emptynesters | 50 years later meme

50 years later meme

Fast forward into the future of Station 72 where your character has been a part of the Hive for however many years. Are they still themselves? Have they integrated fully with the symbiote? Are they the only ones left of their brood? Have they formed other connections in their brood's absence? Do they remember anything of their life before the station? How do they relate to the other Hosts still around, or to new ones who have come in since others have fallen? What else can you come up with?

HOW TO PLAY
STEP ONE: POST WITH YOUR CHARACTER

STEP TWO: Either set up the scene or give some info of what your character is like X years down the line.

STEP THREE: TAG OTHER PEOPLE'S CHARACTERS

STEP FOUR ?????

STEP FIVE: PROFIT

Threaded | Top-Level Comments Only

[Options are 5 years (when Kavinsky is 22-23, or 10 years, when he is 27-28). After being in the Hive that long, Kavinsky has learned to chill out to many necessary degrees, but not nearly as much as one would like. (The Joker is still a mess and what is he, like, forty?) He's come to terms with certain issues, such as his sexuality (gay gay gay but Hive can make him open up to Certain Ladies) and not needing to be high all the time. His dreaming abilities have become more refined and focused, thus even more dangerous. He's learned to draw from other Hivemates for those dreams as well, which means they're able to directly contribute to what he crafts as long as they're willing to intertwine that closely with the K man.

The sinister aura remains, as does the inability to not yandere or stand in someone's personal space. Those who have bled into him for all this time, particularly those from Mia brood, will have a much better idea of who he is and where he comes from. They'll know all about his on and off again semi-suicidal tendencies and his background re: abuse (dad tried to kill him, mom was prone to breaking things and doing an awful lot of screaming when K didn't drug her to complacency). They'll also know that Kavinsky has definitely killed before and is able to make dream people to take the places of originals. Let's assume he hasn't needed to do this outside of missions.

Overall, if he was attached before, he's even more attached now. A constant brightly lit fixture that stalks the people he cares about and digs in with his claws.

Open to pretty much anything, including assumed relationships of all varieties.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:00 (UTC)

Quite fully integrated, but has found her niche in terms of what that means to her.
Chiefly: sneaky, manipulative, ruthless.
Beautiful and terrible.
Pulls the strings of anyone who lets her, knowingly or unknowingly.
Mainly prefers to deal with leader types to have them move their pawns over bothering with everyone on an individual basis.
Reclusive.
Seeing her around is not actually that great.
Arrogant, condescending. But so soft and pleasant while doing it.
Bitch is still cold as ice.
Don't make her angry.

Ping me with any ideas and I will get a starter for you.

Edited 2017-04-27 04:55 (UTC)

[ Misato ages well, it turns out, helped by the symbiote. Without it, she would be decrepit, bent over herself like a toppled L, but today she stands tall still.

These days she dresses for function, slim-fitting pants, long-sleeved jackets, greying hair kept away from her face. It has been years since anyone has seen her laugh, or say a word unless necessary, years since she indulged in alcohol, but those who know her best can reach in and see that beneath all that is contentment, a rock solid foundation, a sureness that was lacking in her earlier years. Those who look close enough can almost see a smile, proud, self-satisfied, sparing, each mission they complete.

It has been decades, yes, and the fight continues, but see, she's still surviving, 50 years on, still ensuring the survival of humanity (hers, others) and the Nest. She's happy, but she doesn't see the need to convince anyone else of it. ]

[ He has an irritating way of finding her when she is least desirous for him. That is his way, and she knows the low murmur of her displeasure is little more than an invitation. There has never been a single moment when their thoughts have combined harmoniously, it has always been a ferocious, strident relationship. Somewhere in the distance of her thoughts, she remembers the back of his hand across her cheek. She turns her gaze towards him, contemplative and heavy-lidded, idle contemplation of stuffing his own fears down his throat. The anxiety stirs in the room, like a breeze lifting. A cat's tail flicking. ]

Joseph.

Ten Years Later
Sam is still largely himself, though he intermingles frequently with his brood, and with those who've become all but brood. He still can shield himself from them, and he sometimes does, but on a day-to-day basis, it's pointless. He's reached the rank three on his symbiote ability, meaning he can transfer injuries from one person to another without involving himself, and he can use the lifeforce of two people to heal a third. Meaning he can stop someone from dying, if he has at least one other person aside from himself, and he probably has.

