#young and reckless and skating on the edge of being in love trying not to fall in

[rememberedbyamark]

I know it's not forever with him and I've known that since the first month of talking to him, but like....it's suddenly very clear to me that we exist only as a temporary bubble of time in each other's life and could not possibly be permanent. There's no version of the future where we make it, that doesn't exist.

Not because either of us have some fundamental personal issue, but because i will never understand the deepest part of him and he will never be able to reach that part of me.

It sounds crazy to stay together when I put it like that. He means so much to me and it does not matter, so why would I do that to myself? You see though, I want this bubble of time so bad that I will burn for it. I want the texts, laughs, secret looks, hidden touches, late night conversations, sex, waking up in his arms, forehead kisses, and history lessons. I want all of it so bad and I can have it! I can have it, and I can have him in my life and he can have me in his, and we can do all of that until the end. We'll be a bad movie montage of young reckless people, and I want every single part of it until the credits roll.

I'll hate myself when it's over but I don't think I'll ever hate him. I think it would've ended that way anyway though

[malxlawson]

— && guests may mistake me as ( halsey ), but really i am ( amalia 'mal' lawson + cis female + she/her ) and my DOB is ( 8/6/1995 ). i am applying for the ( maintenance manager ) position as part of the EHP and would like to live in suite ( 202 ). i should be hired because i am ( + passionate, charismatic, thorough ), but i can also be ( - prideful, dramatic, argumentative ) at times. personally, i like to ( creating street art, volunteer community work, organizing protests ) when off the clock, but that won’t interfere with work. thank you for your consideration!

aaaand here we come with our favorite revamped heathen! mal hasn’t had quite as much changed - just a nice lil face lift and we love that for her.

before we get super into it: we have a stats page and a pinterest for your viewing pleasure.

going a little heavy on the triggers just because i want to be sure to cover all my bases!! most everything is just a mention, but we gotta be safe kids! take care of yourselves and remember ilysm.

( pregnancy tw, miscarriage tw, police brutality mentions tw, substance abuse tw )

- amalia raelle lawson was born august 6th, 1995 to marshal and cherisse lawson in oakland, california.

- marshal owned a local bbq restaurant and cherisse was an er nurse. both grew up in rough neighborhoods with rough childhoods, but vowed to make their kids’ lives better than their own.

- three years after mal came into their lives, they had a son; jayden.

- from that day on, mal had a best friend and confidant that she’d go to the ends of the earth to keep by her side.

- their childhoods weren’t easy in the way most kids are - their mom worked long hours and their dad spent most of his days at the restaurant. when their parents were home though (if cherisse wasn’t sleeping off a shift change), they spent their time with their community - be it at the restaurant or at block parties - trying to better it in any way they could manage.

- police brutality mention tw despite their efforts, their community was still plagued by all the injustices every other predominantly black community faces. from a young age, mal learned that the justice system wasn’t built to serve her or the people she considered family.

- police brutality mention tw she was six the first time she heard about a family friend being a victim of excessive force; nine when she saw it. for years after that, she saw mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and cousins coming to mourn their loved ones - either locked up or taken from them too soon.

- instead of becoming numb to these tragedies, a fire was lit in amalia to change the system - even if she had to dismantle it one piece at a time.

- in the mean time, mal found an outlet for her emotions in art - specifically painting. she started with watercolors and crayolas, but once her parents realized her abilities were beyond what they should have been for a kind her age, they put whatever extra they could manage into mal and her passion for art.

- she was fourteen when she was introduced to street art - graffiti, if you want to get technical. his name was trey and amalia was instantly enamored by him. trey ran with a rougher crowd than mal was used to, but he softened around her.

- pregnancy tw they were young, in love, and reckless. she was fifteen when mal found out she was pregnant. while she wasn’t thrilled about becoming another statistic, she was thrilled about the idea of having a child.

- not entirely pleased with the situation, but always willing to support their children, mal’s parents welcomed trey into the family with open arms and began planning what was sure to be a life full of love for the newest addition to the lawson family.

- miscarriage tw three months into the pregnancy, amalia started to experience cramping and spotting. worried it may be something serious, she had her mom take her to the hospital. it was there they confirmed that mal was experiencing a miscarriage.

- everything changed after that. amalia was no longer the girl who wanted to fight the world’s injustices - she was just a girl who wanted to fight the world. she was angry and bitter at everyone and everything.

- substance abuse tw her relationship with trey quickly began to deteriorate and she turned, for the first time, to the rougher crew he hung out with. booze and drugs quickly became a way for mal to cope with the pain she carried around. she started small - cigarettes and pot - before graduating to the harder stuff, like coke and prescription pills.

- substance abuse tw skipping school to get loaded became a regular occurrence and when the truancy officers showed up at the lawson’s front door, her parents sat mal down for an at home intervention. for as much as they yelled and cried and offered treatment, amalia wasn’t hearing any of it. it wasn’t until jayden snuck into her room late one night to ask if he was going to lose mal like one of his friends had lost his older brother that mal realized her actions weren’t only effecting her life.

- miscarriage tw just before her junior year - with the help of her parents - mal decided it was best for her to leave public school and finish the rest of her schooling online. the same time she started online schooling, amalia started painting again. something she hadn’t done since she found out she’d miscarried.

- being able to stay home meant mal had the space and time to heal in her own ways. when she wasn’t doing school work, amalia was painting to help clear her head. it took some time, but she was finally able to tell her parents what she was going through, both mentally and physically.

- miscarriage tw after she miscarried, mal started to suffer from chronic period and pelvic pain, as well as painful intercourse. she’d also been suffering from symptoms of depression, all of which help lead her down the destructive path she’d gone down.

- several doctor trips later, mal was diagnosed with endometriosis and depression and quickly began treatments for both. despite starting treatments for her endometriosis, doctors told mal the likelihood of her conceiving again was highly unlikely. 

- mal hadn’t expected to hear at 16 that biological children may never be in her future and she was devastated, but she had her support system and their love and willingness to do whatever they could for her helped her cope in a much healthier way.

- by seventeen, amalia was feeling like her life was back on track, though drastically different than she’d imagined. she finished her diploma early and began working for her dad in the restaurant; serving, cooking, even helping fix things when they broke down. slowly but surely, mal mended her relationship with her parents and earned back their trust.

- one day, after some kids had vandalized the restaurant, marshal asked mal if she’d help cover the graffiti. jumping at the chance, amalia spent three days finishing her first big piece - which is still her favorite to this day - a portrait of her family and the community that kept the restaurant going. abstract and colorful, full of life and vibrancy, mal’s piece drew a lot of attention and several offers for her to commission other pieces.

- for the next three years, mal worked at the restaurant and took commissions when she could. life seemed normal again. she even reconnected with trey, mending the relationship that had been broken.

- the day trey proposed was the happiest day of mal’s life. she’d been beyond thrilled! after everything they’d been through, he still wanted to be with her. unfortunately, the bliss didn’t last. their engagement abruptly ended and mal decided it was best if she get away for a while, so as to not slip back into destructive patterns.

- a quick google search brought amalia to the malnati website and their employee housing program. applying was a no brainer and a month later she and jayden were packing their bags and moving to chicago.

- she started as a maid and, in the four years she’s been there, has moved up to the maintenance manager position.

hcs!

- when she’s not working, mal’s usually painting in her suite or sketching at one of the many parks in chicago during the day. at night, you’ll find her taking full advantage of chicago’s nightlife. night’s in for mal lawson are few and far between.

- drugs tw she skates a fine line when it comes to sobriety. she’s careful to drink or use just enough to be sure she’ll have a good time, but it’s a slippery slope. in the four years she’s been in chicago, mal’s slowly started doing more and more, telling herself she’s got a handle on it. truth be told, she’s teetering on the edge of a full blown problem again. 

- super into video games, but partial to anything involving zombies. mal loves a zombie - don’t ask me why. she’s usually down to play among us, valorant, fortnight, and is always down for a little animal crossing when she needs something more chill.

- 90′s hip hop & r&b are mal’s shiiiiiit. she’s at her happiest when she’s got a little tupac on in the background.

- also don’t you dare try to tell her he’s not alive in cuba somewhere living his best life. she ain’t havin’ it.

- when she’s angsty/sad/angry her go to playlist is a lot of punk, rock, grunge. especially of the 90′s persuasion. she stays on brand. her favorites are the offspring, nirvana, the foo fighters, soundgarden, stone temple pilots, the smashing pumpkins, sonic youth, and pixies.

- she’s gluten intolerant and vegetarian.

- mal is a cult classic movie kind of gal. donnie darko, pulp fiction, rocky horror are all on her list of favorites. she’s never going to turn down a good horror/thriller marathon, either.

- she plays a little piano and a little guitar. she picked them up after she started online schooling. she finds both relaxing. she’s by no means going to make a career out of it, but it’s fun!

- hella resting bitch face, but she really is super friendly! she just doesn’t always look it.

- don’t test her, though. she’s got attitude for days and she isn’t afraid to let you know what she thinks or how she feels about you. we ain’t got no time for games, okay?! okay.

- amalia has also very much immersed herself in community work since moving to chicago, especially on the south side. if her parents taught her anything growing up, it’s that she should give back the her community as much as she’s able.

- a lot of her street art celebrates women of color and their beauty. 

- not a fan of cops, still. soz pals.

- when it comes to work, she does her best to make the malnati a decent place to work. she’s all about positive reinforcement and making sure she takes care of her employees. she’s not gonna shy away from telling you ya fucked up, though. she’ll say it with love, though, while also calling you a giant pain in her ass. but with love. okay?! okay.

wanted connections!

- hook ups! : mal is a RAGING bisexual and is not at all afraid to make her appreciation for someone’s physical appearance known. just don’t expect to stay the night. once the deed is done you’ve got about thirty seconds to vacate mal’s suite.

- softies! : make. her. soft. give me someone who makes her break her no sleep over rule, pls and thank. she’s a stubborn, pain in the ass, and sassy af but someone who can make her melt? and act like a teenager in love again? all gooey and gross? yuh. pls.

- good influence! : someone she doesn’t have to drink and party with to have a good time! remind her that she misses things when she’s not sober - that the world is still beautiful and inspiring even when she’s not in a drug induced haze.

- chill baes! : drugs tw people mal just ~ v I b E s ~ with! probs smokin’ a decent amount of weed together. 

- protest pals! : people who are also involved in the community and social justice movements. they happily bail each other out of jail (or, more likely, sit in the back of a squad car together) and attend protests together. bc the buddy system. overthrow the government safely ty.

- rivals! : mal’s got a big mouth and some seriously controversial opinions. she’s not afraid to call people out for being ‘wrong’ and calling them...creative names. she’s bound to have a giant list of people who aren’t her biggest fans.

- bad girl’s club : need i say more? give. me. the girl gang. constantly partying and constantly getting into some kind of mischief and leaving a trail of broken hearts as they go. 

if you made it this far, you deserve SEVERAL high fives and literally all my love. ily all v much and uh, yuh. let’s plot pals. :)

[cheetahsprints]

Blood and Bone

Prompt: Winter Date

Summary: Peridot’s peace is shattered by a welcome interruption.

Words: 1574

Peridot straps on her skates. Verdant eyes scan the frozen lake. Being undead has its downsides - such as always being cold and not gaining muscle mass - but there were perks. It meant she couldn't be colder than she already was. It meant she could skate on thin ice. Even if the ice breaks, it's not a threat, barely an inconvenience.

There was a time when Peridot longed for the sweet release of a stake to her arrested heart.

She takes this time to appreciate her second existence on Earth, as well as the serenity and beauty of winter. She takes slow spins on the ice, pristine snow banks and trees weighed down by twinkling white twirling around in her vision. She pauses at the sound of rustling, followed by a light growl. She casts her senses, but they hit a hastily thrown up barrier - one that somehow feels lazy and sarcastic. She knows it doesn't belong to the nearby pack's Alpha, all sharp and intimidating. She fights a smile, her suspicions already cemented.

Not a minute later, a large, white and furry mass slams into Peridot, and she is barely able to shriek before she's plowed into the snow.

Peridot surfaces, sputtering, to be greeted with the mischievous smile and bright violet eyes of her mate, her forbidden lover. Amethyst still wears her ears and tail, the latter of which wags fiercely, spraying snow everywhere. She licks Peridot's face just to be annoying, from her nose to the triangular tattoo on her forehead.

Peridot's eyes flick to Amethyst's Marrowbind - an uneven cluster of bone shards embedded in her chest that seal her fate as a Lycanthrope - where it's exposed by her loose purple top. Its purpose is similar to the Bloodmark above Peridot's eyes. Since she's a Bloodsworn - known by humans as a Vampire - Amethyst and her kind should be her sworn enemy.

Still Peridot questions, "What are you doing here?! This is clan land!"

"Aw, aren't you glad to see me Ankle Biter?"

Rolling her eyes at the nickname, Peridot scoffs, "Of course. It's just any Bloodsworn with a quarter of a wit could sense your fuzz bucket a mile away!"

"Only a mile huh? Man, I'm trying too hard."

"Trying to get us slain for treason, you mean."

Contradicting her sour tone, Peridot cups her cheeks and kisses her. She's bathed in warmth. Where the radiation of the sun fails to soak into her skin, and a candle no longer burns her flesh at a touch, Amethyst's supernatural heat blankets her.

