#* self-para.

[captaiinkick]

꧁   𝐖𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐈𝐀𝐌 𝐑𝐈𝐕𝐊𝐈𝐍   ꧂

𝐁𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐇𝐔𝐒𝐁𝐀𝐍𝐃 

𝐉𝐔𝐍𝐄 𝟑𝟎𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟕 - 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟒𝐓𝐇, 𝟐𝟎𝟏𝟔

‹  A DUSTY SMALL TOWN, NOW SOMEWHAT OF A NICHE TOURIST DESTINATION AS THE HOMETOWN OF CAPTAIN KICK  ›

griffith, stuck in time and quaint as ever, stood still. it greeted him when he returned, half of the bruises now gone and the other still stubbornly permeating his skin, yet fading. his right ear was still giving him trouble, and the occasional headache was no longer out of the ordinary. but some days were better than others. some days, getting out of bed was easier. he was now permanently tired, noticing himself run out of breath more easily. 

improving his certification went by in a flash. tasks now seemed more forgiving, less demanding than before, when the problem at hand was stopping large-scale threats. he embraced all the coffee-binging and all-nighter-taking with joy. experiencing that felt so unlike living through the initiative. it was a different kind of difficult, but it was worth it. 

the house is sold to a lovely young couple: first-time parents to twins and owners of three labrador pups. will liked them, and quite a lot. they were well-mannered and incredibly sociable. they thanked him for the place, and promised to take care of it. he didn’t doubt they would - this house was meant for a family, not for just for one man. he’d felt so guilty letting such cozy place go to waste inhabited by only will himself. as he walked out, the moving van parked in the driveway awaiting him, he couldn’t help but smile at the doorframe of what was once his room: “will, age 4: 1.07 cm. will, age 7: 121 cm. will, age 15: 160 cm.” 

‹  RECORDS FILLED WITH LOVE SONGS, INHERITED AND PLACED ON THE SHELF OF A NEW HOME ›

the d.c suburbs don’t take long to feel like home. well, in fact, everything instantaneously feels like home as long as zia was around. and she was. 

domestic life suited him, and he embraced this new kind of ease. with the missions over and more time on their hands, will and zia took their tame making sure each room was decorated just the way they liked it. he kept a stash of memorabilia in a shoe box under his bed, leaving it there to surprise him years into the future rather than be placed somewhere visible around the house. a high school teacher spot opened up at an almost-miraculous timing, and he accepted. 

as he learned how to cook, he thought of beth -- he didn’t blame her for the failed casserole attempts. both cooking and baking proved to be harder than he expected: he has little burns and knife cuts-turned-scars to prove it, like those of the other battles. but the apple crumble and brisket turned out almost perfect every time, and he gave himself the credit. for once. 

  ‹  A SMALL ROOM, FILLED WITH FAMILIAR FACES  ›

his face hurt from so much smiling. zia and will’s wedding went by as a small-scale event, exclusive to family and friends. beth officiated and will laughed and blushed throughout hers and other speeches. it felt surreal -- even after the vows had been long-spoken, he still glanced over at zia, continuously, wondering if he was dreaming. it felt like a kind of heaven on earth, just being by her side. 

they danced at impromptu candlelit dinners and took out an rv to drive around the country. it remained unused for a while, especially during the school year. that didn’t keep him from collecting useless maps or setting up a jar labeled “travel plans” where he’d drop spare change every time he came home. they brought in an adopted puppy too, and will could spend afternoons running around the backyard under the glaring july sun playing with it. 

the realization that this is the place he had always dreamed of being in didn’t come overnight. it just dawned on him, after waking up to the woman he loved every single day, after corny jokes and cheesy anniversary presents exchanged. it had all finally come together so perfectly that will was now only realizing how guilty he was of taking it for granted. 

but it was all idyllic. he hadn’t realized how lonely he’d felt in the past, but now, for obvious reason, there was no incentive in him to even pay mind to that realization. now, he was fortunate enough to be a part of zia’s life, and to see her, their friends and himself finally allowed to exist as people. 

