#keeping the letter over his heart for courage

[sirfrogsworth]

(In reference to this post)

I'm going to be honest, this kind of attitude concerns me.

I've been going over my past lately. I'm writing something about my relationship with my brother. And I found a letter I never sent him.

Here is an excerpt.

-----------------------

I was not a good brother to you.

I took you for granted and was an ungrateful jerk. You used to do so much to help me. You did all kinds of manual labor because my stupid failing body could not. You built me things. You helped me fix things. You drove me places I needed to be. When I first got sick at college you came to Kansas City and scooped me up and brought me back home.

I remember one Christmas you even went back to the family gathering and stuck up for me. They didn't understand how sick I was and you explained it to them. I never told you how much that meant to me. I should have hugged you and thanked you profusely on the spot. You believed me even when some doctors refused to. And you used that big heart of yours to defend me.

That was an amazing act of courage. Find that same courage now. Stand up for Mom & Dad. Stand up for yourself. Put your foot down and fix this.

It took me way too long to figure it out, but it is my regret of being a bad brother that helped me realize why you don't like my humor. Why you are one of the very few people I can't make laugh. It's because I used that humor at your expense. I made fun of you. I teased you the same way those betraying bastard fake friends did in high school. At the time, I probably thought my jokes were harmless fun. But I'm sure you felt they were cruel and hurtful. We are such different people and I had a hard time understanding you. I used humor as a weapon to highlight our differences. I have no excuse. I have no justification for being a jerk to you.

All I can do is say I am sorry. Truly and deeply sorry.

-----------------------

I didn't send that letter because he was too far gone. His wife read every email and text and I had no way of getting through to just him.

My brother used to be a much better person than me. I often failed to be the good person I thought I was. I didn't realize I was being hurtful at the time. And I didn't do this to just him. I thought I was just making jokes. It was not "pretty easy" for me to realize that. It took years of growing and hindsight.

He used to be nothing but good behaviors all the way down.

And I struggled to limit my bad behaviors.

I was bullied in grade school and realized that if you are funny, people don't bully you anymore. So my brain thought I needed to make people laugh at all times. And it didn't matter if my jokes were at someone else's expense.

Bad behaviors are often easy. They can be tempting. They can require less effort. They can have greater rewards. And sometimes they can protect you. They can be a defense mechanism. Your brain trying to avoid trauma. "I'll hurt someone first so no one hurts me."

There is a reason so many people struggle to be good all the time.

Good behavior requires constant vigilance. You can't do a certain number of good things and then just call yourself a good person. And you can't just not do bad things either. A good person isn't necessarily just "not being evil to other people." That is neutral, at best.

I've learned that being a good person isn't something you just are. It is an ongoing choice. You have to maintain it. You have to actively keep it going. You have to consistently choose good behaviors and limit the bad.

And we all choose bad behaviors from time to time.

Don't kid yourself.

If you know the story of my brother, he let bad behaviors win. He let someone influence him to abuse and neglect his own family. He did it because he was traumatized. He was humiliated by a girl in high school. She said she was his girlfriend. She let him take her to prom. Then she wrote a one-act play called "Prom Nightmare" and performed it in front of the entire school. He was a laughing stock to 2000 classmates.

He is terrified of being alone but he is also terrified that any romantic partner is faking their affections. So obedience is his tool to prevent that. He will do anything his partner instructs to make sure her affection is real. His unmanaged trauma has run amok and led him to dark choices to keep his relationship intact at any cost.

He was such a good person. And now he is not. He has the potential. He is so good with his daughter. He is capable of good behaviors. And I think that is why it upsets and angers me so much. I can still see what he could be.

If you want to see people as just good and bad, that's up to you. I can't do it anymore. I think humans are too complicated. And I worry about getting complacent. I need to check in on my ratio of good to bad behaviors constantly. It would be too easy to say I am a good person and not think about it again.

I mean, sure, I don't kick puppies. I don't taunt the elderly. I don't assault random strangers.

Being good is easy!

Right?

[carebeardean]

Charles has always left Edwin little notes slipped between the pages of his favorite books, in his science equipment, places he knows Edwin loves. Just silly things—post its that say “hi Edwin :)”. doodles of Edwin with his nose stuck in a book. reminders to stock up on wolfsbane. but.

Then, post canon, Edwin tentatively starts dating people. And it’s ridiculous, because Edwin’s right there, all the time, but Charles..misses him a bit. And his heads a mess, and he can’t sort out what the hell he’s feeling most of the time, and whenever he tries to say any of it out loud it comes out rubbish.

So. He writes down some of the shit he can’t say right, and because he’s a coward, hides them so he doesn’t have to see Edwin’s face when he reads them.

then Edwin starts writing back.

Neat lilac blue little envelopes appear in Charles coat pockets. In his bag. Once, in his shoe? Some nights, Edwin will clear his throat and mention something from a letter, offhand, like they’re just picking up conversation, and Charles can pretend they are. That they always have talked about the basement, the belt, the nameless fear that chokes him every time Edwin walks out the door with someone else on his arm.

Sometimes he can’t. The words get stuck in his throat. Edwin’s not mad, he’s maddeningly, stubbornly kind about it, which is worse.

Some nights they trade. A secret for a secret. Charles learns about the novels Edwin used to hide under his mattress, about all the lonely years before Charles got there. About Simon.

Meanwhile, Edwin is losing his mind, because Charles has accidentally stumbled onto what was a fucking courting ritual in his time. Love letters were something engaged couples treasured for years, kept and reread over and over. (Edwin does. keep them in a special box, will take one out and trace the words, tuck it in his breast pocket for courage).

Edwin would rather have to reattach a limb again than lose Charles trust, all the dark and beautiful things he shares with Edwin only. He knows—knows Charles doesn’t mean to make him fall more in love with him.

[tinyshyteacup]

• Words of Command •

Tw: Cussing, angst, mentions of blood and grime.

Words of Command - Part 1

The lobby of Stark Tower gleamed with too much glass and not enough warmth for your taste. Sunlight pooled through the towering windows, hitting the polished marble floors and refracting off the chrome detailing of the modern decor.

You sat behind the main reception desk, perched on a tall stool with your legs swinging slightly.

The desk itself was a sleek black curve, embedded with holographic displays and a touchpad that still didn’t always respond when you tapped it with freshly moisturized fingers.

A nameplate identified you only by your first name, the letters tastefully etched in a clean serif font.

At the moment, you were staring at the printer behind you like it had personally offended you. It made a soft whirring noise—then stopped.

A flicker of smoke puffed up from the feeder tray. You yelped.

“J.A.R.V.I.S., I swear, I didn’t even touch it this time!”

"Miss, respectfully, you did attempt to print a double-sided image from an incompatible file format.”

You scowled at the ceiling. “You’re not even here physically. How would you know?”

“I am connected to over 2,000 sensors in this room. Shall I list the ones currently monitoring your error?”

“Rude,” you muttered, grabbing the paper that had jammed mid-print.

You shook it like it was a bad dog chewing your shoes. “This is sabotage. You're trying to make me look bad in front of Mr Stark.”

“Rest assured, Mr. Stark has been made aware of your printer challenges. He found it... 'endearing.’”

Your cheeks flushed.

The sarcasm was biting, but the thought that Tony Stark had discussed you at all—even mockingly—made your stomach flutter in a way you weren’t proud of.

The lobby doors hissed open with that smooth mechanical slide, and you looked up automatically.

When Captain Rogers walked into a room, it was like watching someone pull the '40s into the present. He was tall, and looked slightly rumpled in civilian clothes—a dark blue hoodie stretched over broad shoulders and a plain T-shirt underneath.

He wore jeans like he didn't know what to do with them.

“Hey,” he greeted, voice gentle but somehow carrying in the echoey lobby. “You’re the receptionist, right, the wizz with phones ?”

You nodded quickly and smiled. “Y-Yes, Captain Rogers. Morning.”

He returned the smile, slower, steadier, as if trying to ease your nervous energy. “Please, call me Steve.”

Right. Like that would help.

You stood, still barely reaching his chest, and smoothed down the front of your cardigan. “What can I help you with?”

He stepped up to the desk, pulled something from the pocket of his jeans, and placed it on the counter. A Stark-Phone. One of the newer ones Stark had issued.

You tilted your head, eyebrows lifting.

“I, uh…” Steve scratched the back of his neck, clearly sheepish. “I pressed something and now it’s speaking Korean. I think.”

You gently picked up the phone and pressed the home button. “Oh. You activated the language cycle shortcut. Happens if you triple tap the lock screen.”

You tapped through the settings with practiced ease. “There. Back to English.”

Steve watched you like you were performing magic. “I don’t know how any of you keep up with this tech.”

You smiled softly, meeting his gaze with more courage this time. “Honestly? I mostly argue with the printer. J.A.R.V.I.S. does everything else.”

Steve chuckled, a warm, earnest sound that made your heart thump faster. “Well, you seem to be holding your own.”

As he turned to leave, he paused. “I like your necklace, by the way. It suits you.”

You looked down, brushing a finger across the tiny pendant resting at your collarbone. “Oh. Thank you. It was my grandmother’s.”

He nodded like that meant something to him.

“Thanks,” he says, when you’re done. Then adds, almost sheepishly, “It’s nice to talk to someone who doesn’t look at me like I’m going to throw a shield at them.”

You laugh nervously. “You’re... not that scary.”

His grin is warm, boyish. You find yourself smiling back, unexpectedly grounded.

The elevator dings, and in breezes Tony Stark like a whirlwind in thousand-dollar shoes.

He’s on a call, two steps ahead of his own thoughts, sunglasses on indoors because of course they are.

"Yeah, just tell Fury he can bite me. In Morse code. Bye."

Phone snapped off, sunglasses up, and he zeroes in on you. “Sweetheart. You jammed the printer again.”

“I did not jam the printer,” you say quickly. “Jarvis is just being dramatic.”

“Jarvis is always dramatic, but in this case? He’s right.”

Tony leans on the desk, eyes squinting slightly. “Do you intentionally make the tech hate you? Is this like your rebellion arc Thumbelina? First it's the printer, then you’re reprogramming him to swear in Gaelic.”

“I wouldn’t do that,” you murmur, looking down. Then pause. “Wait... JARVIS can swear?”

Tony smirks. “Atta girl. Knew there was a fire in there somewhere.”

He straightens up, hands in pockets, a half-laugh escaping him as he walks toward the elevator. “Keep her, Rogers!” he shouts over his shoulder. “She’s the only one who’s not afraid to talk back to Jarvis.”

You blink.

Captain Rogers is still standing a few feet away, watching the exchange with something between amusement and... curiosity.

Maybe even admiration.

The city never sleeps, but it sighs in the early hours of morning—hushed traffic, glimmering reflections on wet pavement, a lull between the pulse of nightlife and the rise of commuters.

Neon lights flicker overhead, buzzing faintly, casting long shadows that cling to him like a second skin.

He moves like he’s not sure he’s real.

Each footfall is heavy but hesitant, like the ground might reject him. His hair is a tangled mess, matted and unwashed, sticking to his face and jaw.

The stubble on his cheeks is rough, uneven, and clings to him like dirt. His clothes are soaked in sweat, grime, and old blood—some of it his, some of it not.

His left arm is bare and gleaming beneath a tattered coat sleeve, metal fingers twitching involuntarily, as though searching for a rifle that isn’t there.

He doesn’t remember where he’s been.

Only fragments, screams, commands in harsh syllables, red flashing lights. A corridor. Restraints. Cold.

Oh God that biting cold.

He walks past windows and glass doors, catching glimpses of himself in reflections—a shadow, a haunted smear of what used to be a man.

He doesn’t know his name.

Not truly.

Not right now.

But somewhere, deep under the static in his brain, there’s something.

Maybe he had a name.

And then he looks up.

It rises above him like a monument, gleaming even in the grey blue of pre-dawn. STARK in large, defiant letters. The light at the top pulses. He stops walking, just… stands there.

His breath fogs the cold air, erratic.

His chest heaves, ribs visible through the threadbare shirt beneath the jacket. His boots are worn to the sole.

Everything about him screams survival, but there’s a flicker in his eyes now—recognition.

Stark.

Mission report.

Howard.

December.

Blood.

Sixteen.

Comply.

1991.

Zimniy Soldat.

Soldat.

The words slam into him like gunfire, and he stumbles forward, metal hand clenching hard enough to groan under its own pressure.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing here. He only knows the building is important.

And maybe... maybe someone inside can make the noise stop.

The automatic doors whisper open, parting slowly to let him step into the warmth of Stark Tower’s front lobby. Inside, the polished floors shine, reflecting the subtle glow of the early-morning lighting.

The scent of fresh polish, faint coffee, and recycled air fills the space. It’s clean. Too clean. Sterile like a medical wing, like some place where experiments happened.

He hesitates in the doorway.

The light overhead flickers slightly, casting a quick stutter of shadow across his face—an echo of something dark beneath the skin.

You stand behind the front desk, holding your phone in one hand, uncertain. His body is massive in the entrance, his shoulders squared like a soldier preparing for a threat. That left arm, slick and inhuman, gleams under the overhead light, fingers twitching like they have a mind of their own.

He takes two steps forward.

You don’t move, but your fingers close slowly around the base of your mug—some deep instinct reaching for something solid, something real.

"Hi… I—I don’t think you’re supposed to be in here," you say softly, trying not to let the nervous quiver in your voice show.

He tilts his head.

Not sharply. Not mechanically. Like a man trying to understand.

His lips part. You can tell it’s painful. His throat works around something—speech, maybe, or just the ghost of it. His voice comes like gravel, dry and shredded.

“Pomohgeet-yeh…"  Help.

Your brows knit. You don’t understand the words. But the way he says them makes your chest hurt.

He tries again.

“Gde… eta?"  Where… is this?

The effort it takes him to speak is visible.

He trembles.

