#inky mailbox

[ink-wizard]

What’s your favorite spell to cast?

take a look at the Ketamine Ape fighting ring and take a wild guess.

Also, i like to prestidigitate pictures into looking like lenticular holograms cause its cool

[inkystaar]

HI BOWIE I HAVE SILLY FOR YOU

this but it’s ariana griande and mumbo :33

YESSSS

THE BRIDE AND THE UGLY ASS GROOM!!!

THE BRIDE. AND THE UGLY ASS GROOM!!!

[https-furina]

lovingly bites u

omg omg omg omg it’s inky 🤭🫶🏻

hi bby!!

[dabisbratz]

𝐼𝒩 𝒯𝐼𝑀𝐸 (𝒜𝐿𝐿 𝐹𝐿𝒪𝒲𝐸𝑅𝒮 𝐹𝒜𝒞𝐸 𝒯𝐻𝐸 𝒮𝒰𝒩)— leon s. kennedy x male reader

w.c: ~5.2k

warning: pwp ( porn with plot ), jealousy, exes-to-lovers, oral, phone sex ( ? ), softdomtop!leon, subbottom!reader, re2r leon, dirtytalk, praise/degradation, spanking, fingering, amab reader, light feminization, riding, blowjobs, creampie, leon’s big but doesn’t know it, finger-sucking, finger-hooking, set after re2r n before re4r, krauser mentions, mentions of alcohol, throatpie, d/s dynamic, unprotected sex ( wear condoms! ), aftercare ! ♡

sonny says..: the urge to add a daddy kink to this was so. so very!! strong . had to stay focused.. this is already.. sovery.. self indulgent..

Confronting him was the hard part. It’d been a while since you’d seen Leon, your ex-boyfriend, and you couldn’t help but feel like there was something missing. It was him, you know now— you’ve always known — but you weren’t sure you had the heart to face him. It was you who ended it after all, you who’d sent him down a heartbreak and alcohol induced rabbit hole that could only be documented briefly through a few voicemails and delivered texts. Even after traveling all this way, burning your cash like it grew on trees, trudging through the rainy streets of this random city, you couldn’t help but wonder if it was the right decision.

You couldn’t take it. The voicemails, the messages, the audio messages full of incoherent sobs and pleads. Being away from him, the same man who’d left you jumping for joy. The same man who’d lit sparks in your chest and released butterflies in your stomach. The same man who’d smile at you in the dead of night, genuine and bright, as he told you he’d loved you a million times over. Leon, whose hands were soft and warm on your skin, so gentle and patient. Like no one you’ve ever met, your heart squeezes in your chest. Leon, Leon, Leon.

Was this out of line?

But it’s too late to turn back now, because your hand is curling into a tight fist as you knock on the fourth motel door all night. Once, twice, three times. You’re ready to back out, to run before whoever’s residing here can open the door and, most likely, slam the door in your face with a distasteful choice of words.

But the door opens.

“There’s an extra. . . Uh, umbrella by the mailbox. Looks like you could use it!” He starts, eyes sparkling despite the dim lighting and narrowed space they’re peeking from. It sounds almost rehearsed, like you’re not the first person to knock on his door tonight. And, for a reason you know all too well, the thought stings.

His eyelashes are just as long as you remember them, curled upward and batting against the thin layer of baby-fat adorning his cheeks in a way that looks dreamy and slow. Like he’s relaxed, or perhaps tired. Nonetheless, his pretty, round eyes are undeniably his and hard to miss, you find yourself at a loss for words. You’re lost in the deep pools of blue, bleeding indigo and inky black of his irises matching the recently done-over roadways in a way that feels just as fresh.

Leon looks reminiscent of a puppy, though he always has, with his thick brown eyebrows pinched at each beginning in a way that can only mimic confusion. Or concentration, even. Almost as if it’s detrimental to him that you know there’s an umbrella there for you, for anyone, who needs it. That it’s important you know— with him around— you’ll be safe. He’s barely changed since you’d last seen him in person, the moles on his cheeks and throat unmoved, soft tufts of brown hair swept to the side as normal, and pink, plump lips that curl upward in a way that’s so comforting you could cry. Leon, your Leon, who smiles warmly, lips pulled into a sweet and inviting grin as the apples of his cheeks round out. Your eyes travel to the dimple dead center of his chin, prominent and defining. The perfect place to slot your thumb, really, to hold his chin and lose yourself in his azure eyes.

Even with the pitter patter of rain soaking into your already soaked clothes, this is the warmest you’ve ever felt in the last few months. His presence keeps you warm. Kept you warm.

“Leon.” It’s all you can say, breathless as the air is snatched from your lungs and excuses die on your tongue. What could you even say? Sure, you’d practiced it all in your head before arriving— I’m sorry, I miss you, what happened to us? It’s all easier to piece together in your head in contrast to actually saying it.

There’s a routinely lean against the doorframe as he shifts his weight from one leg to the other, and he’s truly looking at you now, opposed to the clear umbrella sat taut beneath his motel’s mailbox. With a flash of lightning he blinks, freckle and mole dusted cheeks set alight for just a mere second as his breath is caught in his closing throat.

“Oh. . . It’s you,” His sharp adam’s apple bobs with an even sharper swallow, and his pinched eyebrows go lax for a brief moment before tightening back up. “. . .Okay. Hi.”

“Hi, Lee.” You mimic, awkwardly shifting to the side. Still in his casual clothes, you presume, Leon looks comfortable as he sports baggy, blue jeans and a white tank top. Almost too comfortable, the fabric straining against his chest and only ever relaxing the closer it delves by his armpits, flowing despite being trapped beneath his wide ribcage and thick biceps. There’s a heavy vein cascading around it, disappearing under his skin only to reappear by his forearms and soft hands. With pink dusted fingertips, one hand is closed around the gold doorknob of his motel room.

You expect him to close it in your face. To slam the door after telling you to leave, with anger painting his soft, pretty features until they’ve hardened into cold stone. But he doesn’t. Instead, he’s opening it a bit wider, no longer leaning on the doorframe as he extends an arm to fully open the door. To fully see you, and you swear his posture is much more relaxed after his gaze has focused on your face.

“You look,” His gaze flickers from your lips to your eyes, and suddenly you’re failing to form vowels on your tongue. Either way you continue, “You look good,” stiffening as you gesture toward his general direction. “You always do. Anyway. . .”

“Thanks,” He’s much too sweet for your liking, smiling at you like you hadn’t broken his heart just a few months prior. His voice is breathy with upcoming laughter as he steps to the side and invites you in. “You too. Y’know, without the rain.”

You’re in over your head, shuffling inside the dimly lit room with heavy steps. The front door opens directly to the small living-room, a small carton of Chinese takeout resting beside a hearty sized weight on the coffee table. What now? You came into this hoping he’d yell at you— maybe give you a reason to turn around and never look back. But he’s not, he’s inviting you in like. . . Like an old friend. The door is shut and locked with a small click, Leon’s form moving from behind you with his large hand ghosting over your lower back.

A shockwave travels up your spine when his palm makes contact with your waist, only for a brief moment. You can’t think straight, watching the muscles in his back ripple and writhe through his shirt. Chocolate tufts of hair rest at the nape of his neck, short and soft. It’s like you were running your fingers through them just a week ago, blades of freshly trimmed hair tickling your fingertips. Right there, he’s so right there, but almost completely out of reach.

“I’m sorry.” It’s all you can say, over and over, until your nose begins to sting and your eyes grow glassy. Then it’s Leon’s turn to look apologetic, hair swaying as he fully turns to face you. Really, he has nothing to be sorry for. You’re so incredibly selfish.

“I can’t,” He pauses to take a breath, and you feel your heart splitting in two. But his tone is soft and warm, tilting with breathy and almost bitter laughter. “I can’t stay mad at you. And believe me, I tried.”

So he’s willing to talk about it. Your face visibly lights up before you can do anything to mask it, every word you’ve been trying to conjure up suddenly speeding past your tongue, “I want us to talk ab—”

“So,” Leon’s face contorts into something forlorn, like he’s weaving unsavory words together in his head. Words he’s never imagined himself saying. “Does he. . . Does he, uh, fuck you good?”

Huh.

“What?” The question falls flat and sour on your tongue, much more like a blank statement than a question. You’re not sure who ‘he’ is, let alone what led to the question in general, but you’re not exactly given much time to think about it either. The brunette steps forward, wide shoulders shifting with a heavy, clothed stride. His freshly bitten lips are released from his pearly teeth, plump and glossy. Closer now, Leon still smells reminiscent of woodsy lavender and minty mouthwash. Despite how faint it lingers in the air, it somehow manages to overwhelm your senses. He smells like home.

He doesn’t miss a beat this time, long eyelashes splayed out on his cheek as he stares down at your lips, eyebrows furrowed.

“Does he?” His head tilts to the side, questioning. You’d take it as an innocent question had it not been for his lips, pulled into a tight line that reeks of jealousy. His eyes have hardened, baby blue to gunmetal gray. His shoulders relax when you shake your head, hands suddenly restless by your side. “Use your words.”

It’s usually accompanied by a ‘please?’ or ‘for me?’

A whimper leaves your lips, soft and sweet and completely unwarranted. He softens.

“I know you can do it for me,” His eye contact is dangerous, relentless as he watches you stumble over your own whimpers and words. “Can’t you?”

“No,” You swallow hard, letting the brunette trap you in his heat. There is no ‘ he ’, no one taking Leon’s rightfully earned place by your side— whether it be in bed or not. That’s why you’ve come all this way, after all. But you play along anyway, desperate to be good. For Leon. “Not like you do, Lee.”

You’re whining now, tears bubbling in your eyes for so many reasons you can’t put together. Ultimately because you need him, because you feel bad for needing him— because maybe you don’t deserve the luxury of needing him. Apologies tumble into a tight ball of hiccups and sobs, and it’s only the thumbs rubbing away your tears that bring you back. Maybe you’re apologizing for fucking someone you haven’t, lost in the role he’s given you.

“I’m just glad to see you. Glad you’re here.” There’s so much he means to tell you, so much you haven’t heard. Raccoon city, the training program he’s been recruited into, why he’s even here in the first place. Sure, maybe he’s much too forgiving. But it’s you. And he’s not letting go again. But there’s more to it, there’s more you need. Venturing out here on your own, probably without letting anyone know, you’re reckless. Acting without thinking, and he can’t have that. He can’t turn you down, not when you’re so clearly in need of a gentle, guiding hand. Not when he misses you. Leon cuts off your apologies with a small kiss, gentle and sweet enough to have you chasing after his lips when he pulls away.

Your voice sounds needy and saccharine sweet as you lean forward, breathing in his airy scent with a wispy, “Leon. . .”

“What do you want, baby?” The nickname slips before he can catch it, but you don’t seem to mind. “What is it?”

“Want. . I want you.”

“But I’m right here? His laugh is genuine this time, lips splitting into a smile as his thumb rubs smooth circles across your cheekbone. “You have me.”

His hands are on you now, giving your body small squeezes of affirmation. Leon’s much bigger than he carries himself— big hands, wide shoulders, thick thighs, sturdy chest, heavy cock. Big all over, really, despite the way he’s able to run around and disappear like it’s nothing— despite how quickly he carries himself.

The thought as you reeling, choking on a sob that earns an immediate coo in response. There’s just so much, and it’s all piling up. But Leon’s here, he’s here like he always has been, he’s here to make it better. He’s always been so good at that. He takes you out of your head, turns it into mush while you float on a cloud and beg for more of. . . Well, you’re not too sure. But you know he can feel you throbbing against his thigh, hard and needy as he shakes his head with faux disapproval.

“That your phone in your pocket or are you just excited to see me?” It’s a stupid joke you both know the answer to, so he doesn’t waste any time laughing over it. You’re nodding anyway, bobbing your head up and down with wet eyelashes— you already look so ruined.

You’re wearing too much clothes, soaked and dripping onto his floor in a way that has the man grimacing as he peels it from your body. You’re much colder than you thought, too, goosebumps trailing down your skin as his big hands rub warm, soothing shapes into your forearm. Lee’s always been like that, the type to offer up his jacket on a rainy day, the type to give you his coat on a snowy one. And you know, undoubtedly, you’d do the very same for him.

“He couldn’t reach those spots, could he?” The question is emphasized by a hearty squeeze to your behind, Leon’s hands dipping beneath your wet pants slipping under the band of your briefs to knead the plump mound of your ass. He’s grabbing handfuls, squishing the skin between fingers and spreading you apart. “Not like I can, huh? Not deep enough?”

With a soft moan you’re discarded of your pants, fists curled into the crisp white of Leon’s wifebeater. You’ll take anything he gives you and love it, but it’s you who should be apologizing. You who should feel the weight of his cock heavy on your tongue. You want the head slipping and sliding down your throat, you want your face streaked in tears and snot by the time he’s done it’s you.

