#somebody also posted some vein work as well

[isabelleneville]

I really wonder what The Borgias Season Three promotional theme was going to be because it feels half-finished. Especially when only using three of the core cast, no Joanne, no Lotte, no Sean, no Sebastian.

Even this which is in my honest opinion my favourite out of the shoot still feels ..... lacking.

Even the rare rare Season Three pictures are not full either. (Still on the hunt for HQ versions though).

Compared to the full DVD set/s where the art feels completed (though the ones in red use a Lucrezia and Cesare Season Two picture).

For a show that gave us full promotional pictures for Season One and Two it really felt like Showtime was shutting doors early.

[shini--chan]

Ik you just posted a Japan character sheet, but I'm wondering if you could do character sheet I for him as well, when you have the time!!

Love your work!! Take care of yourself.

Thank you very much for your kind words. Take care as well!

Yandere Charater Sheet I

1p! Japan - Kiku Honda

Trigger warnings: suicide, death and killing of pets, murder, manipulation, torture

Attributes - What sort of Yandere is he/she?

Kiku is a very strict yandere. This is partially because of his own personal adherence to Shintoism, partially because of his own experience of personal history. After all, he is an island adrift at sea, with him having to carve out a living with the little he had and hold the line against greater powers. To adapt when needed, to go on the offensive (even when it wasn’t wise or necessary). He is the sort to keep a very short leash on his emotions and impulses, but bottling up his emotions only makes them all the more potent when they bubble to the surface. 

In that sense, he is also capable of extreme passion and eccentric behaviour. Though, it is something that he only really indulges in behind closed curtains and in the dead of night. If somebody were to catch him, it would be premium blackmail material after all. It is in that vein that his obsessive tendencies for you develop. First it is just a flight of fancy that he might entertain, but as time passes, he begins to see more of you, the more he becomes enticed. However, you are the forbidden fruit, and making you a permanent fixture in his life would just invite some many problems. That doesn’t matter in the long run, however, since the more he tries to deny his feelings and the temptation, the harder he falls. For a time being, he’ll try being cold, to scare you away, because in the later stages of his turmoil, he’ll fear that the briefest skin-to-skin contact will make his resolve shatter. 

Though there will come a point where he’ll just give in to prevent his urges from spiralling out of control. And it would be in that stage that he’ll present his caring side. It could be simple things like asking if you’re alright, and what you did on the weekend, to playing doctor should you injure yourself. Naturally, it also extends to more creepy aspects, like installing a listening device in a painting that he’ll give you. Or to give you cook books, household manuals and more “exciting” literature with the intention of preparing you for your future role as his lover. 

You see, the other thing is that he is perfectly lucid about his unhealthy tendencies. While there would be periods in history, or general setting where he wouldn’t care about your finer feelings at all, the fact that your relationship isn't of the mutual, fulfilling sort would haunt him. Especially the factor of him losing control over his own person in some respect is very unsettling to him. Thus, he would seek to erect countermeasures. Like that you are only allowed to talk in positive terms about your relationship, present a united front and all that. Behind closed doors, you may be a bit more open and honest and sometimes a bit hostile, but never very and never often. Kiku also wants to fool himself a bit into thinking everything is alright, and he can only do that if you play along. 

On the flip side, that means that he'll also be indulging. The carrot and the stick, and he intends to make the rewards more incentivising than the punishments. Dates out in the countryside, nights in restaurants and afternoons in small jazz cafes, frequent tastes of the outside world, so that you have little reason to complain. A big house with a nice garden in the countryside is some

 small village where everybody knows everybody. Yet it would turn your prison into a gilded cage, with him always being just a stone's throw away. And ready to dole out punishments if you misbehave. 

Yes, there is also the stick. Perhaps he'll push or shove if he is particularly frustrated or angry, something that gets the message across but doesn't reduce him to being a wife beater. Generally, he doesn't take it well to be reminded of how things between you really are, and that will reflect in his punishments. To him, your "slip-ups" are stains on white cloth - while you can get the worst out usually, shades and other reminders will always remain. In that vein, all your mistakes will remain in mind and thus - the consequences can stretch out over a long period of time. Kiku has a very good memory, and he'll often and gladly remind you of that, so don't push your luck.

Cornering - How would they get you?

It could go either one of two ways, or be a combination of both. The first one being the honey trap, where he presents himself from his best sides, advancing and retreating until he manages to strike the perfect balance to lure you in. To him, it would be like luring in a shy rabbit, and he would view you as just as helpless and cute. In the case your relationship has the chance to develop naturally, then the red flags wouldn’t be obvious and you would be inclined to brush off his more unusual or disturbing behaviour. Indeed, on the largest part, Kiku will make sure to hide his stalker tendencies, his controlling urges and his patronising sides from you. 

Or, the courtship will be of a more disturbing and toxic dynamic. Maybe he is a military conqueror, an invading nation, or a yakuza. Either way, the nature of the bond between you is marked by distaste and a gap in power from the offset and taints the rest of the relationship. The kid gloves are off, and he isn’t inclined to treat you niceless. With you being inferior to him, it is best that you dance to his tune, or else risk being disciplined. Following this scenario, he is also colder with you, more viewing you as a subject that needs to be moulded than a lover that should be catered to.  

Expectations - What do they expect of you?

Cleanliness and orderliness, for one. He holds himself to high standards and expects you to do so as well, and not sweep through his domain like a typhon. Since actions reflect thoughts, and vice versa, he’ll slowly train you to be stringent in hygiene and order if you aren’t already up to his standards. In that he’ll be very strict. While he will acknowledge that rooting out deeply ingrained habits to be hard, he won’t see that as a reason to be lenient. People are most likely to change when pushed out of their comfort zone, thus he doesn’t see any reason to make the process comfortable for you. Besides, he can’t stand it when there is dirt or chaos in his living spaces, so it is something you'll be forced to indulge in.

Another trait that he would require of you is a meassure of independance. The last thing he wants is a partner that he would have to baby. Think for yourself and show some agency. Show that he can leave you only without worrying about you starving in front of a full fridge. Demonstrate that you aren't some pretty bauble that will sit on the couch the whole day unless prodded to do otherwise. Like any good owner, he wants his pet to impress him, but it would be best if you get the inclination to please and appease on your own without any of his input.

Also, you should have some sense of community and the selflessness that comes with it. Japan want to introduce you to his own tight circle of trusted friends and ensnare you in it. Having a social side means that you are also unlikely to simply tear away from him, and, if this trait is of a certain flavour, that you won't simply put yourself before him. And that he can make you channel the energy that you would otherwise use into getting away from him into organising and executing social events.

Be sweet. Compliment him and have an open ear. Sooth his worries and help him even when he isn't being explicit in his request for aid. Run him a warm bath at the end of the day and have his favourite meal prepared. Also, a touch of coyness is appreciated. Tease him playfully, be secretive and make him work for something, but don't deny. Silk hiding steel, in more ways than one. Because he wants you to be soft but not fragile; demure but not spineless. Be the sort to be sharp tongued but also diplomatic and not the sort to cuss. 

Also, he would be drawn to somebody who is decisive and knows what they want. When somebody asks you to choose, don't shrug your shoulders and keep quiet. Have your own goals in life that go beyond having a new car, a bigger office or a promotion. Have a plan. If you play along with his games, he might indulge you. Even if he does wind up crushing your dreams, it doesn't stop him from finding it attractive.

Faded - Would they let go of you in any way?

In the beginning it would be very easy. He is still trying to keep a distance and avoid getting attached, so you have a lot of time to slip through his fingers. Move on, leave Japan, whatever place you're staying at when you meet him. While he'll still covet you, if you cut all ties, then that will fade as the weeks pass. While the pining and dreaming will remain, with your absence it will not grow to an overwhelming obsession. 

The other way to freedom is to win it through a wager or bet, one where the loopholes are nonexistent and therefore he would be forced to allow you to go scott free. Of course, he wouldn’t like this idea at all, so you would have to bring it up in a bet that he would be sure of winning. Even when you are gone, you’ll have to be careful, because he’ll do his very best to convince you to come back to him. Should you then return to Kiku, then you can be sure that he won’t fall for the same trick twice. 

Other than that, you could also slip away when his grip is lax, and if you run fast enough, then you might succeed. This would be most successful in the chaos of war or also political turmoil. Your trail would go cold fast, and he would have more pressing matters to deal with, if the situation is particularly tumultuous.

Punishment - How would they proceed if you do something they disapprove of?

There is the pushing and shoving as mentioned earlier in the text - just a quick outlet for his frustration with a clear message brought across. Nobody harmed, except for a bruised ego.

Then there are the more serious punishments. Sensory deprivation is one of them - be it through numbing creams and solutions, blindfolds or ear muffs. Or by temporarily erasing your smell by making you inhale ammonia vapours. When the hallucinations kick in and the discomfort becomes too great, he'll still push you on. 

There are other things that seem innocuous on the surface but are anything but that. Like making you sit or stand for hours on end without changing positions. For that, he'll tie you down and leave you staring at a white wall. Or, he'll make you clean with bleach and ammonia without protection. Pick up ceramic or glass shards with your bare hands. Or find some mindless repetitive task for you to do the whole day for a week or two.

Other than that, he could fasten a VR set to your head to play horror films/games on it for a few hours. Subject you to flashing lights. Put you on partial anaesthesia. In general, things that you feel out of control of your circumstances because that is the point he wants to drive home - you are not in control of your life, he is.

Though, there are also the old fashioned punishments, that are far harsher. Like executing a friend or family member in front of you and making you watch. This is more designed to break you than anything else. Aside from that, he might make you kill your own pet and skin it. The whole time, he'll be hovering by your shoulder or standing in front of you while he forces you to do it.

Reaction - How would they react to you escaping?

The first physical reaction would be his blood pressure rising and his heart seizing up in shock and panic. To him, you’re so fragile and naive, pure snow that would be so easily sullied if it comes into contact with contaminated influence. In that sense, he must rescue you before you become your own undoing. That is the part of him that makes him act fast and a bit chaotically. The emotions your escape evokes leads him to developing a tunnel vision, where regaining you becomes one of his top priorities. In the event that there are more important matters to settle, then he becomes unable to fully commit and concentrate himself on those affairs. Those close to him might utilise this as a chance to track you, capture you and hand you back to him in order to gain a favour or two. 

Should he be allowed to run wild, then he’ll first scour every millimetre of your shared living space to make sure you aren’t hiding somewhere, or if you have left any clues to your whereabouts. Finding something, anything that can hint on what you’ve done or where you’ve gone can help him. With that in mind, he’ll set out to search your frequent haunts and ask a few subtle questions to coax information out of people that could know where you’ve gone. Who knows, maybe he’ll up the whole game and put out a missing person announcement and force you to play along with it all. The consequences of your disobedience would be the deaths of family and friends, public humiliation on their part, or loss of credibility on your part. Generally, his word will carry more weight than yours, so he’ll be able to silence you quickly should you get mouthy. 

Though, he’ll also be furious about your flight, so you’ll have to accept punishments, and that is a category where he can be especially creative. The anger would help him laser focus on the task of bringing you back home and will colour every interaction he’ll have with you for months after your return. In total, he’ll be frightened about you not being at his side and furious about the notions that led to the situation in the first place and wouldn’t shy away from reminding you about that for the longest time. 

Turnabout - Scenario: You have the upper hand? What would be different from their usual MO? 

Kiku would elect to keep his lips sealed about his discomfort. Sometimes, it isn’t even about having the subjectively having more power in any given moment, but about controlling certain variables. In that case, perhaps he’ll weasel himself into a position where he can steer you into doing what he wants. It is not impossible, since you can't second guess every single one of his actions. Not to forget - it is not as if either of your objects or goals are diametrically opposed; sometimes they compliment each other. As such, doing what he wants can be beneficial to both of you. 

Likewise, not every action you undertake could or will hurt him; sometimes you might have the intention of hurting but unwittingly do the opposite. 

Generally though, he'll be playing it all by ear. As soon as you think you are in total control and that you have nothing to worry about, then you'll be the most vulnerable. Though, if you are so gullible and arrogant to believe yourself untouchable, then he'll be happy to humour you. Perhaps he'll grow to like the changed roles, particularly if it allows him constant access to you. If that isn't the case, then he'll bend as the situation demands and when the opportune moment arrives, turn the tables once again. 

Vengeance - What would they do in the face of competition? 

As much as having competition makes his blood boil, he doesn't want to go overboard. After all, since so many of those vying for you are only minor threats, they are only annoying and don't warrant a strong response. Since oversized fly swatters would draw too much attention, he'll just settle for harsh glares and sharp words. If that doesn't help, then consequences in the form of demotions and public shaming. Perhaps he'll even ruin a marriage or family, or two. 

If that doesn't work, then he'll have to turn to more drastic methods, maybe even give the person(s) in question a good talking two. Humans can be so fragile, especially when isolated. Having your ties to the world cut and your points of stability shattered is agonising, so much so that some decide to end it all with a … jump.

Of course, there are times when his more possessive tendencies kick in. Should he be able to get away with it easily, then decapitation and the severing of limbs will happen much earlier. Though, if he has to keep legal boundaries in mind, then he'll exercise more restraint. Outright killing leaves too much evidence so how about being buried alive? Or drowning while being weighed down with lead weights. It could also be an accident, like being stuck in a house fire, or losing your footing while mountaineering and falling to your death. 

Art is not mine: from Irina Vinnik and other artists

Info an the Yandere Character Sheets

[selkies-and-cycles]

taking the advantage of the uptick in enjou posts to post this old Dain + Enjou thing i started but never finished

In Enjou's eyes, there was barely a trace left of the wandering knight that always stubbornly opposed the Abyss, and more so just an exhausted man in pain.

...Well, Enjou didn't particularly feel bad for the guy, but he did falter a bit. The knight seemed oddly pathetic like this, slumped over and writhing in pain at this derelict bottom of the Chasm. Even from here, the dark bags under Dainsleif's eyes were stubbornly evident, making the guantness in his tired face all the more profound.

Besides, honestly, Enjou respected Dain! He was far more interesting than basically anyone else he knew, except for maybe the Traveler. Stories from other Abyss Order members about how Dain always berated them with sarcastic comments and swift fighting skills had always amused Enjou, even though he had no wish to be on the receiving end of the man's sword.

Well, maybe a little- Enjou found getting beat up a little exhilarating, but he knew Dain would waste no time in murdering him, so that kind of took the fun out of it.

Enjou, though, didn't want to kill Dain, but he also didn't want to just leave the guy here- somebody else would come and finish him off.

Killing him would be boring, leaving him here would just result in the same thing, just slower, and waking him up? Even if Enjou could, and Dain wasn't severely incapacitated, Enjou would be dead before he could say a word.

So...

Could he just straight up save the guy?

Enjou mused the possible consequences of his future actions as he stared down at the man slumped against the pillar before him.

Of course, Dainsleif was the main enemy of the Abyss- aside from Celestia, obviously- and he'd probably get bonus rank points for finishing the man off. But Enjou was just the highness's scribe, and although 'Grand Scribe' or something official was a nice title, he really had no interest in actually having to do more work in the Abyss Order. Besides, Dainsleif actually had a bite to his personality that made him an interesting enemy, and it wasn't like anyone had ever expected to be able to kill the Twilight Sword, with him being immortal like them…

Well, that was good enough reasoning for Enjou.

Enjou huffed, floating down to grab the man by the collar with surprising ease. Sure, Enjou had abyssal strength, but he was still just a scholar! There was no reason lifting a mostly-human unconscious man like this should be so simple.

Enjou hummed, shaking Dain slightly. "Helloooo?" He tried.

No response, as he expected. The man's head lolled in his grip, corrupted blue veins pulsing at the pale skin of his neck.

"Hm. I suppose that device almost did what it should have." Enjou mused before grabbing Dain by the middle. Perhaps he should be more delicate about this, but it was kind of funny to see the enemy of the Abyss just... flopping around. And besides, Enjou was never known for his tact. "Do you even eat anything?" He asked the unconscious man as he opened a portal. "I mean, I suppose I should save that for when you wake up, but still. You weigh less than some of the tomes I read!"

[lunaticludwig]

Pixel Art practice (Days 1-8)

Hello, Tumblr. A week ago I decided to start learning pixel art properly with daily practice. So I thought I might share some of my stuff on here time to time.

Day 1

I wanted to start big with an art of a diamond on a pedestal of sorts, however I didn't get to finish it, as I decided to work with smaller canvases (64x64 compare to 16x16 that are used later) but still it deserves a mention.

Days 2 & 3

This is when I went to smaller canvas and I thought: "Hmm, I might as well redesign Minecraft items". And so on day 2 I made this diamond sword and on day 3 I made the golden apple. Notice how the former doesn't have an outline, but the latter does. I wasn't sure whether or not to use outline, lol.

Day 4

Might have been the most unproductive day. Originally I wanted to experiment with 3D shapes like cubes and spheres, but I was so consumed by the shading techniques, I tried to figure out how does dithering work and just made this crap...

Day 5

I was still experimenting with the outline as well as shading. I also might have been hungry while drawing.

Days 6-8

Those were the days I had the most fun with. I decided to redraw the items from The Binding of Isaac. I would just open a website with all items listed and pick a random item to draw by their ID. Can you guess all the items I've drawn?

Ok, on day 6 I drew Binky, Spider Bite and Leprosy (first three items in the top left), then on day 7 I drew Teleport!, Bloody Lust, Worm Friend, The Pinking Shears and Cracked Orb, and lastly on day 8 I drew Inner Child, Lemon Mishap, Varicose Veins (aka the Shrimp), 2Spooky, Rubber Cement, Ghost Pepper and The Virus. I should also mention that different item sprite have different resolutions, and so I tried fit them all into a 16x16 pixels format (e.g. the original Spider Bite sprite is a lot wider than mine, and Teleport! is a bit taller, and shaped a bit differently, but who cares), I guess the only outlier is Ghost Pepper that I didn't want to collide with other sprites.

That wraps up my first week. I want to keep going, regardless of what's going on in my life. If somebody sees this post, don't hesitate to give criticism. That's all for now, peace.

[some-pers0n]

Two things.

Number one, I'm here from your science party fic and oh my GOD? I adore how you wrote all of the mercs, especially Medic! He's a wonderful balance of silly, scary, and just...Generally unhinged. Wonderful. Amazing. Mwah. Thank you sm for feeding my science party brain.

Number two. I saw your ship post about them and the option to ask abt others. Taking you up on that,,,, what're the other tf2 ships you enjoy? Infodumping can get draining so dont sweat it if you dont want yk: I'm just curious!

!! Thank you so much!! I love writing all of the mercs so much,, and with Medic I put 110% of my effort and energy into  making him the manic and eccentric maniac that I know and love. What a little goofball. Same with the others. They're all so much fun to write with their wacky personalities and such. I'm glad I was able to give something to the other Science Party fans and make more propaganda for the ship. <3

Now for the ships. I've got a lot of neutral opinion, but I'll just ramble about some that I like quite a bit in particular, namely Red Oktoberfest, Sniper/Spy, Speeding Bullet, Napoleon Complex, Boots N' Bombs, etc. They're not going to be nearly as in-depth as with my Science Party ramble, but I just like em'.

Now, onto the others. I really like Red Oktoberfest. It's like Science Party, though I wouldn't say Heavy is nearly as unhinged as Engie. It's sweet and nice, but I prefer Science Party over it just because I prefer Medic and Engie's dynamic. Still really nice. I also love reading that one 13k word essay on Ao3 that goes into detail on all of the content on it every now and then.

Speeding Bullet is another one I like. I like the two of them just being together and goofing around. They truly are the ADHD vs Autism ship. I do like Sniper's more collected attitude and Scout's rambunctious behavior and the two of them butting heads. The ship also reminds me of how Sniper is only four years older than Scout, which is wild to me. I always think of him in his late thirties as opposed to being like...26 when he first meets the team.

In a similar vein, I like Sniper/Spy. I can see the two of them bickering with each other because of the other's lifestyle (Sniper throws jars at people and lives in a van while Spy is French), but overall having some sort of respect for each other because of their professionalism. They do care about each other, even if they don't like saying it.

Boots N' Bombs is a classic. I love how Valve just created an entire update and so much content for these two. They work really quite well together. It's amazing how well their personalities compliment each other and there's plenty of room for both humor and angst. They're really just neat.

Napoleon Complex is just neat. I like it. I find their personalities clash, but really match on another. Engie's laid-back and hardworking salt-of-the-earth nature and Spy's more up-tight and professional vibe is just nice.

Again, most of these I see as being platonic. I do like considering and watching others portray them as romantic, but I overall see them all as close friends. I've got a lot of writing ideas on all of those ships though.

Pyro I don't really ship with anybody mostly because I see them as That Guy. Not exactly a little sibling or somebody who can't feel love or show emotion, but I can't really...see them as ever being involved with anybody romantically. I am an unlabeled any-pronouns single Pyro fan. They just wanna be friends and have a tea party with the whole team.

But, now I suppose is the time where I let the two ships that've spawned from the depths of my psyche out onto the world. I should mention that I'm a delusional fanfic writer, meaning I that when I see a character, my first thought would be how they would react to another character. This is how you get rarepairs, folks.

With that being said, I like Merasmus & Medic and Pauling/Bronislava.

I'm not going to elaborate further.

[edsforehead]

Reposting this. Saw this photo and has some Thots.

Imagine an au where this version of Steve is rockstar!eddie’s bands wealthy manager. Filthy rich for discovering and managing some of the world biggest bands. He’s got houses all over the world, smokes cigars, loves collecting vintage cars. A bachelor, with women throwing themselves at him hoping to become Mrs. Harrington. Though he’s never been officially tied to anyone, he’s usually rumored to be casually seeing a few women - models, actresses, the daughter of so-and-so, assistants, and so on.

You’ve been hired to be his/Corroded Coffins’s assistant, helping with the day to day needs like making sure they get the food and beverages they want, helping keep things running smoothly, helping him keep tabs on the band etc.

