#and he certainly wasn’t going to rip his son out of HIS home

[supjello]

bold move honestly to have all the characters yell every argument they knew fans would have at ted for why he should stay, and not have him say they’re wrong, or offer anything to counter it. Because at the end of the day it was his son. It was only his son. His son was the period at the end of the sentence, and always was going to be. Nothing else mattered, he was going home to his boy.

Literally if they were right I'd agree but it's them they know, not me. Now there's a way and I know that I have to go away. I know I have to go.

[pinknipszz]

golden girl

↷ ˊ- neteyam/metkayina reader | (i.), (ii.), (iii.), (iv.)

“golden girl, golden smile, please don’t go, please stay a while”

neteyam had grown used to the marui, though he’ll never admit it aloud, especially not when he had spent the first few nights twisting back and forth and grumbling quietly to himself. he couldn’t avoid his father’s stern lecture the following morning, but if he could disturb jake’s sleep to spite him, then so be it. but ever since the tidepools, something in him changed. it started with simple things like the marui.

now, the woven floor felt nice under his feet. if neteyam looked closely—which he would have never done before—he could see each braid of dried leaves from a nearby palm, realizing that only someone who excelled in their craft could create such intricate patterns. briefly, he wondered if you were also well-versed in weaving. surely you were. how could a wonderful woman not be?

perhaps his growing fondness for the family marui—and inevitably you—is why he decided to opt out of today’s lessons. sure, he felt a pinch of shame. neteyam was never such a coward back home, but the sea made him vulnerable, dragging him in and swallowing him whole. 

he paid the price for letting his mind wander. in the midst of thinking about you and what you could have been doing on this beautiful day, he felt a sharp pain run through his finger. “shit.” neteyam hissed, dropping the arrowhead he was carving. he brushed off the dust that collected and inspected the small cut. it wasn’t all that bad, certainly not something he should stop working over.

he resumed his work and ignored the ache as if nothing had happened. it was clear that he hadn’t learned his lesson, either, letting his mind wander back to you. if you saw the wound on his finger, would you fix it for him? would you rub a salve over it and tell him what it’s made of? would you bring him the next time you forage for plants to make some more? 

“you look happier these days.”

neteyam blinked and looked up from his seat on the floor. his mother stood at the foot of the entrance with a basket full of fruit hanging from her hip. she said it so matter-a-factly that he knew not to question her implication. neteyam dropped the unfinished arrowhead and rose to his feet, bringing the basket inside and stealing a peak at its contents. “what makes you say that, sa’nok?”

she huffed. “do not play dumb with me.” though, the glare in her eyes softened at her eldest son. the move had been hard for all of them, she knew it well. the grief, the heartache of being ripped from your home. so when she noticed that her son was finally growing accustomed to their refuge, a weight had been lifted off of neytiri’s chest. “why don’t you join the others outside?”

“it’s because he found a girlfriend.” lo’ak teased, suddenly appearing from behind her, and neytiri gave him a look. he walked past their mother and into their home, ignoring the wet footsteps he left in his wake. so they went swimming again, neteyam thought as he watched lo’ak rummaging through his things for a dry rug. “you better watch it. and dry yourself before you touch anything next time.” 

lo’ak stuck out his tongue and reached over to tug his older brother’s ear, his face smug knowing he had the upper hand. neteyam hissed and swatted him away, though it didn’t go unnoticed to anyone that he didn’t deny it. “mind your own business skxawng.” the word teetered towards a growl. but lo’ak simply shrugged and left once dry.

an awkward silence stretched between them, before his mother broke it.

“why didn’t you tell me, ma evi?” it was an honest question said with such softness that was nearly unfitting of neytiri’s usual nature.

neteyam cleared his throat, painfully unconvincing. “we aren’t together, ma. she’s just a friend.” he emptied the basket she brought and ignored her pointed stare.

neytiri wasn’t stupid. sure, she sometimes lost track of her children’s antics in between adjusting to their refuge and learning from the tsahik. her children were many, all of whom were different. some required more attention, especially tuk, but that didn’t mean she cared less about her eldest. she didn’t even need a name to know who he was referring to. but she let it rest. for now. 

neytiri made quick work of the fruits she picked, peeling and chopping with skill. neteyam continued to shape the arrowhead meanwhile. 

“why do you make a new arrowhead?” neytiri asked without looking at him, her face twisted with concentration as she carefully peeled the skin between the grooves. neteyam watched her for a moment, knowing that she did that for jake, who found the fruit’s skin bitter. “i figured i’d put the scrap to good use.” he said. “it was the right size and length. i might need it one day.”

neytiri hummed. “you plan to fight with just your bow?”

at that, neteyam’s actions came to a full stop, and he looked at his mother with wide eyes. “you don’t?”

“of course i do.” she huffed. “i have an honor to live up to.” neytiri moved the cut fruit to a clean bowl and wiped her hands. then, she reached for the next. “but you and i are different. if you find yourself in battle without a bow, or your ikran, what will you resort to? you could have used the forest to your advantage, even without a weapon, but the same can’t be said here.”

neytiri watched a small realization wash over her eldest son. pleased, she continued in silence and left him to soak in his thoughts. 

she was chopping up the last fruit when you unexpectedly came over, flashing a kind smile and apologizing for the intrusion. neytiri reassured you that it was anything but that, before ushering you inside. you greeted neteyam and explained to them that the day’s lessons were coming to an end, and the others would be coming home shortly. 

there was a little accident with lo’ak, you told them. he lost control of himself under a wave and found his foot wedged between the coral. you nearly chuckled at their exasperated expressions, so similar in every way, that leaned more towards annoyance than concern. when you turned to leave, believing that you overstayed your welcome, neytiri pulled you back in. she insisted that you stayed.

you found yourself enjoying your conversations with her. she was one of the fiercest women you knew, something she surely takes pride in. she spoke with certainty and confidence, and she chided you like a mother when you politely refused the fruit she offered. 

something shiny glinted in the corner of your eye, and you briefly pulled your attention away from neytiri. “what are you holding, neteyam?” you tilted your head at the boy who hardly said a thing since you arrived.

he looked down for a moment, before looking back at you. “it’s just a spearhead i’ve been working on.”

(masterlist)

[disaster-writer]

What Lips Can’t Say

Pairing: The Mandalorian x Reader

Summary: Mando realizes that he may not be able to love you the way you want to be loved

Word Count: 3.4k

Rating: T

Warning: Mentions of human trafficking

Din Djarin wasn’t cut out for this. He wasn’t cut out for playing the role of ‘Dad’ or talking to a woman in hopes of pursuing a relationship. 

He ignored the scene behind him in the pilot seat with every ounce of will that he had, but the temptation to look behind himself was all too strong. Especially since he knew he’d only find you cooing at Grogu and staring into his wide innocent eyes going on about how beautiful they were while you stroked his cheeks with him responding in his own gibberish speak.

This entire situation the Mandalorian seemed to find himself in felt all too domestic in the most off kilter way imaginable.

He always figured that if he decided to settle down, it would be with a Mandalorian woman that he’d have a human kid with. It certainly didn’t consist of a little green Jedi menace as a son and attempting to pursue an escaped slave turned thief and con artist.

And you were both his bounties— go figure.

Perhaps he was growing soft. Years ago he would have never done anything like this.

When Din was younger he had hunted kids before and women. He had no problem collecting the price on their heads back then. Sure, maybe it made him feel like shit for a couple days but he needed the money.

But now it was as if he had no self control. He was at least able to hand Grogu over for a day or so but when it came right down to it, he couldn’t just leave the little hellraiser in the hands of the Empire. Maybe you were right to fawn over the kid’s eyes like you had, it was probably those same eyes that had thawed something within Din and ripped out any spine he had in the process.

And he didn’t even want to think about how far he went with you. 

You were only frozen in carbonite for three days before allowing Peli, of all people, to inadvertently talk him into thawing you and helping you find your way back home.

The mechanic had went on her own little tour inside the Razor Crest when he had stopped by for her to fix some things, and upon her little expedition she stuck her nose where it hadn’t belonged.

In the frozen bounties.

That was when she had spotted you, frozen in carbonite with a look of terror marring your beautiful face. 

Peli had immediately gone on and on about how great you were, hanging out with her and the droids to gamble in rounds of Sabacc despite you losing every single time. Then in Peli fashion she had said too much, she went into your sob story, how you were trying to get back home after being separated from your family and seeing your parents killed by stormtroopers right in front of your eyes, and how the bounty on your head was because you had escaped from your slavemaster. So you eventually turned to stealing and conning others in order to survive while you tried to find your way back to your home planet.

”What slave trade was she in?” He had stupidly asked.

”She’s a beautiful young woman, what do you think tin can?”

”The bounty’s too high for an escaped slave.”

”That’s because she left with a little souvenir,” Peli had grinned.

”…What did she take?”

”The bastards cock.”

And that’s why Din Djarin never asked kriffing questions.

Half way towards Nevarro, going through hyperspace. Din had found himself leaving the cockpit and heading towards the captured bounties.

He had flipped through them until he landed on you.

With a sigh, he had unfroze you.

He still remembers the wail that escaped your tense throat and the absolute panic that radiated from you. You were disoriented and blinded from the carbonite and Din had to hold you down to keep you from hurting yourself while you cried about not being able to see.

He had to sooth your panic… something he was certainly not very adept at. But once he had gotten through to you, once he had told you the blindness would wear off, and when he had told you he would help you get back home. Only then, did you calm down.

Little did he know, you lived on an unknown planet in the outer rim, with the strangest kriffing orbital pattern.

So now, almost two years later, you were still with him and Grogu.

There was a particular noise Grogu made behind him that made you giggle in response, and your giggle had made Din’s traitorous heart skip a beat.

He swallowed nervously, keeping his eyes ahead of him in space, once again ignoring the urge to turn around.

Right… there was also that.

It was something that he would forever blame on Mayfeld— if that bastard had just kept his big mouth shut Din maybe would have had a chance of living a life in denial until dropping you off on your home planet only then realizing what had been happening once it was too late.

He was falling for you.

It was so kriffing stupid and made him feel like a teenager all over again. He knew it was ridiculous, he knew it would never happen, but that didn’t stop his thoughts from straying to you or worrying over you whenever you had tagged along on a job.

It was an observation Migs Mayfeld had pointed out during a job he needed help with, and he could no longer ignore his feelings, not with it being said out in the open. The words taunted him, feeling as if they just hung in the air now whenever he was around you.

”Didn’t know you were wife shopping. Looking for a mom for Grogu so you can keep playing house?”

”I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Din had replied.

Mayfeld had furrowed his brow, looking at Mando like he was insane, “Don’t act like I haven’t noticed you hogging her from the moment I stepped onto this ship. I haven’t been able to say two things to the woman without you hovering.”

”That’s not—“

”Alright. Let me ask her out then.”

“What?”

”What. She’s pretty and single, so I’m gonna ask her out,” with that he had headed to the door of the cockpit, putting his hand on the handle to go to the bunker below but before he could open it Mando had placed a hand on the door, holding it shut.

His own actions had shocked himself.

”Interesting.”

Mando hadn’t known what to say, so he remained silent.

”A little advice. Just tell her— who knows? Maybe she has a thing for quiet, brooding Mandalorians.”

He was fucked from that moment on.

”Shifting into hyperspace.”

You hummed in response behind him as he shifted the ship into hyperspace as to continue the search for your home planet.

Din stared into space as the stars zipped past the ship in striking lights of blue. A beautiful sight that’s gotten all too familiar, causing it to lose it’s original charm.

But slowly he spun in his seat to witness one sight that didn’t have the capability of losing its charm.

Just as Din had assumed, there you sat in the copilot’s chair, forehead pressed against Grogu’s as you stared lovingly into his eyes with a grin. Grogu’s small hand had come up to pat your cheek.

It reminded him of the first time you had seen Grogu. 

You had been sitting in his bunker for a few days as you waited for your sight to return, Grogu had been in his hammock as usual. It was morning and you had just woken up to find your eye sight had returned just enough for you to finally get around safely. 

You had known that there was a baby on board, but what you hadn’t expected was to be greeted with the sight of the small creature with impossibly large and innocent eyes.

Din was barely able to pry Grogu from your hands that entire day.

So you had done this a lot with the child.

He had never asked why, the same way you had never asked him about his helmet or the things he would do due to his creed so it didn’t quite feel right for the Mandalorian to ask you about your own peculiar habits.

But something felt different in this moment. 

And whatever that was, it had compelled him to finally put the words into question.

”Why do you do that?” Came the smooth modulated voice from his helmet.

You perked up, lifting your forehead from Grogu’s to meet the same blank stare of Mando’s helmet that you have grown so accustomed to.

”Do what?” Your smile was giddy— a smile that the child always seemed to pull out of you… He’d be lying if it didn’t make him the slightest bit jealous, even if he knew it was silly.

”Stare into his eyes like that.”

”Oh,” you hummed, gazing back down to stroke Grogu’s cheek just below his eye, before peering back up at Mando. “It’s a uh— custom, I guess you could say.  Something my people do back home.”

Din was quiet for a moment. 

You both had been quite similar to one another. Neither one of you spoke much but instead allowed actions to take precedent over words. 

It was one of the reasons you both worked well together. A deeper understanding that transcended the use of words.