   ‹ A JOYOUS WELCOME, THEN MANY MORE LIKE IT  ›

he was old, and he knew. zia was radiant as ever, but time didn’t forgive either of them. the rooms had begun feeling a bit different -- soon enough, will had come to realize the countless pillow forts put up in the vacant rooms of the house had ceased making it feel less… well, empty. 

he thought of damien and cassie, and his talk with the former about fatherhood. his words echoed in will’s head all throughout the process, from the meetings, to the assessment and orientation and the paperwork. and when the first child came to them, will couldn’t help but agree with damien. it’d all been worth it - all the effort, all the preparation. 

throughout their lives, a group of kids -- mostly teens -- come and go. some stay longer than others before they go to a permanent home. that doesn’t mean seeing them leave is any painless, but will always made sure to write them a postcard. some of them stay. he loved them all the same. he’d learned all of their birthdays, memorized the allergies and the uncomfortable topics that ought to never be brought up at dinner. he didn’t mind eating sprinkled-covered pancakes for breakfast every morning, so long as the kids liked them. every friday, he took some time to make someone’s favorite dish for dinner - zia’s went first, obviously, then the children’s, and then his. when they fostered a girl named adelaide, will cried as he hugged her upon her arrival. he and zia never missed a parent meeting, or a recital - not even a science fair.

he was aging, and so was zia, but that didn’t mean they had to miss out on parenthood. they are there for kids who need them, not as heroes, but just as understanding parents. 

   ‹  DEEPENING LAUGHTER LINES  ›

there was always a very particular sensation that coursed through him when the topic of the other team members came up. it was a mixture of pride and contentment. he couldn’t have asked for a better crew, and simply seeing or hearing of their achievements moved him. 

will always smiled fondly when hearing of eve’s time at her ranch, finding amusement in the switch of their places. he missed edie, a lot, housing so many unsaid things and finding himself clutching the inherited set of keychains a bit tighter when thinking about them. he felt happy for damien and carlos, and marveled at beth and laura’s commitment to groundbreaking changes to the initiative. and of course, it went without saying that he was glad to see tango make it back to them. his return had had will foolishly thinking they’d be allowed a lot more time together, the team reunited and thriving as they deserved. the aftermath of his passing wasn’t merciful, at least not to will. tango’s old age didn’t make his loss easier to bear, but wherever he was this time around - perhaps with cesare, benji and addy -, will hoped he was at peace. 

 ‹  THE SMELL OF STERILIZED HOSPITAL HALLS  ›

will had never really felt at ease in a hospital, but he was no stranger to them now -- they’d seen everything, from dreadfully-scratched knees to broken arms, all side-effects of rough-housing. he put on a stoic face for the children, for calmness’ sake. 

but that time was different. his hair was grey by then, and he had to miss out on all the overly-sugary foods. shame, really - the animal cookie-m&m-sprinkled ice cream was growing on him. many kids had grown up and moved out too, their high school degrees hanging on the living room wall and the cap and gown pictures evenly distributed too. 

he’d lost track of the times he’d had to say “i’ll sit this one out”. he’d also had to take time off from the high school, getting light-headed from standing for too long. 

he saw his father in himself, feeling older than he actually was. will was thankful he at least was granted some leverage, that there were no signs of the disease on the outside. it was a silent passing, nothing that couldn’t be forgotten with an insistent-enough “i’m okay” and a smile. 

he’d been doing surprisingly well til then, calling carlos and damien first thing in the morning of their anniversary, recording vhs-tapes and sending them to edie as he hoped they reached him, checking in on laura, beth and keller and thanking them for revolutionizing the bureau. the man had visited, yes, but he could rarely bring himself to stay for long: the memories still hurt, almost fresh and brand-new when he eyed the addy and benji’s memorial or envisioned glimpses of the old structure in flames, the sight of cesare’s body vivid as if it had all happened yesterday. 

“what did the doctor say?” zia asked.

“oh, nothing - the usual. i’ve still a couple years left in me.”

that last night, he checked the calendar before he headed upstairs. there was a scheduled get-together with the team a week from now - he’d remember, he always did. the kitchen lights were turned off, and he could hear zia having just gone to bed. his vision blurred two thirds of the staircase in. 

the last thing on his mind, was that he regretted not having cherished their last goodnight-kiss enough. 