- Imagine EITHER you hook up and spent time together, and begin doing “relationship-y” things, but it’s not a ‘real’ relationship, and you’re currently the only girl he’s seeing, right? Angst ensues while he denies his feelings for you(has a history of family neglect/trauma and all that). Turns into him being possessive and breedy as fuck. You’re his, your pussy is his, your womb is his. No man can so much as look at you.

- OR a steddie X reader situation. To no one’s surprise you start hooking up with the bands frontman, Eddie. He’s confident, cocky, and drips sex appeal. But then, over time, you also get involved with Steve. Though your relationship started as strictly professional, it’s just something that happened over the course of many late nights of work, work drinks, etc. As much as you tried you couldn’t resist how he looked with his slicked back hair, the sleeves of his button up pushed up to show off his toned forearms, thick vein runnjng down the front of them. His commanding presence.

It gets to the point where you’re just their sex toy. You’ll be in the recording studio before anyone arrives, on your knees while Eddie fucks your mouth and Steve’s fucking your pussy, each getting off on how well you’re taking them, how obedient you are for them.

After their shows you know to be on your knees in the dressing room, skirt pushed up and panties pushed down, so Eddie can bound in, glistening with sweat, and pound your hole to work off some of his post show high, covering you with sweat and sloppy kisses. Pre-show you’re between his legs in cock worship, lazily suckling and licking him while Steve watches, and when it’s time for him to go up on stage he just zips up and goes, hard on still visible. Then Steve gets behind you and glides your panties down, fabric sticking to your wet pussy, whispering in your ear about what a good whore you are. Then he slides in, fucking you slowly until he fills you full of his cum. They’ve got you on birth control at this point so they can cum in you as often and as much as they want, even though Steve especially loves the feeling of cumming in you knowing there’s nothing to prevent his seed from taking.

While they’re talking about the upcoming album, Steve will motion you over with two fingers. You sit in his lap while he fondles you, first your tits and then your cunt, circling your clit, casually still talking business while eddie watches, as if nothings happening. After a few moments when they sense you’re close they’ll wind down their conversation and have you on your back or on your knees, stripped of your clothes, making you cum over and over again while they take you.

Everyone’s happy with this situation, but you notice over time Steve wants more alone time you. Giving a steely eyed scowl to any of the roadies or male employees that check you out, putting his hand on your lower back when another man flirts with you. Even more obsessed with filling you up and watching his cum drip out of your pussy..

Somebody make this happen… I need wealthy!playboy!bandmanager!Steve 😵‍💫

[lsdunesarchive]

L.S. Dunes at the 100.3 The X Rocks Acoustic X Session (Boise, ID) | Part 2 | July 31, 2023

Transcript under the cut

Host: L.S. Dunes live in Studio 1X, thank you very much for coming in and performing acoustically, that was absolutely awesome. Grey Veins, of course, that particular song, I would love to give you a chance to sound off on some of the video drama that is surrounding that particular song, I know that it's taken some heat over the last couple of days, and... Lego’s just being dicks, is that what it comes down to, essentially?

Frank: Oh, you can say "dicks"?

Travis: You can say that?

Anthony: You can say "dicks"?

Travis: That's a bad word for a penis!

Host: Yeah, sometimes, but if you are talking about somebody's personality, it makes it okay, you see?

Frank: Yeah, okay.

Anthony: There's some, like, low level, like, lawyers over at Lego that are just like, they're bored. They're like, "Oh, we found this thing...", and we didn't even use Legos in the actual video, they're, like, fake Legos, but I guess, because they look enough like Legos, and there's enough there that they're trying to mess with us.

Host: Are we holding out hope that everything gets cleared at some point or is there, like, there's no way you got to start from scratch?

Travis: No, no.

Frank: No.

Anthony: There's no hope. When you're fighting a corporate beast like that, triple-headed...

Frank: Very deep pockets. They'll, kind of, litigate 'til you're, you know, out of open money. I mean, it's one of those things where, yes, they, you know, there's a copyright there, but we used an offmarket brand. We thought we'd be safe enough to do something like that. Also, with changing the faces around, and making sure that it was kind of, like, you know, a little bit more custom. I guess the silhouette is not custom enough, so they decided they want us to take the video down off of YouTube, and stuff like that. However, if I were a fan of the band, and not in the band, and not being, you know, litigated, I would probably take that video and post it everywhere, you know, anywhere I could possibly put it.

Anthony: Everywhere.

Frank: And I think that the label would provide that to me if I asked them.

Host: Alright! Well, listen, that's all hypothetical, of course.

Frank: Yeah, hypothetical, that's what I'd do.

Host: Yeah, that's what makes sense. But I do appreciate, you know, sometimes it's difficult when you have this vision and somebody's telling you that you can't let people see it, definitely.

Frank: Well, especially when it's like a creative tool that's been given to you as a child, right...

Anthony: Do you know how many Legos I've eaten? So many...

Host: You can find that song on Past Lives, the album that came out tail end of last year. I'm a bit of a music dork about this kind of stuff, but I noticed that you had Will produce this particular album. You guys have some individual experience producing? Was there a reason why you wanted to go that route with somebody outside the band? Was it just your connection with him, Anthony, or was it something else?

Anthony: It wasn't just a singular thing. I think everybody has had interactions with Will that, you know, sort of, have shine light on what he's, what his, you know, why he's so good at what he's doing. So, you know, I came into the situation with him as my guy, and I think everybody sort of felt it out, and it just made the most sense to to have him working on it. What he does is so incredible, and he can be, you know, a member of the band if you need him to be, he can just sit back and let you do your thing, and everything he does sounds next level, and nobody works harder on a record besides the band... Like, I've never met a producer that works so hard, morning, noon and night, and will stop everything in their life to make sure that, you know, if you needed... I've literally driven...

Frank: We're still negotiating the price on the next record.

Anthony: I've literally driven to the studio to change, like, two words at, like, 9:30 at night, like, "I don't like this one thing, I want to change it". He's like, "Okay".

[crystals-and-claws]

Who is Nox's mom, anyway?

I have mentioned Nox's mom quite a few times, but never quite elaborated on who she is.

Might make a DnD character sheet for her at some point.

The post below is long

Her name is Emi Rosath - hence Nox's alias as 'Nox Rosath' - and she is 40 years old.

She is a changeling with elven blood in her veins, so despite being 40 she appears to be a few years younger. Even without that aspect, however, her main face is that of an older female drow.

She works as a performer for a wide variety of high-society events, often brought in as the main singer. She is the reason Nox can sing quite well, even though he has performance anxiety.

Her song is the source of her magic, as she is able to enhance, heal and enchant with her voice. She is also able to do so with any instruments she knows how to play, but she prefers to sing.

A former criminal, she has the symbol of her previous 'employees' branded into her back - a precaution taken as not to lose one of their precious assets. She keeps it hidden with the help of makeup done by a trusted artist or a harness when she wears clothes that cover her enough.

She became a criminal after their sibling was presumably murdered by police after they were caught. Emi managed to escape, but not long after was kidnapped by her former 'employees' when she was confused for their sibling, as Emi was the younger one.

Nox is not aware of Emi's background, but he is aware she is a changeling - although Emi believes he does not.

Emi adopted Nox when she found him alone on the side of the road. At the time he was about ten and did not speak. He already had the crystals grow out of his body and seemed malnourished at the time. She did nurse him back to health in the following weeks, trying her best to get him to communicate in some way while hiding him from her boss.

She always wanted to run away from this life, despising those she was forced to work for and her position as an "interogator" – Nox's appearance was the push she needed to go through with that decision. Thus, she used her "interrogation" skills to procure herself the needed money before taking Nox and going as far as she could. But this did not last long, as she soon found herself working in the same potion for a man she only knew as "The Jailer" in order to keep herself and Nox safe from her past.

The Jailer was much fairer of a boss, allowing whatever methods Emi found suitable to be used – not just the painful ones. Although she was once again despised whom she worked for, this was better. She had a chance to raise Nox properly; he was not forced to watch possibly innocent people get tortured; and she had a lot more freedom than before.

Raising Nox was its own challenge. The boy did not speak for months and was hard to read even for somebody as knowledgeable as Emi. He did do something unless told: shower, sleep, get out of bed. He would not even eat if not told.

They did share one passion though. Singing. Emi, after being separated from their sibling, would find herself sing everytime she was stressed – their sibling would sing for her whenever she couldn't sleep – and Nox's first vocalisation would be joining her in an attempt to comfort.

At the time Nox was getting out of his shell, less afraid to express his emotions and taking more action without being ordered to. First starting with just wordless vocalisations, Emi would slowly teach Nox's to speak and read again through song.

She could not simply send him to school like this or hire a tutor, so she put in the work to teach him herself whenever she found time.

At the same time, she was given a secondary role as 'The Jailer' would bring her to events as an emergency replacement to the 'suddenly' missing singer. Being a changeling allowed her to train her voice much easier and match whatever performance was needed of her.

This fact would later give her the connections needed to live as she does now. After the Jailer's disappearance, she took off as a performer and now lives at the main hotel she performs.

Nox has left her nest since then, but still visits and sends letters.

She is unaware her son is working for the same man she has worked for before

[bookandcover]

Beyond The Story: The 10-Year Record of BTS

A few weeks ago I was chitchatting at work about how I was reading this book and my friend Caleb asked me whether there was anything in the book that I didn’t already know. This question gave me pause, and a moment of appreciation for the fact that he saw me as a super fan, somebody very well-informed about BTS, which I am (naturally obsessive and deeply obsessed with this, in particular, for nearly 9 years), but I so rarely think of myself in this way. More often, I feel aware of how little I actually know about BTS and how much more I wish that I could know about them. There’s a part of this book where a similar sentiment is expressed by BTS about their fans, ARMY. The writing of “Boy With Luv,” lead single from the Map of the Soul: Persona album, is framed around this curiosity; BTS is turning their attention back on the fans that have been with them for so long. They’re aware that their diverse global fan base lives so many different lives, and yet has some thing unshakable and special in common. The song “Boy With Luv” begins with questions as the members of BTS wonder about ARMY’s days. This moment in the book was, in a certain sense, something I did know about because I���d experienced the first iterations of these questions back in 2019. I remember being in The Galapagos on vacation when I took time to reply to Jimin and J-Hope’s posts on Twitter including these lines from the yet-unreleased song. They seemed to be just asking ARMY about their days. I remember being excited because my day had been so exciting (I had something to share!) and I remember posting a photo I had taken of a beautiful, iridescent crab that I wished Namjoon could see. It was such an interesting moment: I felt this longing, this need to share with BTS, this wanting to be closer to them. To now see this moment framed from BTS‘s perspective in this book and to understand this as a deliberate choice on their part to begin the song in this way made me smile. Yes, of course I knew BTS wanted to ask ARMY these questions, but to read about their curiosity and their thought-processes in this book took me outside of myself and reframed that moment. My experiences were filtered through BTS’s eyes, which was the key thing that was new to me in reading this book. The threads of connection they perceive, and the care and forethought in planning certain things and making certain choices—so much of that was new to me, even though the things themselves were familiar.

In this vein, I remember noting early on while reading that the interviews with the members of BTS and their direct quotes reflecting on how they felt during certain periods of time throughout their careers were the most revealing and the best parts of this book. I also particularly enjoyed the quotes from Bang PD and his perspective on BTS, as individuals and as a collective. Of course, these quotes give me a new understanding of how the members felt as they struggled through some of the darker moments of their careers. I reflected that my favorite BTS albums, namely Dark & Wild and Love Yourself: Tear, seem to be the products of the darkest eras. I don’t think I was aware of this, at least with the level of concreteness communicated in this book that allowed me to draw a clear link between BTS collective mental/emotional state and the artistic out-put of these albums. While this book repeatedly emphasizes BTS’s professionalism—they show up and they do the work, regardless of anything else going on—these albums seem connected with BTS’s most pivotal emotional traumas and I wonder whether that is something I’m connecting to in these particular albums and, if so, is my love for these particular albums a strange way to feel? These albums have been ones I’ve turned to in moments of emotional disorientation, confusion, and trauma in my life, yet something I have always valued about these albums is the fact that though several of the songs are sad or emotionally-fraught, they are still addictive. I can listen to these albums over and over again and internalize them. These songs aren’t sad in a way that makes me sadder, but in a way that makes me calm, reflective, and engaged with my own feelings. I am feeling and I feel with more self-awareness, as “Outro: Tear” loops in my car. 

BTS’s interviews in this book, in addition to revealing to me a new and intimate understanding of how they felt or how they struggled (though I should say less “new” than simply “different,” as I’ve clearly felt for years the articulation of these emotions through their songs and through their performances), also granted me new windows into their self-perception and their perception of each other. I love those golden insights into who they are and what they care about as they perceive each other. I was struck, yet again, by how carefully the members of BTS perceive each other. Again, this is something I already know, but now I know it in a new way because of this set of interviews. I remember reading V's description of how different Jimin is from him, and I felt how confused he was at a certain point to see Jimin’s overwhelming drive, even desperation, to succeed, contrasted to V’s self-perception that he lived in the moment, accepting things as his fate. Jimin, V saw, struggled against everything, took everything so deeply seriously. I remember Jin’s way of describing going fishing with Suga; I remember Jungkook talking about his trip to Japan with Jimin and how seriously he took his decision to come to Big Hit because of RM. I’m consumed by J-Hope talking about his full immersion in the world of rap and hip-hop when everyone in that first dorm lived and breathed music. These are stories that I know, but I know them in a new way now.

A third thing that I knew, but re-learned, about BTS (like an affirmation of something that I’ve always known) is their ability to take risks to reinvent themselves and to pivot as artists. This is something that Doris and I have talked about before, the risks BTS has taken at moments in their career when they’ve done something dramatically differently than what they did before. For example, there was no precedent for the Love Yourself series, which seemingly came out of nowhere, as if BTS completely reinvented the wheel to create this approach to lyricism, aestheticism, and narrative. The same thing could be said for The Most Beautiful Moment in Life series. HYYH was the time at which I was just becoming a BTS fan and so I didn’t understand in listening to that music how what they were doing with these albums was such a dramatic choice to try something different, to express something authentic but new. This book helped me see how deliberate those choices were; those choices were not made blindly, but were deliberate creative leaps, and it wasn’t enough for BTS to just think of the next step slightly ahead, but to reach for something out of a wholly different lifetime and reality. I have such strong appreciation for BTS’s capacity for reinvention, in part because of this book. 

Something that surprised me, however, was the book’s focus on curated promotions centering these deliberate directional, artistic choices made with each album in each era. The book emphasized the role of Big Hit in the curated promotional schedule. This effort and planning was framed as being deviated from dramatically with the release of the BE album in 2020. For BE, there was no longer a plan to follow a particular promotional schedule with set traditions around types of promotional content, and, instead, interested was generated organically through individual members uploading YouTube Lives, in which they did things like paint or dance or talk about the album, that were simply the product of their daily lives during the pandemic. I think this way of talking about curated promotional content surprised me because I have always felt BTS to be so deeply organic. Yes, their work is carefully crafted and curated, full of thoughtful artistry, but to me that has never seemed like anything other than the natural byproduct of wanting to present polished work with layers of artistic nuance. To think of the things that came before an album as carefully curated promotions, done on behalf of the company, surprised me, but I could also see how the perspective of this book would be more centered in the “behind the scenes” (pun intended) aspects of work at the company and the philosophy behind the collective artistic choices that were being made. 

I realized that something that may be contributing to this difference between how I have viewed BTS’s promotional content and the way this book describes this content is that BTS’s promotional content is so human-centered. Their promotions feature themselves, showing parts of their artistry and their decisions and showcasing their work process for the viewers. Even a BTS photoshoot is done with real artistry because the members are thinking carefully about how to express their emotions in a still photo, while deconstructing and exploring the roots of these same feelings through music on the album. When someone says “promotional content” I think of something much less human and much more artificial; I think of the way Western promotional content rarely puts the artist front and center. Western promotional content might be, on the whole, less curated than fragmented, as companies make financially-driven decisions and try to engage the audience through the cheap gimmick of unanswered questions or a tantalizing glimpse into the aesthetic that the viewers or listeners should expect from the upcoming tour or album. BTS’s promotional content, on the other hand, has always felt more like textured world-building surrounding the album than fragments of the thing itself. One excellent example of this is the way ARMY have joked for years that the teaser for a MV doesn’t sound anything like the song itself. The teaser doesn’t work like “a tease” of the song, and instead works like complementary content for the song, to get you wondering about the creative landscape that is beginning to come into focus for you, the fan. 

Perhaps a narrative is inevitably created in retrospect when we look back on the project of 10 years. It’s easy to draw connections, to see the way in which BTS built on something that had come before while making a huge creative leap and taking a real risk (the risk being whether or not an audience, who is familiar with and enjoyed a certain type of thing, would follow the same group of creators to a totally different thing and enjoy that, too) at every turn. For BTS to have succeeded in their wide-ranging creativity, ARMY must be people who like, and will engage with, a variety of kinds of art and music. I feel this to be true of myself (I often say “I read anything,” “I listen to anything,” I’m here for something that is high-quality and thoughtful and moves me and it doesn’t matter what genre it is, that genre itself seems irrelevant—existing only so far as to be questioned and recombined, to be thought inside of and outside of simultaneously). I am glad to see that there are so many fans who love and identify with this creative breadth. I remembered while reading the section about CONNECT: BTS (an effort BTS made in 2020 to work with visual artists on a global scale) that I thought at the time how it was almost surreal the way in which BTS were the perfect artists for me, emotionally and intellectually, producing the exact kind of thinking about art that was exciting and rewarding to me, as somebody who cared about interdisciplinary connections and philosophical exploration of the self and why human beings create and why we care about foraging connections with other humans through art. 

I can’t separate myself far enough from BTS to know whether or not BTS became who I would most want them to be or I became who would best be able to see them. It’s a kind of co-evolution, and isn’t that bizarre? How could it be? That I would be influencing them, in turn? And yet, of course I am, as one of millions of diverse ARMY, somehow on a collective wavelength, curious about each other, meeting to intermingle and spark new directions. 

On page 335 - 336 of this book, J-Hope talks about the process of coming to “know one’s self” and how connected self-knowledge is to self-love. J-Hope says, “LOVE YOURSELF, while it has the message to love yourself, on the one hand I thought, 'what kind of person am I?’ I studied myself a lot during that time and I came to the realization that I had a bright energy and that I was someone who could pass that energy on to others….Also, as I looked at ARMY, I came to think once again, ‘that’s right, this is who I am.’ That was the journey.” The book says “like j-hope says, it was actually a process to ‘know yourself’ in order to find out if you can ‘love yourself.’ No matter who you are, this is a process that is inevitably ongoing, and there isn’t one single answer.” This is what I expressed and realized in my writing last summer in the poem that says, “I have come to realize, shamefully late, / that to know myself / is the central act of self-love.” I know that BTS has helped me to see this, and also somehow, in some small way, I have helped BTS to see this. That is a bizarre thought, but it also makes sense because this understanding is not something that we are creating, but a truth we are uncovering. Somehow the set of experiences of being BTS and being ARMY over this past decade is a process through which this truth is uncovered: that the effort of getting to know one’s self is worth any degree of effort, as it means you love yourself if you engage with discovering who you are, if you show yourself the care of thinking deeply about who you are so that you will come to know yourself.

This book, I assume for BTS and also for me, is part of that process of self-discovery, of knowing how to reflect on oneself to process and engage with one’s own thinking. For me, then, to reflect on BTS and, through them, on myself is an act of self-love and self-knowing. This book is “the 10 Year Record of BTS” and I’m sure that BTS would be the first to say, “it is also, therefore, the 10 Year Record of ARMY.” This is not because BTS “owes their career to ARMY” or something so simplistic, but because BTS has ARMY like a mirror that we hold up to each other. If I spend time learning new things about BTS, as I long to, what I’m doing simultaneously is learning new things about myself. So, of course, there were things in this book I didn’t know; there were the things that I didn’t know about myself, and Caleb was right to ask me that question because he thinks of me an expert, just like he’d be right to ask me if there were things I didn’t know about myself. Aren’t we surely experts on ourselves, we all assume? And yet, the more I learn, the more I come to know how much more there is to learn about me. 

[veil-over-miitopia]

This is what happens when you leave it to somebody else;

If you want it done right, you should just do it yourself.

You oversaturate your world with nothing but machines.

You might make everyone happy, but you're-

dead inside just like me.

🍂✨🍂✨🍂

(TW: Child abuse, depictions of PTSD, mentions of drug abuse, graphic mentions of gore and starvation, insomnia)

(please, I cannot emphasize these warnings enough, especially the first one; if they even make you the slightest bit uncomfortable, please close this post's tab asap)

Master Leander, also usually known as Magnus, of House Maheras; a frail, softspoken, yet determined and gentle man who has found himself to be a member of the royal guard thanks to his incredible otherworldly prowess- a fountain of Natura magic flowing through his veins that, when in the right concentration, could send his enemies flying...as well as himself towards the opposite direction from time to time. To this day, he's still training and doing his best to contain and better control his magic.

Prior to the skies' death, he's operated his own flowers-and-book shop not too far away from the castle and the then-modest local graveyard. Its humble appearance reflected its owner, down to its signature flora, the "forget-me-not". He was also noted to be especially kind towards children who popped up in his shop, even going the extra mile to give them a free flower with a smile on his face.

In spite of his timid mannerisms and quiet demeanor, there is a strong-willed side to him; there isn't a second that passes by without him offering a way to help his circle of friends, namely Princess Halinka and Prince Dakarai, and work on his magic. It is a drive to improve himself- to save the rest around him and repay them for all they did (he and Kai would get along just fine)...and for granting him refuge all those years ago.