But that also lead to crossroads such as this, where Din wanted to learn more about you but didn’t know how to ask you, while you needed the prompting since you never just gave it up.

So he stammered, “Does it— Does it mean something or…” he trailed off awkwardly.

You finally straighten up to start addressing him properly. You laughed softly at his flustered words, “Where’s this sudden curiosity stemming from,” you grinned.

”…You just do it a lot.” He spoke softly.

You hummed again, thinking about how you could explain this cornerstone of your culture to him. 

Truthfully you were quite open about this particular thing but with Mando being a Mandalorian you had decided to keep it to yourself. You’ve always figured that at best he wouldn’t understand where you were coming from but at worst it could accidentally end up insulting his entire way of life… so you kept it shut away.

You had never offered it up and he had never pried.

Until now it seemed.

You quirked your head in thought before deciding to ultimately bite the bolt.

”My people believe that love comes from the eyes.”

Mando didn’t respond.

So you elaborated, “The concept of love, no matter what kind, is very important in my culture. You could say it’s what we are all about. Just as the Mandalorians are trained to fight and handle weapons as part of your religion, love is the main focus for us.”

”… The Mandalorians believe in love.” He responded softly, something was beginning to ache within himself at your words.

You nodded, “Yes, the loyalty that the Mandalorians have is very similar to us— it’s my favorite part of the Mandalorian Creed if I am being honest.”

Din was starting to realize that you may have known more about him and his people than he did about you and yours all along.

”However, we were never strong believers in learning how to fight… it was how the Empire was able to target us and invade the planet. Everything I learned, the stealing, the conning, how to fight back in combat and fire a blaster goes against everything I ever believed in,” you said sadly, eyes falling back to the baby in your arms who cooed at you.

The ache was rapidly growing within Mando’s chest. He had asked you to steal for him during certain jobs, you were smaller than him and quite efficient at the task. He had also had you aid him in fights and… he was the one that wanted to teach you how to fire a blaster. A memory he once found intimate had quickly soured at the thought of making you turn your back on your beliefs.

He felt sick. But you continued.

”Perhaps we were just too peaceful, but I loved every minute of it. My parents were madly in love, the way my father would look at my mother always made me want to find a man that would look at me the same way one day. What I do with Grogu is something parents do with their babies to convey how much they love them.”

”I didn’t know you were such a romantic.”

You smiled at Din— a heart stopping smile, “You’re not the only one that’s secretly a softy.”

”I’m not—“

You wordlessly held Grogu up, making him concede your point.

”So eyes, huh?” He asked, not sure if he wanted to hear anymore but at the same time he liked hearing you speak about something you clearly held so much passion for.

If he knew it was this easy to get you to talk this whole time, he would have asked sooner.

”Yes,” you nodded, “We believe our eyes say things our lips can’t even attempt to say with words. I suppose some of our habits are quite strange when you think about it.”

”Like what?”

”Well… it was quite easy to tell when someone wanted to pursue you, all you had to do was keep eye contact when talking to them and pretty soon they would take the hint. School kids have a funny thing they do when they have a crush on someone— during lectures it wasn’t unusual for kids to be staring at the one they liked throughout the class— it drove our teachers crazy,” you giggled, “There was one time I had three boys staring at me at once during a lecture— I was a bit of a heartthrob back then if you could believe,” you laughed again.

’I do’

Din forced a dry laugh.

”When lovers are alone, you would simply gaze into your partners eyes for as long as you wanted. No words would need to be said because everything was said with their eyes— we also value physical touch quite a bit so you could imagine where those situations likely ended up.” You blushed, looking out the windshield of the ship.

”Did you have a lover,” his voice shook.

”I did,” you nodded, “Again, I was quite the heartthrob. We were together until I ran from home after my parents were killed. That was when I fled to Coruscant just to end up a slave,” your voice soured, “I suppose I was just too trusting.”

”You were never taught that not everyone has good intentions,” he suddenly realized.

You nodded, “I guess you could say that. Not everyone on my planet was good, we’re all just human after all, but I never thought…” you trailed off. Din watched as you tried to blink back a set of tears before continuing, “But yes, I had a boyfriend— he had the most beautiful green eyes. I would stare into them for hours. He was one of the most desired boys in my town and all the girls were jealous of me but… the Empire would come to take everything away.”

Din shut his eyes, wanting the pain that took hold of his heart to ebb away as he asked his next question, “Are you trying to get back to him?”

You sighed, “No. We were only children then. He’s grown and I’m grown— I know that I am no longer the same person he once knew and I am sure he’s carried on with his life. But that’s alright,” You finally looked back at Mando.

It was quiet once more. Din was trying to swallow down his emotion while you continued to reflect on your home.

Din could almost hear is heart beating in the silence.

”We used to play a game as kids, two friends would gaze into each other’s eyes and…” you trailed off before your eyes suddenly lit up. “We should play.” 

“But I can’t—“ 

“That’s okay, we can still play,” you said excitedly, placing Grogu back into his pram, who had been talking now at the sudden excitement. 

You stood up, grasping Mando’s hand to stand him up and pull him behind the seats of the cockpit to the open space.

”Kneel,” you said, climbing onto your knees and pulling him down by the hand.

He quickly did as you said so that you were kneeling across from each other.

”Can you take your gloves off?”

Din wordlessly took them off.

”Okay so— if this is too much you can stop me, but this was the game,” you picked up his gloveless hands and placed them to cup your nape and the back of your head, your own hands then coming to cup his. “Is it alright if I touch your skin?”

”Yeah,” Din exhaled, already with his head in a spin.

With his consent you had slid your fingers and palms into the cowl of his flight suit and cupped the warm skin of his neck.

”Now,” you pulled him forward so his helmet touched your forehead, causing his breath to hitch.

He was beginning to see even more, how different the two of you were, where this was just a game for you but for him… this was a keldabe kiss. 

“All we have to do is stare into each other eyes for a little while— now this’ll mostly be a game for you so just stare into my eyes.”

And so he did.

Din focused on the exchange of warmth between his hands and your neck, feeling how much smaller your neck was compared to his own hands. And focused on the feeling of your hands on his neck and— Maker, you were playing with hairs of his nape causing his eyes to roll bac— he snapped out of it and looked back into your eyes.

It was dark in hyperspace but there was just enough light from the stars to see them reflecting in your eyes. He could almost make out the patterns of your iris. He noted the way you had to peer up at him through your lashes due to your heights. 

He both hated and loved his helmet in this very moment. He understood what you had meant, your eyes held so much in them and he would spend hours trying to figure out each emotion in them if he could. But he was secretly grateful that you couldn’t see him staring at you like a Massiff stares at a Tusken Raider when getting attention.

It hurt something deep within himself to realize he could never give you the one thing you believed to be the cornerstone of love.

Din could swear is loyalty to you, keep you protected and safe, he could do everything in his power to give you a happy life.

But he could never let you look in his eyes.

There would be no loving gazes exchanged between you both, he could never look at you the way your father looked at your mother, he could never gaze into your eyes for hours until someone bent first and had the night end in a passion of your shared love.

And it was something Din couldn’t knowingly ask you to abandon.

”Okay,” you finally spoke, jarring him from the trance your eyes held him in. “Remember the size of my pupil.”

”Alright.”

A moment later you had closed your eyes. “Now the lighting isn’t ideal but the point of the game is to see if I fell in love with you after that. So when I open my eyes if my pupil gets bigger than it did before, I’m in love.”

He said nothing. 

You opened your eyes.

Din Djarin knew that this was just a silly kids game you played back home. He knew that this was terrible lighting. He knew that if you couldn’t connect with him through his eyes like you were taught and raised to believe then there was little hope that you could ever fall in love with him.

And yet… he could have sworn your pupils got just half a milimeter larger.

[capseycartwright]

tell me all of the things that make you feel at ease

Ease. The absence of difficulty or effort.

Buck wasn't sure if he'd ever experienced true ease, in his life - and maybe he should have realised, when he had to turn to Eddie to explain what it meant to feel at ease, but Buck was known for being sort of oblivious.

ao3 link

Ease. The absence of difficulty or effort. That’s how it was defined on the internet, at least – Buck knew because he had looked it up, after his conversation with Bobby. It’s not like it was the word itself he was unfamiliar with – no, it was the feeling that Buck didn’t recognise. Ease – it felt like it should be something so easy, and so familiar, and yet Buck wasn’t sure if he had ever experienced the feeling. He certainly never felt at ease in the Buckley household growing up, their suburban home haunted by ghosts that Buck had only recently learned of the existence of, and ease hadn’t come after that either, as happy as he was in Los Angeles.

Ease.

Buck felt absolutely plagued by the word.

He knew Bobby was right.

Buck was a lot of things, but he was aware of his own failings – or, really, he was aware of what he lacked, and he knew at barely 30 – because could you claim an age when you’d only worn the numbers as a badge for two and a half months, now? – he still had a lot left to learn, and he was fine with that. He supposed, really, it wasn’t even about being interim captain at all, if he was willing to dig deep into the depths of why he felt so completely and utterly rocked by Bobby’s decision to make Lucy interim captain over him. It was more that Buck’s job felt like the only good, consistent thing in his life, amongst the wreckage of his failed relationships, and if he wasn’t succeeding at his job – was he succeeding at anything?

It had definitely sent him spiralling. Buck could admit that.

Ease.

He didn’t know what that meant to him, honestly.

“You’ve been quiet tonight.”

Eddie’s words roused Buck from his stupor, Buck suddenly aware that he had been staring out the window, scrubbing the same clean plate over, and over, for the last ten minutes. It wasn’t behaviour Eddie was going to let him wave away, he knew, and so Buck shrugged.

“I’m just thinking.”

Eddie fixed him with a curious look. Eddie did that, a lot – fixed him with the kind of stare that made Buck feel as though his best friend could read his every thought. “Are you still upset that Bobby didn’t pick you to be interim captain?” the ask wasn’t accusatory, or condescending – it was a genuine question. Buck appreciated that about Eddie, he never made Buck feel silly for the fact he sometimes did tend to overreact to things.

(“You’re allowed to have big emotions,” Eddie grinned, ever the father, repeating a speech that Buck had heard him give Christopher before: encouraging his son to feel his big emotions and overwhelming feelings and talk about them, too. Eddie was a great dad.)

Buck sighed, setting the dish on the counter, using the dish towel he’d tossed aside earlier to dry off his hands. He’d ripped the rubber gloves Eddie kept in his house for Buck’s sake, and his hands felt grim, and dry, the dish soap sucking all the moisture out of his skin. He hated doing dishes – but Eddie had cooked, and Buck was nothing if not an egalitarian when it came to their friendship: if Eddie cooked, Buck cleaned.

“I’m not upset about that,” Buck said, shaking his head when Eddie raised an eyebrow in response. “No, really – I’m not. I was, I’m not pretending that I wasn’t upset, because I was, but it’s not – it’s not that,” he paused. He could tell Eddie this. Right? Of course he could, because Eddie was his best friend, and he told Eddie everything, and maybe a problem shared was a problem halved, and all that. “Bobby said something to me the other day, and it’s been playing on my mind.”

Eddie’s brow furrowed, the expression unfamiliar these days, given the way Eddie tended to be so much happier, these days. He – Eddie looked good, these days. He’d put a lot of work in, over the months, and he looked better – happier, healthier, his face filled out again, the thinness brought about by months of depression and anxiety replaced with bright eyes and flushed cheeks and a healthier, happier version of his best friend. Buck knew it wasn’t easy to put the work in the way that Eddie had done, and it made Buck all the prouder.

“What did he say?”

“In AA, there’s this idea that you take inventory of your life, admit your shortcomings – in the hopes that one day, you can look the world straight in the eye, and be alone at perfect peace, and ease,” Buck quipped. He’d thought about it so much, since he and Bobby had spoken, that the words felt like they were directly imprinted on his brain.

Eddie was quiet, for a second. “That makes sense, right?” he questioned, leaning against the kitchen counter. He was wearing a flannel shirt Buck didn’t recognise, the sleeves rolled to the elbow, Eddie’s sweatpants a few inches too long and dragging on the ground. It was a comfortable outfit, and that in itself wasn’t ground-breaking, but the fact Eddie was happy to wear it was. It was something Buck had realised, early on in his friendship with Eddie – he didn’t like to appear vulnerable to people, even through something as simple as wearing some slouchy clothes, and it meant a lot that he trusted Buck enough to be entirely comfortable.

Buck huffed out a breath. “I don’t know.”

read the rest on ao3

[an-angrygod]

Dabi’s Backstory/ Tragedy of Todoroki Touya

Honestly Dabi’s story is just so heartbreaking, every time I think about it I get sad. Honestly I first got into his character and the fandom after seeing dabi dance (which was just amazing)

I think anyone in his position would go mad, or suicidal or something. I often see people not understanding the fact he was raised with a single goal in mind. All he knew was to impress his father with his quirk and train to be a hero so that his father can be proud. That was all he knew, and it was ripped apart from him. Because of his brother, and because of his own quirk, he not didn’t even merit a glance from his father. He felt defective, useless, cast aside. We see him wondering why he was even born, because he knows that Enji wanted a tool to beat All Might, and he wasn’t that tool.