Peridot isn't so arrogant to assume they're the first pair, but there's nothing on record. Discretion is the better part of valor. Peridot sags with relief when Amethyst nuzzles her neck. She gathers Peridot in her strong arms. Peridot is a bit of a sucker for being handled, especially since the disappointing discovery that no Bloodsworn were muscular eye candy. Any who were muscular when they Turned were soon to atrophy.

"I just missed you so much," Amethyst murmurs. "Not just 'cause it's moon week."

Peridot hums. Amethyst urges, "Come on, give me that nerd monologue."

"It's not a monologue!"

"Whatever you call it, my sensitive ears need that sweet music."

Despite the current ceasefire between their 'sides', Peridot is hesitant to encourage her. Swallowing her fears, Peridot obliges, beginning to idly chat about recent events and discussing her job and hobbies. During this, Amethyst hoists Peridot on her shoulders. She probably feels like a feather. Amethyst is no powerhouse compared to others in her pack, especially her Alpha. She's considered a runt, but that doesn't stop Peridot from enjoying the ripple of her muscles. Amethyst carries her through the woods and on a hike up the cliffside. All the while, Peridot has her sense out like a net.

As a young Vampire, Peridot never fought a Werewolf before Amethyst, and she was led to believe that her kind was superior and more indestructible. She was, in a word, cocky. One injury, a broken shin that threw her into war flashbacks, and she was down. Amethyst was wounded six ways to Sunday, bleeding and spitting blood, yet she fought like a storm of maternal ursine.

Until Peridot had started screaming and crying like Amethyst had ripped her legs clean off. Somehow recognizing the panic attack, Amethyst had approached cautiously, eventually getting permission to haul Peridot to a secluded area. She nursed her back to health. Peridot fled right after, fearing favors being extracted. When Amethyst asked nothing of her, they sat by a river in neutral territory over red meat and blood bags. For hours on any days that could be spared, they talked.

How she had been humbled. Humility became appreciation, they formed a friendship and… undying love. Peridot felt she could search ten thousand lifetimes and never forge a bond like this again. Overcoming her preconceived notions to give Amethyst a chance was the greatest decision she ever made. Love is worth the suffering, Peridot tells herself day to day, when the worries get the best of her.

Distantly, Peridot hears Amethyst ask if she's alright and the sound of snow crunching under bare feet. She must have lapsed into silence. She dives in where she's left off, more to distract herself from dark musings than anything.

As they reach the apex, Amethyst remarks, "It's so nice to hear the sound of your voice, chatting my ear off. My pack are all monosyllabic with the occasional grunt y'know?"

Peridot sinks her fingers into Amethyst's hair, broadcasting happiness that her mate can probably scent. She scratches her scalp, earning a low rumble that Peridot recognizes as the Lycan equivalent of a purr. Peridot says, "For my part, it's a liberating experience to actually have someone listen and care about what comes out of my mouth."

Her mind darts to her roommate. She's about the only Bloodsworn in Peridot's faction that she can stand, and they're friendly intellectual rivals at best.

She goes on, "Pearl is engaging, she doesn't talk down on me or outright ignore me like my superiors… but she's also an expert at turning the conversation to herself, and damned if she ever heeds anything important I'll tell her. She'll claim she misheard, when really she couldn't pull her head out of her self-important ass."

Peridot has the utmost respect for Pearl, though her words shadow it. Pearl is well aware Peridot trash talks her - it happens face to face, and Pearl gives as good as she gets. It's hard to believe the brazen rebel was once a human bloodslave surviving on the edge of desperation. Many of their kind consider her lesser - less capable, less intelligent, less powerful, less valuable. Between each other, they have trust and admiration enough to tease in good spirits.

Amethyst chuckles.

"Moon Goddess light my path! I hear that. Wish I had a sirloin for every time I spoke and my Alpha replied with 'no one cares'. Those stuck up butt-munches deserve each other." Amethyst mutters, "Copying us and acting like they invented the notion, pah."

Peridot chortles along. They stop. Peridot examines the hill, spotting a two person sled. Her eyes widen. She scrambles from Amethyst's back and attempts to escape, but Amethyst is too quick even for Vampiric speed. Of all species, Bloodsworn and Lycanthropes are the most well matched. It's unfathomable that they should use their compatibility for murder and misery.

Peridot protests, "I'll fall off, or you'll crash!"

"So hang on tight, ya dip. It's not like we'll die. We won't crash again anyway, I've got the hang of this thing. Promise."

Peridot shoots her a deadpan expression before she's dragged across the snow. It's the optimal consistency for sledding, and Peridot focuses on frozen water flakes instead of her terror frozen inside her, unable to evoke a proper response. Amethyst marches to the sled. Peridot has little choice but to clasp the lip while Amethyst settles behind her. Peridot takes to lecturing her in order to stay sane.

"My body, held up by the strings of dark magic, no longer produces adrenaline. Therefore, it lacks a fight or flight response, resulting in Bloodsworn being either overly reckless or overly cautious with no gauge or filter." Peridot continues, "Harrowing yet not life threatening situations are sensationally overwhelming and impossible to process."

"Yeah, and it's funny," Amethyst responds. “Like when I’m giving you hickeys and you just go limp.”

As her lungs no longer have to trifle with the mortal requirement of breathing, Peridot screams without pause the whole way down. Amethyst laughs like a maniac behind her. Lycanthropy causes her to constantly be high on adrenaline, seeking thrills. She at least shows she cares by having a firm grip of Peridot's small waist. Amethyst has added several ramps, and she yells out points for herself throughout the ride. She guides the sled by throwing her body weight alone, and there's numerous near misses. Amethyst shifts her hand into a paw and digs it into the ground to bring the sled to a gradual halt.

Peridot stumbles off on shaky legs and collapses face first into the snow. The tremble spreads to her body, which is immediately wrung out as though she ran ten thousand miles without replenishing on blood. Amethyst turns her over and rests her in the crook of her arm, stroking her forehead. Amethyst always coddles her after these experiences, so it's not lacking in benefits.

[until-we-fall-in-love]

Ingénue: Chapter Two

- Read Chapter One -

Ingénue Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader, Steve Rogers x Reader, in later chapters Sam Wilson x Reader, Natasha Romanov x Reader, and Wanda Maximoff x Reader

Summary: You get to know Bucky and Steve better in this chapter and try to grasp a little more about what you’ve gotten yourself into.

1920s AU

Warnings: Light smut and drinking. In later chapters there will be violence.

If you are under 18 you should not be reading this!

A/N: hello again! this chapter is mostly just self indulgence and smut lmao but the next chapters will hopefully have more plot in them! for now, i’m just developing relationships! thank you to all those who have liked and re-blogged and commented! your feedback means the world to me!

Read on Ao3

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

Your life continues on rather normally despite the way you seem to always daydream about the three men you’d met only two or so weeks ago. You and Wanda become close friends, spending all your evenings together backstage or onstage or in rehearsals. On weekends, before performances, you giggle as you sneakily take shots of burning vodka in the dressing room; clothes askew, half on, half off. Neither of you ever get drunk but it’s fun and you’re young and maybe more reckless than you should be.

    Natasha catches you one Saturday, scolds you with dark eyes, tells you to be good and not to disobey. It makes your cheeks flush, warmth curling inside of you for some odd reason. Wanda pushes back, a little playful, a gleam in her eyes. 

    “Careful, Wanda,” Natasha tsks in that sultry way of hers, the warning flashing in her eyes.

    Wanda, for her credit, bites her lip and takes the rest of the scolding with you quietly. And when it’s all over, she bursts into giggles. Your cheeks are flushed from Natasha and the alcohol but you laugh with her now, grabbing onto each other, breathless and electric. 

    You come to find that these shenanigans don’t stop with Wanda; she likes trouble. But only the fun kind, she assures you and the wicked glitter in her eye always manages to pull you in. You don’t like displeasing Natasha, though she never seems genuinely upset with the pair of you. In fact, she seems half-amused, and her eyes always trace your rosy cheeks when she reprimands you. You wonder if she can hear the catch in your breath, the stutter in your heart, too. 

    But with Wanda, you feel young and girlish and wonderful. You’re both practically joined at the hip, fingers always brushing, or shoulder to shoulder, toeing some invisible line. She takes you dancing sometimes, after the show, presses her body to yours and wraps her small arms around you. Her lips skate over your cheek, warm and smirking. The boys whistle and hollar for you both and she teases that they can look, but can’t touch. She’s bewitching and you happily submit to her spell. 

    You trust her with things of all matters; deep or fleeting. You admit your infatuation for Steve, Bucky, and Sam to her and she teases you about it mercilessly until you tackle her, laughing all the way. 

    And then there is one night when you exit stage after your final performance of the night, change out of your costume, before Wanda nearly runs into you. 

    “There’s someone here to see you,” She sings, eyes twinkling. 

    “Who is it?” You ask, hoping she won’t toy with you. But her smirk tells you otherwise. 

    “Come out and see,” She urges, pulling at your hands, your arms. You are helpless to her, follow her with a huff. 

            “I don’t know why you can’t simply just--”

    Your words die as you notice Bucky backstage, in the shadows, just outside of the light from the stage that peeks from between the heavy, red curtains. He has a bouquet of deeply red roses across his chest and when he spots you, his whole face seems to light up.

“Bucky,” You gasp quietly, heart fluttering happily, and before you can stop yourself, your excitement has you rushing towards him and straight into his arms. 

He catches you at the last moment, air leaving his lungs at the force you collide with but then his arms, strong and broad, are around you, banding around your waist and keeping you close. 

“Hi ya, doll.” He rumbles, warm and infinitely happy to see you. Your arms are around his neck, near hanging off him as he holds you up, “Miss me?” He asks and you find a blush warming your cheeks quickly. 

You pull back slightly, realizing that this perhaps wasn’t the proper greeting for a man you’d only met once before, but his arms don’t fully let you go, and keep you close in his embrace. As if he refuses to let you be embarrassed for your zealous greeting of him. You blink up at him, at the flowers in his free arm. 

“The roses are from Stevie and Sam, too.” He then explains, passing them from his arms to yours. The petals brush your cheeks, the end of your nose and they’re fragrant and soft. “They’re real sore over not being able to come tonight.” 

    Your lips pop open in slight surprise; for the flowers, for the idea that the three of them had even thought of you, wanted to be here tonight. It makes your heart quicken. You shake your head, “You didn’t need to do that,” You insist, “It’s too sweet.” 

    “Nonsense,” Bucky replies, hand still at your waist, smooth and smelling of expensive cologne, something warm and musky and intoxicating. You sink closer to him. “It’s nothing.” 

    “Thank you,” You tell him sweetly, “And tell Steve and Sam that, too.” 

    “I will,” Bucky promises, hand falling to the small of your back, head dipping close to yours, “Now, what do ya say we get out of here and go dancing?” 

    You light up, outside fluttering warm and smile brightening your features in the darkness. “That sounds swell, Bucky.” 

    That’s all it takes for you to find yourself tucked under his arm, against his side, leading you out into the streets of New York as if he owns it, promising you a perfect night out on the town. 

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

He takes you to another speakeasy and you think, with the way the bouncer regards him with a familiar smile and handshake, that he owns this one, too. Your suspicions are confirmed when the bartender asks him, “What can I get ya, boss?” 

“Whad’ya drink, babydoll?” Bucky then asks you, a protective hand on your waist, keeping you close in the crowded room. You almost feel shy with the boisterous people around you, screaming and shouting and swaying. Their bare arms and shoulders, scandalous dips in necklines, pearls and silk glitter before your eyes. The room is thick with coiling perfume, smoke, the sticky sweet of alcohol on everyone’s lips. It’s sin, it’s wild and makes your head fog. Couples on velvet couches drape over each other, mouths moving, and you flush, turning your gaze from them. You’re usually on the stage, not in the crowds, untouched and perfectly unaware. Besides, The Valkyrie isn’t as...hedonistic as this. 

Bodies move on the dance floor, twining and grinding, gripping and pushing against one another lewdly. You curl closer to Bucky, find comfort in his broad frame against yours. Your lashes flutter up to him; you don’t really know what you drink besides the few, shots of Vodka that you and Wanda sneak some nights. 

“Surprise me!” You chirp at Bucky and he grins, picking his head back up to the bartender. 

“Gimmie a Mary Pickford and an Old Fashioned,” He says and in no time, a sleek, slim glass of something citrus pink with a bright cherry is given to Bucky, followed by the small glass with what you assume is brandy or whiskey, orange peel curling the side, and a round ice cube rocking in the center. 

Bucky takes both drinks in hand, tells you to hang onto him, and begins weaving through the crowds. Your small hand latches onto the back of his shirt and you stumble along behind him. He guides you into a plush, deeply blue booth in the corner of the speakeasy. A table rests in front and you slide in beside him, eagerly pressing close to him. 

He plucks the cherry in your drink up with nimble fingers, “Open,” He says with a smile that promises trouble, devilish and fun, as he holds the cherry up to your mouth. 

You blink up at him, unsure at first, but slowly let your lips part. He drops the cherry onto your tongue, let’s you bite down tentatively. Red burst of fruit erupts, juicy and sweet, and he pulls the stem of the cherry from you, tosses it onto the table. You chew, the bright and sugary flavor on your tongue before you swallow. 

In the next moment, he’s holding the glass of your drink, pink and filled to the brim, up to your lips. “Now drink, bunny,” He says and you welcome the rim of the glass to your mouth as his other hand sinks into your hair at the back of your neck, guiding and authoritative. Bucky tips the glass slightly, let’s you drink pineapple nectar, sweet and citrus, form his hands. 

