’, but it wasn’t like he’d meant for it to all come crumbling down.

It wasn’t like they knew he’d been spilling over magic because he’d just gotten broken up with and his words had been spinning around in Rook’s head for the past week and a half. It wasn’t like his magic was supposed to come from intentions and not fucking emotions, but it seemed like someone got it wrong because his heart had been too loud in his ears for years now and it only made it all worse.

‘Christ Rook, you can’t even hold my hand in secret. Am I really that disgusting to you?’

‘It isn’t that—’

‘Then what is it? Because that’s all I’ve ever felt when I’m with you.’

“Hey, now they know to secure all the cafeteria equipment better. I think they should be thanking me.” Mr. Strauss rolled his eyes and settled in for the incoming hour. Rook ran a hand through his hair, and flinched at the length.

When he turned to look at the window, the reflection staring back at him was not the face he knew. His hair was too short, his limbs too long, and his hands too clean.

He imagined he’d break a lot of hearts. Mouth too full of sweet words, mind made of too many walls, chest full of thorns. He figured it was a byproduct of a noxious marriage spiraling down from parent to child. He was his mother’s son. He was not his father’s child.

It was the first court order which made all of the head magicians’ panic. They were not supposed to go through outside means, however they’d ignored all of his dad’s vehement concerns. His mother was doing what needed to be done, to ensure his magic did not drag the average person into a reality they didn’t belong in. To ensure he wasn’t a danger to others.

So his father had went and filed an abuse report as the average person did and now Rook was here in a house he knew but could never grow into. His dad had always been too soft, needy, caring, reliable. Every interaction, Rook waited for the transaction. Every time he came home from another one of his fuck ups, he braced himself for the bruising.

Instead, his dad would pat him on the shoulder and send him outside, “Wasting energy helps. You should have seen me at your age. I nearly burned down the science classrooms because my magic wouldn’t stop flickering.”

Except his dad’s magic did come from the heart and not the mind. There was no reason for there to be this constant instability, for it to sit so heavily in his veins, and shatter the world around him because years compounded endlessly in his chest and hit him at once in the worst of ways.

So he’d go out and he’d run and he’d feel the branches snap and bleed him as he did. He’d climb and jump, and expel all the magic he could. He’d reach the end of his known path and stare out into the beyond and let himself scream as though that could chase away everything inside him until he was sane again.

He’d think about how his heart shouldn’t be able to be so full when it was also a void, devouring the feelings of those around him without feeling a thing itself. He thought of the people he’d agreed to date, and think the false hope he gave was the same as his mother’s calm days.

When he came home after detention, he’d expected the usual spiel, the standard apologizes, the same refusing to look his dad in the eye. When his father saw him, it was not his latest detention that seemed to be his concern.

“You cut your hair. When?”

“Yesterday. It was getting too long.”

“I never thought I’d see your hair short.”

“Are you saying it doesn’t suit me?”

“No, no. It’s just…”

There were words behind both their teeth that neither dared to say. Rook lived with his dad now but his mother was still his mother and her hands were still yanking him by the fistful, telling him boys shouldn’t have hair so long and it was time to grow up. When his ex had said it was pretty with a punishing smile, he’d found himself standing in front of a bargain salon with ten dollars to spare and a fog of memories.

His dad, tall and broad, but as soft as a flower, pressed his lips together, “I know you don’t like to talk to me about stuff but…”

Rook let out a groan, kicking off his shoes and leaving them hazardously by the door, “It’s a haircut. I’m experimenting or whatever. If I hate it, it’ll grow back in a month. Anyway, I got a lot of homework. Later.”

“Rook, are you sure? I got a call from school; they said you got another detention?” God, he hated that voice. The softness of it. The furrow between his brow and the way he’d duck his head a little to make himself look smaller than he was.

He tried not to grit his teeth, “Yeah, fine. My magic’s fucked like usual, big surprise.”

“I know it’s hard to believe right now, but it’s getting better at least. By the time you graduate high school, you’ll have completely adjusted to it.”

“Great. So just a two more years of destroying property and causing mayhem.” There was too much pressure in his head. He wasn’t really thinking. “You know, when others go through this, they’re not destruction incarnate. It’s always attracting animals, or being too good at running the mile, or making those dumb ‘magic’ tricks look cool.”

There was weight in his father’s eyes, “We all experience it differently. We’ll manage it as best we can.”

“Until mom takes me back.” He hadn’t meant to say that. Why had he said that? Wasn’t he better at controlling his words?

“Rook, she’s not taking you back.” His father was as serious as he’d ever seen him.

“How many more fuck ups do I have left before she insists I have to go back to her? I wasn’t ruining everything under her care, was I? Maybe it’s where I belong. Like calls to like.” His voice had raised a notch, spilling over like everything he ever was did. A bad habit, a fatal flaw.

His father took a step towards him, “You’re not like her.”

Rook swallowed. Shook his head. Imagined how he wanted to hold a hand in theory but in practice it made him sick. People weren’t disgusting, his exes weren’t disgusting. He was. Is. Always.

He never once scarred, but he had every wound inflicted mapped in his memory.

“Rook.” There was a warning there, but it went past him. He wasn’t there. He was seven and he was in a room and his mother said he’d need to use magic to get out, to survive. He was ten and she loomed over him, telling him the most basic of magic was to heal your own wounds. He was thirteen, taking that damned test for the first time and showcasing zero control and failing. Over and over.

“Rook!” His father reached out. A miscalculation. He jerked, body coiled tight, and it was like his magic found a target. It took a moment, a never-ending moment, to realize what he’d done. The sudden red was not as unfamiliar as it should have been. Everything in him screamed monster, and his father cradled his arm. The strange, staggered lines of a magical wound rested on his forearm. Rook was going to throw up his guts.

“I’m exactly like her.” He said, a confirmation for himself more than anyone. He darted up the stairs, ignoring his father’s shouts. He slammed the door shut and fell back against it. His body was shaking, there was a keen in his throat fighting to become a scream. He kept his back against the wood, a warden against the world.

For the rest of the night, his father came to check on him, and he stayed quiet. At some point, there was a thud, like he was leaning against the door. Rook stilled his breath, straining both to listen and tune out his voice.

“You can’t go on like this, Rook. You won’t change if you’re too focused on who you are right now.” His father took a deep breath. “I don’t expect you to come to me, after everything that’s happened. But I just hope you find others to rely on. I just hope…I hope that you know you aren’t her, either.”

For a second, he thought of opening the door. To at least apologize for his actions and make sure his father was alright. But his hand stilled at the door. He couldn’t do it. His room was the only place he was allowed to be. He didn’t go to school for the rest of the week.

There were dreams some nights. He’d be at school or hanging out with friends and he’d hear a voice call to him. He’d turn and everyone would look at him strange, although none of them had faces he could see. When he’d look, the space he was in had a familiar hall. Full of old wood and antique decorations, he’d find himself walking down the endless space.

The voice kept calling. It was familiar in a way he couldn’t place. The wrongness of it would spur him into a run, and the voice would become more frantic, a desperate plea of ‘don’t’ and ‘help.’

At the end was the testing room. None of the usual set up was there. The walls were bare, the room was bare, save for the body resting on the floor. He’d try to stop, because he knew that body better than anyone else’s. He’d stop, because he didn’t want to see it.

But then a hand would shove him forward, and his mother’s voice would hiss, “I told you, didn’t I? You were always bound to hurt someone.”

And so he’d fall to his knees, and the blood would drip from his hands, and he’d tear himself awake. He’d find his father with his arms locked around him, his magic subduing his own. Even in his sleep, Rook’s curse would lash out and destroy everything.

“You’re ok,” His father breathed against his shoulder, one arm wrapped firmly around his torso and the other cradling his head, “You’re going to be ok.”

But the blood was still on his tongue and his mother’s voice in his ears and a body on the ground. He swallowed for air, fighting to come back to himself. Fighting to live. Fighting to live?

His voice was broken glass, “Am I allowed to want to live, even knowing I only hurt people?”

His father held him a little tighter, “You aren’t just allowed to, you deserve it, too.”

Rook didn’t deserve anything. But he was selfish and he’d take everything anyone was willing to offer. It was why he let his father hold him, and allowed himself to cling to him. For this moment, he just wanted to exist.

The letter was in his hands, a smug grin stretched on his face. His friends eyed him, various reactions on their faces.

“Read it and weep,” he smacked it down on the desk in front of him, “Accepted to the one and only Vales Grove University.”

“There’s no way.”

“You’re full of shit. Your grades are trash.”

His grades were, technically, painfully average. But that didn’t change the fact that grades weren’t the selling point in this case. The only real requirement was being able to use magic, and Rook had it in droves. In a few months he’d graduate, turn eighteen, and his magic would continue to stabilize.

�� It didn’t stop his grin from widening, “With a charming personality like mine, did you really think they’d say no?”

There was swearing and noises of disbelief and he was snatching the letter back, saying he needed to go tell his dad. He’d gotten the letter in the morning, when his dad had been at work. He hadn’t heard the news and Rook needed to tell him. Obvious good news was still good news. And besides, he owed it to him after everything.

When he got home, he paused at the driveway. His eyebrows furrowed, taking a long look at the cars lined up. He didn’t recognize one of them. Adjusting the strap of his backpack, he gave it a second glance before heading inside.

“Uh, dad?” He called, glancing around the entry room. Everything was about the same as always. Perfectly intact and magazine photo worthy, save for the faint coating of dust that they never seemed to be able to get rid of.

His voice echoed for a moment, and it took too long for his dad to call back, “In my office.”

Rook ducked through the door, greeted with the only messy room in the whole house. Endless papers and forms and documents spilled over as far as the eye could see. His father sat, rod straight, dark strands of hair falling into his face, a tell-tale sign of stress. And he wasn’t alone.

Rook jerked away immediately, backpack sliding off his shoulder. It slammed onto the ground, echoing all around. His mother rose from her chair, a serene smile stretched across her face.

“Oh Rook, it’s been so long since I’ve last seen you. You’ve grown so much.” Her arms stretched out and he needed to run. His heart hammered hard in his chest, his eyes unfocused. Her arms wrapped around him, careful not to actually touch him, like avoiding a disease. Her fingers brushed his hair, long again, and he thought he’d be sick.

A show. It was a show. He didn’t raise his arms, couldn’t. His mind was going a million miles an hour. He glanced over and there was a second person here. A man. He knew that face. Had seen it every year since thirteen. The one he hadn’t thought he’d needed to learn the name to. He knew his name now.

“…Mr. Solace.” Rook managed as his mother pulled away. The man rose from his chair, and the smile he usually wore was nowhere on his face. He couldn’t begin to fathom what was wrong.

“It’s good to see you again. I heard you decided to stay close and go to Vales Grove, correct? Congratulations on your acceptance.”

He reached out a hand and Rook took it, fixing a smile in place, “Ah, thanks. You already know?”

Really, his eyes were on his dad when he asked, just a slip away from Mr. Solace’s face.

Mr. Solace pulled away with a single nod, “It’s part of my duties to keep up with the children I’m tasked with testing. Part of that, is making sure there hasn’t been any unnecessary involvement.”

“Unnecessary involvement?” His dad flinched, and his mother’s mouth tugged into a frown. Really, he wanted to ask if the man knew she wasn’t supposed to be here. But then, what did it matter? Melody Bellerose was a name which held more power than God—in his life and in a world of messy politics.

“Yes. It happens often, kids accidentally getting friends involved in things they shouldn’t. Boundaries are hard for kids, especially if your parents decided to put you through public school. It’s simple, you give us a name and we’ll adjust their memories.”

A ringing sounded in his ears and he shook his head, “I know my magic caused a lot of issues in the past sir, but if you mean I let other people know about magic, I haven’t.”

His mother’s voice made him feel five again, with how slow and deliberate and dripping with artificial sweetness it was, “It’s alright. We’re both here to take care of it, you don’t have to worry.”

Both of them. He knew, then, why they were here. Why she was here and what she was claiming and what she wanted. It was too late to get custody, he was a few months out from adulthood now, but there were other things to go after. Always.