He might not have been physically abused (which doubtful, cause wouldn’t it be logical that they were trained in a similar manner) but he was certainly emotionally abused. Then when he woke up from his coma after 3 years, he still wanted to impress his father, to apologise. He certainly wasn’t a villan then. He actually couldn’t be one, as he refused to be trained by anyone but his father. But in reaching home he sees that his death changed nothing. Shoto still got trained (in his eyes that brutal training was normal) and he was left a shrine, forgotten and replaced by a better model (Shoto) This had been his last straw and what lead him to be a villain, the loss of everything he was and could have been, the thought of being replaceable, unimportant, useless in a sense.

Ah this turned way too long, I guess I just wanted to vent it out. Cause after his reveal his mother wanted Enji to fight Dabi as Shoto had finally started to forgive him and they were becoming a family. Like she didn’t even wonder what happened to her oldest son? And how that son was doing? (I didn’t read much past those chapters so idk if I am correct or not. It was just heartbreaking is all)

[seeminglyseph]

Because I’m currently kinda obsessed with Hazbin Hotel, I’m seeing a lot of stuff about it and Helluva Boss. And like. People are complaining a lot about like. “What’s with all the Daddy Issues” etc, etc… as if like. “Characters having issues with their fathers” isn’t a a normal issue in media? And also like. Half the Millennials I know have distant and angry fathers with abusive and overbearing mothers who parentified their daughters and babied their sons. Colour me surprised that a Millennial writer has created a variety of parental abuse and neglect stories.

I find it painfully unbelievable when the parents are all loving and supportive hugbears who have time for their kids and want to be involved in their interests and hobbies. Lucifer being distant because he’s so depressed he thinks Charlie hates him and Charlie thinks he hates her because of his divorce with Lilith is the most believable breakdown of communication between a parent and child who do genuinely love each other but suck and expressing it. Next to Stolas and Octavia who are actively currently dealing the contentious divorce of Stolas and Stella which is like. Look, I’m sure that’s messy, but rip that bandaid off because growing up in a house where your parents *actively hate each other* will be worse than the traumatic period of time where they were getting divorced. My parents didn’t get divorced, and I stand by the idea that it was a mistake because I grew up with the idea that marriage was about like… obligations. And if things go right, you want to impart to your children that they can grow up and be happy. That’s the *point* of Stolas and Octavia’s arc. He loves her, he wants to have a happy life away from Stella, and he wants Octavia to have a happy life in a home that isn’t so hostile and loveless. Because growing up in a home where your parents hate each other *sucks*.

Moxie has a piece of shit abusive father he for the most part completely separated from. That makes sense, when your family is fucking garbage sometimes you cut them out. It’s valid, he made a new family. Millie’s family is very tough and no-nonsense and “by the sweat of your brow” from the country, and she ends up being the stronger or more capable one in the relationship because of it. But because Moxie was raised constantly demeaned he has serious confidence issues, and because Millie loves the hell outta him it helps him get out of his head and his self doubt. Parental abuse will fuckin wreck a person’s ability to see the good in themselves, or make decisions. And Moxie having someone love him openly and honestly helps him figure out what’s real and what’s an internal voice implanted by his father.

And learning Moxie’s father was a piece of shit and Moxie was still able to find and accept love helps show Blitzo that like. Having a shitty start doesn’t doom you to a shitty end. Moxie wasn’t just dealt a better hand and that’s why he’s able to have a healthier relationship with Millie. It’s not that Moxie and Millie were from better families and have better beginnings and have better relationships with love (though maybe Millie does) but they allow themselves to love and be loved and they work on healing the hurt.

I feel a little like learning about his and Moxie’s shared trauma of shitty dads gave Blitzo a bit more courage to be able to open up with Fizzarolli, though Moxie’s shitty dad kidnapping them both certainly helped the situation lmao

I dunno if I really have a point but like. 90% of the people I know have issues with their parents on some level and complaining that the characters have issues with their parents in the series is like. Damn, no kidding. Do they also have arms and legs? Perhaps also eyes? Do some of them maybe have mouths?

[shipskicksandgiggles]

Prompt: Bruce has no idea that Betty, Tony & Thor meet up coffee sometimes to talk what it’s like loving him.

okay I will admit I had absolutely no idea how to go about this until like. last night when I had an idea that I didn't even know was going to work until I finished it, but please accept this as a way to really show how loved Bruce is