Not with fear, but exhaustion. His whole body is strung tight like a stretched wire, ready to snap. One wrong move and he could bolt. Or lash out. Or break down.

You hold both hands up in that gentle, universal please-don’t-run gesture. “I—I don’t know what you’re saying. But I want to help. I can call someone. Or—I can get Mr. Stark if you want, or—”

At the name, something sharp flickers behind his eyes.

Stark.

He flinches like you’ve slapped him.

Suddenly, he shifts—too fast. That metal arm raises slightly, just a fraction. You freeze. Not because you think he’s going to hurt you—but because for a moment, he doesn’t look like a man anymore.

He looks like a ghost wrapped in combat training, forged in violence.

His eyes dart around the lobby—scanning exits, angles, security cameras.

His stance changes subtly, weight shifting onto the balls of his feet, as though he’s ready to take someone down.

And you—you’re just standing there.

He opens his mouth again, lips cracked and barely moving.

“Ne khochu… drat’sya." I don’t want… to fight.

You still don’t understand the words.

But you understand the tone.

Soft. Strained. Pleading.

“uh-huh,” you whisper.

You take a slow step around the desk. Not too close. But enough that he can see your hands, see your face.

You keep your voice low. “You look like you need help. Food? Water?”

He doesn’t answer. But his eyes track your hand as you slowly lift your bottle and offer it to him.

He reaches for it with his metal hand—but stops. There’s shame in the hesitation.

Holy Shit, is that metal ?

The faintest flicker of emotion across his dirt-streaked face. He switches to his right hand and takes it.

He drinks.

Not quickly. Like every swallow might be a mistake. Like he doesn’t trust it not to hurt.

As he drinks, you take him in quietly.

He looks... wrong in this space. The marble floor, the sleek design, the soft hum of Jarvis’ systems in the walls—it makes him look like something out of time. Like a soldier in a museum.

And then it hits you.

There’s something familiar about him. Not just the metal arm. Not just the way he looked at the building. But something in the jawline. The eyes.

You move slowly back to your desk, heart thudding as you open a file of security images.

"Who are you?" you whisper to yourself.

He doesn't answer.

He just watches you.

You move quietly to the comm panel, still keeping one eye on the man sitting stiffly in the chair near the lobby’s edge.

Tony had given you a comms piece to use in emergencies, is this a emergency ?

Stranger, built like a fridge, with a metal arm ?

Definitely.

The stranger in question hasn’t spoken since you gave him the bottle of water. His fingers—bare and bruised on one hand, cold steel on the other—grip it like it might disappear. He hasn’t drunk again. Just stares at the wall like he's trying to make sense of what a wall is.

Your voice is hushed as you speak into the receiver.

“Captain Rogers? I—I’m sorry to bother you. But there’s someone in the lobby. A man. I don’t know who he is, but I think… I think you should come down ... please.”

You don’t say that he’s filthy, trembling, starved.

You don’t say you’re afraid of how quiet he is.

You don’t say that even Jarvis, hasn’t spoken a word since he arrived.

As though the building itself is holding its breath.

You hear him before you see him—the heavy, purposeful footfalls of combat boots against tile. The automatic doors open with a whoosh, and Captain Steve Rogers steps into the lobby like a storm arriving with restraint.

He stops dead in his tracks.

You watch the expression on his face collapse.

From soldier to friend.

From Avenger to broken-hearted brother.

“...Bucky?” he breathes.

The name falls into the room like a thunderclap.

But the man in the chair doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t even look up.

“Bucky,” Steve tries again, stepping forward slowly, cautiously, as though any sudden movement might spook him.

The man’s eyes track Steve—but only briefly. Recognition doesn’t register.

No emotion flickers. Just calculation.

The Winter Soldier, watches Steve Rogers like he’s a possible threat. Like a target.

You step back instinctively, not out of fear, but because the air has changed. Thickened.

Like the moment before a fight. Or before someone remembers something too painful to hold.

Steve is trying. You can see it.

“Bucky, it’s me. It’s Steve. Steve Rogers. Brooklyn. 40s. We grew up together.” His voice cracks.

But there’s nothing behind those eyes. Not the kind of nothing that comes from confusion.

The kind that’s been scraped clean.

Programmed.

Buried.

The man’s body tenses. A tic in the jaw. A breath held too long.

His fingers flex on the water bottle, crack—plastic gives under his grip.

Then, that guttural voice “Ne znayu tebya." I don’t know you.

Steve flinches. Not physically. Not visibly.

But you feel the break.

He kneels in front of him, ignoring the metal arm, the set jaw, the violence in his posture. His voice lowers to a whisper, so raw and aching it doesn't feel meant for anyone else to hear.

“I thought I lost you. I never stopped looking.”

The soldier’s gaze doesn’t soften.

His eyes scan Steve like he’s a file to be decrypted. A puzzle, not a person.

He shifts in the chair.

Not toward Steve—but away. Just a few inches. Enough to feel like a rejection.

The lobby is quiet again. Bucky? Or The soldier?—or the shell of him—sits in the corner like a statue draped in rags. His posture stiff, eyes half-lidded but never soft.

Like a soldier awaiting deployment, tension simmering beneath his skin.

Steve touches your arm gently and gestures toward the hallway off the reception desk. His voice is low, heavy with something that feels like grief soaked in guilt.

“That’s Bucky,” he says. “James Barnes. We grew up together. He enlisted before me.”

You blink up at him, trying to marry the image of the blank, cold-eyed man in the lobby with the idea of someone’s best friend.

Steve swallows hard. “But… that’s not who he is now. Hydra got to him. They—”

He stops. The words taste wrong in his mouth.

“They erased him. Broke him down and rebuilt him into something else. A ghost with a gun. They called him ‘The Winter Soldier.’”

A pause. His jaw tightens.

“They didn’t use his name. They called him Soldat." Steve whispers, making sure only you hear.

You murmur the word aloud without thinking, testing it, you feel disgust claw at your spine at the idea of someone being stripped so bare.

“Soldat…?”

The sound barely leaves your lips. Just a sound.

But across the lobby—the man moves.

Fast.

Sudden.

Mechanical.

The chair clatters backwards as he rises in one sharp, fluid motion. Spine straight, feet planted.

His metal arm clenches, whirring softly. His eyes, once clouded with the fog of confusion, snap into unnatural focus.

Like a trigger has been pulled.

His gaze lands on you.

Not Steve.

You.

Then, in that same guttural, rasping Russian:

“Gotov k vypolneniyu." Ready to comply.

Your heart lurches. You don’t know what he said—but the tone tells you enough.

Cold.

Obedient.

Trained.

Steve steps forward sharply, hand raised. “Bucky—no! She’s not—”

But Bucky isn’t listening. His head turns ever so slightly toward you, chin dipped in rigid respect, but eyes locked like a weapon sighting a command post.

Then, another word in Russian.

“Rukovoditel’" Handler.

Shit. SHIT

You freeze, mouth slightly open, eyes wide as you stare at the man before you.

He’s taller than you by what feels like a foot, broad-shouldered and imposing, hair tangled, blood on his temple not yet dried. But it’s not his appearance that terrifies you.

It’s how still he is now. How controlled. How conditioned.

Like someone flipped a switch inside him.

Steve’s hand is on your shoulder suddenly, protective, grounding.

“He thinks you’re his handler,” Steve says softly. His voice is tight, like he’s struggling to remain calm. “Hydra trained him to respond to words 'Soldat' must have triggered it.”

You glance at the Soldier—and feel a cold chill crawl down your spine.

But he doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just waits.

As if he’s expecting you to give him an order.

You whisper, almost afraid of your own voice, “What do I do?”

Steve shakes his head. “Don’t give him commands. Don’t say anything that sounds like one. We’ll get Bruce or Tony down here, maybe they can—”

The sound of polished leather shoes and the hiss of elevator doors heralds Tony Stark’s arrival.

He strides into the lobby like he owns every inch of it—which, of course, he does. A tailored charcoal suit, sunglasses he doesn’t need indoors, and a cup of coffee he’s already bored with. His tone, dry as ever.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the Tin Man himself.”

Tony stops a few paces from the soldier, surveying him like a potential weapon. Or worse, a ticking bomb.

“You gonna sing ‘If I Only Had a Brain,’ or…?”

No response.

The Soldier—still as a statue—doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t blink. Just stands in that unnatural way. Tense. Straight-backed. Alert. His metal hand twitches faintly at his side, barely noticeable unless you’re watching for it.

And you definitely are now.

You stand just behind Steve, hands clasped nervously in front of you like you’re trying to shrink into the floor. But you feel the weight of his stare. Not Tony’s. Not Steve’s.

His.

The Soldier.

His eyes, dark and unreadable, are pinned on you.

Tony raises an eyebrow and leans toward Steve. “So this is the guy you were willing to punch me in the face over?” He eyes the torn tactical gear and matted hair. “Charming.”

Steve doesn’t rise to the bait. His voice is firm but quiet. “He’s not well. Hydra programmed him. We think he… believes she's his handler”

Tony turns toward you, glancing you up and down, not rudely, just… curious. “She gets winded carrying a bag of flour.”

You open your mouth to protest, but then The Soldier moves.

Not toward Tony.

Not toward Steve.

Just… a slight shift. He angles his body protectively between you and Stark.

And then he speaks. Russian again.

“Rukovoditel"

His voice is hoarse, barely a growl.

Tony snorts. “Let me guess. That means ‘fearless leader’?”

Steve sighs. “It means ‘handler.’ I told you Tony, he thinks she’s his handler.”

Tony takes off his sunglasses, eyes narrowing. “Oh, great. We’ve got a murder machine who’s latched onto Thumbelina.”

He turns back to The Soldier, then tries his best Stark-brand sarcasm. “Hey, RoboCop. You like shawarma? Puppies? The Bee Gees?”

The Soldier doesn’t react.

His gaze stays locked on you. Like Stark isn’t even in the room.

“Gotov k vypolneniyu" Ready to comply.

Tony paces a bit, muttering to himself.

“Okay, okay… Steve brings in a half-feral Hydra brain bomb who only listens to the human equivalent of a cupcake, and I’m just supposed to—what—build him a bunkbed?”

Steve steps between them, voice low and serious. “He’s not dangerous to her. You saw that.”

“Oh yeah, I saw it,” Tony shoots back. “Saw him zero in on her like a guided missile with a crush. Only she’s not trained. She doesn’t even speak Russian. What happens if she says the wrong thing?”

You flinch a little at that, the weight of it finally settling in your chest.

Tony softens for a half-second. Just a breath. His eyes flick to you. “No offense. I’m sure you’re a lovely hostage.”

Then, toward The Soldier again. “You got anything else in that scrambled brain of yours? English? Stark tech? The weather?”

The Soldier’s only movement is the subtle tightening of his jaw. The slight widening of his stance—defensive. Watching Tony too closely now. Like he’s assessing threat levels.

But then… his eyes return to you.

You whisper, half to yourself, “He’s waiting.”

Tony raises a brow. “For what?”

You shrug helplessly. “An order. I think.”

The lobby feels heavier. Like a suspended moment, stretched too tight.

Tony watches the two of you, something calculative slipping into his expression.

“This is a problem,” he murmurs. “Because if she’s his focus, and we can’t get through to him otherwise—he’s not just broken. He’s tethered.”

Steve crosses his arms. “Then we don’t break the tether. We use it. Let her anchor him.”

Tony scoffs. “Oh, sure. Let’s just traumatize a receptionist, make her the sole translator for Hydra’s favorite murder puppet. What could go wrong?”

But even he can’t ignore the truth, the Winter Soldier isn’t reacting to threats, or commands, or charm.

Only you.

Fuck.

[moonlight-joy]

Love Letters in the Margins

MASTERLIST

Fandom: Criminal Minds

Summary: Spencer has a habit of leaving handwritten notes in the books you borrow from his personal collection. One day, you finally write back.

Pairing: Reader/Spencer Reid

Spencer Reid’s personal library was nothing short of magnificent. Towering shelves filled with well-loved books lined the walls of his apartment, their spines worn from years of eager reading. When you had first started borrowing from his collection, you had done so carefully, treating each volume like a fragile artifact. But what you hadn't expected to find—hidden between passages and prose—were his words.

The first time it happened, you had borrowed Pride and Prejudice. Nestled in the margins, in neat, slightly slanted handwriting, was a comment next to Elizabeth Bennet’s sharp-witted retort to Mr. Darcy.

“You remind me of Elizabeth—sharp, observant, and far too intelligent for the company you keep.”

You had stared at the note for minutes, heart pounding. Spencer had written this long before you borrowed the book, hadn’t he? It wasn’t meant for you, was it? The thought of confronting him about it seemed daunting. Instead, you traced his words with your fingertips, feeling a warmth bloom in your chest.

That discovery led to another. And another.

In The Picture of Dorian Gray:

“You would never be swayed by vanity. Your soul is too kind.”

In Jane Eyre:

“If I were Rochester, I wouldn’t have kept secrets from you.”

Each annotation, each carefully placed comment, felt personal. They weren’t just general observations; they were thoughtful, tailored to you.

Days passed before you gathered the courage to respond. You chose one of the books Spencer often reread—The Great Gatsby. As you turned the familiar pages, you found a passage underlined in Spencer’s careful hand:

“He had been full of the idea so long, dreamed it right through to the end, waited with his teeth set, so to speak, at an inconceivable pitch of intensity.”

And next to it, in his delicate handwriting:

“Longing is a difficult thing to master.”

You exhaled deeply, running your fingers over the ink. If Spencer had been leaving these notes for you, maybe he had been waiting for a response, just as you had been waiting for a sign. With a rush of courage, you picked up a pen and, in the same margin, wrote:

“I wouldn’t need a green light. You’ve always been within reach.”

When you returned the book, carefully placing it back on his desk at the BAU, you felt the weight of your silent confession settle in your chest. What if he never noticed? What if he saw it and said nothing? The uncertainty gnawed at you, but it was too late to take it back now.