Oh, how you’ve missed this. Leon’s cock is thick and sticky, pre beading at the pretty, pink tip and dripping down it’s fat head. You watch it drip, slow and shiny as it trails down his pulsing shaft. Weeping, his cock twitches with each open breath you blow against it, jumping as his balls tighten. They’re pretty and round, symmetrical on both sides, but not nearly as pretty as his shaft. Thick and curving upwards past his belly button, Leon’s cock has a sensitive vein you want to run your tongue over, trailing up from his balls to the tip, collecting the sticky precum as it falls down into your mouth.

“Pleasepleaseplease…” You trail off, eyes focused solely on the pretty, shiny head of his dick.

“Don’t need to beg, I’ll give it to you. All you want,” You stick out your tongue, cute and pink as you’re ready to suckle along the head of his cock, but instead you’re met with the warmth of his big hand gripping your jaw. His thumb latches onto your bottom lip, rubbing the soft skin as he blinks down at you, his voice smooth and buttery as he commands, “Slow and steady.”

The tip is smeared along your lips, slowly tracing your cupid's bow and bottom lip until a thin layer of pre has them glazed over and sticky. Your lips part, carrying a thin trail between them, as you finally take his cock into your mouth. He’s salty and somewhat bitter, spreading heavy along your tongue, and you can’t help but swallow around the head. His thighs tense, muscles flexing and rippling as his twitching hand finds the back of your head.

“So. . . so wet,” He’s gasping before you can fully take in the stretch of his cock, hips twisting as his eyes flutter closed. It’s been a while, you can tell, with the way they’re clenched tight and his hand is morphing into a fist full of your hair. Your spit bubbles and pools around his cock, slick and wet, sliding between the seams of your lips and dripping down your throat, down your sternum. “Those. . noises. And you’re so.. cute.”

He offers a sharp thrust that has him disappearing down your tight throat, squeezing just right along his twitching shaft. Your jaw aches the further he’s pushed inside, until your nose is buried in his trimmed, gingerbread pubes. It’s obvious he’s trying to be gentle, with the way he lets out a hushed apology for fucking your throat so deep, with the way he’s whining out a constant stream of “You’re such a good boy.”

Praise. He’s so good at it, it’s got you absentmindedly drooling and gagging on his dick. You’re eager to drag out more, running your tongue along his big, veiny cock until Leon’s throwing his head back— adam’s apple bobbing as he lets out a pleased moan. His cock is filling your empty mouth, using you like some sort of pre-lubed fleshlight with his balls slapping against your chin in wet plaps. Collecting drool, it froths between your lips and his cock, bubbly and white until it’s being rubbed along your cheeks.

“That’s it, good boy, just a little more. . .”

Gasping on his cock, Leon’s hand keeps you buried against his pubes until your throat is squeezing and contracting, milking his cock and wrapped plush around the thick head. You can feel it, each twitch and throb of his heavy cock, even when he’s cumming down your throat, sticky and thick ropes shooting down your tongue and sticking to the roof of your mouth. You want to show him. You’re marked for good, offering a few hollow sucks to his spasming cock before pulling off.

“Oh, baby,” Leon’s voice is just as hoarse as your own, eyes following the display of cum resting hot and sticky on your tongue. “Think you can do something for me?”

He leads you up with a gentle hand, wrapped around your throat until you’re sat taut in his lap, thighs on each side of his waist. Leon’s hands are impeccably soft, even as he’s pushing them past your lips and spreading the saltiness of them along your tongue with a gentle, “suck.” You’re eager to please, taking the warm digits in your mouth and separating them with your tongue. The squelches in return are loud and wet, a mixture of cum and drool leaving between the gaps of his fingers and your lips. Your eyelids feel heavy, brain foggy as he pushes them deeper into your mouth, just enough to have you gagging softly.

Then they’re gone.

In his own mouth now, he’s tasting remnants of his cum and pulling off his fingertips with a wet ‘pop!’while his free hand digs for the vanilla lube hidden somewhere in the couch.

“You’re gonna bounce on my fingers like a good boy,” both hands are at your briefs, tugging them down until there’s a loud ripping sound. Your eyes jet between Leon’s wide eyes and your tattered underwear, surprised. You’re not sure if he meant to do that, but it doesn’t matter, because your cock springs to life and jumps against your tummy. “Then my good boy’s gonna take it in his pussy. Okay?”

The question is barely registered but you’re nodding anyway, melting in the brunette’s strong embrace. His hands spread you open, one playing with the squishy flesh of your bum while the other’s slick fingers circle around your puckered entrance. With a wet ‘squilck’ the first finger is in, impossibly deep and hot as your gooey hole sucks it in further. You just can’t get enough, rocking your hips down to the last knuckle and grinding your cock against his own. There’s a sharp smack to your ass, the skin rippling under Leon’s quick palm as he groans, “Hnnh, so noisy n’ I barely started.”

His fingers have always been able to reach deeper than your own, sweet and tantalizing along your prostate as he finds it like he knows it, pressing and pressing and pressing until you’re seeing stars. He adds another, two in total, that slip past your velvety opening with almost no resistance. Usually you’d have to take a third, maybe, but he wants you to really feel it.

“Shh, sh. You hear it?” There’s another swat, stinging and loud as it hits the same exact spot. Your back arches beautifully, his fingers jolting deeper. You're quick to shake your head. “The dirty noises your hole’s makin’ while it takes my fingers?”

You’ll never get used to Leon’s cute face sputtering out such filthy words, it’s like whiplash. And you’re not entirely sure what he’s talking about, it’s hard to hear over the fog and sounds of your own babbling, but you can hear yourself answering anyway, “S’cause you fuck me so good.”

“Think it’ll be just as loud on my cock?”

“Even louder.” You whine, head falling forward into his thick shoulder as the head of his cock traces your slick, soft rim. There’s a cold trickle behind you, loud and squeaky— it’s more lube, enough to coat his cock, your ass, and then some. Enough to have the head of his cock catching on your entrance every time he slides it along your crack. There’s a soft kiss to your cheek, and a free hand creeps up your back to hold you there by the back of your head. You’re turning into a puddle, whining into the shell of Leon’s ear as his dick slides its first inch inside.

Your hole is so tiny. Even after being stretched full of his fingers, you’re gripping his cock like a vice. There’s a tiny, thin band where his head disappears into your warm hole, stretching and shining and sucking his dick further inside. You’re just so tight, sticky and inviting insides that feel like velvet around his thick, throbbing cock. Even as he tries to go slow, sucking in a sharp intake of breath through his teeth, Leon can’t get enough. His cheeks are flushed, deepening and blooming down his neck as he grips the globes of your ass and spreads them apart wide. Cold air runs along your hole, chilly enough to have you whining.

“F-hu-uuck, so tight,” He gasps, blinking rapidly as he watches your face fall into something floaty and, if he’s honest, cockdrunk. Twitching around him so much, you’re milking his cock for all it's got despite him barely being buried completely inside. Part of him wants to keep you on his tip, slipping it in and out your cute entrance until he’s shooting between the spheres of your ass, getting you sticky and hot with his cum. Marking you. “God, hhm, your pussy’s quivering around me so good…”

“Lee. . Leon, I can’t, want it so bad but I can’t. . .” You definitely can— in fact, you have. But he’s just so big, splitting you in two and whiting your brain out.

“Too much? Oh—haah— poor baby. Want me to stop?” He stills his hips, a breathless smile forming on his face when you try to take the reins. You lace your fingers with his own, squeezing hard as you rock your hips back and forth. “No? Then take it for me.”

Take it you do. Your body jerks as he fucks up into you, balls slapping against your ass and cock sliding against your prostate as sloppy, shallow sounds of your poor, drenched hole fill the room. Leon’s hair sticks to his forehead, stringy and disheveled as he whispers into your skin, grabbing handful after handful of your backside.

Beside you, his phone rings.

Leon nearly jumps out of his own skin, patting around the sofa to find his cell— trapped beneath a cushion. You don’t have time to read the Caller ID, something that begins with a ‘K’, but it’s clear he’s going to decline it. With the way he doesn’t spare a glance at you until after he’s got it in hand, and—

“Leon Kennedy.” His grip on your hips is enough to bruise, rocking your body down against his own. You can’t help but gasp, your thoughts spinning like clockwork in your head until your brain has gone light and airy like sugary, sweet cotton candy. All you can do is tighten around his dick, show Leon how much better you are than whoever’s on the phone. You can be good, you’re a good boy.

And you must’ve said it out loud, because he’s decided to busy your mouth with thick, sticky fingers. Even then, your voice isn’t nearly as loud as the wet squelching and slapping of skin against skin, his cock sliding in and out your puffy hole as lube gushes out around his dick in white ringlets. Like you’ve creamed on his cock, and if he looks close enough he can see it slip back inside with each thrust. You really are a good boy.

His fingers are hooked in your mouth, drawing pathetic sounds out of you until your eyes roll back into your skull and you can’t stop bouncing. Your thighs ache and burn but you want it so bad, your neglected cock stuttering along with your hips as he’s pushed deeper and deeper with every small ‘uh-huh!’ that leaves your lips.

“Yeah, that’s right,” He says into the phone, but it sounds more reserved for you. “Ah, yes sir. This job was. . . Christ, it was made for me!” He pulls the phone away for a brief moment. “This ass was made for me.”

His eyes are trained on you as he shoves his phone between his shoulder and ear, both hands on your hips to raise you on and off his cock. Your lip is bitten raw between your teeth, and you don’t realize he’s coaxing it free until he’s speaking, “Let ‘em hear who you belong to. Who’s that?”

“You! You, Leon. Leon.” Like a prayer, his name comes out slurred and crackly. An uninterrupted stream of titles and nicknames reserved just for him, your nails claw at his muscled back.

“That’s right, you’re mine,” There’s a hard, choppy thrust forward as he releases a hand to wrap it around your sensitive, weeping cock, “And this cock? This hole? Mine too.”

“Yeah, yeah, yours,” Clamping down on his shaft, your hand finds the small gap where his cock reappears. Your fingertips trace it, completely soaked but enough to have his balls tightening. “And you’re mine.”

“Fuckfuckfuck,” His phone falls to his side, hushed whines leaving the brunette’s strawberry lips. “All yours, whenever you want. Got that? My good boy gets to have his cock whenever he wants.”

His hand is fast and slick, his thumb running over your slit every so often just to watch the way your body convulses in response. But Leon’s sweet, he’s always been sweet to you, sweet enough to twist his fist the closer it gets to the tip. Sweet enough to tighten the grip he has around you when he gets to the base— when he can feel you’re about to cum.

“Oh, please!” With a dry sob you’re tugging at his wrist, wriggling your hips and falling back into his thick cock. “Wanna cum, Lee. Please let me cum, please.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t tap out now. You can cum for me when I say so, okay?” Your begging goes straight to his dick, pulsating and bullying the small bundle of nerves nestled in the heart shape of your ass. You can’t stop crying, handsome face covered in tears as you ride out the everlasting stretch of his cock forcing you open, just to leave you empty. Again, again, again.

You feel like molten lava, silky and warm as wet spurts of lube catch between the skin of your ass and his pelvis. He can’t take it, just as wrecked as you are when he feels his balls go rigid and impossibly full— he needs to claim you. Now.

His cum is warm— so thick and filling when he shoots right against your prostate. You’ve never felt more full in your life, your thighs lightly squeezing together in his lap as he releases your cock with one, two, three strokes. Your voice doesn’t sound like your own, loud squeals and cries of ‘Leon!’ as your cock twitches and pulses— cum leaking down his fingers as it catches along his fist. And he could be cruel, continuing to pump your cock past its limits. But instead he gauges your reaction with a few slow, experimental tugs— pulling away when your thighs start to shake a little too much.

“One more request for you, sweetheart.” He raises his hand, a slow drip of your own cum landing on his tummy. His hand is brought to your mouth, and Leon watches with an adoring coo as you lick it clean. It’s obvious you’re trying to stay present, trying not to sink too far deep into that sweet, mellow headspace he’s put you in.

“Thank you.” He says, though you’re much too tired to figure out just what he’s thanking you for. Leon pulls you off his cock despite your absentminded protests, blowing air through protruding cheeks when your rim is reluctant to let go.

“Mhm.” Your tongue is thick like molasses, eyes slowly blinking as you’re moved to sit beside him.

“Can I see, please?” He’s already maneuvering you onto your back and spreading your legs wide by your thighs and ankles, yet his pretty eyes flicker up to meet your face, almost as if he’s actually asking. They drastically brighten when you offer a tiny, well-fucked nod. His hands spread you open, watching his cum dribble from your used hole in collective globs. Makes you feel small and properly kept, you prop yourself up on your elbows as your pretty hole clenches around air.

Leon closes his eyes like he’s trying not to cream his (metaphorical) pants all over again, his thumb rubbing a sizable glob into your skin. Your legs close around his hand, holding him still as you whine.