Read To Love and Be Loved here on ao3

~~~

In every person’s life, there are certain people, certain loves that impact you the most. These are people that leave lasting imprints, the people that no matter how far away they are you’ll never forget them. 

Bruce Banner had three of these loves. 

Lost Love

Betty Ross was his first love. She was a genius, a quick thinker, and she was always ready to lend a hand with his work.  

To say he loved her was an understatement. 

Back when they met, Bruce may have also technically been considered a genius, but he thinks he may have been a little bit stupid too. 

Like maybe, just maybe, if he’d lived his life a little differently, made smarter choices, then maybe he wouldn’t have lost her. 

Still, had he not made those mistakes, he probably wouldn’t have met his second love. 

Right Place, Wrong Time

Actually, he might have met his second love without the Hulk, but he certainly expedited the process. 

Tony Stark was an enigma. 

Of course he knew about him long before he met the man. Everyone knew about Tony Stark, the son of Howard Stark, the prince of a technological empire, and a genius to boot. 

Bruce may have had a type. 

They were introduced when aliens descended on New York, and they were met with the challenge of how to cope with being on a team of Earth’s mightiest heroes. 

After it was all said and done and the planet wasn’t destroyed, Tony invited him to stick around. Apparently he’d told the government to go fuck themselves a few years back, and he would be perfectly safe in any of Tony’s homes. 

Of course he took him up on it. Working side by side with Tony Stark was a dream he’d had since he was in high school. 

Then, after a fateful night, one where they were up too late, giddy with the thrill of a major breakthrough, another dream came true. 

Tony touched him like he meant something, like he mattered, like he was loved. 

If only, if only, they had led different lives. Because the next time the world ended they were ripped apart, and Bruce never even got to process his broken heart.

True Love

Being on another planet was an interesting experience. It wasn’t part of his life plan to leave Earth, but if he’d learned anything in the past decade, it was that he didn’t get to make those decisions for himself. 

So he ended up on another planet on the outskirts of the universe, somewhere where no one could find him. 

Except someone found him. 

When the Avengers were formed, Bruce didn’t expect to get along with anyone besides Tony and maybe Natasha. Steve, Clint, and Thor were nice and all, but they never really became more than colleagues. 

Now though, watching Thor, he was curious. He was kind even though he was clearly in pain, and he kept up with Bruce intellectually which he hadn’t expected.

Not that Thor was dumb, but Bruce’s brain worked fast, faster than most humans could keep up with, and he never expected anyone to understand.  

The Asgardian talked about science as if it were magic. Not like he couldn’t comprehend it, but as if they were one and the same. 

Had he been missing out on this all along?

There wasn’t time to contemplate what that meant since they had to almost destroy Sakaar to escape it and save Asgard before they could get back to Earth, but once he was back home and everyone was safe, he came to a conclusion. 

Maybe he had been missing this, but it couldn’t have happened any other way. 

So he called Thor one night, plagued by nightmares and unanswered questions, and invited him to join him in the lab. 

It reminded him of Tony, being up so late at night making discoveries, but at the same time, it was so much quieter. 

Thor’s presence in the lab was strange, but it felt right. 

Finally, just before dawn, he finished running the calculations on a neutron star comparable to the ones surrounding Sakaar. 

“Did you find your answers, Doctor Banner?” Thor inquired quietly, the sound still rumbling out in the silence of the lab. 

“Do you want to get coffee with me?” Bruce asked instead of answering. 

Now, after all this time, he was happy. He’d loved and been loved, and even though certain relationships hadn’t lasted, he knew they had made him into the person he was today. 

He still talked to Betty from time to time, video chatting with her from wherever she was changing the world. She was in Denmark now, and she had changed too. 

It was funny, watching her talk. She moved in a way that reminded him of Tony, erratic but pointed, never without purpose and full of energy. Her command of a room reminded him of Thor, confident, larger than life, yet understanding and kind. 

And Tony, even though he was constantly splitting time between New York and California, checked in on him the same way she did. He would never stop him if Bruce thought he could do something, but he was always watching to make sure he didn’t go overboard again. Plus he was starting to talk about science the way Thor did, understanding the greater universe in a more nuanced way where even the concepts they’d known for years could be observed with wonder. 

Then there was Thor. Thor who was gentle and warm, but liked to challenge him to do better every single day, and who made him happy. He may not have been his type, but maybe his type wasn’t about small statured brunettes. Maybe it was about their kindness, their genius, about how much they cared. 

What Bruce didn’t know was how far that love went. That they had a group chat dedicated to scheduling monthly coffee meet ups, reminders to get Bruce to take breaks when he was immersed in a project, and recollections of memories from over the years, from college to late adulthood. 

Bruce Banner had three loves that changed his life. He just hadn’t considered that maybe he’d changed theirs too. 

[yaminerua]

idk what I was trying to do with this one tbh but it was a battle to get through it;;; I've also clearly been writing these with the worst posture imaginable because my back is killing me rip;;

Anyway we're pretty much halfway through the prompts now so let's hope I can keep this going for the rest of them!

As always, prompts are by @a-literal-toaster-wtf

Day 15's prompt was Garden, which made me think both of Kryten and of Rimmer's father.

Words: 4335

****

Rimmer’s father had been a gardener.

Even now the revelation felt strange to accept. He had spent so much of his life – his whole entire life, actually – trying to live up to the expectations of a man who could never be pleased and he’d never known why it had been so impossible, why it had felt so much like an unending uphill struggle. Now it made perfectly depressing sense.

He had been born into a losing battle, dealt a hand of dud cards and expected to try to make it work somehow without even knowing just how uneven the playing field he was being thrust into was. He’d never had a hope in hell of making his father proud. From the moment he was born the odds were stacked against him, his father’s bias for his biological sons an insurmountable obstacle he could never hope to overcome. It wouldn’t have even mattered if he had somehow outperformed his brothers in every conceivable way. It would simply never be enough, because Rimmer was not a Rimmer at all. And he’d never even known about it.

That realisation had been a bitter pill to swallow, the realisation that he had genuinely wasted his whole life seeking the approval of someone who would never see him as anything other than a failure – not just in his own right as the academic runt he had been throughout his school days, but also as an all too unpleasant reminder of the breakdown of a marriage that had been on a steady decline for years.

He could have been anyone’s son. His mother had unabashedly propositioned just about every male member of staff who had ever worked at or even breathed in the general vicinity of the Rimmer family home and many had taken her up on her offers. Any one of them could have fathered him. He could have had the genetic make-up of men with decorated military backgrounds, talented businessmen or successful spacefaring types but instead the universe had decided to go with the gardener, a man who stank of compost and spent most of his days babbling nonsense to himself while he watered the plants.

In retrospect, maybe he should have figured it out sooner. The curly hair certainly should have been a dead giveaway. None of his brothers had been plagued with unruly curls that needed to be forced into submission, and their father’s hair – when he had still had any – had been equally as tame. Ditzy old Dungo, however – or Dennis, as he had actually been named – had had a wild mop of curly brown hair that had always seemed as though it had a mind of its own, the way it had often appeared to be bursting forth from beneath his little tweed flat cap.

It had been a lot to take in. He hadn’t been meant to hear any of it until after he had achieved his goal of becoming an officer but he had listened to it anyway, when hope had seemed lost and he might never have had another chance to hear what his father would have said to him.

There was something horribly sour about learning that even if he had ever actually made it as an officer, the man whose approval he had worked so hard to do it for still wouldn’t have said he was proud of him.

He hadn’t really had time to process it in that moment. There had been more pressing matters at hand with the simulant ship lurking nearby waiting to destroy them. He couldn’t afford to slip into an identity crisis, or mourn the time he’d wasted on someone who wasn’t worth the effort. There would have been plenty of time for that later if they ever got out of that mess. In the meantime he had had to simply swallow down the shock, find some way to hurriedly rationalise it all and then try to come up with a plan.

Somehow, miraculously, he had managed it. The jolt of discovering his father hadn’t been his father at all had been oddly freeing, the weight of a lifetime of failed expectations and crushing disappointment slipping off him like water off a camel’s back for the first time ever in his life. For once, for that brief temporary little moment, he had been able to think clearly, unburdened by all the usual complicated hang-ups that had always previously clouded his resolve and made him doubt himself, and he had got them out of there.

In the aftermath, however, he had been forced to realise that truly accepting this revelation would be a much more long drawn out process.

Yes, he didn’t have to care what the man he had thought of as his father thought about him anymore, that was true, and it did come as a welcome relief after so long wondering what he had done wrong to realise that he hadn’t done anything. It had been his mother’s doing and he had been treated unreasonably unfairly for the simple crime of not being the fruit of his father’s loins. He didn’t have to respect a single thing the git had ever said to him ever again, didn’t have to be held back by him anymore. But that was far more easily said than done.

All his life he had worked to become something he wasn’t cut out to be, had tried to shape himself to fit a mould he wasn’t made for and now that he knew it was pointless to keep trying, he didn’t know what to do with himself. He didn’t know who he was meant to be anymore.

How do you just throw away everything you thought you had to be all at once? What’s left of yourself when everything you’ve become was built around trying to meet those expectations? Who will you become afterwards?

Rimmer sighed heavily and shook his head, no closer now to coming up with an answer to any of those questions than he had been when the revelation had been fresh and new. In many ways he had almost avoided having to think about any of it, decided paradoxically that maybe it was simply easier to continue as he had been instead of suddenly trying to turn around and change anything, to swim against a current he had been going along with for as long as he could remember. He had spent his whole life trying to achieve something that might have always been impossible for him but since he had spent so long pushing for it, it somehow felt more like a waste to give up on it now.

What else was there for him to do anyway?

Striding swiftly through corridor after corridor, stewing as he so often did these days in his own miserable, complicated thoughts, he found himself coming suddenly to an abrupt stop outside the doors to a section of the ship he had rarely had cause to visit before.

He had always thought it would just be a dead, filthy place, littered with the dried out remains of what might once have been plants, or a rotting, putrid fungal nightmare. Perhaps, it could have even become an untameable jungle wilderness attempting to burst free from its confines and take over the rest of the ship after so long left unattended. Either way he hadn’t wanted to go anywhere near it pretty much at all in the years since he had been resurrected as a hologram. He simply hadn’t wanted to deal with whatever colossal clean-up job it might have required so he had decided to pretend that that whole area just didn’t exist at all.

He had been surprised, then, to find some time later that Kryten had taken it upon himself to restore the Botanical Gardens to their former lush, verdant glory and had largely succeeded in his endeavours.

It had taken him a while, of course. Most of the plant life that had once been there had long-since died from the lack of having anyone to tend to them anymore and as a result there had been plenty of mess to clean up in the form of mould and fungus and gummed up drainage systems and a lot of leftover organic matter but, naturally, the old bog bot had thrown himself into his cleaning duties with great enthusiasm and had eventually managed to make the place look decent and respectable again.

If that had been all he had intended to do with the place, Rimmer would have understood. Kryten was programmed to clean so having a humongous filthy mess to clean was surely a sanitation bot’s version of a wet dream but after he had completed the arduous task he had continued to disappear down to the Botanical Gardens on the regular anyway. Apparently, according to Lister, caring for a garden had been a long-held dream for Kryten, something he had fantasised about for years well before they had ever happened upon him waiting in the crashed Nova-5, and now that he had a generously sized garden all to himself he was making the absolute most of it.

Stepping in tentatively, Rimmer peered around looking for any signs of Kryten. He hoped fervently that for now the know-it-all git would be presently engaged elsewhere on the ship, perhaps deep in the middle of a corridor clean that would keep him busy for hours. Either way, he simply didn’t want to have to talk to him if he could help it.

Hearing no obvious signs of there being anyone else around, Rimmer let his shoulders slacken just a bit and wandered further into the humid warmth, astonished by just how green the place really was. He had to admit that Kryten had done a good job. It wasn’t entirely unlike the gardens he had seen back home, cultivated and maintained with great care and attention to detail.

On a volatile, hostile moon like Io, the only way to sustain life had been to create large domes within which the population would reside, supported by an artificially generated breathable atmosphere and a manually controlled climate system to keep the place comfortably temperate. In a way they had almost served like large botanical gardens of a sort themselves, every single plant grown there placed purposefully and intentionally. Nothing could grow on its own on Io without help to get it started.

A frown creased Rimmer’s features as he made his way through the different sections, looking over the variety of plants and greenery that somehow still managed to thrive so very far from the Earth their ancestors had originated on. He didn’t know how Kryten had managed it, how he had found what he’d needed to make it possible, but then he didn’t really know the first thing about gardening so maybe it had been easier than he could imagine.

As a child, he had largely kept away from interacting with the gardener who came to tend to the plants. His father – or the man he had thought was his father – had warned him not to talk to him, to keep away and not get any funny ideas, and Rimmer had obediently followed orders, tried not to stick so much as a toe out of line in the hopes that it would garner him even the slightest bit of acknowledgement for his good behaviour.

Sometimes, however, avoiding interaction had been somewhat impossible.

There had been plenty of times when he had run off into the garden to escape the antics of his older brothers, concealing himself amongst the bushes and shrubs only to find himself met with the person he had been told to keep his distance from.

Dungo – Dennis, no, Dad – had always been very gentle with him in a way that had felt strange and unfamiliar. There had always been a warmth about him, a kindness behind his hazel eyes that he had never felt from his own parents and it was only now, with the benefit of sorely needed context, that Rimmer wondered whether it had been because he had known what Rimmer himself had not.

Had Dennis known that Rimmer was his son? Had he been trying to reach out, only for Rimmer to continuously pull away? He supposed he would never know.

He reached out, absently, and gently took hold of the leaf of a nearby plant, rubbing its smooth, waxy surface distractedly between his fingers, his mind many miles and many years away.

He didn’t hear Kryten come in until it was too late to avoid him.

“Oh, Mister Rimmer, sir, I didn’t see you there.”

Startled, Rimmer’s hand jerked involuntarily back away from the plant before he could loosen his grip, the resultant motion plucking the unsuspecting leaf clean off its little stem, another small, unintentional casualty at the hands of Arnold J. Rimmer.

 “Kryten!” he cried, whipping his hands behind his back, crushing the fragile, delicate form of the severed leaf in his tightly gripped fist. “Where did you come from?”