The next day, Spencer found you in the bullpen, book in hand, his expression unreadable. Your heart leapt into your throat.

“You…” he started, voice soft, reverent almost, as he flipped open The Great Gatsby to the exact page where your response was written. His fingers traced your words like they were delicate, precious.

“I—” you faltered. “Was that okay?”

His eyes locked onto yours, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he smiled. Not just any smile—one of those rare, genuine smiles that lit up his entire face, the kind of smile that made your stomach flip.

“You wrote back.” His voice was breathless, in awe.

You swallowed hard. “I was wondering when you’d notice.”

For a long moment, Spencer simply stared at you, the book clutched to his chest. It was as if he was processing every possibility at once, and you could almost see the thoughts racing in his brilliant mind. Then, before you could panic, he took a step closer.

“I—” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “I’ve been leaving those notes for you.”

Your breath caught. “You have?”

Spencer gave a short, nervous laugh. “For a while now. I didn’t know if you’d ever see them or if you’d—”

“I saw them,” you interrupted, a smile tugging at your lips. “And I loved them.”

His shoulders relaxed, relief washing over his face. “Really?”

You nodded, warmth spreading through you. “Really.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. Then, Spencer exhaled, flipping the book open once more. “So… does this mean I can keep writing to you?”

You tilted your head playfully. “Only if I can write back.”

His smile widened, his fingers brushing against yours over the worn edges of the book. “I’d like that.”

From that day forward, every book exchanged between you contained more than just stories. Between the lines of famous literature, nestled in the margins of classic texts, you found something even more precious:

Love letters in ink, waiting to be read.

The notes continued, hidden within the pages of literature both of you adored. A stolen thought in Wuthering Heights, a whispered confession in Les Misérables. Each time Spencer handed you a book, your fingers would brush, lingering longer than necessary, and his eyes would search yours for recognition.

Then, one evening, as you flipped through Anna Karenina, you found a note in the final pages, underlining a passage about fate.

“Sometimes, love is written long before we even know it exists.”

And below it, in a nervous, yet determined script, Spencer had added:

“I think I’ve been in love with you longer than I realized.”

Your breath caught, your heart hammering against your ribs. This wasn’t just a passing thought, an intellectual observation. It was real.

Without hesitation, you reached for a pen and, with steady fingers, wrote beneath his words:

“Then it’s about time we stop reading between the lines.”

That night, when Spencer saw your response, he didn’t just smile.

He kissed you.

And for the first time, there were no more words left unwritten.

The notes continued, but they became something different now—love notes, secret confessions, playful teases. You wrote to him in the margins of history books, and he replied with riddles in the pages of mystery novels. The space between you had once been filled with unspoken words, but now it was a novel of its own, each sentence a promise, each underline a touch.

One day, Spencer handed you a book without a title on its cover. Puzzled, you flipped it open to the first page, where a single line was scrawled in his familiar handwriting:

“Every great love story deserves to be written.”

And beneath it, in smaller letters:

“Will you write ours with me?”

Please support my work with like and comment

[aurynsia]

Unrequited, Terrifying Chapter 1

James Potter x Reader

Summary: You had always been the sort to keep to yourself, never expecting any attention. That is until a mysterious letter is slipped under your door…

Warnings: Extremely fluffy, nervous!james x shy!reader, some subtle wolfstar action in the background, reader plays hard to get without intending to, idiots in love, oc!friends, lovesick!james x salty!reader, reader low key hates James at the beginning but it’s for the plot I swear! No use of Y/N, reader is in the girls’ dorms but gender is rarely specified, NOT EDITED!

Word count: 1.4K

Series Masterlist

Chapter 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Summer shifted with a gust of wind, dragging with it the soft chill of the Scottish coast. The leaves turned from emerald to amber, marking the start of your final year at Hogwarts.

Gryffindor had instilled a sense of courage in you, one that you often left at home when returning to the brooding towers that form your school. So, with the brewing feeling of newfound bravery in your heart, you approached the Gryffindor common room with the mentality that this will be your year.

The crowded floor of the comforting common room was painted with school shoes and flashes of red as your fellow house members danced in a flurry of reunions and affections. Yeah…this will be your year. Once you figure out how to socialise without cringing from embarrassment.

You shifted past the cliques and gangs, attempting to find your more resolved group of companions. Standing on the stairs by the girls’ dorms was the sight you were hoping for.

“Charlie! Hope!” You called, striding over to your much loved roommates.

“I’m surprised you survived the stampede down there, come to safety!” Charlie joked with open arms, guiding you into a warm embrace.

“Seems like the summer didn’t do much for the maturity in this house…” Hope muttered into your shoulder as she joined the reunion, glancing at the chaos ensuing behind you.

Charlie and Hope were your personal lifelines, a combination of wits and humility that allowed you to embrace the more tentative side of yourself. You first bonded over your shock discoveries as Gryffindors, as opposed to your predicted places in Ravenclaw or Hufflepuff. While none of you were sure of why or how you found yourselves in the house of courage and bravery - or as you often called it, the pit of egos and self-righteousness - you certainly found a home between the pair, never stepping outside the social boundaries of your timid trio.

You marched towards the comfort of your dorm, arms linked with your companions and back turned to a pair of unacknowledged, watchful eyes, shaded by rounded glasses.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

James often found hellos to be even harder than goodbyes, a swelling of tears and joy erupting from the boy’s face the second he laid his golden eyes on his mischievous friends. Sirius, Remus and Peter lined the couch territorially, leaving space in the middle for one James Potter to jump into in excited greeting.

“Prongs! We thought you’d never show!” Exclaimed Sirius in a lighthearted tone, smirking at the boy’s glowing grin. “Glad to see us, then?”

“Oh Pads, you know I’d never miss a single day with you by my side if I had the choice!” James met his friend’s playful tone, though his genuine affection shone through the string of words he praised. He found comfort against the back of the couch, bursting into a ramble of “how are you?”, “I missed you” and “what did you do over the summer?” which the other Marauders dutifully answered with similar excitement.

James was busy engaging with Sirius’ vengeful tale of redeeming himself through a series of pranks planned for the coming school year when he found himself glancing towards a familiar figure above the crowd. Your hair reflected the light of the room, almost as if an angel’s halo surrounded your head. Your face, lit up with familiarity at your friends’ embrace, caused a physical reaction from the boy as his lips parted. Had you gotten even more hauntingly beautiful since the last year? James didn’t think it was possib-

“Pro-ongs, I think it’s about time you made a move on that lovely little bird, don’t you?” Sirius sang, inching closer to the captivated face of his friend. A light dusting of peachy blush turned dark on his cheeks under the sudden attention. “I- what? W-who?” James laughed, though he knew full well that his friends had caught onto his not-so-little crush years ago.

“I mean, if she’s so distracting that you can’t even focus on one of the most engaging plots for revenge ever crafted by the master of mischief,” Sirius gestured to himself, “then I don’t see why you shouldn’t try for an actual conversation with her. Moony here was just agreeing with me before you arrived, weren’t you, sweet stuff?”

Sirius turned to the boy sitting on the other side of the young Potter as Remus nodded in reserved agreement. “I know you think she’d never go for a boy like you, James, but Sirius has a point.” Remus advised. James considered his friends’ logical conclusions, realising he should probably come to the same.

There’s not long left, Potter, he told himself. We’ll graduate and the only person you’ve ever really felt something for will be out of your grasp forever. It’s now or never. “Ok…ok, I’ll do it. This will be the year. This will be my year.” James responded, eyes still lingering on you as you walked towards your dorm, slowly shrinking in his line of sight. His friends cheered in satisfied agreement. This will be his year. The year he shares with you.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

Unpacked trunks and flittering gossip filled your dorm room walls as you giggled with your loyal friends. “So…any chance one of you might pursue a love life for once?” Hope teased, despite her own lack of romantic involvement. Charlie let out a scoff, grinning her lopsided grin at Hope’s curiosity. “Certainly not in this house, but there might be a few lucky souls in the others who could try to keep up with me.” She laughed with you and Hope, basking in the joy that only you three could harvest from one another.

“Any boys catch your eye? Oh! Maybe any girls?” Hope turned the question to you as you hid a laugh behind your hand. “Some of these kids might as well just date themselves at this point! I mean, how can you love yourself that much and leave any room to love someone else?” You cried, exasperation shaping your tone. “Are we talking about who I think we’re talking ab-“ “OH you mean the Marauders!?” Charlie exclaimed, interrupting Hope’s more subtle approach to the subject.

“Of course I’m talking about those good for nothing clowns,” You responded, “They’re too preoccupied with themselves to even notice anyone else! On the last week of the last year, Sirius managed to shove me into a wall in the hallway without blinking an eye. He was too caught up in his own reflection in the polished floor to notice! Remus and Peter turn a blind eye to all the mischief their friends cause, and only if they themselves aren’t involved. And that boy, James Potter…” You continue your ranting, “it’s like there’s no thoughts behind that smug face of his! He bumped into me as we both attempted to exit through a classroom door at the same time, pushing my books out of my arms and onto the floor. I looked at him expectedly for some sort of sign to show he was apologetic, but he just stood and stared at me wide-eyed! That is, before he scurried away as if he was suddenly half his own size, looking like a rodent in an athlete’s body!”

Charlie and Hope shared a knowing look when you commented on the last Marauder’s appearance, communicating a silent assumption that you weren’t quite as annoyed with the head boy as you were confused. “I digress…” you concluded with a flushed expression. “If any boy in this house even attempts to approach me I should hope for his sake that he’s matured at a rate faster than the speed of light over the summer, otherwise he doesn’t stand a-“

Pshhh.

All eyes in the room turn towards the door. A light blue envelope with dark ink scribbled on the front sat patiently at the base of the door, having just been pushed below from a mysterious source on the other side.

“…chance.” You finished, curiosity propelling your trio towards the unfamiliar object. Labeled on the front, communicating with newfound clarity now that you had closed the distance between yourself and the letter, was a boyish, unpolished mark of your name. Quiet settled on the three of you for a moment. “OH. MY. GOD!” Charlie exclaimed, snatching the paper from the floor and sprinting towards your bed. “Hey, wait for me! I want to read it too!” Hope pursued your friend. Lastly, you rose from your position on the floor and slowly approached the bed as your friends eagerly ripped open the letter.

——————— ⋆౨ৎ˚⟡˖ ࣪ ———————

A/N: Thank you for reading! I intend on expanding this into a pretty fluffy series with James trying to win reader over ;) sorry for the slow chapter, it will get more eventful in future updates now that the context is established. Part 2 is up! Comment to be added to the taglist <3

[skyguytoast]

HAYDEN CHRISTENSEN X COSPLAYER!READER - PART TW0

SYNOPSIS: After much hesitation, you finally gather the courage to send Hayden a message. What starts as a simple conversation soon blossoms into something deeper…

WORD COUNT: 1.4k

WARNINGS: none, just fluffy

A/N: Hello sweeties, thank you to everyone who commented and motivated me to try to find any space in my chaotic routine to write... it's short, but I hope you like it🥰 As always, comments, likes and reblogs mean everything to me and motivate me to keep improving! 💖Kisses and good reading! Dividers by @cafekitsune

You stared at the autographed photo for what felt like an eternity, your fingers tracing over the inked letters as if they would somehow make this moment more real. It felt impossible—like a daydream you’d wake up from at any second. Hayden Christensen, your childhood crush, the man who had unknowingly altered your brain chemistry the first time you watched Revenge of the Sith, had not only noticed you but had given you his number.

You still remembered that afternoon vividl y: stumbling into the living room to find your dad watching Star Wars, only to be utterly captivated by him—by the way Anakin Skywalker sat up after that nightmare, shirtless, his golden curls damp with sweat, his tanned skin glowing under the dim light. That was the moment something in your heart shifted, a quiet but unmistakable pull toward him that never quite went away. Over the years, that initial admiration had grown into something deeper—a love for the saga, the characters, the world that felt like home.

It took you nearly two days to save Hayden’s number, hovering over the contact screen like it was a detonator. Another two passed before you finally mustered the courage to type out a simple, Hi.

The second you pressed send, you let out a strangled noise and tossed your phone onto the couch like it had personally wronged you. A wave of nerves crashed over you—what if he had only given you his number out of politeness? What if he regretted it? Were you being too forward by actually messaging him? Your thoughts spiraled, wrapping around you like a thick fog of self-doubt.

You scrambled for a distraction, settling on your ultimate comfort episode of The Clone Wars—the one where Anakin, Obi-Wan, and Count Dooku are captured by Hondo and have to work together to escape. It was ridiculous and lighthearted, exactly what you needed to keep yourself from obsessing over that one tiny text message.

And then, your phone buzzed.

You practically launched yourself across the couch, grabbing it with shaky hands, your heart hammering in your chest. The notification from him made your breath hitch, and you hesitated for a second before swiping the screen open.

"You took long enough, I thought I scared you or something."

You exhaled a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. He wasn’t just being polite—he had been waiting. The idea that Hayden Christensen, the Hayden Christensen, had been wondering if you’d text him back, sent a warmth blooming in your chest. The simple, teasing words held a quiet kind of vulnerability, a hesitant curiosity that mirrored your own.

Maybe, just maybe, this wasn’t a dream after all.

**

The conversations that followed were effortless, light and easy, as if you had known each other far longer than just a few weeks. You talked about Star Wars—your love for the saga woven into every word, recounting how it had been a guiding light through the darker moments of your life. Sometimes, you playfully diagnosed the characters, slipping references to your college work into casual discussions.

Hayden was fascinated—genuinely engaged—especially when you brought up the idea of Anakin having BPD. He asked thoughtful questions, encouraging you to explain your perspective. You eagerly backed up your argument with excerpts from the novels, pivotal scenes from the films, and moments from The Clone Wars, illustrating Anakin’s struggles in a way that made him pause in appreciation. It was a surreal feeling, discussing the psychology of a character with the very man who brought him to life.