“I know, I know. I’ll be gentle.” There’s a sweet, simple kiss placed to the back of your thigh before Leon stands, disappearing into what your lidded eyes can’t quite make out. But you know you’re whining, something about a ‘sorry’ or an ‘I made a mistake’ before his big, warm hands are back to hold onto your own.

Something wet and dripping— a cloth, is rubbed into your skin, slow and tender and later replaced by sprinkled kisses.

“Can I. . . stay, Lee?” You want to wince at the sound of your own voice, but you don’t think you have the energy to do so yet. You’re being pulled into his arms, sturdy and comforting— even with the faint smell of sex and musk damp on his skin.

“You’d be crazy to think I’m letting you go again.”

[whatsnewalycat]

Secret Admirer

Javier Peña x f!Reader - Explicit (18+ only)

Summary: It's Valentine's Day. Which means it's time to take a chance on your workplace crush, Agent Javier Peña.

Word Count: 3.7k+

Warnings: Season 1 (ish), US Embassy, yearning, secret admirer, confrontation, drinking and smoking (real brief), smut, protected PIV sex, dash of angst and fluff

A/N: Yeeehaw, this was written for a valentines day exchange SOOOO Happy Valentine's Day to @typingcorgi 💌 This one is for you, I hope you like it!!!

The papers cradled in your arm dig into the sticky crease of your elbow. Your fingertips part the thick stack of faxes and run along the crisp edge of an envelope hidden inside. A bass drum starts thudding in your chest and heat creeps up your neck. 

One last peek over your shoulder at the empty, sterile mailroom gives you permission to do it. You slip the red envelope out from its hiding place and shove it into the cubby labeled JAVIER PEÑA. 

The shuffle of approaching footsteps sends your heart into an outright sprint. 

You scurry over to the fax machine and pinch the paperclip from the first fax, then slide the papers into the tray. As you punch the outgoing fax number into the machine, the footfalls grow closer, and soon start thudding against the shiny white linoleum of the mailroom. 

The low rumble of conversation between two men grows more distinct. You recognize their voices, but keep your eyes glued to the papers being sucked through the gears of the fax machine. 

“We’re gonna get a bottle of wine, candlelit dinner, put on some Marvin Gaye to set the mood,” Steve Murphy says, “Should probably get some flowers for her or somethin’, huh?” 

Javier Peña hums in response. 

They make their way over to the mailboxes. You stand there and try to blend into your surroundings as you wait for a fax receipt. The sound of them sorting the contents of their mail makes your stomach churn. 

“What’s that?” Steve asks as they start to walk away. 

“Let’s see,” Javier murmurs, then his footsteps come to a halt as he opens the envelope and he hums with curiosity. 

Steve stops, too, then chuckles, “Is that a fucking valentine?”

“Looks like it,” Javier mumbles, then directs his voice at you and says your name. 

You stop breathing and clench your eyes shut, then open them and turn around, trying your best to keep your face neutral, “What?” 

He holds up the unsealed red envelope and its folded up white contents between two fingers, “Did you see who left this?” 

You meet his dark brown eyes for a few devastating moments before dropping your gaze to the stack of faxes in your white-knuckle grip. All the moisture from your mouth evaporates. You clear your throat and shake your head, “No, sorry. I just got here.” 

“A secret admirer?” Murphy’s lips curl into an amused grin and he raises an eyebrow at Javier. 

You take another quick glance at the duo and realize Javier is narrowing his eyes at you, jaw working back and forth in subtle movements. Your skin burns and twists under his examination. 

He breaks his laser focus and looks to Steve with a shrug, “Guess so.” 

The fax machine roars to life behind you and starts printing. You spin on your heel towards the noise, and the men start off the way they came. Your hands are shaking when you go to grab the confirmation. 

—

The clack clack clack of your typewriter ricochets through the empty halls of the United States Embassy. Although you can’t see it from your desk, you know the sun outside is sinking below the horizon and giving way to the inky black of nighttime. 

Without Ambassador Noonan there to pull you into meetings for transcription, or assign you urgent outgoing faxes, or ask you to run any other number of errands she deems important, you’re able to perform the more “menial” of your clerical work. You sift through the stacks of papers at the corner of your desk, each one containing hurried handwriting scrawled by Noonan or one of her many Agents, trying to decipher their contents and transfer them into a more legible print. 

Footsteps sound from down the hall, but you’re too busy squinting at a puzzling clusterfuck of scribbles to pay it any mind. It’s not until your desk creaks under the weight of Javier leaning back against it that you notice he’s there.

With a jump, you clutch your blouse over your pounding heart and gasp, “Jesus fu—Hi, Agent Peña.” 

He comes to rest just inches away from your chair, arms crossed over his chest as he frowns down at you. Dangling between two of his knuckles is the red envelope you left in his mailbox earlier. Adrenaline pumps thick and hot through your veins. 

Your hands feel numb as you meet his gaze and manage to ask, “Can I help you with something?”

His jaw cocks to the side and he raises an eyebrow at you, then tosses the red envelope onto your desk, “What’s this?” 

“I—I—” you shake your head and widen your eyes, glancing between him and the letter. 

“Don’t play dumb,” he interjects. 

You swallow hard and hold your eyes steady on his as they bore into you. It’s a standoff. You don’t even dare to breathe. The silence is deafening. 

Javier breaks it as he clears his throat and picks the creamy white paper up off your desk, then unfolds it. Your stomach drops to the floor. 

He reads it aloud in a gravelly purr: 

“Oh, how I long to devour you. To unhinge my jaw And swallow you whole.  Do you feel it too?  Do you ache with hunger when I’m near? When I meet your starving eyes, I know.”

Your eyes stay trained on his as he peers over the paper at you like he expects you to say something. But you don’t. Your skin buzzes electric when he rolls his tongue against his pouty lips, along the edge of his dark mustache, then drags his gaze down the length of you. 

Javier sets the paper back onto your desk, taking a look around before he leans in and murmurs, “I do. I know.”

Then he digs into the pocket of his tan suit pocket and takes out a folded slip of paper. He pulls it away just as you go to reach for it. When your fingers curl back and you blink up at him in question, he searches your face, “This stays between us, ok?” 

“Of course,” you nod. 

His throat rumbles, eyes flick down to your lips for a moment, then he extends the paper to you again. This time when you go to take it, he lets it slide out from between his fingers into yours. 

“Come by when you’re done here,” he says, more of a demand than a request. 

“I will,” you try to suppress the grin stretching across your lips. 

Javier taps two fingers against your desk, then pushes off it and saunters back down the hallway, giving you a quick backwards glance before turning the corner. 

You look around to make sure no one is watching, then unfold the note, revealing an address written in his angular, messy script. Below this, it reads: 

Starved. 

—

Your knuckles rap two quick knocks against the door before Javier swings it open. His darkened gaze slides down your body like molasses as he steps back and lets you enter the apartment. The scent of his cologne wafts into your nose as you pass him. It’s light and crisp, clean smelling, contrasting his whiskey breath. 

You slide out of your heels and set your purse onto the ground, then study the dwelling with curiosity, dropping down two steps into the living room on your way to a leather couch. The walls are painted a cream color, pastel green and pink spliced here and there. It doesn’t seem to represent Javier at all. You figure the apartment was furnished by the Embassy, like yours. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air like a dense fog. It’s tediously quiet. 

“Can I get you a drink?” he asks, striding over to a stand-alone dry bar, which hosts a variety of amber colored liquors. 

“Sure,” you answer as you sit down on the couch, smoothing out the black dress you changed into before walking over here. 

Javier doesn’t ask what you want to drink. He just pours two glasses of whiskey and hands one to you while he lowers himself onto the other end of the loveseat. 

Which, it’s a loveseat, so he’s still intimidatingly close. 

“Thanks,” you mumble, then swallow a mouthful of the alcohol, wincing at the burn as it travels down your throat. 

It’s not until now you realize you’ve never been alone with him. You’ve only experienced his intensity from afar. The way his eyes linger on you, seeming to study you when he thinks you won’t notice. 

But you’ve noticed. 

And you like it. 

You’ve been careful to only leave hints of your wanting. Flicking your gaze to his when you feel it on your skin. Holding it there until your heart starts pounding and one of you looks away. Letting your body brush against him in passing. No words spoken, only heated eye contact and near-touching. Following an acute awareness of the way you’re drawn to him, how fervently your blood courses through your veins when he’s near, how his presence seems to tug at the edges of you. 

“Did you write that yourself?” he inquires now. You take another sip and look up at him, meeting his eyes. 

It’s unbearable. Yet, you don’t want it to stop. Like magnets are buried beneath your skin and his, opposite poles, aching to meet in equilibrium. 

“I did,” you admit quietly, then tilt your head at him with curiosity, “Did you like it?” 

He hums and nods, glancing down at your mouth, “I’ve been watching you. I see the way you look at me.” 

“I know,” you respond in a whisper. The confession sends your heart racing… but you feel emboldened. You tip the glass to your lips and let the remaining whiskey slide down your throat, then lean forward to set the empty cup on his coffee table and scoot closer to him as you settle back into the couch. 

Javier sits up to place his drink on the table, and when he returns, he’s only inches away. He brings his breath to your ear and murmurs, “You like it, don’t you? The attention?” 

“Yes,” you answer. His hand rests on your knee, a branding iron that heats your core and steals the air from your lungs. 

“Teasing me with those short skirts,” he travels up your thigh, letting his rough palm drag along your skin. The touch sends a shock wave of pleasure across your body. 

You whimper and your eyes flutter shut. 

His voice lowers to a rasp, “Staring at me with those fuck-me-eyes. You think I wouldn’t know it was you?”

He stops at the crease of your thigh and grips the tender flesh, pulling a wanton moan from your throat as your head falls back against the couch. 

“Look at me,” he demands, so your eyes blink open and you meet his heated, meticulous gaze, “Do you want this?”

“I want this,” you nod, bringing a hand to his cheek, working your thumb against the grain of his stubble. He studies your face, dropping his eyes to your mouth, kneading your thigh, drawing closer. 

You succumb to his beckoning lips, capturing them in a kiss. Fire sparks in your chest and spreads through your veins like wildfire, spreading to him as your tongues meet, rolling soft and wet, whiskey harsh on your shared breath. 

Then he’s on you all at once. 

Pushing your back flush to the couch cushions, rocking his hand against the seam of your panties, sliding the thin straps of your dress off your shoulders, liquefying your insides into molten need. He rids you of the red lace thong, tossing it on the floor while your trembling fingers unfasten the buttons of his shirt. You splay your fingers across his chest and slip the shirt off his shoulders. It joins your abandoned lingerie, followed by your dress, then his pants. 

Javier pauses to study your naked body, lust-blown eyes trailing along every inch of your exposed skin, hands dragging up your legs. You examine him, too. His smooth, bronzed skin. His broad shoulders. His lean frame. His swollen, needy cock. 

“You’re so fucking sexy,” you breathe, reaching out to him, rolling your hips against nothing, aching with lust. 

Your compliment pulls a rumble from his throat, then he returns to your body, to your lips. His warmth sends shockwaves down your spine. You arch your back into the sensation, drinking up every ounce of heat your thirsty skin can lap up. 

When he touches the slick pool between the legs, spreading your arousal up and down your slit, you both moan into the other’s mouth, and he pants, “So fucking wet.”

You slide your hands around his shoulders, whimpering, nodding, reveling in the exquisite heat stoked at your center, urging him to continue with a breathy moan, “Don’t stop—fuck, that’s so good—”

He groans and captures your lips in his, kissing you hard, messy, working you faster, and the flames licking your insides continue to grow hotter, breaking you out into a sweat, making you gasp and moan against his mouth, eyes fluttering shut and it’s just this aching, heated bliss building at the base of your spine, and your pleas for him not to stop, and his skin on yours, his mouth planting wet kisses down your jaw, your neck, his moans of secondhand pleasure vibrating down your middle, fueling this brilliant concentrated ball of fire burning a hole inside you until you reach the edge of something and push past it.

Ecstasy washes over your body and steals the air from your lungs. You release a shattered breath and start to free fall, but his touch doesn’t relent, and your body shakes with pleasure that’s too intense to bear, legs clamping shut around his arm as you start to whimper at the stimulation. 

Javier pulls back when your legs go jelly, his chest heaving, eyes wild and black and glued to yours. His pink tongue rolls against his lips, then they pout out into an O when he drags his fingers through your release. Your hips jerk at the jolt of his touch, heavy eyelids fluttering as you moan, and he smirks, “Wanna move this to the bedroom?” 

You bite down on the pillowy flesh of your bottom lip as your gaze drops to his engorged length, and you manage to respond, “Uh-huh.”

He stands and starts towards his bedroom. You follow him on wobbly legs, head swimming, ears buzzing. 

