s3mi-ch4rm3d

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

can we stay for a while and listen for heaven?

A/N: my first fic !!!! i wrote this between the hours of 1 and 4am so i hope its not shit asjkffjkd

please please please reblog, comment and like !!! if you have any feedback please feel free to drop it too (:

"You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. "

desc; veteren!reader x simon riley. he comes home on leave after a (kind of) disagreement. all fluff, some non-sexual nudity (a soft little affectionate shower scene). should be fairly gender neutral!!

"Hear the storm dances outside Something set free is running through the night And the dark awaits us all around the corner But here, in our place we have for the day Can we stay a while and listen for heaven?"

Simon “Ghost” Riley, more weapon than man, almost falls to his knees weeping at the sight of you.

You stand, some thirty-feet ahead of him, holding a pistol aimed at his head with perfect precision. Hair wild and sleep-tousled, one of his shirts hanging to about mid-thigh, eyelids drooped and eyebrows furrowed in confusion, lips forming a perfect ‘O’ and he swears to whatever divine being still watching that one day he’ll be brave enough to marry you. 

He’d poetically liken himself to a man returning home from war, but the simile cuts a little too close.  

You lower the weapon, flick the safety on (he narrowly bites back the urge to praise you) before launching it towards the sofa and launching yourself at him. He ignores the burning in his injured side and returns the fervour, arms finding your waist with practised ease. After almost fifty hours awake, Simon allows himself to feel the exhaustion that permeates his bones. He sinks into you – into your warmth, your scent, your love. He fears he’ll never be able to let go again.

You somehow detach yourself enough to blink up at him, eyes still half-lidded. “You’re back,” you whisper, voice so roughened with sleep that he can only make out half the syllables, “thought you were comin’ back next week?” 

“Sorry, darlin’. Should’ve given you a heads up.” He hates how fatigued he sounds, even to his own ears, but he can’t keep up the act. Not with you. 

“Nonsense, Simon Riley.” Your nose scrunches, voice mimicking severity. The way your mouth sounds the shape of his name ringing through his head like a stricken bell, “This is your home, too. You know you don’t need permission to come back.”

He doesn’t know, not really. Especially not at the moment. He’d half expected you to shove him back out the door duffle still in hand if he were honest. After almost two weeks of not speaking, of dodging calls and ignoring texts, he figured he’d deserved it. The knot of guilt begins to twist his stomach. 

You must sense his hesitation – reading him like a book always was a favourite pastime of yours – because you press your face back into his chest, squeezing him briefly before releasing him.  He barely has time to mourn the loss of your warmth before you’re hooking your pinky with his, intertwining your fingers. 

You lift yourself onto your tiptoes, face hovering just a few centimetres away from his, before you whisper.

“You’re not getting into our bed smelling like shite, Si. ‘M hosing you down." 

He watches as the corners of your lips turn up into one of your signature lopsided grins and before he can stop himself he’s leaning in to kiss it, mask be damned. Since there are no merciful gods left, you duck out of the way before his mouth can stick the landing, letting out a squawk of laughter as you swipe out of the way of his arms. He finds his lips mimicking yours beneath the fabric. 

“You’re not kissing me til you brush those fuckin’ teeth, either. Dirty man.”

“I thought you liked the way I taste, love.”

You snort, pinky latching onto him again, leading him towards the bathroom of your darkened house. Reiterate your previous statement by muttering a “filthy man” under your breath. The radiance of dawn spills through the closed blinds as the sun begins its endeavour across the sky once more. Simon follows dutifully behind you. 

Your unoccupied hand fumbles before finding the string of the light switch. You give it a firm tug and cool light blares into the room. Simon barely has time to hiss before you’re tugging it off again, encasing the room in darkness once more. You hum softly, murmuring apologies as you lead him to the toilet seat. 

“Sit. I swear I have fake candles somewhere, I’ll find them.”

An objection rises in his throat, although he obeys instantly, perching on the lid of the toilet. He watches in the low light as you flit about the room, rummaging through bottles and loofahs and sponges before letting out a small “aha!”. 

You methodically disperse small, white discs around the room, clicking them on as you go. Warm light flickers throughout the room, much less overbearing than the beacon overhead. You turn to face him again and he lets out a sigh through his nostrils. You’re far too endearing like this; completely dishevelled, all soft smiles and teasing words. 

He can see it with a bit more clarity now, the way worry has been eating at you. In the dim 'candle' light, he notices the state of your lower lip, chapped and bitten, and the smudges of blue that frame your eyes. The knot that sits at the base of his stomach twists again, digging in, and he tightens his jaw to stop himself from spilling I’m sorry’s like a mantra.

“You planning on washing your clothes as well as your body, babes?” 

Your voice pops the bubble of his self-pity. He blinks thrice, grateful for the mask to hide the downwards tilt of his lips. He attempts to sound breezy as he replies, though it comes out with more bite than he’d like. Typical. 

“Figure it’s the quickest way to stop smelling of ‘shite.’”