“There’s no one,” he repeated, false politeness falling away with a snarl, “And I swear to god if they put their fucking hands on—”

He cut himself off and swallowed hard. The room was spinning. There was a body on the ground. There was always a body on the ground. The body was always his fault, one way or another.

His father stood, voice dropping low, “If he claims there’s no one I believe him. He wouldn’t risk his standing over lying about something like this.”

“Harvey, you’re really going to let him talk to us like that?”

“I think he has every right to in this very moment, so if that’s all you needed I’d like you both to leave so I may have a word with my son.”

Mr. Solace gave a small smile, bundled with fake apologies. Rook moved to the side, stiff and vague, to allow them to pass. Mr. Solace left and his mother followed. He kept his head down as she paused.

The minute she was gone, his dad closed the door and Rook pressed a hand to his eyes, “Well, that wasn’t what I was expecting.”

“Rook.”

“I’m fine. I’m not…I’m not going to break.” He was. Likely, he already had. He was still in that testing room, because he’d never leave. He’d been trapped inside since he was thirteen. Since before he knew the room even existed. “At least I got into college, right?”

It was a weak attempt at a diversion, but his dad had since given up on prying him open. Rook wondered at that, sometimes. If even his dad had given up on knowing him, then there was no one else left for him, was there?

After a long pause, his dad nodded, “We’ll celebrate, come on. We’ll go grab pizza from your favorite pizza joint. Ask your friends if they want to come, we’ll even do bowling.”

“Bowling? That’s such an old man hobby.”

“Plenty of people your age bowl.” Rook laughed, and he rearranged himself again. It was fine. They’d open the door and no one would be waiting for him, lurking in the corner. His mother did not have her ear pressed against the door, trying to take in every word.

“Yeah sure. Sounds great. I’ll let everyone know.” His hands were not shaking.

At some point he’d wandered off into the arcade area that was incredibly barren on this Tuesday evening. His friends had decided on another round and he’d claimed he was going to go beat some high scores, promising pictures when he did.

Now, he sat on a hard, round chair and went around in circles. The carpet was the classic kind from the nineties, and the lighting in the arcade room was the kind of neon that hurt your eyes.

“Hey.” He stopped so fast he nearly toppled off the chair. You raised an eyebrow at him, but he felt the judgement even with your silence.

“What are you doing here? Wait, don’t tell me. You got tired of getting your ass kicked at bowling, so you decided to get your ass kicked at the arcade instead.”

“I’m here because I don’t know any of your friends, jackass.” You roll your eyes, and your gaze skims the selection of machines. He hadn’t expected you to come. You said you never could stay out late, and he had never pushed it.

The sight of you is surreal, but it might be because the whole day has been. He’d experienced every single emotion on the spectrum in less than twenty-four hours. You elicited the last few he hadn’t felt when you’d shown up for pizza, scanning his friends and figuring out how you were going to go about it all.

Now you were here, and if life was different it’d feel like a world of your own. But his nightmare still rested in his ribs and so he did what he always did.

“Pick a game, we’ll conquer it.”

“Anything’s fine.” A pause. “Are you really going to Vales Grove?”

He grinned and threw an arm around your shoulder. A touch painfully easy and familiar, “Hell yeah I did. You’re not going to be able to get rid of me that easily.”

In the glass of a dusty machine, his reflection stared back at him. It was not him. It never was. The too wide grin of his reflection and the easiness of his body belonged to someone else. His closeness with another spoke of a boy who was safe. It didn’t stop him from this one thing.

He’d never get close to anyone, but he was still the same selfish child. If you didn’t break the connection, he wouldn’t either. For as long as he was allowed, he’d keep this one thing. Until the endless dream of a body became overbearing. Until you finally found someone who could be your true friend.

For now, the two of you sat in an old booth with cracks lining the material of the seats. The sound of the machines whirled, paired with the shouts of your voices. A world for two, if he forced his brain to stop thinking. There was no danger. There was no ledge. Years of friendship, and it was all the same. There were no warning signs on the wall.

But at some point, he would take the fall.

#ch: rook #1k follower celebration #BA: bonus content #thank you again for over 1k followers and 5k plays!#this isn't exactly what I wanted it to be but that's because I had to jump around So Many spoilers lol #???'s story will be next weekend!

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ab4eva · 8 months

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Friends, lovers, buddies, mutuals & baby girls - I truly can’t believe that over a thousand of you want share this little corner of the internet with me. Thank you, thank you, thank you! It’s truly been one of the joys of my life to fangirl with all of you over our faves.

I’d love for you to join my little celebration - send in an ask for any of the prompts below as a little thank you from me to you! xo Christi.

EDIT: CLOSED - Thanks to everyone who celebrated with me! I had a blast! xo

💖 I'll make a custom mood board based on your blog theme + include a song to go along with it.

💋 Send me your crush + a prompt (ex: Andrew Garfield + Halloween) and I'll make a mood board based on it.

✨ I’ll write a little blurb for either Austin Butler, Elvis Presley, or any of their characters based on your choice of prompt from this list.

🎧 I’ll make you a mini-playlist based on your blog + what I know about you OR based on your crush (if you want this one, please let me know which crush).

#ab4eva’s 1k celly #1k follower celebration #1k followers #austin butler #elvis presley #elvis #the best fandom #ab4eva #dividers by cafekitsune

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jeansyvesmoreau · 10 months

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Melone's 1k follower celebration

seeing sparks fly for @mayangelsleadyouin: out of the woods

#1k follower celebration #taylor swift #taylorswiftedit #ootw mv #out of the woods #tw flashing gif #tsuserjen #sorry for getting to this so late 😭 it took way too long #melone.gif #**

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ell0ra-br3kk3r · 1 year

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1k... wooooow thank you guys so much!

the theme is grishaverse more specifically six of crows cause.. cause i can so we're doing it haha! the fandoms are both harry potter and grishaverse though, so send anything and everything in :) as always, please specify the fandom, gender, and pronoun prefrence otherwise i'll default to she/her !!!

closed masterlist | character list | navigation

a convict - blurb requests! y'all know how this works, send me a prompt along with a character and i'll write you a small blurb (please please please be patient with me! blurbs will be posted on my writing blog (@ell0ra-br3kk3r-writes))

a sharpshooter - send me this along with very specific thoughts you have about the crows, like moments you'd think would happen, and i'll build off of that!

a runaway - send me this along with a fic you've written (for the fandoms i write for) and i'll tell you my favorite parts, it's like i'm annotating your fic the way i do my books

a spy - send me a few photos of your clothing style and i'll tell you what fandom you belong in (from the fandoms/books i've read)

a heartrender - ships! send me your ideal spring themed date and i'll ship you with a character (please specify gender and fandom prefrence)

a theif - mood boards! send me this with a character, ship, or character and activity and i'll make you a mood board

kanej - send me this and i'll make you a mood board based of the vibes i get from you (close moots only)

helnik - send me this with a dialouge prompt with a character and i'll write out a short scenario for you

wesper - random asks! cym, kmk, or any other random questions or games!

@jahayla-parker @writingmysanity @maliciousbrekker @romanticvampire @sw34terw34ther @juneberrie @futurecorps3 @princess-paramour @hope92100 @basicallyjustmuggleremuslupin @kazscrows @ketterdam-snack-bar @sleepless-crows @starstruckwillows @lex-the-flex @lee-says-things @thehalfbloodedwitch @songofpatrochilless @siriusblackstwin @masivechaos @alexis-angelsss

#1k followers #1k follower celebration #kaz brekker x reader #jesper fahey x reader #inej ghafa x reader #nina zenik x reader #matthias helvar x reader #nikolai lantsov x reader #david kostyk x reader #genya safin x reader #zoya nazyalensky x reader #six of crows x reader #six of crows #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone

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barzysunflower · 4 months

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1000 Follower Celebration!

so I hit 1000 followers a couple of weeks ago (CRAZY & THANK YOUU) and I know I have been mia for a hot minute when it comes to publishing fics. I’ve hit horrible writer’s block and I’m so sorry for leaving you all hanging. However, with this celebration, like I’ve seen many other people on here do (shoutout to them), I was hoping it could be cured and I could go back to regularly writing again 🤍

so this if for all of you guys to get to know me more but also celebrate you and for me to say thanks <3

rules: send me the emoji corresponding to the prompt you want me to answer.

——————————————————————————

🐢 get to know me – send me a number (or more) from this list or come up with your own question to get to know me more. I’ll give you one: turtles are my favorite animals

🎙 music – send me this emoji and I’ll shuffle my liked songs playlist 5 times to get to know my music taste

🧿 moodboard – I’ll make you a moodboard/lockscreen/tumblr header about whatever you want . include your aesthetic or prompt the moodboard should follow. (also the dimensions if you want a lockscreen or tumblr header)

🏒 blurbs – here is a prompt list you can use but you can also send in your own idea. any player you want. (be patient with me on those though, but I’m really trying!!)

🎀 random – send me any random questions or thoughts you have :)

——————————————————————————

some people I love and who inspire me to keep this blog up :) ily guys (sorry if I forgot someone) @smileysvech @daydreamingcara @fallinallincurls @holy-pucks @hockeysweaterweather @quietblues @pyotrkochetkov @youunravelme @wyattjohnston @softlotusss @generallybarzy @mendeshoney

#lolo’s 1k celly #send me anything you’d like :)#ily guys #nhl fics #1k follower celebration #fan fiction #mat barzal #erik johnson #andrei svechnikov #quinn hughes

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espinosaurusrexex · 1 year

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pls do the “who did this to you” i just imagine and college!bucky x reader and they cant stand each other but share an apartment. reader comes back hurt, bucky sees it and becomes protective.

I think I wrote this before any other request, I loved it so much! Hopefully you do too 💕

"Who did this to you?" (Bingo Game)

!BINGO ASKS CLOSED!

College!Roommate!BuckyBarnes x Reader

word count: 1.4k

warnings: mentions of abuse, grumpy Bucky, angsty, sassy reader, fluff

You tried to blink the tears away as you roamed through your purse. There was really no need to cry at this moment, but you couldn’t help it. You were fucking shaken from what had just happened.

A curse rolled over your lips when your shaky hands missed the lock on your apartment door a second time. Stupid hands. And the dumb tears in your eyes didn't help you see what you were doing either. You just wanted to get inside, hide away in your room and avoid all of humanity for a solid week. And you wanted it to happen fast. Because you knew the conversation pending about two doors from this one and you dreaded it.

It was shameful enough you came home crying from a date at this hour, you didn’t need a lecture on top of it. But Bucky had told you. He had told you that all men were dicks and that nothing good could come out of a drunken number jot down at a sports bar at 2 am. But you didn’t listen. You never listened to Bucky. Hell, you tolerated him on a good day, so you most certainly wouldn’t take advice from him.

And that’s why you went out with that idiot poser boy John, really just to prove Bucky wrong. But, shit, it bruised your ego to admit he had been right this time. Not that you planned on telling him that.

Fuck, no.

Because all your roommate would do is give you an ‘I told you so’ when you really needed a good hug and a tequila girls' night. But that wouldn’t happen. He would never let you live down the worst date in history.

First, that dickhead had tried to order you a salad and then he pretended to have forgotten his wallet and then, after you had brought him home, he had really thought the date had gone good enough to expect more than a fucking smack in the face. And after you had politely tried to tell him to fuck off, that asshole really tried to force himself on you. Luckily, his roommate had put an end to it before anything more could have happened, but it was enough to shake you to your core.

An annoyed groan echoed through the door before it unlocked and revealed a shirtless Bucky beyond the threshold. He was staring at you broodily as you scrambled to get your key back into your purse and push past him but his disheveled hair and gray sweats made you halt for a second.

“What happened?” If you weren’t so scattered, you would have never thought to see his eyes slightly soften at the sight of you. Bucky would never, though. It was just your shocked mind playing tricks on you.

“Sorry for waking you,” you grumbled as you pushed past him, but Bucky blocked your way immediately.

“What’s your problem?” You snapped as you stared up at him. But he didn’t say a thing. “That’s what I thought,” you whispered to yourself when you pushed at his chest to clear the way.

But Bucky was fast to snatch your wrist. A painful scream escaped your lips as you yanked your arm back, holding it securely to your chest while trying to fight the tears brimming again.

Fucking tears. You didn’t want to cry.