He's learned to use it in battle, to transfer the injuries of his Nestmates to their enemies.

He is not a leader - but he is. There are some missions where he takes point, others where he follows the lead of those he trusts, and he's always there to listen.

Twenty-Five Years Later
He is himself, he insists. The Nest is important, the connections he's built in the Nest are the most important in all of his life, but he is still himself.

He leads support groups for those adjusting to the trauma of being in the station, of being ripped from their former life and having to make a new one. He remembers this, remembers a time when he looked at war torn veterans from a podium and talked about what they choose to carry with them. You always have a choice, he says, and this was one of them. How you use what you've been given is up to you.

He loves - he loves. He is free with his affection for his brood, for those he's chosen to forge a connection with outside them.

Fifty Years Later
He forgets that his last name is Wilson, and if there are others named Sam around, he goes by Falcon. It's easier, and when he mentions that he was in the military, he sometimes gets captain falcon jokes. He enjoys those.

Sam can be trusted to greet the new Hosts with a warm, wry smile. His shields are still excellent, even better, and he keeps their unprotected chaos out of his mind and himself out of theirs. It's comforting, he knows, for them to have someone who respects their boundaries and their privacy. To have someone to teach them how to build their shields, to guide them in controlling their abilities, to reassure them that they can retain who they are. Sometimes he believes it.

He doesn't ever use we, not with them, but with his shields nonexistent for those closest to him, he might as well. He no longer remembers what is him and what is them, and it doesn't matter. He is them, they are him, and their differences are only like acknowledging that a television show is absolute garbage and loving it anyway.

Those who have been with him since he first arrived at the station - he is more the man he was when he's with them. Maybe because they hold pieces of him the same as he holds pieces of them, because he clung to what he loves about them and refused to let it go.

Choose your own!
Or come at me if you've got an idea! I'm up for anything.

Honey.

[Their relationship has progressed in a lateral fashion, as tense and ruthless as the day it all began. Kavinsky's changed in the subtlest of ways, more comfortable with himself but no more comfortable for others. And Ilde--from ice princess to ice queen. Her position in the hierarchy has never been more secure, and so Kavinsky hovers near to hear like any thief that wants to dip his dirty fingers into the royal coffers. They're a set of magnets, either stuck close together and squabbling until they find sweet escape, or happily repelled for long lengths of time when their poles don't align.

He is the magpie and her the shiny object, but he's never been more aware that his talons could end up burned.

His voice is a purr. He stays out of kicking range.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:24 (UTC)

[ She doesn't assume he wants anything more than to be where she doesn't want him. She understands that about him, and so she has learned to accept this game. Play acting upon a hate that may not even quite be theirs any longer, diffused out into the many facets they have acquired, each subtly irritated, none truly perturbed. She contemplates him for a moment before returning to her task, contemplating over a detailed city map, making plans for their next intervention into the lives of the unsuspecting denizens of the universe.

Even as she does, she finds herself pushing back at his presence. His attention on her is insufferable, as it always is. He will play at her borders, slinking closer and closer as she eyes his trespasses with a mounting disdain that he only finds desirable. ]

( You are scum. )

[ Almost affectionate in its familiarity. ]

( And you're soaking for it. )

[Such a response would be sordid enough without the added bonus of their link sending over every connotation. Images of her fair skin against his, only a handful of shades darker. His hands slipping over her hips and ticking at the bottom of her ribcage. The attraction wasn't always so severe, but Ilde is an easy woman to desire, and the Hive has a strong foothold in Kavinsky's soul. Years ago, he began to see what others saw, and it mutated his contempt for Ilde into a worse beast. Lecherous. Troubling.

He doesn't care about the city map outside of how much she cares and how their connection cannot be forgotten within the slurry of the Station.]

( I can go. )

[He says it so she'll tell him he ought to as he sets his ass on a table laden with charts and diagrams Ilde will need access to if she wants to continue her plots.]

[ Once upon a time he would have been executed for speaking to her that way, it is a pleasure to her, to remind him of that. To conjure up the tortures he would receive, if only she acted upon her bent for cruelty a bit more. There is an inherent cruelty to the Nest, just as there is an inherent love and it troubles her not at all to reconcile them. It never has, and while he imagines the softness and heat of her body, she imagines the inner wet of him, eviscerated. This is the heart of them. Dreamers. One fantasy and one nightmare, and they delight each other in repulsion. Every time.