At one point, you mentioned using Kurt from Numb, at the Edge of the End in a paper about PTSD, and Hayden’s response was immediate—his quiet pride evident in the way he marveled at your insight. The idea that his portrayal of such a complex character had resonated deeply enough to be studied made him almost bashful.

Of course, you couldn’t resist slipping in Virgin Territory just to mess with him. He groaned, laughing, before admitting, "When you’re young, things seem different. It was a fun script, okay?" His amused exasperation only fueled your teasing, and the playful back-and-forth left your cheeks aching from smiling so much.

But it wasn’t just movies and college that filled your conversations. You talked about everything—mundane life moments, grocery lists, books you were reading, and even wine recommendations. Hayden had an uncanny ability to suggest the perfect bottle for whatever you were cooking, guiding you to pick out a wine that would perfectly complement your carbonara, for example.

Even though you were separated by thousands of miles, there were these small, stolen moments that felt intimate. One night, he walked you through making pizza from scratch, his voice warm and patient as he explained each step. You followed along, flour dusting your kitchen counter, laughing as your dough looked far less appetizing than his on your phone screen.

“It’s about practice,” he reassured you, his voice holding that familiar, easy charm. “By the time I see you in person, you’ll be a pro.”

The way he said it—when I see you—made something flutter in your chest.

It was easy with him. As if some invisible thread had drawn you together, weaving its way through the distance, pulling you closer with each conversation.

Finally, the wait was over.

Hayden was in your city for the May 4th event, and for days leading up to it, you had been orbiting this moment—anticipation thrumming beneath your skin. The long hours spent talking had only deepened the bond between you, stretching across late nights where he stayed on the phone even after you had drifted to sleep. More than once, you woke up to find a screenshot he had taken of your face, soft with slumber, your features relaxed in the dim glow of your bedroom.

"Too cute to delete," he had teased when you protested, the warmth in his voice making you roll your eyes even as your heart melted.

Now, seated by the window of a small, secluded café—one carefully chosen to keep prying eyes away—you could feel the weight of each second pressing down on you. The golden afternoon sunlight filtered through the glass, casting warm patterns against your skin, but despite the cozy ambiance, anxiety curled in your stomach. The ticking of the clock seemed agonizingly slow, stretching minutes into what felt like hours.

You had just begun absently drumming your fingers against the wooden table, lost in thought, when a gentle hand landed on your shoulder. The touch was warm, grounding, and when you turned, confusion melted into relief at the sight of him—Hayden, standing before you with that familiar, boyish smile.

"You took long enough," you quipped, the words carrying a quiet thrill as they echoed his very first message to you.

His grin widened, his hand lingering where it rested. "Is it weird if I ask for a hug, or does watching you snore on video calls mean we've already crossed that line?" he teased, his voice low and playful, a wink accompanying his words.

"Hey! I don’t snore," you protested with a laugh, shaking your head as you rose to your feet. But before you could say anything more, he opened his arms.

And just like that, you stepped into them.

Hayden pulled you in without hesitation, his embrace firm, warm—safe. He smelled faintly of cedar and something crisp, like fresh air after the rain, and as his arms wrapped around you, a quiet sigh escaped your lips. Your body fit against his as if this moment had been written long before either of you had even realized it.

He held you like he meant it, like the weeks of late-night talks and quiet confessions had woven something unbreakable between you. His palm smoothed gently up and down your back, slow and deliberate, as if grounding himself in the reality of having you there, solid and real in his arms.

You hadn’t realized how much you needed this—not just the meeting, not just the touch, but the quiet understanding that passed between you, unspoken yet deeply felt. His hands skimmed gently up and down your back, steady and unrushed, as if memorizing the shape of you, as if savoring the moment in a way that made it feel infinite.

"It doesn’t feel real," you whispered, pressing your cheek against the curve of his shoulder.

Hayden hummed softly, his breath a warm ghost against your temple. "Then let’s stay here a little longer… just to be sure."

And neither of you moved, caught in the golden stillness of a moment that felt like it had been waiting for you both all along.

TAG LIST: @ihearthayden @anakinstwinklebunny @sometimescharlolette @awhhayden @dessxoxsworld

[semisasseater]

I THINK I’VE GOT A RIVAL

i have to kill.

SUMMARY ‘After killing ten boys who tried to confess to you, Heeseung finally works up the courage to confess his love—but when you reject him, he decides to make sure you’ll love him one way or another.

𓊆 黑星 𓊇 x gn!reader 㞫⠀⠀ ִ ⠀ 880 obsession stalking kidnapping murder non-confinement emotional manipulation violence yandere themes — 类型 dark romance psychological thriller horror yandere

✴︎ LIBRARY ✴︎ part 2 part 3

‧˚⠀⠀ 🤍⠀⠀ ɞ 作者注 : guys i love yandere simulator (not the dev fuck the dev) so i wrote this inspired by it

Ten boys he killed for you.

Ten weeks had passed since the first one disappeared. Then another. Then another. Heeseung kept count, a tally etched into the back of his notebook, the same one where he scribbled your name over and over. The boys were nuisances, cockroaches swarming around you, thinking they had a chance. They didn’t. Not when Heeseung was watching.

He got rid of them before they could confess, before they could take what was meant to be his. It was funny, really. None of them ever saw it coming. Your best friend was the most troublesome—always lingering too close, touching your arm, whispering things in your ear. Heeseung made sure he suffered the most.

But it was done now. All gone.

And today was the day.

He had spent weeks working up the courage, perfecting his confession, making sure everything would be perfect. The love letter was placed delicately in your locker, his handwriting neat, the words trembling with emotion. Then, he ran—ran up the hill behind the school, to the cherry tree.

There was a rumor about the tree. They said if you confessed there after school, the person couldn’t say no. Heeseung never believed in superstitions, but today? Today he would take all the luck he could get.

His heart raced as he saw you approaching, out of breath, eyes scanning for the one who had left the letter. You came.

He stepped out from behind the tree, smiling so wide it hurt. “Y/N! you came i.. i was so nervous but.. but i love you i’ve loved you for so long please accept!”

The silence was unbearable.

You stood there, stunned, staring at him with wide eyes. His heart pounded.

“I’m sorry… I don’t feel the same way…”

The world stopped.

“We never met before, and I don’t know anything about you…” You looked apologetic, hesitant. “We can be friends, but I’ll have to reject your confession. I’m sorry…”

No.

No no no no no no—

His fingers twitched. His smile faltered. His head felt like it was splitting open.

This isn’t how it was supposed to go.

His breathing was heavy, erratic. Then, suddenly—“what’s that behind you?”

You turned, confused.

Smash.

The weight of his bag cracked against your head, and you crumpled. Heeseung barely registered the thud of your body hitting the ground, the way your chest still rose and fell. His whole body was shaking, his breath ragged.

He had to fix this.

—

The school was empty by nightfall.

Heeseung moved quickly, dragging the instrument case through the night, careful, precise. No one saw. No one suspected a thing thinking he was a performer.

By the time he got home, his heart was thudding with excitement. Finally.

You were here.

He tied you to the chair, securing the knots carefully—not too tight, didn’t want to hurt you, not too much. A blindfold over your eyes, rope keeping your muffled screams in check.

And then he waited.

The moment you stirred, he was there, eyes glinting with joy. He reached out, slowly pulling the blindfold away.

There they were.

Your beautiful, terrified eyes.

He grinned. “welcome home baby.. how do you like it? it’s not much for now but once we get something bigger i’m sure you’ll like it”

You screamed, muffled and useless.

His smile widened. “dumb of you to reject my confession after i got rid of all of those stupid boys for you. it’s okay though you’ll fall in love with me soon!”

Tears welled up in your eyes. Heeseung’s heart squeezed at the sight.

“oh no don’t cry baby it’s okay! i killed them because i love you im so in love with you i created a shrine of you!!” he chuckled, rocking on his heels, his eyes never leaving your face. He looked at you like you were the sun, the moon, the air he breathed.

You stared back like he was a monster.

His fingers brushed your cheek, his voice dropping to a soft murmur. “i’m just so happy.. i can’t wait until you’re out of this basement and loving me we can get a dog or maybe a cat or anything you want! and we’re gonna have mini us running around the house someday.. i cant wait!!”

Your body trembled. The tears spilled down your cheeks.

Heeseung cupped your face, tilting it up so you had no choice but to look at him.

“you’ll be with me forever… no one will ever take you away from me.. im yours forever”

And you knew, in that moment, as the last bit of hope drained from your body—

You would never escape.

@semisasseater

[prythianpages]

Love Me Like You Do | Cassian

cassian x love witch reader | summary: Cassian has a bad mission and you're there to comfort him.

warnings: fluff, angst

word count: 1,887

a/n: Just something short and sweet I wrote after getting stuck on another part for this series.

Heart thudding madly against your chest, you stood at the gates of the High Lord’s riverhouse. The grand ironwork arched above you, intricate designs woven into the metal, casting shadows that danced in the late afternoon sun. The air was filled with the scent of blooming jasmine, mingling with the cool breeze coming off the nearby river.

You were tense, fingers curling and uncurling against the cute, pink cake carrier you held. A strange feeling that was becoming way too familiar for your own comfort settled into your stomach, spurred on by your concern for Cassian.

Your letters had gone unanswered for the past week and a half. You hadn’t seen him since before that, and worry began to gnaw at you. Had you done something to upset him? Or worse, had something happened to him?

It’s why you had baked a chocolate cake to have an excuse to check up on him. Taking a deep breath, you finally gathered the courage to press the buzzer. After a few moments, the gates were opening. Your legs moved almost on their own, carrying you up the cobblestoned pathway lined with neatly trimmed hedges and colorful flower beds.

As you reached the doorsteps, the door swung open, revealing the Night Court’s High Lord. Rhysand was as captivating as ever, donning that signature smile of his that seemed to hold a thousand secrets. “Y/n,” he greeted you. “What a pleasant surprise. Please, come in.”

"Thank you," you reply, stepping inside the grand foyer. "I, uh, made this for Cas…”

Rhysand’s smile softened, his violet eyes twinkling with a warmth that eased some of your tension. You couldn’t help but wonder if he had ventured off into your mind or you were simply that easy to read.

“Nyx will be disappointed it’s not for him.”

“I’ll make sure Cas shares.”

“He’s not going to,” Rhysand chuckles but all amusement leaves his face as he turns his head slightly. “He’s in his study. Third room to the right. He might be in a mood. He hasn’t spoken to us much these past couple of days. I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you. Maybe you can figure out why he’s been avoiding us.”

**

When you reached Cassian's study, you paused, taking another deep breath before gently pushing the door open. 

Cassian stood in front of his desk, papers strewn about. His head was lowered, his dark hair falling over his eyes as he leaned his palms against the wood. His wings drooped slightly, their usual proud arc diminished. 

His head perked up at the sound of the door. “Go away, Rhys,” he said, voice rough, as if he hadn’t used it in hours.

“It’s not him.”

"y/n?" 

You offered a tentative smile, despite the fact his back was turned to you. "I brought you something.”

“You should go.”

Setting the cake on a nearby table, you approached him slowly, giving him time to tell you to go away. If he did, you would do so. But his silence let you know that despite his words, he didn’t want you to go. 

You moved behind him, your heart aching at the sight of his tension. Cassian didn’t talk about his role as general in the Night Court much. Though he was proud of his title, he preferred to leave work at work. You knew enough to understand how jarring and exhausting his job could be—a never-ending demand to keep the Night Court’s warriors in check and ensure their readiness for any threat.

The last time he had visited your shop, he spoke about the mission he had been dreading. One that involved visiting multiple Illyrian war camps and restoring order to the recent disturbances in Illyria. The unrest there was a knot of conflict and simmering resentment. Another never-ending chaos

It was clear to you now that, that mission had gone as he expected.

Without a word, you wrapped your arms around him from behind, knowing just how much physical touch meant to him. It was Cassian’s main love language, and among the first things you had learned about him. You rested your cheek against his broad back, careful not to brush against his wings.

He stiffened for a moment, but then he relaxed into your embrace. You held him close, feeling his shoulders slowly unclench as you let the quiet of the moment stretch between you, not knowing just how warm and grounding your touch was to him.

“I’ve been worried about you. It’s been awhile since you visited my shop or responded to my letters. I thought you were upset with me or something happened to you…”

He let out a deep sigh. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to worry you. It’s been…a lot. I didn’t want to burden you–”

“You’re not a burden, Cas.” You interrupt gently. “I’m here for you.”

Cassian rested his hand over where yours were crossed. You immediately pulled away from him, turning him to face you, lips pressed into a frown as you took in the bandage wrapped around one of his hands that went all the way up to his arm. The frown in your brow deepened when you also took note of the healing bruise on the left side of his face. Instinctively, you reached out a hand but Cassian turned his head and your hand fell back to your side.

"It's nothing," he says dismissively.

“Does it hurt?”

“No.” Cassian replies but when you reach out for his injured arm, fingers gently grasping his hand, he winces.

You move his hand closer to you, gaze narrowing as you assess the bandaging. It appears to be clean and fresh–no hint of that metallic scent of blood. You decide it’s best not to unravel it as whoever treated his wound already did the most one could do. Instead, you bring his hand to your mouth, pressing a soft kiss to the back of his bandaged hand.

“y/n, what–”

“A kiss makes everything better,” you explain, smiling when you see your lipstick left an imprint on the white bandaging. Pink stardust rose from the lip stain, traveling up and down his arm, enveloping in a magic bandage of its own before seeping into the one right below it. It draws a shudder from Cassian.

Your eyes meet his. “Would you like me to kiss that bruise of yours?” You ask, tone bordering on playful.

“I’m okay,” Cassian says, voice slightly strained as he tries to maintain his composure. He decides to redirect your attention.  “I didn’t know you had healing powers.”

“It’s not so much healing, it’s really just alleviating some pains.” You tell him with a small shrug. “I should look into some healing potions and spells some more for your sake. It won’t be as great as the healers but something is better than nothing, right?”