His eyes quintet smaller before he closed the front door with a thud, while simultaneously reaching out to pull your hand back towards him - gentler this time. He pushed up your sleeve to reveal a swollen wrist beneath the cotton. Fuck, that looked worse than it felt. You hissed when his gaze caught yours again.

“What happened?” His voice was less angry suddenly - insistent and calm, somehow.

You pulled your hand back a second time. “Just forget it, okay?” Not the lecture. Not now.

But Bucky was fucking persistent. God, he was annoying. “Y/N. Who did this to you?”

You wanted to just leave but the tone of his voice let a shiver run down your spine. He was staring at you with those damn eyes again and now you really couldn’t stop the tears from falling anymore. It was too much. Too frustrating, too embarrassing.

“You were right okay?!” It broke out of you, your arm flailing in the air. “Are you happy? John Walker is a fucking asshole just like you said. Now leave me alone.”

You turned to the hallway, your sleeve wiping at your eyes while you heard Bucky follow you through the darkened room. “Not happening.”

“What?” You turned back angrily. You were so ready to just punch him right about now. Why couldn’t he just leave you be? It was bad enough as it was.

“I’ll get you some ice.”

“Bucky-”

“No. Just shut up for once and let me at least try to apologize for my species.” He grumbled and you snorted in disbelief. What was wrong with him?

Bucky just stared at you again, and you couldn’t shake the feeling he was waiting for your permission. As if he had ever wanted permission for doing anything. But when he didn’t move for another second you got serious again. “Sorry.”

With a silent nod, he disappears into the kitchen and you went about your bedtime routine. When you entered your room, freshly showered and in your pajamas, Bucky looked up at you. He was sitting on the edge of the bed with a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a towel, and he was wearing a shirt now too.

Shame, you thought, and immediately scolded yourself for it.

The shower had helped calm you down a little, but now that he was gently pushing the ice back to your wrist, your heart began to race again. The night had been fucking traumatic so far. And having your annoying wouldn’t-touch-you-with-a-six-foot-pole roommate be nice to you for once was terrifying. But at the same time, you felt as though you got to see a side of Bucky today he rarely showed to anyone. And, as much as you hated to admit it, it was nice to not fight with or ignore him for once.

Another then minutes passed of you just sitting in silence, your mind racing with memories of the night and Bucky staring against the wall for the majority of it. You didn’t want to think about what would have happened had Lemar not intervened his dickhead roommate’s plan. But you couldn’t stop. It was all that occupied your mind and it made a whole new wave of anxiety wash over you.

You were so deep in your nightmares, you hadn’t even noticed Bucky get up.

“Are you going to be okay?” He asked with his hand on the doorframe.

You just spared him a quick glance and mumbled a hasty ‘I’ll be fine’ before you moved to lay down and roll on your side, facing your back to the door and Bucky.

“Are you sure?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t want to tell him the truth. That you were terrified of being alone right now. That you would sleep way better if John Walker had gotten a knee in his balls and a restraining order. But you somehow couldn’t bring yourself to lie to him either. So you just stayed silent, your arms hugging your body as a slow tear ran down to your pillow.

For a while, it was quiet, and you really needed to control your breathing, your muscles tense as you lay there. Hoping - wishing - for this to be over soon. But then you heard Bucky shuffle a few feet away from you and soon, your mattress dipped.

A small but relieved smile snuck on your lips when you felt him carefully inch closer to you. You just lifted your blanket in response until Bucky was snugly pressed against you. His arm wrapped around you and you could feel him relax when your hand covered his.

It was unusual but it felt so nice to be held.

Your breathing evened out with every second and after some time, a steady rhythm had settled within you. You actually relaxed against Bucky’s chest, his face resting in the crook of your neck - you were drifting off to sleep slowly, calmly.

But before you entirely tapped out, Bucky whispered into the darkness, a gruff annoyance in his tone. “If he ever tries something again, you tell me. I’ll make sure he’ll stay the fuck away from you.”

But it warmed you all the more. You wouldn’t take his kindness for granted, though. It meant a lot to you. “Thank you,” you sleepily mumbled as your head buried deeper in your pillow.

You saw Bucky’s frown before your eyes when his face pressed back into your skin. Funny how relationships shifted sometimes.

as always, reblogs and comments are so so so appreciated 🥰 check here for a morning after drabble

Wanna be added to the taglist?

@almosttoopizza @sociallyimpairedme @royalwritersoftheuniverses @i-l-y-3000 @mrsgweasley @prettylittlepluviophile @dinwifey @stuckysgirl27 @wintermischief @supersecretblogformytreasures @circe143 @valkyrie418 @mirikusashes @noideawhyimdoingthislol @nikkitc0703 @lethallyprotected @erynnnn @misshale21 @wattpaduser200

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lostmyremembrall · 1 year

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hi! Congrats on 1K! Can you please do prompt 8? thanks!

📖𝟖: 𝐓𝐨𝐦 𝐠𝐞𝐭𝐬 𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐤

𝐺𝑒𝑛𝑟𝑒: 𝑅𝑜𝑚𝑎𝑛𝑐𝑒, 𝐹𝑙𝑢𝑓𝑓, 𝐻𝑢𝑟𝑡&𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑓𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝐶𝑜𝑚𝑒 𝐽𝑜𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 1𝐾 𝐸𝑣𝑒𝑛𝑡!

A/N: So sorry this took a long time to get to! But I hope you enjoy!

Tom gets sick

Tom had an impeccable immune system.

You’d never seen him cough, or even give out a sniffle.

Tom was the very representation of a healthy root that managed to survive the storm called orphanage.

Or so you thought.

When his room’s door swung open after your incessant knocking, a very pale face of Tom towered over you. He was glaring at whoever dared disturb his rest, his usual intimidating demeanour further exaggerated by dark circles underneath his eyes.

At the sight of you, his features somewhat softened, before it was immediately replaced by a mask of annoyance.

“What is it, Y/N,” he leaned against the door frame and gave out a tired sigh.

“Tom!” in pure shock, your eyes took in his full form, involuntarily searching for any signs of serious illness or injury. “What happened?” You turned your concerned eyes back up at him.

For a moment you thought you saw the warmth return to his cheeks in the form of a blush. “I–,” he stammered, somehow lost for words.

“I’m sick,” he mumbled and turned around, stumbling back into his room.

As you followed him inside, you caught sight of a cup of tea on his desk, the steam visible against the dark green curtain. Next to it was a large textbook, bookmarked by his quill.

“Surely, you weren’t studying?”

You stared at the frail man incredulously.

“Why wouldn’t I be?” he breathed out tiredly as he sat on the edge of the neatly made bed, massaging his temple which was surely aching.

“Merlin, Tom,” his exhausted eyes widened slightly at the sound of your exasperated voice. “You are supposed to be resting! Not driving yourself to more work.”

Tom avoided your chastising eyes, mumbling something about needing to catch up to the classes.

“I’m not sure where this unhealthy drive of yours comes from, Tom,” you shook your head as you opened the window for fresh air. “You’ve got to rest at some point.”

You proceeded a few more steps, bridging the gap between you two. You placed the back of your fingers against his cheeks. Stunned by the abrupt intimacy, Tom froze on the spot, simply staring up at you.

“Tom, you’re burning up,” you sighed, the genuine concern knitting your brows together.

Tom seemed to grow even hotter under your touch, if that was possible. He bit down on his lips, not daring to move or speak. You thought his cheeks had turned a bright shade of red, whether from the fever or the proximity, it was impossible to tell.

“You have to get back into bed,” you eyed Tom in a way that maybe resembled too much of your mom, though you’d never admit it.

Tom grumbled a few more words of his discontent but still climbed into bed.

“It’s how it was in the orphanage,” it was a long while before Tom parted his lips again.

Your hands stopped at the solemn voice behind you, pausing you from ringing the wet cloth in the wash basin that you were preparing for his fever.

You turned around to find him still avoiding your eyes. His shoulders hunched, he looked far smaller than usual as he played with the cover in between his fingers.

Your heart stirred at the sight of a man who was trying his hardest to contain everything. Quietly, you placed the wet cloth aside and crossed the room to sit by his bedside.

Tom was completely unresponsive to the hand that you placed on the cover, close enough to feel his heat emanating from his fingers, and if he so desired, close enough for him to reach for it.

“Care to share?”

Tom tilted his head, as if to say ‘there’s nothing to share.’ But, the few moments Tom expressed about his past, they began with a short statement, just like this time. You waited patiently, knowing he just needed the time to gather his words. Usually, with enough time, Tom always opened up.

“Sickness and death were rampant in our orphanage,” Tom began matter-of-factly. “Especially due to the lack of funding.”

“Flu, Tuberculosis, typhoid, you name it,” Tom remained impassive, but his unspoken torment was told in the crumpled cover gripped in between his fingers. “No one’s going to fix everything for you. You keep pushing or you cease to be.”

It was astounding, the kind of extreme logic that Tom had to rely on to survive. You swallowed the shock. Observing the man in front of you who seemed to share nothing in common with the Head Boy he was in public, you inched your finger closer to his.

After much contemplation, you managed to say, “You’re not in the orphanage anymore, at least not during the school year.”

“Now you have people who genuinely,” you swallowed the word ‘love’, “care about you.”

You continued, paying careful attention to his reticence and eyes that continued to stare blankly at a wrinkle on his cover.

“And I, Abraxas, Canopus, and others sure are not going anywhere even if you fail a few classes.” You giggled at his repulsed expression that soured at the mention of it, a sense of relief washing over yourself at the sight of humanly expressions returning to him.

"You are allowed to rest, Tom," his sharp eyes flickered over to you, uncertainty still swirling in them, as if to search for confirmation in your eyes that you meant it.

“Wait just here,” you patted over his covers. “I’ll go grab some medicine,” you flashed a reassuring smile.

“And…” your eyes landed on his reddened, sniffly nose, “tissues. I’ll go get you some tissues.”

You hopped off the bed and swung your satchel on your shoulder. But, you were caught off guard by a hand that reached for you. Bewildered, you spun on your heels to find Tom staring at you.

Tom parted his lips as if to say something, but closed them again, struggling to find the words for his hand that instinctively reached after you.

“Tom?” You asked, raising your brows inquisitively.

“Stay with me,” he bit his lips, reminiscent of a stubborn child that perhaps he once was. “I prefer you over any medicine in this world.”

In the afternoon lighting that cast a golden glow on his pale features, you saw blush creep up to his cheeks. Words were unnecessary. You only smiled softly, and wrapped a hand over his.

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profoundbondfanfic · 10 months

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A Beginner's Guide to Communing with the Dead

A Beginner’s Guide to Communing with the Dead by suspiciousflashlight (@huntingthehaggis) Rating: Mature Word Count: 77k

Maybe it's the little girl whose disappearance turned into a murder, and whose murder turned into a cold case, and who has now apparently decided to move in with him. Maybe it's the unacceptable hole left in his life when his dumb best friend and partner in (the prevention of) crime decided to go and get himself killed. Maybe it's his brother, whose high-profile career and fantastic girlfriend and first-child-on-the-way are steadily leaving Dean in the dust. Pick one. Pick all of them. The why doesn't matter so much as the what, and the what is this: Dean is pretty sure he's going completely, certifiably insane. Sure, he hasn't started wearing all his clothes inside out, and he still showers on a regular basis (anyways, that's not crazy, just a little eccentric); but there's no getting around the fact that he just threw away his life, his career, and his reputation by dragging out his mom's old necromancy book and summoning a Class A Forbidden Entity to his attic. A cranky one, too. With horrendous bed-head.

Okay, my friends, if you haven’t read this one yet, drop everything now and click on that link!! Don’t wait around, just do it!

(And even if you already know the fic, I’m pretty sure it’s time for a reread, don’t you think? Since it’s always time for a good reread!)

Because this story, it’s simply something else.

It is told from Dean’s POV who is in a kinda dark place at the beginning. Either everything is going to shit around him or everyone is living their best lives without him and the gruesome murder case that lands on his lap one day surely doesn’t make things any better. Soon enough he finds himself at his wit’s end and in a desperate attempt to get justice for the victim he does something very, very stupid - illegally summoning an entity that should never be summoned, that is.