She sets her hands on the table, eyeing where he now physically impedes her work. She does not try to remove him. She won't stoop so low as the touch him at all, it's what he wants. ]

( You can go. )

[ Frigid in her dismissal, though she hardly expects it to move him. ]

[Her disapproval should be bottled for continual consumption throughout the day; it's a pity times five that he can't constantly bask in the fuck you vibes streaming off the lady. Ilde has such a way about her. She has never joined him in the dream-crafting for good reason: they don't need that monstrosity gobbling up the Nest and leaving behind sparking wires. Tempting, though, sometimes. When Kavinsky knows he's losing himself bit by bit. A purge would save what's left of his soul that's all his.

That might be it. He feels uniquely himself around Ilde. She refuses to accept him. She won't even be congenial.

Kavinsky would thank her, but that would sour the mood.

He leans back on his hands, spreads his legs obscenely wide.]

( Closer. )

[Less and less a suggestion.]

Edited 2017-04-27 04:48 (UTC)

[ She doesn't move. He's using her, even now, to satisfy himself. Such a wretched, impudent bug of a man. That too exists in the Nest. Lust, need, loss. Tangled together the way all things become tangled together as the threads intertwine, twisting, braiding to make something entirely new, unbreakable, disguising what once was. ]

( You only come to us when you are feeling sorry for yourself. )

[ He is a destructive self-loathing creature, a manipulative daydreamer, a charlatan and liar. She feels all of this for him with an utter certainty. ]

( What has upset you. )

[ She might take pity on him, if he told her. ]

[ Sam is willing. He lets Kavinsky draw from him for his dreaming as he pleases, occasionally sends him exasperation if he does it too much - protects him when they're on missions, heals him when he veers too far into self destruction.

There are times when he doesn't, times when he lets Kavinsky feel the pain to remind him that nothing is without consequence, but he suspects it isn't exactly a punishment. And there are times when he's aware that somewhere down the line he will have to do more to keep his nestmate alive, times when he slowly becomes more aware that he will do it it, when the time comes.

But it hasn't, and if Sam has helped to chill Kavinsky out a little bit, then Kavinsky has also helped to ramp Sam up a little.

There'd been a battle, this latest mission, but it's dying. They've won, and there's only those who are the most determined - or who love the destruction - that are still going.

Sam's wings tuck in behind him as he lands a few feet away Kavinsky, pausing a moment to watch the way the fire from the explosions lights him up in silhouette. It paints a very pretty picture - but then, Kavinsky usually does. ]

( Gonna burn yourself up. )

[ She's happy, and that's all Sam could ever have wanted.

He still remembers a time when they were new, when he made her a promise that he would come back to tell her if he ever figured out how to make things okay. Remembers making himself a promise that she would live to see it, that neither of them would give up on each other.

He's kept that promise, he's pretty sure. Or at least, he likes to think he has. She is alive, and so is he, and they live for themselves and for each other and for their broods and the dozens of tiny hatchlings that come and go. And for the ones that stay.

Sam touches her whenever they're together, like he can't help it and like it's second nature - shoulders pressed together, fingers brushed against hers, sometimes laced together. He remembers all of the things he loves about her, and he echoes them back at her when they're together. ]

( What do you think of the newest Nestlings? )

For all that Sam is Sam, Bucky is less Bucky every day. Waking up is more like starting a new life again and again. He forgets who he is on almost a daily basis, forgets about HYDRA, forgets about everything before the Station and the Nest. Some days, he doesn't say anything at all, choosing instead to only listen to the comforting hum of voices in his head. Those are his good days. On his bad days, he disappears in the deep of the ship, answering a call only a few seem to hear. For all of the new blood that arrives on the Station, the Hive is aging, growing old and grey like Bucky and Sam, and someone has to care for her.

Might as well be the man who has nearly forgotten himself entirely. Every time he comes back, he's more tired than before and he's not sure if he will come back the next time.

This morning, he hears the call again, the low hum pulling at the back of his mind. It had been quiet for too long, he supposes as he shifts in the bunk beside Sam. Long limbs tangled together.

[Half a decade ago, Kavinsky snorted coke off a balcony railing not unlike the one he's leaning over right now. He has a grenade in his hand, the pin between his teeth as he waits for the ideal moment to do his part in aggravating the chaos down below.