Kryten blinked bemusedly at him for a moment before shaking his head and picking up a little watering can that had been left next to the flower plots. Tilting it slightly, he began to water the dainty little flowers closest to him, carefully regulating the flow so as not to completely saturate them.

“Oh, I’d just finished putting the latest batch of Mister Lister’s laundry on and thought I’d stop by to give my petunias a little top up,” he explained, moving now to water the next plants in line. For a brief, fleeting moment his eyes spotted the broken little stem on the plant nearest Rimmer and then he lowered his gaze again and pretended not to have noticed. “If I may, sir, I don’t recall seeing you down here before. Were you looking for me by any chance?”

“What? No, no,” Rimmer said quickly, shaking his head and turning to look down again at the plant he had just accidentally mutilated, an oddly sombre look taking up residence across his features. “I was just… looking.”

Kryten regarded him for a moment, unable to read his mood. “Oh, my apologies, sir. I didn’t realise you had an interest in botany.”

“I didn’t – I don’t!” Rimmer spluttered, defensive, before shaking it off and sighing, his shoulders lifting in some sort of non-committal half-shrug. “I mean, I’ve never given it any thought in particular. It’s just…” He trailed off, suddenly looking pensive and distant again.

“My father was a gardener,” he said eventually, wistfully, before frowning a little and adding: “My real father I mean.”

Understanding blossomed suddenly across Kryten’s face and he nodded sympathetically, recalling the moment they had all come to learn that same fascinating piece of information together. “Ah, yes. I did remember that. Did you know him, sir?”

“No, not at all! I hardly ever went near the man!” Rimmer snapped bitterly, something sour and unpleasant crumpling up his features, coiling like a snake in his gut. “My parents didn’t want me going near him. Or speaking to him. So I didn’t.”

Kryten didn’t say anything to that. He simply hummed in acknowledgement and busied himself with his plants, leaving Rimmer to stew in his own memories.

Rimmer watched him absently, feeling oddly detached, the experience bringing about a peculiar sense of deja-vu. He had watched his own father water the plants from a distance many times before, usually whenever he had been hiding from his brothers amongst the bushes and had had little else to pay attention to but sometimes he had simply been wandering looking for someone who would give him more than just a passing dismissive nod or a mischievously malevolent sneer. Dennis had usually been quick to spot him then and would always shoot him a friendly smile and an encouraging wave and try to coax him over to give him a shot at watering the plants and Rimmer had always wordlessly rejected the invitation, turning tail and running in the other direction and trodding all over the flowerbeds on his way out.

He wondered what would have happened if he’d ever taken him up on any of those offers, if he had actually taken the little watering can and given any of it a try. He wondered if his father – his real father – would have praised him afterwards. The sense of longing at what he might have missed out on made his chest feel unsettlingly hollow and achy.

He sighed.

“I don’t know anything about him,” he admitted quietly, to no-one in particular, holding the severed little leaf from earlier in his palm and crumpling it up bitterly. “I don’t know who he was, or what he liked. I never gave him the time of day.”

Kryten peered pityingly up at him over the colourful array of flowers that lay between them, a peculiar look on his face. He considered him for a good, long moment, his brow creased in thought as though he was mulling something over, and then he straightened up and disappeared without a word, walking briskly off to some other part of the garden leaving Rimmer to scowl after him, rolling his eyes and wondering what he’d ever hoped to get out of saying anything about his past to a glorified bog bot.

He was almost considering leaving when Kryten promptly returned, holding something mysterious in his right hand and a freshly filled watering can in his left.

“Hold out your hand, sir,” he said, a self-satisfied little smile on his face.

Rimmer blinked and his eyes narrowed suspiciously, eyeing Kryten’s closed fist. “What? Why?”

Kryten shook his head incredulously and simply extended his hand out, waiting for Rimmer to do the same. “Just do it, sir. There’s a good reason for it.”

Raising a dubious brow, Rimmer nonetheless complied, holding a hand tentatively out, palm up, under Kryten’s waiting fist.

As soon as he was in place, Kryten unfurled his fingers and tilted his wrist, dropping a generous handful of dry earthy-coloured little pellets into Rimmer’s hand and stepping back, beaming broadly at him.

Rimmer gazed in bewilderment at the tiny little things, his thumb rubbing curiously through them, turning them over in his palm a few times before glancing back up to fix Kryten with a bemused, questioning frown.

“What are these?” he asked flatly.

Kryten looked positively scandalised, the smile dying instantly on his face to be replaced with an expression of dismayed disbelief that he was trying his best to conceal.

“Why, they’re seeds of course, sir.”

“Seeds?” Rimmer echoed, his face crumpling slightly. “Kryten, what am I going to do with a handful of 3 million year old seeds?”

Kryten gestured to the rows of plants all around them, as though the answer was plainly clear to see. “Plant them, sir,” he said simply. “Make them grow.”

Rimmer didn’t say anything. He just stared apprehensively down at the little tiny seeds in his hands and felt increasingly as though he had made a grave mistake coming here today. “Why would I want to do any of that, Kryten?” Rimmer scoffed dismissively, thrusting his hand insistently back out towards Kryten again, jaw tight. “I’m not a gardener.”

Kryten’s gaze shifted around sheepishly but he did not make any attempt to take back the seeds. His mouth was drawn together in a tight, perturbed line, brow furrowed slightly in frustration at Rimmer’s refusal to read his intentions.

“I’m well aware of that, sir,” he said steadily, pointedly. “I just think that it’s worth giving a shot anyway.”

Rimmer clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes, casting his gaze bitterly, almost enviously, over the colourful array of blooming flowers that surrounded him. “I won’t be any good at this, Kryten,” he said, continuing to hold out his hand to be relieved of the seeds. “It’s a waste of time.”

Kryten shook his head and stood his ground, his expression firm in the way that a parent or teacher’s might be in trying to get an important lesson across.

“Perhaps, sir, but if you don’t try you’ll never know.”

He reached forwards then and gently eased Rimmer’s open fist closed, pushing his hand away in a final refusal to accept the return of the seeds. With his other hand, he held out the watering can to be taken.

“Perhaps it’s not my place to say, sir, but if you really want to get to know your father and understand who he was, might I suggest you try to understand where he was coming from?” He indicated behind Rimmer, towards an area on the far end of the gardens. “There’s an empty plot up the back that I was going to use myself, but you can use it instead if you’d like, sir. Just take those little seeds up there, plant them in the soil and water them. See what grows.”

With that he thrust the watering can firmly into Rimmer’s other hand with a sense of pointed finality, gave him one encouraging pat on the arm and proceeded to promptly brush past him and busy himself once again with his own duties while Rimmer simply gaped, incredulous and furious, after him.

Turning his attention down to the items he had been handed, he debated simply dumping them right where he stood and storming off out of the room. Who was Kryten to boss him around and tell him what to do? He was just a service mechanoid with ideas above his station! He didn’t have to listen to him.

Still, as he looked at the tiny little seeds and turned them over repeatedly in his palm, he couldn’t deny that there was at the very least some very small, curious part of him that did want to give it a try, to reach back through time and space and try to make up for every previously squandered opportunity for connection.

Rimmer was doubtful it would do any actual good but he did as he was told and made his way up to the vacant little plot Kryten had mentioned, a bland little rectangle of earth just waiting expectantly to be put to use.

When he got there he stared down at it warily, apprehensively, as though it were an exam paper and this was a test and any wrong move would result in an immediate failure.

He didn’t know the first thing about gardening. He’d never read so much as a single book on the subject. He’d never cared to learn before, had never had cause to try, but somehow as he held the little seeds in his hand, he felt as though he was eight years old again, watching that strange curly-haired man he didn’t yet know was his father try to reach out to him, to make a connection that Rimmer now sorely, bitterly regretted rejecting.

He tightened his jaw and swallowed thickly past the peculiar lump that had materialised in his throat and reached out slowly, tentatively, to sprinkle the seeds across the waiting blanket of soil. He didn’t know if he was doing it right, if there was more to it than that and he wondered bitterly whether he had already failed at the first hurdle, already doomed these stupid little seeds to fail.

He wished he’d sat around and listened more, had actually let Dennis try to teach him a thing or two, ‘father’s’ orders be damned. He wished he could have given him a chance to connect with him, to have him tell him he’d done well and pat him proudly on the head. He wished that there was any chance at all that he still somehow could but of course there wasn’t. His father was long dead and he was more than 3 million years late for any kind of chance at connection. There was no way he was ever going to claw back what he’d missed out on.

Still, though, he supposed Kryten had been right, in some small little way. There was something to be said for trying to help something vulnerable and fragile thrive on a lonely ship drifting through the middle of deep space, something not unlike cultivating a garden in one of the isolated little pods back on Io. If nothing else, it made the place seem just a little bit less dead, less cold.

Lifting up the watering can Kryten had given him, he held it out over the soil and tilted it carefully, startling slightly when too much initially came out all at once but gradually he stabilised his wrist and slowed the flow down to something more controlled, closer to what he’d seen earlier.

He stood back a little when he was done, surveying his work, trying to suppress the gnawing feeling of inadequacy that tried to tell him he would be no good at this, that he didn’t have the knack for it. That was his other father talking, the one who had ingrained in him such a deep sense of doubt and poor sense of self-worth that it had plagued him all his life, the one who had forced unfair expectations on his shoulders without any chance of ever being able to gain approval, whether he had ever managed to meet them or not.

He might not have been cut out for the role of officer, or for a career in the space corps at all but even in spite of the hand he had been dealt he had ended up on board a space-faring vessel nonetheless. His real father probably would have been proud of him for that and maybe, if he could manage to get these tiny little seeds to sprout and grow, if he could inject a little more life into the cold, unforgiving emptiness of space, far away from Io, from Earth, from anywhere things like these had once been grown, then maybe he would have cause to feel, just a little bit, proud of himself too.

[marvelmaniac715]

Andy finally goes to therapy. His therapist suggests that he writes a letter to Chucky expressing his feelings about everything that’s happened to him, but the letter will never actually make it to Chucky, right?... This is that letter.

————————————————————-

Dear Chucky,

That doesn’t feel like the right way to start it. I’m not sure how else to start letters though, maybe I’d have more knowledge on the subject if I was able to attend school full time as a kid. I was bounced around so many foster homes and guardians that I never got a full education, I guess I owe that to you.

Sometimes I lie awake at night and wonder if you know just how much you affected me growing up. You severely impacted my life, yet every time we meet you don’t acknowledge this. Do you pretend that you didn’t play a part in traumatising me because it makes you feel better? Or do you know and just not care? The tiny part of me that wants to believe that there’s good in everyone would choose the former, but in my heart I know it must be the latter.

I googled you, did you know that? I learnt about your childhood, it was strangely healing to learn about the events that shaped you in your formative years. I saw a picture of you when you were about six or seven (the age I was when we first met) and I gotta admit, you were pretty cute. But the headline that accompanies the image I found reminded me that you’re psychotic. I know you killed your mom and dad, you’re beaming with pride in that photo, despite it being taken hours after their deaths. In horror movies, the killers usually had abusive childhoods that warped their perception of reality, but not you, huh? You were just born like that.

You grew up in a Home as well, so you can relate. That fact unsettles me, because you know how it feels to suffer, to grow up without parents. Yet you willingly chose that life for yourself, and you passed it on to me because why the hell not I guess. You made something inside my brain snap. I can’t pursue romantic relationships, I can’t maintain friendships or hold a job because I have trust issues. You fucked me up, Charles, and you have to face that.

I kid myself that I’m an adult, but sometimes when I see you I’m that scared little boy again, hiding behind his mother and desperately trying to prove that he isn’t insane, that his life is really in danger. My mom was traumatised too, she tries to hide it for my sake, but she can’t even look at a doll without breaking down into tears. If you read this part, you’d probably laugh that spine-chilling cackle of yours that still makes me jump every time it comes out of your mouth.

I was six years old, I just wanted a Good Guy doll for my birthday. My mom was just trying to make me happy, we didn’t have much but we had each other, life wasn’t bad. If I could go back in time I’d stab that first doll with a kitchen knife, that would’ve ended everything once and for all. If I really had the guts, I would’ve walked into that toy store where you lay dying and ripped that cursed doll out of your human form’s hands before you could even utter the incantation. But the past can’t be altered, it can only be reflected upon with a vague disappointment.

Was there ever a point where you saw me as a son? Maybe the first time around? Even when you tried to kill me, it was almost as if there was a certain fondness for me. You were the only constant male figure in my life, you taught me some valuable life lessons as well. Not to trust authority figures, because they can betray you. Not to give in to moments of weakness, you have to think on your feet in order to live. But most importantly, you taught me how to survive. With these things in mind, the case could certainly be argued that you were a father figure to me. In my angsty teen years, I certainly thought of you like that sometimes.

I have so much left to say, but I’m going to run out of paper. Long story short, I don’t forgive you, but I think I can understand you. The two of us are like kindred spirits, there’s so many similarities between us. Dead parents, grew up in the foster system, had to learn survival skills had a young age, if you disregard the murders, we could almost be the same person. The part of me that still cries out for a parental figure to fill that void in my life misses you, life is certainly much less interesting without you around. But I hope that I don’t see you again, because I enjoy living. You’re never gonna read this, but I hope you got a kick out of this, Dr. Mixter, maybe you found some information in here that can be brought up and worked on in future therapy sessions?

‘Kindest’ regards,

Andy Barclay

[whumpofdory]

The Spoiled Prince, Part 3

CW: ransom note, mentions of torture, death and mutilation threats, brief mention of suicide attempt

The king reappeared in his chambers, directly in front of his desk. Now to write the letter to King Caelex. It was important it be done soon so the people wouldn’t think the prince had died. He sat down at the ornately carved workspace, mindlessly moving aside the various clutter and important papers.

He picked up the pen and parchment and began writing:

King Caelex,

I heard that your third son, Callum, went missing recently. I have him in my dungeon, safe and sound. He and his manservant are unharmed, at least for the moment.

In exchange for you son I want my sister retuned home. As you intimately know, she is my only remaining relative. Upon her return I will release Callum and his manservant to your custody.

Should you refuse to accept this offer, your son will be returned regardless, but piece by piece. You know my talents and how eager I would be to use them on someone close to you. Respond quickly or risk receiving the first bit of him.

Regards,

King Alvard of Slivgrad

He poured hot wax next to his name and pressed the signet into it. It was in poor taste to throw around power this way, he knew, but there were precious few alternatives.

He didn’t feel pity for Caelex, and after how the boy had spoken he had little sympathy there either. The manservant seemed quite put off though; perhaps he should have him transferred to a small guest room. It wasn’t his fault, after all, and he was no threat. Perhaps they could meet and discuss things. He likely had ample information to give.