Dean isn’t really sure what he expected, but the blue-eyed, grouchy creature certainly takes him by surprise. Castiel seems devoid of emotions and alienates everyone in his vicinity without even trying which, of course, makes it extra hard for Dean to hide his true identity from his colleagues and family. Over time, however, he learns to appreciate Castiel’s uniqueness and Castiel in turn starts to change the closer his relationship with Dean becomes.

The worldbuilding of this fic just sucks you right in, transforming the whole thing into some sort of extraordinary urban fantasy crime novel. Thanks to Dean’s POV the writing style is witty and oftentimes hilarious in that special Dean sort of way and often enough you can’t help but laugh even in the grittiest of situations.

The development of Dean and Castiel’s relationship is simply captivating, both a nod to canon as well as its own special kind of insanity. It’s just addicting to watch those two slowly but gradually get their shit together.

And on top of that the actual case is truly riveting, keeping you on the edge of your seat the whole time.

So yeah, what are you waiting for? Happy reading 😁

#destiel #fic rec #1k follower celebration #favorite fics #mature #50k to 100k #au #supernatural #law enforcement!dean #creature!castiel #angst with a happy ending #slow burn #case fic #bamf!castiel #strangers to lovers #virgin!castiel #author: suspiciousflashlight #a beginner’s guide to communing with the dead

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fayes-fics · 1 year

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Somewhere Only We Know

Pairing: Benedict Bridgerton x fem!reader, modern AU

Summary: Five hours of snowfall, four miles from the nearest paved road, three weeks before Christmas, two old friends and one bed….

Warnings: 18+smut, minors DNI, fingering, handjob, vaginal sex, passing mention of oral sex, all sorts of feelings.

Word Count: 7.9 k I'm so sorry...

Build a blurb prompt 1: Benedict 👅 smut 🌲 mutual pining 🛌 only one bed - from @amillcitygirl Build a blurb prompt 2: modern Benedict 👅smut 👥friends to lovers 🌲mutual pining 🛌only one bed - from anon

Authors Note: *beep beep* make way for the trope bus, it’s coming thru!! Is this original? No. Was it fun to write? Hell YES! This thing was supposed to be 1k follower celebration Drabble (HAHAHA) but it grew its own legs and took over my brain for the last week. This is my winter epic and I even listened to the namesake song as I was editing it. I hope you all enjoy. Betaed by the total trooper @makaylan and beautiful artwork above made especially by @bridgertontess thank you 🧡

“You’ll just have to stay here,” he shrugs, peering out at the falling snow.

You glance at your watch. It’s 5pm and already dark, snowflakes swirling furiously in the glow cast by the window.

This was not your plan. You are booked onto a late flight back to London tonight. You only came out to the beautiful Highlands for a day in nature after your business trip to Glasgow. OK, and a dose of time with the most handsome friend you have, but mainly for the scenery.

He’s rented a tiny cottage for a week as a painting retreat. Why he would do that in early December is a slight mystery. However, the scenery will undoubtedly be even more breathtaking with a blanket of snow tomorrow—an artist's dream.

“Look, the roads here are tiny and treacherous. It’s too risky to attempt the airport drive tonight in the dark in this snowstorm. I will pay for you to fly home tomorrow instead,” Benedict assures, “penance for not checking the forecast before inviting you?” he winces in the hopes of forgiveness.

“But…” you protest weakly, not exactly hating the idea of being trapped in a remote cottage in the mountains with the man who has haunted your dreams for more years than you care to remember.

“This place is warm,” he points to the roaring fireplace. “And well stocked, in more ways than one,” he adds, gesturing to the kitchenette full of supplies and, with a flourish, to the small selection of single malt bottles on a nearby shelf. “There’s even some festive decor,” he argues.

You are entertained that he believes some sprigs of holly, which he has obviously collected on one of his hikes, count as Christmas decorations. Although, to be fair, wrapped around the bookshelves and candles the way it is, it does look lovely.

‘Yes, but… there's also only one bed,” you argue, nodding to the not-exactly sizable double bed at the other end of the room, partially obscured by a room-dividing bookshelf. Even as you mention it, your belly has a warm fizz at the fleeting thought of waking up pressed against him.

“I can sleep on the sofa,” he says hurriedly in a reassuring tone.

“Ben, don't be ridiculous. You are six feet tall, and that thing is barely five. We are not so young we can just sleep anywhere and still be okay anymore,” you remind him.

“Yeah, thanks for that reminder,” he deadpans.

“We are grown-ups; we can share a bed,” trying to keep your tone breezy, but it feels like the reassurance is for yourself as much as him.

You pretend not to see how he swallows thickly at your suggestion, his Adam’s apple bobbing heavily.

“If it makes you more comfortable, I can fashion a barrier with some throw cushions,” you shrug, a short nervous laugh bubbling up as you secretly chastise yourself for suggesting such a thing.

“No, no,” he rushes out very quickly. “What I mean is… it’s not a big bed, so by the time we do that, we would both be clinging to the edges. Let’s just, as you say, be adults about this and share the best we can.”

“Agreed.” You give a business-like nod, wanting to change the topic.

“Besides, the night is young,” he states, clapping and rubbing his hands together as if reading your mind. “What do you say we cook dinner together? Then, well, it’s card games or jigsaw puzzles, I’m afraid,” he skews his mouth with an apologetic twist.

“Sounds delightful on all counts,” you assure and bump him with your shoulder.

The evening seems to fly by, and the snowstorm outside somewhat abates as you make a delicious spaghetti bolognese together. Even though it's a tiny kitchen space, you make it work, moving around each other with an almost balletic fluidity as soft music plays from a Bluetooth speaker. There's no Wi-Fi or even much phone signal out here, but he came prepared with songs loaded onto his laptop. You exchange easy chat about mutual friends and what has been happening since you last saw one another a few weeks before.

As you sit down to eat together, the conversation flow continues. It's one of those meals you sop up the sauce from your plate with the warm bread rolls you serve as a side. Lingering in your chairs long after eating is complete, chatting amiably and animatedly about anything, everything and nothing all at once, with a delicious bottle of scotch.

Later, you take turns in the bathroom, cleaning teeth and changing into pyjama bottoms, and then you drift to the living room area. You watch as Benedict pours you both a nightcap into scotch glasses and glance outside to see the storm has picked up again, large clumps of fluffy snow gather in the corner of the window pane; you feel very cosy in this small but perfectly formed little rustic cottage.

“So, how have you been entertaining yourself all alone here for the last four nights?” you inquire, enjoying the smooth, smoky burn of the single malt.

Benedict is now sprawled across the nearby armchair in the most Benedict way, legs akimbo.

“I’ve read two books, and I’ve slept for nine hours every night,” he confesses, taking a sip of his drink and looking at you over the top of his glass.

The room feels like it's getting warmer regardless of the fire; how much is due to the delightful fog of whisky in your veins versus the handsome man across from you is indecipherable.

“Are you not lonely?” you blurt out.

“I live alone in London. What's the difference?” his brow knitting in confusion.

“Alone in the city is very different to alone out here,” you offer, “you can’t be that lonely when you’re only twenty feet from your neighbour through a wall.”

“Hmm, never thought about it like that,” his mien turns thoughtful, scratching his palm on the shadow of stubble on his chin.

You hear the rasp from where you sit, and you almost squeak in surprise as your treacherous mind supplies a vivid snapshot of that stubble teasing the soft skin of your lower belly as he looks up at you with a seductive smirk. You have to shake your head to get rid of it.

“Fear of murder out here is different,” you offer, trying to reroute your thoughts.

“Morbid,” he shoots back, raising an eyebrow with a bemused expression on his face.

“Out here, no one can hear you scream,” you jest, aping the movie line.

He guffaws into his glass. “Sometimes that can be a good thing.”

“Murder?!”

“The ability to scream and not be heard,” he clarifies, his tone markedly more languid than before.

“Painting not going well?” you ask with a chuckle.

“It’s going great, but not what I was referring to,” he argues, and you can’t seem to look away from his mouth all of a sudden.

Damn, how much whisky have you had?

“Had a girl here, Bridgerton?” your venture, a flutter in your chest even as you ask.

“Not until now,” he scoffs, but the intensity in his hazy blue stare causes a riot in your stomach.

You have to look down at your feet before you do something stupid, like climb into his lap and suck on his luscious bottom lip.

“Have you been masturbating loudly?” you quip, still looking down, the thought leaving your lips before you can censor it.

There’s a sharp intake of breath, making you look back at him—big mistake. His eyes look stormy, and you can see a vein in his neck pulsing hard. Like you’ve awoken something.

“I’m sorry, that was rude of me,” you stutter even as your mind floods with images of just that—him stroking his cock and panting, preferably your name.

The atmosphere feels a little too thick, and you briefly curl your lip into your mouth and bite it to give yourself something else to focus on.

“More whisky?” you offer, standing up and changing the subject.

“Sure.” He holds out his glass, and you swear his fingers intentionally slot between yours as he passes it to you.

You use the few moments it takes to refill your drinks, with your back turned, to gather your thoughts and slow your breathing. Having served, you sink onto the couch again but intentionally shift to face him more directly. The alcohol makes you bold and intrigued to know where this might go. He seems to do the same, his feet looping over the armchair's edge and almost touching yours.

“Hey, do you remember that summer when we were, l think, maybe twelve and…”

“Excuse me, point of order,” you butt in, “If you were twelve, I was ten. OK? Continue…” you motion with your hands for him to go on.

“Yes, thanks for reminding me I am older,” he snarks and skews his mouth into an affectionate pout.

“You are welcome, old man,” you tease with a slight smirk.

“Well, anyway… do you remember that summer Colin came home with headlice? And Ant’s answer was to shave all of our heads? Mum almost had a heart attack when she walked in on that. She was forever grateful he’d only gotten around to doing us three boys. She might have died if we’d made it down to Daph or El…” he is laughing heartily around his scotch glass at the memory.

“Remember it?!?” you pipe up, “of course I do! Don't you remember you were trying to push me in front of your sisters in Ant’s barber line? You seemed concerned to ensure I either got rid of or never got them in the first place; I don't remember which,” you laugh, an ache of fond nostalgia in your chest at little Benedict.

“Well, of course, I’ve always looked out for you,” he rolls his eyes as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

You smile a genuinely warm smile at him. He's been a wonderful person in your life for as long as you can remember.

“But you’ve always looked out for me too. I remember you brought me a Malteser every day when I was sick with the mumps.”

“I did?!” your voice incredulous; you do not remember doing so.

“Yes, and I've never forgotten it,” he voices sincerely before he takes a draw of his drink. “But then there is so much about you that is unforgettable, isn't there?” he adds, looking at you with an intensity you don't know what to do with.

“Stop it,” you answer bashfully, embarrassed to meet his gaze, staring beyond his shoulder at the snow falling heavily and sticking to the window in fluffy clumps. “And if we’re on this flattery train, what about you? You think I don’t know it’s been you sending me an ‘anonymous’ rose every single Valentine's Day?”

He gapes at you in surprise. “Wait, how did you know it’s from me?’”

“You are the sweetest person I know. It could never be anyone but you, Ben.” You shrug as if the answer is obvious, “and I know it was never out of pity for the times I’m single because you sent one those years I was with Dan, which used to make him so mad, by the way, and when I was with Julian and Paul….”

“Urgh, Dan deserved to be mad,” his tone dismissive, and his face ticked, “I always hated him.”

“You hated everyone I dated, that you met anyway,” you point out, that fact just dawning on your as you speak it.

“But him the most,” he grouses with a sour expression.

“Why?”

“‘Cos he got the closest to marrying you. And I really didn’t want to have to do that whole stand-up in church and object thing. But, by god, I would have.”

His powerful words stun you; you had no idea how deep his feelings on the subject ran.

“Y… you would?” you stutter.

His eyes are so intense now. Even as he takes a swig, he doesn't look away. “He was not worthy of you,” he declares, slow and deliberate, enunciating each word crisply.

“So, who is?” you ask quietly as you take a sip, the question echoing hollowly in your glass.

“I haven't met anyone yet,” he notes with finality.

You had no idea he had judged every single one of your boyfriends and, what’s more, found all of them to be somehow lacking. In hindsight, he was correct, but he never said anything to you at the time, and you can't decide if you want to hold that against him. It might have saved you a lot of heartache and possibly a lot of money.