Just like the common areas of his apartment, his room is decorated tastefully and obviously courtesy of the Embassy. It’s surprisingly neat, though, the dark walnut chest of drawers cleared of clutter and personal effects, hardwood floor unencumbered by piles of dirty laundry, dark walnut four-post bed dressed with white linens. Based on the constant state of disarray his desk is in, you expected it to be messier, and wonder if he cleaned up for you. 

Javier strides over to a side table and pulls a condom out of its drawer. While he wraps himself up, you settle at the edge of his bed, legs dangling off the side as your eyes trail down his shoulders, his arms, the defined muscles of his back, swallowing hard when he turns to face you. 

He takes the two short steps to settle his hips between your knees and hums, bringing a hand to your chin, tilting your head up towards him as he presses his forehead to yours and purrs, “Is this what you wanted, sweetheart? Hmm? For me to fuck you?” 

“Yes,” you whisper, linking your hands at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer, feeling his breath puff hot against your mouth, grip on your chin tightening.

His lips find yours and he kisses you slowly, deliberately, with a tender sort of reverence that tightens around your skin and makes you whimper. The noise spurs something inside him. He cups your cheeks and picks up speed, climbing onto the bed, pushing you onto your back. 

It completely consumes you, the way his mouth works against yours, the way you writhe against each other, touch roaming, both of you tugging and rubbing and digging your fingers in and moaning at the fire blazing between your sweaty bodies. 

When the head of his cock nudges against your entrance, you wrap your legs around his back and arch against him, panting, “Fuck yes, give it to me.”

He stares down at you, holding your gaze as he plunges forward, working you open, and both your faces contort with pleasure. 

“Fuuuck,” he groans as he starts to rut into you at a steady pace. Every single nerve ending he rubs against buzzes with ecstasy. 

Your fingers tangle in his hair and you pull him closer, pressing your lips to his, immersing yourself in a series of messy, frantic kisses, swallowing each other's moans, working your bodies in tandem to fuel the hungry flames. You start to roll your hips against his thrusts, each one accumulating hot and gooey and tingling, tugging at the edges of you as you whimper, “Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck—” 

“That’s it, baby,” Javier pants, his voice jumping in time with his hips as he drives into you, “So fucking good—feel so fucking good—” 

He kisses you then, and his eager lips, his soft tongue, the scent of whiskey on his breath, the burn of his mustache scratching your skin, the blissful ache of him stretching you again and again, it fully engulfs your body, like you’re melting together, the heat between you too great, the fire too intense to remain whole because this glowing molten core is growing wider and hotter with each moan, each touch, each thrust, and you beg Javier not to stop, fuck, don’t fucking stop, and he steals the words from your mouth with his own, fucking you hard and fast just like you knew he would, pushing you closer and closer to bliss, and then you reach it.

For one second, you’re suspended right at the edge, mind blank, body humming. Then it hits you, and it hits you fucking hard, euphoria breaking you into pieces and tearing a sob from your throat. Javier’s hips stutter as your muscles tense and your pussy convulses around him. He gasps against your mouth, then shudders as he finds his release. Both of your bodies slow their pace, cooling to a crawl, then a stop. 

The sound of your labored breaths fills the bedroom, heaving chests working against each other as sanity starts to return and your bodies struggle to recover. He rolls off of you and stretches out across his bed, inhaling deep and wide, exhaling a content hum. 

Then, without a word, he gets up and leaves the room. 

Your guts twist into a knot. It should give you whiplash, how fast you go from total satisfaction to nervous wreck. 

Since moving to Colombia for this job, sex has been a rare occurrence for you. And by that, you mean… it doesn’t happen. Even before the move, a series of long-term relationships have been your only claim to sexual experience. So this situation is uncharted territory. 

But you’re pretty sure this is your cue to get the fuck out. 

While staring at the ceiling, you kick yourself for giving him the note, for putting yourself in this position. Shame simmers hot under your skin when you try to imagine what it’ll be like the next time you see Javier at work. When you’ll both know what happened here tonight, but pretend it was nothing. 

Why do you have to feel this burning desire for someone like him? For someone so intimidating and closed off? And, more perplexing still, does he feel it for you? 

Your chest and throat tighten when it dawns on you that he probably doesn’t feel the same as you. Maybe he saw an opportunity to get laid and took it. Maybe… it was nothing to him. 

You sit up and scoot to the edge of the bed, peering out the bedroom door a moment before hopping down and padding across the hardwood floor into the living room. 

He’s doing something in the kitchen, so you fold your arms in front of your body and make your way over to the couch, snatching your clothes off the ground before you sit and start to get dressed. 

As you pull your dress down over your head, he returns to the living room. He’s wearing jeans now, but remains shirtless, and a lit cigarette dangles from his lips. 

You glance up at him and mutter, “Sorry, I can get out of your hair. Thank you for, um… indulging me.”

He plops down next to you and crushes the burning ember of his cigarette into a glass ashtray on the coffee table, then leans back and extends his arm along the couch behind you, frowning, “You’re leaving?”

“I—I guess, right?” you turn and search his face, meeting his eyes that are all puppy dog soft. They tug at your heartstrings, but you continue to stammer onward, “That’s—I don’t know, that’s what I’m supposed to do, right?” 

“If that’s what you want,” he shrugs, dropping his gaze to your lips. 

While you stare at him and try to understand what the fuck that means, he leans close, brushing his hand against your cheek, “Or, you could stay… we can ‘indulge’ ourselves again.”

“Is that what you want?” you ask in an attempt to parse out his intentions. 

“Is that what you want?” he counters in a low voice, furrowing his brow. 

You bite down on your bottom lip and nod, then blink and shrug, “I mean, if that’s what you—”

His lips cut you off before you can embarrass yourself more.

—

You woke up with the sun. Javier was still holding you close, his shallow, dream-drenched breath spreading across the nape of your neck in soft puffs. You wriggled out of bed and collected your things, then walked the city block to your apartment and got ready for work. 

The day passes by like any other, with the exception of your strained muscles making every movement more difficult. You don’t cross paths with Javier, but when you return to your desk after lunch, there’s a red envelope sticking out of your typewriter. 

You take a cursory glance around, then pluck it out and open it. A smile spreads across your face when you read the note inside. 

Roses are red  Violets are blue  Come over tonight  I want to see you XO, Your Secret Admirer

[saltsicklover]

Dear Ace - Fan Mail Pt. 4

Title: Dear Ace - Fan Mail Pt. 4

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

Word Count: 2900

Rating: T

Warnings: Mentions of blood, straight razor, angst. Sam fucking Wilson. 

-- To be continued. I hope you enjoy! Let me know if you want to be added to the tag list :) --

Disclaimer: I do not own Bucky Barnes, or anything related to Marvel within this piece. Not Proof Read or BETA'd. All mistakes are my own.

I do not consent for my work to be edited, reposted, or translated.

You are responsible for your own media consumption. This is a work of fiction that may contain mature themes. If you are sensitive to those subjects, please do not read.

"I need to know one thing, what apartment do you live in?" 

The letter burned a hole in her pocket. There was no kind greeting, no signature. Nothing that even remotely sounded like it came from Bucky. She was used to short correspondence from him, the last letter she received being only a handful of sentences long, but this was completely new. If it hadn't been addressed with his return address, she wouldn't have believed that it came from him. 

She had carried it around for two days, folded up and stuffed deep into her back pocket. The letter has pulled her focus from work, her brain entirely caught up one that one sentence, those forty-three letters written in jet black ink. There are inky half prints from his fingertips that lay over the sides of the letter, each a little piece of Bucky. She runs her finger lightly over the prints while curled up in her favorite armchair, a plush blanket pulled over her body. 

She fights the urge to call the whole thing a bust. Maybe having sent the first letter was a mistake. Asking for closure, dragging up a memory, trying to bury the guilt instead of just fucking feeling it, all a mistake. Maybe she deserved it, the pang of guilt ridden pain that seems to wrap itself around her ribcage, constricting and writhing. 

Two days later, the letter still carried with her, just crumpled in the bottom of her bag this time, she returns from a grueling day at the Set. Her clippers died in the middle of a cut, her straight razor is way past due for a sharpening and she had been the only one to fold towels all day long. Skipped over for tips more than once, she was ready to call the day finished. A drink and her comfortable clothes waited for her. 

She expected a quiet night in, a hot meal and maybe a few minutes to try and get through a few pages of the book she has been trying to get through for the last six months. What she did not expect, however, was the lone envelope she found in her mailbox. 

The return address, Avengers Tower, but the name scrawled in blue ink read 'Wilson'. Her breath hitched at the sight. She brought her hand up to her chest, pressing down firmly in a makeshift attempt to ground herself. She drug herself up the stairs of her building, her brain too full of questions to even think about waiting for the elevator. If she kept moving, maybe she could keep up with her thoughts- but that isn't exactly how that works, especially when her mail key is still in her mailbox lock, the door left open. 

She drops her things right when she steps through her front door, her bags hitting the floor with a harsh thud. She shakes the letter in front of the window, watching as the paper inside falls to the bottom edge of the envelope before tearing the top off crudely. Now is not the time for gentleness, not with the way her heart is beating and the sweat that is starting to slick over her skin. She cuts her finger on the paper, a trickle of red running from the new cut on the side of her finger. She brings the digit to her mouth to keep from bleeding on anything as she opens the letter, a little clumsily, with one had. 

"I don't actually know your name at the time of writing this, so I am just going to call you Ace. 

Dear Ace, my name is Sam Wilson, I work with Bucky Barnes. I know this is coming out of left field but you and I need to talk. Buck got your letters, he opened them after a particularly hard mission which I am sure had something to do with his reaction, but there is something else there too. 

He showed our friend Steve and myself the trinkets, and everything was great until we got to that photo you sent of your home. Part of me thought it was a sick joke, taking a photo of the place they used to live before the war and passing it off as your home, but after we read the description you sent I figured it had to be true. The measurements are definitely not something you could read about in a book or find in a museum. 

It looks like you live in the exact same apartment that they did all those years ago. I don't know if it was the fact that Bucky found all this out after a mission or if it was the fact that is drug up a lot of shit for him but he is shaken. Absolutely shaken. Steve is too, but he is handling it a lot better. 

I think we need to meet up and have a chat. Give me a call. 

-Sam Wilson

PS- Bucky doesn't know I am reaching out, and I would like to keep it that way. I could have just used Government resources to track down your number, so keep that in mind."

Ace has to fight every urge not to crumple up the paper, the desire itching her palms, but she holds back. Instead, she pulls out her phone. After typing in Sam's number carefully, double checking each digit, she crafts a message laced with concern and frustration. 

"Sam, you will meet me at the shop, Sargent's English Traditional, in Hell's Kitchen tomorrow at 1400. Then we can talk. Don't be late." 

Ace doesn't bother signing the text, after all, he should be expecting her to reach out. If he doesn't, that's just too damn bad. And if she has to be talking to an Avenger, she is damn well going to do so with a set of sheers in her hand- something to keep her hands from shaking. 

She goes to bed at eight, not bothering to eat dinner. She buries herself in blankets, building a fort of comfort that does nothing to ease the anxiety that thrums through her. She tosses and turns, slowly but surely throwing blankets to the floor. This is destined to be a long, sleepless night. 

All the next morning Ace found herself watching the clock. As each minute ticked by, creeping closer and closer to two o'clock she became for frazzled. Her whole morning had been filled with clients, each coming in for an overpriced service that only held maybe half her attention. The other parts of her mind seemed to drift from Bucky and his curt letter, the one she has tucked into her apron, then over to Sam, who would be walking into the shop at any moment. 

The clock reads 13:55, she knows because she has looked at it three times in the past thirty seconds. She watches as the number flicks from 5 to 6, the bell to the font door jingling. Ace looks over to find a handsome man standing in the lobby, his deep eyes looking around cautiously. 

She debates for a moment about putting on her best customer service smile before walking over, but this isn't technically work, it's personal business and she was not about to make him feel any more comfortable than his unsolicited letter made her feel. Ace walks across the dark floor with light steps, her shoulders back, head held high. Sam notices her a moment later, a polite smile spreading across his lips. 

"Wilson?" She asks, her tone flat, eyebrow raised. 

"Yes ma'am, that's me. And you are?" He questions, shrugging off his jacket. He hangs it on one of the empty hooks near the door. 

"Ace," She smirks a bit, but the look in her eyes is less than kind. Sam lets out a little chuckle. Ace tries to pretend this is all normal as she watches his movements, the way he pulls up the sleeves of his dark shirt to the way he follows her over to her station. 

She sits him down without a word before tying a neck guard around his neck. She throws a cape over his body, buttoning it less carefully than normal. She isn't sure why she is so mad at him, or why she is taking it out this way, but she is too concerned with the distaste that coats her tongue and the ever present anxiety that won't unbind itself from her form. 

"You know, I don't actually need a haircut," Sam speaks up as she moves to grab her sheers from the drawer. 