Cassian just stared at you.

“What? Do I have something on my face?” you ask, tilting your head in confusion at his intense gaze.

Cassian blinks, tearing his gaze from you momentarily as he becomes suddenly interested in your bright, pink shoes. “Eyes, a nose, a mouth…”

He looks back up, catching the way you roll your eyes. It draws a smile from Cassian. A genuine one. 

“Rhysand says you haven’t spoken to them much recently,” you say, the name of the Night Court’s High Lord still tasting foreign to your tongue. You turn one of the chairs in front of the desk to face him before settling in. You nudge his boot with yours, silently prompting him to do the same with the chair behind him.

With a sigh, Cassian slumps into the chair across from you, his usual confidence replaced by a weary demeanor. “Is that why he sent you?”

“No one sent me. I brought myself here and that chocolate cake over there.”

Cassian’s eyes light up, a spark of his usual charm returning, making you laugh. He turns his head, following your gesture. Using your magic, you float the cake carrier gently onto his lap. “Baked it myself,” you grin proudly.

“So it’s not edible then?”

“Rude!” you exclaim, flicking your wrist and sending a sprinkle of pink stardust his way. He coughs, the glimmer of your magic enveloping him briefly in a sparkling haze. “I had Moxie taste test it, so it’s very edible.”

Cassian chuckles when he opens the cake carrier to see that a slice was indeed missing.  Comforted by your words, as that young apprentice of yours was the pickiest eater, he inhales deeply, taking pleasure in the rich aroma of chocolate that invades his senses.

But the pleasure is short-lived as your pink magic closes the cake carrier with a loud snap. His face falls slightly, and he looks at you with a mix of curiosity and caution.

“Why have you been avoiding your family?” You ask and with a bit of hesitance, you add, “and me?”

Cassian shifts in his seat. He looks down at his hands, his fingers tracing the edge of the cake carrier. “They have their own tasks to attend to, own burdens to worry about. And you? I fear I have troubled you enough with my problems. I can work through this on my own…”

You ponder on his words with a small frown. Cassian was strong-minded and sharp. You knew he could handle his own problems, but that didn’t necessarily mean he wanted to. He was also kind, caring, and selfless—qualities you admired about him. But sometimes, he was so selfless that he left himself out of the love he had to give.

“Cas, no one loves you like I do. You’re no trouble to me at all. You’re always there for everyone so let me be here for you.”

“Don’t say things like that.”

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion, taken aback by his sudden change in tone. “What do you mean? I’m serious. I’m your friend.” Your voice is tinged with concern and a hint of hurt.

“Friend.” Cassian repeats the word, his tone filled with an emotion you can’t quite place. 

“Yes,” you say, sensing his contemplation. He looks away, his jaw tightening and you can't help but shrink back into your seat. “Do you not want me to be?”

Cassian looks at you, those hazel eyes meeting yours. You catch the way his throat bobs. “It’s not that,” he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. Your heart skips a beat, his words hanging in the air between you. But then he shakes his head, as if to clear his thoughts.

“I love being your friend.” 

“Then what is it?”

“It’s nothing…” he trails off, the weight of his words making them feel inadequate. “It’s just, you can’t always be there for–”

“Nonsense,” you interrupt firmly. “I’ll always be there for you.”

For a fleeting moment, the vulnerability in his eyes is raw and unguarded, as if he’s been caught in the storm of his emotions. Then, he nods, a small, grateful smile tugging at his lips. 

But the lingering sadness in his gaze tugs at your heart, even more when he asks, “always?”

You smile warmly, reaching out to trace a finger over the center of your chest, just slightly to the left. “Cross my heart.”

a/n: This takes place sometime after you meet the IC. Sorry, I keep skipping around. I just got stuck on writing that part. So if y'all have any ideas lmk. You can find a sneak park here though.

also, if you've asked to be on the tag list and your name is below but you didn't get a notif, lmk! for some reason, some of the tags haven't been working. If you've asked to be on the tag list and don't see your name below, please let me know!

series masterlist

series taglist: @mrsjna , @shadowsingercassia, @acourtofbatboydreams, @rcarbo1, @mvidaaaa ,

@stuff-i-found-while-crying , @lipstickmarks, @yamisukehoe , @mp-littlebit , @thecraziestcrayon,

@talesofadragon, @ceoofyearning, @anuttellaa, @breadsticks2004, @chicken-fifi

General tag list: @scooobies, @kennedy-brooke, @sillysillygoose444, @lilah-asteria @the-sweet-psycho

@daycourtofficial, @milswrites, @stormhearty, @pit-and-the-pen, @mybestfriendmademe

@loving-and-dreaming @azriels-human, @mrsjna

[cece693]

That fic you wrote about Steve and Buck and the reader drafted for war? How dare you, my heart shattered and now I gotta sweep the pieces up. (I mean this in the best way possible) your writing is absolutely incredible. Keep it up I can’t wait to see what you do next and I’d love to see more of Steve/bucky or just Steve/just bucky.

Awww, thank you so much! I loved how the fic came out and am surprised to see others also liking it. I do have some ideas on how to make it more angsty but for now, I want to include the reader just sending letters to his boys and making them worried sick for his wellbeing. Enjoy!

Promise to Return Pt. 2

Time had a funny way of dragging on in the months after you left. Steve and Bucky both felt it—even when the sun was shining or the city was bustling, there was a hollowness that settled in the space you once filled. It started with little things: Bucky snapping at Steve for something trivial—like leaving the window open or tapping his foot constantly—and Steve responding in a sharp tone. Neither wanted to talk about why they were really frustrated; neither wanted to voice the truth that haunted them: You were gone, in harm’s way, and they could do nothing about it.

The day your first letter arrived, it felt like a jolt of electricity through the tired hush of the apartment. They tore it open together, nearly tripping over each other in their haste. The scrawl inside was messy, words cramped like you’d had to fit every sentence onto a tiny scrap of paper:

Dear Steve and Bucky, I’ve only been gone a short while, but it feels like years. Some nights, I lay awake in the thin canvas tent we’re calling home, and all I can think of is the warmth of your arms. I’d give anything to feel you beside me, even if only for a moment. Life here is a blur of training drills, endless marching, and the constant dirt that clings to everything—my uniform, my boots, my skin. But I’m okay. Sometimes I can almost hear you, Buck, telling me to keep my chin up the way you always do. And Stevie, I picture that soft smile of yours and the determination in your eyes. It gives me courage. We haven’t seen combat yet, but word is we’ll be moving closer to the front soon. I try not to think about the danger. Instead, I think of home—of you two, and how you always fought over who got to hold me first. (I hope you’re still not fighting too much, but if you are, at least kiss and make up afterward, all right?) I miss you both more than I thought possible. Write me back. Tell me everything—tell me how Brooklyn’s holding up, how my folks are doing, and most of all, how you’re doing. Stay safe. I love you, always.

They read it three times over. By the time they finished, tears stained both of their cheeks. They quickly pulled out a pen, set on informing you about what's been happening in town, how your parents are handling things and how much they missed you. They tried to make it sound comforting, hopeful, full of love. Because that was the part of them that still worked—the love. The arguments were brutal, but then another letter would arrive and everything would return to normal—as if you were the glue holding their love from crumbling to dust.

My Steve and Bucky, It’s been a rough few weeks. I don’t want to worry you too much, but I’d rather be honest. The mud is up to our ankles, constant rain drenching us to the bone. The nights are long and cold. I’ve been pushing through, though. Some days, I can’t get the memory of home out of my head—the smell of fresh-baked bread from the bakery near the apartment, the warmth of your arms around me when you’d both squeeze in close at night. We had a scare yesterday—enemy planes overhead. The bombs fell close, rattling our nerves. But I got lucky, walked away with just a few scrapes. I keep telling myself, “If I can make it through one more day, I’ll be one day closer to home.” If you’re fighting, promise me you’ll make up by the time I get back. I’m counting on the two of you to be in one piece—physically and emotionally—when I step off that train. I want to come home to the two men I love, not a cold apartment full of bitterness. I love you both, deeply. Write soon—hearing from you gives me a kind of strength nothing else can. —Yours (always)

They clutched that page, tears trailing down their cheeks. Steve rested his head against Bucky’s shoulder, and for once, Bucky let him. They stayed that way for a while, breathing in tandem, wishing you weren’t so far away.

It wasn’t until months had passed that Bucky and Steve realized, with sinking dread, that your most recent letter had in fact been your final one. At first, neither of them wanted to believe it. It had arrived, tattered at the edges and water-stained from its journey across war-torn oceans, but it had arrived, and so they assumed more would follow. They devoured your words over and over, clinging to the affection you poured onto the page:

My Brooklyn Boys, I’m all right, but things are worse than ever. We’ve moved positions so many times I can’t keep track of addresses. This might be my last chance to write for a while—our lines are closing in on the enemy, and rumor says we’ll be engaged in heavy fighting soon. I won’t lie to you: I’m scared. I’ve seen good men go down this week. Men I shared cigarettes with and talked about what was awaiting us back home. It’s hard to see that and not wonder if I’m next. But I made a promise to come back. I hold onto that promise for dear life, the promise of seeing your faces again, feeling your arms around me. Maybe that’s naïve. But hope is all we have sometimes. Please forgive me if the letters stop for a bit. I’ll try to keep them coming, but I can’t control what happens here. Just know that, no matter what happens, I love you both with everything I have and am. I think about you constantly. Be safe, and be strong for each other.

When your final letter first arrived, neither Bucky nor Steve panicked. You’d warned them: “Forgive me if the letters stop for a bit,” and they assumed it would be a short break—maybe a week or two before you found another chance to put pen to paper. After all, you’d been late before, but never by more than a month. Two months, at most.

But five entire months dragged by. Five months of an empty mailbox. Five months of carefully folded hopes, clutched tight each morning and slowly unraveling each night.

They reread that last note so often its edges grew soft, the folds worn from constant handling. Sometimes, in the middle of the night, Steve would wake to find Bucky asleep in the armchair, your letter clutched in his hand as if he’d drifted off tracing the curve of your words. Other times, Bucky would come home to find Steve hunched over the kitchen table, silent tears slipping onto the paper. No matter how many times they scoured each line, the reality never changed: you were gone, and they had no clue where you were, or if you were even alive.

Bucky was the first to snap under the weight of uncertainty. He’d been restless for weeks, ducking out late in the evenings, returning with a haunted look in his eyes. One night, as Steve sat hunched at the dinner table, rereading your last note for what felt like the thousandth time, Bucky slammed the door behind him.

“I just enlisted.”

For a moment, the words didn’t compute. Steve blinked, setting the letter aside. “You—what?”

“I went to the recruiter’s office,” Bucky repeated, his voice trembling with anger and fear all at once. “I signed the papers, Steve. I’m shipping out as soon as they process me.”

Steve shot to his feet, nearly knocking over his chair. “What the hell, Buck?” he demanded. “We talked about this! We were waiting—for news, for a letter—”

Bucky’s fists clenched. “That’s the thing, Stevie. There isn’t any news. Not for five months! It’s been radio silence out there. God only knows what’s happened—I can’t just sit here hoping a letter might show up tomorrow.”

“You think I like sitting here, not knowing if he’s alive or not?” Steve’s voice cracked, his eyes brimming with unshed tears. “But enlisting— that’s not how we were supposed to handle this. You remember what he wrote. He wanted us to be safe!”

Bucky let out a mirthless laugh. “Safe? While he might be—” His words choked off, as if he couldn’t bring himself to say it.

“So your solution is to go get yourself killed, too!?”

The argument escalated quickly—voices echoed off the walls, rehashing every fear they’d kept bottled up. “Why didn't you talk to me first?" Steve sought. “We could’ve come up with something else! We’re supposed to be a team.”

“I am talking to you, right now,” Bucky shot back, though guilt was already gnawing at him. “I just—I couldn’t wait any longer. If you’d seen your own face these past months…you’re wasting away, Stevie. We both are.”

“That’s why we have to stick together!” Steve insisted, tears finally slipping. “He’d want us looking out for each other. Not running off alone.” He stared at Bucky, betrayal written all over his face. “So, that’s it? You’re leaving, and I’m just—what, supposed to watch you go?”

“I don’t want to leave you,” Bucky admitted, throat working as he swallowed back tears. “But I don’t see another option. If the recruiters won’t take you, you’ll be stuck here anyway. At least this way, one of us is in the field. I can look for him, find out something.”

“That’s not good enough,” Steve murmured, voice thick with sorrow. “I can’t lose you too.”

Bucky’s eyes hardened at those words. He heard what Steve said, but all he could feel was anger coiling in his chest. It wasn’t just rage at the war or at your disappearance—it was anger at Steve, for voicing the unthinkable. “Lose me?” he echoed, fists clenching at his sides. “So you’ve already made up your mind that we lost him? That he’s…gone?”

“Don’t twist my words.”

“You’re the one acting like he’s dead!” Bucky barked, voice raw. His breath came shallow and ragged, as if each inhale cut him like glass.

“That’s not what I said,” Steve protested, but his shaky tone betrayed the fear he tried so hard to hide.

Bucky stepped closer, the tension between them bristling. “Then why are you telling me you ‘can’t lose me too’? Huh?” His voice wavered on the last word, hands trembling as he fought the urge to punch something—anything to escape this horrible feeling in his chest. “I’m not dying, Steve. I’m fighting to find him. Because I still believe he’s alive—why can’t you?”

“I do believe,” Steve said, voice trembling. “But it’s been five months since his last letter, Buck.”

“And that means we give up?” Bucky’s tone was half-accusation, half-plea. The weight of those months of silence crashed down on him, but he refused to accept it. His eyes burned. “You think I don’t feel that ache every day? I wake up and wonder if today’s the day we find out…something. But I won’t let it be the day we give up hope.”