“Well, if you meet someone that has the Benedict seal of approval, you’ll be sure to send them my way, yeah?” you volley, your voice light.

He breaks into a smile that makes something flutter strong in your ribcage.

“Certainly. I hope you don't mind waiting until possibly your eighties for me to find a worthy suitor,” he jokes.

“Oh god, really?” you groan, “but I can’t not have sex until then,” you lament and kick your legs out as if in a fit of pique.

“Oh, you can have all the sex you want,” he lobbies back, waving his hand dismissively, “you just can’t fall in love,” his eyes twinkle with mischief you’ve always found beguiling.

“Duly noted,” you giggle.

There is a beat where you just look at each other with a shared fondness that makes your heart ache a little—perhaps under different circumstances, he could be the one person worthy of you, as he puts it.

“Well, that is the last log on the fire dying down. I'm not going out in that damn snow to fetch more, so I think the safest thing to do is get under the covers before it gets too cold in here.” he opines.

“Ben, it's 10:30 pm… really?” you whine, “are you really going to bed already, grandpa?” but as you complain, you stifle a yawn.

“Haha, I saw that yawn!” he retorts triumphantly, “and I've got news for you, missy. You are going to bed too.” He grabs both of your hands and easily hauls you off the sofa.

“Why?!?” you scoff but are secretly enthralled when he rounds behind you, his sizable hands landing warm on your hips and propelling you towards the bedroom area.

“Because I’m not having you crawl under the covers later bringing in all that cold air with you, nope, no thank you, not happening,” he chimes over your shoulder.

“So I have to go to bed now?!” you throw your hands up in the air, but he keeps propelling you forward.

“Yup,” he grins, popping the ‘p’ rather obnoxiously.

You capitulate with a weary sigh. “Urghhh, fine. But I will be up reading for a few more hours, so I hope you can sleep with the light on.”

“Fine with me,” he chuckles, herding you towards the bed. “I once slept in your dorm room when your flatmate was having a full-on dance party. I think I can sleep through your reading.”

You collapse onto the bed giggling at that memory, tugging off your shoes and socks but nothing else as he does the same. He pulls the covers back, and you both settle under, still in your fleecy jumpers. Without your socks, however, your feet feel freezing, and with a wicked grin, you cook up a solution.

“Oh my god, what the hell is wrong with your feet?!? Why are they so cold!!” he exclaims as your toes wrap around his exposed ankle.

He twists to try and get away from you, but your feet chase him under the covers, you laughing, him shrieking.

“My hands are cold too,” you chortle, clamping them onto his surprisingly muscular forearm.

He squeals in the most undignified manner, trying to shake your grip, but you just limpet on harder, giggling in that way only tipsy people do.

There is the most delightful resulting tussle, him trying to wrestle your hands and feet away as you try your damndest to keep them on him—the duvet entwining around all of your limbs.

You end up with his weight and warmth partially on top of you, pinning you down, him triumphantly ensnaring your wrists and holding your hands firmly onto the pillow. Your joint heavy breathing and giggles slowly die out as you stare at each other. Your faces have never been so close before. You have no doubt your pupils are as blown as his, and you are certain that he can feel the racing heartbeat at your wrists where he pins you down. His breath is warm on your cheek.

After a few silent moments, his gaze drops to your mouth; he suddenly mutters an apology and starts to pull away.

As if in slow motion, you push up and press your lips to his. You are not thinking at all, just going with your instinct. His lips are warm and plush, and you want more. So much more.

You feel the moment his whole body freezes; he is stunned in the truest sense of the word.

You pull back quickly, sinking into the pillow under him.

“Oh god. I’m so, so sorry,” you whisper, mortified, “please forgive me, I….”

Your words die out as he makes a noise you’ve never heard before. It seems to come from deep inside him, making every hair on your body stand on end.

Then he is on you. Closing the gap between you and capturing your lips with a passion that steals your breath and thoughts. He is kissing so hard, so quickly, you feel lightheaded, pressing you into the mattress under his body. His lips open over yours, his tongue teasing against your lips. He tastes of toothpaste, traces of whiskey and something that is all him, and you flood your underwear; there's also a noise from your throat that doesn’t sound human. He kisses like a storm, hot and electric, and you want to drown in him.

Suddenly his hands are everywhere, and so yours follow suit. It’s a desperate clambering of wanting more. Before you can completely acknowledge it, his hands are questing under your jumper, squeezing your waist, sliding up and over your bra, and tweaking a nipple as his tongue parries with yours.

“Please, please take this off,” he implores passionately into your mouth, tugging at your top. His voice, this close and breathless, is lethal. He is everywhere, surrounding and covering you, and your focus narrows to just him as he sits up to peel off his jumper and t-shirt together, exposing his torso. You freeze. Your arms crossed, halfway through taking off yours.

“Fucking hell,” you exhale before you can stop yourself.

You figured Benedict would be in shape from the feel of his body when you hug, but you haven't seen him shirtless in a long time, and just how much in shape he is, is a revelation. He smiles demurely at your outburst, which makes you want him even more if that were possible.

“Take yours off,” he sounds impatient, and you realise you are still frozen in the same position. You quickly whip yours over your head; his responding noise is your new favourite sound. You feel so grateful you only brought nice underwear on this trip; your lacy bra appears to work for him.

“The knickers match,” you murmur, revelling in the flash in his eye.

You grab his hand and move it to the drawstring on your pyjamas. His long slender fingers pluck the bow tied there; his gaze is on your face the whole time, his kiss-damp lips glowing softly in the low light. You breathe deeply and can’t look away from his captivating face. When the string relents, he winks. Rather than pull them down, his hand quests inside and between your legs.

You gasp and buck up off the pillow as warm, strong fingers press on your clit through the lacy fabric. You know he can feel your heat, just how wet the material is.

“I’ve wanted you for years,” he rumbles low and sinful as his fingers tease a circle over your clit. “Although this seems unreal - I half assume I’m going to wake up in a minute with my hand wrapped around my cock, alone.”

Hearing him say the word cock makes you moan. He licks his lips, and his fingers curl firmer on you.

“Tell me this is real; I’m not dreaming again,” he pleads fervently, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing your air. He is achingly beautiful this close up, his eyes just a thin ring blazing around dark inky pupils staring into your depths. This man has always been able to make you feel seen, but this close, this intense, it feels like he’s peering into your soul.

“You’re not dreaming, Ben,” you reply shakily, trying not to lose all composure at what the word ‘again’ might imply as he gradually tortures you with unhurried, steady movements.

He is watching your face, so closely observing, cataloguing your micro-expressions. His fingers move, spidering along the lace trim before pushing under the fabric this time, sliding down through your trimmed pubic hair and into your naked, soaked folds.

“Ben!” You call out, grasping that strong forearm again, biting your lip and staring into his fiery gaze.

“What do you need?” he questions. It’s the first time anyone has ever asked you that in bed.

“You,” you reply honestly.

“You have me, 110% you have me,” he asserts in a tone that melts something in your chest. “As if you don't know it, you’ve had me for many years,” he admits as his hand slides lower. You cry out as he pushes two fingers just a fraction inside you.

“Fuck, you are on fire,” he exclaims, a shaky exhale across your lips.

“Only for you,” you answer, knowing you’ve never been this turned on before in your life.

He growls, actually growls. And then his lips are back on yours in the most potent kiss yet. You pulse around him and groan into his mouth as he sinks his fingers deeper. When the kiss ends, you glance down your body, seeing the stiff peaks of your nipples poking insistently through the lace and his sinewy forearm buried into your pyjama bottoms.

“Do you like what you see?” his voice a velvety tease.

“I’d like it even more if we were naked,” you respond honestly.

He chuckles at that, and his lips descend, dropping light kisses down your neck as his fingers tease you, surging in and out of your body so achingly slow. His thumb rests on your clit, a little nudge of pressure every time his fingers rock into your channel.

“I need to make you come like I need air,” he confesses, his voice resonant, his warm breath skittering over the sensitive skin of your throat. It’s the hottest thing you've ever heard.

“Please do…” it’s a quiet plea.

You feel the curve of his cheek as he smiles, and the fingers inside you flex.

“I suppose if you’d like to be more naked, then I’d better strip you down first,” he remarks, gently withdrawing his fingers.

Warm hands hook into your underwear, and he scooches away, pulling them down your legs, taking your PJs with them. Suddenly, the image that flashed in your mind earlier becomes a reality, his stubbly chin grazing your belly as he crawls back over you.

“You look amazing,” he sighs over your belly button and leans his forehead on your stomach as he takes a deep breath. “You smell it too.”

He runs his nose and lips over your skin as he surges up and nuzzles your bra, pleading with his eyes for you to remove it as he pulls the straps down over your arms, kissing along the lacy cup edge.

When his lips wrap around one of your nipples, you grab his hair and push up against him, the swoop of sensation in your belly like riding a rollercoaster, the thrill tingling along the back of your scalp.

He moves to lay beside you, and you watch the duvet move as he strips off his bottoms under it. Suddenly there is a thick wave of body heat as he rolls next to you; you feel something sizeable and solid brand your hip.

“Oh, Ben,” slips out on instinct, but he stops your questing hand.

“Not yet,” he shakes his head and smirks at your corresponding pout. “When you have come, preferably screaming, then you can touch my cock. Okay?”

You physically feel the shiver down your spine at that line. Who even says things like that?

He smiles against your temple as he slips his fingers back into you, and you moan at the sensation. He curls his body around you, legs twining around your right one to hold you open. That cock is still rigid on your hip; it feels sizeable and delicious.

“Tell me what you like,” he murmurs, his thumb rubbing a circle over your clit his fingers stroking in a come hither motion.

“This… exactly what you are doing,” you reply breathlessly, “just please don't stop and maybe go a little harder?” you request timidly.

He smirks and pushes his fingers deeper; his motions get stronger and faster. You close your eyes and nod, licking your lips.

“Yes, that oh god Ben, thattttt,” you stumble as his magical fingers spiral you higher.

When they jab a spot inside, a bloom of pleasure hits you, and your eyes fly open, going wide.

“Oh, that’s the spot,” he preens, redoubling his efforts as you start to pant loudly, clinging to his arm and whining his name—the hot and intense pleasure building remarkably fast.

“That’s it come on,” he encourages, whispering into your hairline right above your ear; his tone is both soothing and achingly filthy.

“Ben… I,” your words morph into needy noises, drunk on the sensations rippling through your body, fanning out from his fingers buried inside you.

“Yes, yes,” he hisses, “you’re close now; I can feel it. Look at me,” he orders.

And you do. Mouth hanging open, squirming on his fingers, feeling something primal washing over you. His eyes burn into yours.

“Don’t fight it,” he warns.

It's almost like permission; you feel something inside you give way. You scream loudly as a tide of orgasm washes over you. Blood rushes in your ears, and you feel his leg bear down over the apex of your thigh, holding your pelvis onto the bed as you cry and convulse. Your body fights his fingers, trying to push them out as your whole channel clenches in strong waves.

After a few moments of deep breaths, you open your eyes, and he kisses your cheek, then your lips.

“Wow… that was…. absolutely amazing,” he confides, kissing more. “And it's a damn good thing no one can hear us here. You scream like a horror movie queen, and I mean that with all the very best compliments.”

You laugh a little abashed and bury your face into his armpit, loving the smell of his deodorant and just him.

“Your turn,” you mumble, deciding to be bold and snake a hand down your side to grab his cock at your hip.

It’s large and thick enough your fingers don’t quite meet when you wrap around it. It makes your insides melt at the thought of how it would feel sliding into you. He makes the neediest huffing noises as you twist onto your side to face him and begin an unhurried rhythm, watching that pretty cock twitch in your hand.

You tease him with a gentle twisting motion, squeezing a little as you reach his head, swiping a thumb over the bead of precum that appears, gently massaging his frenulum as he lets out a faint moan. His hand covers yours, stilling your movements.

“This is so wonderful, but I need you to stop if you want sex. Do you want to… have sex?” he asks so demurely your heart clenches.

“Yes, Ben, please,” you whisper.