   ‹  TO FEEL AT HOME  ›

it took a while, though it didn’t feel like it. maybe this was the way edie experienced it, with time going by so differently for him. will regretted not ever extending any of them a proper farewell, and that little, nagging bit of selfishness appreciated that he wasn’t there to see them pass away, for he knows he wouldn’t have been able to bear it. 

he did feel incredibly guilty toward zia for forcing her through such pain ( had he had it his way, he would’ve taken all of her grief and made it his own. she didn’t deserve such suffocating emotions, not when she’d only shown him kindness and understanding ).

but the familiar faces arrived one by one. he could finally have impromptu candlelit dances with zia again, talk to beth about the perils of cooking and to eve about those regarding farming, and have another glass of scotch with damien. hey, maybe they’d even manage to have tango finally meet his cheeseburger-loving cat friend - who knew. 

in a moment of quiet, he thinks of himself, still able to wield the shield yet only lowering it to the ground. he leaves behind the whip and pistol, and the costume. he lets out a breath, and smiles to himself, before thanking captain kick for the last couple of years.

[eleancrdarcy]

✧ lady stuart ✧

eleanor darcy is more than eight hundred years old now, though the world has learned to know her only in fragments, in brief appearances and carefully crafted identities. once, long before velvet nights and bloodstained power, she had been eleanor stuart, born into a damp farmhouse and a family that prayed for sons and received daughters instead. she was the eldest of five girls, a fact that shaped her life before she ever understood what choice meant. five daughters meant five dowries, five burdens, five futures dependent on marriage. eleanor learned early that her body was considered currency, her obedience a duty. she was supposed to be quiet, pliable, grateful. instead, she was sharp-tongued, defiant, and unafraid to meet men’s gazes when she wasn’t meant to. she spoke back. she laughed. she asked questions. and for that, she was warned, threatened, pulled aside and reminded that one wrong word from her could ruin not just herself, but her sisters as well.

she did not soften. she learned to endure.

when mr. darcy noticed her, it was not because she was sweet or obedient, but because she was difficult. he saw something in her that he believed could be conquered, molded into a respectable wife who would still entertain him in private. his proposal was salvation to her family, a miracle. eleanor accepted with no illusions. she did not love him. she never planned to. marriage, to her, was simply another cage, one she was willing to step into if it kept her sisters fed and sheltered. she told herself it would be enough.

it ended in blood.

the vampire who had been watching her from afar did not love her gently. he loved her as one loves a blade—dangerously, possessively, convinced it should never be dulled by another’s hand. on the night of her wedding, he killed mr. darcy without hesitation and turned eleanor with the same ruthless certainty. her transformation stripped her of fear and replaced it with clarity. when she rose again, the girl who had sacrificed herself for family felt like a distant echo. she did not grieve. she did not scream. she understood immediately that the world no longer owned her.

before sunrise, she vanished.

eleanor stuart died that night. eleanor darcy was reborn in motion.

for centuries, she never stayed long enough to be noticed. she learned quickly that immortality required discretion, not restraint. she moved from city to city, country to country, reinventing herself every few decades. france, italy, spain—then farther east, farther south. she learned languages the way others learned manners, fluently and without sentiment. when faces around her began to wrinkle while hers remained untouched, she disappeared. when whispers started—about the woman who never aged, who always outlived her husbands, her benefactors, her enemies—she moved again. new name. new fortune. same woman.

she stole without remorse. fortunes passed through her hands like water. she married when it suited her, killed when it bored her, fed when she was hungry. she learned to bend minds effortlessly, a glance or a whisper enough to make people open their doors, their veins, their accounts. she did not ration herself. she fed on whoever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and she never apologized for it. she did not view herself as a monster. monsters hid in the dark and felt shame. eleanor lived openly, indulgently, fully aware of what she was and utterly unbothered by it.