His reputation had perhaps gotten out of hand. During the war between kingdoms, he had been the Grand Inquisitor after what happened to his family. A king couldn’t fight on the battlefield when he had no heirs, and it wasn’t easy to find one during wartime. He couldn’t sit idle either, so he set to ripping secrets from prisoners of war. He had a natural talent for it, and he let a few prisoners go after Slivgrad won. Truth slowly morphed into fable, which transformed into infamy. Now he couldn’t so much as look at a foreigner without them running. But it had its conveniences.

Yes, he decided, in a few days he would allow the servant some freedom and see what happened.

What was a manservant going to do, kill him? Many had tried, including himself, but nothing ever worked. It was fabled that if a magic-adept line was concentrated enough it could produce an immortal. He certainly fit the criteria.

Tag list: @whumpy-butterflies

[theecollector]

𝐛𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐜𝐬: name: charles alexander muntz nicknames: muntz, the collector age: 57 pronouns: he/him dob: november 15, scorpio species: vampire/hunter occupation: scientist, hunter, collector, inventor

𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐲: positive traits: charismatic, intelligent, determined, resilient negative traits: manipulative, amoral, vicious, lacks empathy

𝐚𝐛𝐢𝐥𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐞𝐬: multilingual, hand-to-hand combat, typical vampire capabilities and weaknesses

𝐪𝐮𝐢𝐜𝐤 𝐟𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐬:

charles is the only living child of affluent hunter alistair muntz and his wife jeanette, also from a prominent hunting family. he was born two years after the loss of their infant daughter, so jeanette was very overprotective of charles when he was young. this quickly changed as he developed into a small boy and began to accompany his father on hunting trips. it was imperative that the male heir to the family’s legacy be well-trained from an early age.

the muntz family was known for hiring werewolves to work for the family. when charles was still a young man, his father branched out and decided to bring in some younger werewolves for early ‘rearing’. this is when charles met arthur. being that they were both young and this was one of the first wolves they had brought in in such a manner, charles became attached to arthur, and arthur became ‘his wolf’.

over the years, their relationship became one that was difficult to express. arthur was there with him while he raised other wolves and helped him to train the newbies for their many excursions. unlike his father, charles was unhappy with the simplicities of hunting. he wanted to know why these specimens were so sought after.

charles showed a high intelligence and curiosity from a very young age, and that was nurtured in him. by the time he was an adult and ready to go on his own, he knew more about supernatural creatures than his father did. he went on to pursue multiples degrees before returning to the family business.

in charles’ adulthood, arthur followed him to be the first of charles’ own ‘pack’. they began going on excursions to places far and wide for the most elusive of beasts. it was during these years that muntz’s collection grew considerably. also during this time charles and arthur brought in several wolves, usually teens, until one day when charles brought home a small child he’d saved after the massacre of the pup’s parents.

charles knew better than to get attached and, at first, he tried earnestly not to do so, but douglas proved to make this impossible. it was quick the way doug dug his way into his master’s heart, and it wasn’t long before charles started seeing himself, arthur, and the pup as something of a makeshift family. it was certainly more family than charles had ever foreseen for himself. for a while, things went well until the incident. after arthur mauled a hunter, it was a plea for the wolf’s life. eventually, in the whirlwind of justice, arthur got away, and this loss tore through charles so acutely that he felt ripped in half.

instead of pulling away from douglas, charles reinforced his favoritism for the pup and began to push the boy to his limits. douglas was his legacy, but he was also arthur’s legacy, and charles had to make that count. there were years of training and excursions with the pack where charles’ collection and reputation grew. charles was hellbent on having something that mattered.

things were as smooth as they could be for a long time, then the unthinkable happened. charles was attacked by a near starving vampire while out on a hunting trip with doug. the boy did everything he could to help but the bloodsucker pulled charles down into a cavern in her bloodlust and nearly drained him. along with the injuries he sustained, charles was certain that he was going to die, and as dying men are wont to do, he began to lament about the son he never called son and the one he let get away. seemingly, this touched the heart of the now satiated vampire who gave charles the choice between a quicker death or immortality. there was only one choice.

during his recovery and adjustment period, charles knew that his boy was well taken care of in their home of los santos where he had a home for doug in greenhaven. his will officially absolved any of his other wolves from their duties for them and allotted them each a predetermined sum of money. only doug was the one to be looked after in the long-run.

now that some time has passed and charles feels as if he has adjusted to his new lifestyle, he’s ready to come back and not only reclaim his empire but further his legacy and hold on tighter to the one relationship he has left.

[home-for-wayward-fawns]

༺♥📺 𝒜 𝑀𝑜𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇'𝓈 𝒟𝑒𝓋𝑜𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦌♥༻

𝒞𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓉𝑒𝓇 8: 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝐼𝓉 𝒯𝒶𝓀𝑒𝓈 𝒯𝑜 𝐵𝓊𝒾𝓁𝒹 𝒜 𝐻𝑜𝓂𝑒

‧₊˚✧[Thank you to my wonderful editor @safety-pin-angel-wings, @the-demon-of-a-thousand-eyes]✧˚₊‧

Carla is ready to run after a new inhabitant moves in, but a certain shadow has other plans.

The gentle simmering rage bubbled beneath her flesh.

Whenever she got close to building a home, she was reminded why she shouldn’t bother. 

It didn’t matter how perfect she was, how gentle , or how kind ; these were not her children. 

They weren’t her wonderful boys or her miracle of a daughter. This was Hell, her eternal punishment; God was not going to allow her the simple joy of motherhood ever again. It didn’t matter how much she tried to bow her head or bend herself to Alastor’s will; he wasn’t her husband and she needed to return to reality. It had been a nice vacation, a delightful holiday, but it was time to return to the murky depths of depression that was her life. 

This was her punishment for not being perfect enough. 

She stood in front of her vanity, both hands pressed flat on the wood. She stared at the reflection before her. She wanted to rip out her stupid doe ears, let them be torn from her scalp as blood dripped down her perfect face, and scratch at her perfect blue eyes until they bled. A crazed laugh fell from her lips at the idea. 

Would you still want me then, darling Clarence? Would you still want me if I wasn’t your pretty little Doll Face; could anyone want a broken toy? 

She clenched her fists as she glared at the feminine form before her. She was not some prey to be hunted and cornered within her own den. She was more than that. She would not allow herself to fall for The Radio Demon’s tricks any longer. He was not some gentleman, a knight in shining armour to shield her from the darkness of Hell; he was just as much a beast as any other man she had ever met. If he wanted to play Overlord with that snake demon, let him! 

Let them all play their stupid games. They didn’t deserve a mother’s gentle touch. Love was not owed, it was a gift to be bestowed on the worthy. They had no idea the exhaustion that came from playing Mother, no idea the trials that chased her down every dark alleyway. 

It was time to go, time for the doe to flee. Vox was all-knowing; Alastor was all-powerful but Carla was fast .  You didn’t last this long in Hell without being good at something, and Carla had never been caught without her consent. She counted to seven, always to seven, as she steeled herself for what she was about to do. 

One for Harry, her perfect son. 

Two for darling Georgie, who would eat her out of house and home. 

Three and Four for Gabriel and Junior, her most cheeky of the boys. 

Five for Mathew who had always tried his best. 

Six for Peter who had been taken from her too soon. 

Seven for Poppy, perfect Poppy, her little miracle. 

She had survived worse than this. 

She had survived being alone; she had survived finding Clarence dead in the bath ; she had survived living years alone in Hell. She would survive this too— if she didn’t, was that the worst thing?  

She stood up straight, patting down her dress and pushing that gentle smile back on her face. She opened her wardrobe and began to slowly remove all of her clothes, folding them neatly to pack away in her bags. She wouldn’t stay where she wasn’t needed, and she most certainly wouldn’t stay where she was to be ignored . She would not slave away cleaning up after these children who didn’t want her; she would not spend hours in the kitchen preparing perfect meals just to watch Judas sit at her table and eat her food. 

If she had been more observant, she might’ve seen the shadow that shook with rage on the wall as she packed her bags. If she had been a tad more aware, she might’ve noticed as it quickly approached, but she wasn’t, and as such she could not give a reaction as a sharp, harsh grip wrapped around her wrists. 

“ Bad Treat. ” She heard Alastor’s voice snarl, but it was different, there was no radio static to it, just rage . 

The doors to her wardrobe slammed shut, and her arms were tugged backwards as she was forced against the wood, her face pushed harshly against it. She let out a soft grunt in discomfort. 

“ Stay. ” She heard his voice growl, and she struggled against the impossible grip, her arms beginning to ache as her wrists were pulled impossibly lower. 

“Get off me, Alastor!” She shouted, unable to even wiggle the slightest. 

A dark laughter shook from behind her, a sinister laugh that seemed to spread across the entire room, a cloud of darkness that was choking her into submission. 

“ Wrong. Not Alastor. Worse .” 

She gasped as her wrists were suddenly released, a pressure being pushed against her entire body as suddenly her hair was yanked backwards. She let out a cry of pain as sharp claws scratched against her scalp, and not Alastor laughed again, a wicked sound that caused her to shake with fear. 

“ He’s Weak. Wants. Doesn’t Take. You’re Mine. Submit.��” 

She let out a shaky breath, allowing herself to go still beneath the pressure and the darkness around her seemed to lessen slightly . The taut grip of her hair softened as it purred in her ear. 

“ Good Treat. Obey. Be Good. ” 

She kept herself perfectly still, perfectly pliant as she felt a sharp claw run down from the top of her neck. She hissed in pain as she felt the claw dig into her skin, the tiniest stream of blood staining her porcelain flesh. 

“I’ll be good; I’ll be good,” She promised with a whimper of pain, and it purred in her ear again as a reward. 

“ Never Leave. Always Find. Always Punish. ” 

She didn’t have time to respond before she was suddenly tugged backwards, flipped around and pushed back onto her bed. Her back hit the mattress with a slight bounce and the creature before her growled possessively. She blinked in shock as she stared at the shadow that loomed above her. It was an odd sight to see a shadow standing in the middle of her room, in three dimensions rather than flat against a surface. Ominous green eyes glowed as they stared down at her, a dark hunger swimming there. 

It descended on her, pinning her wrists above her head as it pressed down with an impossible weight. She struggled to breathe as the darkness consumed her, hot breath against her neck. She forced herself to stay still, to stay pliant lest she risk that punishment . 

“ Good Girl. ” It growled in her ear. 

It held her wrists in one hand, its other moving down the line of her face. A sharp claw dragged along the outline of her jaw, and she shivered with fear. The claw continued its descent downwards, along the centre of her throat. It purred with pleasure as she gulped, aware that she was its paralysed prey. It continued down still, stopping over the first button of her blouse and she whimpered. 

“No, please, no,” She whispered, shaking and it looked up at her, menacing green meeting brilliant blue. 

It pulled at the button, her blouse opening ever so slightly to reveal her soft skin but its eyes never left hers. 

“ Just looking. ” It said with a sinister grin before continuing to claw at the buttons, popping them open to reveal more and more skin. 

She was shaking with fear, but it kept its promise. It didn't touch, just watched her heaving breasts. Soft white lace covered her chest, delicate pink flowers sewn into the material and the shadow stared down at them. 

“ Want. So Pretty. ” It growled, and she turned her head away, a soft blush spreading across her face. 

This was bad. This was very bad. She shouldn't want this. She shouldn't like this. This was terribly inappropriate. 

“ Not now. Don't Like…Don't Want… ” It let out a frustrated snarl as it struggled to find the words, burying its face into her neck and taking a large inhale. 

“ You. You Need To Beg. Only When You Beg. ” It growled lowly, and she felt her body relax slightly at that. 

“Okay, okay. I'm being good, right? I'm being good,” she assured it, and it grunted in agreement, “ Please let my wrists go; I'll stay still. I'll be good,” 

It tightened its grip for a moment and she purposefully let out a whimper of pain, before it relented, pulling its hand away to release her wrist. She sighed in relief but kept them where they'd been pinned for the moment. 

“Thank you,” She said softly, smiling gently, and it nodded in response, “Can I touch you?” 

It tilted its head, confused, but nodded again. She ran her hands gingerly down the shadowy wisps of its back, surprised at the firmness there and it let out a purr. There was a comfortable quiet for a moment, as the shadow laid on top of her, breathing on her neck with its eyes pinned to her chest while she stroked its back. 

“ You Talk. Why Leave? ” It finally said after a while, looking up from her chest to her eyes, and she sighed. 

“Are you going to punish me if you don’t like what I say?” She asked, and it was still for a moment, pondering its thoughts. 

“ No. ” It answered shortly. 

“I’m scared, and this shouldn’t make me less scared, but it does. I just want…I just want to feel safe. I put expectations on Alastor that I shouldn’t have, I suppose. I thought he wanted to protect me, I thought he wanted me , but that’s an unfair expectation.” 

“ Not Unfair. He Wants. Imbecile. ” 

“ I don’t think he’s stupid,” She said carefully, “He has other priorities, and that’s fine. I’m not his wife ; I’m not supposed to be his main priority. I can hardly have such expectations when my husband is still showing up at the door.” 

The shadow let out an angry snarl, and she cried in pain as sharp teeth bit into her neck. 

“ Bad. Try Again. ” It growled. 

“I thought you weren’t going to punish me?” She whined, but she lifted her hand to stroke down its neck, feeling it purr against her new wound, lapping at the blood it drew. 

“ Accident. You Were Bad. ” It growled. 

“Are you going to keep biting me if I talk about him? He’s a lot of my problems,” She said honestly, and the shadow shook its head. 

“ Vox. Not Husband. Just Vox. ” It told her, nuzzling into her neck affectionately, lapping its tongue against her stained skin, “ Mine. ” 

She couldn’t help but giggle, this was the strangest attempt at courtship she’d ever heard of, but it was nice to feel wanted, genuinely wanted . 

“Okay, okay. I can hardly have such expectations when Vox is still showing up at the door. Is that better…” She paused, realising she never asked for its name— how rude of her. “What do I call you; what’s your name?” 

“ No Name. I am His Shadow, His Dark, His Evil. ” 

Well, she didn’t like that, not one bit. 

“Everyone deserves a name,” She said with a frown. 

“ Never Frown. Don’t Like It. Smile. ” 

“I’ll smile if you let me give you a name,” She bargained, and a dark chuckle reverberated from its chest. It nodded its head and she thought a moment. It wasn’t like everyone else she’d named, months and years of planning for the perfect name, and yet one came to her quickly anyway. 

Kek. The very concept of the dark. 

“Kek,” She suggested, and they sat up, sitting on top of her now. 

“ Kek. Good Name. Strong Name. ” Kek said with approval, and she did smile, a bright, real smile that threatened to split her face in two. 

Kek approved. Kek was happy. She was good. 

“I’m really scared Pentious is going to hurt me, Kek.” She admitted quietly, her smile faltering slightly. 

She gasped as a shadowy hand wrapped around her throat, and she looked up into those bright, ethereal green eyes that seemed endless. 

“ Silly. Mine. Protected. ” 

She breathed slowly, but didn’t attempt to move out of Kek’s grip; she leaned into it. They growled approvingly, moving their hand down her chest, the claw snagging on the material of her bra at the centre. She wanted them to touch her; she wanted them to squeeze, pull, and grab at her flesh to their heart’s content. It wasn’t right, it was wrong; they weren’t married. They looked up at her, cocking their head to the side slightly and she shook her head. They pulled away, and she reached up to place a gentle hand against the side of their face. 

“Maybe just a kiss?” She said quietly, shyly, and they didn’t give her a second to say anything further, as clawed hands ran through her hair. 