The abridged version of the events surrounding the house's fall from grace were...mostly true. The patriarch of the family, Leander's adoptive father, had plunged the entire house into debt for all the kingdom to see, and, in the process, the young lord was eventually taken out of there for his own safety after a series of disastrous events leading up to the dissolution of family that used to fund the research of magic in Greenhorne.

A shorter tale that gets right to the point, a story that was deemed to be...sanitized enough so that those who speak of it wouldn't have to feel the need to pause themselves in the midst of explaining the finer details just by thinking of the sheer cruelty a child like himself at the time had to go through...

Indeed, this is but a crumb of what the people of Greenhorne have deemed to be one of their greater controversies in latter years; yet another piece of the puzzle that reveals exactly how rotten the noble families that puppeteered the finer workings of their country could be. The true horrors behind House Maheras' closed doors still itch behind Leander's haunted eyes, and will continue to breathe down his neck without hesitation. It shall haunt him during his waking hours without ceasing for as long as it could, even after the rooster's call heralded the start of another day.

It was a challenge to exactly pinpoint the event that marked the beginning of the family's downfall; some say that Queen Echidna's visit to their house showcased the first crack in their foundations after a young Dakarai met him and was horrified by the sight of his all-too fresh burn marks and famished figure, while others claimed that hard drugs were the catalyst behind everything crashing down around them - as they were no strangers to these substances even before Leander was introduced to the family -.

No matter how they would perceive it, the complete lack of humanity within the heads of the Maheras family was a common theme in each person's retelling of events. To exert control over a child like him, destroying him from the inside-out for the sake of enforcing control, callousness, or even amusement, was inexcusable in itself, no matter how much they would try to hide their actions behind the excuse that it was all necessary to "discover the inner-workings of his magical potential". All that, and we still haven't touched upon how they would so often parade the boy in the public eye, as if he was some poor soul who was "saved" by these beasts and granted a "safer and happier life"...

Cameras flashed and the crowds roared; everyone was piling on one another right outside the doors of their home just to catch a sight of what's to arrive outside. Amaryllis, one of King Serapheim's personal guards, had to lead the rest of the soldiers through the entire ordeal; if it wasn't the weight of the situation that has caused her iron will and posture to waver, then the smell sure as hell did the job.

All her life, Amaryllis thought to herself that nothing would be worse than the scent of dried blood mixed with the petrichor of the battlefield. What had hit her as soon as she opened those doors, meshed with the sight of what can be described as "shattered humanity", destroyed that belief almost instantly.

True terror was not to be found in the midst of the battle. Rather, it lies in the wounds of what was meant to be a safe haven for the common folk.

After what seemed like hours of anticipation, the young boy was finally escorted out; his impossibly frail and fragile figure was carefully held by Amaryllis as she made her way to King Serapheim's vehicle.

The people screamed and yelled at the sight; amongst the burn marks, messy wounds where needles were supposedly jabbed into, and dark bruises present for all to see, there lied bright yellow infections and gashes that managed to hit bone. He was a living skeleton by the time he was "rescued", and his eyes...his all-too sunken eyes covered with rheum and crust that he struggled to keep open...

He should have long deceased, yet, in spite of these unspeakable horrors, Leander lived.

Not too long after, the heads of the household were taken away by the rest of the soldiers; their crazed looks, erratic motions, and high-pitched screaming didn't stop said soldiers from finally delivering justice by personally throwing them into their own filthy cells, where they would eventually live out the rest of their pathetic lives rotting and alone. To countless Greenhornites, however, said justice arrived too little, too late.

Against his own wishes, Leander became the talk of Aeronian* households across the nation; his scars were simply viewed as points to speak about, he was not given a second's rest without eyes peering from every corner, and the finger-pointing coming from those who managed to recognize the child throughout the years never failed to make him immediately shy away and hide away in any way he could. The years that followed his recovery and rescue weren't easy, and, as time passed, his retreat from the public eye finally paved way for the topic to die down. Nonetheless, this never stopped his fellow Greenhornites from showcasing their pity towards him, even without their own knowledge; their eyes expressed their emotions towards him long before their tongues had the chance.

Though he wishes for others not to worry about him, his crumbling health is evident even on his face; years of insomnia and unrelenting memories took their toll on him, and they have returned with a vengeance after the world's end. In spite of his best efforts to control his sleeping patterns and Natura magic, without even knowing it, he's back to spending countless hours awake and unable to keep the memories at bay. In turn, his health has taken an unimaginable hit, though, to this day, he still stands strong.

It isn't unreasonable to assume that, one day, it will all become too much for him. It will only be a matter of time before he is unable to deny the help he needed from his fellow friends, but only fate will tell how and when this will happen....

*Aeronia= the name of this AU's Miitopia; from Aeonia (eternity) and Aero (Air/Wind)

[fuckzachariah]

It worked for a while. Zach moved into his new place, which felt better than he'd thought. He had chosen to buy his old place at only seventeen years old, and it no longer reflected the man he now was or the things he now needed. Not to mention that, to him, that place was well and truly haunted. The distraction of moving, furnishing and curating was like soothing balm to a weeping wound, and more and more he found that Kylie's presence seemed to sew thread into those same wounds to bind them shut. Despite all his work to exorcise Alex from his system, though, it seemed he still clung to a poisonous hope that perhaps one day they would find their way together. The guilt and indecision he was plagued with each time he caught himself laughing too easily with Kylie, looking at her too long, wanting to call her too often lead him to irrational and unfair behaviors.

Kylie was feeling stranded; kept on an extendable leash he would loosen and tighten on a whim. Sometimes he'd drop it altogether and stalk away alone, other times he'd wrap it around her neck and choke her with it. The vacillation of a star untethered was leaving her with artificial cuts, never scarring but never left alone long enough to heal, either. It was clear to Zach that she was falling for him. He also knew, staring himself down in the hand-streaked clearing in the steam-soaked mirror, that he had intended for her to do so. It was a reassurance to know that he, even in this tattered, abandoned form, was still lovable to somebody. Even if it was the wrong somebody. However, each time they almost amounted to something, he pulled away so forcefully she was left to tend to her own bashed, bloody knees on her own. They were yet to so much as kiss - so out of character for the reputation that preceded him, Kylie knew - and yet she hung on this slow burn kindling like a prayer. She put it down to his recovery in her mind, and this in part was true. Though she detected it was something more, and there was only so long she could hold her tongue. She'd already been holding it for the better part of a year, waiting for him. Always waiting.

Pretending was all well and good. Brotherhood, real family, was even better. But it didn't mean that Zach wasn't out-of-his-fucking-mind bored. All the time. Itching for something, anything, to make his blood buzz in his veins once again. He never thought boredom might be the thing to inch him closer to the path of relapse than recovery. But recovery was slow; though he wrote and made music near constantly, he no longer found he possessed any desire to share it with the world. To put on his Zach Winthrop mask and parade himself around in front of a wailing audience. He didn't even want to party, or fuck hot strangers, or do any of the things he used to derive pleasure from. Now, he only found extreme agitation in his lack of joy. He sought relief in near every-place, but only truly found it in his visits with Warren, and his near incessant internet investigations into Alex.

She was scant online, to his deep irritation; a post here and there, once every month or so, only ever a suggestion of her material form behind the camera. He longed to see her face so badly it felt like a physical pain in his side, a long thorn lodged between his ribs and scraping the underside of his lung so it hurt to breathe. The near-enoughs only made it worse. He knew it wasn't healthy. He knew it was counter-productive to his moving on, to the full recovery he had promised everyone in his life. That he promised to Warren. So he told no one. He kept Alex like a secret, strangled himself with her. It was clear that she had disappeared for some time, and upon her re-emergence, had indulged into something of a relationship with Isaaq. This, strangely, served as more of a comfort to Zach than a sting. His reasoning was sick, in truth. If she was alone, perhaps she was recovering wholeheartedly in the way he didn't feel he could. Learning to live without him, and being happy with it. And if she was with someone other than Isaaq, she was learning to live in a way that was opposite to him and was happy with it.

But Isaaq? She was so close. Close to his lifestyle, close to the people around him, in the same city, sinking into a man's bed who could be his clone. She was so close it kept him up at night; he would shiver into a hypnagogic state of consciousness in the mid-hours, out of sleep, and feel her hovering over him. Her hair would fall down in deep rivulets and tickle his chest, his jaw. He would see her wide eyes glinting off the moon. Her weight would settle on him, or she'd open her mouth to whisper into his ear, and right then she'd disappear before she became too real. He'd sit bolt upright, panting, blinking the empty, dark room into focus and feel the nothingness of her all over again. The fifth time this happened, he was so sick with it that the nausea almost twisted itself up into something physical. He couldn't take it; he had to silence the Alex that haunted his dreams. So he left his new home, got into his new car, and drove to Kylie's home in the middle of the night.

She was so pretty, which helped. It helped to trick him. She answered her door in the type of un-kept pajamas Alex would never wear, bright blonde hair a little frizzy and tangled almost all the way to her hips in a way Alex's sleek, brunette locks never were. She rubbed her diamond-blue eyes, where Alex's were so deep and glinting. They could never be mistaken. She was what he needed now. He needed not-Alex. Alex was red-hot, deep flickering flames in his mind, and Kylie was cool water and a soft breeze. He would use her to smother Alex until she was gone, gone, gone. "Is everything okay?" Kylie croaked, trying to pat her hair down into place, concern for him riddling her face. Zach nodded, stepping into her space so was forced to take a step back, and closed her front door behind him. "Yeah, I'm okay," he lied, but it sounded so honest, he almost believed himself. He took her face in his hands so gently as to barely recognize his own physicality. He felt her pulse quickening in his pinky fingertips, where they dropped down to her neck. "I just needed you," he muttered, leaning down to meet her where she rolled onto her tiptoes to meet him. They kissed, and for those few moments, the ghost-fire of Alex was obliterated in a white flash-bang from the back of his mind.

Alex stood on the balcony, her arms draped over the glass railing that framed her view of the spectacle below. The rhythmic dance of waves crashing against the shore seemed to synchronize with the hues of the setting sun, creating a breathtaking watercolor palette of blue, orange, and lilac that stretched across the canvas of the sky. In moments of introspection, this scene never failed to cast a soothing balm over her troubled thoughts. She glanced over her shoulder and into the living room through the windows, catching a glimpse of Isaaq. He perched casually on the couch, engrossed in a conversation about his upcoming album, his cellphone pressed firmly against his ear. The recent months had proven to be a fortuitous chapter for him, unburdened by the competition and reveling in the exclusive limelight of success. Though she celebrated his achievements, her mind seemed to involuntarily drift toward Zach. She had not actively sought information about him, but it somehow managed to weave its way into her mind. The constant speculation and curiosity surrounding his mysterious disappearance weighed on her, creating a yearning for answers but she resisted the urge to pry. Self-imposed isolation was the only way to escape the relentless whispers of his whereabouts. No radio, no television, no internet. It would be virtually impossible to survive in a world where Zach Winthrop did not exist.

Alex immersed herself in a new relationship with Isaaq, and despite the apparent dissimilarities between him and Zach, there existed a web of connections and shared experiences that tethered them in her mind. Isaaq, in his conversations, often referenced individuals familiar to her through her past association with Zach. Faces and names that she had known intimately, creating memories with them that were uniquely hers. Isaaq’s late night creative sessions, where he poured his passion into composing his music, favored her memories of Zach. The soft strumming of Isaaq’s tattooed fingers across the guitar strings not only stirred déjà vu but, at times, delivered a visceral blow straight to her stomach. She recalled the many moments where she had listened to Zach play, the sound of pencil against paper as he crafted the most beautiful lyrics in her honor. She recognized that these feelings were a normal part of the grieving process, but it hurt. In a determined effort not to falter, she pushed these emotions and memories deep down. This struggle was exacerbated by the absence of substances, which in the past would have provided a temporary escape. She could no longer use them as a crutch. Instead, she found herself confronted with the necessity to cope using the skills she acquired during her time in the multi-million-dollar rehab facility.

Isaaq had proven to be as wonderful as she thought he would be. After summoning the courage to step beyond the confines of her home, they shared a simple dinner. In a world accustomed to the extravagance of private planes to Las Vegas for first dates, the refreshing normalcy of this encounter resonated with her. Isaaq, genuinely curious about her time away, avoided the subject of her past relationship with Zach. She was certain the questions remained, but he appeared to sense the delicate nature of the matter. She would not have been surprised, however, if he had conducted his own research, perhaps leveraging his connections with the tour staff and their mutual friends to gain insight. He seemed to grasp that the events leading to her disappearance were entwined with something grim – something that had also befallen Zach. Isaaq, breaking the subtle tension, softly cleared his throat, his fingers tapping against his whiskey glass. “You know you’re safe with me, right?” he reassured her, gently addressing the proverbial elephant in the room without explicitly acknowledging it. She trusted his sincerity. She believed it. From that point forward, Alex felt a growing connection with him. He embodied everything one might desire in a partner, yet the weight of her past seemed to render their relationship both under and overwhelming simultaneously.  

She found herself chasing a familiar high, one she knew in truth she should be avoiding. Alex was not tempted toward a toxic relationship, but still yearned for one with intensity and passion. Though in the midst of healing, there was still an insatiable craving for something to rekindle the feeling of being truly alive in this new version of herself. With each passing day, the echoes, resemblances, and reminders gnawed at her, raising doubts about whether she had settled for a watered-down version of what once was. Alex shifted her gaze as Amanda entered the living room, exchanging warm embraces with Isaaq. It was known that they were involved, at least within Isaaq’s management circle. As Alex observed Amanda’s eyes searching for her, she couldn’t help but wonder if Zach knew and if so, how he had reacted. After all, she had long reassured him that there was nothing to worry about with Isaaq, only to find herself now hauled up in Malibu with him. The thought of Zach discovering this, especially on the tail of her tryst with Luke, would certainly be another knife to the back. She swallowed her guilt, a metaphorical gulp down a bitter truth. The longer she thought about it, the more that something about the situation felt off. Though she genuinely liked Isaaq, being around him evoked a disconcerting sense of being trapped in a surreal nightmare.

The conflicting emotions within her painted a complex portrait, a struggle between the desire for a fresh start and the unsettling feeling that the path she had chosen was nothing more than a terrible attempt at recreating a distant memory. This newfound mental clarity felt like both a blessing and a curse. Ale was grateful to have reached this realization just a few months into the relationship, sparing herself from potentially investing years into something that did not feel right. The old version of herself might have tried to force things or used the relationship as a distraction until Zach faded from her mind completely. She could have even considered going public, wielding the relationship like a weapon to show she was thriving without him, better than ever with his supposed replacement. But those thoughts no longer held any appeal. Hurting him, or Isaaq for that matter, was not something she was interested in. The evolving understanding of her own needs led her to believe that perhaps spending some time alone was the best course of action. If love was meant to find her, it would. Despite the scars, a very small part of her still held onto the hope of a fairytale ending, a belief that somewhere out there, the right person might be waiting for her. Alex sighed quietly, acknowledging what she needed to do. It saddened her to think that Amanda would now have to navigate the aftermath of two of her superstars having their hearts broken by the same girl.

[shini--chan]

Could I request flight and reaction from the headcannon lists for America, China, and Japan? I absolutely adore the way your characterization of them. Even though I don’t follow hetalia actively anymore I always find myself coming back to your work because I love their dynamics so much

Thank you for your kind words. One small thing though - the templates are to be requested as a whole and not mixed. Should have stated that more clearly in the info post and will update it after this.

This one is about America, I'll be posting the China and Japan ones seperately.

Yandere Character Sheet II

1p America - Alfred F. Jones

Blend in - Are the red flags obvious? Are they even aware that their behaviour is wrong? Do they even care?

When it comes down to it, Alfred fully buys into the trope of American exceptionalism fully. So much so, that he is bristling with self confidence and charm to the point where you'll probably overlook or even justify his more … unorthodox behaviour until it is too late. That is, if you don't hate him or a die hard realist. Or hold fast to some ideology that depicts him in a bad light. 

As per usual, the warning signs will all be very noticeable in hindsight. Though, if you are astute enough, you'll consciously catch on to some of them early on. Else, you'll occasionally be plagued by a feeling of something just not being right. Some of the red flags are:

He limits who you are allowed to talk to. At times, America can have a very black-and-white world view. Of course, he is the good guy and everything is just and moral. Even when he dirties his hands, it is all for the greater good. Thus, the bad guys are all those that don't fall in the neat lines of his high end morality. You are not allowed to talk to them, or even hear them speak, or else they will corrupt you. The only case he'll make an exception is if you are itching to join him on his crusade to either redeem them or defeat them.

Along the same vein - he is very resistant to criticism. At times, he internalises the saying "America is the best country on Earth" a bit too much. On mundane things he can very well take your feedback with grace. He is even open to pondering on concepts that are alien to him, if he is in a good mood. Though, if you try to change his opinion on something like his moral code or the lifestyle he is currently pursuing, then you'll find yourself running against a brick wall. It takes very long for him to admit to being the bad guy in something, or even just to being wrong. And even then, he'll try to sugarcoat it as much as possible.

Again in the same category - he can be controlling of the media you consume. Think about those hard right wing evangelists that think watching certain movies makes you gay. He might allow you to watch a series or read a book that he considers despicable, but only if you have a certain opinion on it. 

He always wants to know where you are or what you are doing. He'll frame it so that he comes off as the concerned boyfriend, or explain it as having had bad experiences with people in the past. Both will be true, but what is also true is that he is possessive and controlling. 

America is a sore loser, a very sore loser. He is neigh incapable of tolerating somebody being better than him. Hell, he even has difficulties in tolerating somebody being equally good as him in something he deems important. You are no exception here, no matter how much he “loves” you. 

Perhaps in the odd moment of deeper introspection Alfred will admit that what he is doing is wrong. However, he'll be quick to brush it off as "the ends justify the means". Though, if pushed far he'll break down and sink into deep shame, then trying desperately to right all his wrongs. That is, if he doesn't bury himself in copious self-righteousness and toxic self-interest beforehand. 

Compatriot - Who aids them? Who condemns them? Are there ways you can convince their friends/colleges/underlings to help you? 

Alfred has three types of people who aid him. First are the sycophants, those the hang onto his every word and laud and applaud whatever he does. Maybe their livelihood depends on him, or they are desperate to get in his good books. Eitherway, they'll treat his every whim as an order, morals be damned. Their opinion on his treatment of you doesn't matter at all in that case, what matters is that they'll act in his interests.

Second, are those that are genuinely on his side, that share his view of god and the world. These are the people that might chide him for his treatment of you at times. That being said, if you act like you are a happy couple, you'll also be treated as such and they'll turn a blind eye to all the red flags. 

Thirdy, there are the people that comply with him due to fear. Those that look at him and see the boy king that dropped two atomic bombs on Japan and showed no remorse afterwards. These are the people he has a gun pointed at, be it literally or figuratively. They will comply with Alfred if he calls on them, but they won't be enthusiastic about it. They might even try to discreetly help you.

As to those that condemn him - they are many in number, though only few will be overt about it. Alfred has a tendency to steamroll over other people to get what he wants. His tendency to selfishness has won him many enemies and thus there are quite a few people that are willing to help you. Now, a lot of the time their feelings and opinion of you won't matter, they just want a chance to pay America back for all the injustices it has inflicted on them, perhaps even with interest. In that way, you won't have much convincing to do.

Though when it comes to those that submit to him - either bribery or tricking them will work. Or you can convince them to help you if the blame for your escape can be shifted onto somebody else, or if the situation can be framed to make it look like you managed to flee entirely on your own. Concerning those that are loyal to him - in some select cases you can succeed in getting away by appealing to their own self interest or, again, by tricking them. However, there are also those amongst his circle of confidents that don't see him as a demigod and still side with him. When it comes to that sort, you can convince them that Alfred is sick in the head and that the only way to cure him is to remove you from his side, and then they'll orchestrate events to make that happen.

America's politicians and other high class people may also decide to step in if they think that Alfred is becoming too distracted because of his "relationship" with you or if he causes an aggrievious international incident. Watch out, though! Poor communication kills. If you don't convey your intentions or matters go haywire, they might decide that the best way to deal with the problem would be a bullet to the brain. 

Dominion - What actions are especially pleasing to them?

On a large part, Alfred wants to have the American dream for himself, even if his version of it isn't quite as humble. He wants to come home to you showering him with affection and doting on him and catering to his needs. But above all, Alfred wants you to elevate any boredom that he might feel. 

In any case, he would rather be frustrated or angry with you than bored. That being said, you'll want to avoid him falling into either state. 

Travel with him abroad, introduce him to new cultures if you can. Engage him in debates, do sports with him. Though, if you don't want to play a (sports) game with him, he does expect you to be on the sidelines and cheer him on as he plays. He is always up for new movies or series, or he'll allow you to drag him to a library or a comic store. Alfred also believes in being a self made person, so if you have ambitions or interests (as long as it's something he is ok with) he'll gladly help you on your personal journey. Be careful, though - he might end up shaping you more than you shape yourself. 

Aside from a very active leisure time, he wants you to be a loyal and caring spouse. Cook his meals and give him massages, ask about his day and don't start fights (he'll always be the one to end them, and at times, it will be anything but pretty). If you behave well, he'll let you out, maybe even take you to a party or even another country with him. 

Flight - What do you have to do in order to escape them?

This is actually a tricky question to answer. You see, Alfred is big on security but also a short term thinker. Either way, what you must do to slip out of his grasp is also largely dependent on your relationship with him before escaping. 

If has to drag you into his house kicking and screaming, then it will make things a lot more difficult. He’ll be expecting you to make a break for it, and will devise certain ways to break your will. You might think that your personality might be important to him, but that is only partially true; he is far more enamoured with the idea of who you can be for him than who you are. Alfred has a picture in mind of who you can be, the best version of you, in his not so humble opinion and if he has to play cat-and-mouse games to help you reach that goal, then so be it. 

Most of the time, he’ll keep you under lock and key - you would have to be very clever and skillful or have help to escape then. Though there will be instances where he’ll play release and catch with you - he’ll allow you to escape under controlled conditions only to capture you and haul you back home. This would be to drive the point home that you can’t evade him forever. 