It burns down your throat with your inexperience, though, the bite of alcohol you taste around the sugar, and he only allows you a few sips before setting it back down on the table. 

“It’s got a kick!” You tell him, lips puckering slightly and he laughs richly, letting his hand fall from the nape of your neck, to drape his arm around your shoulders.  

“You’ve never had a Mary Pickford before?” He asks, eyes glittering in the dark. 

You shake your head, warmth spreading through you just from those first few sips, “I’ve only ever really had a little vodka with Wanda backstage.” 

He whistles low, “You’re a baby,” He coos, half teasing, in a way that makes heat burn through your cheeks, “Well, stick with me, and I’ll teach ya more.” He then promises, finger toying with a strand of your hair. 

Your heart stutters and jump starts and you find you really, really want to learn from him.

The night edges onward with the pair of you squeezed into this booth, drinking, talking, and laughing. He wants to know all about you, uncovers what you love and hate, where you grew up, all that you’ll give him, he takes. And he regales you with stories of him and Steve as kids, the way they met Sam and Natasha. He tells you that some things are secret, asks how well you keep them with a wicked gleam in his eyes that you’re drunk on, fuzzy and yearning.

Somehow, you end up in his lap, straddling his waist with your small hands on his shoulders. The edge of the table digs into your back but you don’t care, too swept away in Bucky’s gaze on you. The alcohol has made you a little bolder, otherwise your inexperience with men would make you nervous. You’re not chaste, but the majority of your experiences with men or women have been fumbling and quick. No one’s had the skill or confidence as Bucky does, whose hands seem to know exactly how to touch, to brush, to grasp. 

His hand cradles your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip. You look at him with wide eyes, small hands on the curve of his broad shoulders. 

“I haven’t been able to get you out of my head since I met you,” He admits, eyes blue haze and warm, his thumb passing another tender swipe over your lip. 

“You tell that to every pretty girl?” You ask in response, half-serious, half-teasing with a tilt of your head. 

Bucky smirks a little, shakes his head, “No,” And his thumb presses lightly against the seam of your lips, so you part them, let your tongue brush delicately against the pad of his thumb. “Just you,” He murmurs, enraptured, eyes darkening. 

You wrap your lips around his thumb, tentative; it seems strange and foregin but Bucky’s gripping you tighter, looking at you as if he wants to devour you whole. A bloom of arousal, low and soft, unfurls inside of you. Your hips squirm over his, involuntary, and you can feel a flush creep over you, a little embarrassed with his thumb in your mouth and suddenly desperate need for relief. 

Bucky only pulls his thumb from your lips though, slick and warm before covering your mouth with his and for a moment, you’re frozen, heart stopping. But then his broad palm grips your waist, rolls your hips forward slightly and you whine against his lips and come alive beneath his hands. 

He half groans against your lips at your eagerness, small hands tightening in his shirt, delving into his hair. You can taste the bite of the alcohol he’d been drinking, the sudden splash of orange. It’s intoxicating, it burns you. 

He repositions you slightly, thigh slipping between your legs, brushing at your core where you’re sensitive, forcing out a trembling breath. His lips part from yours, skate along your cheek, down to your jaw. “Pretty girl,” Bucky murmurs, teeth skimming, fingers digging into your hip to rock you onto his thigh, which pulls a shaky moan from you.

Your cheeks flush in embarrassment, but you can feel the sharp cut of Bucky’s smile, “Feel good, baby?” He coos, evidently unworried by the noise, and repeating the action, giving you friction and trying to pull it from you again. 

“Yeah,” You gasp before you can stop yourself, tilting your head to give him more room there. His lips seal on your neck, warm and overwhelming. You should care more about the way your dress is hitched around your hips or that someone could see you, but Bucky doesn’t allow you to shy away, gripping you tight and encouraging you. 

Besides it’s dark and your face is hidden in his neck, soft lips pressing messy kisses there, smearing any remaining lipstick. It’s dirty, a little lewd, but it feels good. It’s freeing to let go in his arms, rock against him as the heat builds. You chase release, keening slightly as you near it, dizzy and breathless. 

“You gonna come for me?” Bucky purrs then, as if he can sense it, grabbing your hip harder, “Just like this?”  

You mewl, soft and desperate and a little pitiful, head dipping into a slight nod against his shoulder. He doesn’t let you slow or stop, not until you fall apart for him, shaking and letting out a quiet, broken, little cry into his neck. 

He strokes you, hand lovingly caressing up your sides and back. “Good girl,” he praises, refuses to let you be embarrassed, even if you can’t quite leave the comfort of his neck. You squirm, aftershocks rolling through you, clinging to him as he soothes you. 

“So lovely,” He continues, pressing sweet, wet kisses against your jaw and cheek and neck. You feel as if you’re glowing, warm and sated and pressed into his chest.

But after a moment, you pick your head up and blink, eyes round and glittering in the darkness. “What about you?” You ask, almost shyly, ducking your head. You’re hovering in some hazy, sweet fog of bliss but you want him to feel the same, deeply satisfied. You want to please him, you find. 

“Well, aren’t you the sweetest?” Bucky hums, tucking a strand of your hair behind your ear, pressing his lips to the corner of your jaw. But he shakes his head slightly, “You don’t need to worry about me tonight, though, okay? This was for you, it’s all about you.” 

You pout slightly, bottom lip pushing out, “Are you sure?” 

Bucky nips lightly at your jaw, a quick pinch, “Don’t tempt me, babydoll.” He says lowly and it has you arching into him all over again. But he doesn’t let it simmer and expand again, he pulls you away from him slightly, sleepy-eyed and burning for him. 

“C’mon,” He tells you, “I told you we’d dance.” 

And dance you do; he holds you close, grabs your hips and rocks you against him, just the way Wanda does. Except where her body is soft and plush, his is firm and commanding. He whispers pretty words in your ear, calls you intoxicating and stunning and extraordinary. You preen and dance for him, wrapping your small, arms around his neck and swaying to the jazz that croons throughout the whole establishment. And he’s perfect, so taken by you that you feel as if you are as rare and precious as the gems in the rings that adorned his fingers. You are young and beautiful and full of life, drawing eyes and Bucky proudly displays you. 

Just like Wanda; they can look but can’t touch. It sends your heart soaring. 

But at some point, the night has to come to an end and Bucky takes you home, walking you all the way up to your door. He kisses you sweet and chaste, but a subtle, possessive hand holds your chin to tip your face up to his. 

“I’d love to see you again real soon, doll.” He tells you with sincerity, with earnest. 

“I’d love that too, Bucky.” 

And he kisses you again, slow and gentle, making you sway on unsteady feet. You cling to his shirt again, half think of inviting him in. But he pulls away from you, smiling, blissfully happy with just your kiss. 

“Goodnight, baby. Dream of me?” He asks and you can’t help the laugh that spills from you the way the starlight spills onto his face, brightening his eyes and the crooked smile. 

“Of course,” You sigh, moonstruck, leaning back against the door to your apartment building as you watch him retreat back to his car, distancing himself from you slowly. “Goodnight, Bucky.” You say before slipping inside, heading up to your apartment, and dropping into bed. Your heart blooms with warmth the same way alcohol spreads gooey and molten inside of your chest, mind flickering back to Bucky, whose smile lingers in your thoughts until darkness cradles you, rocks you into sleep. 

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

Steve visits you next week, stops by the Valkyrie despite having other business to attend to that evening. He tells you he can't stay, unfortunately, looks at you with longing, blue eyes. 

However, he surprises you, shoving his hands into his pockets, he begins, “Since I know you work in the evenings,” He shifts slightly, perhaps nervous, “Can I take you to breakfast tomorrow morning?” 

You blink up at him, think back to Bucky. Surely, Steve knows that Bucky took you out; surely it wouldn’t be betraying Bucky if you agreed. Your heart picks up as you find Steve’s face. It’s earnest and open, makes you blush for some reason. You want to go out with him, too, you realize with a slight start. As much as your mind had been consumed by Bucky, it had always wandered back to Steve, even Sam, too. 

“Sure, Steve,” You begin, nibble at your bottom lip, feel his eyes follow the movement and hope to God your face isn’t as red as it feels, “I’d really like that.” You tell him honestly. 

And he grants you a smile, winsome and darling and brightening his entire face that seems so serious most of the time.

“How’s nine in the morning sound?” He asks and you nod, certain you’d agree to about anything for him. 

Before he can leave, you speak up, let the words bubble out before you can stop yourself, “The roses look really nice in my bedroom.” You grow bashful, “I really love them.”  

He pauses, tilts his head before realization dawns over his features and his smile turns lopsided. “Oh, I’m glad you liked ‘em, honey.” He responds, growing warm with your praise. And then he quirks a brow, “Buck said you guys had fun the other night,” He mentions, half-inquiring. 

“Oh,” You exhale, glad to know that Steve is aware Bucky had taken you out, but suddenly nervous that he knows what Bucky had done with you-- would Bucky have told him?

“It was a lot of fun,” You add, blush warming your cheeks. 

“Good,” Steve says, nodding, “That’s good.” And then he glances at his watch, checks the time, and lets out a breath. “Well, I have to get going. But I’ll see you tomorrow?” He asks you, hopeful, pretty eyes finding yours. 

“Yes,” You agree, “Bright and early.” And you flash him a smile. 

Surprisingly, he leans forward, brushes a kiss to your cheek, and agrees, “Bright and early, babydoll.” Before he leaves you there, with your fingers ghosting over where his soft, warm lips had been just moments ago.

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

You wake to the sound of your alarm ringing, blindly fumbling to shut it off. Morning light fills your room, spills onto your bed and bare shoulders. You slowly open your eyes, rub at them before stretching out in your bed. You sigh; you have an hour to get ready before Steve is supposed to pick you up.

So you set on getting ready, picking out a pale, casual, pink dress that has pretty, swirling beads in some areas. It bares your shoulders and collar bones, allows that peak of skin. Your makeup is soft and subtle compared to the dramatics of being on stage; satin pink rouge and a swipe of dolly pink lipstick. A tan clutch, tan kitten heels to match. 

And true to his word, Steve is right on time at nine in the morning. You watch as he pulls up in his automobile in the bright, soft light of the morning. You rush out the door, stepping out before he even reaches the door to your apartment building. When he sees you, his mouth parts slightly, pink lips opening. 

“Hi, Stevie,” You say and he blinks. 

“Morning, sweetheart.” He responds, looking you over, and then he says with a little too much reverence, “You look lovely.” 

Your think your cheeks turn as pink as your dress, “Thank you,” You respond, soft and stepping up to him. 

He helps you into his automobile and off you go, wind tossling your hair and making your eyes glow with wonder as the city blurs by your vision in the morning sun.

Steve takes you to what seems to be a hotel, towering high into the robin’s egg blue sky, dreamy, white clouds scattered in it’s background. But he goes right past the front desk and to the elevators, where he pulls open the iron cage, allows you in, before shutting it behind him. He presses the button for the very top floor, number fifteen, and your curiosity begins to stir. 

But before you can gather the courage to ask any questions, the elevator is slowing to a stop and Steve is ushering you back out. You step out onto a rooftop restaurant, with tall, clear windows surrounding the entire place and giving you a brilliant view of the sparkling city below you. 

Before you can stop yourself, you rush forward, towards the grand windows and peer down below. It’s dizzying, it’s astonishing, takes the breath straight from your lungs. From up this high, the world seems vividly colorful and tiny. Green grass sparks bright compared to the rough, dark asphalt. Gleaming automobiles of yellow, red, and blue streak across the streets. The blue sky opens up wide before your very eyes, clouds rolling past leisurely, the sun casting all in a glow. 

Steve approaches your side, watching you with fondness and tenderness you aren’t prepared to find, but welcome eagerly. 

“It’s incredible,” You breathe, eyes flying over the skyline of New York, open and massive for you. 

“Yeah,” Steve agrees softly, eyes fixed on you, “It is.”

But you aren’t quite sure he’s talking about the view anymore.

You take your seat beside an open window and instead of Steve sitting across from you, he takes the seat beside you, casually drapes his arm around the back of your chair. You sit prim and proper beside him, but can’t help the way you lean towards him as you talk. 

And like Bucky, he wants to know everything about you. Willingly, eagerly, you give him all that you gave Bucky, too. You relish in Steve’s attention in a similar way you did with Bucky. He’s not as seductively dark as Bucky, but he’s got a commanding streak, a rougher edge of someone who's never backed down before. It’s as intoxicating as Bucky in an entirely different way.

Steve orders mimosas without the waiter batting an eye and you have to wonder what sort of connections he has here, too. What kind of men and business you’ve entangled yourself with. The slim, tall glasses of bright orange mimosas are placed in front of you, strawberry hanging off the rim, and your sudden questions are quickly quieted. 

You pluck your strawberry off the rim, bite into the sweet fruit that gushes against your tongue and lips. Steve smiles as he watches you, swiping his thumb at the corner of your lips, catching some of it’s sugar on his thumb. 

And he swipes his thumb clean of it, catching your eyes as your heart flutters. 

As if to get back at him, you swipe his own strawberry, playful and giggling as you quickly bite into that one, too. Steve’s eyes dance with amusement, even as his broad palm comes down onto the back of your neck. He squeezes lightly, “Think your funny, huh?” He asks, voice gone low but a corner of his lips is lifted into a smile.

“I think so,” You say around the strawberry, cheek full with the fruit and it makes you both laugh, deep and full and warm. Steve’s hand slides to your back, sometimes to your shoulder as you both sit too close, laughing over mimosas at nine in the morning. 