Steve looked away, a harsh sob caught in his throat. “We’re not giving up. But we have to face facts. You’re running off to sign up for a war you might not come back from. What if—what if he never…”

Bucky flinched as though struck. “Don’t,” he hissed, voice frayed. “Stop saying ‘never.’ He’s out there somewhere—maybe buried in the thick of it, pinned down, unable to write. Maybe—” His words broke into a choked whisper. “Maybe he’s just trying to survive.”

Steve tried to speak, but emotion knotted his throat, and no sound came out. He watched as Bucky turned on his heel and stormed toward the door, tension radiating off him like a storm about to break. “Buck, please,” Steve managed at last, almost stumbling after him. “Don’t—Where are you going?”

Bucky paused with his hand on the doorknob, shoulders heaving. He half-turned, giving Steve a wounded stare. “I need space because sitting here in this apartment for another second without answers is killing me. If you won't stand by me—" He swallowed hard. “Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.”

“That’s not fair,” Steve croaked, but Bucky was already out the door, slamming it behind him with a resounding crack that seemed to echo through the empty rooms.

For a long moment, Steve simply stared, heart hammering in his chest. Then reality hit him like a punch to the gut, and he crumpled to his knees right there in the entrance hall. A ragged sob tore from his throat, shaking his entire body.

He pressed his hands to his face, unable to stop the torrent of tears. All he could see was the half-faded memory of you—your warm smile, the way you used to loop an arm around his shoulders or tug Bucky into a playful headlock. All he could hear was Bucky’s agonized accusation: Maybe you never really believed in him coming back at all.

“It’s not true,” Steve whispered to the empty air, voice cracking. “I swear it’s not.” But there was no one around to hear him. Nothing but the echo of silence, and the ghost of your promise that you’d find your way home—somehow.

[sativariddle]

ALERT ⓘ THEODORE NOTT HAS LETTER 2/5

TATBILB AU. navigation. my au’s.

⤷ read this to understand ᥫ᭡.

DEAR THEODORE;

I’VE BEEN MEANING to say this for a while, and maybe i’m only finding the courage now because i’ve finally made sense of it myself.

whenever it’s slytherin versus hufflepuff on the quidditch pitch, i used to dread it. not because i didn’t love quidditch, but because of you. you were fast and always three steps ahead. everyone said you were one of the best, and i believed it. but my heart would race in a way that didn’t quite make sense for just nerves over a match.

i used to think i was intimidated by you. and maybe, in part, i was. but now, looking back with clearer eyes, i think it was more than that. i think it was because i had a crush on you: one i didn’t even recognize at the time. the way you moved, how focused you were. and i never knew how to explain it, not even to myself.

it’s weird, realizing that a crush can hide in plain sight for so long. that your heart can keep something secret even from yourself. i look back now and everything makes more sense: how my eyes found you even when they shouldn’t have, how your voice always made something inside me freeze up, how i remembered things you said without even meaning to.

you’re not the easiest person to love, and i say that as someone who probably isn’t either. but there’s something about you, the way you say so little but mean so much, that makes me want to try.

═════════════

OF COURSE. OF COURSE of course. of course. of course. of course.

mattheo stares at you, waiting for an answer, and you’re frozen: like a clueless fish, mouth opening and closing, not a single word managing to escape. this is a disaster. an absolute disaster.

you open your mouth again, this time ready to actually speak, unlike before, when nothing came out. but just as the words begin to form, you hear your name being called. and maybe it should’ve made you feel better: knowing someone will pull your attention away from mattheo, even if just for a moment. but it didn’t. because the voice that pulled you away from riddle… it belonged to theodore nott.

you’d recognize that voice from a mile away. you’d heard it plenty during the slytherin vs. hufflepuff quidditch matches. but this time, he wasn’t shouting at a teammate. he was shouting for you.

a glittering letter gripped tightly in his hand. you blinked, stunned. you knew they were out there, but you didn’t expect to be confronted by the next person. not when you hadn’t even dealt with mattheo yet.

“…are you even listening?”

mattheo’s voice barely registered. the sound of it blurred into the background as something gripped you—panic, all the more suffocating. because walking toward you was theodore nott.

it was like watching a nightmare step out of your memories. the kind you try to forget until it decides to remind you. all you could think about were those stupid letters. the ones you never should’ve written, or at least never should’ve meant. and now they were catching up to you in the form of theo’s gaze, like the universe had been waiting for the most inconvenient time to let it all unravel.

“no,” you blurted, quicker than you meant to. guilt crept in immediately. normally, you’d soften the truth, throw out some small hearted excuse just to keep the peace. but not now. not when your mind was racing, your cheeks were burning, and your only thought was that you needed to find luna and ask her what the hell she was thinking. because surely, she’d have something strange or somehow good to say that could make sense of this mess.

do you feel like a terrible friend for instantly blaming luna? absolutely. but do you also think she had something to do with it: one hundred and one percent? also absolutely.

she was the only one you ever showed. well—no, not even that. she found it. all curious eyes and quiet way of knowing too much without asking. luna’s the only one who knows about the letters besides you. the day after she stumbles upon them, they’re suddenly everywhere? out in the open like some twisted joke? it’s too much of a coincidence. practically screaming in your face.

you feel sick. embarrassed in a way that makes your skin crawl. you can already picture blaise reading your words and thinking you’re completely unhinged. enzo laughing to himself and calling you weird. draco raising a perfectly judgmental brow, convinced you’ve finally lost it.

and the look on theodore’s face as he walks toward you says enough: he thinks you’re all of it. weird, unhinged, embarrassing, a mess.

mattheo’s still in front of you, unaware that his best friend is fast approaching. you don’t have time to think: you act on instinct, driven by panic and the desperate need to escape whatever this moment is about to become.

“—if you don’t want to talk, that’s too bad, tel—”

“kiss me.” yes, you felt insane. yes, your heart was thudding so hard it hurt. and yes, the embarrassment of what you’d just said was enough to make you want to vanish into thin air.

“hmm?” he blinked, shocked; so insanely taken aback that under any other circumstances, you might’ve laughed. but there was no time for that. you were running on pure adrenaline now, the kind that only comes when your past is walking straight toward you and your present is preparing for impact.

“you—“ interruptions. god, interruptions. but for once, you welcomed them. because the best way to interrupt someone is to kiss them. maybe, it was also the best way to get out of a situation you had no idea how to make it through.

kisses like this are usually awkward: either for the people watching or for the ones doing it. but strangely, you didn’t feel awkward at all. not when riddle kissed you back without hesitation, hands sliding to the small of your back, pulling you closer against him.

you expected him to pull away, to stop and ask what the hell you were doing, but instead, he leaned in harder. one hand moved to cup your face, a little too eagerly. and okay, maybe it felt a little ridiculous being held like a hotdog, but then he was sucking on your bottom lip and all thoughts vanished.

nevertheless, part of you stayed alert. you cracked an eye open, peeking over his shoulder just in time to catch the end of theodore’s shoe disappearing around the corner. relief flooded your chest so fast it made you lightheaded. that same relief spilled into the kiss: you let your mouth part slightly, and mattheo took full advantage. his pink tongue slipped past your lips with ease.

you know this won’t be the last time theodore brings up that painfully embarrassing letter. he’s going to mention it again, of course he is. and why? you might have an idea, some vague guess buried under your denial. however, for now, you’ve bought yourself time. and that alone is enough to make you breathe a little easier.

you pulled away immediately, lips parting as you catched your breathe. mattheo’s gorgeous eyes fluttered open, long lashes framing that dangerously pretty stare: so intense they might as well have been weapons. he looked unreal. all dark eyes and flushed lips, like he’d stepped straight out of a dream.

you almost sighed just looking at him. how is it always the most beautiful men who turn out to be the absolute worst? evil, complicated, magnetic motherfuckers who ruin you with a kiss and don’t even flinch.

tags; @genterom903 @thaliashifts @benbarnesprettygurl @downbad4reid @wannagetnoodles @tjbfingfh @genterom903 @dishakidishakyahn @messageforthesmallestman @bluntzah

[httpsdrewstarkey]

hollywood || rafe cameron

authors note: been thinking about rafey a lot lately. kinda a short story? i did not know what to name this lol

warnings: smut

Y/N sat on the outside patio furnurtue of the house watching the party in full swing. The smell of chlorine coming from the pool as at the group of people jumped into the pool, the couple in front of her doing a line, but all she could think about was him. The alcohol slowly getting into her bloodstream, as she sat there sulking watching everyone, cursing at them for having a good time. She knew he’d show up any moment, she was thinking about him again, she couldnt help it. He was all she every thought about, when she showered, when she went to the store, when she sat down at family dinner with her parents and brother-

“Yo, Top!” 

“Shit,” she whispered to herself, her eyes closing for a second, hearing his voice behind her. She got up quickly, pushing past the coked out couple, making her way to the kitchen to get something stronger to drink. She took a deep breathe, the adrenaline pumping through her body from just the sound of his voice. She hadn't even seen him, but she knew, knew he would be here, walking around looking the way he did, his tanned skin glowing, his buzzed hair no longer buzzed, growing longer and messier by the day. She looked up, standing at the island hoping to get a better quick look at him. 

“Looking for someone?” She cursed silently to herself again feeling the goosebumps rise all over her body, turning around. 

“No,” she said, shaking her head slightly, making direct eye contact with him. The black hoodie on him sprawling out the word ‘Hollywood’ in white letters, fuck he looked good, and he knew it. The smirk plastered on his face, as his eyes trailed up and down to get a quick look at her. She leaned back slightly on the island, watching as his hand made their way to his lips, the gold ring shining as he watched her. She tried her best to stay calm, to not let him know that her heart was literally about to beat out of her chest.

He stepped closer to her, dropping his hand from his mouth, shaking his head, “Nah,” he whispered, not believing her, “I think you are though,” he said, his voice lowering. 

He stepped closer leaning up against the island beside her, crossing his arms, continuing to watch her closely, taking in the smell of her perfume. He quickly took the drink from her sitting it on the counter, as he stood in front of her, slightly leaning in, his hands on the island, caging her in. His mouth coming up to her ear as he spoke,

"Meet me upstairs, yeah?" He said licking his lips, his left hand coming up to give her a pat on the ass, as he turned around, leaving her there feeling like she was grasping for air.

As she climbed the stairs, her breathing staggered, her skin feeling hot, and her heart pounding harder with every step she took. She paused in front of the door, taking a deep breath to pull herself together.

And when she finally had the courage to open the door, there he was. Sitting on the edge of the bed, his legs spread wide with his arms crossed, his eyes going up and down her body. She stood there watching him as he rose from the bed, stepping closer to her.

His hand came up to cup her face gently to touch her, then both hands slowly going down her arms, tracing her skin lightly, as his eyes made their way to look at her lips and down to her chest. They finally settled firmly on her waist, pulling her closer. He dipped down slightly, his lips hovering over hers. Her body aching for him to close the space between their lips.

But he didn't. Instead, he paused, their lips almost touching, a smirk coming over his face, teasing her.

"Tell me who you were looking for downstairs," he whispered, keeping them as close as possible. Her stomach dropped.

"You.." She whispered, the words barely coming out. The smug smile on his face growing.

"Good girl."

His lips pressed against hers closing the space between them, his hand sliding up to tangle in her hair. She gasped softly, and he took this as an opportunity to deepen their kiss further, his tongue brushing against hers in a slow, almost punishing way. He kissed her like he was claiming her, pouring every ounce of the tension and desire that had ever simmered between them.

She tugged at his jeans, her fingers curling into the fabric with urgency, her soft moan spilling into his mouth as she tried to make her need for him clear. He pulled back, breaking the kiss, their lips red and swollen, a thin string of saliva briefly connecting them before it broke.

They moved in unison, their hands fumbling and eager to get rid of their clothes. She stepped forward to kiss him again, her hands on the base on his neck to pull him closer, as his hands made their way up and down her body to feel every inch of her. They stumbled their way to the bed, their kiss never breaking as she started to grind against him, a groan falling from his lips.

With a quick movement, his hands gripped her waist, flipping her over, her back pressed against the bed as he hovered over her. He leaned back, both is knees digging into the bed on the sides of her, as he slid his hands down her thighs, gripping and pulling her legs to rest on his shoulders.

He lines himself up to her soaking entrance, feeling the warmth and wetness coming from her. He watches as she jerks slightly, wanting to feel him more. He smiles, laughing at her for being so desperate.

"Jesus, you're a fucking mess, we've barely gotten started."

"Are you going to fuck me or what?"

That's all it took for him to slam his thick length in, she gasped, her mouth falling into an o shape, as he found a steady pace to pound in and out of her.

"Been thinking about pounding this tight little hole all week," he grunted out, trying to keep his pace steady, trying not to get distracted with the feeling of her wrapped so tightly around him.

His pace starts to pick up more, the sound of him sliding in and out echoing throughout the room as she whimpered underneath him, holding onto his biceps for support.

"Keep squeezing me like that, givin' me no choice but to fill this pretty pussy up."

He doesn't slow down, her whimpers only growing louder as he continues his brutal pace, a thin layer of sweat covering both their bodies as the bed creaks loudly under the impact. Her body clenches up feeling the orgasm getting closer as he continues to hit all the right spots.

"R-Rafe.. gonna make me cum," she says squirming, trying to push him back a little, the pressure being too much for her to handle

"Don't even think about it, gonna keep pounding this pussy until you pass out, got it?" He said, his own orgasm approaching.

“Wonder what Top would say if he walked in right now, seeing his best friend nail his little sisters shit in his bed?”

[earthtooz]

x : AUGUST 12TH :*+ﾟ

in which: reo sees his birthday marked down on your calender, and it fills him with the courage to win you back. or, he's hiding from the paparazzi... in your apartment, for whatever reason.

warnings: 2k wc, gn!reader, exes to lovers but they're very much in love, they kiss (eww), minor angst and minor embarrassment for reader but it's very cute, very much fluff and happy endings, professional soccer player reo, characters aged to be around 21+

a/n: I LOVE REO. HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO THE LOVE OF MY LIFE!