Sam's presence acts as a cue. He lobs the grenade boldly into the fray. The pin dangles between his lips.

His hands clap over his ears a split second before the explosion rocks the building down to its foundations. His eyes are so bright they could be powered by LEDs, electric reflections of carnage transposed over pupil and sclera (the former has swallowed up his iris). Kavinsky is alive and ravenous.

He turns to Sam and the hunger eclipses everything else. Kavinsky arches back over the railing--contorting himself into an exaggerated C--and spits out the grenade pin. It sails down into the turmoil and police sirens. Before he can lose his balance and join it, he rights himself so that only his head is tipped.

It's all so fucking glorious and he has at least three dozen other people inside his skin, many of them appreciating a job well done.

He's also snorted coke off this railing, but he really didn't need to. For a while now, he hasn't needed to.

Feels good, though.

K opens his mouth to the sky, breath surging out of him in ecstatic puffs. He would eat the stars and torch the planet's triplet moons if he could reach them.]

( Time to evac already? )

[The younger man's thrall will prove infectious if Sam isn't cautious.]

It'd bothered Sam, once, when he could feel Bucky becoming more and more in tune with his symbiote, more and more a part of the Nest. When he'd felt like he was losing his friend, when he wanted to fight it - but he hadn't been losing him, not really. The more Bucky became a part of the Nest - the more both of them became a part of the Nest - the more they became a part of each other.

He'd never really known Bucky before the Station, and he still remembers his determination to help Bucky figure out who he is. Often he doesn't remember why, but he still remembers what they found, and he holds onto it. It doesn't matter if it's him or Bucky, not really. As long as it's still there, it's still a part of both of them.

Sam stirs when he feels Bucky shift against him. Bucky's waking mind pulls at his, making it difficult to hold onto sleep, but he doesn't mind. His legs slide against Bucky's as he shifts as well, and he hooks his ankle around Bucky's as a sleepy stream of affection flows across their bond.

He doesn't ask where Bucky goes when he disappears. He knows, more or less, the same way that some part of him knows everything that goes on with Bucky. The same way Bucky likely knows everything that goes on with him. He's never asked to go with him, either, but today...

His fingertips press gently to Bucky's temple, as though he could actually hears what calls Bucky for himself, instead of picking up the echoes from Bucky's mind. A wordless question forms between them - will Bucky go today, or will he wait until the voices of the Nest grow louder?

The ankle curled around his own is met with a soft chuckle and he stretches, arms--- two now, one flesh and bone and the other a hi-tech collection of wires that works just like the real one--- as he drapes himself over Sam. For now, the call is a distant song, a collar around his neck just a touch too tight. Eventually, the lariat will tighten, the single soprano will crescendo into a choir, but for now he's content to laze with his broodmate and dearest friend. He presses a gentle kiss to Sam's cheek. It's fine, he doesn't need to say or form into words in his mind. It's okay for now. Just woke me up.

It's ungodly nice to snooze and recuperate after a mission. He's not as young as he used to be, soldier or not, and there's only so much an aging body can take before fatigue devours everything else. Though, that might also be due to the withering of the Nest as well. That, he can feel deep in his chest, as ready and apparent as the warmth for the man sharing his bunk.

[ Sam watches him, lit up from the inside out, a force of destruction and hunger, and amends his previous statement.

Kavinsky is already burning himself up.

Sam's always cautious when it comes to Kavinsky - and yet, he isn't. Five years ago he picked Kavinsky up and wouldn't let him down, tried to push him on a path with a better ending than the one he was on now, and he hasn't really put him down since. Kavinsky might snarl and hiss and tell him to go fuck himself sometimes - might make a move on him at others - but he's pretty sure that it's half for show now.

It's been a few years since Kavinsky seriously attempted to flirt with him. Which is a pity, because it's been a year or two since Sam started watching for it, ready to add an edge to the way he flirted back.

There's wind humming in his veins, roaring in his ears, and his body is still buzzing with adrenaline from the flight. It flows between them as Sam steps closer, as free with his physical affection as ever as he covers Kavinsky's hands where they're holding onto the railing. His ability activates automatically, scanning Kavinsky for any injury. ]

( Nah, we got a little while yet. Some of us wanna make sure no one's gonna be left to come after us. )

Sam relaxes again, sliding a hand up Bucky's side as he stretches, walking his fingers over Bucky's back to tug playfully at one of his braids.