You feel on top of the world, sitting pretty beside one of the most powerful men in New York City.

The thought strikes you deeply and the slow realization of who you’ve been so infatuated with; Bucky, Steve, Sam, even Natasha, come rushing forward. They’re dangerous, they’re powerful. You begin to become aware of the sly glances cast your way, the way people seem to be looking at you. And Steve’s been taking it all in stride, sitting close, possessive hand on the back of your neck.  

It should make you nervous. You try and convince yourself you’re nervous, but you aren’t. It’s a rush, like being on the stage every night, intoxicating and fun. And you’re smitten, caught in the shock of blue from Steve’s eyes. 

You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into, but you reach for it anyways, eager and seeking. 

Steve ends up ordering for you when you don’t know what to get, too many options; all expensive, things you’ve barely heard of. When the steaming plates of food are placed in front of you, you’re met with something that’s perfectly scrambled eggs, salmon, rustic bread, spring greens. It’s rich and savory and you half-groan on the first bite. 

“That good, princess?” He asks around a smile and you nod enthusiastically, which makes his eyes brighten. 

As if he’s happy just because you are. As if you’ve reminded him to savor something as simple as food, looking at it through new eyes, young and naive and excited to try everything. 

You both eat and talk and lounge in the morning light, enjoying all that he’d gotten. The cinnamon, pecan rolls that are decadent and dripping and sticky-sweet. They have you licking your fingers clean, Steve’s eyes darkening a fraction, and your own cheeks sent blazing.

Steve pays for everything, won’t even let you look at the bill. It’s overly kind because you know it was all expensive and he ordered plenty of food for the two of you, but he acts as if it’s nothing. Maybe to him, it isn’t. Once more, your curiosity for him, for what exactly he does grows. 

He takes you back home after, walks you up to the door of your apartment building and this time, before he can say any sort of goodbye, you peak up at him and ask, “Would you like to come in for a bit? For coffee or tea?”  You ask, flicker wide eyes up to his face.

He looks a little surprised, but he smiles, and agrees and you become keenly aware of him at your back as you lead him up to your own apartment. You become slightly self conscious; it isn’t the nicest, most modern or chic place. It’s minimal but clean and tidy, soft blues, cremes, and whites adorn the living room and shared kitchenette. You let him in, tell him to make himself at home as you toe off your shoes and wander further in. 

“Coffee or tea?” You ask, thankful that’ll give you something to do, so you can get your fluttering heart under control. You don’t recall the last time you’ve had a man in your apartment and now Steve takes up so much space, hands in his pockets as he looks around. 

“Whichever you want,” He responds, disarmingly gentlemanly and charming. You opt for coffee because it will take a little longer to prepare, give you a spare moment of tinkering around in the kitchen.

“Do you like your coffee with sugar or milk?” You ask him over your shoulder, aware of how much you want to know, the domesticity of knowing the way he takes his coffee is not lost on you. 

“Just black is fine, honey.”

The pet name soothes you, but doesn’t entirely quell your nerves. 

 However, once its brewed, you step back over to Steve with a steaming cup and settle onto the couch beside him. Further than you were at breakfast. He accepts the coffee with a smile of thanks, taking a small sip before settling it on a coffee table. 

It should’ve taken longer for him to coax you closer, but you couldn’t help the way you gravitate towards him. The conversation is friendly, playful, light. The buzz of the coffee hums through you, making you jittery and lively. You’re animated, regaling him of stories of performing, of rehearsals. 

And before you know it, his smiling lips are pressing to yours, the taste of coffee and sweet cinnamon from the pastry earlier hitting you and it takes all of your self control to put a hand on his broad chest and push him away. He eases away, despite being strong and big enough to not budge. 

You stare at him with wide eyes, nervous and fretting, you let out a shaky breath. “I don’t--” You start, pause, try and grab your bearings, “I don’t want to lead you or Bucky on.” You say in a rush, feeling suddenly foolish. Perhaps your night with Bucky meant nothing to him, perhaps he wouldn’t care, perhaps--

Steve’s large palm, rough and calloused, cups your smooth, soft cheek. “Sweetheart, it’s okay.” He hushes you, eyes soft as he gazes at you, “I know about your date with Bucky. I know what you two...did.” 

Your cheeks smart with color, flushing with embarrassment, even a twinge of shame or a slight spark of irritation. Did they talk about you like that? Were you nothing more than a conquest? “I’m not easy, Steve Rogers,” You get out, eyes burning, a bite of attitude. And a piece of you grows weary because should you be talking to one of the most powerful mobsters in the city like this? Absolutely not. But--

 “Woah, slow down,” Steve tries to soothe, surprise flickering through his face, “That’s not what I’m saying--” 

“Then what are you sayin’?” You fire back, lips almost coming out into a pout. 

Steve lets out a slow breath, gathers his thoughts, “Just that--” He starts, “Bucky and I share everything. Our business, the work, our manor, everything.”  

You blink at him, taking in what he says, and when you say nothing, he presses on;

“Dames, too.” And he’s nervous, you can tell by the way he swallows, by the way his eyes turn a little pleading. “If we really like ‘em.” 

You pull away slightly, letting this slowly sink inside of you. You become uneasy, wary that you’re so naive and have been so swept away with them that you haven’t seen the way this might look. “I don’t wanna be either of your-- of your conquests. Or anything of the sort.” You tell him, feeling your heart squeeze, you really liked them. Had you been foolish? 

“No,” Steve says quickly, giving you that distance, even if his fingers twitch, wishing to reach out to you, reassure you. “No, we’re real serious about you.” 

Relief begins to flicker inside of you, but you aren’t quite ready to trust yet. “Do you tell this to all your girls?” You ask him, echo the same question that you asked Bucky. 

“No,” He responds again, stronger this time. And when you don’t soften, he sighs thinking for a moment, desperately wanting you to see how serious he is, before his eyes brighten and he finds your gaze, “Look, I’ll prove it to you--” 

And then his fingers are reaching beneath the collar of his shirt, unhooking a simple, thin gold chain. It glitters prettily in the afternoon light, catching and spinning in the air. And then he slips off an old, expensive looking gold ring, a white diamond resting in it’s center. You don’t bother questioning if it’s real, you’re quite certain it is. He slips the ring onto the chain, and then finds your eyes once more. 

“May I?” He asks, holding it up, open and offering to you. 

Your lips part. 

“That looks awfully expensive,” You say tentatively, eyes wide. 

“It is.” Steve responds, then adds, “And it’s got a lot of importance to me.” He holds your eyes, “And I want you to wear it. To prove that we’re serious about you, baby. We can’t get you out of our heads.” He says, voice softening, dropping to a murmur. “Now, can I put it on you?” 

You can’t help the rush of air that leaves you, the way your heart begins to melt for him. Your eyes are wide, uncertain, but you’re wavering. You want to wear it. Because it’s his. Because he’s trying to prove that he really likes you. That Bucky does, too. “What does it mean?” You force yourself to ask, finding his eyes, “Am I your girl, then? Am I,” You pause, thinking, “Am I Bucky’s, too? How does this work?”     “If you want,” Steve says in a fast breath, eager and earnest, “Whatever you want. However you want this to work.” 

“I want..” You begin, inching towards him, “I want to spend time with you and Bucky, before it’s all official.” You decide, eyes then falling to the sparkling, gold necklace in his hands, “But I’ll wear it, if you’re serious.” 

Steve lets out a breath of relief, let’s his shoulders relax slightly. “Of course,” He promises, and you shift, turn your back to him and offer your neck to him. 

His arms go around you, your back pressing against his strong chest. The chain is cool to the touch against your neck and chest, it rests low, in the dip of your dress, nestling between your breasts sweetly. Steve secures it and you glance down at it, seeing the way it glows against your skin. In your distraction, you don’t notice Steve until his lips suddenly brush the line of your shoulder. A gasp leaves you, warmth curling low inside of you. 

You blink, “Wait,” And immediately, he freezes, and you peak over your shoulder at him, demure, lovely. Steve has to force himself not to claim your lips again. “What about Sam?” You ask and Steve tilts his head slightly, nose skimming the line of your cheek, as he regards you a little curiously. 

“We trust Sam with our lives,” He begins, pressing a tender kiss to your cheek, “With everything that we share.” He then adds, a little more hushed. “We trust Natasha like that, too.” He drops another coaxing kiss just beneath your ear, lingering there, “You can trust them, too.” He murmurs in a way that might suggest trust does not just include loyalty. But your head is already reeling and there is time-- there is time to sort it all out, and not when Steve’s lips are soft and inviting. 

You lean back into him, melt and go pliant against his broad chest. His hands slide up your arms, lips moving against your neck, against your shoulder. Your breathing grows tremulous, especially as he opens his mouth against your skin, warm and wet and making you arch slightly. 

His broad palm meets your waist, slides up your body until you’re squirming with his touch, suddenly burning and heavy-lidded. Rough hands hitch your dress up higher, slide up one of your thighs. 

“Steve--” You start, heart ratcheting in your chest, “I’ve only ever done this once.” You admit quietly, shy and nervous. 

“It’s okay,” He murmurs against your ear, even if you can hear the slight edge in his voice, as if you’re driving him just on the right side of crazy. “Do you want me to stop?” He asks, halting the path his hand was on.

Your blood is rushing in your ears, head spinning but you-- you want this. You want him. You arch your hips towards his hand, shoulder blades pushing into him. “No,” You admit quietly. 

“Then I’ll go slow,” He responds, breath hitching as his hand slowly rides upward on the smooth, bare skin of your inner thigh. 

The first touch of his fingers at where you’re most sensitive could’ve burned you with the way your finger sink into his forearm, nails biting. Steve doesn’t flinch, doesn’t move, but you can feel the slight smile against your neck, “You’ve got some claws, kitten?” He asks, tone light, almost playful, and you can’t help the way you mewl. 

And although you’ve gotten a little rough, he stays gentle, stroking soft, opening your body to him like a flower blooming, petals unfurling beneath his hands. He keeps you like this, desperate and whining pitifully in his arms, caressing over the silk of your little, pink bloomers. 

His fingers, nimble and quick, push them aside, brush against your core with a slick glide that pulls a shaky moan from you, and a sudden, low growl from him. It rumbles through him, into you, making your nails dig deeper into his forearm. 

“This all for me?” He murmurs, an edge to his voice, his finger gliding into you on an easy stroke. You whimper, body tensing.

 “Relax,” He commands, voice low, finger moving slowly until you listen to him, settle back into the safety of his arms. 

“Good girl,” He praises as you do, as you let pleasure sink into your bones, lashes fluttering against your cheeks. You can feel him watching you, watching the way your chest rises and falls, the way the gold of his ring looks against your bare skin. His mind flashes with you, nothing but his chain on and resting along your neck, it makes him twist his finger, try and wring pleasure from you, drive you as mad as he feels with you. 

And it works, because you cry out, arch against him. Soon, you’re gasping and half-begging him, wild with him before he grants you what you’re straining towards. You shatter for him, glittering like the gold around your neck, cheeks flushed, body surging with pleasure for him. 

“You’re stunning,” He praises, slowly easing you down from your high until you can open hazy eyes to glance back at him. He withdraws his hand, slipping his finger into his mouth the same way he’d done with the red sweet of the strawberry earlier. You watch with wide eyes for a moment, mouth popping open, before you twist in his lap and in a flash, press your lips to his. 

He’s surprised, your momentum taking you both backwards, but in a moment, he’s humming softly into the kiss, holding you tight to him as you stretch out over him on the couch. 

His firm body beneath you makes you melt, small hands squabbling at his biceps, on his chest. But he subdues you, settling you onto his chest, soothing the kiss into something lazy and sweet rather than heated and desperate. 

And that’s how you spend the afternoon; on his chest, letting him hold you, stroke careful fingers through your hair, dozing in his arms as you listen to his heart, and kissing lazily until you both have to return to reality. To work. 

Steve kisses you goodbye at the door, as sweetly as Bucky had, and you can’t help but sigh as you watch him go, fiddling with the gold around your neck. You feel entirely too soft on them already, tumbling sharply into new, blossoming emotions. 

When you open your mouth to sing at the Valkyrie that night, you can’t help the way the music seems sweeter, the way your voice carries a little more, glowing and warm. The stars seem brighter, your smile wider. 

Everything’s rosier and soft, so lovely that you could burst and you have a feeling it’s entirely to do with the men who’d walked into your life only a few, quick weeks ago.

[wildmagicplant]

[hello everyone! i bring you a small tim drake character study-ish fic that’s maybe also a little bit of a love letter to a small part of san francisco. i do live in SF, but i’ve never touched a skateboard in my life, so the accuracy of this is... mixed.]

As Tim walks toward Golden Gate Park, he struggles to remember how long it’s been since he last used his skateboard. It’s dangling from his hand right now, the weight familiar, but he’s pretty sure he hasn’t ridden it anywhere in months, at least. Just a street or two more and he should be good to go.

It’s gray in San Francisco, but somehow the fog here always feels different than Gotham’s near-constant darkness. There’s a breeze that keeps ruffling Tim’s hair into his face. If he squints, he can make out a lighter edge to the sky off to his right. 

He dodges a car in the crosswalk, smirking slightly as it honks at him. Tim slouches into his hoodie even more, playing into the teen loser vibe he knows he’s giving off. Even if it’s only for a few hours, it feels good to be just some kid, anonymous and as irresponsible as he wants to be. He has his phone in his pocket, so if anything goes really bad, his team can get in contact, and probably Barbara could manage a way to contact him even without it.