The more you are inclined towards him, the more freedoms he’ll allow you; that is, if there is no danger of you stealing the spotlight from him. That being said, he’ll still keep a close eye on you - your phone will be checked on regular intervals and he’ll use it to track you. All your financial transactions (insofar as they are digital or per card) will be monitored and he'll do background checks on everybody you interact with on a regular or semi-regular basis. 

In general, it has to be said that he isn’t omnipotent or infallible, even if he tries to showcase himself at times. There will be moments where he slips up, mistakes that he overlooks. In total, he is a short-term thinker and emotionally charged. If you can get him to trip over his own lines (and it is easier than you might think) then you can go galavanting away. 

Hospitality - What is your life like with them? How much does it deviate from your former life?

This is a fort where Alfred loves to show off - anything you want, just say it, and he’ll already be pulling out his wallet. He won’t hesitate to have you settled in a pent house or a mansion and have you wine and dine. For him, this is also a way to tie you to his side - isn’t personal security more comfortable and important than freedom, eh? If you want for nothing because he gives everything you are allowed to want to you, then why should you try to flee. 

Aside from that, he won’t keep you in one place for a long time. Alfred wants to be the only real constant in your life and one way through which he shall achieve this would be to uproot you every now and then. It would also have the dual purpose of making it very difficult for you to plan an escape. In the same vein, he prefers his life to be eventful, and that will be reflected in his relationship with you. In the minor cases, it is small projects and that goes up to the major cases, that are historic events. Longer times of peace or monotony make him antsy and more prone to doing something impulsive. If you aren’t involved in all the drama and action, then you’ll be regaled with hour long stories of it. 

In that way, you have less peace and quiet than in your former life and also less privacy, because he tends to use you as a cure for boredom and restlessness. At times you’ll ask yourself if he sees you more as a doll than a person with agency. 

Since he also has many enemies, you might find yourself in the crosshairs because of him. In comparison to Alfred, you are probably the weak link (or he at least does his best to frame it that way to other people) so you’ll be targeted in order to hurt him. That way, you might find yourself kidnapped, threatened and tortured. And all of this would be followed by Alfred going on a rampage in order to rescue you. A lot of blood will be spilled and all because of you. 

Afterwards, he’ll just want to lie in your arms, maybe have sex, just imitating what all those movie characters do after a successful mission. Generally, he wishes for you to worship the ground that he walks upon - while he can live with your ire and hatred, it won’t be a smooth, nice ride for either of you if that is the case. If it is the case, then you have to be moulded into shape. 

It would be re-educated, but he would never use that word for what he is doing to you; it is such an ugly word, a communist word, a communist principle as how could he ever do such a thing. Instead, it would be redeeming you, bring you on the right path. In truth, he has just watched too many Hollywood movies and doesn’t know when to take a no. It would be a matter of chipping away at your resistance, carving away the hard exterior shell you erected to keep him out, to reach the soft core. 

Order - What are the rules you have to adhere to?

He doesn’t like to call them rules, since it just makes it seem like he is oppressive. Understandings? Manner? Either of them would be better words in his mind. At the root of everything, this mindset stems from the belief that you know what is proper and good. There are a few lines in the sand that he’ll point out, but for the most part he’ll assume you know what the laws of the land are. 

If you don’t have something nice to say, then don’t say it at all. The exception to this rule is if you are verbally tearing down some miscreant. Else, you are to sugar, spice and everything nice towards him. Sassiness is welcomed though, but no in excessive amounts. He is the sort of person to casually say that he likes somebody with an attitude though that only goes as far as that you provide him with a challenge - he kind of likes the idea of "taming" a partner.

Don't talk smack about me to other people. This rule is partially because he cares a lot about how others perceive him and because he doesn't want somebody intervening. Besides, your actions reflect onto him and he doesn't want you to shine a bad light on him just because you can't get your act together when other people are around. He considers the low points of your relationship as something that should remain between the two of you. 

I provide you with food and a roof over your head, so you listen to him. In some ways, he is downright paternalistic - this is only one of them. In any case, he earns more than you, pays when you eat out and the deal for house ownership has his signature on it. He is for equality insofar as it doesn't upset his position of power. So, it is his house and his rules and you are to treat him as your Lord and Saviour along with granting him all the privileges that come with such a position. 

Don't try to get third parties involved in our stuff. Reflecting on one of the above rules here. That being said, what would really get his blood boiling would be if you involve some uppity politician in affairs that are between you and him. He is wary of his own politicians and the sentiment to foreign lawmakers is even worse, so if you get one of them on board then the blood sports will commence. 

There are many more rules, spoken as well as unspoken, but we'll just leave it at that for now.

Rehabilitation - How much will they change you? Will they break you? How much therapy would you need in the event that you get rid of them? 

He'll change you to fit the romanticised version of you that he has in his mind's eye and he wouldn’t shy away from more unsavoury means if he thinks they are necessary. In that sense, you might have to undergo severe therapy and deconstruct the mould he pressed you in and reconstruct your personality. 

Or it could be that you bury your actual persona so deep in your subconscious, that you have moments of derealisation and have to slowly be coaxed out of the cocoon you wrapped yourself in. If you put up a pretty hefty fight, then he might even brainwash you in the truest sense of the word (putting you in a moment of existential distress and then forming you to his liking) and if that is the case, some deprogramming such as is necessary for ex-cult member might on the table. 

Aside from that, you’ll need to learn how to be independent again, learn how to provide for yourself and put your own food on the table, how to think for yourself and not in the tight frame he imposed on you. Time far away in another country with differing cultural and moral framework might be helpful then. 

And even after that, you'll be paranoid,  it through constantly fearing being tracked via your phone or having somebody physically watching your every move. It will take a lot to calm you down and you would be in danger of resorting to drugs to ease your fear and emotional pain.

Zeal - Do they fall fast or slow? What is their reaction to their own feelings?

Alfred is inclined to take this relatively fast once he is sure of his feelings for you; it is the stage before that. At times, he can be really emotionally constipated, though not to the degree his father can be. It is just that he has so much on his plate and while he has a warm and pleasant exterior though it actually takes a bit before a real emotional connection is established. Even then, he would be careful to place his full trust in you. If anything, being trusted by him would only come after years of proving yourself and even then, he would still hold something over your head to "motivate" you to not double cross him. 

As for how he reacts to his own feelings - he is as rash and impulsive as you probably assume he'll be. Being in love is a pleasure for him and he is prone to taking things too fast. Chances are that he'll be suffocating in his affections at first, if he can get away with it. Once he realises that his feelings run even deeper than mere infatuation, he might stop for a moment and conduct some introspection. Said introspection will seldom be self-critical, however, and is more to assess what might work with you and how far he wishes to go with you, rather than anything concerning ethics. 

Art is not mine

[literaticat]

This is along the lines of the question about having a book in one genre take off over a book in another genre, and if you should stick to the successful genre. If you’re a querying, pre-published author and about to start drafting a new book while you query the first book, is it smart to write a book in the same vein as book 1? Obviously you don’t know yet if book 1 will sell/sell well or not. Or is it better to diversify? Like, if you were to offer on a book, would you hope the author had another book in the works that was similar, or different? By different I don’t mean VASTLY different, but maybe same age category diff genre, etc.

SORRY THIS IS LONG.

First of all: I don't want to tell you what to write. Every writer is different, every situation is different, there's no "correct" or "wrong" here.

So I'd suggest you write the book you are most interested in writing, the BEST book -- we can figure out strategy when the time comes.

That being said. I guess in an ideal world, you'd be working on a book that could logically be a follow-up -- and at least get the outline, a good chunk polished. Mind you - this doesn't have to be A SEQUEL or anything. Just, something for the same general audience. That way you at least know you have that in your back pocket for when somebody asks. (And yes, if we sell the MG, somebody WILL ask.)

THEN, honestly, I'd also noodle around with some different things. (Yes, maybe VASTLY different!)

But that doesn't square with the "follow up with something for the same audience!" that I said a few days ago! (I KNEW posting that would be a whole cane of worms FML.)

The thing is -- that's advice for what your publisher will likely want to see next, ideally. Like, you write a MG, it's likely your publisher for that book would like something for the same kind of audience as a follow-up.

But let's say you write a MG. And I go out with the MG -- and the MG doesn't sell, or takes YEARS to sell or something.

I could wait until you had a new MG to go out with and try again. Or, in the meantime, I could try your nonfiction picture book, or hilarious chapter book series, or whatever. Because those would be going to different editors than the MG anyway.

I have told this story but if you are new: Kate Messner was one of my first clients. She queried me with a MG. I went out with the MG. I got a lot of nice passes (but all passes). She revised, and in the meantime, sent me a nonfiction picture book, OVER AND UNDER THE SNOW, which I sent out and sold immediately to Chronicle (where it continues to be a classic of their backlist and has spawned an entire ongoing series.)

I sent out the revision of the MG. It didn't sell. Kate revised, and in the meantime, sent me an adorable chapter book, MARTY McGUIRE, FROG PRINCESS with ideas for more, which I sent out and sold immediately to Scholastic, and it's so cute and ended up being its own series and then launching Kate into doing the Ranger in Time series for Scholastic.

In the meantime a new young fresh-faced editor arrived on the scene at Bloomsbury. My colleagues and I had a meeting with her and she said "I love heartfelt MG that has a classic feel and is super kid-friendly, (etc etc)" -- and I was like DING DING DING and sent her Kate's MG book . . . THE BRILLIANT FALL OF GIANNA Z, which went on to get many starred reviews, win awards, etc. This book couldn't have sold earlier than it did, because the right editor for it hadn't even started being an editor yet when we first started! The ms had to be just right, and the timing had to be just right. The stars did align -- but we weren't just twiddling our thumbs in the meantime, yanno? What's that saying? 'The harder I work the luckier I get'? Something like that.

(Fast forward 15 years. Kate now has like 50+ books published/forthcoming, and the fresh-faced editor is now in charge of the whole imprint. How about that!)

I'm not saying you have to be as prolific as Kate. That's quite a high bar to clear, and I honestly don't think most people SHOULD be aiming for it. I'm just saying, you don't HAVE to feel like you are "locked in" to anything. Truly.

Write what you are passionate about, write the best possible books you can -- strategizing about them and selling them is your AGENT'S job. If/when you get a publisher who you are working with, who really wants X-kind of book, a follow up to whatever, and they want to pay you for it, and you want to do it, GREAT!

But in the meantime, if you have no contracts or commitments that you HAVE to work on, why not just spread your wings and work on whatever you are passionate about next? It's likely to be the most fun, and who knows where that might lead!

[keyleth-clay]

I was planning on doing this on this coming Saturday, but then I realized that there’s a non-zero chance of getting at least one of these this week, so I figured I’d better do it sooner rather than later.

Also, in case it isn’t clear by now, I’m doing these 30% because it’s fun and I want to, and 70% because if/when they do happen, I can have this in writing and therefore have bragging rights.

KC’s Top 5 CR Player Character Classes Wishlist

(Note that this says “classes” and not “subclasses”. The options on the list should make it clear why, but also I Don’t Actually Know DnD That Well, and don’t have particularly strong opinions re: subclasses.)

Number 1. Literally Any Artificer. There’s been exactly 1 player character artificer in all of Critical Role, and that was Taryon way back in campaign 1. We only got him for 15 episodes, he rarely actually gets included as a member of Vox Machina (even though he absolutely is, dammit), and back then artificers were still Unearthed Arcana. I was SO sure that we’d be getting one in EXU: Calamity, but things didn’t work out that way. Also I just think they’re cool.

Number 2. Literally Any Ranger. Fun Fact: There have only been two player character rangers in all of Critical Role. Vex’ahlia in campaign 1, and Sam Riegel in Liam’s Quest parts 1 & 2. I know Rangers in 5e are Not Great, but there’s some really cool stuff depending on subclass choice. Swarmkeeper, Horizon Walker, Fey Wanderer – there’s so many really cool & creative options. It mostly just boggles my mind that there have been so few of them, across main campaigns and mini-series and one-shots, despite being a core 5e class.

Number 3. Monk (but not Way of the Four Elements). In a very similar vein, there have only been a handful of player character monks. Beau, Farriwen, and Fy’ra Rai are the only monk PCs in Exandria canon, two of which are genasi Way of the Four Elements monks and the other of whom is a homebrew subclass. The only others are Marisha in Liam’s Quest (no subclass given), The Headmistress in CelebriD&D and D&Deisel (no subclass given), and Mezzek in the goblins Pathfinder one-shot from way back when.

There are so many other cool monk subclasses to explore, and while I know that we just had a monk as a main campaign character, that hasn’t stopped them from having a barbarian and a rogue and at least one cleric in every main campaign party. Also Liam would rock Way of the Long Death or Way of Mercy, and you know it.

Number 4. Any Blood Hunter that isn’t Order of the Lycan. Have you figured out the theme of this top 5 yet? :p

But seriously. There have been six player character blood hunters so far, and five of them have been Order of the Lycan (Tova, Chetney, Portia, Benicio, Lawrence). Thank all the gods for Mollymauk Tealeaf for at least attempting to be an Order of the Ghostslayer. I certainly don’t begrudge Travis his manic pixie werewolf dreams, but some variety would be nice, y’know? I’d particularly like to see somebody play an Order of the Mutant, but I’d be fine with any of the other three subclasses.

Number 5. Lingering Soul. Very shortly after I started watching Critical Role, I found out about the plethora of homebrew stuff that Matt has up on DMs Guild. Of course, I purchased and read through all of it, and of course I immediately loved the Lingering Soul class/post-death option that he created. I know it’s a really tricky thing to try to work into a campaign, and it’s something that he’s barely talked about (pretty much everything else of his on DMG has been used by either a player character or an NPC). Right after Molly died in C2, Taliesin was asked on Talks Machina if he would bring him back as a Lingering Soul, but he chose not to. I just… really fucking wanna see someone play this it’s so fucking cool.

DIShonourable mention goes to yet another fucking fighter or rogue. Across campaigns, mini-series, and one-shots, there have been 23 rogue player characters and 19 fighters. I have no problem with either of them, but holy shit pick something else.

[guns-in-the-desert]

Germany NSFW A-Z

I’m super excited to post this, I worked hella hard, so here it is.

A= Aftercare

   He’s not the best at it, as being soft and comforting isn’t in his nature. It takes him a while to get good at it, and when he does, it’s super routine, almost robotic (let’s be honest, he made a checklist.). Step 1. Ask if  you're alright, Step 2. Wipe you down, and so on and so forth.

B= Body Part

  Not to be basic but, your boobs are hands down his favorite part of your body, he loves to squeeze them, even when y’all aren’t fucking, he’ll play with them without even realizing, bonus points if you have sensitive nipples. On him he really likes his arms, he likes how they look around your waist, and how easily he can pick you up.

C= Cum

  Ludwig is a Super neat person, so he likes a quick and easy clean up. He likes to nut inside you/a condom or in your mouth, not only does he think it’s hella hot, but also there's little to no mess, it’s 10/10 for him.

D= Dirty secret

  He would die before telling anyone this, but he steals your panties, not that you don't know, he’s quite bad at returning them, so you notice them missing. He really wants to stop, but he just thinks it’s so hot, and they remind him of the different times you've done it, for example: You wore that pink velvet thong the first time he tied you up. P.S they're not always clean when he takes them, at this point don’t even let him do laundry

E= Experience

  He’s not as experienced as you might think, he’s quite awkward actually. He’s done it a few times, but he still can’t can’t look at your bare body without blushing, watches HELLA porn though , but don’t expect him to admit it.

F= Favorite Position

  He absolutely LOVES fucking you against the wall, you would never know it, but he’s kind of a show off. This position shows off his strength (and his biceps), plus he gets to feel your tits against him, it’s a win win situation for him.

G= Goofy (is he more serious or goofy in bed)

 This man ain’t even goofy in day to day life, like, at all. Y’all know damn well he did not come to play any kind of games with you, I wish you would try and crack a joke while his dick is out.

H= Hair

  He's neat, he trims regularly, he's well maintained and well groomed, would never shave it completely off (he gets cold) because it makes him feel less manly

I= Intimacy

  He’s not goofy, also not very intimate, he’s quite aggressive, being gentle isn’t in his nature, not that he’s trying to be during sex, like italy said in the show “he’s like some sort of super sadist.”.

J= Jack off

  He jacks off, a lot, don't ask him though, he’d practically deny knowing what masturbating is, claims it’s “DISGUSTANG”, despite literally getting porn for christmas. You've caught him in compromising positions multiple times, still denies ever doing though.

K= Kink

  “He's like some sort of super sadist.” Italy said it best will literally rock your shit for the hell of it. Flogging, spit, bondage, the whole nine yards, know s, almost no limits, will he slap you across your face and call you a whore? Yes. Will he choke you until your face turns blue? Yes. Will he tie you with a vibrator and leave you for hours? Definitely. Will he make you walk on a leash and sleep in a dog bed? Absolutely. Can he look at your tits, without blushing? Of course not, what are you, fuckin crazy?

L= Location

  The bed, he does NOT want to even risk getting caught, he’d be WAY too embarrassed. He decided to get frisky in the living room once, and Gil walked in. He didn’t fuck you for a week and he didn’t talk to his brother for a month, partially because Gilbert’s and asshole and takes every oppurtunity he has to bully his younger brother, partially due to embarrassment. 

M= Motivation

  Almost everything, surprisingly, he’s actually a pretty horny dude, but if you really wanna get him going, beg, he loves to see you beg, you could also crawl around on the floor in low cut top, and skirt in front of him, but don’t be surprised if you get a collar the next day.

N= No

  Will not, and I mean NEVER ever even consider sharing you under any circumstances. He doesn't care how much you beg and plead. Why would you want somebody else with y’all is there something he’s doing wrong, ask him again, I dare you, you'll get your ass beat, I mean it, in the hottest way possible of course.

O= Oral

  Ludwig prefers receiving, and even though you’re doing the sucking, he’s doing the work. Really rough, so don't be surprised if cum is coming out of your nose by the end of it. When it comes to giving, my guy had a stiff ass tongue at first, like he licked your pussy mad hard, he figured it out eventually, thank god.

P= Pace

  Surprise surprise, he’s mad rough, but does find a pace and a rhythm quite quickly, which is a really good trait not many people have (I assume) it’s easy to get into, which is always pleasant. It goes very smoothly.

Q= Quickies 

  Not the biggest fan of quickies but he’ll do them nonetheless, they just aren’t his favorite, he’d pick it over masturbation, not that he does that of course, your always a better option with his hand.

R= Risk

  He takes risks in the sense that he likes to experiment with new toys, kinks, roleplays, etc. not with location though, he sticks to the bedroom and the shower exclusively, and he's even iffy about that.

S= Stamina

  This man spent a decent chunk of the show running, so he can and will go for hours. It's kind of insane. 

T= Toys

  Yes, of course, ropes, vibrators, flogs, you name it, he's got it, it’s as simple as that.

U= Unfair

  While foreplay lasts for quite a while, he isn’t much of a tease. With the exception of the occasional orgasm denial, he’s pretty straight to the point. He doesn't see a reason to drag things out when it’s not necessary. Like if you're  getting flogged, you're getting flogged, there's no if, ands, or buts, he doesn't have time for talking or teasing.

V= Volume

  He sucks at dirty talk, so he lets his actions do all the talking. Doesn't really make noise during sex, there’s the occasional grunt, but even thats rare

W= Wild Card

  So I mentioned before that you caught him in compromising positions in the past, the first time this happened was an absolute disaster. You had walked in to ask him what he wanted for dinner, he looked like a deer in headlights. You asked him what he was doing and his response was “I lost my turtle.” I don't know what part of him thought he would believe because; 1) He doesn't own a turtle, 2) he somehow lost it in his dick? So for this to make sense, he would have had to go and buy a turtle, have it near his penis for whatever reason, proceed to forget about said turtle, and after all that it still would explain how a turtle would fit into anyway, like I know you have foreskin, but, damn. So you ask him if he was masterbating, which obviously ended like this “NEIN, THAT’S DISGUSTING!” 

X= X-Ray

  Big dick,  more girthy than it is long, but it still has quite a bit of length, has the slightest curve, and a vein along the underside, he’s uncut. Wait till you see this man in grey sweatpants.

Y= Yearningh  In the top 10 for characters with the highest sex drive, He’s number seven on the list. Which says more about the people above him than it says about him, himself.

Z= ZZZ (How quickly does he fall asleep after?)

  Either he’s out immediately, or  he gets up and does work, there is ZERO in between with this man, I really don’t know what to tell y’all.

I really hope y’all enjoyed, I don’t have any WIPs as of right now. So, I write when I get ideas until I get more requests. See y’all in the next one. Bye for now

[avintagekiss24]

WE LOVED WITH A LOVE THAT WAS MORE THAN LOVE || STEVE ROGERS

pairing: Steve Rogers x black!reader ; minor pairings: peter parker x michelle “mj” jones, andy barber x black!reader, sam wilson x black!reader, ransom drysdale x black!reader, bucky barnes x black!reader || word count: 19,080 || warnings: smut, sex, gang bang/multiple sex partners m/m/m/m/m/f, vaginal fingering, oral sex (male and female receiving), biting, marking, anal sex, hand job, nipple play, cult-like gathering, mentions of voodoo, voodoo lore, cult rituals

authors note: it’s here! took me forever. i wanted to post this much earlier, but the election week threw me off my schedule so this got pushed because i had another deadline to meet for another challenge. this is for @darkficsyouneveraskedfor​​ once upon a midnight dreary challenge! i chose “believe nothing you hear, and only one half that you see”, an invitation to a stranger’s party, and a cultish gathering for my prompts. again, i got a little help from my girl @tropicalcap​​ in helping me piece together a few plot points.

just a quick note :: steve never goes into the ice and the government doesn’t give him the serum... his transformation is achieved in a different manner. therefore, bucky’s transformation is also a little different than canon.

manip of peter & mj by sidewalk manips (i think they’re on instagram... not sure, i found it on google) // divider by @whimsicalrogers​

MONDAY

The ornate envelope in your hand is heavy. It’s decorated with thin, gold leaf, hand drawn designs, almost resembling the intricate henna leaves. Your name is scrolled across the front in big, black Old English calligraphy— hand written as well; you can just tell. You flip it over in your hand, the weight of it making a soft thud when it rests against the heel of your palm. A red wax seal is pressed against the flap and the back of the envelope, two initials carved deep— S.G.R.