She smiles at him, the corners of her lips turned upward, it's almost kind, almost. 

"Oh, that's okay," Ace starts, placing a hand on the back of the barber chair. She moves her other hand to pull the lever at the side, leaning him backward. "I thought I could give you a shave while we talk," Her words border on mischief and Sam watches as she pulls a tin of shave soap out of a drawer.

"Okay, just leave the goatee, would you?" He cocks an eyebrow at her, the motion more of a plea. She hums, pulling a towel out of the warmer. She folds it across his face, the heat hitting his skin with a pleasant burn. 

"I have to say, I was quite surprised to have gotten your letter," Ace begins, "I am sure you are looking out for your friends, and I respect that, but I have to ask, why are you here?" She pulls the towel from his face. 

"I have a couple of questions," He replies simply. 

She nods at him to continue, squirting the soap with her spray bottle. She uses a brush to swirl the soap before transferring it to a bowl. With a bit more water it begins to foam. She is determined to mix all of her anxiety out of her body and into the soapy solution. Ace paints Sam's face with the foam, his dark skin disappearing under soft bubbles. 

"Why did you reach out to Bucky in the first place?" Ace can't help but laugh. 

"Wait, he didn't tell you?" She questions him, running the brush down the side of his neck. He shakes his head 'no'.

"I am going to give you the abridged version. When I was a kid, the a man broke into my home and killed my grandparents. They worked for Hydra. They also abused me. I came to find out, as an adult, that the man who saved me from my abusers was the Winter Soldier. I wrote Bucky initially to get some closure. My therapist thought it would help," She explains. 

Ace pulls a straight razor from the Barbacide, wiping the extra liquid off on a clean towel. Sam watches her with wide eyes and he swears he saw the blade flicker in the light like some horror movie scene. Ace moves to position his head, laying the razor gently against his skin before pulling it down. Sam shivers a bit at the sound of the metal against his face. 

"After I sent that first letter, I did some research on Bucky. I wanted to know more about the man that gave me a chance at life, and I guess at some point I felt brave enough to write him again and see if he wanted to make writing letters a regular thing," Between swipes she rids the used shave foam from her razor with a clean towel. She works quickly, her movements precise. 

Sam listens to her words as his head is manipulated by her touch. The blade against his skin doesn't feel as foreign by the time she is done with his right cheek. She moves to the other side to start again. 

"When Bucky wrote me back, I was so damn excited. I gathered a bunch of little things I found special- I wanted to share them with him. I wrote out little notes about each and everything. I guess now I see how that could have been a lot to take in," She laughs a bit, lifting his chin with her finger. "That photo is my building. I do live there. You can use your little government tools to check into it if you don't believe me. I am 201." Sam wants to laugh, but the razor against his neck keeps him from doing so. 

"What else do you want to know?" She asks him, moving to shave his upper lip. 

"What are you hoping is going to come out of all of this?" Sam asks the minute she pulls away. Ace takes a deep breath, the smell of  shave soap soothing her sore lungs a bit. She drops her razor back into the Barbacide before pulling out another clean towel. 

"I was hoping for a friend," She speaks honestly, running the towel over Sam's freshly shaven skin. She pulls a bottle out off of her station, squirting some of the product into her fingertips. "But at this point, I think that's a long shot. He did write me back, but something about it just kinda hit me funny," She rubs the product over his skin and it soothes the irritation from the razor. 

Sam can't help but feel like he understands her completely in that moment. His mind flashes back to when he met Steve, his lungs and legs burning as he pushed himself to run faster, further. At first it was self serving but somewhere after the first two miles he found himself in a sort of friendship with the super soldier. If a friendship can grow out of something so simple as that, there is no reason one can't grow out of a couple of letters, Sam decides. 

"What did it say?" Sam asks as Ace sits his chair back upright. She pulls the piece of paper from her apron, holding it out to him. Her stomach twists a bit when he opens it. Sam reads over it quickly before handing it back to her. "Are you going to write back?" 

"I don't know," She pulls his cape off, untying the neck guard. 

"Well, look at it this way. He asked you for the number. He works with the Avengers, a group of people who can have information at their fingertips in no more than a few seconds but he wrote to ask. I think that implies some sort of trust there." Sam stands, leaning forward towards the mirror to check out her handwork. He runs a hand over his cheeks, admiring the closeness of the shave. 

Ace thinks over his words and they make sense. If Bucky wanted to, he could have all the information on her that he could ever want. He didn't need to ask, but he did. Sam puts a hand on her shoulder, pulling her from the depths of her thoughts. 

"If I were you, kid," Sam begins, taking a deep breath like he is trying to get himself to say something he isn't quite ready to say, "Write him back," He states, "Buck is a good guy and I think this is all just a lot for him. Just- write him back." She nods at him, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. 

They walk up to the front of the shop together, Sam stopping at the till. 

"Thank you for talking with me, Ace." He begins, pulling out his wallet. 

"I'm not charging you, Sam," She states, crossing her arms over her chest.

"Oh, I know you aren't," He pulls a fifty dollar bill out of his wallet. He puts it down on the counter, sliding it her way. She shakes her head no, trying to slide it back, but he catches her hand with his, the bill trapped firmly against the desk. "Think of it as stamp money, alright?" He smiles at her, the first real smile either of them have shared and she can't help but return it. 

"Thank you, Sam. Look after Buck for me, would you?" She asks, a sheepish look on her face. He doesn't say anything, instead nodding her her as he pulls his jacket back on. Sam disappears out onto the street, the jingle of the bell announcing his absence. 

That night, she pulls her stationary out, the same tan paper and blue pen that she writes all of her letters with. She takes a deep breathe before beginning to write, the words flowing out of her and onto the paper in messy letters. 

"Dear Bucky, I live in apartment 201. My apartment looks out over the side street and the back ally. It's situated in the corner of the building and it's one of the only apartments that has it's own staircase in and out. Is that what you want to know?" With Warmest Regards-" 

The letter is short but it says everything it needs to. The anxiety loosens it's hold on her chest as she licks the envelope, pressing it shut. She addresses it neatly, the information almost memorized now. She places a stamp on it, crooked in the corner. She can't help but feel like it represents this whole thing; slightly imperfect but still absolutely necessary. 

Ace puts the letter in the outgoing mailbox on her way to work the next day and it is the surest thing she has done in a long time. The anxiety only a whisper. 

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[reallygroovyninja]

Part 1

Clarke turned off the main highway and onto the winding backroads that led to her inheritance - an old Victorian house that once belonged to her Great Aunt Becca. As she drove through the dense woods, the sun started to set, casting long shadows across the overgrown road. 

Up ahead, she spotted the battered mailbox with "Woodhaven Manor" painted across it in fading letters. She pulled into the long, gravel driveway that cut through the trees, branches scratching against the car windows as she slowly made her way towards the secluded home. 

In the dim light, Clarke could just make out the shape of the three-story mansion, with its peeling paint and creepers snaking up the walls. The place looked forgotten by time, exactly as her aunt had described years ago when telling young Clarke stories about her eccentric old home. 

Pulling up to the creaking front porch, Clarke put the car in park and took a deep breath. She had inherited this place after her aunt's recent passing, sight unseen. As she stepped out into the cool, evening air, she felt both excitement and apprehension about what awaited inside. 

The woods surrounding the old manor house took on an eerie vibe at night. Clarke grabbed her bags quickly and headed to the front door, ready to start unraveling the mysteries held within the walls of this secluded, vintage mansion left all to her. 

Stepping onto the creaking porch, Clarke fished the old bronze key out of her bag, the one the lawyer had given her. She slipped it into the rusty keyhole and turned it slowly. The front door let out a long groan as she pushed it open, revealing nothing but inky darkness within. 

Clarke pulled out her phone and turned on the flashlight, casting a dim glow over the entry hall inside. She could just make out the silhouettes of sheet-draped furniture, dusty floors, and a sweeping staircase. 

The lawyer had told her the power was still connected so she just needed to locate the light switch. Clarke waved her phone around, spotting cobwebs in the corners and peeling wallpaper. She found the switch, flicking it on with hope. 

The entry hall remained drowned in shadows. Just the faintest buzzing indicated the electricity was running, but the old bulbs had apparently burned out. Clarke sighed, using her phone to light the way as she gingerly stepped inside. 

Her footsteps echoed across the creaking floorboards as she explored the first room. Aside from her phone's beam, the house remained pitch black. She couldn't wait to get some lights on and really see what this timeworn manor held within its walls. 

Passing through an arched doorway, Clarke entered what appeared to be the living room. Her phone flashed over a vintage sofa and chairs, all covered in white sheets. Clarke noticed an old lamp sitting on a nearby table. She headed over, turning it on with hopes the wiring still worked. 

The lamp flickered to life, casting a warm glow over the room. Clarke could now make out more details - the intricate molding along the walls, the heavy drapes blocking the windows. Over the fireplace mantel hung a large, gilded frame. 

Stepping closer, Clarke illuminated the portrait within. It was of a beautiful young woman with long, chestnut brown hair, piercing green eyes, and a soft smile. Clarke knew this wasn't her Great Aunt Becca, who had blonde hair like Clarke. She wondered who the mysterious woman was. 

With the lamp now giving off some ambiance, Clarke spotted a light switch by the doorway and flipped it on. The antique chandelier overhead came to life, fully lighting up the spacious living room. 

Clarke gazed around, taking it all in. This room seemed rich with history and secrets waiting to be uncovered. She already felt herself growing curious about the house's past inhabitants, particularly the striking brunette immortalized in the mantel portrait. 

After checking out the living room, Clarke ventured up the creaking staircase, her phone lighting the way. She wished she had booked a room at the cozy inn right off the highway instead of staying in this dusty old house her first night. But it was too late now, so she'd have to make do. 

"You just had to try and save money by staying here, didn't you Clarke," she muttered to herself as she climbed the stairs. 

On the second floor, Clarke peeked into several bedrooms draped in sheets. One room looked more inviting than the rest, with a polished wood bedframe and floral wallpaper. Clarke entered and opened the curtains, moonlight streaming through the window's stained glass. 

"Well, at least this room doesn't look completely ancient," she said, running a finger over the furniture and examining the layer of dust. 

Searching the closets, she miraculously found clean linen that didn't smell too musty. Clarke made up the bed, coughing a bit as dust flew up from the nightstand when she spread the sheets. 

"Guess this will have to do for the night," she sighed. 

Too exhausted to explore further, Clarke set her bags down and changed into pajamas. As she climbed into the creaky bed, she heard the house settle and groan around her. 

"Please let me get some sleep and not run into any ghosts tonight," she whispered into the darkness. Despite her unease, Clarke's eyes soon closed, giving in to much-needed sleep. 

That night, Clarke drifted into a deep but fitful sleep. Strange dreams came to her in fragments - she was wandering the house's halls at night, hearing whispers around each corner. Shadowy figures flickered at the edge of her vision. She called out for them to show themselves but woke up before anything appeared. 

"That was strange..." she mumbled in her half-asleep state. 

Another dream found her standing in the overgrown garden outside. The brunette from the living room portrait walked by Clarke with a sad smile. Clarke tried to call out to her but couldn't make a sound. 

"Wait, come back!" Clarke wanted to say but the words wouldn't come. The mysterious woman disappeared into the hazy garden mist before Clarke could follow. 

Clarke stirred briefly from these unsettling dreams but exhaustion kept pulling her back under. When morning finally came, sunlight streamed through the bedroom window, rousing Clarke awake. 

She sat up in bed, momentarily disoriented by her surroundings. "Where...oh right, the house," she muttered, remembering the night before. 

Then the previous night came back - the long drive, arriving at the inherited mansion past dark, making a bed in this dusty room. 

Clarke rubbed her eyes and stretched. "At least I got some sleep in this old place." 

She felt well-rested in spite of the strange dreams. Ready to explore the house in daylight, she got up and changed into fresh clothes, eager to learn more about her new home and its history. 

After getting dressed, Clarke made her way back downstairs. Sunlight now streamed through the living room windows, giving her a clearer view of the space. She paused to examine the portrait above the mantel again. 

"Hmm, you look familiar," Clarke murmured, gazing at the painted woman. "Wait..." 

The young brunette woman gazed back at Clarke with her piercing green eyes. Something about her elegant features stirred a memory in Clarke's mind. Then she recalled glimpsing this woman in her dream last night, wandering through the misty garden. 

"That's so weird..." Clarke said out loud. She hadn't noticed the resemblance when first seeing the woman in her dream last night. She stared at the painting, trying to determine if she was imagining things. 

But the more she looked, the more the woman resembled the figure from her dream. Clarke shook her head, laughing softly at herself. "Get a grip Griffin, just a coincidence," she muttered. With a last lingering glance, she turned and continued exploring the first floor. 

Leaving the living room, Clarke wandered into what appeared to be a formal dining area. A long, polished wood table was surrounded by high-backed chairs upholstered in faded green fabric. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling, covered in a layer of dust. 