( You're heavy. ) But he only says it because he knows the feeling in his mind isn't a complaint at all, because both of them know that the press of Bucky's weight over his chest is comforting. It was hard for Sam to sleep on his own even when he first got here; now it's impossible. He tips his head, presses a kiss to the hollow of Bucky's throat in return.

It worries Sam sometimes, too. He can steal pieces of lifeforce from the people on the missions they go on to keep himself and his broodmate alive, to keep his other nestmates alive, but his ability won't work on the Nest itself. They need more freshly hatched ducklings, they need to keep the ones they have alive longer. Awake longer.

They need what Bucky does, when he disappears deep into the Station. One day, Sam'll ask if he can go with him, if he can help. When the fear that Bucky won't come back from it grows stronger than Sam's certainty that he will. For now, they have the space between missions, when they can be together like this. When Sam can look after the ducklings, work to help them adjust more, connect with their symbiote better.

Reminded, Sam hums another question as he combs his fingers through the pieces of Bucky's hair that've come loose. He has no desire to move yet, with nothing pressing happening, but he'll go see the ducklings later if Bucky wants to come.

Bucky huffs against Sam's cheek and rolls more of his weight onto Sam, just because he can, because they have this time. Today, he doesn't remember life before the Nest, doesn't remember not knowing Sam as intimately as himself, not constantly being in each other's heads. He doesn't remember having other broodmates, but their absences remain in the holes in his mind, a constant reminder of how many Hosts have come and gone, lived and died.

But he does remember that they got a couple teenagers the other day, young things that don't know anything of war, and nor should they have to. Still, two kids aren't enough to sustain the Nest, not in the slightest. To him, it makes sense that the call comes today, a week after their newest hatch. The Nest needs him and he needs it as much as he needs Sam and as much as he needs a heart and lungs.

He rolls himself off the other way after a satisfying moment or two of squishing Sam underneath him and he's once again quite grateful they broke into a lieutenant's quarters for the sake of a larger bed.

( You're light. )

[They share the same Nest, the same found and smashed together "family." Kavinsky knows the birdsong of Sam's attraction. He's taken a shower miles away and came into his hands, distinctly aware Sam was with another member of their clan at that very moment. He's even grasped that the older man's pull toward him has transformed over time. But Kavinsky has an idea of pride; hardly his cardinal sin, but there all the same. Sam said no, thought no, a broken record on repeat. And while no has not always been an easy concept for K to grasp, it was an easy directive to follow coming from a much stronger military man.

So he gave up. Sam's pings of occasional desire became the same as idle flattery. Nice shirt. Nice ass.

Kavinsky has a torn ligament in his left leg and shrapnel lodged in the meat of his thigh on the same side. He favored the right all the way up to the balcony. Seven flights of wondrous agony.

Sam's hands are warm. Kavinsky's circulation is less than phenomenal, leaving him with icy fingers and a cold tip to his nose. He wants to curl up on Sam like a kitten, but they really aren't in the space or position for it. He turns his hands upside-down beneath Sam's, kissing cold palms to heated.

People are screaming. Cheering.]

( Wanna be my getaway jet? )

[Wretched bitch; she sees right through him as if he was sculpted from solid glass.

He's grown to adore the Nest in many ways. Communication is a breeze, words can be abandoned in liew of sensation. His Brook is a pack formed from a collection of alphas. They're stronger together. There can be no tighter us. But he hasn't lost the niggling dust mote problem of the void in his chest. He's given more than enough and still he hungers.]
( Always got to make things heavy. What if I wanted to help? )

[Her approximations of him always forget the most important title.

Thief.]

Edited 2017-04-28 02:22 (UTC)

[ A sensation like a hand on his cheek, although her hands have not moved from where she planted them on the surface of the desk. She is an expressive psychic being, it's not really something she can resist. Her total condescending tone towards him, however, is not hidden. Nor the threat. What if she cracked him open and took it from him, what troubles him. Bubbled it to the surface with searching fingertips, pressing in to wounds that never heal. Like an increasing pressure on the seams of his skull.