Flipping the envelope back over in your hand, you press your lips together in a hard line. Junk mail is getting really fancy now-a-days. You blink at the front, reading and then rereading your name. A tinge of something— you’re not sure what, pulls at your stomach, making it constrict as your breath deepens harder than before. You even stop walking. You just stare at the envelope, drawing your bottom lip in between your teeth as you blink down at it.

It’s just unsettling. The weight of it, the attention to the little details of the writing and the designs. It’s anything but junk mail, but the tiny shards of anxiety that are prickling up against your skin don’t want you to think too much into it.

You shove it to the back of the pile of mail in your hand and continue flipping through it as you walk down the hallway towards your apartment, your purse bouncing against your hip as you move. Once inside, you throw the mail down first, then your keys, before you turn on your heel and move towards your bedroom, already tugging out of your blouse.

-

The TV is nothing more than background noise at this point. You’re curled up on your couch, a bowl of popcorn in your lap and a glass of red wine in your left hand as your eyes flit across the screen of your iPad. You scroll slowly with your right index finger, gobbling up a Stucky fic on ao3. Your eyes widen at the written words before you, your mouth dropping open as your heart starts to beat just a little harder— you’d die if anyone at work ever found out that you spend your free time reading about Bucky Barnes getting his back blown out by Captain America— but nobody told them to be so attractive. It’s their fault, really.

There’s a heavy knock at the door, but you don’t budge. You just push back against the pillows and keep your eyes on the illuminated screen as the door opens, “Take your shoes off.” A heavy sigh greets your ears seconds later, drawing a smile onto your lips as you throw your eyes quickly towards your little sister, “House rule.”

She rolls her eyes hard and toes at her sneakers— making sure to kick them up against the wall so the thuds rumble through the apartment— you know, for added drama. She pulls her bag over her head and drops it to the floor before padding across the carpet and plopping down next to you.

“You readin’ the one I sent you?” she asks, grabbing the popcorn out of your lap, “Can we order a pizza?”

“Yes and yes.” You answer absentmindedly as your eyes nearly pop out of your skull at the smut on your screen, “MJ!”

She laughs, scrunching up her nose as she pops some popcorn into her mouth and nods slowly as she focuses on the tv, “I told you it was nasty.”

“You didn’t say it was this nasty, good God.”

The younger woman scoffs as she throws her loose, wavy hair over her shoulder, “But you steady readin’ it though.”

You cut your eyes towards her, “I didn’t say that I don’t like nasty, just that it’s nasty. I think I have a coupon up on the counter for Tony’s if you wanna order now.” MJ is up on her feet as soon as the words leave your mouth, “Get some bread sticks too.”

The rummaging MJ does in the kitchen blurs with the screams from the television as you start to read again, losing yourself quickly back in the BDSM world the author has so vividly painted. You leave a kudos and a quick comment before tossing your iPad to the side and lift your eyes to your sister again, blinking as you find her leaning up against the counter, the weird envelope in her hand.

“The fuck is this?” she asks, her lip snarled, eyes squinted as she turns it over in her hand, “Why’s it so heavy?”

“I don’t know,” you laugh a little, “I got it in the mail today. It gives me the creeps.”

MJ moves around the coffee table and falls next to you again, tossing the coupon at you before sliding her finger underneath the flap. You grab her wrist before she goes to open it, tutting softly, “Don’t. Just leave it.”

“Why?”

“Because! I’m gonna throw it out.”

“Are you kidding me? I’m opening it.”

“Come on MJ—”

She slides her finger underneath the flap before you can stop her again, breaking the wax seal in two. You huff as she pulls out the 5x7 piece of heavy cardstock, then tips the envelope to lodge whatever was weighing it down free. A brooch falls into her palm, both of you leaning up to inspect the intricate piece of jewelry. It’s floral in design— pearls, or what look like pearls, placed strategically between the little, diamond encrusted, platinum leaves. Three pearls are bunched in the middle—  the center of the flower, with three larger diamonds outlining them.

“Holy shit, is this real?” MJ asks, lifting it up and turning it over, “Holy fuckin’ shit.”

You shake your head, “It can’t be. There’s no way.”

“It looks real.”

“No,” you scoff, waving her off, “It’s costume.”

She shoves it into your palm, “Feel that thing! It’s heavy as fuck, that ain’t costume jewelry.”

You furrow your brow as you let it sit in your palm, feeling it. It looks old— really old, like something that would have been worn back in the 1800s. You flip it over, bringing it up to your face as you spot another set of the S.G.R. initials engraved in the back of one of the small leaves.

“Fuck.”

The word slips out of your mouth effortlessly as you eye the jewelry and lick your bottom lip. You glance over at MJ who stares back at you with wide, hazel eyes, her lips parted, “See? That shit is real.”

You point at the card in her hand, swallowing quickly before you clear your throat, “What does that say?”

She takes a breath as you push your side into hers, your eyes scanning the writing, “We request the honor of your presence this Friday, October 31st, 2020 at 1543 Asher Ln. 8pm. No extra guests. S.G.R.” she slides her eyes towards you, “You know somebody with those initials?”

You blink, racking your brain, “No. I don’t— I don’t think so, at least.”

“Well, he or she obviously knows you.”

You grab the invitation from her, reading it again before you turn it over, hoping to find something else scribbled on the back. You drop your hand to your lap when you don’t and zero your gaze in on the television as it starts to tunnel.

“Bro,” MJ laughs quickly, “This is some freaky deaky shit.”

You eye the white invitation once more, reading it over again and again— as if you’re missing something, “What, um,” you start absentmindedly, “What do you mean?”

“This is some Eyes Wide Shut shit, sis!”

You scoff again, rolling your eyes as your shoulders slump, “Stop it MJ.”

“Girl,” she laughs harder, clapping her hands and letting her head fall back against the couch, “You gonna go?”

“No!” you squeal at her audacity, tossing the invitation and brooch on the coffee table, “It’s obviously some kind of joke or something.”

“That is no joke! The brooch has got to be at least ten g’s, easy.”

“It’s not real. That shit’s not worth ten dollars.”

“Keep tellin’ yourself that, prude.”

You feel anger flushing through your veins, your face heating up as you stand quickly and walk into the kitchen, “I’m not a prude, Mary Jane.”

“Oooh, my full name,” she mocks, “What are you gettin’ mad for?”

“I’m not mad, I told you that thing gave me the creeps. Everything is a joke to you.”

“I’m not jokin’! Somebody obviously went through a lot of trouble to send you that, I’m just callin’ it as I see it.”

You down the rest of the wine in your glass and quickly pour another, bringing it to your lips as you rub the back of your neck with your free hand, “It’s some kind of prank.” you exhale, taking another sip, “I’m throwing it away.”

MJ rolls her eyes again, grabbing your iPad before she props her feet up on the small, square table in front of her, “Sure, sure. Yeah, somebody sends a diamond encrusted brooch and a handwritten invitation just for funsies. Got’cha.”

You close your eyes and take another gulp of wine, using it to stop yourself from saying something that will more than likely dissolve your evening into a fight. You swallow slowly, pushing the smooth alcohol down your throat and letting it settle and warm in your belly.

“1543 Asher Ln. is a real house, just so you know. Pops right up on Zillow.”

You sigh loudly.

“And,” she starts, dragging out the end of the word, “It’s only fifteen minutes from here.”

“Are you gonna order the pizza or what?”

“You should go, I’m just sayin’.”

“I’m not gonna,” you stop yourself as you glare over at her, her eyes and posture taking that MJ tone as your voice gets sharp, “I’m not going to a strangers house. Okay? Drop it.”

“There’s no reason not to go.” You stare at her for a few seconds. You squint your eyes and let your mouth fall open as you scrunch your face, honestly in disbelief, “What?” she shrugs, “I literally met Peter last year at a party of someone who, to this day, I still don’t know. I can’t even remember how I ended up there.”

“MJ—”

“Don’t MJ me. It could be fun!” She smiles big as you sit next to her again, “You need to live a little. Get some dick, man.” You cut your eyes back over at her and lift your middle finger, “I mean it!” she laughs again, “There is nothing more fun than a Halloween party.”

You lean forward, reaching for the brooch. You roll it around in your palm, keeping your eyes on it as MJ babbles on. You eye the invitation as it lays on the table. The anxiety is back— constricting your stomach, making you itchy and jumbling your thoughts. It’s like it’s screaming at you— like something or someone is trying to get your attention.

You reach forward and slide the invitation to the edge of the table with your fingertips. You grab it swiftly and stand again, feeling MJ’s eyes on your back as you move into the kitchen. Shoving the invitation, the envelope, and the brooch in a drawer, you push the notion right out of your mind.

You’ve never entertained MJ’s crap before and you aren’t going to start now. Out of sight, out of mind.

TUESDAY

There’s a flower arrangement sitting on your desk the next morning. It’s lively— all of the flowers a different shade of pink. The stocks are a blush-pink, the roses spanning the pink spectrum. The spray roses are more purple than anything, but they bring the whole thing together.

There’s a small card leaning up against the glass vase, your name scribbled across the front. You pluck it up quickly and flip it over.

Hope to see you Friday— J.B.B.

Your purse falls off your shoulder and down your arm as your eyes go wide. You turn quickly, scanning the bullpen as people move about but you’re not exactly sure what or who you’re looking for. You drop your purse into the chair front of your desk and walk out to your assistant.

“Did you sign for these?” you ask, your voice slightly raised and agitated.

Nakia glances up at you slowly over the rims of her glasses, clearly picking up on your demeanor, “Uh, yeah? ‘Bout half an hour ago… everything okay?”

“What flower shop are they from?”

She shrugs, widening her eyes, “I don’t know, it came by delivery service.”

You tug at your suit jacket around your hip and let out a huff, “Don’t accept anymore, okay?”

You turn on your heel before she can answer and stomp back into your office, closing the door behind you. Heat ripples through you as you grab the handset of your phone and bring it to your ear, angrily dialing your sister’s number. You lean against your desk, arms crossed over your chest as it rings, eyes shifting around the room.

“Yo.”

“There are flowers sitting on my desk.”

You’re met with silence for a few seconds, “... okay?”

“There from someone else that I don’t know,” you huff, “The initials are J.B.B. this time.”

“Oh shit, I forgot about that. Okay, so two dudes wanna rail you at this party. That’s my kind of Friday night, sis.”

“Will you cut it out!” you hiss angrily, turning to face the windows behind you, “This is freaking me out!”

“Oh my god,” you hear her moving around, like sheets and pillows being rumpled until a muffled, groggy moan sounds, “Peter… wake up… wake the fuck up… what did you say about that weird party thing?”

You roll your eyes and tap your foot nervously as the two go back and forth. There’s shuffling again on her end, and then a heavy sigh, “I think it’s a masquerade party.”  Peter Parker finally says, his words slurred with sleep, “That’s where—”

“I know what a masquerade party is Peter, thank you.”

“Oh yeah, okay, sorry, so,” he starts, shuffling around again, “I heard for the past couple of years that somebody has been throwing a secret masquerade party at different places around town.”

“How did you hear that?”

“So, there’s this girl I had a class with last year, her name was uh, Liz. She said her older sister was invited to it. And then, there was this other girl, Shuri, she also said that her sister got invited one year too. I didn’t get the full scoop from Shuri though cuz she ended up transferring to Columbia, which, okay, yeah it’s a great school and all, but—”

“Peter,” you say, closing your eyes, “Focus please.”

“Right, sorry. So, yeah, it could be that party. Liz said her sister got the same brooch.”

The hair on the back of your neck stands up. You clear your throat as you shift, cutting your eyes back to the vase of roses sitting in the corner of your glass desk, “Did she go?” you ask trepidatiously, rubbing the back of your neck with your hand.

“Uh, yeah. She said it was pretty chill.”

“Pretty chill? The fuck does that mean?”

“Sorry, um, she said her sister said it was fun. Plenty of alcohol, plenty of food. But, because of the whole masquerade thing, she never found out who invited her.”

Put it on speaker, your sister's voice rings, then a sharp, sudden sound of skin on skin followed by a squeal from Peter, “Ow! Okay!”

“So,” you start, your fingers picking at the spiral telephone cord, “They didn’t say anything weird happened or anything? They’re both okay?”

“Liz said that her sister said she talked to some blonde guy for a while. He was asking her a bunch of like, weird, artsy questions but she thought it was all a part of the allure of the party so she just went with it. Other than that,” Peter trails off, and you can practically see him shrugging as if he’s right in front of you, “She said it was fun.”

“See? Everything is on the up and up.” MJ adds, “You should go.”

You don’t answer right away. You slide the small card towards the edge of your desk, picking it up again.

Hope to see you Friday— J.B.B.

“Peter, thank you, sorry for waking you up.” You say a few moments later, clearing your throat, “I’ll call you later MJ, okay?”

“Okie,” she purrs into the phone, “Love you.”

“Love you too.”

Your answer is distracted— quiet and airy as you set the handset back into the base. You stare back at the flowers, chewing on the inside of your cheek as something starts to gnaw at you. Something deep. You set the small card back up against the vase and shake your mouse to wake up your computer, forcing yourself into your emails, the small sentiment running circles in your mind.

Hope to see you Friday— J.B.B.

WEDNESDAY

You’re barely home from work when there’s a knock at your door— in fact, you only have one shoe off when the thud sounds through your apartment. You sigh, slipping your pump back onto your foot before you stand from the bed and move to the door. Peering out of the peephole, you spot a FedEx driver, his hands full of packages.

“Hi,” you greet as you open the door, “Goodness, these are all for me?”

“As soon as you sign for them they are.” He laughs, handing you the small pen and handheld scanner.

You sign quickly as he places the boxes just inside your door, and wiggle your fingers as he makes his leave, hustling back down to his truck. You keep your eyes on the boxes as you close and lock the door— you didn’t order anything. You haven’t ordered anything in at least a week and when you do, it’s always from Amazon. All of these boxes are unmarked, except for the shipping label, that has no return address.

An envelope is taped to the side of the largest box and based on how your week has been going, you already half know what to expect. You rip it away from the box and slide your finger underneath the flap, pulling out another handwritten, five-by-seven card.

Hope it fits… A.S.B.

You shove the card back into the envelope and toss it aside before grabbing the large box, sitting it on the bar. With the help of your house key, you rip into the box, popping open the flaps once the tape is broken down the middle. You gasp as you pull out a black and gold ball gown, your mouth dropping open as your eyes go wide.

The corset top is strapless and intricately hand woven with small, black beads in a leafy design. A layer of gold tulle spills down an even longer layer of black tulle, all the way to the floor. The dress is thick— heavy, as you hold it up in your hands. You search for a tag, sewn in initials, something to try and place where this could have possibly come from, but find nothing, as if it’s one of a kind. You splay it out over the couch and move to the second box— your interest now suddenly piqued.

You pop open the second box to find a slightly smaller box inside. Tucking your fingers underneath the rim, you pull the top away and gasp again— this time bigger— and take a physical step back. You blink stupidly and you fumble around in your pants pocket, trying to find your phone. You slam your finger down on MJ’s name and bring it to your ear, lifting a gold Giuseppe heel up in the air.

“You need to get your ass over here, now.”

-

There’s total silence in the apartment as you, MJ, and Peter stare at the Giuseppe heels and a handful of jewelry. The most jaw-dropping being a thin rose gold chain adorned with ninety one (Peter counted), different shaped diamonds arranged to resemble the leaves of a vine. At the center, they all meet at a large— museum caliber— yellow diamond.

“So let me get this straight,” MJ starts, placing her hands on her hips, “Those are Giuseppe heels, and not just any Giuseppe heel, the Cruel Crystal Giuseppe heel, that they don’t even make anymore,” she emphasizes with her hands, “A necklace with a diamond that bigger than my goddamn fist, and a, hang on a second,” she closes her eyes, holding up her hands to add to the drama of it all, “A hand stitched ball gown?”

“Don’t forget the mask,” Peter breathes heavily, “That’s, I’m pretty sure that’s made outta pure crystal, so,”

You play with your bottom lip nervously, your left arm thrown over your stomach as you slowly turn your head towards your sister and her boyfriend, “Did your friend's sister get all of this shit too?”

The young, brown haired man scratches his head as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other before shrugging and expelling a breath out of his mouth, “I mean, I…” he shrugs again, completely at a loss, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe we can google the initials or something. Where’s your iPad?” MJ asks, turning on her heel and rushing into your bedroom.

“I tried that already,” you call, grabbing the shoes from the counter and slipping your feet into it, “Oh my god, they fit.” You whisper more to yourself than to anyone else in the room.

MJ rolls her eyes, “Well, what came up?”

“Steven Grant Rogers and James Buchanan Barnes,” you answer as you twirl around in a circle, completely enamored with your shoes, “So, nothing.”

Peter gasps and places his hands on his chest as his face fills with a quick fear, “Fuuuckkk, what if it’s them?”

You and MJ both scoff, “Don’t be stupid, Parker.” MJ says.

“It could be! You don’t know!”

“Ok, yes, Captain America and the Winter Soldier are behind this. Sure,” she cuts her eyes towards you, “He has such a crush on them. Did you try the third set of initials?”

You nod as you stare down at your feet, turning your right foot slightly, watching as the gold glints underneath the light, “Yeah, no luck there either. Just random ass dudes— look at how good these look on my feet, sissy.”

She waves you off as she sits on the coffee table, her face being lit up by the light of your iPad, “Okay, A.S.B., Andrew Stephen Barber, assistant district attorney— could be him… he’s cute at least.” she shrugs.

“I doubt it,” you let out a breath, “I should try on the dress, huh? I mean, you know, just to see.” MJ throws you a look while Peter glances between the two of you nervously, “What? I’m still not going, I just want to see how it looks.”

“Uh huh,” MJ squints her eyes, following you as you walk back into your bedroom, already pulling down the zipper on the back of your shirt, “Sure.”

THURSDAY

MJ💕 12:37pm

Lunch? I’m right around the corner from your building

You hear your phone chime, but you don’t tear your eyes away from your screen immediately. Voices come from the speaker on your phone as you type fervorously. You’re only really half listening— this meeting has nothing to do with you, but, you’re the account manager, so you have to at least try and seem interested while you work on another contract with a much more lucrative, expensive company.

The iPhone rattles again against your glass desk and you snap it up this time, your eyes scanning the message. Right on cue, your stomach rumbles.

You 12:40pm

Sure, sure. Chinese?

MJ💕 12:41pm

Yum.

A small smile tugs at the corners of your mouth as you open your SPARK messenger and tap on Nakia’s name. She knows you and MJ’s order like that back of her hand, and messages you back minutes later to confirm the food will be on it’s way within the hour. You return your attention to the large computer screen before you, pushing your glasses up your nose as you shift your vision to the second monitor slightly to your left.

There’s a small tap a few minutes later, followed by Nakia’s beautiful face peeking in as she mouth’s MJ before opening the door wider to let your lanky sister breeze into the room. You hold your fingers up to your lips as the chorus of voices still speak from your speaker, but keep your eyes on her as she pulls her bag over her shoulder and head and plops down in one of the plush seats in front of your desk.

She makes herself busy on her phone, no doubt texting Peter as you return to your emails and contract, losing twenty or thirty more minutes.

“Okay guys, I’ll talk to you next week right?” You ask, your fingers hovering over the speaker button, “Okay… alrightly, buh-bye.” you slam your finger down on the small, round button and widen your eyes as you let out an audible breath, “Sorry, sissy.”

MJ holds up her hand, her face still buried in her phone, “You’re an important lady, I get it.”

“I thought you had class today?”

“That’s the good thing about having a pregnant Professor,” she smiles, wiggling her eyebrows, “Morning sickness apparently lasts throughout the day.”

Another tap comes at the door before Nakia emerges again, this time her hands full of food, “Here we are ladies,” she smiles as she sits the bags on your desk, “This also just arrived for you too.”

Your face twists in confusion as she hands you something wrapped in plain brown paper. There’s a black ribbing wrapped around it, tied in a neat little bow in the center of the package. It’s light whatever it is. Your eyes drift slowly over to MJ, who sits up in her seat, peering at the package in your hands before she blinks up at you— a knowing look on her face.

“Thanks Nakia,” you smile, trying not to draw her attention to all of the air being sucked out of the room.

MJ’s phone rings just as Nakia exits the room. You hear her mumble a greeting, but your attention is quickly sucked back to your hands. Curiosity gets the best of you. You pull at the ribbon and toss it aside before curling your fingers around the edges to find where it’s taped together.

Just as your fingers find where the edges meet, Peter Parker’s voice fills the room, “Am I on speaker?”

“Yes!” MJ hisses, “Talk.”

“Ok, so, I was talking to Liz about the weirdo party her sister went to last year. She got the same packages throughout the week! Monday, she got the invite, Tuesday she got flowers, Wednesday she got a dress, shoes, and a masquerade mask, and Thursday she got—“

“A book of poems,” you breathe, the sound low and airy, “By Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Exa-Exactly.” Peter stutters.

It’s delicate, this book— the pages. You thumb through them gently, smelling the authenticity of it— the rarity. It’s been kept in pristine condition but it still looks old, the pages a dull brown; crisp and brittle to the touch. Your heart thumps against your chest as the hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Your throat constricts as you swallow hard, nerves filling your body.

“Which one is it?” Peter asks softly, the weight of this affecting him through the phone.