They pressed a harsh kiss against her soft lips, prying them apart with a long tongue. She gasped and they growled into the kiss, pushing their tongue against her own. She moaned as they pulled on her hair, manoeuvring her into a more convenient position for them. She followed their lead easily, moving as they commanded. 

“ Good Girl. All Mine. ” Kek growled into the kiss and she whimpered, trying to nod her head but unable to due to their taut grip. 

“I’ll be good; I’ll be so good; just stay .” she panted into the kiss. 

Kek pulled away, kissing down her neck, running their tongue over the wound from where they bit her. She whimpered as they ran their teeth along her delicate flesh, tilting her head to stretch that expanse of skin and they purred approvingly. She pressed her hands against their neck, pulling them closer. She gasped as she felt a knee shift in between her thighs, pressing against her damp core. She heard them chuckle as her legs spread ever so slightly and she rocked her hips down, seeking friction. It had been so long, and it felt so good— she was so bad. Their hands ran down her sides before gripping her hips, pulling down and she moaned again. 

“ Good Pet. ” They praised and that shouldn’t feel so good . 

She let out a whine, a plead for more, but she didn’t know what that more she was seeking was. Kek shifted closer, knee pushing up further into her as they hovered above her. She was desperate to be good, to be praised, to be loved. Kek pressed another harsh kiss against her lips and she opened easily, allowing them to taste and use her as they pleased. They growled against her submission, but then the growl changed. It tasted bitter against her tongue, and she flinched. Kek lifted themselves, eyes narrowing as they turned their head to look towards the door. 

“ Alastor. ” Kek growled, irritation evident in their voice, “ He Cares. Stupid. But Cares. ” 

As soon as the words left their mouth, there was a harsh knock at the door. 

An angry knock at the door. 

“Carla, open this door,” Alastor commanded from the other side. Kek hissed loudly, aggressively at the door and Carla bit down on her bottom lip nervously.

“He sounds angry,” She said quietly, and Kek nodded. 

“ Be Good. Be Sorry. He Wants . ” 

Kek climbed off of the bed, disappearing into the shadows and she sighed. 

“Just a moment!” Carla called out, quickly heading over to her vanity to make sure her hair looked at least presentable. 

Her blouse was torn open, her lips were bruised, her neck was bleeding and her hair was a mess . She sighed—fine. It was fine. She didn’t have time to fix herself up without making everything worse, so she decided she wouldn’t. It was his shadow for crying out loud, he couldn’t be mad about that —could he?

She took a deep breath and then opened the door. He didn’t give her time to say a word before he walked into her room, slamming the door behind him. His grip on his cane was tight, his knuckles turning white from the pressure as he stood at the centre of her room, next to her bed with rustled covers from her rendezvous with Kek. 

“I am trying to stay calm, my dear; I am trying to be a proper gentleman, but you are making it increasingly difficult,” He spoke with a clipped tone, and she felt as though if she didn’t defuse this situation soon, she was going to be in a lot of trouble. “First you act like you’re my perfect little housewife, then you storm off away from me in front of Charlotte, and now you open the door looking like that!” 

He gestured to her cleavage wildly and she blushed. It was terribly inappropriate, and she should be ashamed. They weren’t even courting, but things got a tad more complicated when one party in the arrangement was a shadow for crying out loud. She sat down on the side of her bed, but before she could even think of how to defend herself for her improper behaviour, she watched his gaze dart over to the bags filled with clothes. She felt her blood run cold as his smile turned impossibly tight, and she realised she’d locked herself in the room with the predator. He was in front of her in an instant, his fingers digging into her jaw harshly and she held her breath. 

“If you think I’m letting you go anywhere, you are sorely mistaken little doe. I know you think you’re fast, and you might’ve avoided Vox, but you will never outrun me. Do you understand?” He growled, and she nodded her head. 

She reached up to grab his wrist gently, a soft smile on her face and he narrowed his eyes with his ears pressed against the flat of his skull. 

“ I’m sorry ,” she said softly, “I got scared, but I’m okay now. Kek helped me understand,” 

“You’ve named it,” He sighed before releasing her jaw, “You’re sorry?” 

“I’m sorry,” She repeated, nodding her head. 

He leaned in close, inches away from her face. 

“Then give me a kiss, sweetheart,” He purred, and she leaned forward, pressing a soft kiss against his lips. 

Where Kek was rough and hungry, Alastor was gentle and cautious. He pressed one hand against the side of her face, careful of his teeth as he gently moved his lips against hers. He sighed into the kiss as she opened her mouth, and he pushed his tongue inside. She moaned softly, as he rubbed his thumb against her cheek. He pulled away, and she pressed her hands into the mattress to lean back on, looking up at him with her soft smile. 

“I’m going to court you, lovely doe,” He told her, a finality to his tone, “But that requires a bit more decorum than what I’m currently capable of showing. I promised to discuss this heaven conundrum with our Charlie. I will take my leave— shadow in tow —and trust that you are going to unpack your bags.” 

Our Charlie. 

Oh no. Charlie. 

Carla sighed; being a mother was exhausting. 

“Please send the message that I will try with this Pentious. For her. Only for her.” 

“Of course my dear,” He said, turning to leave, his shadow once again tied to his form as he took his leave. 

The door shut behind him with a definitive click, and once she was sure they were both gone, she let out a giggle, kicking her small feet against the side of the bed. She felt all of seventeen again. 

Maybe she could build a home here, a home with the both of them.

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓋𝑜𝒾𝓊𝓈 𓆩♡𓆪

𝒩𝑒𝓍𝓉 𓆩♡𓆪

[sarah-dipitous]

Hellsite Nostalgia Tour 2023 Day 278

Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes

Hahahahahaaaaaaa I was supposed to reconfigure the schedule todayyyyy. Guess what my sick ass did? Did you guess nap for several hours? And then scroll through tiktok for too long? (I do not need to be productive when I’m not feeling well and especially when I already have the time off) Maybe tomorrow you’ll get two episodes out of me

“Twigs & Twine & Tasha Banes”

Plot Description: the Winchesters help twin-sibling hunters look for their mother, who went missing while hunting a witch. Mary grows suspicious of the Men of Letters

I can’t believe the preview started with “dad’s on a hunting trip and I haven’t heard from him in a couple days” that’s season one episode one

Would I Survive the First Five Minutes??: I think what keeps me safest here is not breaking and entering. But I am sad to see this character we’ve had for only a few minutes die…this might be the first time

Whether or not that was fully Castiel that said he has faith in Lucifer’s kid, I love how certain Dean is that it wasn’t him

Oh man. I can’t believe Sam hit him with “their mom’s on a hunting trip and hasn’t been home in a week”

I’m so glad this season is almost over…I’m hedging my bet we basically don’t see the BMoL after this

Interesting that Sam won’t divulge that Mary was brought back by god’s sister to this other hunter whose mom is a witch

See, that guy coming out of the cellar is TOO sus

Wait wait wait, I distinctly recall seeing Tasha get stabbed through the gut. How is she back???

I’m actually more suspicious of the friendly front desk worker…just as part of the genre. The unfriendly older lady who pre-accused Tasha of wanting to steal her ring is also a tad too obvious, but she’s not off the list

Oh. I don’t like that her joints will just DO that.

Ketch keeping up the charade that Mick is still alive is certainly a choice, but I do like Mary standing her ground that she and Ketch only fuck that one time (I hope that lasts)

Ugh, I hate when I’m on the computer and someone decides they’re just gonna linger behind me. Like….can I do anything in peace??

Oh. Maybe I shouldn’t have overlooked the unfriendly older lady…maybe it’s everyone at this place that’s creepy

Istg if we see Tasha’s corpse in this cellar….

I’m not saying Tasha’s a perfect parent but why couldn’t the boys have had someone more like her growing up?

Ok ok ok ok I was not wrong…sort of. I don’t know what’s going on but I knew something was up with the front desk guy and it turns out he is also a victim of unfriendly older lady

Oh, Max. I wish you hadn’t come down here…I mean, you were gonna find out sooner or later but idk that you needed to see what happened to your mom NOW

I hate the dossiers they have on all the hunters

Yeah, they’re never gonna fuck again. Good. You really think she’s gonna play nice and fall in line while you are an active threat to her sons????

YESSSSS MARYYYYYYYYYY PUNCH HIM IN THE JUNK WITH BRASS KNUCKLES!!!! AND THE FACE

Fuck Ketch. I hate that he hit her with the taser

You didn’t actually give her a deal, you just stabbed her through the gut, ripped out her heart

I was about to say that this lady feels a lot like Hama from a:tla but Hama was way more justified. This lady just sucks

Oh, Max. I will understand if you take the deal, but I really hope you don’t.

Nooooooo, not Alicia!!!

Max, don’t do it. Thank god Dean shot the older lady witch

Poor Max. Lost his mom twice in one day and then also his twin sister. He’s all alone now 🥺 I want to think he’ll do the right thing but he’s in so much pain…

Oh god, Max, baby, what are you doing?? Yeah, he wasn’t gonna NOT resurrect his sister

Ah FUCK. The lady from the beginning of the season is back? The one who tortured Sam is now here to interrogate Mary?

[stuckonvenus]

i know the end.

Sydney Marie Coolidge was a first generation college student. She attended the University of California at Berkeley and, despite all odds, obtained her Bachelor’s in Computer Science — all very big things for the daughter of a plumber and a cleaning lady. This was the early 70s, so she was underestimated at every turn and refused opportunities based solely on her sex. She played the role of a lackey although she held a prestigious degree; fetched everyone’s coffee order, indulged in gossip with the receptionists, brought donuts on Mondays so maybe one of the higher-ups would see her continued efforts and have mercy. Mercy never came. And yet, this didn’t mark the end of life as she knew it. That would’ve been falling pregnant at twenty-one years old.

Marcela Isabel Ruiz Morales’ life began when she fell pregnant at sixteen years old. She was the middle child of three and adored by her family. Growing up in Monterrey, Mexico, she swam in the Gulf and collected seashells which she’d comb her hair with, she would count airplanes passing in the night as if they were shooting stars and wondered where they were going, and when she met Adam Turner; this pink-faced teenager who hadn’t seen any of the world outside of Missouri, she loved him two seconds after she met him. While her parents insisted they marry, instead Adam stole her away as if it were a fairytale. Except gaining entry to America meant one thing — Marcela would have to give something of hers in return. 

In January of 1972, Sydney gave birth to her son, George Joel Mercer. He ripped out of her like lightning and she swore she’d never endure that kind of pain again for anyone, let alone a man she hardly knew that was studying philosophy, for God’s sake. They’d gotten married that past winter. Adrien Mercer was expedient in proposing. Almost so quick to the matter that she suspected he’d had the ring since after their first date. She wasn’t keen on changing her surname, but she had been assured time and time again that she’d broken enough gender roles in her lifetime, so she became a Mercer as well as a missus, and it plagued her everywhere she went. 

On June 6th, 1976, Marcela gave birth to her daughter, Riley Araceli Turner. In the spring of that year she underwent a series of tests that rendered her medically brain dead by the time she began contracting. She had naturalized her daughter by being granted access to America through agreeing to Vulcan Laboratories’ terms and conditions and donating herself to science unknowingly. When they cut Riley out of her, they passed her onto her father, who looked into her deep brown eyes and could only see the reflection of her mother. While he was assured that the baby suffered zero deficits from the trials, he couldn’t go on raising the spitting image of the only woman he ever loved after he’d killed her. 

Sydney decided to stay at home to dedicate all her time toward George. If she couldn’t be entertained as the decorated programmer she was trained to be, she would at least raise someone who would garner more respect for his brains than she had for hers. Although she wasn’t cut from the cloth most mothers were, she loved her son unconditionally. He had ginger roots that sprung from the top of his head and pale skin that glimmered under the sunlight. His eyes were big and blue and saw things beyond the world they lived in that only unsuspecting children could. He had no idea what real life was like. Sometimes, she wished she could have kept him that way forever. It certainly would’ve saved her a lot of trouble.

In spite of her circumstances, Marcela kept a stiff lip. She would have done anything to protect the life growing inside her. When she wasn’t prodded by the staff or poked by needles or asked nonsensical questions to reaffirm she was sound of mind (or rather, becoming unsound), she thought about the child she would raise. If it was a boy, she would name him Robert after her favorite actor from Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid, a new-age Western that always gave her a thrill, and if it were a girl, she liked the name Riley. It was boyish and American, that’s all she cared about. As the months wore on and her stomach grew and the trial began closing in on itself, so much so that she could only remember quotes instead of developing individual thoughts. Whenever Adam asked her if she needed his help, if he could free her somehow, all she could think of to say was: “Well, I swear, Etta, I don't know. I've been working like a dog all my life and I can't get a penny ahead.”

It was a summer morning in 1977, and Sydney spent two hours pacing around the living room as she waited for a test tube left in the bathroom to determine her future. George was at school and Adrien at his 9 to 5 that he complained about as if it were nearly as boring as staying at home all day. When the timer she set chimed, she could feel her spine straighten and freeze. Could she do this? Could she walk forward, one step at a time, back inside that bathroom and face what she already knew to be true? Gulping dryly, she made the daunting walk and shut the door behind her. When she looked down at the pink-painted sink where she kept the tube, a dark brown circle on a yellow background on the mirror stuck to the bottom of the kit could be seen. She was pregnant. And they needed to leave Nevada, or else they all would sink there.

Adam surrendered all his parental rights to the state of Virginia, where Marcela had spent the final year of her life. He wrote to her parents and never heard back. When he came home and his mother and father asked why he looked so blue, he couldn’t give them an answer why. All the words existed, but he didn’t know where to find them. Every time he shut his eyes he could see that baby, the one that had a name even when her mother was being tortured, because that’s all she could think about that would distract her. He saw her brown eyes and how in a certain light, the slopes of his own face were replicated in hers. How he had a daughter. He had a girl who loved him until she couldn’t remember what love was anymore. He stopped watching Westerns. He stopped watching any movies at all. He went to work in Kansas City and ignored the girls at the bar who batted their eyelashes at him. He came home alone every night until another car jackknifed him and he was sent to the hospital — quadriplegic, they said he was. He would never do anything on his own again. It’s the least of what he thought he deserved.

On February 11th, 1978, Sydney gave birth to her second son, Lionel Casey Mercer. When George leaned over her bedside and stuck his nose closer, she ran her fingers through his hair. “He’s your brother,” she told the six-year-old. “He won’t be like you. He's a whole new kind of soul. You have to be gentle with him.” Of course, her eldest didn’t know why she really said this. He could figure that every person was different than the next. He didn’t know that where they lived now in Richmond, Virginia, that she signed her name on a dotted line for Vulcan Laboratories to conduct a study on her while she was gestating. It was money they needed, she and Adrien both knew that, as his job had fallen through and she was looking forward to picking up where she left off before having George, but the risks that came with this child were never really risks — they were guaranteed the moment that the baby let out a shrill cry and the lights in the room began to flicker.

[landinoandco]

Baby, let's live in the now

Max Verstappen x reader

Request from @simxican

Warnings: none :)

Word count: 1.3k

Requests are open...

“Where’s daddy?” Your two year old son, Jack, climbed up onto your bed. To say it had been a tough two years since having Jack was an understatement, with Max’s constant travelling it meant that you had practically brought Jack up by yourself. It had also meant that Max had not been there to witness all of the major parenting milestones: first words, first steps and first day of nursery. It broke Max when he found out Jack’s first word was: “bull,” the whole paddock had found it most amusing but all Max could think about was all of the things he was missing out on.