She's at least looking at him, cold and sharp. ]

( I don't need you. )

[ Not the way that he needs her. ]

25 YEARS LATER

[ She doesn't like anything half so much anymore as being - to her mind the only real thing she can grasp of Pandora anymore - utterly free in a wash of violence. Of the freedom in not having to care about beginning, middle or end. Of there being no consequence, of fighting to the death and winning. She gets scars, they jut up her face, over one eye, a wrap on one of her legs with its full body of blue markings. She doesn't hate them, she doesn't find them ugly, oh, no, she loves them. They are hers, she fought for them. All her own. To claim this wretched tortured skin to being something other than soft and pretty.

Because what's better than that, is under a touch of her fingers, finally has all that power to be like the others. To not have to jump a foot at the littlest touch. She doesn't have to emulate desperately Lilth, Maya or Steele, she is one of them. She is a siren, she is part of the hive. She is whole. When she's got a gun in one hand and - the electricity in the other. The strength that should have always been hers and she can let it go on behalf of the hive in a slither of blood and madness and loss of control. She's light like angel's in stories should be - a purposeful terror to direct use. Where the hive sends her, she goes gleefully, madly, in a loss of anything else from years of training, of what she doesn't know, yanked in from the collective memories of the hive. Taking down their enemies on this planet or that star system. Driving her knee into someone's jaw, jamming a gun into someone's mouth and pulling the trigger and the blood soaks her, whether it's red or blue or that one that was purple. Happy laughing, blood-soaked freedom.

When this fight is over or that one, she makes her way back to the hive. Gently wiping at the blood on her cheek. She's as ever - live wire bright. Sparking, sparkling. No good to touch right now, mess and likely to burn someone for doing so where she's welling down her own abilities to something like calm but - even so, her mind is so full and sated. Sunk deep into a high that fills up the empty space of awful left over addiction she is years later, still driven by. She smiles at company, tooth and brilliant. ]

( It's all cleaned up now, we shouldn't have a problem with extraction. )

[ Rather, she'd gone in and made a mess, but - no one was breathing now. No one was getting in the way, and she never made much of a difference. ]

50 YEARS LATER

[ Over the course of years, she loses the loss of both her eyes. One fight too many, one mission that asked too much. Losses fingers and toes, doesn't mind. But it means she can no longer go out into the field, so to speak, and in that way it suits her just the same. It's different to Jack keeping her. She did this to herself and she still loves her broken, scarred, marked body. She loves it more than when she was untouchable. Because she's lived now. Warm and covered in that proof.

But she settles some many years older into a hub that's in the depths of the hives electronic systems, verses their mental connections. Happy to be a gateway between the two, to let anyone into herself that wants it. Settles back, half suspended. Never quite on the ground, the white beating wings that keep her afloat, never dim. There is no darkness around her. There never will be again. Anyone that comes to her chambers, so to speak, is greeting the same. She looks without seeing with her blind eyes and wide mind. Touching against their cheek, their lip, new or young, always eager to draw someone into her. Her thumb against jaw and where she's so very little, being that foot off the ground as her wings beat and let her hover just brings her up face to face with most. ]

( You have come to see us, do you have an enquiry? )

[ Ask, and she will happily pour forth a wealth of knowledge. Because she is always happy, unrelenting so. Her great unhappiness had long been cured by the hive, and she gives off that as much as there is the sense of business, she never sleeps, she is always just a little - scattered between here and some far off, there. ]

[ Some part of Sam knows what Kavinsky does, some times, when he's with another member of his brood. They're all so close, bound by more than brood bonds, and somehow Sam's found his place among them. He knows what they all share, can feel the echo of it in his own mind. Sam told Kavinsky no so many times - and eventually Kavinsky listened. Maybe that's what triggered the start of the change in the way Sam regarded him, proof that Kavinsky could follow orders.

These days there's other directives that Sam would be more than happy to get Kavinsky to follow.

His left hand lets go of Kavinsky's to rest on his hip, just for a moment, hitching up his shirt just enough that his thumb can stroke over bare skin. ]

( Yeah, I'll take you flying. )

[ He's in no hurry, though. Now he lets his fingers dip below Kavinsky's waistband, slides his hand around so he can thumb at the button on his pants. ]

( You wearing underwear? Gonna have to get your pants off to take that shrapnel out either way, but figured I should know what I'm in for. )

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Page 1 of 3

50 years later meme

Joseph Kavinsky // 5-10 YL

Ilde Vilmaine

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Sam Wilson | 10-50 years later

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5 years

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25 because reasons

let's just put up warnings now--sex, drug use, K is a monster

because excellent reasons

yes good

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angel | ota

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