“Tamerlane and other poems.” You recite as you close the small book and run your fingers over the front cover.

MJ scrambles to her feet and scurries around you, her eyes plastered on your computer monitor as she starts to type.

Peter clears his throat, “Liz’s sister got a copy of Al Aaraaf. It was like, a first edition or something.”

“Fuck,” the obscenity falls from MJ’s lips with ease, but with a gentle discomfort, “This says there’s less than twelve copies of this in existence— twelve. I mean, how do you even get your hands on something like this?”

You can’t even speak. You just sit there, feeling the small book in your hands, staring blankly at the cover. Peter and MJ start to bicker back and forth as they try to make heads and tails of all of this. You aren’t taken by the book exactly, yeah, you're holding one of maybe twelve copies left in the entire world, but there’s something else gnawing at you in the pit of your stomach— something that’s been just at the tip of your subconscious all week long.

It’s like—

“Was Liz’s sister into Edgar Allan Poe?” You ask suddenly.

“Not at all,” Peter answers quickly, “She thought it was weird.”

“And the dress and the shoes? Did they um,” you blink up at MJ but avert your eyes just as quickly, “They didn’t fit, did they?”

There’s silence from Peter. You can almost see him, standing there in the middle of the college campus with a dumbfounded look on his face— his fingers threading through his hair, his mouth hanging open, eyes wide, “No,” he answers after a slow minute or two, “They were too small.” He goes quiet again before he says, “How did you know that?”

The feeling that’s been gnawing at you all week. You’ve felt like someone’s been looking for you. There’s been this… pull— somewhere deep inside of you— like someone is calling for you.

What scares you is that you want to answer.

“Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there, wondering, fearing, doubting,” MJ recites slowly.

“Dreaming dreams no mortal ever dared to dream before,” you finish for her, “I used to read that to you when you were a kid.”

“He’s your favorite.”

“My absolute favorite,” you laugh nervously, “I wrote my thesis on Al Aaraaf when I was in school.” You fall back into your chair, “That dress fit me like a glove, MJ—  the shoes too.”

She shakes her head quickly, her eyes closed as she slowly comes to the realization that you are. She runs her thin fingers through her wavy hair before she rests her hands on her shoulders, squeezing to comfort herself, “Do you think it’s—”

You shrug, “It could be.”

MJ drops her eyes from yours.

“What’s happening?” Peter’s voice sounds again, “What— what do you mean? Who do you think it is?”

“I’m adopted,” you say slowly, a soft smile on your face as you keep your eyes on MJ, “I was two, maybe three when they took me from my mom. I was placed with our parents, MJ’s biological parents, really quickly— I don’t remember a whole lot, but I remember someone reading Edgar Allan Poe to me, specifically Tamerlane.”

“Fuck,” Peter breathes, “You think it’s her? Your mom?”

You glance towards the floor, a small card catching your eye. You pick it up gingerly and turn it over, your eyes scanning over the handwritten note.

For passionate love is still divine

I lov’d her as an angel might

With ray of the all living light

Which blazes upon Edis’ shrine

See you tomorrow, love — H.R.D.

You drag your eyes back up to MJ’s as you pull your bottom lip between your teeth, “It’s definitely someone that knows her.”

FRIDAY

You don’t go into work.

Peter and MJ have been at your apartment all day, helping you piece this crazy story all together. Liz’s sister, Shuri’s sister— they were all you. Same age, all of you born within days of each other. All born at the same hospital. All adopted around the same age.

Someone is looking for you; and has been for years.

You and MJ are now on opposite sides about this party than you were at the beginning of the week. You want to go. You need to; especially if it’ll lead you to your mother. MJ voiced her newfound concerns, to the point where she shed a few tears— but, being the big sister you are, you brushed them away and explained it as best you could. You just need to know if she’s out there—  what these people, S.R.G., J.B.B., A.S.B., H.R.D. know about her.

So, she helps you get ready. She curls your hair and pins it up. She paints your nails and helps you into the dress before she leans against the door jam of the bathroom, watching you do your makeup— just like she used to when you were a teenager. Peter knocks on the bedroom door before he barely opens it and shoves his arm inside, an envelope hanging off his finger tips.

“Hey guys,” he says softly, “This just came.”

“You want me to read it?” MJ asks, tapping it against her fingers. When you nod, she tears the flap and slides out the card, “A chariot will await you at 7:30 sharp… but please take your time. S.T.W.”

“What time is it?”

She glances at her phone, “7:25.”

You let out a shaky breath. You lean into the mirror and dab at your lips, removing any excess lipstick before you push back again and drag your eyes down your reflection.

“You know,” you start, keeping your eyes on your painted nails, “I don’t remember my mom at all. Not her face, not her voice, but I remember a man— my dad, I guess.” You blink back towards your reflection, squinting your eyes as the gears turn in your head, “I just remember blonde hair and a deep voice reading those poems to me. I remember feeling safe when he held me.”

MJ drops her eyes and nods slowly as she rakes her fingernails up and down her forearm, “I get why you wanna go. I do.”

“I just need to make these fragments make sense, you know? I remember these other guys too— which,” you shrug, “Would make sense since mom said that my real mom lived in a commune, but,” your words drift off.

“Remember when you thought Steve Rogers was your dad?”

You laugh wholeheartedly, “I do! I just always felt like I knew him, I don’t know why.”

You still do— feel like you know him.

“So, yeah. I get it, I really do. It’s gotta be hard not knowing where you come from— thinking that every stranger you meet, or every person you see could possibly be someone you used to know.” MJ sighs as she meets your gaze through the mirror, “You look great. You always look great.”

“Thanks, sissy.” You bunch your dress in your hand and lift it gently as you step towards her, “I’ll be fine.”

She nods quickly, pursing her lips as she cuts her eyes away from yours, “I know that.”

You smile and tilt your head towards her gaze to grab her attention again, “I’m your big sister, you know. I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, I just—” she shrugs, “I don’t want you to forget me.”

“MJ,” you start, grabbing her elbow when her chin quivers, “This has nothing to do with you or mom or dad. I love you guys, you’re my family, that will never change. I promise you, okay?” you pull her into a tight hug, rubbing her back, “You will always be my sister— no one will ever take that away from us.”

“Guys,” Peter calls, “A red Audi just pulled up out front, like, an expensive one.”

“Your chariot awaits.” MJ laughs as she pulls away from you, wiping the wetness on her cheeks away.

You thread your fingers with hers and walk out into the living room where Peter smiles softly. You hug him too— he’s the best thing that could have ever happened to your sister.

“You guys are staying here for the night, right?” you ask, grabbing your clutch.

“We’re not leaving until you come back.” MJ answers.

“Okay. I’ll um, I’ll stay in touch throughout the night, okay?”

MJ nods, “We’ll stay by our phones.”

You head for the front door, opening it quickly before you step out into the hallway, “Don’t have sex in my bed,” you say suddenly, whipping back around to face the couple, “Please.”

“Oh my god,” Peter scoffs, rolling his eyes as a red tint flushes through his face, “We won’t.”

“Yeah, we’ll have sex on the couch.” Your shoulders slump as you squint at MJ, her laughter rolling off her tongue, “Just joking. Have fun, please text us.”

“I will. I love you.”

“I love you too. Be careful.”

You have to turn away from them abruptly or you’d never leave. Grasping your phone and the small clutch you borrowed from MJ, and your crystal mask in your hands, you head for the elevator. It’s a slow ride down to the main floor— silent too. Nothing but the sound of your racing thoughts bouncing back and forth in your mind. The metal box slows to a stop, a soft ding fills the air, and then the world slides back into view— a sleek, red Audi visible through the glass front doors.

A man steps out of the driver seat as you walk towards the door and push through, tightening your grip on your dress. He moves around the car, stopping just at the back door. You notice his eyes dip to your chest and you can’t help but follow his gaze. The flower shaped brooch catches the artificial light of the street lights and each little diamond starts to glint and gleam, even the pearls taking on a new shine.

The driver smiles softly, “The invitation you received was handwritten in an Old English font. The initials at the bottom?”

A test.

“Oh, um, S.G.R.”

“Those flowers you received on Tuesday were beautiful—  white carnations, right?”

You shake your head, “Pink roses.”

“I read a poem the other day, I can’t remember what it was called though. It went something like ‘know thou the secret of a spirit bow’d from its wild pride into shame’…”

“O! Yearning heart! I did inherit thy withering portion with the fame, the searing glory which hath shone amid the Jewels of my throne, Halo of Hell! And with a pain not hell shall make me fear again— o craving heart, for the lost flowers and sunshine of my summer hours,” you smile gently, “Tamerlane— the name of the poem.”

He opens the door and holds out his white, gloved hand to you.

-

1543 Asher Lane is lit up like Rockefeller Center during Christmas. Your mouth drops open as you pull up out front, every window glowing with a warm light. The front doors are thrown open with seemingly hundreds of people moving about inside. The driver opens your door and holds out his hand for you, prompting you to slide your palm into his. He keeps a firm grip on your fingers as you step out, and then helps you up the long front steps.

He only releases your hand when you reach the front door, bowing gently before he skips back down the stairs and towards the car. Your heart drums in your ears as you place your crystal, half face mask on your face and adjust it gently before you drop your hand to the necklace nestled in your cleavage. You play with the large yellow diamond as you step inside, your eyes going wide as the lively noise of a full blown party suddenly fills your ears.

An orchestra plays in the middle of the large, open foyer, the sounds bouncing off the walls and rising up into the tall ceiling. Twenty or thirty couples dance to the upbeat tune and you’d swear you’d just stepped into the 1800s. All the men that move about are dressed in black tuxedos, the only distinction between them all being their different masks. The women twirl in their Venetian ball gowns, their jewelry and intricate, flamboyant masks glinting underneath the light.

There’s double staircases winding up walls, leading up to the second floor, more people laughing and talking intimately on them. Waiters in white suits, black ties and white gloves move seamlessly about, slipping in between the bodies with plates of champagne and finger foods— each one bending forward politely and placing their free hand behind their back as party goers pluck the goodies off their silver serving plates.  

The floors are made of marble. A large, ornate chandelier hangs from the high ceiling, spilling a warm, almost golden light over everything and everyone.

“Champagne, ma’am?”

You snap your head towards the voice as it breaks you from your trance, “Thank you,” you smile as you take the thin champagne flute from his tray.

Just as quickly as he arrived, the waiter is gone again, leaving you to admire the scene before you. You take a sip of the bubbly liquid and pull out your phone, taking a quick picture and sending it to MJ with a short message. You’ve barely tucked it away when another voice sounds at your side.

“Would you care to dance?”

You turn towards the calm, deep voice, your lips parting as your eyes bounce between two crystal blue eyes. Blonde hair is swept back neatly, a strong, smooth chin and jawline visible underneath his silver, laser cut Venetian mask. He’s tall— towering almost, his chest and shoulders wide and broad. You’re taken by him almost immediately. You nod quickly, blinking a few times as he takes your champagne flute from you and hands it to a nearby server before he takes your hand and leads you into the middle of the floor.

You gasp as he sweeps you up in his arms, resting his large hand on the small of your back and pulls you into his hard body. You can’t help but stare up at him as he starts to twirl you around the floor, taking complete control of your steps. A laugh bubbles up from your chest as he spins you away from him, extending his long arm until just your fingertips are touching, and then pulls you back into his chest.

He’s a confident man— you can tell by the way he spins you around the dance floor. Even as the tempo of the music changes, from upbeat and fun, to slow and somewhat sad, he stays right in rhythm. You’ve always been a sucker for a man that can dance.

A slow smile creeps onto your face as your eyes bounce back and forth between his while the orchestra plays, “What is this song?” you ask suddenly, breaking the ice between the two of you.

“Sicilienne in E flat major, do you like it?”

“It’s beautiful.” You laugh a little, turning your head to watch the young cellist, “He’s so young, is he local?”

“He isn’t, no. That’s Sheku Kanneh-Mason of Britain, you may—”

You snap your head back towards him, “He played at the Royal Wedding! Oh my god!”

He chuckles as he gently tightens his hold around your waist, “The very one.”

You turn your head to watch the young man as he plays, completely in awe of his raw talent and bask in it, knowing you’ll never be in such company again, “My God, this is incredible. I have no idea what I’m doing here.” You laugh.

“Well, you were invited, yes?”

“Yeah but I—” you stop yourself, shaking your head gently before you smile again, “I had a crazy thought about this party. I thought someone from my past was trying to reach out to me.” He tilts his head a little, his eyes scanning your face. You laugh again, “Don’t mind me, I’m just imagining things apparently.”

“Someone from your past?” He nudges gently.

You’re not sure if it's the champagne you’ve been sipping all evening, or just because for some reason you feel like you’ve known this man your whole life, but you start to spill your guts, “I thought, God, this is going to sound stupid. I thought my mom, or someone who knew my mom was trying to reach out to me through this party, which sounds insane now that I think about it. I was adopted, so,” you shrug, “I dunno, I was kinda hoping that she’d be here or that someone could get me in touch with her. Sounds crazy, right?”

He spins you again, this time slow, his eyes dragging down your body. He pulls you back into him and you rest your hand on his chest as you watch the orchestra, a soft smile on your face, “You are young yet, my friend, but the time will arrive when you will learn to judge for yourself of what is going on in the world, without trusting to the gossip of others,” you recite, “Believe nothing you hear and only one half that you see.”

His steps hitch ever so lightly.

You turn back to face him, blinking up at him as another smile spreads on your lips, “I didn’t catch your name?”

He blinks at you, something new in his eyes— something like relief? You can’t tell. His lips part and he takes a breath, trying but failing to get his mouth to move, “I’m sorry,” he finally says, laughing gently as he shakes his head, “Um, I’m Steven— Steve. Um, Edgar Allan Poe?”

“Yeah, sorry,” you laugh, “He’s one of my favorite poets. That last line just kind of describes my thoughts over the past few days is all.”

“It’s strange for a young girl like yourself to be an Edgar Allan Poe aficionado.”

You shrug again, nodding, “I know. I just, I’ve always had an affinity for him, it’s one of the few memories of my father that I have. He used to read Poe’s poems to me as a child.”

He stops dancing abruptly, “May you excuse me? I’m sorry, I have to um, I have to go see someone very quickly. I’ll be right back.”

Before you can even answer, he brushes past you, dipping in and out of the people still filling the dance floor. You blink in confusion, watching as he jogs up the stairs and stops at the very top step, leaning into a dark haired man. They both turn in your direction after a few minutes, catching your eye before they turn back to one another, the dark haired man grabbing Steven’s arm in… surprise, maybe?

They break apart seconds later, Steven jogging back down the stairs, the dark haired man walking briskly along the long catwalk, stopping only to tap three other men on the back before they too follow quickly behind him and disappear. You grab another champagne glass from a waiter and take a gulp as heat flushes through you— nerves suddenly racking your body.

You keep your eyes on Steve as he pushes through the people again, making a line straight towards you. Tilting your head back, you finish off the rest of your glass as he approaches you again, “I’m sorry,” he smiles, “That was rude of me.”

“Oh, it’s, it’s no problem,” you laugh nervously, clearing your throat as you glance around the crowded room.

He holds out his hand to you, “Would you come with me? Please?”

You shake your head as fear strikes you, “Oh, you know, I actually have to get going, I—”

“I know your mother,” your eyes widen at his words, stopping you dead in your tracks, “And your father. Please, come with me.”

You aren’t crazy.

Someone is really trying to contact you.

You grab his hand and let him pull you through the crowd and towards the stairs. He steps aside and lets you lead, placing his hands on your waist as the two of you move up the long staircase. Once you reach the top, he grabs your hand again and pulls you along the catwalk until you disappear down the hallway. You pass by a series of doors before you stop at the last one, Steve stopping to knock.

The door pops open seconds later and Steve steps aside again, dropping your hand to hold his out towards the door. You remove your mask and sweep your hair out of your face as your mouth falls open, your eyes wide as you stare at Steve.

“It’s okay,” he reassures, his voice soft and calm.

You take a step, and then another, your heart beating hard and fast, goosebumps popping up on your skin. You step into the room but stop dead in your tracks as the air is sucked right out of your body. Four men sit at a long, antique, baroque style table. Their hands are placed flat on the dark marble top, heads bowed. The room is dark except for the flickering candles that sit in their ornate holders in the middle of the table, the light accentuating the mens’ black and gold scaramouche masks.

Fear rolls through you in waves, your breaths shaky and heavy as it falls from your lips. The door clicks behind you and you feel a hand on the small of your back again, another one on your elbow, “It’s alright darling,” he whispers in your ear, “I’ll help you to your seat, okay?”

“Steve,” your voice trembling, “I don’t, I don’t understand, I—”

“It’s alright, I promise you. We are not going to hurt you. That goes against everything we stand for. Come.”

You blink wildly at the men at the table as Steve pushes you past them slowly. They don’t flinch— no one makes a move to glance up at you or even breathe harder than what they already are. You were so busy staring at the men occupying four of the five chairs at the table, that you didn’t even notice the hand carved chair sitting against the wall at the back of the room.

The frame is golden, the upholstery teal in color and covered with floral embroidery, the back designed with a diamond tuft. It sits up a little higher than the table— propped up on a small, hand built stage with three steps leading up to it. Steve helps you up the small steps, keeping your hand in his until you’re seated.

As soon as you're settled, the four seated men pull a candle from the center of the table and place it right in front of them. The golden flames dance at the tips of the long, white candles, casting shadows over the dark walls.

“You may begin.”

You snap your head towards Steve as he speaks, your mouth hanging open, your eyes wide, breath shaky. The dark haired man that Steve first spoke to stands, his chair scuffing against the floor as he pushes away from the table. He grasps the candle holder in both hands as he approaches you slowly, his eyes cast down towards the floor.

Your breath quickens as he nears you. You squeeze Steve’s hand as you push back into the chair, starting to draw your feet up as he kneels before you, “Wait, wait, wait, wait! What are you—”

“It’s okay, darling.” Steve purrs, his thumb sweeping over the back of your hands, “It’s okay. He’s not going to hurt you. Just relax.”

A hot tear streaks down your cheek as your whimper, your chin trembling as you push a hard, focused breath out of your mouth. The man in front of you mumbles something— in French you think, but you aren’t sure— before he reaches into his pocket. Your breath hitches in your throat as he starts to sprinkle rose petals at your feet, chanting as he does.

You feel his fingers brush over your exposed toes before he lifts your right foot and slips off your gold shoe— tracing a cross with the tip of his finger on the top of your foot. He repeats his actions to the left and stands, keeping his head down as he makes a cross over his face and chest and then turns and returns to his seat.

The next man stands, a thick beard covering his chin, his candle in hand as he approaches you, never making eye contact. Instead of rose petals, he lays money at your feet— a single dollar bill— before he traces the cross into your skin while he speaks in French.

The third man is clean shaven, like Steve, but his hair dark— some falling over his mask and onto his forehead. He leaves a handful of herbs and one white egg at your feet before sweeping his fingertips over your toes and branding each foot with an imaginary cross.

The fourth man that kneels before you repeats everything to a T. He’s tall, his skin a deep, smooth walnut brown. He leaves behind a handful of wheat grain and what looks like raw sugarcane before he blesses your feet and rises again. He taps his forehead and chest before each shoulder and moves away, retaking his seat at the table.

Tears still trickle down your cheeks as you blink furiously— your stomach churning, your palms clammy. You snap your eyes towards Steve as he finally releases your hand and grabs a bowl from the small table tucked into the corner of the room. He steps in front of you and kneels, setting the hand painted bowl at your feet. He lifts your feet gently, placing them in the bowl with care, massaging your ankles and lower calves to calm you.

It works— your voice trembles as you push out a gentle hum, focusing on his hands on your skin. He starts to speak in French, his voice low and calm, much like most of the evening. He pulls a small flask out of his jacket pocket and pops the lid before he pours the unusually cool liquid over your feet. You flinch instinctively but focus again on his soft hands, kneading your feet as he washes them.

Steve pulls the white silk pocket square from his suit jacket and dabs at your feet, wiping away the moisture. He traces a cross on the tops of your feet before standing again and cups your face with his hands. You’re drawn into him— resting your forehead to his as he continues to chant, his lips so close they brush against yours as he speaks.

“Bless this missing child,” he whispers, the only part of his chant in english, “She is home at last.”

As soon as the words leave his lips, every burning candle is suddenly extinguished by some force now filling the room. You blink in the darkness, your breath quickening as you grab Steve’s forearms.

“Shhh, shhh, shhhh,” he coos, stroking your bottom lip with his thumbs, “It’s alright. I’ve got you.”

The room is full— so full of energy; power. It whips around you, electrifying your skin and blood, rattling your bones. It’s foreign— anomalous— but yet feels so comforting and warm. Like love. Like you're surrounded by family. You loosen your grip on Steve’s forearms as the fear drains from your body, a voice— a soft whisper in your ears. A voice you’ve never heard before but have somehow heard your whole life. It’s a language you don’t understand, but yet you know exactly what it’s saying.

Your eyes pop open suddenly and the room is washed in a warm light as the candles are suddenly lit again. Steve smiles at you softly as your eyes, now full of wonder and a new sacred knowledge, bounce back and forth between his deep blues. There’s a new electricity between the two of you, something unspoken, but written in the stars all the same.

The blood in your veins rushes hard, the sound of your thumping heart beating in your ears as goosebumps pop up over your skin again. Your stomach tightens as the molten of your ardor starts to pool and spread through your body, blazing a quick path. Steve’s thumbs still sweep over your lips, underneath your eyes, over your nose as you hold loosely onto his wrists. You grab your bottom lip between your teeth and let your eyes fall to his mouth before you inhale sharply— soft and pink, his lips.

His large palms spread warmth through your face, his thumbs still circling— still pushing along your smooth skin. Blue eyes dart around your face, continually meeting your deep brown eyes before dipping to your expectant lips. He pushes closer— so close that his pillowy lips rest against yours, but he doesn’t rush it— doesn’t press any harder.