August 12th used to be one of the most important dates on your calender. Now it is one that brings forth bittersweet thoughts and memories whenever you think too hard on it, reminiscing a love that you had to let go long ago, despite how badly you wanted to keep him.

Mikage Reo’s name used to be stamped loud and proud beneath the date, with a heart that you hastily scribbled on due to the awkward angle of the page. His name is still on there, just without the heart, and merely in capitalised letters of your handwriting. 

You don’t know why you need to record it down because you remember it regardless, the set of numbers etched in the crevices of your mind. In fact, when August first hit and you were planning the month ahead, the act of recording down Reo’s birthday was a second-hand instinct, and when you did so without realising, a little pool of embarrassment and hurt developed in your chest. You didn’t even have the guts to cross it out either, despite it being almost seven months since you split.

Not a day has passed without you thinking about him, clearly.

But it was nothing to be embarrassed about because no one will ever think too much about it, especially not Reo, because he has no reason to ever step foot in your apartment ever again. If he ever saw it, you might just wither away.

So why on earth was he here now, sitting on one of your kitchen stools? The one that he used to always sit on when he came to see you when you were still dating with the reasoning that it ‘gave him a better view of you whilst you were scurrying around’.

Now you are ever aware of his gaze on you, entranced whilst fixing him a mere glass of water. 

Sliding it over to him on the marble countertop, he takes it with a grateful smile. “Thank you for allowing me to hide here, and I'm sorry about bringing you into all of this.”

“No problem, you got lucky that i have nothing better to do today,” you sigh, trying to tune out the clamours of the paparazzi that were residing outside of your apartment complex. Wandering over to the balcony window, you see that the swarm hasn’t decreased from when you last checked. 

Your poor, clueless neighbours. None of them deserved to be dragged into this. You wonder when it can all settle down.

“Reo?” You murmur. He glances over at you immediately, attentive purple eyes bright and wide in their curiosity. “Why did you come here out of all places?”

“You’re…” he falters. “You’re the first person I thought of, and I just so happened to be nearby.”

“Nearby? There’s nothing to do around my neighbourhood. What could you possibly have to do here?”

He looks away, shamefully staring down at his glass of water. “Errands. Stuff.” 

“Okay,” you trail off, not wanting to prod further. “So how are you thinking of getting out of this situation?”

“Does your apartment have another way out?”

“Unfortunately not.”

“Well unless you want me to jump from your window, then my only way out is to wait,” he says with a shrug and you pinch the bridge of your nose. The clamours of the crowd below can be heard even on your second-level home, and no matter how badly you wanted to return to your work, a certain ex of yours is only another reason for your headache. 

Since the breakup, you never thought Reo would ever be here again, however, fate seems to have pulled peculiar strings to bring him back to you- on his birthday too.

You won’t admit that this all feels a little set up. Perhaps it was the universe mocking you for not being able to stop loving him, despite it being you who forcibly let him go so he could fulfil his soccer ambitions in England.

The last time you saw him, he was crying at your doorstep, reluctant to go and to let you go. It is a sight that will always haunt you, especially when you then shut the door in his face and ultimately, ending your relationship.

Would you let him go again if you had the chance? No. Reo won’t ever know that, though.

You doubt he wants you back.

“Maybe you needed a better disguise if you wanted to escape the paparazzi,” you mutter.

Reo fiddles with his sunglasses. “Don’t scorn a man who just wanted to go out. I can’t even do anything normally nowadays anymore, not even in Japan.”

“Well, yeah, you’re kind of a big shot, Mr-Signed-With-Manshine-City,” you huff. "It's like high school and your fangirls all over again."

“You remember my team?”

“Why wouldn’t I? It's all anyone talks about, especially after the World Cup.” 

“And you listened?” 

“Of course I did,” you confess, no louder than a whisper. “I’m happy for you, Reo. You're really amazing.”

Something about your sentimental statement makes the purple-haired frown, looking away as an obligatory ‘thank you’ slips from his lips.

There’s a quip resting on the tip of your tongue about it being his birthday, but it slides back down your throat with the ease of paper, cutting you in the process. 

“Can I request something from you?” You question.

“Anything," the athlete looks over at you with hopeful eyes.

“Since you’re using my house to hide in, can I have your Netflix password so we can watch a movie or something?” You murmur, “something’s telling me that you’ll be here for a while.”

He laughs, bright and exuberant and boyish that it makes your yearning expand tenfold. “Sure, as long as I get to pick what we watch.”

Your heartstrings soften a little, “fine. I have popcorn somewhere so let me get that out.”

It only takes one movie for the clamour outside to disappear. You’re sure that your neighbours called the police at some point too given then flash of red and blue that illuminated onto your walls, but there was little conflict, and eventually, the quiet returned. You should be grateful for it, really, because your headache can calm and you can get back to doing your work, but it also means that this is the end of yours and Reo's paths. He’ll leave your apartment, and then Japan, and then your life will return to the seven month-long limbo that it was without him, with possibly no due date this time.

He stays around until the end of the movie, however, and when it’s over, he stands with a huff, hands on his knees to help push him up. If you weren't too focused on your dread, you'd have noticed the subtle reluctance clinging to him.

“I ‘ought to be going now, I’ve been in your hair long enough,” sighs the soccer player. “Thank you for allowing me over.”

“It wasn’t a problem,” you mutter. “It was nice seeing you again.”

“Likewise. you lo-” Reo’s eyes widen before he shuts his mouth, visibly shaking the sentence away as you’re filled with an invasive sense of curiosity. You want to pry his words out of his mouth, but you don’t think that’s appropriate for your current relationship. “I’ll see you sometime.” 

“Yeah. I’ll be here.”

He nods. During the time of your conversation, the two of you had made it to your kitchen and to your horror, Reo stops right before your calender. He glances at it and has to do a double-take, making sure that his eyes hadn’t failed him.

How will you recover from this one?

Reo turns to you, eyes and smile soft and so so warm. “You still have my birthday marked down.”

“Oh. You’re right!” You laugh awkwardly. “Happy Birthday.”

“Thank you. I’m honoured you remember.”

“Oh my goodness, please shut up,” you hide your face with one hand and Reo laughs harder.

“Do you remember how old I’m turning as well?”

“We’re the same age! Of course I'd remember-”

“-do you have a present for me? You know I love presents.”

“Go buy your own damn presents, you multimillionaire.”

He laughs harder and you almost want to chase him out of your house. “But I like it when they’re from other people!” 

“I don’t have a gift for you, Reo, now can you please shut up?”

“If you don’t have a present then can I ask you for one thing?”

“What is it?”

“A date. Tomorrow, at your favourite place downtown.”

The light, cheery environment dims and you find your breath getting lodged in your throat. “Reo… I- we, we shouldn’t.”

“Why not?” He asks, “do you still love me?”

“I have your stupid birthday on my calender and no one else’s, not even mine, so yes I do still love you.” 

He grabs your hands and you feel weak in the knees, clasping onto the warmth you had grown so familiar with. “Then another chance, please, that’s all I ask for.” 

“I let you go for your sake, you shouldn’t have someone like me dragging you back whilst you’re in England. Didn't you see how successful you were without me?” You mutter, thinking back to the night that you let him go, recalling all the pain you felt. 

And how you might relive it again tonight.

“Dragging me back?” he parrots, voice slightly strained. “I thought about you the entire time I was abroad, every training session, every time I scored a goal, I thought about doing it all for you. It might have hurt me to not have you there with me, but it killed me to know that I didn’t have you at all.” 

Reo rests his forehead against yours and you close your eyes, basking in the intimacy that you never thought you could ever experience again with him. “And it killed me even more to know that you wouldn’t be waiting there for me when I came home. You know who was there instead? Stupid Zantetsu, and a few high school friends, but not you.”

“I love Zantetsu though, we get coffee together all the time,” you comment quietly. “He told me that he was going to pick you up.”

“And I can’t believe you didn’t even think of going with him.”

“Exes don’t go to the airport to pick each other up.”

“So be my lover again,” pleads Reo. “Be mine again, be here for me every time I return to Japan.”

“Is it what you want?"

“A thousand times yes.”

You sigh through your nose, memorising the feeling of his forehead against yours one last time before parting from him. “Then pick me up tomorrow, at half past six, and we can go downtown.” 

His smile could rival that of a thousand suns, and just seeing it is enough to cure your heart.

“Okay,” he nods, a dreamy sort of look settling in the purple hues of Reo’s gaze. “Okay! I'll be here, without paparazzi this time, and no one will disrupt our date, I'll make sure of it.”

“One more thing before you leave. Stay here!” You command before scurrying through your house and into the study to retrieve a pen. Uncapping it, you then scribble a little heart on the calender, right next to Mikage Reo’s name.

You don’t miss the look of pure elation on his face.

“Call me. My number hasn’t changed.”

“Okay, I will, I will. Watch out for it.”

“Then I look forward to it.”

“Now I really don’t want to leave,” he whines, gently pressing you against the wall with his hands holding onto your shoulders. “It wouldn’t be gentlemanly of me to ask to stay the night, would it?”

“No, but, I think we’re beyond your awkward gentleman-liness.”

“Then, I have permission to do this, right?”

He presses his mouth to yours, hot and needy, you wonder if he’s trying to swallow you whole so you really can’t ever leave again. 

“Happy Birthday, Reo,” you murmur against him.

© EARTHTOOZ 2023, do not steal, translate, repost my fics and do not recommend my fics onto any other site.

[mocchiixxx]

The Art of Letting Go Seventeen ANGST Series # | 3: When Gentle Love Becomes Quiet Pain

Genre: Angst, Hurt, Hidden Relationship, Emotional Break-up

🦌Hong Jisoo | Joshua x Reader

Summary: Joshua Hong was always gentle, with his words, his smile, his love. Loving him felt safe, warm, like Sunday mornings and handwritten letters. But the comfort eventually turned cold when all your shared moments became one-sided memories. The secret relationship that once felt romantic now felt suffocating. You were growing tired of missing someone who could never stay. And even though he loved you, and you loved him too... sometimes, love just isn't enough.

The soft strum of Joshua’s guitar echoed from the voice message he had sent hours ago.

A sweet, calming melody, just like him.

A song you’d never hear live.

You closed your eyes, replaying it one more time, clinging to the sound like it might fill the aching silence in your heart.

But it didn’t. Not anymore.

Your thumb hovered over his contact name, not to call him, but to finally say the words you’d never had the courage to before.

Words that didn’t fit inside gentle I love yous and warm goodnights. Words that would break both of you.

But your heart was already breaking anyway.

The doorbell rang.

When you opened it, Joshua was standing there, cap low, mask tugged down, holding a bouquet of daisies, your favorite. His smile faltered when he saw your face.

“You cried,” he said immediately, stepping inside. “What happened? Are you okay?”

You let him in, watched him place the flowers on the table like they weren’t a parting gift. “I was going to call you.”

He paused. “Is something wrong?”

You looked at him, at the man you loved more than your own peace. The one who sang you to sleep through voice memos and promised he’d make it up to you, every time he missed another date.

“I can’t do this anymore, Josh.”

He froze, mouth slightly open. “Wait. What?”

“I can’t keep pretending I’m okay with being your secret. I can’t keep pretending I don’t care that you’re never here. You miss everything, even without meaning to.”

His eyes dropped. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I thought we understood what this meant when we started.”

“I did understand. I still do. But understanding doesn’t make it any less painful. Every time you’re out there, I’m in here, waiting. Always waiting.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know,” you replied, stepping closer. “And I love you. But love shouldn’t feel like this. Like I’m always second to a world I’ll never be part of.”

He looked down, blinking rapidly, voice cracking. “So this is it?”

You reached for his hand, holding it tightly, memorizing the feel of him.

“This isn’t because I stopped loving you. It’s because I can’t keep loving myself less just to stay.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you like it was the last time, because it was.

You didn’t cry. Not this time.

Your tears had dried long ago, in the quiet nights he couldn’t share with you.

When he finally let go, he didn’t say anything. He just watched you walk away.

And when the door closed,

he sat on your couch,

staring at the bouquet still on the table,

realizing flowers meant nothing when they always came too late.

A/N: @vixensss @babycaratdeul

[lunaekalenda]

The Heir's Favorite

warnings for the series: smut (only part two), mid violence (generally not explicit)

warnings for this chapter: referred violence. mentions of decapitation (non explicit), suggestive, kinda manipulation from sylus? i swear the fluff comes on the next

part one - part two - part three

You keep your head low, eyes fixed on the luxurious floor, decorated with golden flowers and red jewels. All this luxury, the velvety curtains the guards made to a side for you to enter, the shining of a golden vase in a near rich wood table, the scent of the most aromatic vanilla, makes you dizzy. You can't hear steps, you can't hear nothing, as if the whole chamber became silent to make your heartbeat even more noticeable. The guards that brought you here less than half an hour ago are also silent, as they were while you spent time on the Harem with the rest of the concubines. After dressing up, a strong voice called you, your name, out of all the concubines. All the chats from the room became silence, as all the concubines looked directly at you. You were called. You were summoned. You.

It's well known it's been almost a year since anyone was called. Sylus - the Imperial Prince, the Crow, the Heir. - has been on his title since the coronation of his own cousin, the actual Emperor, the one that started the Harem you got into by chance. And, since that last night the Emperor called a couple of you, you've been living quietly. Never stressed over the fact he would call you, after all, not even the Emperor spent a night with you once. You don't think it'll be different with the Heir.

Maybe you're too shy, too laid back, too silent. Maybe your hair is not the length he likes, or your hips the size of his hands. Maybe he's not particularly interested in you. But then, it happened, and now, here you are, kneeling on the cold floor of the palace, in front of the Heir's throne, waiting for him. Your heart beats fast, faster than ever before, as you hear the metallic sound of the blades against the floor. Quiet, serene steps approach you from behind.