Tim’s walked into the edge of the park without realizing it, the steep sidewalk ahead of him and the sudden decrease in cars alerting him. He passes a woman and her dog jogging in the other direction. Neither of them pay any attention to him, and Tim can feel some minute loosening of his shoulders as he walks. He reaches the top of the hill quickly.

There’s no cars coming at the moment so Tim doesn’t wait, just drops his board onto the road and steps on. The road curves down to his right and he keeps moving without thinking and pushes off. He picks up speed as the road slopes down again. The grin stretches across his face before Tim is even thinking about it. He thinks about himself as a kid, awkwardly trying to skate for the first time, or struggling to climb up a fire escape, and marvels at how far he’s come. A car passes him slowly, and he adjusts to veer out of the way seamlessly. It’s weirdly reassuring how naturally skating is coming back to him. Tim had worried that he would be rusty, that somehow all his knowledge of how to skateboard had been forced out of his head by which compounds Scarecrow had put in his latest fear toxin or by sales figures for Wayne Enterprises’ third quarter. Instead, it feels like he never left, and Tim sighs in relief that he can still do this.

There are people around—it’s San Francisco, it’s never empty—but it’s relatively quiet as he sails down through the park. Past the bottom of the hill, Tim follows the road that will lead him west. It feels poetic, heading west into the sunset, and usually Tim would laugh at himself for that kind of thinking but today it feels right. There’s none of the normal buzzing competition of thoughts in his head, and he wonders if this is what doing nothing feels like for other people, the calm solitude of being alone but not trapped with his own anxieties.

After another few minutes, Tim feels a slight chill as he goes under an overpass. There’s an intersection ahead, and he smoothly turns left, cutting across the park, pushing off with his foot as the road reaches a slight incline. He can feel the muscles in his legs working in a way he remembers from when he was skateboarding regularly, and Tim realizes he’s going to be sore tomorrow. It doesn’t bother him. Actually, he’s kind of looking forward to it. Being sore from actually doing something instead of from getting tossed into walls by someone with superpowers sounds like a nice change. Tim takes a moment to shake his head at what his life has turned into.

It doesn’t take long to cross the park in this direction, and when he gets to the intersection just before 19th, he hops off his board, tipping it up into his hand, and hurries across the crosswalk behind some cars waiting to turn. Tim walks out of the park, and waits to cross the street. It’s busy enough here that he doesn’t want to risk riding his board, and he also knows if he heads one street over, it will be much quieter, and he can take it down to Noriega.

The walk sign comes on. A man pushes past Tim as he talks on his phone, and Tim resists the urge to gesture at the otherwise empty crosswalk. The tops of the trees in the park are shrouded in fog that rolls silently on as Tim walks by. As he looks ahead of him, he thinks he can see the end of the fog further down the street. It’s always weird to him how consistently the weather travels across the city here. It’s not that the weather doesn’t change quickly in Gotham, too, it’s just that back home, the weather doesn’t sweep in straight lines from west to east. Or maybe it’s just that it’s easier to see where it moves from here. Part of Tim wonders if he could look that up, compare meteorological maps and patterns in San Francisco and Gotham, but Tim tells that part of him to shut up for a bit. It’s too close to all the ways he has to be on in the rest of his life, and the whole point of this excursion is to get away from all of that.

Tim turns down the next street, and walks past a few driveways before dropping his board down again and hopping on, guiding it down onto the street. It’s flat enough that he can push off occasionally and still glide pretty far, and he takes off. There’s a moment a couple blocks later when he crosses a busier street, but he just pushes off harder and darts across the intersection, ignoring the cars waiting to turn. Tim doesn’t even think as he does it. He wonders if it’s recklessness or confidence, and if he’s always been like this, or if it’s born of training and practice and years, now, of crime-fighting. He supposes it doesn’t matter.

A few minutes later, the only sound he can hear is the rhythmic clatter of his wheels against the concrete. The sudden calm of earlier is back, and Tim wonders what it says about him that despite his tendency to sit in front of a computer for hours, he only ever seems to find this relaxation while moving. Is this why Dick is the way he is? There aren’t any cars coming his way, so he takes the opportunity to swerve back and forth across the road, leaning from side to side. He catches a snatch of music drifting out of a house, but he’s past it too quickly to identify what it was. A few houses later, he thinks he can smell some sort of grilling meat, and he thinks briefly of the kitchen back at Titans Tower. Tim’s not sure there’s actually any food, but he can probably convince someone to go get some. He stops thinking about it.

It’s not much longer until he reaches Noriega, and he slows down to take the turn, making sure no one’s going to immediately run him over. Tim looks up after he turns, and sure enough, he can see all the way down to the ocean where the sun is shining off the water. He finds himself smiling. Maybe also wishing for sunglasses, but he’ll live. It’s worth it, Tim thinks. He’s picking up speed as he drifts downhill. Someone honks at him. He ignores them.

The sky gets brighter as he skates, that same calm keeping him company as he passes street after street, goes through sections of stores and restaurants and then houses and apartments. Several blocks later, a group of four other teens shout cheerfully as they skateboard past him. One of them sticks their hand out for a fist bump and Tim obliges, inordinately endeared. They’re probably only a few years younger than him, so of course Tim feels both ancient and desperately young. They speed past, swooping around each other, one of them filming as they go. Tim watches them hurtle confidently toward the ocean. Had he ever been that young and unafraid?

He slows down to cross Sunset, but the light changes right as he gets there, and Tim speeds back up, pushing off again, and really letting himself drift once he gets past the intersection. He’s close enough now to the ocean that he finds his attention drawn to the horizon, gleaming and almost too bright to look at under the beginnings of the sunset. The sky hasn’t begun to turn colors yet, exactly, but everything is beginning to take on a golden hue. It’s beautiful.

Tim doesn’t let himself think about anything else the rest of the way down the street, just focuses on his body, on the small shifts he makes out of habit to guide his board and on the way the light feels against his face and the wind pulling at the edges of his clothes. It feels good, almost like when he meditates, the way his awareness of the rest of the world recedes until he can forget what everyone else must think of him and how he has to live up to that.

Before he realizes it, he’s almost to the highway just before the beach. Tim hadn’t planned on making it this far, hadn’t really thought about what he was going to do, which is its own kind of freedom that he also rarely allows himself. Popping the skateboard up to grab it once more, he walks up to the top of the sidewalk and, seeing no cars, crosses the highway. He has to walk through the sand a bit to get to the walkway, but it doesn’t bother him for once. Tim walks along the wall, absently looking over the ocean. Propping his board up against the thick cement wall, he leans on it and stares out across the ocean.

Technically, Gotham has a harbor, and the harbor leads out to the ocean as well, but it’s nothing like this, in so many ways. It feels incongruous even to think of it in the same breath as this. Tim can be an existential kind of person, he knows it, but there’s something about staring out at the ocean that makes him forget all of his other concerns in a way not much else he’s found does. It looks like it goes on forever.

Tim doesn’t know how long he stands there. He doesn’t want to leave. Of course he wants to go back to his team, to see his family again, and more pressingly, he wants to eat dinner, but once he leaves, he’s going to have to go back to his increasingly varied lives. Tim isn’t Conner, he doesn’t mind living a dual life, and sometimes he actually loves it. There’s just something incredibly freeing about letting himself just be himself for once and Tim finds he isn’t ready to give that up just yet. He quickly pulls his phone out of his pocket; there’s a few messages and notifications, but no missed calls. Tim can stay a little longer. He slides his phone deep into his pocket and leans back against the wall, looking out toward the sunset.

[clairekatswritingcorner]

Snow Day

Word Count: 1,341

Summary: Julian and Jenna decide to make the most of the recent snow day by taking their daughter ice skating, introducing her to how much of a marvel a wintry wonderland can be.

*Author’s Note*: A commission for @aoi-hina! Her ship and family with Julian are both so sweet, I loved getting to learn more about them, and even try my hand at writing a more family-oriented piece for once! I hope you enjoy!

“Now just hold on to me, and don’t rush. Balance is better than speed.”

“But I wanna go Mommy, I wanna go fast!”

“This is definitely one of the times I’d say she takes after you.”

Jenna directed the comment at her husband who was standing just to the side, patiently waiting for his cue to step in. He couldn’t stop himself from chuckling at his wife’s harmless quip, although he was tempted to argue that his daughter’s drive was more suggestive of the determination his wife tended to exhibit. He was well aware he had a reputation of sporadic recklessness, however, so he supposed he didn’t have any room to talk. Right now, the family found themselves gathered together on a smooth, solid sheet of ice that’d formed not too far from their home. The winter weather that’d moved in and seized the day was a bit unexpected, but not at all unwelcome, and at the first signs of snow Jenna and Julian had promptly prepared to make the most of the occasion.

“I can’t blame her for being a little excited, can you?” the redhead asked as he knelt on the ice to meet his daughter’s eyes; he didn’t know if he’d ever get over the sight of his own eyes staring back at him when he gazed into hers. “Mommy’s right, though, you don’t want to end up falling and getting hurt, do you?”

“No getting hurt!” Luna replied vehemently, squeezing Jenna’s hands as she struggled to stay upright. “Only going fast. Only fun!”

“It can be fun,” Jenna chimed in, wanting to get back to the task at hand. “But only if you do it without getting hurt. Here, let’s try going around together a couple times. Remember not to let go of my hand.”

Getting to her feet, she made she sure she was stable herself before adjusting her grip on Luna’s petite hand. She peeked at Julian, whose posture seemed to indicate he was planning to stay right where he was, only deigning to participate at his wife’s behest. “Do you want to take her other one?”

“Me?” The incredulity in his voice mimicked the expression on his face, and Jenna gave him an encouraging nod.

She couldn’t help finding her husband’s reaction a tad amusing…and cute. Julian was always cute, and handsome, and just plain attractive in her eyes. She supposed it was lucky that Luna had inherited the majority of her appearance from him. Sometimes, when Julian confessed just how smitten he was with her, she didn’t know how to respond or what to do with herself. Her face would turn as red as his hair, and he’d continue on with his dramatic praises until she finally worked up the courage to silence him with a kiss.

“It’ll be okay, I promise,” she reassured with a supportive smile. “Both of you are going to do fine, I’m sure it won’t be nearly as difficult if we all do it together.”

Julian could have begged to differ, but he held his tongue. This afternoon wasn’t a time for contention or trying to sway anyone’s opinions. Although he often struggled to have faith in himself, he had an unwavering amount of trust in his beloved, and he wanted to do whatever it took to keep the radiant smile on her breathtaking face. Luna flapped her arm back and forth, trying to get her father’s attention. He hadn’t zoned out for very long, but even a hint of hesitation was usually too much for a toddler, especially one as energetic as her.

“Alright, I’ll follow your lead.”

And so, he did. Jenna did her best to start off carefully, moving slowly enough that there wasn’t a huge risk of falling, but fast enough that what they were doing still counted as movement. Staying alert for any sign of a hazard, the trio made their way completely around the outer edge of the ice a few times. After the first success, everyone started to loosen up, and before they knew it, they were all gliding along hand in hand at a reasonable pace. Julian was a little surprised he’d managed to avoid falling for so long, but maybe that was just Jenna’s charm. In wanting to help his daughter learn and his wife have a pleasant time, perhaps he’d become just sufficient enough to be useful to them. That was surprising, since he usually had a hard time considering himself sufficient enough for anything.

What neither he nor Jenna had yet accounted for were the powers their little firecracker had just recently begun to display. Her control and influence were still relatively limited, even more so due to the protective charm Jenna had received to help decrease the likelihood of any magical blunders happening unexpectedly. Both she and Julian had been doing what they could to teach Luna how to manage her power on herself, applying the novice tips and techniques they’d been given along with the charm. Fortunately, their daughter was proving to be a fairly fast learner, which was a promising sign. Even if she couldn’t employ any advanced forms of magic any time soon, if she could put what she already knew to good use, she’d be well on her way to a future as a successful and talented magician.

Hours passed, and flakes continued to fall in a delicate shower. The clouds that blocked out the typical rich, blue hue of the sky were surprisingly fluffy, which was fitting considering the snow they produced was of a similar consistency. Blanketing the ground in a sheet of pure, sparkling white, it was almost too beautiful to disturb. But to a child who has yet to understand the merit of such sights, that kind of restraint is essentially meaningless. Sure, they can still appreciate the wonder and novelty of the snow, but the idea of standing by and just staring at the wintry scene that exists before them is one of the last things on their mind.

Luna exhibited this particular mindset while her parents were distracted, taking the opportunity to traipse out into the snow that’d been piling up since this morning. Jenna and Julian were busy ensuring nothing they’d brought with them was left behind when suddenly something cold burst like confetti against the back of Julian’s head. He let out a yelp, unable to help being fazed by the cold, and spun around the moment the sound of the unbridled laughter echoing through the air reached his ears. Luna was rolling another snowball, but this time he was prepared to dodge her assault.

Exchanging a mischievous look with his wife, the two formed some snow into a makeshift fort and started hoarding their own modest stash of icy ammo. Luna was having the time of her life, hurling snowballs left and right and evading them just as deftly. Near the end of the skirmish she managed to utilize some of her power, stopping snowballs that were sailing towards her in midair and sending them ricocheting back at their makers. She even employed such abilities to create some snowballs for herself.

The battle naturally ended in a landslide victory for the young mage, who came to the conclusion not long after that today had been the most fun she’d had in her entire life. It had been an exhilarating day of leisure for every member of the Devorak family, the ones who had put their all into enjoying the winter weather to the fullest. Cradling his exhausted—practically asleep—toddler in one arm, Julian held Jenna’s hand with his free one as they trekked back to the house.