As Jack got older, you and him were able to join Max on the weekends where the races were closer to home.

Max adored it when you both came to watch the races, he was so proud of you; he admired your perseverance and patience when it came to Jack - the ability to understand his every need just by a small cry or body movement. Something he felt like he would never understand and on the tougher race weekends it sometimes got to him, he wanted to have that close bond with his son; he wanted to be the one to take him to nursery and eventually take him go-karting and to the races. At the same time, he wanted to be a good role model for Jack. He made sure he went into every race weekend pushing to the car’s limits and working hard to always improve and learn - he was showing his son that hard work always pays off and that one day he too would be able to make his dreams come true. This was the thought that drove him forward, his motivation on those harder weekends.

Max knew that being in a relationship with any sports person was difficult - the constant travelling, the attention they received on a daily basis and this is why he had so much respect for you. Your ability to stay calm when he couldn’t and when he just needed to get something off of his chest, you were there to listen and offer your view on the matter. That’s what he loved most about you - the understanding you had for one another.

It was the second race after summer break and Max’s home Grand Prix in the Netherlands. Unbeknownst to Max, you and Jack were going to the track to surprise him before the race started. Jack was a fan-favourite in the Red Bull garage - his inquisitive nature providing the entertainment for all that got the pleasure of meeting him. The garage crew thoroughly enjoyed showing Jack around; showing him the tires, the fancy screens, the motorhomes but most importantly: the cars. Max couldn’t have been prouder when his son first showed an interest in cars - some would argue it was inevitable but the reality of his son wanting to listen to all of his stories and wanting to be like him when he grew older - it was like no other feeling he had felt before.

“Daddy is at the track - would you like to go and surprise him?” You asked your son, picking him up and placing him on your lap. He leant into your chest as you wrapped your arms around him.

“Can we see Uncle Daniel, please?” He asked, his soft, innocent tone tugging gently at your heart. One thing that surprised you about motherhood was the ability to love something so quickly yet so unconditionally - it was the type of love you knew could never run out.

Chuckling gently at your son’s apparent loyalty to the Australian, you kissed the top of his head.

“Of course, my sweet boy.”

Max was sitting on the sofa in his motorhome - a soft hum of music in the background, the upper body section of his race suit dangling from his waist. He was scrolling through the photos of you, him and Jack from the summer break. You all went away on holiday to a small cottage in the Italian countryside - a week away from the hectic lifestyle and into the tranquil surroundings of Southern Italy. He was smiling as he scrolled, wishing that you were both with him this weekend. He knew that you and Jack were celebrating his home grand prix at his sister’s house, as the family had gotten together for a garden party - but it didn't make it any easier.

There was a timid knock at the door, frowning he got up - he wasn’t expecting anyone and the race wasn’t for another 4 hours.

“Come in.” He said, placing his phone down on the coffee table. The door flew open and in rushed a small toddler, shouting: “Daddy.” As he did so. Max’s eyes immediately lit up and he grabbed the boy and spun him around, the latter giggling happily.

Putting Jack down, he looked over to the door and there you stood. A knowing smirk on your lips as you leant against the door frame.

“Surprise.” You said, walking up to him and throwing your arms around his neck. Max kissed your cheek, “This is the best surprise, thank you.” He said, pulling you into him.

“Can we see, Uncle Danny now.” Jack whined, tugging at Max’s draped sleeve. You looked at each other and laughed, Jack certainly had his father’s impatience.

You left the motorhome, Jack on Max’s shoulders babbling on about what he had for breakfast. It took quite a while to get through the Red Bull garage, every member they came across wanting to greet little Jack and asking him questions about today’s race. Jack told them how he was sure his Daddy was going to win and they agreed wholeheartedly.

Finally, you reached the pitlane and were met with the usual chaos of race day - team members rushing backwards and forwards, drivers making their way to pre-race interviews and their social rounds with the other drivers.

Unsurprisingly, Daniel was very easy to pick out from the crowd - a bright orange cape with a large lion blazoned on the back of it.

“Uncle Danny. Uncle Danny.” Jack shouted, still on Max’s shoulders. There was a loud cheer from the already gathering crowd as the three of you walked down the pitlane - it was enough to draw the rest of the drivers attention.

“Well, well, if it isn’t little Jack.” Daniel called out, rushing forward and making sure to wave his cape around. He looked like a rip-off superhero. Max placed Jack onto the floor and as soon as his feet reached the ground, he was off - racing towards Maxiel man; the name seemed fitting. You chuckled to yourself about the joke you had made, catching Max’s attention.

“What are you chuckling to yourself about?” He whispered, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You beamed up at him, going onto your tiptoes and pecked his lips.

“Nothing important.” His eyes twinkled as he rolled his eyes, a prominent smile still on his lips and he snaked an arm around your waist, setting his gaze onto his son and his best friend.

It was his perfect world. Right there in front of him. He had the women of his dreams beside him and a son that resembled all of the traits he saw in himself when he was a young boy. Jack was just like the lion on his godfather's cape. He was happy and that was worth so much more than anything he had ever fought for before.

He was going to win the championship. For you. For Jack. Because why the hell not.

[navybrat817]

Not Your Forever - Chapter 9

Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader, Clark Kent/Reader Word Count: Over 2k Summary: Steve Rogers made a choice…and it wasn’t you. Chapter Summary: You learn the truth about what happened to Steve. Chapter Warnings: Angst, flashbacks, a bit of creepy, slightly unhinged Steve, minor violence. A/N: Thank you for your patience on this! After losing most of my file and having to redo and my son getting sick, the struggle on this was real. Once again, I don’t have all the answers in this one, but I hope you enjoy! Please don’t hate me!!! Divider by @firefly-graphics​

18+ Please!!! Please comment, like and reblog if you desire. Enjoy, lovelies!

Steve didn’t look at you and you didn’t pressure him for an answer. You pushed enough to begin with and you were lucky he hadn’t just left you there. Would the answers give you a way out or more heartache? How much more would you endure before the nightmare ended?

“You don’t think the Avengers are helping me of their own accord?” Steve asked.

“No, I don’t. Maybe they did in the beginning or the night of the gala, but they certainly aren’t now.”

“I told you I have my own kryptonite. I picked up some other things along my journey,” he said quietly, pulling away from you to stand. He seemed restless now. “They would have eventually figured out that I wasn’t your Steve, so I needed to persuade them. They won’t question anything. They’ll follow my orders. Before we go home, I’ll release them all from it. Back to normal, like I promised. You have my word.”

You were horrified. “You...persuaded them? You’re controlling them?!”

“It’s a temporary fix,” he whispered. “To a permanent problem! You’re messing with their minds. Our world. Our timelines. Have you thought of any of the consequences of what you’re doing?"

“Have you thought that this was how it was supposed to happen? That I was meant to come here?” 

“If you were actually meant to be here, why three years after Steve left? Why didn’t you just come back to the place and time he left and stop me from leaving? From meeting Clark?” you questioned before you sat up more, taking in his posture. The clench in his jaw and tensed shoulders showed that you hit a nerve. “You messed up, didn’t you? Or something went wrong.”

“Your Steve was a fighter.”

Your breath caught in your throat, that dizzy feeling hitting you again. “Was?”

"Yeah… was."

Steve didn't feel an ounce of pity as he saw the shock on his double’s face. What surprised him was the rage he felt. Truthfully, he should have thanked him for leaving his time. If he hadn't gone back to his old flame, nothing would have fallen into place. The second chance would have been lost. 

“Who… What are you doing here?”

“Why don’t you leave the questions to me? And maybe we should get out of sight. Don’t need anyone questioning if you suddenly have a twin.”

Your Steve hesitated before he nodded, motioning to follow him. “Let’s go around back. Whatever you have to say, I have a feeling Peggy shouldn’t hear it.”

Glancing at the front porch, he glared through the window. No, he had no reason to be angry at Peggy. She hadn’t done anything wrong. “That’s probably for the best.”

Once the two of them were out of sight, your Steve turned toward him as he set his case down. “What-”

Steve moved quickly, his fist connecting with his jaw before could finish speaking. It was satisfying. “I should kill you,” he said calmly, ducking as his counterpart took a swing back. “Make sure you never come back.”

“What the hell are you talking about?!”

“You had EVERYTHING back there. You had a home, family… you had her,” Steve snarled. “And you left. You fucking left.”

“I had to.”

“You had to? That’s a crock of shit.”

Your Steve fought. Of course, he fought. But he didn’t have the same amount of fight in him. He didn’t carry that same rage.

“Why should you get your happy ending when mine was ripped away from me?” he asked through his teeth, landing another blow. “Why should you get anything?” he snapped, moving behind him and wrapping an arm around his throat

“Don’t you-” he choked out as the arm around his throat tightened. 

“Don’t what?” he asked, letting him go after a few seconds and pushing him to the ground. “Don’t do this?” he asked, kicking him hard in the stomach. He kicked him again and again, wanting him to feel the weight and pain of choices. He needed to know that there were consequences. HE was his consequence. 

“Don’t hurt her,” the former Captain America coughed once the kicks stopped.

“I won’t hurt her, but you’re going to tell me everything I need to know.”

Recognition crossed your Steve’s face when the scepter was taken out, but he was too slow to react. His eyes glowed an unnatural blue as it touched his chest before it faded. 

“Now that I have you full attention,” Steve smirked as he crouched down. Defeat was a good look on him. “You’re going to tell me every intimate detail of your life together. And when you’re done, I have somewhere for you and Peggy to go where no one will ever bother you. It’ll be like you never existed.”

Your Steve didn’t say anything, merely nodding. 

“Before we get into that… I have to know. Do you still love her?”

“Yes,” he answered truthfully.

It felt like a hand closed over his heart, squeezing until he couldn’t breathe. Your Steve still loved you? Even after he left? “Then… why did you come here?” 

“To live the life I thought I needed, but it isn’t the life I want. I broke her heart and I don’t expect her to forgive me. But if I had the chance to do it again, I’d do it right.”

“You’ll never get that chance. So… start talking.”

A tear rolled down your cheek, quickly wiping it away. Your heart had been ripped out of your chest again? Steve still loved you, even though he went back to Peggy. How were you supposed to process that?  “Is he…” 

“Dead? No,” Steve promised. 

Could you believe him? He went back in time, beat him. Threatened him. What did he do to him? “But… You said ‘was’.”

“I put Steve in… purgatory, so to speak. Peggy’s with him. I didn’t want them to be alone, after all.”

You gave him a quizzical look before it dawned on you. “The Phantom Zone,” you whispered. You hadn’t been there yourself, but you knew all about it. A place outside of the normal space and time continuum, it was a barren wasteland. An empty prison that could make the sanest of people go mad. “They… They’ve been there this whole time? All those years?” 

“And they aren’t getting out. His punishment for abandoning everything he used to believe in.”

You couldn’t imagine being trapped there. It would rip your mind apart. Would they even know themselves if they got out? “You can’t keep them there.”

“No one has released them so far.”

If no one released them, maybe someone else knew what was going on. If so, why keep them there? You had to find a way to free them once you got free yourself. “Is that what messed up the timeline?”

Steve turned to glare at you. “I know what you’re doing.”

“What am I doing?” you asked as he went to the opposite wall. 

He pressed a few buttons, both of you watching as the wall opened. “You’re stalling. And you think if I keep giving you more information that you’ll find a way to fix what I’ve done.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” you lied. “You promised you’d give me answers if I asked questions.”

“You’re a terrible liar. I admitted that he still loved you. Isn’t that enough?” he asked, reaching for something out of your line of sight. “Why tell me then?” you asked as he turned back toward you. The glow in his hands made your eyes go wide.

“You see this? Do you see the extent of what I had to do to get to you?” he asked, his voice cracking. His eyes shined with unshed tears as you moved back. “I said I didn’t want to use this on you or Bucky.”

“And you won’t use that on me,” you said, your tone more confident than how you felt.

“How do you know that?” he asked as he took a step forward. 

“Because you want me to love you. Really love you. If you use that… you’ll know in your heart that it isn’t right.”

You watched his grip tighten on the scepter, hoping your words would get him to see reason. You held your breath as he put it back and shut the wall. You wouldn’t be able to get to it with him still in the room. 

“I won’t use it,” he said in a low voice.

“Thank you, Steve,” you breathed. There were too many terrifying possibilities if he used it. He could force you to hurt Clark. Or-

“On one condition.”

“What condition?” you asked timidly, trying not to let fear show in your eyes.

“Kiss me.” 

You flinched, the quiet words repeating over and over in your mind. “I can’t kiss you,” you replied. You were engaged to a man you loved. You couldn’t do that to him.

“Yes, you can,” he said, holding his hand out for you to join him. “Just a kiss.”

“A kiss is never just a kiss.”

“Let’s test that theory.”

Clark's hand trembled as he ran it through his hair. He didn't know he was capable of shaking, but the thought of you under someone else's control terrified him. “No. He can’t use that on her.”

Bucky looked at him sadly. “Look at everything else he’s done,” he said, nodding to where Alfred was lying. “He’s losing himself. He’s desperate.”

“Is he that desperate?” Clark asked, not wanting to believe it.

“He is. Otherwise he wouldn’t have gone this far. And I know a bit about not being in the right state of mind. He needs help.”

“He needs to be put down,” Jason argued. “This isn’t your war buddy or whatever the hell he was to you. Some things you can’t come back from.”

Bucky stared at Jason with an unimpressed and harsh gaze. “I think you and I might be the last two guys to judge what people can and can’t come back from.”

“Listen, you son of a-”

“Enough,” Bruce ordered. “This isn’t about you. This is about Hope and her safety.”

“Then I’m going,” Clark announced as he stood up. He couldn’t stay there a second longer. “Tell me where you think they are. I can’t wait for a plan.”

“Clark,” Conner shook his head. “We all want her back, but Bucky’s right. We can’t just rush in.”

“And we do what? Sit here while he takes control of her mind? If he’s that far gone, what do you think he’ll make her do?! Especially if she can’t fight back?!”

The implication settled like a heavy weight in the cave. “It won’t come to that,” Bruce spoke after a moment. “We’ll be prepared.”

“How?” Clark asked, looking as desperate as this fake Steve likely felt. He was nearly invincible and he couldn’t even keep you safe.

“I’m calling in the League.”

“I thought we didn’t use the League for personal missions. Because they’re… personal. Too risky,” Dick pointed out.

“She’s our family,” Bruce said, looking into Clark’s eyes. “She’s your family. And-”

WOOOOSHH

“Well, that was fast,” Dick said as Barry stopped at the table.

“Good, good. You’re all still here. This is exactly where you need to be,” Barry said quickly, zipping around the group. He couldn’t stay still.

“Barry, slow down,” Bruce said calmly to get his attention, waiting until he stopped. “What do you know?” 

The Flash took a deep breath, a nervous look on his face as everyone waited for him to talk. “I know you’re planning to attack, Clark. But you can’t. You have to let him come to you.”

“So, you know that-”

“That Steve isn’t the real Steve? Yeah. I mean, well. He’s a real Steve, but not the Steve that belongs here.”

“Focus,” Bruce growled in his Batman voice.

“Right! Right, focus. Sorry. You have to stay here, Clark.”

“Why would I do that?” 

Barry’s expression shifted from nervous to pained. “Because if you try to attack now… She’ll die.”

“No,” Clark whispered, shaking his head. “No. She can’t-”

“I saw it, Clark. I promise if you strike first, she’ll die. And I know because… you’re the one who kills her.”