"Fancy," Clarke murmured, running her fingers over the intricate carvings in the chair backs. "I bet they hosted some elegant dinner parties in here." 

Moving through an arched doorway, she entered the kitchen. It looked straight out of the 1970s with its mustard yellow appliances and linoleum tile floors. The cabinets were made of a dark stained wood that matched the dining table. Avocado green countertops completed the retro look. 

"Hello 1975 called, they want their kitchen back," Clarke chuckled to herself as she opened the refrigerator. Not surprised to find it empty and switched off. 

She tried the faucet and was relieved when cool water sputtered out. "At least the plumbing works," she sighed. 

Clarke opened drawers and cabinets, mostly bare except for some faded cookware. "Sure wish these cabinets could talk," she mused. Clarke wondered if a family had once cooked meals and laughed around this kitchen.  

After exploring the main floors, Clarke's stomach started to growl. She realized she needed to go pick up some groceries and supplies. The lawyer had mentioned a small general store in the nearby town that would have basics. But for more options, there was a MegaValue and bigger stores about 20 minutes farther out. 

Clarke decided to try the general store first. She grabbed her purse and keys and headed out the front door. The fresh air felt nice after being inside the musty house. 

She drove down the long driveway until she reached the two-lane road. Following the lawyer's directions, she made her way toward the center of the small rural town. 

Pulling up to the general store, Clarke could see it looked like something straight from the 1950s. She went inside, greeted by creaky wood floors and floor-to-ceiling shelves stocked haphazardly with food and goods. 

Clarke grabbed a basket and started perusing the aisles. She picked up bread, peanut butter, cereal and other non-perishable items. At the back, she found the cleaning supplies and opted for natural cleaners to help freshen the house. 

Clarke brought her basket of items up to the antique register. An older woman with curly grey hair and kind eyes smiled at her. "Find everything ok, dear?" 

"Yes, thank you," Clarke replied. 

The woman rang up the items while making pleasant small talk. "Haven't seen you around before, just passing through?" 

Clarke explained, "Actually, I just inherited the Woodhaven Manor house from my Great Aunt Becca." 

"Old Becca!" the woman exclaimed. "Oh I knew her well. So sorry for your loss. That's quite an estate she's left you." Her expression grew serious. "But you know, some say that old place is haunted." 

Clarke's eyes widened. "Haunted?" 

"Rumor is there was a murder there long ago," the owner whispered. "Folks claim to see a ghostly young woman wandering the gardens at night. Beauty with long brown hair." She leaned in close. "But mind you, I don't believe in ghosts! Just bored townspeople letting their imaginations run wild cause it's an old creaky house." 

Clarke nodded politely, hiding her unease. She paid for her items and said goodbye, the owner's words lingering as she drove back to the manor. 

Back at the house, Clarke brought her supplies inside. "Okay, let's get to work," she said to herself. 

She put away the food and decided to start cleaning the bedroom she'd slept in last night first. 

Heading upstairs with some all-purpose cleaner and rags, Clarke pushed the furniture to the center of the room and began diligently dusting. "Geez, look at all this dust!" she coughed as she wiped down the surfaces. 

Once everything was dust-free, Clarke began scrubbing the wood floorboards to restore their shine. "These floors are so gorgeous under all this grime," she remarked as she scrubbed on her hands and knees. 

At the windows, she washed away years of dirt, letting sunlight stream in. "That's better," Clarke declared. The white lace curtains were dingy, so Clarke made a mental note to replace them. 

Stepping back to survey her work, Clarke smiled with satisfaction. "Much improved!" The room already looked one hundred times better. She felt motivated to tackle the rest of the bedrooms next. Breathing deeply, she caught a hint of lemon from her natural cleaner, a refreshing change from the previous mustiness. 

After spending the day cleaning, Clarke was exhausted. She tidied up the cleaning supplies and washed off the day's grime. 

Too tired to eat, she quickly changed into pajamas. As Clarke settled into the freshly made bed, she deeply breathed in its clean scent before instantly falling asleep. 

That night the dreams returned. Clarke found herself standing in the overgrown garden from before. She spotted the chestnut-haired woman from the living room portrait sitting on a stone bench reading a book, looking deeply sad. 

Clarke slowly approached, wanting to comfort her. But the woman suddenly glanced up, startling at the sight of Clarke. She quickly rose and hurried away, disappearing into the mist before Clarke could call out. 

"Wait, please!" Clarke tried to yell, but no sound came. She attempted to run after the fleeing woman but found herself moving in slow motion. 

Just before the mist enveloped her completely, the woman paused and glanced back at Clarke with mournful green eyes. Then the garden faded to black and Clarke woke with a gasp. 

Catching her breath, Clarke stared out the window at the moonlit yard. The dream had felt so vivid. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all before exhaustion pulled her back into slumber. 

Clarke slept soundly the rest of the night, with no more dreams of the mysterious woman. When morning sunshine filtered into the bedroom, she awoke feeling rested. 

As Clarke got ready for the day, her thoughts returned to the strange dream from last night. 

"Who is that woman?" she wondered aloud. "And why do I keep seeing her in these dreams?" 

Clarke shook her head, confused by it all. She didn't put much stock in dreams usually.  

"Maybe I've looked at that portrait in the living room too many times and my mind is inserting her into dreams," Clarke mused and laughed softly to herself. She was probably making this into something bigger than it was. Still, the dreams left her feeling unsettled, like the woman was sad and needed help. 

"Get it together, Clarke," she muttered. "It was just a dream." She finished getting ready and headed downstairs, eager to explore more of the house. 

Over the next several days, Clarke worked to clean every inch of the old mansion. She scrubbed floors, washed walls, and cleared out cobwebs and dust. Slowly but surely, the beautiful home began to shine again. 

During her exploration, Clarke searched for more clues about the house's previous inhabitants but found very little. The identity of the woman in the portrait remained a mystery. 

Each night as Clarke slept, she would have the same dream again and again. She was in the misty garden, chasing after the fleeing brown-haired woman, calling for her to stop, but never able to reach her. 

Every morning Clarke awoke puzzled. She started to wonder if these dreams meant something more, rather than just being random figments of her imagination. 

The woman was clearly connected to this house in some way. Clarke wished she could communicate with her, help ease the sadness that seemed to linger around her. 

But each night the dream remained the same - the woman always staying tantalizingly out of reach. Clarke resolved to keep digging through the house's past, hoping to uncover the secret of the woman's identity and why she lingered here. 

After a long day of cleaning, Clarke's cell phone rang. She smiled when she saw it was her best friend Raven calling. 

"Hey Raven!" Clarke answered. 

"Clarke! How's the mansion life treating you?" Raven asked. 

"Oh, you know, lounging by the pool while my butler keeps my drink filled," Clarke joked. "But it's coming along well. I'm almost done with the main floors." 

"That's awesome," said Raven. "What's next on your list?" 

"The attic," Clarke replied. "From what I could see, it's totally jam-packed with furniture, trunks, boxes. I'm hoping I can find some valuable items from the previous occupants." 

"Ooh, mysterious," Raven said. "Found any ghosts up there yet?" 

Clarke hesitated. "Well, actually, I've been having these really vivid dreams about a woman here." She described the recurring dream of chasing the brown-haired woman through the misty garden. 

"Whoa," Raven reacted when Clarke finished. "Think it's the ghost of someone who used to live there?" 

"I don't know," Clarke admitted. "It feels so real when I'm dreaming it. I want to find out who she is. I'm hoping the attic might have some clues." 

Raven whistled through the phone. "Well now I'm thoroughly intrigued! You'll have to let me know if you uncover anything juicy." 

Clarke smiled. "Will do. Talk soon Raven!" They hung up and Clarke felt motivated to explore that attic first thing tomorrow. 

That night, for the first time in over a week, Clarke did not dream of the mysterious brown-haired woman. But when she awoke the next morning, she still felt oddly tired, as if she had slept at all. 

"Ugh, so sleepy," Clarke grumbled as she dragged herself out of bed. She shuffled to the kitchen and brewed a full pot of strong, black coffee. 

As she sipped, Clarke mentally prepared for the task ahead - tackling the attic. She was eager to uncover any treasures hidden up there, especially if they held clues about the woman's identity from the portrait in the living room. 

"Here goes nothing," Clarke said, finishing her coffee. She grabbed her flashlight and ascended the rickety attic stairs. Unlatching the door, it swung open with a loud creak, revealing a dark and dusty space crammed with trunks, furniture, boxes, and cobwebs. 

"Whoa, jackpot!" Clarke exclaimed, stepping inside. She opened a large trunk first, coughing as a plume of dust erupted. Inside were aged garments, hats, gloves, and shoes. 

"Fancy stuff," Clarke murmured, holding up a beaded flapper dress. She searched the trunk thoroughly but found no clues. 

Moving on, she pried open a cedar chest filled with vintage books. She flipped through them one-by-one, but they revealed no hidden notes or inscriptions. 

Several more trunks contained only moth-eaten linens and faded quilts. Clarke started to feel discouraged but pressed on, determined to leave no stone unturned in her search to uncover this house’s buried secrets. 

Clarke spent hours searching through the attic's dusty contents. As she opened each trunk and rummaged through the boxes, she discovered the attic was packed with antiques. 

There were ornate mirrors, carved bookshelves, embroidered footstools, globe stands, and many other vintage furnishings. She found a silver tea set that just needed some polish, along with framed paintings of landscapes ready to be hung. 

"Whoa, look at all this stuff," Clarke murmured in awe. The shelves contained rows of leather-bound books, many first editions. 

Clarke realized she would need to call in an appraiser to get estimates. While she hadn't found any family heirlooms to keep personally, these antiques would surely bring in good money at auction. 

"I bet I could get the house renovated just by selling a fraction of this," Clarke thought excitedly. Still, she hoped to uncover objects with deeper meaning related to the house's history. 

For now, Clarke vowed to keep digging through the attic's treasures, imagining the fortunes it may hold. But first she had to clean off the layers of dust coating each antique item. "So much cleaning ahead," Clarke sighed. 

As Clarke searched the attic, she noticed an old trunk peeking out from under a rocking horse. Intrigued, she pulled it out and opened the lid. Inside were bundles of aged letters tied with ribbons, along with some charcoal drawings. 

Clarke carefully picked up one of the letters and examined the flowing script. It was dated 1871 and addressed to someone named Lexa. Clarke read on with excitement: 

My Dearest Lexa, 

My father insists I am to marry Bartholomew Smith. He is a 40-year-old widower with two children who owns a small farm. Father says it is a good match, but I confess I find nothing appealing in it. Bartholomew is so boring and stern, not at all like my beloved. I wish I could run away with you, my heart's desire. Please write and give me strength. 

Yours always, Costia 

"Hmm who is this Lexa that Costia wants to run away with?" Clarke murmured aloud. The letter suggested Lexa and Costia shared an intimate bond. Clarke’s mind spun with questions as she eagerly reached for more letters, hoping to uncover the true nature of Costia and Lexa's relationship. 

Clarke eagerly opened another letter from the trunk, this one dated a few months after the first. The flowing script read: 

Dearest Lexa, 

My misery deepens by the day. Bartholomew insists on visiting my chambers near every night, reeking of spirits and the farm. He wishes me to lay with him and provide an heir. I can barely stand when he paws at me with his grubby hands and fetid breath. 

My only hope is to quicken with child so he will no longer force his vile affections upon me. My heart recoils at his very touch. I often imagine I am in your tender embrace instead, the only one who stirs passion in my soul. Please write again soon, I cherish your words which give me strength. 

Ever Yours, Costia 

Clarke felt her heart ache for Costia as she described her appalling marriage. She longed to know if Costia had managed to find happiness, and what became of her relationship with the mysterious Lexa. More compelled than ever, Clarke returned to the trunk seeking the next letter. 

Clarke became so engrossed in reading the letters, she didn't notice the attic growing dark as the sun began to set. When she finally glanced up, she saw dust motes floating through the last rays of light streaming through the window. 

"Wow, I didn't realize how late it got," Clarke said aloud. She carefully stacked the aged letters she had read so far and stood up. 

Clarke stretched her stiff muscles after sitting hunched over for so long. She was eager to continue reading more but would need better light. Clarke carefully picked up the stack of letters, murmuring, "You're coming with me - I need to know your secrets." 

She left the attic, closing the door behind her. Clarke descended the stairs and headed to the cozy den, where she could curl up near the fireplace to read by lamp light. 

Settling into a leather armchair, Clarke placed the letters on the side table. She added some logs to the fireplace and lit a match, soon filling the den with flickering warmth. Clarke picked up the top letter, thirsty to uncover more clues about Costia and Lexa's tragic tale. 

Clarke unfolds another of Costia's letters, this one expressing despair that she has not yet conceived a child. 