“Thank you for making today so amazing and special,” he spoke up, rubbing the back of her hand with his thumb before leaning down to leave a soft kiss against her hair.

“Thank you for making every day of my life that way,” the young woman replied, laughing softly to herself as she noticed her husband’s usually pale cheeks turn as red as his hair.

[allythurston2]

Blog #1: Examining Youth Culture

This week we were assigned to watch four films and one television show that encouraged us to examine youth culture. These films and the television show took place in different time periods, ranging from the 1980’s up until the present.  When watching these films, I occasionally found myself identifying with characters and some of their actions. Surprisingly, I identified with Brian from The Breakfast Club. Like Brian, I was very shy and nerdy. My parents put a lot of pressure on me to do well, I was the oldest sibling which meant I had to set a good example. I was easily intimidated by others just as Brian was intimidated by John. I also had a huge respect for authority, I was very careful to not get in trouble. Seeing Brian constantly cut off during conversation was like looking in a mirror. Being soft spoken, when I did talk, I was talked over constantly, which added to my reasoning to just not talk at all. I never really pictured myself relating to him, I have watched the movie before, but I never really saw the connection until watching it again for my communications class.  

While these films were all different in their own ways, they each presented similar themes. The first theme that popped out to me was acceptance. Many of the characters in these films were seeking the acceptance of the people they surrounded themselves with as well as self-acceptance. In the show Euphoria we are introduced to an array of characters, each fighting their own battles. One character in particular named Kat stood out to me. Kat was always considered the less attractive member of her four-girl friend group. Boys often referred to her as “fat” because she did not fit the typical size 4 boy type that many find attractive. Unlike many characters who were seeking the approval of others, Kat seemed more focused on seeking approval from herself. She showed clear signs of being insecure, but after a video of her preforming a sexual act ended up online that all changed. She blossomed, developing this “hot girl” mentality once she realized how many people found her attractive the way she was. She found the acceptance within herself that she desperately needed. In the film Mean Girls, Cady was a prime example of someone who was seeking acceptance from others. She wanted to fit in so bad that she gave up who she was, transforming herself to fit into the Plastic’s cookie cutter standards. She left behind her genuine friends in order to be accepted by the popular crowd who in all reality did not like her in the first place. Both of these characters can be compared to the youth of today. Today’s youth seek acceptance, whether it be from others or themselves, it seems to be a common goal among many. When I was a teenager I wanted so badly to be accepted, but I was quiet, and awkward, a combination that did not exactly scream “cool”. I found myself struggling to remain true to who I was while also trying desperately to find the “group” that I fit in with. While I struggled for most of my high school experience trying to accept myself as well as be accepted, I ultimately had a revelation my senior year that the only person who needs to accept me is me. I focused on loving myself for me and have not looked back since.  Another theme I felt was present in these films would be the common goal to live life to the fullest. Many characters were focused on attending the next party or living their life the way they wanted to, regardless of consequences. In Mid90s the skater crowd just wanted to skate and party, they did not care who it effected in the process as long as they were having a good time. In Kids, Telly was focused on partying and being sexually active. He had no regard for the safety of himself or the girls he was involved with which ultimately was a major downfall. I feel that the youth today still possess the same mindset. Parties are still happening regularly even though we are in a pandemic. People do not care if they get sick, all that matters is they were living their life to the fullest and on their terms. While I was awkward in my youth, I still attended parties regularly. I was friends with people who were at every party every weekend it seemed, and I truthfully enjoyed every moment of it. Thinking back on it now, I was reckless, but being reckless made me feel alive. I feel that everyone at some point goes through their “I’m indestructible” phase of life, but that phase can really humble you. Living life to the fullest is what being young seems to be all about. A final theme I found common amongst all of the films was the theme of sexuality. While it was more present in films like Kids and Euphoria versus the film The Breakfast Club, I felt its something definitely worth mentioning. Sexuality is very prominent in youth culture. Teenagers are experimenting with not only sex but discovering their own sexuality. Promiscuity is no stranger to many high school students, it seemed like high school was a common time for many to figure out who they were sexually. While in that department I am a very private person, I will say that high school was not really the time for me to come to terms with any type of sexuality. I did however witness many of my friends go on their journey of sexual discovery, and I learned a lot from their stories. In high school I felt that everyone always knew who was sexually active and who was not. It always seemed like people would have all this knowledge on other’s personal lives, but not by their choice. People talked; privacy was virtually nonexistent. It seemed as if nothing was sacred, and while the girls definitely did their fair share of talking, it always seemed like the most outlandish stories came from the boys. The scene in Kids where Telly and his friends were talking about girl’s sexual preference and Jennie and her friends were talking about their own preference is what I imagined these conversations actually went like during my time in high school. Being the quiet girl met people always felt comfortable talking about things around me, and I can recall more then one occasion hearing both genders sides of an encounter and let me tell you they were always extremely different.

When watching these movies, I noticed one other big thing outside of my relation to a character and the very prominent themes all the films appeared to share. I noticed the music, and how it set the overall narrative of the film. I noticed how in each film when there was something traumatic or sad occurring the music reflected the feeling the scene was meant to give. When there was a party going on or when characters were doing something fun the music was fast or upbeat. The music helped set the overall vibe and tone for what was happening, it’s almost as if it gave you an indication of what was going to happen. I took the time to create a spotify playlist which I will link below this post. Each song I chose because I feel it reflected my experiences during my youth well. The first song I chose is “Kids in Love” by Mayday Parade. This song reminds me of the silly romances I had throughout my youth. I always thought I was in love, but at that age who didn’t. The second song I chose was “Therapy” by All Time Low. I was a very angsty and depressed kid, I listened to this song on repeat when I would go through my frequent, spurts of depression. While the song itself is sad, it oddly brought me comfort. The third song I chose was “Killing in The Name” by Rage Against The Machine. This song is a bit strange, but the ending in particularly reminded me of my mentality during my youth. There is a lot of colorful language in the song, but I felt the ending, which essentially is saying I’m going to do what I want, was spot on with my overall attitude during the age of sixteen to seventeen. The fourth song I chose is “Edge of Seventeen” by Stevie Nicks. I have always idolized Stevie, I would listen to this car during the warmer months, driving with the windows down, and feeling as free as a bird. Honestly anything by Stevie put me in a good mood, I would drive around singing her music at the top of my lungs quite frequently. The fifth song I chose was “ I Want You To Want Me” by Cheap Trick. This song represents my desire to be wanted by someone, which I feel everyone can relate to. I wanted to be in love, I wanted someone to be crazy about me. I watched way too many romance movies during my youth, hence my minor obsession with love. For my sixth song I chose “Rock and Roll All Nite” by KISS. This one I feel is self-explanatory, I wanted to party all the time! This song is fun and upbeat and to this day I still enjoy it. For my seventh song I chose “I Will Not Bow” by Breaking Benjamin. This song represents my depression, I refused to allow it to break me. I shut myself away from the world a lot, I was “a cold-blooded fake” at times. This song pulled me out of some pretty dark times, I still listen to it when I find myself in a less then ideal head space to remind me that I am strong and “will not break”. The eight song I chose is also slightly morbid but is one of my favorites. I chose “Can You Feel My Heart” by Bring Me The Horizon. The lyrics “I’m scared to get close, and I hate being alone, I long for the feeling to not feel at all, the higher get, the lower I’ll sink, I can’t drown my demons, they know how to swim” was essentially my headspace when I was sixteen. To say mentally I was going through it would be an understatement. This song was not around when I was a teen, but when I first heard it my mind instantly went back to that time. My ninth choice is far less morbid, I chose “First Date” by Blink-182. It reminds me of the nerves and craziness of a first date. It embodies the awkwardness that you feel at the beginning and then the happiness and excitement that followed. The final song I chose is “Teenagers” by My Chemical Romance. This one I chose because to me it is the anthem of what being a teenager is! Teenagers can be scary with how little care or regard for safety they have. They’re wild and angsty. I like how this song covers how mean some cliques could be too, it overall is just a really cool song in my opinion. While my song choices are a bit all of the place, I feel my wide variety of genres and songs paint the picture of who I was during my youth. I was a mess, but I made the best out of it. 

https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0pvLKBWYfBXFGyloP2Bu8K?si=2oJOguBYTguW12UIhhtdHQ&utm_source=native-share-menu

[katyaton]

Five Time Gold Medalist

Written for @rollertoasteroflife <3 I know it’s not your birthday where you live anymore, but I’m still counting it as such. Happy Birthday!!!

1. When Viktor turns six, everything changes.

He receives his first pair of skates, leather soft and blades slightly dull from their previous owner, but they are magical and lovely and unequivocally his. 

There, while sliding on the rink, fumbling for hand rails and tending to bruises, the ice seems to caress him like an old friend, welcoming him with each turn and and flick of his blades, simply overjoyed at his arrival.

Where have you been, it seems to say. I’ve been waiting for you for so long. Viktor breathes in the cool air and lets it’s icy presence settle deep into his lungs.

It spreads into his soul, settling a dissonance he wasn’t even aware of. 

The ice, his first and most formative friend, provides him a path to a new life.

2. When Viktor is nine, he’s already won multiple regional medals in his division. He overflows with energy and determination, as the recklessness and naivete of youth so often inspires, but in this case he is right to believe in his dreams - he knows it - and if his mother would just try to understand - 

“Vitya”

His mother speaks with a quiet grace, so opposite to his own bubbling energy and vivaciousness, and normally that calms him, but all it does now is settle heavily in his stomach like a leaden weight.

“Vitya,” his mother tries again, hand trembling as it grips his shoulder, “I don’t know how much more of this we can afford. With your father gone ... ”

Viktor’s eyes glaze over, entranced by the skaters down below in the rink. Here at the Russian Junior Nationals, it’s easy to imagine himself beside them. All it would take is a little more work, a little more perseverance. 

Like the righteousness of his blades carving rivets into the ice, knows he can do it.

“I’ll have to start working full time, Vitya.” His mother’s hand cards through his hair, but Viktor refuses to look away from the show below.

“I just don’t see how this will work.”

Viktor bites his lip. Before he knows it, tears are trickling down his cheeks, but he refuses to wipe them.

“I’m sorry Vitya”

Viktor shudders and finally tears his gaze away from the rink, turning in a flurry as he steps away from her mournful gaze. He hears her call belatedly after him, but it’s no use, not when he feels like his heart is about to burst, when it feels as if a crack has started fracturing through him like shattering ice.

Viktor collides with something stiff and hard and tumbles to the ground. Slightly jarred, it takes a few moments for him to come to, but when he does, he almost wishes he hadn’t.

Almost.

Because standing over him with a withering expression, eyes twitching and veins bulging rather humorously, as Viktor would later come to think, was none other than Yakov Feltsman.

And as suddenly as his relationship with the ice began, Viktor too finds himself launched into new beginnings, and with the financial support he can provide his mother through skating, new hope.

3. Viktor is fifteen and riding high on the success and laurels of the Junior Grand Prix, reveling in the knowledge that his younger self’s dreams had been realized. He waves serenely to the crowd, having recently gone through training with Yakov to shape his image, and while his spirited, enthusiastic personality is fine for private, it wouldn’t be something he’d want to present to the media.

Or so Yakov says. 

He suggests a more subdued, aloof persona. Friendly, yet unreachable.

And now as the Junior Grand Prix champion, it’s high time to shelve the spirit of his younger days. 

Viktor steps off the podium and glides through the ice to the edge of the rink, breathing in deeply as he takes it all in - the cheering crowd, the blinding stage lights, his exhausted limbs. 

When he reaches the edge of the rink, he smiles brightly and waves to the revelers. Russian flags blanket the crowd, the echoes of the national anthem dance across the stadium.

It’s a lot to take in.

“Viktor! Viktor Nikiforov!”

A voice rings out over the din of the cacophony, and normally Viktor wouldn’t take any notice, but a flash of bright blond accompanies the sound, and when Viktor looks up, he greets the face of a young admirer, perhaps just between the precipice of youth and early teen years.

The boy’s face flushes when they make eye contact, and with his light hair and puffed cheeks, hinting at the lasting remnants of baby fat, he rather looks like a cherub.

(Viktor doesn’t know how wrong that assessment will be later on, on multiple levels, but that wouldn’t be for a few years time.)

Viktor smiles fully now. The emotional barrier he constructed tumbles down in the face of this awe struck fan.

“What’s your name?” Viktor calls.

The teen’s face flushes as his eyes widen, aghast at being acknowledged, but as he perks up, it’s obvious he quickly overcomes the shock.

“Christophe Giacometti!” he calls back enthusiastically, “I skated this year in the Grand Prix circuit.”

Viktor’s eyes widen.

Ah. So not a fan. 

A competitor.

Viktor knows better than anyone that while he may look unassuming now - and especially so if he hadn’t qualified for the finals - that bottomless drive and determination could vault just about anyone above the competition if they are willing to make the sacrifice. 

But still.

Something in little Christophe reminds Viktor of his younger self that day, and so with a flourish, he tosses his bouquet to him and throws him a wink, declaring with no ounce of doubt that he’d see him at Worlds.

Anyone that can light a competitive spirit in him deserve that much.

Years later, little Christophe goes through a few changes, becoming decidedly ... less innocent anymore, so much so that Viktor finds his earlier cherubic appearance a complete foil to his older, mature self, but regardless, Viktor finds the sentiment remains the same through out all the years they compete together.