“I didn't bring any condoms with me,” he says quietly, “I didn't think I’d meet another soul up here, let alone well…” he trails off, pitching forward, so his lips are warm on your cheek.

“I didn't either, but I'm on the Pill,” you shrug. You've never had first-time sex without a condom, but this man isn't a stranger; he's a lifelong friend, and you trust him with your life.

“I know,” he says softly, kissing your nose.

“Wait, how do you know that?” your brow knitting lightly.

“I know everything about you,” he asserts against your skin, staring into your eyes. “How you take your tea - English breakfast before 2pm, Earl Grey after, both with milk and one sugar. I know how the tip of your tongue here,” he softly trails his nose over the corner of your mouth, “sticks out of your mouth when you type on your laptop. I know you always loop your glasses into the neckline of your top,” a finger tracing gently over the swell of your breast, “and somehow always forget they are there and have a ten-second panic every time.” He laughs gently. “I even know how you prefer plain Hobnobs over chocolate; I have no idea why, and you are so wrong on that, by the way,” he shoots you a devastating lopsided grin. “And I know you are on the Pill because I've watched you take them religiously for years; when I stay at yours, and you make coffee in the morning, it’s the first thing you take before your multivitamin.”

His casual recounting of so many little, human things that make you, you, astounds you. This man knows you better than you know yourself, and you get a weird swooping sensation in your chest. Of elation that you've finally figured it out, he might just be the one - your human, but also a crushing regret you haven't done so sooner. You could have been doing this, intimately entwined with this wonderful, thoughtful, sensitive, handsome man, for so many years.

Not wanting to waste any more opportunity and so very desperate to have him inside you, you use all your strength to roll him onto his back and climb on top. Surprised and aroused, he looks up at you devotedly, his pupils blown wide.

Silently and without breaking eye contact, you reach between your bodies, line up his weeping beautiful cock, and sink onto him without another thought. The needy noise he makes is like poetry.

He feels perfect, and you close your eyes to revel in being stretched around him, a solid hot presence filling you up and holding you so open. Just the perfect length and girth for you, almost like his cock was made for you.

Warm hands grasp your hips, and your eyes fly open and look down at him, his expression pleading with you to move. Gradually you rise up, then drop down just once, savouring the sensations as he drags against your walls.

“You feel perfect,” he groans “please….”

You know what he is asking, begging for - more. Something in you wants to draw this out, go so achingly slow both of you get mindless. Luxuriate in this carnal, sensual meeting.

“Talk to me,” you implore, starting a leisurely pace.

“What about?” you watch him glance down between your bodies, watching his cock disappear into you as you sink down.

“Talk to me, Ben,” you repeat but pointedly, grabbing his chin to look at you and raising an eyebrow.

There's a lightbulb of understanding behind his eyes, and that killer crooked smile spreads across his face.

“You like my voice, don't you?” he says, pitched low, and you bite your lip, grabbing his hands as leverage for your movements.

“Yes,” you admit quietly, gasping as the pleasure grows between your legs just as he says those few words.

“I know,” he smirks, “I’ve known for years.”

You look at him in surprise. “Wait, how?” you breathe, disbelieving.

He grabs your shoulders and pulls you down on top of him: so much heat and warm flesh.

“I have noticed your pupils dilate every time I drop my voice just like this,” he murmurs low and sinful into your ear. “The temptation to say so many dirty things has been so strong. God, I love it when you are aroused, and you think you can hide it. I knew you were getting wet; it would take all my willpower not to grab and kiss you senselessly. Especially those days when you are only in a little floaty skirt, I could actually smell it. Delicious and sweet and so fucking sexy. That little squirm you would do. How you move your body is fucking sinful. And now I get to enjoy it. You riding me like this. Fuck, if this isn't every fantasy I've ever had coming true.”

By the time his filthy soliloquy is done, you are panting hard, not from the exertion as you rock on him but the way he has pushed you so close to orgasm with so little effort - just his voice and words.

“Ben,” you shudder, “I….” words fail as you feel your body flush.

“I can feel you are fluttering. Are you going to come so soon?” he exhales, impressed. “Oh god, please, please do it,” he urges. “I need to feel it.”

You sit up and reach down to touch your clit, and he swears at the sight. You are tipping over the edge, stilling your movement as you sit with him at your hilt and clench around him. He feels impossibly huge inside you, twitching and pulsing.

“Fuckkkkkkkk,” he groans long and loud, clenching his teeth. You know he is also fighting the urge to come, wanting this to last much longer.

Greedy for more, for another stronger climax, you go to move again, but he stops you.

“Please don't move, not yet,” he pleads, grabbing your hips and quelling your movement. “I need… a few moments, please.”

You smile down at him indulgently and link your hands again, bringing the back of his hand to your mouth and kissing it delicately. Then to be a tease, you envelop his middle finger in your mouth, running your tongue over it, tasting his tangy skin. He growls as you add his pointer finger and suck hard, staring down at him heatedly.

“This isn't really helping,” he warns reluctantly with a playful pout.

You let his fingers slip out of your mouth and guide his hand to your breasts, pressing his now-damp fingers against your nipple. He enthusiastically grips your flesh, and you throw your head back and moan as he teases your sensitive buds, pinching them between his fingertips. You gyrate your hips, dragging his tip against your cervix.

There is another growl, and suddenly you are tipped over onto the mattress, him still buried inside you. He grabs your legs and loops his arms under them, pulling your body so open under him.

“Hold onto me… twine your arms around me,” he instructs.

You do, fingers digging into his smooth, muscular torso. Panting in anticipation; at the feel of him holding you down, his pelvis crushed against your engorged clit.

He begins to move, and you can't help but make noises; he just overwhelms all your senses. His kisses, his skin, his arms, your legs held high and wide. He is almost delicate in his motion, but you can tell he is holding back.

“Don't be too gentle, Ben,” you beg, bringing one hand up to cup his jaw and running your thumb over his bottom lip. “Please just fuck me.”

His mouth captures your thumb, and you gasp as he spears into you hard. You hiss your approval as he crowds over you to kiss you fiercely. Then everything is a haze as your mind switches off, and you are rooted in your body, chasing sensation as he takes you hard. He feels so hot and rigid, pounding into you as you lay under him, pinned and almost helpless to this onslaught but wanting nothing more than being right where you are. For a first time together, it’s not awkward or timid; it's exciting and mindblowing but somehow still safe, knowing you can trust him with everything, including your body.

Between kisses, there are whispered encouragements against lips and hands grasping so tight to each other as movements become more frantic and fast. He is hitting your clit on each stroke and panting, so present in the moment, eyes boring into yours. You know he is so close, hanging by a thread when he screws his eyes shut and pleads with you to come with him. A few more strokes and it is happening, your orgasm hitting you hard and breaking over your body in waves, fanning out from your core as you clench around him, making your muscles spasm and your toes curl. You feel him coming hard, too, a warm bloom inside you as he jerks a few heavy thrusts, then stills, mouth open over yours and huffing gulps of air as he twitches.

After a few moments of deep breaths and slumped limbs, he pulls his face up to kiss you tenderly.

“Wow,” he breathes, and you giggle and nod your head. “Why haven't we been doing that for the last god knows how many years?” he shakes his head, his voice a little ragged and rough-edged.

“I don't know, but we should be doing a lot more of it,” you respond brightly, “make up for lost time?”

He laughs warmly and agrees, taking his weight off you and rolling and rearranging your bodies so you are both on your sides, facing each other, hands laced together, noses touching. And that is how you fall asleep.

—

You awaken to dazzling sunlight streaming in, reflecting off all the snow. You wince against the brightness and clamp your eyes shut, burrowing back into Benedict. You feel surrounded, in the best sense of the word. He is a warm solid presence behind your back, an arm slung around the dip of your waist, a hand curled around your breast, legs entangled, downy hair tickling your calves. And best of all, a hard cock nestles the back of your thighs. You flex your hips and shuffle until his tip is poised right at your entrance. He stirs, and there is a hot exhale on the back of your neck.

“Get inside me, please,” you petition quietly, voice scratchy from sleep.

Wordlessly, he rolls his hips, surging into your body in one swift stroke. You moan so loudly that he huffs a laugh, then stills, buried inside you.

“Now go back to sleep,” he grumbles affectionately, arm pulling you into him tighter, your whole body flush to his, curling his legs up so you are almost in the fetal position.

“Like this?!” your tone incredulous, as his fingernails trace an idle ellipsis around your areola.

“Mmm hmmm,” his hum vibrates into your spine.

“Bennnn…” you protest, clenching around him, so he groans deeply.

“I promise to fuck you so hard you forget your name… later, if you let me sleep just a little more,” he proposes, nuzzling your hair.

What a lovely thought. You lay still in his arms for a few minutes, but his cock holding you open is far too distracting.

“Bennn…” you try again.

“Shhhhh…” he reacts, but you can tell he's not sleepy anymore; there is a smile on the nape of your neck.

“You feel too good; I can’t sleep,” you whine, slightly petulant.

“You’re not even trying,” he chuckles richly.

“You can't do this to me,” you wheedle, your breath hitching triumphantly as he tilts his pelvis and slips a fraction deeper.

“If I fuck you right now, will you stop complaining?” his tone laced with amusement.

“Hmmm, maybe,” you shoot back, twisting to glance at him over your shoulder, seeing his eyes dancing with mirth.

Your lips meet, and it's a breathy passionate kiss, all open mouths and tongues, teasing each other and fighting for dominance.

As your mouths dance, he starts to move at a languid pace, just rocking into your body gently, and it’s the best wake-up you have ever had. You cover his hand on your breast, and he intuits what you are asking, squeezing the swell, your nipple snagged between his middle and pointer finger. You break the kiss, and his teeth gently skim the cord on your neck as he speeds up a little.

“Will you wake me up like this every day, please?” you sigh, not thinking about the implications of your words, just drunk on the sensation.

“Happily,” he rumbles and spears a little stronger, making you call out his name.

“The sound I really want to wake up to though….” his voice teasing and low. “is this one…” and his hand slips from your breast to between your legs.

You moan and writhe in his strong hold, little sparks of pleasure firing where he touches.

“That’s it, that’s the sound,” he encourages as you both move together in sync.

It’s a wonderfully sensual experience, growing in intensity until he rolls you over onto your front, still inside you, fucking into you from behind, covering your entire body with his. His hand is trapped between your body and the mattress while teasing your clit.

“Oh god, Ben,” you cry as he seems to slide deeper than ever, your thigh trapped shut together, his legs bracketing yours, using all his effort to drive into you, the tone shifting from languid to vigorous. You’ve never been taken in this position before, and at this angle, he is hitting all the right spots inside you to make your eyes roll back and bite the pillow.

It hurtles you fast, beginning to pant raggedly, and you urge him on, asking for more and harder, and he obliges, thrusting so strong your whole body rolls and the bed squeaks loudly in protest. Your voice becomes one long moaning sound; you are pushing back onto his cock as much as possible, a chorus of please don't stop as he drives you fast towards a climax. His body is bowed, breathing hot puffs of air across your upper back, with an occasional kiss, his lips soft and wet.

He holds you on a precipice for a moment; you crane to look back at his face pleadingly; his expression is wild and so gorgeous it catches your breath.

“You are magnificent,” he rasps against your skin.

Then the hand not on your clit suddenly spanks your butt cheek while his teeth sink into the top of your trapezius muscle, pushing you over the edge, calling his name as you pulsate hard around him. Him grunting and thrusting deeper, fighting your clenching muscles. Then he stills, and every muscle tenses as he empties into your body, almost shaking from the intensity.

He collapses onto your back, breathing in wracked sounds.

“Fucking hell,” you both say almost in unison, then giggle at your matching assessment of the experience.

He pulls out of you reluctantly and flops down onto the mattress to your left, wrapping an arm around you and manoeuvring so are the little spoon once again.

“That was intense,” he voices, and you make a noise of agreement, lacing your fingers with his and holding your joined hands up, watching his fingers sink between yours and curve over, his fingertips resting on your palm.

“We are awesome at sex,” you opine. Benedict chuckles at that, hooking his chin over your shoulder. “And you know what that means?”

“What?” his tone lilting.

“We just have to keep doing it all the time,” you observe with a mock, burdened sigh.