My Dearest Lexa, 

My womb yet remains empty, though not for lack of my husband's efforts. Each night he insists on visiting my bedchamber to perform his conjugal duties, no matter how I wish to refuse him. His rough affections repulse me, but I endure them in hopes of conceiving the child that might grant me reprieve. 

My spirit grows wearier by the day under this barrage I cannot stop. I pray fervently that his labors soon take root so I may have respite from his unwanted touch. 

It shames me to confess these intimate troubles, but you alone understand the true nature of my heart. I cherish the love we shared, untainted by obligation or duty. Thoughts of you sustain me as I await the day I will be freed. Please write again soon, your words shine light into my darkness. 

Yours Most Faithfully, Costia 

Clarke's heart ached as she finished reading Costia's latest letter. "Oh Costia, I'm so sorry," she whispered sadly. 

She couldn't imagine the pain and humiliation Costia must have endured, trapped in a marriage to a man she didn't love. Forced to share his bed night after night. 

"You deserve so much better," Clarke said aloud. She got up and stoked the fire, as if wanting to bring light and warmth to Costia's long-ago suffering. 

Clarke thought back to the love and passion Costia had shared with Lexa. Their relationship seemed one of equals who cared deeply for each other. 

"At least you had your true love for a time," Clarke murmured. Though they were separated now, Lexa had given Costia comfort and strength when she needed it most. 

Clarke wished she could reach across time and give Costia a real friend to support her through the difficult trials of her marriage. But perhaps these letters had been Costia's lifeline to survive. 

Settling back into the leather armchair, Clarke opened the last letter from the stack she had brought down. Unfolding the worn paper, she quickly scanned the flowing script. 

Dearest Lexa, 

The day I have long prayed for is finally here - I am with child! My husband came to me one last time before propriety dictates we must refrain relations until the babe is born. 

While this child is his, you remain my one true love. The passion we shared lights my world in a way duty cannot. I cherish the memories of our time together and keep them close always. 

I confess I wish with all my being this babe had been created from our love, not obligation. But I will care for this innocent life fate has granted me. 

My only solace through the difficulties ahead is knowing our hearts remain entwined, no matter the distance between us. I eagerly await your reply, as your words are like water on a parched soul. 

The love we share keeps my spirit alive. Stay true to me, as I will to you, until the blessed day we meet again. 

Ever Yours, Costia 

Clarke slowly set down the final letter, leaning back to absorb everything she had read. Costia and Lexa had clearly shared a powerful, loving relationship. But then Costia was forced to marry Bartholomew against her wishes. 

"You two deserved so much better. At least you had each other for a time," Clarke said softly. She could tell Lexa had been Costia's lifeline. Their poetic, tragic tale had Clarke hooked. 

She wondered what ultimately became of Costia and Lexa. Did they reunite? Or were they forever kept apart by the circumstances of their time? 

Clarke hoped there were more letters tucked away in the trunk that could give her insight. "Please let there be more," she whispered, eager to learn the full story of the two star-crossed lovers. Their passion and perseverance deeply inspired Clarke. 

[stigmvtas]

TOWN RECORDS — HETVIK MODI.

( DEV PATEL. THIRTY FIVE. NONBINARY. THEY/THEM. ) since you aren’t aware of them yet… that’s HETVIK “HEDWIG” MODI wandering around in hollow creek! from what i know they’ve lived in hollow creek for TWENTY NINE YEARS (ON AND OFF). i’m also aware of the fact that they work as a MUSICIAN (SOMETIMES) & BOOKSTORE OWNER in town! but if you were to ask me, what i see when i think about them are: INKY CURLS PUSHED BACK BY SOOT - STAINED HANDS; REGRET IN THE FORM OF A STONE PUSHED UPHILL, EVERY NERVE ON FIRE; THE CHOPPY HUM OF A MOTORCYCLE IN NEED OF REPAIR, KNOWING IT’LL BE IT’S LAST; ELECTRIC NOTES BREAKING THROUGH INTERFERENCE, SPARKS SHOOTING OUT OF EYES; AND A LIMP CIGARETTE PUSHED BETWEEN LIPS, BLOOD STILL GLEAMING AGAINST TEETH AND TONGUE. if anything, i feel like they could be INCANDESCENT AND UNINHIBITED & SARDONIC AND MERCURIAL. it’s really weird, though… because they seem to be hiding something that no one else knows. but i sure do! and that is CLOSED FILE.. REDACTED. wild, huh? i know. they’re hoping no one will ever find out. and the very last thing that i’d say about them is that they’re mainly known to be THE OMEN. just keep a lookout! who knows if they’re putting on a facade! ( JAMES, 25, EST, THEY/THEM. )

containing themes of... drugs ( brief mention ), parental abandonment, implied homophobia ( minor, brief mention ), familial death, addiction.

profile.

full name — hetvik bulsara modi.

nickname(s) — vik; hedwig ( band alias / used more often than not ).

place of birth — flushing, queens, new york.

date of birth & age — january 27th, 1989. thirty5.

gender / pronouns — nonbinary ( agender ), they/them.

sexuality — bisexual.

occupation — bookstore owner of the labyrinth. front man and lead guitarist of subterfuge.

astrology — aquarius sun, libra moon, scorpio rising.

residence — a small apartment directly above the bookstore; all brick walls and permanent chill. never kept clean.

interests — secondhand leather and hand - rolled cigarettes. noises; doesn't necessarily have to be music. just noise. their motorcycle that's about to kick the dust, but they'll ride it to its' grave. a good book. punk. metal. ska on occasion. playing guitar, fucking around with drums. halloween time, particularly scaring the ever - loving fuck out of people. combat boots. wool sweaters. fingerless gloves. the warmth of fire. cheap thrills, cheaper fucks. silver jewelry. cats, stray dogs; animals, in general. foliage over flowers. black coffee. fresh pastries. cooking, once in a while; only when nostalgic. an ice cold beer. their bandmates ( sometimes ).

aversions — the "man"'; authority in general. the hard shit; learned it the hard way. writing songs when they don't want to. their bandmates ( sometimes ). people with a lack in media literacy; passionless people. long - term relationships. complete and utter silence. polyester. plastic containers ( glass is better ). communicating readily and easily. vulnerability. waking up before noon. being confronted with the past. not living in the present. worrying about the future. living, to a degree. people who eat inside the bookstore and then touch all the books, like, hello? direct sunlight. their family.

quirks — rolls their own cigarettes & joints. makes their own beer but keeps having to start over the process due to "mishaps". picks up any stray animal they see and brings it home. up at ungodly hours playing music. bashes mailboxes for fun. self - sabotages their relationships.

currently playing — you've seen the butcher by deftones.

notable features — long, raven - feathered hair that they desperately need to cut, but never do. a strong nose, overgrown facial hair that they do maintain despite what's said otherwise.

general disposition — overall rugged. tired but restless, alight.

character study — billy butcher ( the boys ), tyler durden ( fight club ), simon / john q ( dinner in america ).

public history.

hetvik's mother always told them they were born angry; born with rage, just like their father. they were also told that they were born sweet; kind, despite the anger. a begrudging kindness, just like their mother. they're never sure if that's a good thing, either of it; to be angry, yet kind. to be kind, yet angry; to let either of them consume them at a moment's notice.

abandonment; the older they grew, however; the more they knew they wanted to be less of their father. his anger took the form of arrogance, of grandeur - of pretending he had more than they did, of pretending he was above the life they led. their father walked out when hetvik was only five; by six, their mother had packed them and their sister up and moved back to massachusetts, back with her parents.

the house was small, cramped; overfilled with six mouths to feed, their only income from their mother's work and their grandparent's bookstore - enough to pay rent on the building, but not much for anything else. hetvik knew then, in their young age, that they wanted to give their family the life they deserved.

they weren't good in school; academically smart, but no attention span to maintain the grades. they were too aggressive in sports, too competitive; too passionate for debate, body stretching across podium and dashing against stage to wrestle their opponent to the ground. the only thing that ever stuck with hetvik was music. it stuck to them like honey, like oil; sometimes it soothed the anger beneath their skin, and sometimes it fueled it. when hedwig and the angry inch released, a twelve year old hetvik was changed.

implied homophobia; music became everything to them. it was their form of expression, their communication, their social life, and later their income. they carried their guitar no matter where they went; experimented with their looks, their sound - changed a million ways everyday. in their mid - teens, hetvik's father came to their home in hollow creek. was on the verge of begging for their mother back; and then sauntered in hetvik, in six inch platforms and hair teased to the nine's ( their glam metal era ). after a few choice words and a minor brawl; their father left for good.

hetvik left after graduation; they moved back to new york city, all on their own - nothing but a suitcase and their guitar. promised their family that they'd be back when they were famous, when they could give them everything they ever wanted.

being a queer artist in new york city is like a fork found in the kitchen, but hetvik finds their crowd, their people. they solidify their look, their sound; something punk, something metal, something innately queer - drag makeup for every performance, skirts and combat boots, defiance in their every action. their underground shows start mosh pits and riots; and running from the authorities become a day - to - day ritual. eventually, subterfuge - their band - catches the eye of a small label, and they sign onto it. subterfuge immediately catches an audience; their single dominates the alternative charts. their album flies off the shelves; and before hetvik - now hedwig by most people - turns twenty five, they're on tour across the country.

death mention; half of everything hedwig makes goes directly to their family; their mom can afford a larger house, can afford to hire the caretakers she needs for her parents. their sister can go to college wherever she wants, can be whoever she wants. the first five years of subterfuge's success are the most important; but after then - the label, steadily becoming more mainstream - wants to change their image, their sound. hedwig fights against it; their bandmates either drop, or are replaced, or die. they're seen arguing in public; tabloids of them being escorted out of clubs in handcuffs, screaming at the paparazzi.

it's recommended that they take a break. hedwig resists; they don't want to give up on subterfuge, but the band's unrecognizable. it isn't them - it isn't what they had fought for, what they crafted with their own two, bloodied hands. they don't want their label to own subterfuge. so they fight their label, break their contract; lose a bunch of money in the process, but they free themselves. subterfuge becomes independent again. they commit to one last tour, one they fund themselves, spanning across the country and hitting all the venues from their first ever tour, before they decide to go on a hiatus. to regain a sense of themselves, to figure out the direction they want to go, and not because of anyone else's influence. so hedwig goes home, with the promise to write a new song.

familial death; hedwig's only been back in hollow creek for a number of months; but a lot's happened since they've been gone, and since they've returned. their grandparents passed away, leaving hedwig the one to inherit the bookstore. their sister's engaged, to someone hedwig's never even met before. their mother's trying to be happy for them; but they can see the worry increasing in her eyes every time they leave late in the evening, and don't come back until the next one.

details.

hedwig doesn't feel like an old rockstar, or particularly famous despite subterfuge's success. they're most recognizable for their drag looks, something akin to dr. frank - n - furter. less - so out of drag, though it doesn't help much. they're uncomfortable with being confronted in public, despite their confrontational personality. a lot of bark, and a lot of bite.

addiction; they struggled a lot with addiction in their 20's, and only now are they steadily managing it. a lot of na meetings, a hard - ass sponsor. their family is their support system, and the guilt of it keeps hedwig as far away from them as possible.

brash and irrational at times; hedwig's never been able to keep a lid over their emotions, or their mouth shut, or an ounce of impulse control. talks before thinking, and acts on a whim often enough for it to be a problem. they've only calmed down a little since they're been back in hollow creek, but they can still come off as abrasive.

can often be found in the labyrinth, organizing the inventory with over - the - ear headphones on, with music so loud it's heard from across the store. they're snappish at worst, and genuinely helpful at best. they try not to tarnish the reputation of their grandparents' shop, if only out of respect.

cares a lot about their friends and family, but finds it hard to show it outside of monetary values. despite being a lyricist, hedwig can barely find the words they want to say to them. is better with actions, in that regard.

self - sabotaging in nearly all of their relationships; it's hard for hedwig to keep something long - term, whether they're friendships or partnerships. they burn bridges quick, and get nervous when they feel trapped. they're afraid of being like their father, too egotistical to realize the harm they cause.

their family has a decent size of property at the top of the hill thanks to hedwig's success, but they've taken the storage space above the bookstore and turned it into an apartment for their own use. it's small, studio - like, but it gets the job done.

extroverted, and prefers being around people despite their seemingly anti - social nature; it's just hard to understand hedwig if they're not "like them".

a vandal, and they can't help it. causing minor destruction is both a coping mechanism and a bad habit. what they don't tell people, is that they try to balance it out; worried that karma will wreck more havoc onto their life if they don't. with every mailbox beaten with a baseball bat, is a tree planted, or some shit. it's a case - by - case basis, really. well - hedwig tries. they're trying to be good.

a punk with? kind of? a heart of gold? but not really. trying to be a better person, but their attitude just won't allow it. they're softer depending on the person, on whether they think they'll cry if they raise their voice. they're both extremely self aware, and completely oblivious. still trying to figure things out. what they want, what they need.