she spent decades in asia, blending into courts and cities that fascinated her. in korea, she lingered longer than usual—long enough to build influence, long enough to be known as something untouchable. she adored the contrast of ancient tradition and ruthless ambition. it suited her. she moved through wealth and power like she always had, unchanged in her methods, only refined. when it was time, she left again, untouched by age, carrying nothing but memories she barely valued.

when eleanor returned to euroville centuries later, it was not out of nostalgia. she did not miss the farm, the sisters, the girl she once was. she returned because it was useful, because the city had grown into something worthy of her. she stepped back into it seamlessly, wealth already waiting, influence easy to reclaim. people admired her, envied her, feared her in quiet ways they could never quite explain. she did not pretend to be benevolent. she did not pretend to be human.

eleanor darcy has never changed her tactics. she takes what she wants, feeds when she desires, and leaves nothing behind that might bind her. she does not seek redemption. she does not regret the blood on her hands. she lives as what she is—calculated, predatory, powerful—and she is proud of it. she is not pretending to be anything else. eight hundred years later, she is exactly what the world made her into, and she has never once apologized for surviving it.

[coralmoore]

✧ tarzan, jane & baby gorilla ✧

coral was curled into the corner of the couch, one leg tucked under her, the other dangling, a blanket pulled halfway up her lap more out of habit than need. the living room lights were dim, curtains half drawn, the glow of the tv washing everything in warm greens and golds. celeste was sprawled on the floor with her coloring book open, crayons scattered like confetti around her, the movie playing mostly in the background at first. coral hadn’t grown up with nights like this. disney movies had existed in her childhood, sure, but they’d played on screens she watched alone, volume low, no one sitting close enough to laugh or comment or explain things. she’d promised herself—long before celeste was even born—that her kid wouldn’t grow up like that. so she sat there, every night she could, present and intentional, quietly stitching something back together inside herself while she did it.

tarzan was on now, the jungle filling the screen with movement and sound. at some point celeste stopped coloring altogether, the crayon slipping from her fingers. coral noticed it right away, the way mothers do, and smiled softly when she saw her daughter’s little mouth hanging open, eyes wide and reflective. “baby,” she murmured gently, patting the couch beside her, “don’t you wanna come sit with me?” celeste didn’t even look back. “nope,” she said, completely serious, eyes glued to the screen. coral laughed under her breath, fond and a little amazed. four years old already. four. yesterday she’d barely been talking, and now she had opinions and favorites and characters she identified with. time was moving too fast, and coral wished—just for a second—that she could press pause.

“he looks like daddy,” celeste said suddenly, pointing at the screen as tarzan swung through the vines. coral blinked, then followed her gaze, a grin spreading across her face. “he does, right?” she chuckled. “uncle nate calls your dad tarzan sometimes.” celeste hummed thoughtfully, then twisted around on the floor to face her mom fully. “does that make uncle nate… terk?” coral snorted before she could stop herself. “yeah,” she said, laughing, “that could totally work. and flynn is definitely tantor.” “that’s true,” celeste nodded solemnly, like this was a very important conclusion, before turning back to the tv. coral hugged her knees, warmth blooming in her chest as the movie continued. she barely realized she was tearing up until celeste spoke again. “and you’re like jane,” she added, casual and sincere. coral’s breath caught. “that’s really sweet of you, cece,” she said softly, her voice just a little thicker. celeste thought for another moment. “and i’m a gorilla,” she decided, as if this was the only logical option. before coral could respond, celeste was up, dropping to all fours and stomping around the living room, chest puffed out, making low growling noises. she tripped over a pillow, popped back up like nothing happened, and kept going.