"For some reason, my dear cousin loved to keep track of every single concubine he ever had." the voice is deep, harsh, strong. It sounds behind you, but also in front. It's so powerful it seems to be everywhere. "Yet your name was never mentioned. Not even once." the steps sound dangerously close to your head. "I found it, though. Wrote on rough letters, on a paper hidden between the rest. You were the last to enter the Harem, and the only words of my cousin were that your shyness kills your beauty." The crack on wood indicates you he is now sitting on his throne. "If that so, lift up your head."

You feel your palms sweaty against your dress, and your cheeks feel hot when you lift your head up slowly, to meet the most attractive man you've ever seen. His red eyes are intense, fixed on you, and you feel like he can read every thought passing through your mind. His angles are sharp, and his white hair falls elegantly on his forehead. He tilts his head, giving you a side smile. "Indeed, very beautiful." he murmurs, in low voice. His words make your face heat up, and his brow raises slowly, amused by your reaction. Your eyes move from his face back to the floor, before searching the courage to speak.

"Thank you, Your Highness." your voice trembles as you speak. His steps are heard again, walking around you. You fear he'll kick you from the Harem. It's not the life you've dreamt of, that's true, but you can eat hot and sleep warm.

His steps stop suddenly behind you, before you hear the rushed ones of the guards, who leave and close the big ornamented doors of the main entrance. Now you're alone. You wait, patiently, but with your heart racing against your chest. After what seem ages, he speaks.

"Do you fear me?" he asks, voice even lower. He's still behind you, and you're still too nervous to take your gaze up. But, do you really fear him? Until now, he has only been a shadow around the Imperial Palace. Nothing more than a man surrounded by guards, nothing more than a name. But, still, your life always depended on him. Your stance at the Harem, your food, your bed, your body. Everything you are, everything you have, belongs to him. The mere thought of making him angry terrifies you. You've seen enough swords beheading fellow Harem members to risk being next. You take air.

"I do, your Highness." you confess. He walks again, until you're able to see the tip of his shoes in front of you, before he kneels. His hand takes your head, softly, so sweetly, it doesn't match with him, with his fierceness, his hardness. Your eyes find his, and he seems to freeze, his eyes turning softer for a second, before he raises a brow. Anything you saw on his expression is suddenly gone.

"Good. Fear assures loyalty." His thumb caresses your cheek, dangerously close to your lips, before he talks again. "You're interesting." his eyes scan your face, your eyes, your lips. They keep going down, your jaw, your neck, your collarbone. He moistens his lips with his tongue, quietly, and all the blood rushes to your cheeks. Oh, goddess. He chuckles. "Something happened? Your face became hot to my touch." His palm leaves your cheek, but his fingers dance on your skin, sweetly, softly, caressing from the corner of your lips down to your neck. "My cousin might have found you too shy to enjoy." he whispers. His chest rises when he takes air, getting dangerously close to you, with your knees between his. "But, I'm not him."

You understand what he implied with that sentence. Will you be called as the rest of the Harem is? Will he summon you to his chambers from time to time? Will you - maybe - have to join another Harem member?

You want to cry. Why? You've been safe all this years, between the shadows of the Harem, unnoticed, untouched. Why does he have to put his eye on you?

"Although, there's something no one in the Harem can do, and I'm sure you'll think about it. Something no one can offer." He stands up. He asks you to do the same with a movement of his fingers, more an order than a request. He walks towards his throne with fluid motion, where he sits, hand resting on his temple. You stand in front of him, looking down at your own shoes, unable to look at him. The room is too silent, and you feel too little between the big dragon pillars and the enormous seat he's occupying. "Promise me loyalty." his question makes you look up violently, your eyes colliding with his. His posture on the throne - relaxed, stretched. - makes him even bigger. "Promise me loyalty as your Prince, and I'll do so as my concubine." your face shocks with his words. He moves his hand, asking you to get closer to the throne. The open-mouthed jade dragon on top of it welcomes you when you arrive. Less than a step away from him. His eyes shine with something dangerous. "Move from the Harem to this palace. I'll make sure you'll have everything you need. Food, baths, a bed." All his promises are sweetening your ears. "Offer me your loyalty and I can make you my queen." You stand there, frozen, confused. One answer he doesn't like, and your head will be the price to pay for your mistakes. Is he offering? Is he demanding? You find yourself nodding out of fear, although, the promise of a better life draws you to say yes.

"Say it." are his only words.

"Yes, your Highness. I offer my loyalty, myself and my body." You try to sound convincing, and he smiles.

"Interesting. I will keep my part of the promise. I expect the same from your side." He reclines back into his throne, still looking directly at you. "You may leave now. Gather your things on the Harem and I'll send two guards to bring you to your new place." With a quick nod, you leave the throne room as fast as you can.

When you arrive to the Harem, you feel the change in the air. They're no longer workmates, they're enemies. Their hateful gazes and the whispers you can hear while taking your things indicate so. You ignore all of them, quickly putting all your things in a tiny chest, just in time for the guards to pick you up. Walking between the rest of the Harem with your belongings, you feel targeted. You're not another concubine; you've been chosen personally by the Heir. You follow them at a normal distance, your room silent when you arrive, way too good for only you. "The Heir awaits you for a nocturne game of Mahjong. New clothes are on the bed. Don't be late, he doesn't like to wait."

The guards leave you in the silence of your new room, as you scan the bed. Between the new clothes - all of them of the highest quality." you find yourself attracted to a red gown, the color of blood. You change into that and walk in the labyrinthine corridors before standing in front of the golden gates of his chambers. Catching your breath, you knock. His voice sounds deep from inside.

"Enter."

And your destiny is sealed while you push the golden dragon knob, entering the Heir's room.

taglist: @i-am-silver @strawbunnydrop22 @princess-harvey @houmi

[heartfullofleeches]

Just say your Carnis and puppy!reader post, and my head immediately went to cattle dog!reader or emotional support puppy!reader would be an amazing pair for Carnis. Allow me to ramble a bit about emotional support puppy!reader for a bit-

disclaimer! I do not have an emotional support dog...I've got emotional support guinea pigs -kinda- so take my thoughts with a tablespoon of salt. ^^;

Anyways-!

- Emotional support puppy!reader who was the one who started the dynamic between the two without really realizing that was what they were doing. They'd catch Carnis in the middle of a panic attack or a trauma episode, and their first thought is to sit down beside him. Slowly inching closer and closer until they're sitting shoulder to shoulder with them. Turning their (reader's) head slightly towards him so they can keep an eye on his heart rate and anxiety levels.

- Emotional support puppy!reader who starts following Carnis around where they go, always within a quick few steps away from them. So that any time Carnis starts to seem like they're slipping into a nasty unfun headspace, Emotional support puppy!Reader can be there to gently guide them down to a sitting position. (Maybe if Carnis would be comfortable with it, Emotional support puppy!Reader can do some compression therapy by laying on top of the big softie. Especially if Emotional support puppy!Read is also Himbo/beefy puppy!Reader. So it's like a weighted blanket -and Carnis gets a face full of puppy!Reader's chest. It's warm.)

- Carnis who becomes a bit dependent on Emotional support puppy!Reader. Gaining separation anxiety, freaking out and pushing themselves into a panic attack if Reader isn't an arms length away. Which only makes Reader feel all that more like they've gotta be there for their friend :(.

- Carnis who treats Emotional support puppy!Reader more like an emotional support stuffy a child might carry around with them 24/7

- (Emotional support puppy!Reader who -as a joke- gets a collar or like vest that says 'Emotional Support Animal' with Carnis' name under the words. Both writing out in big letters)

Just emotional support puppy!Reader and Carnis brain rot.

I saw beefy and himbo used to describe Reader, and my soul ascended to the heavens- You were already cooking with this, but a sweet, himbo puppy who makes it their duty to keep Carnis in a stable mind is gold. Carnis had dealt with orderlies pinning them down whenever they lashed out in the lab- Those rough, cruel hands replaced by the passive weight and fluff of a kind puppy would do wonders for Carnis, and put them out like a light.

Besides their embrace, nothing soothes Carnis quicker than Puppy yapping about whatever topic their brain comes up with- It gives them something else to focus on than what's dragging them down, and Puppy has never painted Carnis repeating words and phrases they say in a negative light, which the cow values more than anything.

Carnis dependency gets so bad somedays they'll have a full blown melt down if Puppy makes the harmless mistake of switch over to another isle in the grocery store. If Carnis doesn't have them in his immediate line of sight, who knows what might happen? Puppy gifting Carnis an article of clothing ripe with their scent like a shirt or jacket helps him work up the courage to distance themselves from Puppy for a while... If they didn't get too caught sniffing it all the time.

-

Carnis: Y/n a-asked me to pick up some tomatoes for dinner. They gave.. me their sweater because they trusted me.... Y/n's sweater.... Puppy's sweater... Smells nice. Soft too.. L-like them... Sleepy..

Puppy Reader: Haha- We'll work on this later, let's just go together, like always!

-

Puppy Reader: So, there's this donut shop that has huuuge donut display on their roof, and everytime I pass it I wonder how much of it I could eat before I got sick if it were real... Sorry- This probably isn't helping much, wanna switch over to counting?

Carnis: N...no... This...is better.

[chuunai]

Can we get Dazai, Chuya and Fyodor with scenario 19 and prompt 13? (drabbles)

hey did you know I LOVE Chuuya Nakahara?

✧˚ · . drunken confessions - dazai osamu, nakahara chuuya, fyodor dostoevsky

summary ⋆ ★ comfort, fluff, SFW. also clingy insecure chuuya. fyodor also kinda takes advantage of you mentally/emotionally while drunk

Dazai Osamu

He somewhat planned it all out. The invitation sent to you to watch movies with him at his dorm, right next to yours. The drinks, too. Cheap cans of beer and sake that are lazily passed to you. The futon too that you two are situated on is more neat and tidy than usual with no forgotten crab legs or alcohol stains in sight. It’d be easier to confess if he had liquid courage, right? Dazai didn’t want to fuck it all up.

When he confesses this way, it’s because he can’t think of anything better. Dinner at a restaurant is nice and dandy, sure, but it’s not quite intimate enough. A letter doesn’t express the tone of how serious he is with his love for you. You’ve been with him since his days in the Mafia. You saw him at his worst, and so he wishes to give you the best.

So when you’re both slightly tipsy and giggly at the sights on the TV, he tugged at your clothes and brought you in closer, pretending to shiver and whine about the cold. Unsurprisingly, you had snuggled into him back—such an affectionate drunkard. What Dazai did next was probably purely driven by intoxication and the need to confess. Jokingly (not really), he asked if you could be with him every night to warm him up just like you did already with his heart.

Dazai nearly had a heart attack when you took so long to ultimately respond with a yes. He doesn’t waste time, already carefully maneuvering you on top of him as a pretty body pillow while he sleepily mumbled that he loved his pillow. Loves you. Sure, it was all planned out, but it worked. He’d keep you forever by his side.

Nakahara Chuuya

It’s such a total fucking accident. The whole thing was never intended to happen when Chuuya took you out for a drink after a successful mission. You were his subordinate—albeit a close one of his—and it’d be wrong to act on his feelings for you. Death is a common and accepted daily occurrence of the Port Mafia, and he doesn’t want to accidentally get you hurt or even killed because you were his partner. Even if it hurts, he doesn’t want to confess. For your safety.

Although two glasses of wine later and a guy hitting on you stirs jealousy in his mind, and the fact that you seem uncomfortable increases it by tenfold. He didn’t hesitate to walk over with a thin smile on his face, wrapping an arm around your waist and cooing in your ear that he missed his baby and if you could please dance with him—your fake boyfriend. That’s how he ended up dancing with you to the beat of the music. His eyes were glued to your lips, admiring the shape as he wished they’d cover his body in rouge lipstick.

But Chuuya Nakahara lost everyone he ever cared about. Kouyou was still here, but he doubted the world would let her stay by his side for long. The drunken urge to kiss you was pushed back by the logical side of his mind, screaming out the fact that he’d be a creep if he did that. And he didn’t want you to think he was a sleazy guy. You were his muse from afar, and he wouldn’t dare do anything to hurt you.

So instead the wine in his veins opts to merely drop his head onto your shoulder and hesitantly intertwine his fingers with you. Next? He mumbles in your neck that he loves you. Loves you to the point where he’d kill everyone in the world if they dared to cross you—his heart. All he wanted was your heart, your undying love. But at the end of the day, you’re too good for him. He’s not even human, after all.

Fyodor Dostoevsky

He wasn’t drunk whatsoever and capitalized on your inebriation. Fyodor was a smart man, able to read moves of his opponents and acquaintances alike. This included you, of course. He knew absolutely everything about his little mouse, from your family to your darkest secrets. It was no surprise that he discovered your deep admiration of him as well.

What was supposed to be a meeting between the two of you discussing the DoA’s plans, instead ended up into him gently coaxing you to sip at the wine he had given you. He didn’t drink himself—a man as great as himself would not taint his mind with such a poison—but merely watched as your cheeks flushed with the telltale sign of tipsiness. The scenario would’ve been baffling for any outsider. Two terrorists in a room that both have a crush on each other. How utterly perplexing and unsettling!

Once he was certain you were to be easily manipulated to whatever he wanted, he began asking more personal questions and other matters. Coyly asking if you needed to visit a doctor with how red your face was whenever you two spoke. Or when he began to poke fun at your habit of stammering when he’d appear behind you and give your head that small condescending tap. Poor, poor you who didn’t stand a chance. You were so easy to crack. The seed at the middle of it all was your confession and the way he invited you onto his lap and began stroking your hair like one might do with a beloved pet.

While he’s not entirely sure what love truly is other than the definition, Fyodor felt a deep sense of affection and responsibility for you. Nearly every ruler in history had a beloved at their side to witness the fruits of their goals, so naturally he should as well. It wasn’t like you’d leave either. He’d make sure of it and keep you with him forever until he decided to end it.

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