He leaves it all up to you.

The energy is back in the room, swirling, filling you up with the power and presence with each breath you take. You press your lips to his as the sweet sirens start to whisper to you again. A moan slips from your mouth and into Steve’s, where he gobbles it up, exchanging a deep, pleased groan of his own.  

His lips start to travel, moving down to your chin and jaw. He nuzzles into the soft, warm crook of your neck where he sucks lightly— his velvet tongue sneaking out and slipping along your skin. You push your chest into his as your back straightens, a gasp filling your lungs with the sweet air that surrounds you.

The emotion takes over in the heat of the moment— the fire of his lips and hands setting you a flame. Your leg hooks around his waist as you curl your fingers over his broad shoulders, digging your black painted nails into his shoulder blades. His teeth nip at your taut flesh and you lurch forward, your head tilting towards the ceiling as a choked moan strains in your throat.

You feel his deft fingertips on your naked calf, slipping along the length— over and around your knee, up your thigh— where he kneads and gropes, pulling heavier, louder sounds from you as his lips caress your flesh. A shiver rolls down your spine when his thick digits brush over your sticky panties. He doesn’t shy away, he sweeps the pads of his fingers over you again and again, finding a sweet little rhythm as he applies a gentle pressure.

Hips roll. Chests swell. Grips tighten as your head rolls back. Your mouth falls open as you drag in a breath, pushing it out with a husky groan. Your teeth grab your bottom lip again as you slide your hand around his wide back, hooking your arm around his neck. Humming, you open your eyes, blinking slowly back at four sets of hungry eyes trained on you and Steve. You inhale again, letting your lips part as you link eyes with each man at the table.

The men sit stark still— not moving a muscle as the flame from the candles light your bodies. Shadows dance across their masked faces as they watch in silence, but you can feel each and every one of them. Each energy is slightly different but acutely masculine, acutely tuned into you.

You don’t mind them watching. The scene salacious— vulgar.

Wrapped up in two large, muscly arms, you’re hoisted from the chair as Steve grabs your lips again with his own. He walks you to the table and sits you on the edge, right between two of the four men occupying it. The marble top is cool to the touch as he helps you up onto your feet, holding the tips of your fingers with his hand. He leads you into the center of the table, five heads all tilted up towards you as you stand there, the bottom of your dress dragging behind you as you move.

You feel like a princess with all of their eyes on you, hanging on to your every move, drinking in every inch of you. You twirl— a giggle falling from your lips before you sink down to your knees, peeking over your shoulder at the only brown eyed man in the room. You place your thin fingers over your lips, playing with them gently as you bat your eyes at him and sweep your hair over your shoulder— exposing the zipper of your dress.

He obliges without hesitation. Standing to his feet, he reaches for you— a warm hand on your bare shoulder, another grasping the zipper. You nuzzle your chin and cheek against his long fingers before brushing your lips over them quickly. His warm brown skin melts into yours as he pulls on your zipper, exposing more and more of your naked back as he goes.

The soft smile on your face grows wider as he centers his large palm in the middle of your back. Warm skin to warm skin. His eyes are ablaze— dark, blown pupils against a lighter brown iris— set dead on you as his lips part, showing off a distinctive gap in his teeth as his fingers whisk across your back and shoulder.

You turn to face him, still kneeling in the center of the table, and reach for his mask— pulling gently on the black tie until the bow falls away. He lets you remove it from him, a soft smile playing on his lips as you reveal the handsome face underneath.

“Samuel Thomas Wilson,” Steve offers softly.

Samuel tips his head towards you as you run the tips of your fingers along his softly bearded jaw, “S.T.W.” you say easy, recalling the last of your calling cards, “Hi Sam.”

You lean forward and place your lips on his— one gentle, chaste kiss before you break away from him with a soft smack.

You follow Steve with your eyes as he moves to the man seated next to Sam. Steve places his hand on his shoulder, “Andrew Stephen Barber.”

You bat your eyes at Andrew as he stands and takes your hand, bringing the backs of your fingers to his lips, “Andy.” He supplies as he removes his mask and sits it gently on the table.

“A.S.B., thank you for the dress.”

His presence is calm— gentle, matching the softness of his beard and dark hair. You press your free hand into the halter top of your dress to keep it from falling, but all the modesty you once had is evaporating quickly. You feel like you’ve known them all forever.

The next pair of blue eyes bring a forceful energy, one of entitlement and defiance. Before Steve can get his name out, he’s standing, his mask in his hand revealing his boyish, clean face, “Hugh Ransom Drysdale.” He winks at you suggestively, “Ransom.”

He wraps his long arm around your waist and pulls you close, crashing his lips to yours in a fury. You giggle against him before accepting his velvety tongue into your mouth, letting it sweep along your bottom lip and then slide along yours. Steve taps his shoulder and after a beat… or two, Ransom releases you from his grip, a smirk on his face, a twinkle in his eye.

You turn to the fourth man— the dark haired man that Steve initially spoke to on the stairs. He’s standing, with Steve behind him, the tips of his fingers resting on the edge of the long table. He’s the only one wearing gloves. His breathing is controlled, his eyes set on you as you inch towards him, sitting up on your knees in front of him.

You walk your fingers up his chest seductively, your teeth digging into your bottom lip as you smile at him, “You must be J.B.B.”

He tilts his head, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth, “I could be S.G.R.”

“While the guy named Steven stands behind you?” you squint playfully, reaching for his mask.

He grabs your wrist with his left hand, making you gasp. It’s a firm grip, but it excites something deep in you. You drop your hands into your lap, flattening them on your thighs as you take a deep breath and push it out of your nose. He glances over his shoulder at Steve, who nods just once before he turns back to face you and starts to pull at the fingers of his gloves. He removes the right hand first, tucking the black glove into his pocket before he starts on the left, pulling slowly— finger by finger.

Your mouth drops open as he pulls the nylon material away, your eyes going wide as he stretches out his digits, the candle light glinting off of the dark metal. The breath in your throat hitches as you watch him reach for his mask and untie it, pulling it away from his face to reveal a familiar one.

J.B.B.

James Buchanan Barnes.

So that means—

You blink towards Steve, whose mask is now off and sitting on the table. He rests his hand on Bucky’s shoulder as he exhales deeply, “James Buchanan Barnes,” he then points at himself, “Steven Grant Rogers.”

You blink rapidly— completely dumbfounded as the two super soldiers stand before you. Bucky takes your hand, brushing his lips over your fingers before he pops them into his mouth, sucking gently on your digits as he flicks his eyes back up to yours. Your stomach tightens. A hum accompanies the breath that vibrates through your chest as he drags his left hand up and down your arm.

Steve cups your cheek and turns your head towards him before he traces your jaw and chin with his index finger, “We’re gonna take care of you baby girl,” he whispers as he places his fingertips on your forehead and brushes them down your face, “We’ve searched for you for so long.”

You believe him— you don’t know what he’s talking about, but you believe every word.

You push in and kiss Bucky, wrapping your hand around the back of his neck and squeeze gently before you turn towards Steve, pulling him into another deep kiss, “Get this dress off of me.” You whisper.

Hands— so many hands, each pair distinctively different, are on your body within seconds, tugging and pulling at the heavy dress until you’re free of it. The only piece of clothing left on you is your thin thong as you lay back on the table, your hands over your bare breasts, covering them. You gaze up at the five men peering at you, their eyes wide and hungry.

Steve slips his hand down your sternum, the pads of his fingers sliding down your stomach to your hips, where he traces the thin band of your underwear— his touch making you raise your hips from the table. Sam drags his thumb along your chin and bottom lip before he pushes the tip just inside your all too eager mouth. You suck gently, running your tongue the length of his digit as Ransom pries your hands away from your breasts.

You moan softly, arching your back into Ransom’s hands as he starts to tweak your taut nipples, rolling them both between his fingers before he leans down and sucks your right breast into his mouth. Hands grab your thighs, kneading your flesh and pull them apart as Andy licks into your mouth, his tongue massaging the roof as he holds your chin.

The energy is back in the room— the power swirling as the men start to devour you. There’s tongues over your toes, hands on your tight nipples and abundant breasts, lips on your shoulders and neck. Fingernails scrape against your skin as they slink underneath the band of your panties, pulling them down your thighs and calves before they slide over your ankle and are discarded to the floor.

You feel the warm metal and flesh hand of Bucky around your ankles, drawing your legs up so they’re bent at the knee. He crawls onto the table, his heavy blue eyes drinking you in as he lets his metal fingers dance up and down the inside of your thigh. You start to shiver at his touch— your back arching away from the table as you gasp and hiss from the hands and mouths and tongues all over you.

Bucky sinks down— low, onto his belly— his eyes still trained on yours as he wraps his arms around your thighs. He starts to blow warm air against your sticky, hot sex, his eyes finally dipping away from yours and to your lower half as your hips jerk and whine. His metal fingers push through your folds gently, rubbing the sensitive nub at the center of you, then teasing your slit and opening.

Steve presses his balmy lips right in the valley of your breasts and peppers kisses along your jiggling flesh. The tip of his tongue circles your nipples before his teeth nip and bite. You gasp loud as a metal finger, and then a second push into your cunt— a thumb pressing against your clit. Your hips jut upward as you mewl, the sound quickly being covered up by Sam’s mouth as he kisses you hard.

Bucky blinks up at you as he withdrawals his fingers and waits— waits for you to make eye contact with him before he sucks them into his mouth, wiping them clean of your slick. He moans— heavy and hard as he closes his eyes, savoring your taste.

Your hips start to roll into his hand as he dips his fingers back into you, his breath washing over your quivering thighs. Ransom tickles your right knee, then skips his hand down the inside of your thigh, where he cups your sex around Bucky’s pushing fingers. Ransom starts to rub your clit, pressing firm circles into your wet flesh as Bucky curls his fingers to massage your muscles.

Andy sinks his teeth into your side before his tongue glances out over your stomach, circling your belly button before he sucks on your skin. He presses his hand into your lower stomach to add some pressure— Sam and Steve each taking a breast into their wet mouths, their tongues swishing and swirling.

You dig a hand into Steve’s hair and cup Sam’s head as they tease your nipples, a sharp yelp bursting through your lips as Sam bites down gently. Ransom spreads your folds with his index and middle fingers and suddenly, there’s a tongue— a warm, velvety tongue flattening against your clit. You push your head up to watch as Bucky sucks on your nub, his eyes searing into yours as he releases you with a smack, and then dives back in, the tip of his tongue flirting with your opening, his fingers still pumping.

Your head and hips roll as unrestrained groans rumble through your chest and fill the room, mingling with the deep moans and growls of the five men pleasing you. The sound of a zipper bounces off the walls— your hand then grabbed and pulled to your left. You gasp at the heavy warmth that fills your palm as your fingers wrap around Sam’s length. You roll your head towards him, biting your bottom lip as you watch your hand slide up and down his impressive girth.

You grab Steve’s hip with your free hand, digging your fingers into him as you lean up, beckoning him to come closer. You kiss him hard once he’s within distance, smacking your lips against his before you sound into his mouth as Ransom slaps your pussy, the gold band around his ring finger adding a heaviness to the strikes.

Bucky kisses up your thigh, sinking his teeth into your flesh every now and again until he reaches your ankle and foot. He thumbs at your black painted nails before he pulls your toes into his mouth as he massages your calf, “These are cute, these toes.” He murmurs, a light chuckle vibrating through him.

A chorus of zips start to sound, one right after the other. Their jackets soon hit the floor, the crisp, white sleeves of their button downs are rolled up their forearms before they all descend on you again. You’re lifted from the table into Andy’s arms as Sam slides into the space you once occupied on the table, his pants riding low on his hips. Andy kisses you deeply before placing you back on your feet on the top of the table, keeping a hold of your hand as you traipse along Sam’s side.

You throw your leg over Sam’s body and sit slowly, wiggling your hips as you position yourself on his lower stomach. You reach back, dragging your fingers through the curly patch of hair covering his lower half, tickling his skin. You slip your fingers into his unzipped pants and pull him free, stroking and squeezing him slowly before you swipe your fingers over his wet tip.

Two strong hands grip your waist— Ransom— as you slip your hand down to Sam’s base and lift upward, guiding him towards your entrance. Ransom holds you steady as you sit down on Sam, your cunt swallowing every delicious inch of Sam’s cock until he’s completely disappeared. You lean forward, splaying your fingers out on his wide, thick chest as he grabs hold of your thighs. You pull up, hissing as his cock slides out of the tight grasp of your pussy and then sit back down, moaning as he fills you again.

Ransom slips his hand up your spine and wraps his fingers over your shoulder as you start a slow rhythm, up and down, up and down, up and down. Your hips roll as Sam starts to buck his hips up into you, each stroke a little harder, a little sharper than the one before it. There’s a chest to your back and then teeth nibbling at your earlobe as you lean back into the body and rest your head on a shoulder. Ransom’s mouth then covers yours as he wraps his arm around your waist, holding you tight as you ride Sam, your nails digging into his rich brown skin.

You gasp as a tongue teases your thick nipple, and then a hand closes over your left breast, squeezing and kneading gently. You slide your hand into Ransom’s hair as you watch Steve flick the tip of his tongue against your nipple before he sucks your breast into his mouth, moaning as his tongue swirls.

Andy slips his hand down your stomach and starts to work your clit, grabbing your chin with his free hand and tilting your head towards his. His head is tilted upwards, his eyes hooded as he peers down at you through his long, thick eye lashes. You whine as Sam’s pace quickens, fucking up into you hard as he grips your hips so tight you’re sure he’ll leave marks behind. Andy snarls his lip as he watches you struggle to keep your eyes open, as your hips falter, as you get louder and less restrained. He licks into your mouth before he lays a filthy kiss on you— demanding and sloppy.

Ransom squeezes your shoulder before he pushes you forward with his other hand, nearly crushing you against Sam’s chest. You shiver when you feel his cock slide through your ass cheeks, leaving a wetness behind. He pulls back and the backs of his fingers glance over your ass, deep hisses and a grunt coming from him as he strokes his cock— a drop of his cum dribbling onto your skin.

He suddenly pushes his fingers into your mouth— index, middle, and ring— wetting them with your saliva before he drags them back through your ass, the tips circling your hole. There’s a tangy taste left in your mouth, some of you, some of him, as he slaps his dick against your ass and then spreads you apart. Sam slows beneath you and then stops as he drags his large hands up and down your forearms, grabbing your hand and sucking your fingers into his warm mouth.

You slam your eyes closed, tensing as Ransom starts to push the head of his cock against your asshole. He places his hand against the center of your back, Bucky cups your face in his palms, sweeping his thumbs over your cheeks as he pecks your lips with his, singing gentle praise to help relax you.

“You can do it baby,” Bucky whispers, rubbing his nose against yours, smiling softly, “You can take him baby, I know you can. Can’t she Steve?”

Steve sinks his teeth into your shoulder, humming as he drags his red, swollen lips down your arm, “This pretty girl sure can,” he reassures, his voice smooth and low, “And it’s gonna feel so good, baby. You’re gonna feel so full, so stretched.”

You whimper loudly. You grab Bucky’s shoulder as Ransom’s dick finally breaks through your threshold. Ransom lets out a breath, the warm splashing over your back as he stills, a shuddering groan vibrating through his chest. Ransom squeezes your shoulder again, leaning forward to place sloppy kisses on your back, “More?”

Steve kisses your temple before he nuzzles into the side of your face, “You can do it sweet girl. You can take him all.”

Bucky kisses your lips again. Sam nibbles on the tips of your fingers as he nudges his hips into yours, burying deeper into you. You nod quickly— you do want more. More, more, more.

Ransom starts to push again, spreading your tight muscles as he forges, filling you right up. He doesn’t stop until he bottoms out— his stomach now pressing into your ass as he wraps his hand around the back of your neck.

“Such a good girl,” Bucky purrs as he reaches between you and Sam’s bodies, starting to play with your nub, “Such a sweet, pretty girl.”

Sam is the first to move, pressing up into you before he withdrawals slowly. Ransom counters his actions, pulling out when Sam pushes in, delving in when Sam drags out. It’s hypnotizing— the rhythm, the push and pull. Your mouth goes slack as Steve rolls your nipples in his hands, his tongue and teeth nipping and licking at your damp skin. You roll your hips, pushing back into Ransom as Sam fucks up into you as electricity flows through your veins.

“That’s it baby girl,” Bucky praises through impassioned kisses, his tongue slipping along your lips and the roof of your mouth, “Stuffed full, aren’t you sweetie?”

Your stomach tightens at the words, your heart beat pounding against your chest and in your ears as a tingle rushing up your spine. There’s a pull deep in your belly, a molten heat and the raw emotions spreading through you as your body tightens hard.  Your hips jerk as a sudden current strikes you— your cunt closing around Sam. He shudders and you feel it, feel it rumble through his chest as his own hips get desperate.

Ransom fucks your ass with fluid motions, his enormous hands and long fingers digging into the supple flesh of your waist. He grunts, hard and grainy as the warmth of your insides caress his cock. Ransom gets loud, Sam gets loud, you get whimpery— needy, almost to the point of tears as the waves roll harder and faster through you. Each stroke, each thrust, each plow of their hips driving you closer and closer to your demise.

A moan chokes in your throat as your orgasm blooms across your skin, but soon the sounds are pouring out of you. Loud, desperate, relieved as the waves finally crash. Bucky bites his bottom lip hard as his fingers slap against your jumping clit. Steve pinches your nipples as he rests his forehead against the side of your face, his hot breath sticking to your skin.

Sam drives his hips into yours once more and digs his thumbs into the creases of your thighs as his cock starts to spit, over and over again, spilling into you. Ransom fucks through it all, keeping a firm grip on your shoulder until he too comes undone in your ass. He pushes deep, deep, deep inside as he spurts, watching as your hole spasms around him.

Ransom pulls out of you as soon as he’s milked and you feel his cum bubble out of you, slipping down the inside of your thigh. You’re lifted off of Sam— brought to the edge of the table, on your hands and knees, your feet hanging over the end. A massive hand presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest and head down onto the cool surface as you try and catch your breath. You jump when a pair of warm lips connect where your ass ends and your thigh begins, a soft beard brushing against your skin.

Andy drags his finger up the inside of your thigh, collecting the cum that’s spilled from you and pushes two fingers into your hot cunt— your muscles still quaking, still constricting. He fingers you slowly, skimming his fingertips up and down your thigh as he pushes his digits, cramming Sam and Ransom’s cum deep.

You hum with each stroke, lunging forward softly, your nipples grazing over the marble table top as you move. You blink slowly as you lift your head, watching as Bucky climbs onto the table, spreading his legs as they slide around you. He slides his flesh hand into his pants and starts to stroke his cock— long, languid pulls as his metal fingers pull on his tight balls. You wrap your hands around his thighs, the excitement bubbling up in your chest once more as you watch him.

Andy replaces his fingers with his dick in one fell swoop. You mewl, your tits bouncing as he starts a brisk pace. The sound of his skin slapping against yours bouncing off the walls as Ransom, Sam, and Steve watch on, chests rising and falling hard as they tug their hands up and down their cocks at the sight.

You rock forward, your face inches from Bucky’s cock as he jerks himself, peering down his long body at you. Keeping your eyes on his, you push your tongue out from behind your teeth and lick at his shaft quickly before puckering your lips to kiss the thick vein running the length of him. You push your hands over his hips and up over his abs as your mouth slides over his wet, red mushroom tip.

Bucky moans deep, his back arching from the table as he pushes his hips up into your mouth, sending his cock right to the back of your throat. You pull upward as his hips sink back to the table, releasing him with a pop and smiling as his cock sways back and forth. You wrap your fingers around the base of his dick, wiggling him a little before you lower your mouth over his tip, sucking lightly as you swirl your tongue over his slit.

Your plump lips go slack around Bucky as Andy presses into a spot— sending a jolt right to your heart. Andy lets his hands roam along your back and sides as he fucks you, gripping and squeezing, groping and kneading your thick, soft flesh. He’ll push deep, and then just stay there for a few seconds, savoring the warmth, the tightness of your slick muscles before he wiggles his hips and withdrawals from you, just to plunge back in.

You release Bucky quickly to swallow the piquant spunk left on your tongue before you cram him back into your mouth. You suck on his cock head as you pump him up and down, twisting and turning your hand as you go. A muffled moan seeps from your mouth, vibrating around Bucky’s cock as you slam your eyes closed, feeling Andy’s strokes in your stomach.

The tingles are back— the pull in your belly. Your pussy tightens as the electricity within you starts to bounce around, synapses firing. Andy feels it, Bucky too, their hips pushing harder and faster. Your nails scratch at Bucky’s skin, squeezing uncontrollably as your heart beats in your ears, heat flushing your face.

Andy fucks into you good, hard and deep, sending you right over the edge once more. Your release spreads through you, warming every inch of flesh, every pore, every follicle. Andy thumbs your clit as he continues to pump his hips, fucking your right through your orgasm until your contracting muscles and slick coax his climax. Bucky erupts at nearly the same time— long, hot ribbons of his cum shooting from him, splattering on his stomach and dribbling down his cock.

There’s movement out of the corner of your eye, Steve standing from one of the chairs to grab your chin, pushing your head and face up towards him. He kisses you hard— sloppy, sucking on your bottom lip before he tongues the roof of your mouth. He pulls away, cupping your face in his hands gently as he rubs his thumbs along your cheeks, a soft smile on his lips, eyes full of affection.

“Such a good girl.” he whispers.

He pulls you into another kiss, but this time it’s softer— sweeter. Slower.

Andy pulls out of you, his hands still sweeping over your back and ass and thighs. He presses another kiss right into the creases of each cheek before he falls into a chair next to Sam. Bucky slides off of the table and sits next to Ransom, resting his head on the back of the chair and lets his mouth go slack as he lets out a breath.