“What a terrible hardship for us,” he concurs with an ironic laugh, nuzzling your neck with a grin on his face. __

Half an hour later, you have showered together - which proved almost as distracting as morning sex until the hot water tank ran out, and you jumped out squealing as the water turned ice cold - and are now leisurely making brunch. You both only wear towelling robes you stole from your Glasgow hotel room, the fireplace roaring again. You agree to go for a walk in the snow later, neither of you mentioning booking your flight home.

“Wait, why is this sofa so bloody uncomfortable” you bemoan, taking a sip of coffee and flicking idly through a book you took from a shelf. “I don't remember it being this bad last night,” you ponder aloud.

“Well, you had had a couple of whiskeys by then,” Benedict points out as he cooks an amazing-smelling breakfast a few feet away in the kitchenette.

“True, but honestly, what is going on with it?” you grumble, putting the book aside, not yet sufficiently caffeinated.

“Sofa beds tend not to be comfortable. As either a sofa or a bed,” he rattles out, flipping a slice of bacon in the pan.

You grind to a halt in your efforts to get comfy.

“Sofa bed…?” You echo out loud.

He suddenly freezes and realises what he has admitted.

“Benedict bloody Bridgerton!!” you exclaim loudly, standing up, “did you trick me into sharing your bed?!?”

He turns around slowly, knowing he is foiled and pulls a sheepish face.

“Yeahhhh, a lil bit…” he admits as you gape at him, attempting his most winning remorseful smile. “But, in my defence…” he adds, waving the spatula, “you are the one who kissed me first. I just stacked the deck; you drew the first card.”

He expertly swerves the cushion you throw at him before flicking off the stove and pushing aside the pan.

“Right…” he charges at you as you squeal.

He corners you with ease in the compact space and throws you over his shoulder.

“We are using this stupid sofa bed right now,” he instructs and, rather attractively, casually flicks a handle on the side with his foot to open it. He practically throws you onto the (admitted thin, rather uncomfortable) bed and tugs open your robe, snaking his way down your body and throwing your legs over his shoulder, shooting you a molten hot gaze from between your thighs.

You have no arguments with this development. None whatsoever.

—

You return to that tiny cottage every year for that same week as a ritual—a little private anniversary. Sometimes you stay through New Year, just the two of you ringing in the entire festive season.

He buys it for you as a wedding gift, and you cry at the sentimentality of the man buying you the place you first got together. (One thing you do early on - buy a new, comfortable sofa.)

It becomes a haven for your lives together, even when you have to bring cots and camp beds for your children, all sleeping communally in that one room. (You don’t tell them, but all of your children are named after characters in an obscure old book he finds hidden in the rafters when you are renovating while pregnant with your firstborn.)

Nothing brings you more joy than when you can escape to that little cottage in the Highlands. You never tell anyone besides your children where it is—it’s your escape, your sanctuary. The “somewhere only we know,” as Benedict always called it.

Benedict taglist: @makaylan @foreverlonginguniverse @iboopedyournose @wysteria-clad @colettebronte @aintnuthinbutahounddog @severewobblerlightdragon @margofiore @writergirl-2001 @heeyyyou @enichole445 @enchantedbytomandhenry @ambitionspassionscoffee @chaoticcalzoneranchsports @nikaprincessofkattegat @baebee35 @crowleysqueenofhell @bridgertontess @fiction-is-life @lilacbeesworld

#benedict bridgerton fanfiction #benedict bridgerton smut #benedict bridgerton x reader #benedict bridgerton x female reader #benedict bridgerton x you #benedict bridgerton x y/n #benedict bridgerton imagine #benedict bridgerton #bridgerton fanfiction #bridgerton smut #bridgerton imagine #bridgerton x reader #bridgerton x female reader #bridgerton #1k follower celebration #build a blurb celebration

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sleepless-crows · 11 months

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Lynnea's 1k Follower Celebration

i don't know what to say. i'm so grateful for all of you and words really cannot express how much you all mean to me. i can't believe you guys have chosen to follow me, and that you've allowed me to reach this milestone, which is so incredibly huge for me, when i haven't even been here for a year yet. i still cannot believe that. funny story, when i made a tumblr account, i originally planned to not post anything at all and planned to just stalk blogs and act like a bot. but somehow, i've got all of you right now. and its so insane to me. all of you are the sweetest and kindest people i have ever met and i really do not deserve you guys. so thank you i love you guys so so so much <3

send me the emoji in my ask box until the end of june!

🍇 - tumblr games (cym, kmk, would you rather, etc.)

👾 - i'll assign you a grishaverse character and a sab cast member based on vibes

🌌 - give me a grishaverse character and i'll make a meme for you OR give me a sab cast member and i'll make a reaction meme for you

🌂 - (moots only) send me photos that remind you of me and i'll do the same for you

🔮 - give me a random word and i'll tell you a random memory i have related to it to get to know me

💜 - (moots only) i'll write you a letter!

🎶 - tell me anything or ask me anything

feel free to spam me multiple times in my ask box <33 and i know its mostly grishaverse themed and i have a lot of swiftie mutuals so sorry about that!

tagging some mutuals!

@ketterdam-snack-bar @locklylemybeloved @aro-manita-muscaria @daisy-joness @i-like-it-when-men-beg @loverswillowed @the-cardigans @swiftie-as-a-coursing-river @lee-says-things @tinyexpertcoffee @faeruine @swift-of-crows13 @fandomynerd @thegoodbitch @firebrand-witch @magik-knives @thesunandstarss @morozovamaximoff @collectingthestars @haunted-pdf @sparklezfallsinlovewithbooks @dam-bluecookies @seraphicsolitude @iknowitwontwork @seriouslyalexanderlightwood @fireflyxrebel-writes @simplydifficultme @grishaverse-chaos @what-ho-christopher-put-in @romanticvampire @heartrender6 @tisthedamnseasns

#im so sorry if i didnt tag you! theres so much and its hard to keep track and i really dont want to be annoying too aksnkansksms #1k follower celebration #pinned post

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burning-academia-if · 5 months

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1k Follower Celebration: ???'s short story

Word count: 4k

Summary: Snapshots from the life of a child who was never supposed to survive.

CW: lots of discussion around death, brief mention of animal death, violence, blood

A/N: Once more, sorry this is late! I hope you enjoy the final story!

Once, an infant died. In an old manor, secluded from the rest of the world, a mother couldn’t weep for a child lost. It was a miracle, really, it had lasted through the week. Torn and sickly from birth, the mother cradled its small body. Maybe a hospital might have saved them, had they been allowed such a grace.

There was nothing in her eyes. She stared, vacant, out towards the window. Her lips mouthed the words of a lullaby and her husband guarded the door. Knuckles white against the frame, he kept his head bowed and did his best not to weep. If he fell apart, then so would she.

Outside, shadows curled around the windows. It wasn’t like them, to be so curious. The sensation made memories come back in spades, a collection of what they once were. A death of a newborn, unnatural in more ways then they could grasp, attracted them under the moonlight.

‘Ask us,’ they sang, ‘And we’ll bring back the child.’

‘Save us and we’ll save them.’

Their voices crept forward, and the woman paused. Her grip tightened around the infant, fingers digging into the cloth. Her husband stepped forward, a warning on his lips. She ignored him and rose, stumbling towards the window. An invitation. They became a swarm.

“Don’t—!” Her husband’s voice was lost as the darkness in cased her. There were so many, but one took a step forward. A body with a vague human form, hands reaching out. She clutched tighter at the child still.

‘Return to us what we desire, and thus we will return back what you desire.’

“What…what do you want?”

‘Our memory. Our humanity. Our souls.’

It was taboo, for one to return a wraith to their original selves. But truly, playing by the rules had done nothing in their favor. They were both casted out and cursed, and their newborn child had paid the price. Even if the wraiths lied, it did not matter. She couldn’t imagine living, not any longer.

She held the child out. An offering for the first sin.

The shadows rushed forward, all at once. The woman cried out, ice running down her spine and spreading through her body. As weak as she was, she sank to her knees, vaguely aware of her husband’s arms wrapping around her. The windows rattled, the darkness became one, and her child cried once again.

They grew fast, both in size and understanding. Their father taught them reading, history, arithmetic. Their mother the sciences and magic theory. Neither her nor their father had magic in their veins, but their mother had said there were other ways to be able to use it.

It was the wraiths who taught them about life and death.

Although they were never supposed to go out at night, they snuck out often. They’d go past their parents’ garden and out towards the trees that laid beyond and call for them.

Every time, the wraiths would chastise them, ‘Never call for wraiths.’

‘What if they answer next time?’

‘They’ll hurt you, they’ll hurt you.’

And they would tilt their head and glance between their various forms, “But you’re all wraiths and you’d never hurt me.”

‘Not wraiths, ghosts! Ghosts.’

‘We are wraiths but we are special.’

‘Ghosts!’

The little ones, as small as them, would argue with the bigger ones. Then they’d grow bored and ask them to play and so they’d run through the woods until they were tired. Arms would wrap around them and when they opened their eyes next, they were in bed and sunlight poured through the window.

Those were peaceful days. Yes, they were trapped in a world very small, but there was comfort and friends and family. Days the same as a favorite blanket, the only place they would ever want to exist if they could make the choice again.

Time, however, can only ever press forward.

The first time they found a dead thing, they wept. It was a small bird, likely attacked by another, resting at the edge of the garden and the forest. They sank to their knees, hands shaking as it hovered over its small little body. It was hard to see anything, so blinded by their tears.

“Oh, little one, what’s wrong?” Their mother wiped her hands on her apron, coated heavily in dirt and grime.

“I found a bird. A dead bird.”

Their mother’s arms wrapped around them and they turned and buried themselves against her. She cuddled them close, tucking them under her chin, “It’s alright, dear. All living things will eventually die.”

“The wraiths say it’s the end for most things. And when it’s not, it’s…it’s…they’re wrong.” They tried to think of what they were told but the words were lost on them and they didn’t want to think, they wanted to cry. They thought they might cry forever, as they hiccupped over their words.

Their mother stroked her hands through their hair, long and past their shoulders now, “Yes, death is an ending. It does not mean we can’t honor them. Come, let’s bury it and wish it well onto the next life.”

As their mother gave them gloves and a place to bury the bird, they found themselves asking, “Why do some dead things stay and others vanish forever?”

“They’re not gone forever.” She placed the body in the ground, hands moving the dirt over to cover it. “They’re merely gone in a place we ourselves can’t reach.”

“But they’re gone forever from us…” Their voice wobbled, seconds away from tears again and their mother reached an arm out. They let themselves collapse into it, eyes squeezing shut as they took comfort in her.

She carefully took off her gloves, and ran a hand through their hair, “Not forever. Never forever.”

She let them stay there, in the midst of a garden. A child learning grief, and a mother only ever steeped in it.

The father paced in his room, the never-ending confinement and the stubborn march of time sinking into his arteries. The mother watched, perched on the edge of bed as though ready to flee at a moment’s notice. How long has it been since this place became the only thing they knew?

“We can’t let them know about the child.” He started, coming to a halt. “We’ll have to hide them.”

“But…” she hesitated, eyes downcast as she folded her hands in her lap. “This place bears the marks of my actions. Even if we hide the child, we can’t hide what we’ve done or what we’ve become.”

He turned his eyes towards her, a thickness in his throat, “How do you suppose this will end?”

“It was never going to end well.” She met his gaze. “It’s why I don’t regret the choice I’ve made.”

“I don’t either. Watching our child grow is the only thing that’s managed to keep me going. If they lay a on hand on—”

“I’ll kill them.” The mother raised to her feet. The light of the full moon spilled over her form, casting a glow to her hair. She looked more specter than woman. He knew she was serious, because he’d do the same. It’d been a promise from the beginning. Whatever life they had, had ceased to be theirs. It did not mean their child needed to live out the same fate.

He took a deep breath, “We have much to do in the coming days. For now, we’ll rest.”

They guided each other to bed, body folding over body. One racing heart wrapped around the other, easing it into tranquility. Sleep came, and washed away the unease for one more night.

“Wait Mira, where are we going?” It was strange, for any of the wraiths to be out during the day. Mira was the smallest one, something once a child and now forever doomed to be one. They were older than her now, a skip away from their tenth birthday tomorrow.