[squidheartt]

PIPE BOMB IN YOUR MAILBOX

:(((

they explode into a...strange inky substance?, splatting all over the ground. they quickly reform like nothing happened though. weird...

[ohvalleys]

💌

TO THE MAILBOX OF ELIAS MALDONADO.

@psychcpomps ... placed directly in Elias' mailbox, the letter sits in a basic white envelope with an assortment of random doodles across the entire outside, and Elias's name scrawled on the front in looping script. When opened to reveal neatly torn notebook paper and inky black pen strokes, sand falls out. It sits atop a plainly wrapped small brown package.

Elias,

Did you know horses and the sea have a special bond? My grandfather has stories about far away lands with myths about the same spirits ruling over the sea that created horses, or those who came out of the water riding on them. I have attached below some facts about horses you probably know already, but thought you may found interesting. [Twelve neatly penned facts about horses from books at the library follow, along with accompanying horse drawings and doodles of various skill.]

Learning is always a gift. I have enjoyed learning in honor of you, even if you learned nothing from this letter. I have attached a gift below for your horses. Seaweed can help horses help with digestion and reduce bad bacteria. Hopefully these seaweed treats will keep their immune systems nice and strong.

Those sensitive in changes to those around them, including those of our four hooved friends, are the same sort of people who are sensitive in changes to the air or the tides. I hope you are taking care of yourself. If you need a reprieve, know you are always welcome.

Yours,

Cordelia Taumata

[Attached: A small box of homemade seaweed treats for the horses.]

[actress4him]

Whumptober 2023 - Day 20 - Querencia

This is set sometime in the future of the series, after Liliana has had at least some of her trauma reveal(s).

Taglist: @darthsutrich , @inky-whump , @painful-pooch , @pigeonwhumps , @bookworm2107

Masterlist

No. 20: “People don’t change people, time does.” | Blanket | Found Family

Contains: lady whump, parental abandonment, referenced past minor whump, grief, referenced imprisonment, referenced fantastic prejudice

.

.

Liliana sits cross-legged on the living room couch, tablet in her lap. On a whim, she’d downloaded the Google Earth app this afternoon. She and Mateo used to entertain themselves for hours on his laptop, exploring the world virtually, finding all their friends' houses and all the places they wanted to visit, getting themselves “lost” in foreign countries to see if they could make their way back out. 

She’s been sitting here for probably close to an hour by now. Looking at the beach, the mountains, and other cities around the world. All the places she’ll never visit but enjoys daydreaming about. 

She’s been ignoring the urge to look up one particular address the whole time. She doesn’t need to see that place, she knows what it would do to her. But somehow, she finds her fingers typing it in, anyway. The app zooms across the world and zeroes in on their state, coming in closer and closer until she’s staring down at the roof of a house she knows well. 

Swallowing, she hesitates a moment, knowing she shouldn’t go any farther but knowing she’s going to, anyway. She opens the street view. The photo that comes up is taken down the street, familiar houses lining the perimeter. That’s the sidewalk that she used to ride her bike up and down. Down there is where the bus stopped every morning. That mailbox is the one Mateo took out when he started learning how to drive.

With a trembling hand, she clicks to turn the view around until she’s looking straight at the house. It’s an old photo. Taken back before strangers moved into the house and changed it. The siding is still green, her Mamá’s roses are still growing up the corner of the house, and her Papá’s work boots are sitting on the porch by the door.

Was she still living there when this was taken? Somewhere inside that house, is there a happy, unbroken family? Or maybe a smaller family that’s relieved to be rid of her. Were they ever really a happy family to start with? Was it all just an illusion all along?

She’s lost in her grief, unable to tear her eyes away from the screen. She doesn’t even realize Nari has entered the room behind her until she leans across the back of the couch, smiling at her.

“Whatcha got there? Are you shopping for a house? Plannin’ on leaving us?”

Liliana sucks in a sharp breath, blinking tears away from her eyes. She still can’t make herself close the photo, though. “N-no, no, I, um…s-sorry, I…”

“Hey.” Nari’s voice has gone soft. “What’s up, jagiya?” 

“Nothing.” She rubs at her eye with the heel of her hand. “N-nothing, sorry, it’s s-s-stupid. I sh-shouldn’t have -”

“Don’t say that. I don’t know what’s going on, but if it’s making you feel upset then it’s not stupid.” Snatching the fuzzy red blanket from the arm of the couch, she wraps it around Liliana’s shoulders, then walks around to sit down next to her. She pulls her legs up onto the couch so that she’s facing her. “What is it?”

She doesn’t want to tell her. But she’s not going to be able to refuse her, either, and it’s not like she doesn’t already know the whole story. “That’s…” She takes another deep breath, and pushes the tablet toward Nari a little. “That’s m-my house. My…my old house, that, that I grew up in.”

“Oh.” Nari reaches out and takes the tablet very gingerly, almost reverently. “I see.” She gazes down at it silently, and Liliana is sure she doesn’t know what to say. She really is being stupid, after all, sitting here crying over a Google Earth image.

“It doesn’t, um, look like that anymore,” she offers, trying to lighten the mood a little. “It’s, it’s yellow now. And the um, the r-roses aren’t there. I-I guess, I guess they died or, or got out of hand, or something.”

“Oh yeah? Well, they were really pretty here.” Nari glances up at Liliana. “Were you…there? When they repainted?”

She shakes her head, the emotions starting to crawl up her throat again. “I-I just, I…w-went back. After, after I was um…l-let out. I went…I d-don’t, I don’t know what, what I was thinking, it’s not like I thought they would…would w-welcome me back, or…or anything. But I…I-I didn’t know where else to, to go.” She draws in a shuddering breath. “B-but, um…th-they weren’t there. It was some, some woman…and the house was y-yellow.”

Nari’s brow furrows. “So your parents…moved?”

Liliana nods, muscles tensing up all across her face as tears threaten. She looks back down at the tablet. “Y-yeah. I, um…I guess they…” Her hand flies up to press against her lips as she begins to lose the battle against crying. “S-...sorry.”

“Oh, Lili.” Setting the tablet aside, Nari holds out her arms. “May I please hug you?” As soon as Liliana nods again, she wraps her up and pulls her in to lay her head against her shoulder. 

She gives in and lets herself sob, lets the tears roll down her cheeks. “They, they left. They t-t-turned me in, let m-me be locked up for, for th-three years, and, and then they m-m-moved away so that I couldn’t…I-I could n-never…” 

Nari strokes her hair back from her face, and Liliana wipes her soaked cheeks with the blanket she’s clutching in her hands. “All, all because I can, I c-can heal people. I don’t…what’s…why…? I don’t understand. They, they always said they l-l-loved me, but…but I must have, have done something to make them abandon m-m-me. They didn’t, they didn’t even ask about my, my power, they didn’t…even know I was hurt. They just…” She breaks down sobbing, unable to speak anymore.

“Jagiya…” Nari pulls her in tighter, hand still caressing her temple and hair in smooth, even strokes. “It’s not your fault. It could never be your fault. I’m sure they did love you, but from what you told us before, they let the media and their peers poison their minds with all that nonsense about Supers. I have no idea how they let it go that far, how they could ever abandon you, because you are amazing, okay? And they’re your parents, they’re supposed to protect you. But what they did has nothing to do with you and everything to do with them. And I know your heart wants to find a reason for it, but…don’t blame yourself. Please.”

They sit that way for a long time, Nari steadfast while Liliana cries until she’s spent, too exhausted to sit back up. She dries her face with the blanket yet again and sighs heavily.

“I’m sorry. Thank you.”

“You don’t need to apologize. And Lili?”

“Hm?”

“I’m very, very sorry about your parents. But…for what it’s worth, I’m glad that their loss means our gain. I can’t imagine not having you as part of our little family. You’re so, so special…and not because of what you can do, just because of who you are.”

Liliana’s cheeks flush, as they always do when she’s offered any kind of compliment. “Th-thank you. I’m…I’m glad I’m here, too.” 

She is. She still wishes she could go back to the life she had before, but if she’s completely honest with herself, she knows she’s better off here than she ever was there. Her parents wouldn’t have let her sit here and cry like this, not once she got past a certain age. They’d have told her to stop acting like a baby. There are so many things that she didn’t know she was missing until the team showed her a better way.

They really have become her second family, and she can’t imagine living without them, either.

[yuseonghqs]

🌊 GREETINGS FROM YUSEONG BAY !

JUST LANDED: SHIN, EUNBI. / / FROM: SOUTH KOREA. / / AGE: 19.

–––– ( FOLLOW ? ) / / ( READ MORE ? ) / / ( MAILBOX ? )

eunbi hasn't always hated the stars.

twinkling lights imbedded into the inky black sky, watching the world as it sleeps, eunbis childhood memories are rife with meteor showers and hopeful wishes. proclamations of love, promises of a future forever immortalized by the warmth of devotion, all whispers spoken just above her small stature by parents who wanted nothing more for than their daughter to experience the same sort of tenderness they'd built for themselves.

a happy home, a secluded world, built and nurtured along the yuseong coast, and eunbi knows nothing but love.

eunbi loves love until she doesn't.

illusions shatter, ripping apart at the seams before her very eyes as her happy home crumbles to dust.

no one would have expected her mother, sweet and demure, to pack herself up and leave with nothing but a note in her wake. eunbi feels her world turn on its heels, the house cold as her distressed father tries to hold things together— there wasn't ever a need to care for public appearances before, not when they were a family already known and liked, but it's not long before their business becomes their neighbors business.

pitying glances with every sighting as time rolls on, condolences for a figure who no longer wanted to be there, prayers of peace spoken aloud for their healing.

eunbi can't help but hate love, at least for a while.

youth grows into adolescence, which in turn, grows into young adulthood. time mends all wounds, her father eventually remarries, and love no longer feels like an abhorrent threat. she's weary, cautious, walls high and mighty the moment the stars begin to fall and another attempt is made at worming into her personal space, but she's done well to build her mask.

eunbi thinks she likes the idea of love, but she has more important things to worry about.

[inkystaar]

poking you poking you :3 you're very funny and silly !! hope u get outta hell soon HDJSNSN

KAJDHDHDHHDB I MEAN THANK YOU ANON BUT WHEN. WHEN DID I ARRIVE IN HELL ???? I MEAN. THANK YOU. THANK YOU SO MUCH BUT. I WASNT AWARE I WAS IN HELL

[https-furina]

THE WRITING AHHHHHHHHHH

NOT INKY TOO WAAAAAAAH ILYSM

[echo-writes-letters]

(The handwriting on this letter is slightly smudged, but is luckily still perfectly legible.)

Hey there. My name is (crossed out and scribbled over) Echo. Or you can give me any other nickname you like, I don’t mind :)

How do I even start this? Just jumping into saying “I think I was kidnapped and now I’m in some weird hellish escape-room-esque house which seems to be stuck in the middle of the void and there are weird letters appearing out of nowhere” seems wrong somehow.

…I say, as I then start off the letter with that.

Okay. So. To elaborate/explain. I fell asleep in my bed, and woke up in a different bed. When I started to explore, I realized I was in a small apartment, a little like mine. What seems to be the front door is locked, and chained up with a bunch of chains too. Looking out the windows and all around, I can’t see anything but the exterior of the house. And I mean NOTHING. As in, it looks like it’s just empty void all around. Though, it could admittedly be some sort of lighting trick, I guess? Anyhow, I decided not to try climbing out the windows.

Actually, there’s a lot of stuff around. I don’t think I want to describe it all just now. Not until I actually know someone’s getting these. It’s pointless otherwise.

Anyhow. As for “weird letters appearing out of nowhere,” well. Just half an hour ago, a stack of papers and envelopes appeared out of absolutely nowhere on a desk, along with a pen and a pencil, and an envelope addressed to me. The letter inside, from a person named “Inky,” told me that if I write a letter and send it, some “certain people” in other universes might find it, read it, and possibly write something back to me. Maybe even help me get out of here.

Even if the idea that a letter could somehow reach an alternate universe is kind of ridiculous to me, I mean, I guess there probably isn’t any harm in giving it a shot? So, if you get this, I’d really, really appreciate it if you could send something back.

Have a good day/night, if you’re reading this :)

—Echo

PS. How do I even send this? Is there a mailbox somewhere? Do I throw it in the air and say “send?”

(When you’re done reading, a paper clip materializes on the page right before your eyes.)

([Out of character: Letters can be submitted in reblogs, by making a separate post (and making sure I see it), or by using the ask box. If you have any questions whatsoever, feel free to ask me anytime by OOC questions through the ask box, or by DMing me. I also have an “about” page if anyone wants further clarification on how exactly I intend for this game to be played.])

[cryo-locket]

oooh you are friends with a few of my wives and i never knew???

I am no mr steal yo girl dw (￣▽￣"")

mineheartcanonlybelongtokaeya