Steve crawls onto the table as the four other men drag their chairs to the edges of the table, sitting up straighter once they get situated. Steve grabs your lips with his, a soft hum wavering in his throat. He separates from you but doesn’t go far— resting his forehead on yours as he nuzzles into you, rubbing the tip of his nose along the bridge of yours. He starts to guide you back, his hand behind your head, as he lays you down flat on the table, your knees drawn up, your feet flat against the cool surface.

You sweep your hands up and down your thighs in anticipation as you watch him unbutton his shirt slowly, his blue eyes wandering the length of your body as his fingers move. You push up onto your elbows, tilting your head as you blink at him when he pulls the material away from his buff torso.

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you dip your eyes to his broad chest, his skin tanned and tight. There are faint scars littered along his skin— a few tiger stripes on his biceps and sides. His stomach is firm and flat, six perfect abs carved out, and the cutest belly button you think you’ve ever had the pleasure of seeing. You sit up, placing your hand in the middle of his chest, right in the middle of those hard pecs and watch your hand move with each breath he takes. Your fingers fall, down his sternum, over those abs, and slightly into the dark blonde patch of hair that peeks out of his open pants.

You draw your bottom lip into your mouth and send your eyes up to his as your hand digs deeper— your dainty fingers wrapping around his hard, hot cock. His chest tightens at your touch. You inch your body closer to his, throwing your legs open and around either side of his body as you start to pump him slowly. You draw your hand up his shaft, sweeping your palm over his sensitive, weeping tip before you push back down, squeezing him gently— feeling him.

His breathing gets deeper, his chest and stomach constricting, his lips parting and quivering ever so lightly as you massage him. All five pairs of eyes are on you— unwavering, barely blinking as they consume you and only you. The power swells in your chest. You feel like a goddamn queen. Captivating. Strong.

You pull him free of his dark slacks and have to take a breath at the sight of him. He’s gorgeous. Thick and long, his tip shiny and wet and red— eager— his dick jumping every now and again as cum dribbles out of his slit. You sweep the pads of your fingers over the tip again, collecting the warm, cloudy spunk and push it down his shaft, along the thick vein that runs down him, wetting every inch of him.

He pulls you into his lap in one swift move, like you’re absolutely weightless. His cock settles against your pussy and clit, resting against your stomach as he wraps his arm around your back and waist. You instantly start to roll your hips, sliding your skin along his dick— coping a feel— letting it radiate through you.

The current in the room picks up. The flames of the candles start to flicker as if there’s a strong breeze that threatens to extinguish them. You push up with the help of Steve’s strength, your mouth hanging open as you guide him towards your entrance. You push his flesh through your folds, teasing yourself a little before you align him with you, starting to sink your hips down.

You dig your fingertips into his shoulders, let your head fall back as he opens you up inch by inch. A growl scratches at the back of your throat when you feel his hot lips on your neck, peppering kisses, tongue lapping, teeth nipping as you take him. The candles flicker hard as Steve bottoms out in you— hip to hip; flesh to flesh.

Throwing an arm around his neck, you really start to move, pulling up on that towering dick before sinking back down on it. Your tits bounce as your hips roll, a delicious burn starting to spread through your thighs. Steve’s hips fuck into yours, meeting you halfway as you crash down. There’s hands on you again— on your shoulders and arms, on your thighs, wrapping around your ankles— Andy, Ransom, Sam, and Bucky— grabbing, kneading, gripping, groping.

The electricity in the room bounces off the walls, energizing you, drawing you into Steve more and more with each passing second. The wind even kicks up outside, slamming against the sprawling house, shaking the lush trees. The warm moonlight cascades into the room and over your bodies as you fuck Steve unmercifully on top of the old table. You gasp and moan and pant— the sounds bitten off, choked, and heavy as your pussy constricts around him.

He appeases each whim of your hips, driving into you deep and hard, taking control when your hips jerk and shudder. He encourages you— they all do— sweet, tiny whispers, filthy, low declamations. Their voices rattle your brain and your bones as the candle light trembles again.

You’re slamming into each other, Steve bottoming out with each thrust. Your stomach is tight, your body warm and prickly, your clit stinging as another orgasm looms in the distance. Steve’s hips are rolling and pushing, his fingernails scratching your skin as he rakes them down your naked back. There’s teeth on your shoulders and neck, lips over your nipples, fingers prodding against your clit until you come undone, shouting and pleading to every God you know.

A sudden burst of warmth explodes inside of you— Steve’s strangled groans growing loud as he comes. Your face breaks with passion, tears threatening to spill as ungodly, high-pitched sounds spill from your lips. You’re all shrouded in darkness. The candle light whipped away, suddenly extinguished by the invisible forces in the room.

The candles relight again out of nowhere as you collapse against Steve as your body finally gives out after the thorough fuck session. You’re heavy and limp, air rushing out of your mouth, sticking to his damp, humid skin. You can’t even keep your eyes open. You hum intermittently as their hands brush over your skin before they pull you away from him, laying you back down on the table.

Their voices ring out, all in sink, chanting again in French. Sam sprinkles your body with the flask, from your head to your toes— Steve traces a cross on your chest. They all flatten your hands on you as their chorus finishes, and you hear the soft voices again. They’re warm and happy, the feminine voices, as the love— the familial undercurrent— fills the room again.

You’re lifted into arms, pressed against a chest before one of their discarded jackets is thrown over your shoulders. Your head is foggy, thoughts slow as someone carries you out of the room. You feel their protection, the fierce safeguard of you as suddenly you’re the center of attention. It feels as if hundreds of eyes are on you— because there are as they walk you right through the center of the party.

“Our missing child is home.” Steve announces, smiling softly down on you, sweeping his large hand over your forehead, “The family is complete once more.”

An exuberant applause erupts.

You’re moving again, slowly the eyes on you disappearing as the fivesome moves you through the house. A door clicks, the sound of the bottom of it sweeping across the carpet filling your ears. A warmth surrounds you as you’re laid down onto a bed, a large, full comforter covering your naked body. You squirm, your head rolling against the pillow as you murmur and whimper.

“Shh shh shh, little one,” Sam purrs, stroking your face with his thick fingers, “You’re safe.”

“We’re all here sweet girl. Just rest.” Andy says calmly, brushing his lips over the backs of your fingers.

Naked bodies surround you— cram you right in the middle of them. Arms and legs are thrown over you, fingers thread with yours, lips and beards glance over your skin as they whisper and blether. You roll into a body, you’re not even sure who’s, and you hold onto them tight, letting the sleep seep in, letting it pull you away into the deep.

SATURDAY

There’s an intrusive light burning into your face. You shift, rolling your head away from it before rolling your entire body over onto your side. You stretch your arms out and sigh slowly, wanting nothing more than to melt back into the soft, deep slumber that had been disturbed— but your brain has other plans. It slowly starts to awaken, the fog lifting, memories and visions of the night before playing before your eyes. Hands on your skin, lips locked on yours, eyes following your every move.

You spring upwards.

Your eyes pop open as you inhale sharply. You snap your head to the right and then the left before you scan the room, finding it completely empty. You turn back towards the windows, squinting and blinking as the sun belts into the room, the light spilling over the floor and bed. Voices float towards you— warm, male laughter— before it dies away again and all you hear are the random chirps of birds and the soft swish of the breeze against the trees and house.

That’s when the soreness seeps in. You roll your shoulders as you recognize the subtle pain, roll your neck before stretching your arms above your head. There’s laughter again, the clatter of pans and dishes and you blink at the closed bedroom door. Questions start to populate and swarm, pushing away the rest of the sleepy fog in your mind.

You throw your legs over the side of the bed and stand, but throw your hands back on the mattress as you stumble, having to steady yourself. Your legs are jelly. A hum vibrates in your chest and throat as you take a step after a few sobering seconds. The muscles of your sex scream at you— achy and tight— used. It’s sharp but also dull, nagging and deep— the soreness. It feels good. Feels right.

Spotting an egg shaped floor length mirror leaning up against the far wall, you pad towards it, squinting and hissing as pangs of the delicious pain prickle along your skin and muscles. You peer at your body, twisting and turning. You’re marked beyond belief— suck marks on your neck and shoulders, red raised welts on your sides and thighs, deep bruises and teeth marks scattered along your body like a map.

A smile tugs at the corners of your mouth.

You spot a small bench in front of the bed, a pink satin tank top and matching shorts tossed over it. You slip the tank top over your arms to cover your bare torso and pull the shorts up your legs, your ample behind poking out of the bottom of them. You start for the door and move into a long hallway, following the laughter and voices emanating from deep in the house.

This is a really big house. It takes a while, well, you’re nosey so you peek into each room you pass and stop to eye the paintings on the wall, but you finally find the source of all the noise. You turn into the vast kitchen, finding five men placed throughout it. Sam is over the stove, cracking eggs and flipping potatoes and fresh vegetables. Andy sits at the bar, his nose buried in the Saturday paper as he sips on a black coffee. Bucky and Steve sit at the table, talking hushly over some old papers, and Ransom leans against the fridge, thumbing through his phone.

Bucky’s the first to notice you. He greets you with a wide, bright smile, his eyes crinkling at the sides, his nose scrunching, “Good morning beautiful.”

The rest of the men all blink at you and a warmth flushes through your face as you play with your fingers. Before you can respond, Ransom sweeps you off your feet and into his arms, kissing you hard and deep before he sits you back down and swats your behind, “Mornin’ doll.”

“Don’t be so rough with her,” Andy chides the slightly younger man. He grabs your wrist, bringing the back of your hand to his lips, “Sleep well, baby?”

“I did, thank you.” You smile, nervous but flattered by the attention.

“Hope you’re hungry sweetie,” Sam says, leaning into you to peck your lips as you move towards him.

“I’m starving.”

“I bet. You slept hard last night.” He winks, nudging you with his shoulder, “Ransom, plates.”

“I’m not the help, Wilson.”

“Well you are to-fuckin-day. Get the plates, trust fund baby.”

You laugh as you move towards the table, getting swept up into another breathless kiss by Bucky before Steve pulls you into his lap, brushing his nose over the back of your shoulder. Ransom and Sam hand out the plates one by one, taking drink orders and handing them out before they take their seats at the long table. You stay in Steve’s lap as you eat, listening as they all chat and cut up a little, teasing the youngest of them, Ransom, and listening intently as Andy talks about his latest case.

“I bet baby girl over here has some questions, hmm?” Bucky says after a while, cutting into his sausage and popping a small piece into his mouth.

You nod as you chew and swallow, before your eyes go wide, “Oh shit! My sister MJ! I bet she’s—”

Ransom slides your phone towards you, “I texted her for you last night and again this morning. Convinced her not to call the cops— she’s a feisty one.”

“Oh God, thank you.” You sigh, glancing over the texts.

“You can call her if you’d like. We can step out.” Steve offers, peering at you over your shoulder.

“No, no. She seems to be pacified for the moment. I’ll call her in a little while. So,” you lead in, “How, um, what is all of this? How do you guys know me, or my mom, to be more specific?”

Steve wraps his arm around your waist, holding you to him before he takes a breath, “This is going to sound really strange and it’s a really long story.”

“I got time,” you laugh, “It’s the only reason I came last night. Didn’t expect to get fucked by five dudes, but, you know,” you giggle, “Shit happens.”

“Steve and I,” Bucky starts, “We knew your great-grandmother, Marie-Angelie Paris Laveau of New Orleans. Steve was… sickly.” You nod quickly, having read everything there is to know about the great Steve Rogers, “I had heard that there was this new religion, down south. A woman that claimed to be a healer and Steve was my best friend, so, we decided to check it out in the early forties— wanted to see if she could help him.”

“When we finally got to Louisiana and tracked Marie-Angelie down, it was nothing that Bucky and I had ever seen before.” Steve chuckles, “Your great-grandmother was a beautiful woman, had thousands of followers, just like her mother, and her mother before her.”

“Followers?” You ask, furrowing your brow.

Bucky shifts his eyes to Steve before they land back on you, “You’re a direct descendant of Marie Laveau, the voodoo queen of the French quarter.”

Your eyes widen at the words.

“The elder Marie was a very powerful woman, passed down her knowledge and her gift to her daughters who kept her spirit and her craft alive. Marie-Angelie took one look at Steve and knew she could help. So,” Bucky takes a breath, holding it in his chest for a second before he pushes it out, “We made our offerings, appeased the spirits and we had Steve stay with her for the night.”

“She prayed over me all night. Chanted, offered the spirits many gifts, had me drink this potion that she’d made,” Steve says slowly, “I’m not too sure what happened. I just remember waking up and looking like this. It came with conditions of course, one of which she told us about, the other she didn’t.”

“What were they?” you breathe, engrossed in the story.

“The condition we knew about was that Bucky and I had to join the society.” You raise your eyebrows, prompting Steve to smile, “The elder Marie, your great-great-great-great grandmother entered into a pact with Sam’s great-great-great-great grandfather.”

“He was a farmer,” Sam says after he takes a sip of his coffee, taking over the story, “My great-great-great-great granddaddy went to Marie for a little advice and to have her pray for his crops. He was flat broke, about to lose the farm, Louisiana was going through a terrible drought— he offered Marie the last dollar he had in his pocket. His crop came in more bountiful than ever, in fact, it was the only farm that yielded that season. Made him a millionaire overnight. So, in exchange for her prayers, he offered her and her offspring protection. As long as there's a Laveau bloodline, the Wilson’s will watch over them.”

Silence falls over the room as you blink back at Sam, unable to speak. Bucky leans forward, placing his flesh hand over yours and rubs gently as concern fills his blue eyes, “You okay, honey?”

You nod, closing your eyes as you swallow, “Yeah, I, um, so… okay, so Sam, Steve and you are bound to protect me? Because of this society that was formed?”

“Us too,” Andy adds, “My great-great-great-great grandfather, Reginald Barber was a politician, went to Marie for some help around the same time as Sam’s granddad did, and when she fulfilled his request, he also joined.”

“My grandad is a writer, he too ended up joining the society in the early sixties with your grandmother when his first novel blew up.” Ransom says, “Harland Thrombey.”

“Harland Thrombey, the mystery writer, right? I thought he had a daughter?”

“That’s my mom. When I was born, I took her place in the order.”

You lift your eyebrows, nodding your head, “Wow.” you laugh a little, “So, what exactly do you guys do for me?”

“We just keep you safe. Watch over you, try to fulfill all of your… needs.” Sam answers with a smirk on his face and a glint in his eye, “Keep the bloodline going, if need be.”

You squint suddenly as the wheels and gears in your brain turn, “Wait so, this is passed down? From generation to generation?”

“Yes.” Andy answers simply.

“So, that means that all of your fathers, had sex with my mother? Am I.. oh my god,” your hands fly to your face, “Am I related to you one you?”

“No, oh my god!” Ransom recoils, his face screwed up in disgust, “The fuck do you think we are, weirdos? No.”

Steve laughs, rubbing your stomach with his large hand, “Your father is James Rhodes. He’s part of the congregation, the followers of your grandmothers. He was chosen for your mother, just like your partner will be chosen for you.”

You blink, your mind empty, “Chosen?”

“It will be someone either in the society— one of us— or someone in the congregation.” Steve nods, “Either way, your partner will be someone who will understand our debt to you and your family. If your partner is indeed someone in the society, that person is then removed, so there’s no impropriety, and someone in the congregation will take his place to keep the society full. Once you’re paired with whoever, we all then have a duty to reproduce so our children can take care of yours— again, with women in the congregation who understand our duty, and so on and so forth.”

You fall back against Steve’s chest, slumping a little at all of the information, “It’s a lot,” Sam reassures, “I know, I’m sorry.”

Insane is what it is, you think, rubbing your forehead with your manicured fingers. Somehow though, it all just kind of makes sense, “You said there was another condition? After you and Bucky went to Louisiana? What was it?”

“Me.” Bucky smiles, leaning back into his seat as his eyes fall into his lap.

You glance back at Steve, “I don’t understand.”

“In order for me to achieve this,” Steve motions towards his body, “Something had to be sacrificed, “The spirits chose Bucky. Some years later, after we joined the army—”

You gasp, covering your mouth again, “When he fell from the train.” You finish for him.

Steve just nods, “I put two and two together after a while. I went back to Marie and told her I was done— I wanted out and I didn’t care what happened to me for it. So I ended up just kind of floating through life. Threw myself into my work and saving the world. I didn’t know at the time that some of my blood had gotten into the hands of the Germans during the war. They studied it— noticed that my enzymes were nearly indestructible. They created the super soldier serum to replicate my strength and healing abilities.”

“Hydra, is what they were called. They found me and started experimenting.” A sad smile covers Bucky’s face. You lean forward, cupping his cheek in your hand and rub your thumb just under his eye. His smile turns upward as he nuzzles into your warm palm, “I’m alright.”

“I got wind of Bucky in the eighties, he had assassinated this researcher, they actually got a picture of him. I had to bring him home,” Steve shrugs, “But he was tricky— elusive. I tracked him for a few years but I couldn’t ever get close, and I knew I only had one option at that point.” Steve rests his lips against your shoulder, brushing them back and forth slowly against your warm skin, “I tracked down your grandmother and your mom for help.”

You feel him smile against you and you turn, throwing your arms around his neck as he continues his story, “You were barely walking when I met you the first time. You were so cute, so little. Even though I was still pissed, you stole my heart as soon as I saw you. You were the only innocence in this craziness.”

A tear slips down your cheek. He wipes it away with his fingers, smiling softly at you as you’re overcome with emotion, “Did you used to read to me?” you ask with a shaky voice, the early, fragmented memories you have of a blonde, blue eyed man suddenly making sense.

“Tamerlane by Edgar Allan Poe was your favorite.” he smiles, “That’s how I knew it was you last night. Poe was your favorite, even back then.”

You hug him tightly and feel hands on your back and shoulders, a pair of lips on the top of your head and the side of your face as Andy, Bucky, Ransom, and Sam crowd around you, “We brought you home now.” Sam voices gently, “We’ll take care of you baby. From now until the end of days.”

You let them soothe you. Let them stroke your hair and whisper their sweet nothings. Let them kiss your skin and wipe away the tears as the sun cutting into the room through the windows washes you in warmth. You lean back after what seems like forever, sniffling gently as Steve brushes those fingers underneath your eyes, “I want to meet my mom.”

“Of course. We’ll take you to her whenever you’re ready. She was supposed to be here but, she couldn’t deal with the heartbreak again if it wasn’t you. She’s been looking for you for so long— they both have.”

You exhale deeply, closing your eyes as you rest your head against Steve’s chest, nuzzling into him, “Why was I taken?”

“Somebody sent a tip to the police that your mother was living in a commune—” you feel him tense, his tone going harsh, “Just a nosey ass woman who didn’t have anything better to do with her time. Made up some shit about drug trafficking coming out of the house. It was raided while I was in Europe— they took you, put you up for adoption. I should have been there. I should have protected you.”

“You're protecting me now. That’s all that matters.” You whisper, “But,” your voice drops away as you open your eyes, blinking slowly.

Ransom’s massive hand runs up and down your back, “What is it, honey?”

“My sister. My mom and my dad— the people that raised me. I love them.”

“We are not going to take you away from them,” Bucky answers quickly, “They’re a part of you. We understand that.”

“Can’t wait to meet that sister of yours,” Ransom adds, “She seems fun.”

You laugh through the fresh wave of tears that have wetted your face, “She is fun. She has a boyfriend named Peter, he loves you two,” you smile, gesturing towards Steve and Bucky, “He’s gonna shit his pants.”

You close your eyes again, your head starting to pound from all of the information that’s been placed at your feet. Your stomach churns and you shiver, causing Steve to tighten his grip, “Let’s lay you down, huh? That was a lot to take in.”

They all follow you and Steve back into the bedroom where you first woke up that morning. You’re stripped naked again, crowded in the middle of their hulky bodies. They let you cry. They let you talk aimlessly. They let you get angry, and then sad, and then content as you work through your sordid history. One by one, their lips are on yours again. Hands dig into your sides and grip your thighs. Languid thrusts, hot breaths, short whimpers, and long cries fill the room as they make love to you over and over.

Your bones are liquid. Your body, your cunt stretched and used— so sore you’re not even sure your limbs are connected anymore. You come, time and time again, from their mouths, their fingers, their wet, hard cocks. You take it all— two of them stuffing you full while a third occupies your mouth, the other two not-so-patiently waiting for their turn at you.

Sleep tugs at you from every angle after a while and you fade in and out as the day drags on. Women come to you in your dreams— the women of your family. They whisper to you, the great secrets of your long lineage. They smile and lay their hands on you, filling you with their spirits, their love.

You’re suddenly at a large body of water—  Bayou St. John. A woman perches by the bank, her hand swishing back and forth in the cool water. You traipse towards her through the tall grass, your feet sinking into the wet ground. You kneel next to her as she sings a native song. She’s wrapped in a red, white, and blue shawl, her eyes sparkling as she turns towards you. She cups your face, running her hand down your cheek and jaw before she reaches into the water and pulls out a large, multicolored fish.

You spring forward, gasping hard and deep as you wake from the vivid dream. You cover your face with your hands as a chill runs down your spine, your forehead covered in a cold sweat. Without thinking, you splay your hand over your stomach as your heart stills. There’s movement behind you— Steve slinks his hand around your middle, settling his hand over your much smaller one.

You peek over your shoulder and he’s staring at you, his lips parted slightly, his blue eyes wide and full of knowing. His words from earlier coming back to you. Your partner will be chosen for you. It will be someone either in the society— one of us— or someone in the congregation. You lay back down, curling into him, tracing his nose and jaw, his chin and eyes with your fingers as he blinks back at you.

“Did you see her too?” You breathe. Great-great-great-great grandmother Marie Laveau.

He nods, “I’ll take care of you,” he whispers as Sam, Andy, Ransom, and Bucky all sprawl out around the two of you, “I promise.”

You nod, smiling slowly, “I know.”

You mean it. You know he will— that they all will.