the front door opened mid-growl. “i’m home,” casey called out, keys clattering into the bowl by the door. “how are my two girls do—” he stopped when he fully registered the scene. coral looked over her shoulder, already laughing. “careful, babe,” she said, grinning, “we have a gorilla in our living room.” celeste growled louder in response, clearly proud. casey didn’t even hesitate. his face lit up instantly, and without dropping his bag he sank down onto his hands and knees, matching celeste’s stance. “oh no,” he said dramatically, “a wild one?” celeste squealed. “daddy!” coral shook her head, laughing harder now. “great. now i have two.” casey crawled forward, completely committed, making exaggerated jungle noises, his movements chaotic and enthusiastic in that unmistakable casey way—too loud, too fast, all heart and no restraint. celeste stopped suddenly and pointed at him. “no, mommy. daddy is tarzan.” casey froze, looked up at coral with mock offense. coral wiped at her eyes, still smiling. “oh,” she said, playing along, “yeah, sorry. my mistake. now i have a gorilla and tarzan in my living room.” casey beamed, crawled over, and pressed a dramatic kiss to coral’s knee before springing back up. the movie played on in the background, forgotten for the moment, but coral didn’t mind. this—this noise, this mess, this love—was exactly what she’d wanted to give her daughter. exactly what she’d never had.

coral was still laughing when casey crawled across the rug, palms flat, knees thumping softly against the floor, fully committing to the bit like he always did. there was something about him like this—unfiltered, playful, present—that made her chest ache in the best way. he’d barely had time to kick off his shoes, hoodie still halfway zipped, hair damp from the cold outside, and yet here he was, on all fours in the middle of the living room because his daughter had decided she was a gorilla. celeste circled him once, curious and proud, then plopped down on her butt and stared at him expectantly, like she was waiting to see if he’d pass some invisible test.

casey glanced at the tv just in time to see tarzan and jane’s hands pressed together on the screen, that quiet, intimate moment where the world slows down. his eyes lit up immediately. “oh,” he said, pushing himself upright onto his knees, voice dropping into something softer, exaggeratedly serious. “hold on. i know this part.” coral groaned before he even started. “casey—” “nope,” he cut in, already scooting closer to her, “this is important cultural education.”

he reached for coral’s hand, gentle despite the dramatics, spreading her fingers wide and pressing his palm against hers, mimicking the screen perfectly. his hand was bigger, rougher, knuckles a little scraped from work, but he handled her like she was made of glass. he looked down at their hands, then up at her face, eyes wide and earnest in a way that was both ridiculous and weirdly tender. “me jane,” he said solemnly, nodding at her hand, then gestured to himself with his thumb. “you… tarzan.” coral burst out laughing, the sound loud and unrestrained, the kind that made her lean forward and squeeze his arm. “that’s not even the line,” she protested, still smiling. “i don’t care,” he said simply, grinning. “it works.”

celeste gasped like she’d just witnessed something magical. she scrambled over, grabbed coral’s other hand, and slapped her tiny palm against it. “me baby gorilla,” she declared proudly. casey’s face melted instantly. “oh no,” he whispered, clutching his chest. “i’m done. i can’t compete with that.” coral’s laughter softened into something warmer, her eyes stinging just a little as she looked at the two of them—her boyfriend kneeling on the floor, her daughter wedged between them, all of them reflected faintly in the dark tv screen like a snapshot she wanted to keep forever.

casey leaned over and pressed a kiss to celeste’s hair, then another to coral’s knuckles, lingering just a second longer than necessary. his energy buzzed around the room—restless, affectionate, everywhere at once—as he shifted, stood up, then immediately dropped back down again when celeste growled at him. “right,” he said quickly, “sorry. tarzan duties.” he beat his chest once, dramatically, then froze when celeste copied him, much smaller but just as serious. coral shook her head, smiling so hard her cheeks hurt. “you’re teaching her chaos,” she said. “i was born chaos,” he replied, without missing a beat.

eventually, they all settled—casey scooping celeste up and plopping down on the couch beside coral, the toddler wedged happily between them, legs kicked up over casey’s lap. the movie resumed, jungle sounds filling the room again. casey kept whispering commentary under his breath, fingers tapping absent rhythms against coral’s knee, his attention split in a dozen directions the way it always was. coral leaned into him, resting her head against his shoulder, breathing him in. for a moment, everything felt still. safe. full. and as tarzan swung across the screen again, celeste yawned, heavy and content, and coral thought—this is it. this is the part of life i never knew i needed, and now i’ll never let go.