It’s your turn to sober yourself as you cast your eyes over him, eyebrows furrowing. You must catch it; the way, however subtle, his body responds to his injury – hunched slightly to one side as if trying to curl protectively around it. He straightens his spine at your scrutiny. 

“You’re hurt,” you whisper, voice so tender, as you take two slow steps towards him, “your side?” Your eyebrows furrow, hands absently reaching for him. 

“It’s nowt, darls. Just some bruising. I…” He rolls the request around on his tongue. He swears it burns, to ask more of you after you’ve given so much. “I need a hand. Can’t really… bend. Sorry.”

Your reaction is immediate. You drop to your knees in front of him, hands reaching for his laces, face set in gentle determination. 

“It’s no bother, handsome.” You’re quick to soothe, to reassure. Always so quick to give him what he needs. He softens like warm butter. “Get started up there, and we’ll meet in the middle.” You toss him a cheeky wink, face still tinged in a trace of worry. 

Never one to deny you anything, he does as he’s told. Starts with his mask – easy enough. He’s too tired to have any reservations now, especially when you’ve spent so many nights devoted to tracing his scars with your lips. He unhooks the straps and slips it from his face, drops the piece of fabric onto the bathroom counter next to him. 

His shirt is… a little bit trickier. He struggles to lift it up above his head, but he manages it soon enough. On his own, despite your assurances that you can help with that, too. He’s a stubborn creature. 

Meanwhile, you’re dutifully and methodically working off his boots. He’s seen those hands broken and bruised, snaked around the grip of so many guns. He’s in awe of their softness; the duality of hands once soaked in blood, now working so gently to undress him. 

True to your word, always, you meet him in the middle. Soft hands ghost over the mottling of bruises littering his left side, shades of purple and blue deep and rich. You frown, casting your eyes up to meet his. Your teeth go to bother your lower lip again but he leans forward to intercept, covering your mouth with his own. 

You hum absently into the kiss, feel the graze of his hand against your jaw, the soft exhale through his nose. You both stay like that for a moment; making no move to deepen the kiss, keeping it light and sweet and oh-so tender. 

You disconnect, your frown banished. He watches through his lashes, eyes half-lidded with relaxation as you stand back up, hands moving to the hem of his your shirt. Simon reaches to help, you swat his hand away. 

“Ah-ah! Just sit back and enjoy the show, Riley. I don’t give ‘em out for free.” You wink, cocky grin rising to your lips. God, he has it bad for you.

“Show me how it’s done, love.”

You put him to shame. Lift your shirt off with one confident sweep of your arms. His hands twitch with the effort to keep them by his sides. The rest comes off just as easily, barring your fluffy socks. You almost end up flat on your arse, cheeks flushed as you slouch against the bathroom counter repeating ‘stop laughing, Simon Riley, or so help me God–’

A few moments later and you’re both in the shower, standing under a stream of water just below scalding. He hisses as the jets hit him, rolling down the planes of his back, slowly loosening the knots along his spine. You’re standing so close, nearly pressed against him, and this time he doesn’t stop himself from slipping an arm around your waist. Your bare forms merge and he feels like a ship returning to harbour. He feels tethered.

You’d told him earlier that this building was his home. You were wrong – he fights the urge to say it now. To chant ‘The four walls have nothing to do with it. My home isn’t this house, it’s you. It’s here, in my arms’ until his throat runs dry. 

The way you tilt into his grasp, your arms winding so naturally around him, slotting against him so perfectly makes him think you already know the words by heart.

After a few minutes, you break away. Simon is just breathing out an objection by the time he notices the loofah in your hands. You squirt a splodge of soap onto it and a wave of your signature scent fills his nostrils. His objections die on his tongue. 

You work the soap into a lather before gently taking one of his arms, eyes flicking up to meet him for a moment in a silent question. He answers with a nod and you get to work, systematically massaging away the layers of grime and dirt. You work in small circles down his arm, scrubbing his armpits and washing the grit from beneath his fingernails with precision, before moving onto his other arm. 

And so the time passes; both arms, across the chiselled plains of his broad chest, down to his navel, spinning him around so you can work your way up his back. Then you’re onto his legs, his feet, before you move on to washing his hair. 

He has to stand facing away from you (much to his despair – you look so focused, your tongue almost poking out in concentration), head tilted back to give you access to the top of his head. Still, you stand on your tiptoes, rubbing and massaging the shampoo into his scalp with firm but doting hands. You hum as you work. 

He’s flooded with warmth at the depth of your devotion. 

Hours or seconds pass by, simultaneously too much and too little time, and you’re done. You guide his form back around to face you, rising up to place a sickeningly sweet kiss to his lips. His body is sagging as the exhaustion finally drapes over him like a well-worn blanket. He blinks to keep his eyes open.

“Your turn?” He murmurs, voice a jumble of syllables. 

“Mmh, I’m okay, babs. We need to get you into bed,” you hum. His eyes close for half a second and by the time he’s opened them again, the shower is off and he’s wrapped in a soft towel. 

“Our bed?”

You huff out a breathy laugh, “Yeah, Si, our bed.”