Viktor may take the gold on many occasions while in competition with him, but Christophe’s friendship may as well be worth a medal of its own.

4. Yuri Plisetsky is a firecracker of a child, literally. When Yakov first introduces him to Viktor, the kid launches himself at Viktor with unbridled intensity, demanding that Viktor teach him everything he knows about spins and jumps and step sequences. 

Yakov, the traitor, slinks off to god knows where as Viktor does his best to pacify the child, but when it gets to be too much and Yuri demands more detailed explanations (because apparently the kid can’t just understand that the trick to the triple axle is to just feel it before you jump), Viktor skates away from Yuri in a flurry.

It continues like this for the next few years.

A part of Viktor is glad he’s so much older than little Yuri, because the drive that the kid has is monstrous, and honestly, he’s not so sure he’d be winning as easily in his younger days had Yuri been around.

In time, Yuri manages to calm down enough to be manageable, but Viktor knows better. The fire still burns within, but Yakov, in all his wisdom, likely coached Yuri to control that vivacious spirit while out in public. 

Nevertheless, it manages to burst out during key times.

As Viktor watches a fan turn abruptly and walk away, the din of the crowd and the yells of Yakov fade into nothingness.

Something just feels so off about that exchange, and, frustratingly enough, he can’t quite put his finger on why, other than the fact that a fan seemed to reject his offer, and yet -

“Viktor. What the hell.”

Viktor jolts, eyes snapping away from the distant point where the man disappeared from his field of vision. Even Yakov seems startled, voice halted mid rant.

When he meets Yuri’s eyes, he sees fire.

“I can’t believe you just did that to him.”

Viktor’s brows furrow. He doesn’t understand.

“To him ... ?”

Yuri rolls his eyes so sharply they nearly disappear behind his lids. He shakes his head as he huffs.

“Yuuri Katsuki. You skated against him, remember? He bombed and got last. Utter train wreck, it was. Painful to watch,” he mutters, face flushed. 

There’s something Yuri isn’t saying, something more, but before he can comment on it, a larger problem takes hold of his brain.

Yuuri.

Yuuri Katsuki.

Ah. 

Well ... that makes things a bit awkward.

“You better go talk to him and apologize at the banquet, idiot,” Yuri remarks, chastising him. Even Yakov looks shocked; this isn’t typical Yuri behavior by a long shot, after all.

Yuri lowers his head and flushes. “Someone should ... ” He mumbles, the rest coming out a bit muffled, but it doesn’t matter, really, because Yuri is right all the same.

He should probably at least talk to the other skater tonight.

It’s the least he can do.

Turns out, years later, Viktor owes Yuri far more for that little exchange than he could offer.

It was priceless, what he did - worth far more than a gold medal.

5. Viktor shakes slightly, tears blurring his vision.

Now matter the closet full of golds in his apartment, no matter his countless accolades and achievements, nothing is more priceless, more hallowed, than this.

Yuuri’s eyes sparkle as he slides the ring onto Viktor’s finger, where it would remain, blissfully, for the rest of his life.

The gold of the ring shines like a beacon in the night, and when he fumbles for the other ring and manages to slide it on Yuuri without dropping it, doubly so.

Viktor clasps their hands together in a vice grip, although Yuuri shows no sign of discomfort. He only smiles wider at Viktor and sniffles, face screwing up and eyes shining.

Honestly, with the state of the two of them, it’s amazing they’re able to read their vows, but read them they do, even if the majority of the crowd can’t quite understand what they’re saying under their shaky voices and frequent sniffs. 

But it doesn’t matter.

They understand each other perfectly, being well versed in each others unique language.

As they seal their bonds with a kiss, or really, a lengthy make out, as a groaning Yurio would balefully complain weeks later, they turn to the crowd, bonded as one.

Viktor’s heart swells. Looking out into the crowd,  into his family, he sees everything so clearly: the gold medals he’s accumulated are just that - medals. A inanimate, symbolic object that would do nothing more than sit around and collect dust.

But this - his love of ice skating and all the joyous memories and experiences it brought him. Of Yakov, Christophe, and Yurio. Of the Russian skating team, the Katsuki’s, and of course, his dear husband.

They are all factors that saw him here, to this moment, to this stage in his life.

These events, Viktor thinks, are a Grand Prix gold one hundred - no, one thousand times over. 

Nevertheless, the outcome remains the same. 

Five time gold medalist Viktor Nikiforov wins gold once again. 

[gucci-stinkbug-art]

Look at my babies :') Name: Blossom Age: 17 Element: Forest Weapon: Wooden Staff Character Bio: Although she is stern, cold and intimidating at first glance, she is very fun and snarky when she comes to trust you, though she doesn't lose the stoic feel. Even though she is protective and caring, her weak social skills made her very lonely. She loves nature and will protect plants and animals with her life. Her powers are based around vines and wood, both things she can create easily from the ground or her bod Name: Ash Age: 14 Element: Fire Weapon: Boomerang Character Bio: Ash is shy, caring and very patient, but can be scarily angry if pushed too far. Although a bit of a scaredy cat, he is ready to fight for those he cares about. His care and worry for others sometimes escalates into anxiety. Emotional and empathetic. His fire powers manisfest mostly as explosion-oriented attacks, and he's very good at controling them. Name: Aaron Age: 15 Element: Metal Weapon: Mallet Character Bio: A jolly and friendly boy, he's reliable and open-minded. Although generally nice, he can be rather rough and reckless. Speaking in terms  of raw elemental magic, he's the weakest of the team, being only able to summon pieces of metal for protection. However, he makes up for it with stamina, courage and brute force. Although he's quite the powerhouse, he's very short, which is a very sore spot for him. He's very artsy and crafty, he's taken a liking towards sculpture and photography. Name: Esperanza Age: 12 Element: Light Weapon: Parasol Character Bio:  A young girl with a nice, loving and innocent exterior, she is rather spoiled and precocious in the inside, and she's not above manipulative behavior to get what she wants. Even with this fact, she can genuinely care for other people, like she does with her older brother Sombra. Her light powers allow her to create vivid, convincing mirages and illusions, but what she makes you see is not real in any way, and will glitch and fade away upon contact. What is VERY real, though, are the laser beams of concentrated sun light she fires through her parasol. Name: Everest Age: 46 Element: Ice Weapon: Spear-Harpoon thing Character Bio: Sweet, ladylike and motherly, everest had her life wrecked by a strike of misfortune that led to a deep depression, but she's mostly recovered with the support of her friends and her wife, Guadalupe. She works as a teacher and enjoys the company of children. While she technically can't create ice per say, she can freeze the water vapor in the air of the inmediate proximity, allowing her to skate through the ice path she creates with grace and speed. Name: Sombra Age: 20 Element: Edge Weapon: Ninja Stuff (tiny bombs, throwing knives, shurikens) Character Bio: A very Edgy(tm) and snarky young pal, they spend most of the time either moping around or taking care of and doting their little sister Esperanza. They're nice deep down but it's under several, alternating thicc layers of bitterness and edgyness. His powers are the opposite of his sister's: he creates solid, fully functional, pitch black structures with almost indestructible qualities, but they have a very uncanny feel to them, like there's something wrong going on. Name: Ayako Age: 30 Element: Air Weapon: Handfans Character Bio: a nice gal, Ayako is modest and has a like for pretty things and art, and she finds beauty in almost everything and everyone. She is a free soul and she is very well-mannered and polite, but she has severe self-image issues so she needs constant reassurance and validation. She believes you're beautiful but she thinks otherwise about herself. Her powers let her control the air, being capable of creating small gusts and pushing herself with the wind to move faster. Name: Craig Age: 29 Element: Earth Weapon: Gauntlets Character Bio: A boisterous, passionate man with a love for sports, action and hard work. Craig is very confident and believes anyone can do anything if they try hard enough. He's a gentleman, but he can be stubborn and rough, and rather sloppy. Sometimes his confidence gets ahead of himself and he ends up biting more than he can chew. He's in a happy relationship with his fianceé Ayako. His powers usually serve as a power boost to his already-strong punches, ammasing rocks around his hands to create a harder punch. Name: Volty Age: 27 Element: Lightning Weapon: Dual Shotguns Character Bio: A gadgeteer genius with a short fuse, he has a strong interest in robotics and electronics, and spends his time on his lab tinkering with old trinkets. He is very introverted and irritable. He's a huge geek for videogames and sports, and is on a soccer team with craig. Ask him anything related to his interests and he will gleefully ramble about it. His shocking powers manifest as being able to produce static electricity to shock opponents and take over machines Name: Guadalupe Age: 48 Element: Water Weapon: A frickin' anchor Character Bio: An eccentric, wise lady who loves having fun. She used to be quite the looker and rather sensual, but a youth of excess didn't age her well. She still has a very flirtuatious nature and teases other people for fun, but she has eyes for Everest only. Even if she is thrill-seeking, she is very wise and delivers precious advice. Her powers allow her to control any body of water nearby, if there isn't any, she just swings her frickin' anchor.

[nwkrp-blog]

                                  ⋆ — WELCOME HOME, TRAVELER.

THE SHORES HAVE GIFTED US A NEW RESIDENT. born on FEBRUARY 14TH, 1994, KANG SEULGI has been on the island for 2 YEARS and is currently a FRONT DESK ATTENDANT AT A LOVE MOTEL. you can always find them at BITNA STUDIOS, 501.

                                          ONWARD !

                                           ⋆ EVERY STORY HAS A REASON

after obtaining lackluster results on the korean college entrance exams due to a poorly timed panic attack and a patented helping of “completely giving up,” seulgi’s personal decisions came back to haunt her. high school had not been entirely kind to her, from a scandal that prompted her to be ostracized, to a move to a new town, new school system, and with it a whole new set of troublemaking friends. it wasn’t a huge surprise to her that she bombed the test, but it did mean she had to go back home and face the music.

seeing as she was from (and returning to) in a small town on jeju island with few opportunities, this meant she spent a good year drifting and not doing much beyond longboarding and fussing around on the internet, occasionally leading tourist hikes and the like for pocket money. when her mother approaches her about the mido youth program, she’s one hundred percent sure it’s just another excuse to get rid of their troublesome and unsuccessful daughter, but frankly, seulgi is at that point entirely emotionally wrecked and disinterested in remaining in her hometown (for reasons expanded upon below).

thus, she lets her mother prepare it all and push her out the door, packs up her longboard and her collection of grayscale streetwear outfits and heads for mido, where she quickly finds fascination and affection for the city life (though modest, it dwarfs her small town background), moves into the central area into a studio that might not be much to look at but has the bonus of being entirely her own. she’s started taking classes part time in coding and computer science, works at a love motel (and finds it both hilarious and disturbing), and has enjoyed a slight boost in her ego with the smalltime success of some of the longboard dancing videos she’s put out on her social media of late. on the whole, while her reason for entering the program and escaping her old life was both suspect (i.e. running away from her problems) and largely unplanned (or at least, she let her mom deal with all the planning, since she was the one who wanted to be rid of her anyway) it has treated her pretty well so far, if only because there’s no one breathing down her neck and evaluating her every move. the fact that she has had prior experience with working and living in a tourist based economy likely helped her in her pursuit of the program.

                                          ⋆ EVERY STORY HAS ITS ROOTS

KANG SEULGI MIXTAPE. SIDE A - INNOCENCE.

TRACK ONE.

birth is an uneventful affair. she isn’t a planned baby but she isn’t unwelcome either, youngest of three by enough years that her older brother’s dote on her in the abstract but aren’t really fans of actually having her around. it’s sort of a theme. her mother hires a nanny and goes back to work immediately - she took time off with the boys and she’s not willing to do it again. her father is as distant as he was with the elder two, unsurprisingly.

seulgi grows up this way, chasing after affection and attention, calling out for the same things that were doled out to the other two so easily. she wants her brothers to play with her - dolls or tag, she’s not picky, she’ll take what she can get. they play hide and seek but she always hides, and they never seek, just let the little girl coop herself up in the closet for a half an hour, or until she dozes off. eventually she stops asking.

TRACK TWO.

she grows into the hand she’s been dealt. she wears a tan like a shield, testament to hours spent outside in the sun, relentlessly scrambling over the landscape. they live on the outskirts of a little town on jeju island, and the sun and surf and sand and rocks and mountains are her company. she takes after her brothers, athletic and enthusiastic, seemingly immune to the scraping of her knees and the scabs on her elbows, bruises on her shins.

seulgi feels the freest on the skateboard she inherits from her brother - or, more specifically, steals from his room when his interest in girls and his worry about entrance exams takes over his free time. she spends hours on it, rolling through town to the ultimate displeasure of the ahjummas who sit outside the town hall and gossip. a girl should be more demure, she should be more careful, she’s going to hurt herself or someone else, they say, but seulgi is past the point of craving approval now.

TRACK THREE.

high school treats her well. there are only so many other kids in town, so it’s not like there’s enough trouble for cliques. not when they’ve all known each other from birth. there isn’t much reason to come to the little excuse for a city, unless you’re a tourist or you’ve got a burning passion for the fishing industry, and even then there are better choices in destination. she studies well enough, but seulgi is prone to distraction. her attention wanders and she spends plenty o time staring out of the window, as opposed to anything else. but she’s clever, and when she does apply herself she catches up just fine.

a young teacher moves to town, when she’s seventeen, and he’s tall and handsome and has a sweet smile. he teaches math, which she’d hated, but it becomes her new favorite subject. enthusiastically she applies herself, sits in the front row, doesn’t doze off. it starts off so sweetly that way. her parents notice her for the first time, the fact that she’s so fond of math lately, the fact that she’s doing so well in class. finally, some of the validation she’s wanted for so long.