[flynntaylor]

✧ meet cute ✧

they were supposed to meet together — flynn, arden, plans scribbled in half-serious texts — but something came up at the last minute and suddenly flynn was alone, sitting on a cold metal bench beside a small neighborhood ice rink, the kind cities set up for winter with string lights and temporary boards that rattled when the wind picked up. he balanced a little cardboard tray on his knees, two smoothies sweating through their cups, and stared at his phone without really seeing it. he told himself he’d wait a few minutes, then leave. or finish one and throw the other away. he hated the idea of wasting it, but the idea of offering it to a stranger made his stomach knot.

the rink was mostly empty. quiet in a way that made every sound stand out — blades cutting ice, the dull crack of a puck hitting the boards, a breath pulled in hard and let out slow. flynn lifted his head, drawn by the noise despite himself, and that’s when he noticed the guy on the ice. tall, broad, moving with a kind of confidence flynn didn’t understand. he took shot after shot at the goal, collecting the puck, resetting, repeating, like no one else in the world existed. flynn watched longer than he meant to, fingers tightening around the tray.

he debated it for a full minute. maybe more. his foot bounced nervously, his heart thudding way too loud in his ears. finally, before he could talk himself out of it again, he stood and edged closer to the boards, stopping a safe distance away.

“um—” his voice came out softer than he intended, almost swallowed by the open air. he cleared his throat. “sorry. i just—”

the guy looked up immediately, alert, eyes sharp until they landed on flynn. then his expression shifted, confusion melting into something gentler.

flynn lifted the tray like an apology. “i have… an extra smoothie. if you want it. you don’t have to. i just—yeah.”

for a long second, the guy didn’t say anything. then his ears went pink, and he nodded once, tentative. he skated closer, stopping carefully at the boards.

“yeah,” he said quietly. “thanks.”

flynn passed the cup over, their fingers brushing for a heartbeat before flynn pulled back like he’d touched something hot. his cheeks burned. “i’m flynn,” he added quickly, like the silence might swallow him if he didn’t.

“sullivan,” the guy replied. then, softer, “but everyone calls me sully.”

they both stood there sipping their smoothies, not quite sure where to look. flynn focused on the ice at sully’s feet, then the boards, then anywhere but his face. the cold seemed sharper now, his nerves buzzing under his skin.

“it’s really good,” sully said after a while, like he needed something to fill the space.

flynn nodded too fast. “yeah. i, um… we were supposed to meet someone. but plans changed.”

sully hummed in understanding. he shifted his weight, grip tightening on his stick, then glanced around the empty rink before looking back at flynn. “i actually… reserved the rink for an hour.”

flynn’s heart skipped. “oh. sorry, i didn’t mean to—”

“no, no,” sully said quickly, shaking his head. “i just meant—” he hesitated, ears pinking again. “if you wanted to join. you don’t have to.”

flynn stared at the ice, nerves tangling in his chest. “i don’t really know how to skate,” he admitted, almost whispering.

sully smiled, slow and reassuring. “that’s okay. i can help. if you want.”

flynn swallowed, then nodded. “okay.”

on the ice, flynn clung to the boards like they were the only thing keeping him upright, laughing breathlessly every time his feet slipped. sully stayed close but careful, hands hovering like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to touch. “bend your knees a little,” he murmured. “yeah. like that. you’re doing good.”

eventually, flynn’s fingers slid from the boards to the sleeve of sully’s jacket, a silent question. sully didn’t comment — he just adjusted his pace, steady and patient, guiding flynn through slow, careful steps. flynn’s laugh came easier then, softer but real, and when he managed a short glide on his own, sully grinned like it was a victory for both of them.

when they finally stepped off the ice, flynn’s legs shook and his cheeks ached from smiling. he hovered for a moment, nerves rushing back now that the distraction was gone.

“i, um,” he said, eyes fixed on the ground. “if it’s okay… could i get your number?”

sully’s smile widened, warm and unmistakably pleased. “yeah,” he said. “i’d like that.”

they traded phones, fingers brushing again, both of them pretending not to notice. flynn walked away afterward with cold hands and a full chest, replaying every moment in his head, wondering how something so small had turned into something that felt quietly important.