They’d been in the garden, though the winter laid many plants to rest. The sight of the wraith crouched by the tree had drawn their attention, and they’d got the feeling she’d wanted them to follow.

Now, they were farther into the woods then they had ever been. Their eyes skipped over the trees, breath puffing the air. In their ill-fitting clothes, the cold was biting into every part of their skin. The exertion was the only thing keeping it at bay.

“Mira—” They started again, and felt the whole fabric of the earth shift. A gasp fell through their throat, hand bracing hard against the trunk of a tree. Bark dug into calloused palms, the pain hardly registering. Something was wrong. It made their stomach turn to the point of nearly being sick.

With all their strength, they shoved themselves back to their feet. They spun, facing back to the place they called home. They needed to get back. Felt the desperation in their bones.

‘Sorry.’

‘We’re sorry.’

‘So so sorry.’

Wraiths rushed around their feet, emerging from the shadows casted by the branches. They clung to their legs and held onto their arms. Everything felt even colder, the world bleeding color into something gray.

“What…what are you doing?” Their limbs felt week. They weren’t sure when they came to be on the ground, but they felt the dirt and the twigs and frost press into their clothes, turning it damp.

A figure came to loom over them. One they’d come to know well, ‘You cannot go, little one.’

The world was gone, all at once.

When they woke up it was night and there were graves. The moon stared down at them, and shivers clawed into their body. It took all their strength to push themselves up, and when they did all the shadows scattered. Their breathe created a fine mist in the air in front of them, a constant thrum as they struggled to keep their breath even.

Despite the shakes, they called, “W-why? Why am I here, what did you do…?”

‘It was by your parents’ request.’ The largest shadow rose in front of them, and in the full moon light, they could almost see its face. Middle aged, dark eyes, a gaping wound of darkness in their side. The sight stilled even the chatter of their teeth. ‘There are things you don’t know about them, which they will never tell.’

They wrapped their arms around their body, as though such thins limbs cold protect them against the night’s chill, “Like how they never answer when I ask why we can’t leave the confines of these woods?”

‘Yes. It’s for your own protection.’ It motioned towards the place around them. ‘This is outside their confines. When you’re older and steadier, we could finally set you free. For now, this place is the only place you’d survive.’

“I…I could. Survive out there.” They had never met another living soul besides their parents. Now, their eyes searched past the graves and old wrought iron gates as though they could find a hint of life waiting for them somewhere. It was as dark and empty as ever.

‘Child, you weep for all things. There’s only a cruel world waiting beyond this cage. When I return you, you’ll understand everything I’ve told you about violence.’ A chill zipped down their spine, and this time not from the temperature.

“…What do you mean?”

‘You’ll see. Take hold, and I’ll lead you back home.’ And so they let it take their hand and lead them back through the trees.

They didn’t want to go through the doors, left open and creaking back and forth in the wind. There were no lights on inside, nor was there a sound. When they peered through the door, the house peered back. Wounded, cracked. The entrance they knew well was contaminated with the markings of intruders.

It was in the air. They could feel it on their skin, skittering across their veins. It wasn’t the same kind of feeling they felt from the wraiths, it was something different. New. Bitter. The shadow beside them waited, sensing their brief hesitation.

They took a deep breath and walked through the door. The feeling was stronger inside, choking their lungs. It made it impossible to call out, and so they stumbled forward. As long as they followed the trail, they’d be able to find their parents. Wherever the cursed path led.

While all the wraiths crowded at the door, the one remained by their side. With it, even with their sudden clumsiness, their movements didn’t make a sound. It felt like years of walking, longer than the trek through the woods, before they came upon the old study. Cracks shot through the wall around the door like lightening. It seeped color, a bright bright red. Bright enough to hurt their eyes.

Their companion shielded away, ‘This is as far as I can go.’

Despite their desire to ask, they couldn’t. So they swallowed the sick in their throat and stopped in front of the door. It hung, kept on by a single bolt. Even with the awkward angle they could see inside. The room was a mess, books scattered and torn and pages in various directions. They could just make out their parents’ form. They were covered in red.

Without a second thought, they ducked through the door, feet almost tripping over themselves as it landed on the pages. The light of the room was still on, flickering in it’s attempt to hold on. The red on their parents was not just blood but whatever the strange essence at the entrance was. It wrapped around them like webs, and they collapsed on their knees.

“M…mom? Dad…?” It hurt to talk, their hands hovered the two’s bodies, unsure what to do or where to touch.

Their mother groaned, her eyes fluttering open, “Oh…you’re not…supposed to be here.”

“What happened? Why is there…all this?” The word came a second later. Magic. “What can I do?”

Before they could do anything, their mother jerked away from them. Her hands dug into it and tore it away. It burned bright, searing at her hands as she did so. More blood spilled, running as free as a river as it cascaded from her body.

Her voice was stern, “Don’t touch me. This will only hurt you.”

“There must be something I can do—The first aid kit. I’ll bring it to you. I’ll be back, I promise.” They scrambled to their feet, still off kilter and ran out. They heard their mother call their name but it was so far from them. They just needed the first aid kit, they needed to help. They needed to not think about their father not waking up.

It took too long to get everything and to make it back. When they returned their mother was tearing the magic netting off their father. Tears wet her face, the pain obvious in each of her movements, but it didn’t stop her. Each red thread dissolved to nothing as it was taken off his skin.

They placed everything on the floor, desperate to help but deterred by the harsh look their mother sent their way, “Thank you, dear. Now there is one more thing I need you to do for me. In our room, tucked away in one of the floorboards, is a box. The wraiths will show you were. Inside there, is your gift.”

“My gift, but—”

“It’s after midnight, is it not? This is both for your birthday and your protection. Now go.” Protection from what? They wanted to know what had happened and if it was for the same reason they were trapped here. They wanted to know if their father was still alive. They wanted to know why they could cry whenever they stumbled upon a dead animal, but didn’t feel even moisture in their eyes at the sight of their parents.

Their eyebrows pinched together and they stared at her, “Mom…”

“I’ll tell you everything, I promise. For now, will you do this for me?” They nodded, numb, and her lips twitched into a smile. “Thank you. I’m sorry for all of this. I thought we’d have more time.”

They rose, head still spinning. Worse than before. Every moment that passed made them worse. They were sure their mother, so steeped in it all for so much longer, must be suffering. But if there was nothing they could do, then they could only do what she asked.

The wraith was waiting for them this time, as though sensing their mother’s words. It pulled them forward, the only thing keeping them upright now. The two ascended the flight of stairs and here they could see endless damage. Doors open, furniture tossed. Whoever had been here had been looking for something. What if they’d found whatever their mother had told them about?

‘Focus.’ The wraith instructed and they did. They made their way down the hall and into their parents’ room. It was the worst place of all. The indoor plants, the paintings on the walls, the mattress on the bed. Everything in pieces.

There were marks here too, although they didn’t glow with red light as the ones from downstairs. They stepped over shattered glass and broken bits, following the wraith as it indicated a spot on the ground.

‘Careful.’ It whispered, as they dug their hands between the cracks. Even with all the strength slipping away from them, they used their whole weight to pry it up. It stuck and they pulled, and the wooden splinters bit into their skin. The pain rushed to their brain and cleared the dam.

Tears fell. It burned out and blurred the world around them. Still, they kept going, until the floorboard finally heaved. Until their raw hands were pulling out a box. It was a deep blue, trimmed with silver. The latch glittered at them in low light, scattered further by how they cried.

It took a moment to fumble at the latch to get it open. When they did, it was a sudden light. So bright it hurt their eyes. Despite its blinding radiance, the wraith did not shield away. It stayed by them as it poured out. Burrowed into their skin and wrapped around their heart.

It stopped. All of it stopped.

Their father had always called them a bleeding heart. They weren’t sure if it was true. Sometimes, they were drowning in emotions, unable to claw their way out. Other times, they felt like it all burned away.

In every memory they held, was warmth. But the older they got, the more the questions spilled forth. They asked about everything, and when their parents refused to answer they went to the wraiths. Sometimes even they held their tongue. It made the reflection warp. What had they missed, in the cage of their childhood? And would knowing have changed anything at all?

The years after the attack shifted everything. The wraiths vanished without a trace. Their mother had dropped all kindness.

“You need to survive.” She’d said. “Even if it’s without us.”

Once, they’d snuck out on a summer night. There was only one thing they wanted, and it was to find the graveyard the wraiths had taken them to the night everything changed. Despite their best efforts, they never found it. All they succeeded in was knowing the woods better than even the animals.

The bigger they got, the smaller the world felt. In instances they’d usually accept their mother’s answers, they’d push back. They needed to know everything in the world. If they did, then maybe they could find a way to free all of them.

“Why can’t you leave?” They asked once, letting their mother braid their long hair. It was one of the few displays of love left in her.

Her fingers carefully threaded the braid together, “It’s because of the same magic that nearly killed us. It binds us here, and they hoped it would cause us to die. From starvation or dehydration or illness.”

“It doesn’t bind me though, does it?” Their eyes traced the scars on the walls. The damage from the house could never fully be repaired. “I could leave, and find a way to free you both—”

They felt her tension, the involuntary clenching of her hands. It did not hurt but it made them flinch, “They would kill you. When you finally leave, you are never to come back.”

It was an impossible idea. To let their parents go. They were the start and ending of their world. A fear wormed its way into their brain and made residence there. They would lay awake in bed, listening for anything wrong, wondering if tonight was the night the intruders would come back and finish the job.

If they did, they would have to be ready.

But there was no magic in them, they were just a child. They’d take a spare knife and practice throwing. Once, when their aim was nonexistent, it caught the wing of a stray bird. It squawked and fell and they rushed forward as a ringing echoed in their ear.

They collapsed over it, cradling it in their hands, forgetting their mother’s warning of disease.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” they sobbed, cradling it to their chest. When they saw blood, they saw their parents. When they thought of violence, it made them sick. How would they ever protect anything, when all it did was make them ill?

Their mother had found them, later. The bird was content in their hands, despite its own blood marring them. She brushed a hand through their hair, and they stirred from an endless half sleep.

“You are too kind for such violence.” She whispered, and it was the first time they had ever seen her close to tears.

As they shifted, the bird hopped away and they looked at their hands, stained with its blood. They thought they might be sick. They thought they’d cry again.

Instead, they swallowed it all back, “This violence is born from my kindness.”

Their mother threw her hands around them, and squeezed them in a tight hug. For a moment, they were suspended. She did not cry, and neither did they. Instead, they sat there in the fading light. A mother forced to be cursed with her doom, and a child whose path only led to such an ending.

It was always going to be a futile fight. Even still, they fought it. Even as their parents’ bodies hit the ground. Even as hands grabbed them, hard enough to bruise. They fought and screamed, and the wraiths answered.

The intruders yelled, and they wrenched themselves away. They weren’t sure where they were going as they ran. Into the woods, as they always did. To a place where they would never be found. Their feet hit the ground hard, lungs burning, and an endless panic coursing through them.

If they finally made it past the woods then—

A pain chocked them. They felt themselves collapse, staring down at their body. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red. Red—

“Got ‘em.” A voice called.

“Jesus, did you really have to do that to a kid?”

“It’s fine. It’s not like anyone knew the bastards had a kid anyway, right? What they don’t know won’t hurt them.”

The intruders’ footsteps crunched in the snow. They'd been left to die. As their eyes squeezed shut, trying to drown out the pain, they wondered. Would they become a wraith? Would their parents? Or would they simply move on to whatever was waiting for them in the unknown? Their thoughts echoed.

The snow wasn’t cold. Their body wasn’t warm. It hung, suspended, outside of time itself. Their mind was a blur of white and shadows. A voice sung a lullaby somewhere, far away from their reach. They were alone. Suddenly and violently alone. A fragment of a forgotten memory now, instead of a real person. Arms sank under their body and lifted them up.

“It’s time to rest, now.”

They felt their consciousness slip away to nothing.

#ch: ???#1k follower celebration #BA: bonus content #I thought this would end up being significantly shorter then Rook's because ??? has a million times more spoilers but uh no it's still long #hence the lateness

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