TRACK FOUR.

he takes advantage. he sees a girl desperate for validation and so eager, earnestly open about her childish crush, and he uses that. despite the crush, this isn’t at all what she’d had in mind in practice. there’s something that twists in her chest. uncertainty, and fear. there is an imbalance, there is a problem.

and then, there’s a picture.

it’s not incriminating, not really. someone sees them, after class, together, int he classroom. his hand is on her cheek, the other on her waist. it’s not much, but it’s enough that when it spreads through the school like a wildfire, it ends up double edged, two pronged.

he’s fired. she’s sent to geoje, to live with her aunt.

KANG SEULGI MIXTAPE. SIDE B - DECAY.

TRACK FIVE.

at first, she thinks it doesn’t bother her. she’d had a crush on him. it had gone south. she’s mad at miyeon, that stupid bitch, for taking the picture. she’s mad at her parents for sending her to live with an aunt. she’s mad at everything else in the world but him, but herself.

she’s angry and reckless in the way only a teenager can be, lashes out and shuts down in turn. she doesn’t talk to her aunt beyond curt, terse responses. she hates this stupid city, hates being away from her friends - not that they would be her friends now, she supposes. she hates that he doesn’t contact her, that he got in trouble. she falls in with all the wrong new friends, the kinds that the ahjumma’s back home would have been horrified by if they thought her simple skateboarding was so bad. she hates her parents for finally having their wish, getting rid of her entirely.

TRACK SIX.

seulgi finds her affection in new ways now, but it never really helps. it never fills that strange chasm in her, no matter what she does. it’s like she’s six years old again, still chasing after something and never quite catching up.

she buys a longboard on a whim, when her skateboard finally gives up the ghost, worn down and ancient. she devotes her time to this again, rediscovers her affection for winding through crowds, the satisfaction of landing a new trick. impulse has her exploring the art of “dance” on the longboard, making use of her own nimble nature and the length of the board relative to a skateboard, has her friends film her, starts an instagram to chronicle her progress.

she still likes math, puzzles that fit together neatly, black and white answers. but as for her future? she’s not sure.

TRACK SEVEN.

she fails the entrance exams.

this isn’t surprising to her, because halfway through she has a panic attack. it feels like a heart attack in the moment, the whole world crashing around her, her lungs deflated and breath thin and head pounding, eyes swimming with tears. she goes to the bathroom and sits silently in a stall, dead eyed with her head in her hands. she doesn’t finish the test.

maybe she doesn’t have a future.

TRACK EIGHT.

her parents are horrified, they bring her back, and it isn’t until she’s at home again that she realizes it all bore down on her in a much more real way than she’d ever thought. seulgi hasn’t been chasing affection or validation this whole time. there hasn’t been some distant goal she’s running toward. no, seulgi realizes all at once, confronted with the faces of her past, that this whole time she’s been on the run alright, but she’s been running away. away from what had happened, from manipulation and secrecy at the death of innocence.

TRACK NINE.

her mother hands her a pamphlet, sits her down at the kitchen table. it’s a brand new program in mido, she tells her. seulgi could get a job, maybe take night classes - they have a community college there, and more opportunities than in their own, small town. there’s a city, and a seaside, and she could visit whenever she liked.

TRACK TEN.

and thus, seulgi sets off again, still on the run (or on the roll, if you take into account the fact she skates more than she walks these days), trying to find her footing on the island of mido.

[july-19th-club]

Century 12

aka, My Very New Very Unfinished Immortal People Short Story, bc some of you asked for it and let’s be honest, I wanted to share it anyway

read ON

One of us has died.

          The strangest part about it is that the dead woman—she was a woman, from Argentina, short and stout and always wore her hair in a thick bun and sold handknit products online—was one of our youngest. Only on Century 3, she’d been doing well. That we knew of. She kept in touch, had been saying on the forum that she was going to bring treats to the meet, something homemade. And then three weeks before, when most of us were planning or packing or already en route, we all got notices on our group messages—she was dead.

         Suicide, of course. It’s all my seat partner on the plane talks about on our way over. He’s a long-legged guy from New York—long enough for it to give him an accent, anyway. He’s businesslike and well-dressed, but looks cramped and crumpled in the airplane seating. He’s doing good right now, he says. He’s in a stable relationship; they just adopted a new cat. He shows me pictures—a young, impossibly handsome blue-eyed man proudly holding up a disgruntled orange tabby. 

          “Found him in an alley. His name’s Mewcutio,” says my seat partner—and then he cracks a grin. “The cat, not my boyfriend,” he amends.

          “It’s so good right now,” he adds, looking at me earnestly. But I don’t know whether he’s trying to convince himself or what. Relationships—I gave up on those a long time ago. And this guy looks like maybe he did too, for a while. His face, when he talks about his blue-eyed boy, is a mixture of adoration and mourning.

          It’s not hard to guess why.

At the meet, we don’t sit down and break out a session immediately. That’s what local groups and semilocals are for. The coping, the therapy. This is a celebration for us—the precious few, to gather every ten years and remind each other that we’re still here, that we can and will and must by nature endure. For some of us it’s the thing that saves us. For others, it’s a reminder of how unsavable we really are.

          Upon arrival, we split up in the entrance to the hotel—we’ve booked over half of it for the occasion, as we do every ten years in a different venue in a different country—and we look for old friends. My seat partner and I walk in opposite directions, and in my head I wish him a good fifty-sixty-seventy with his blue-eyes. It’s the best they’re gonna get. I watch him jog down the steps and I take the elevator upstairs. Julie and Kim Mbege are already in the room they’re sharing. They’re sisters, which is rare. It’s not like anyone picks this—it just…happens. Family members who both get it are as rare as…well, as rare as the Argentinian doing what she did. As awful as it is, who we are, what we have to look forward to—it’s rare that we let go of it.

          Except…as the Mbege sisters and I sit on the made-up beds and chat and drink ice water from the minifridge, we can all taste it. The atmosphere has changed this meet. What normally feels like a giant, strange, supportive family reunion has taken on the tone of a tense political summit. Whispers are everywhere. Julie and Kim tell me that on their flight over—from Johannesburg; I can’t imagine the layovers—they were joined by the groups from Lesotho and Botswana. It’s all anyone talked about there, too. When we head downstairs we’re interrupted by Brazil and Chile, which is uncomfortable mostly because the Argentinian was apparently the only one of us from her country. That meant that these people were her semilocals; they actually knew her. In the crush of gossip and discussion, they’re subdued. They don’t know how she did it, they say, and they don’t want to know. It must have taken an enormous effort. They don’t think she left a note of explanation, or if something in particular in her recent life drove her to it.

          I tell them about my new pal from the flight over. “He’s dating,” I say. I suddenly feel worried for a near stranger. “But his partner, he’s not one of us. He says he’s so happy. Do you think that’s what happened to the Argentinian? She got too happy?”

          Getting too happy is a real concern for us. It leads to all sorts of shitty things, like engaging in relationships that are headed for the cliff edge. I haven’t dated seriously since…has to be…who was on the throne then? George II? I want to say it was. I was in Scotland, then. After that time I swore off closeness to people who weren’t us, very deliberately. We discussed it in my local group. And I realized that the only way to survive—the only way to not pull an Argentinian—was to swear off things that brought me to that place of sharp darkness, the pit you can’t claw out of. I spent a long time in that place. I know how bad it is to be there and have no discernible way out. I know how to avoid it, how it’s the worst feeling in the world, as easy to enter and hard to leave as quicksand, which I was once ensnared in and which is the only natural, physical thing that has ever really made me scared for my life.

          So now I avoid it, and I spend most of my time with others of us or with people who won’t worry if I don’t stick around. I’ve gotten close a few times to missing them after I’ve gone—but that’s how it works. It’ll always be like that. And I’m lucky in that I have a fairly big local and semilocal, and that I have friends out elsewhere in the world. We keep each other together. We call each other at four in the morning when we’re having a bad one, and somehow, we make it work. Even if we’re missing something all the time—faith, like Julie’s friend Clark—love, like…well, me—a sense of reality, like my new buddy on the plane—we find ways to fill that gap, for long enough that we can survive it.

          That’s what it’s really about.

Julie and Kim and I take on the bar downstairs dressed up, and we mingle with the non-meet guests at the hotel. They look breakable to me, always have. There’s a—speed—to them. Like hummingbirds or the clear, slender bugs you can find skating on the surface of a pond. Across the room, there’s a lot of whooping and hollering and synthesizer, someone’s trying to start a party—Kim points, and we all stop and stare, right in the middle of a tourist gang also staring. 

         “I think it’s The Stuntman,” Kim says.

          I’ve never met The Stuntman in person, but I know him by sight. He’s somewhat famous, not just among us but in the rest of the world too. He’s not much to look at—a tall, scrawny Irish teenager with wild hair and a frail figure—but when you get a close-up, you see big mournful eyes and delicate facial structure, boyish and brittle, like an early Bob Dylan. He’s really quite attractive then, mostly because he looks so mortal.

          That couldn’t be further from the truth. The Stuntman is one of our newest, and everybody knows who he is by reputation. His personality is said to be infections—filled with manic, hyperactive energy. He’s vulgar, unflappable, loud, YOUTHFUL, arrogant. It’s understandable. The first ten or twenty years are always like that. You’re drunk on the future because you don’t yet fully grasp exactly how heavy that future will settle on your bones. But The Stuntman has another gift that contributes to his particular reckless abandon—not only can he not age, he cannot die period. It’s a rarity so extreme that some people refuse to believe it’s actually possible. Some people even say that Jesus himself had that ability—regenerative immortality. Of course, since nobody’s seen Him for two thousand years and only a handful of us are old enough to have lived parallel to Him, it’s likely that the Jesus thing is faker than The Stuntman.

          The Stuntman is nothing if not visible. He blared onto the sensation-TV scene eight and a half years ago, hailing from a tiny factory town and quickly rising in international notice. Now he’s got this show, Live to Die, in which he tests rumored ‘killer acts’ and then, if it turns out they’re actually fatal, resurrecting himself over and over and over and over again. He doesn’t seem to care if most of his viewers think it’s an elaborate magician’s act. He knows that some of us see everything he does.

          The rumors are that he’ll probably stage something this week. It’s his first international meet, and he won’t be able to resist the attention. And before the Argentinian, we were looking forward to it, everyone talking about how he’d try to top his biggest tricks.

          But this is after the Argentinian. And watching him downing inhuman amounts of booze, the alcohol poisoning negligible when you know for a fact that you’ll wake up eventually, I think that he’s dancing a fine line between performance and something far more dangerous.

          The girls and I make our way through the buffet-style dinner spread, and bring canapes and drinks out to the poolside. I set a little plate of lemon-scented mussels and a glass of champagne in the special holders on my deck chair, and we stick our legs out long and coconut-oily to bask in the evening. Julie tosses us pairs of neon-rimmed sunglasses, and we lounge. The pool gradually empties while guests go back inside for food, then fills up again as they come outside for drunken games of chicken in the water. The smell of chlorine rises up past the bubbly and anchors me down, its sharpness clearing my head.

          There’s another commotion around 8:30, as the sun starts to sink past the bluffs beyond the resort. “He’s here,” somebody says, and Kim waves across the pool to the speaker.

          “Who?”

          “HIM.”

          “Oh,” says Kim, raising her sunglasses onto her forehead, and flips a few stray twists of hair back over her shoulder.

          I don’t need to know what they mean by HIM. Rembrandt – sorry, Mounet – sorry, Reeves – is the rarest of birds. Despite being Century 7-plus, he actively relishes his eternity, not in the brash, destructive way the Stuntman does, but in the way that you’d think we all would. He puts himself in the spotlight – as an artist, usually – never enough to be overwhelmed with celebrity, but enough to be memorable. There are even rumors out there: he’s a vampire, he’s immortal, he’s a time traveler. They’re idle rumors, the kind of thing people create conspiracy photosets of when they’re bored on the internet – but they’re rumors anyway. It’s not about vanity, I think, for him: just proof. I exist in a way that I should not. I have been and am still here.

          The downside, I’d imagine, is that to be visibly immortal, one must be constantly reinventing oneself – not just moving to new locations with slightly new papers, but changing identities entirely, complete with fake deaths and paper trails that aren’t just ruined, but burnt away completely. That’s got to be harder now than ever before, and soon enough, the man will have to come up with a public ending for himself. A plane crash, maybe, or a mysterious accident. In the Victorian times, if one of us got too heard-of and had to disappear, then illnesses used to be popular. Tuberculosis. Cholera. The ever-ubiquitous Brain Fever.

          In the meantime, he’s the closest thing we’ve got to a unanimous leader. Generous, tall, striking, adjacent to universally handsome, friendly to all – the kind of person you’d put your trust into in a crisis, believing that they could, if not fix the situation themselves, at least make you feel better about it until the proper authorities saved the day. As he enters the deck, long-haired, neatly bearded, holding a wine glass, we all turn, consciously and subconsciously. The atmosphere quiets down a little, the desperate fun-having slowing its pace. Tension dissipates. It’s all right, the new mood says, to mourn or be afraid. You don’t have to put on a brave face. The One Who Is Comfortable Enough For All Of Us is here.

Author’s Notes: ayyyyyyy hope you liked it don’t be dicks and repost this shit it’s original content right here