Pinkies entwined, you lead him once more. Sunrise is fully upon you now, a kaleidoscope of peaches and tangerines spill through gaps in the curtains to bathe the bedroom in pinks and golds. You guide Simon Riley, now far more man than weapon, to his side of the bed. The man barely makes it to a horizontal position before reaching for you -- a request that you happily oblige. 

You settle against him with the same practised ease, curled against his uninjured side, head tucked against his clavicle. He hums beneath you, arms slotting into their designated space around your waist. 

A few moments pass. You’re certain that he’s already asleep when his voice, deep and full of timbre, cuts through the tranquillity. 

“I’m sorry,” he rasps, his large hands dragging up the notches along your spine. “‘M stupid, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t– you don’t have to, Si. I get it.” You exhale against his collarbone, arms tightening around him. “It was a bad time. I didn’t mean for it– it just came out. I get it.”

Simon murmurs in disagreement, but he returns the motion. Arms squeezing your sides like he needs an anchor, something to hold on to. 

“I shouldn’t have ignored you. I was a coward. I–”

His head turns, lips grazing over the crown of your head. His eyebrows furrow and he freezes for a moment before whispering, voice so quiet you have to strain to hear it. 

“I feel it, too. I can’t– I can’t say it, but I feel it. I do.”

You feel the corners of your lips twitch up involuntarily. This absolute muppet of a man – watching you all evening like you’d hung the stars one by one, like you were some divine creator, some source of eternal beauty that could make the angels quiver. You bite back the urge to laugh, and instead tilt your head upwards, graze your rough lips across the underside of his jaw. 

You whisper back, trying to pour as much love and devotion as you can fit into three words. 

“I know, Si.”

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

FaT GiRL Zine 2 — February, 1995

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

when ghost tries to pick you up early on into your relationship, you resisted with a frown and told him you were too heavy for him

the next day, he sends you a gym video of him doing hip-thrusts using over three times your bodyweight. he says he’s practising for tonight

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Ghost who hates anything loud, thinks it's annoying.

Ghost who hates when multiple people talk at once.

Ghost who hates when people are clingy drunks.

Ghost who hates crowded spaces, they give him a headache.

Ghost who refuses to go to the shops with anyone because he can just make do with what he has until he really has to go.

Ghost who hates being asked the same question over and over.

Ghost who hates being followed around base.

Ghost who would never go out of his way for physical touch.

Ghost who snaps at Johnny at 3am for being too loud with his snoring.

But...

Simon who loves listening to you sing your heart out in the kitchen.

Simon who can listen to you ramble on for hours, either to him or someone else.

Simon who loves when you're all over him after you had too much to drink.

Simon who loves having you near him no matter how much empty space there is.

Simon who will make excuses to leave the house with you just so he can call it a date.

Simon who will never grow tired of explaining the same thing to you, he loves that you see him as a reliable man.

Simon who will go out of his way to look for you just so he can ask you to come with him on missions or to do little assignments.

Simon who has his hands on you almost 24/7 and almost pouts when you have to leave.

Simon who will give anything to listen to your snores and groans in the middle of the night.

Simon who, no matter what, will love you over all.

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Case File - Casimira "Heretic" Broz

A/N: ok hi this is my first time posting anything i've written rip... hopefully this helps me get a bit more confident !!

Massive massive thanks to @charliemwrites for letting me use the character sheet template !! i hope u guys enjoy, i have a few fic ideas for heretic inspired stuff later (:

Character File

Name: Casimira  Angelika “Heretic” Broz

Aliases: Mira / Cass, Gwiazdko (by her grandmother, meaning star), Grandma (her original squad), Little Guy (in reference to herself)

Age: 31

Gender and pronouns: AFAB, she/her (?) (but also calls herself “little guy” often, and seems indifferent to masculine terms in general)

Marital Status: Single

Surviving family: grandmother, younger brother, mother (estranged)

Physical description:

A well-built figure – a lot of muscle, with the majority of her strength kept in her legs, with thick calves and hefty thighs. She often claims to be “working on her upper body strength,” although no discernible change to her upper body strength has been made. She stands at 5’3  5’4 (161cm) and 127lbs. Casimira’s hair is long, almost pitch black in colour with a slight wave to it. It’s constantly pulled back into a crisp ponytail – you can usually tell when she’s having a bad day by the neatness of her hair. Has been heard cursing loudly in Polish when frustrated at the styling. Her eyes are pools of (mostly) light brown, rimmed with deep eyebags (no matter how much or how little sleep she gets). 

Identifying/Unusual features:

A small speck of blue in her left iris

A beauty-mark under the right-hand side of her lip

A few facial scars: one cutting up through both of her lips on the left-hand side of her face, another just above her eyebrow on the same side.

A few other innocuous scars littering her arms, entirely tattooed over

A burn scar that curls up her entire right leg, worsening at the bottom and gradually fading at the top.

Tattoos:

(where to even begin………………)

A patchwork sleeve on her right arm with small, seemingly random symbols/images (including a pair of scissors, a rosary, an icepick, a bar of soap, a dog baring its teeth, like five different beetles, some skulls of different animals, a singular tooth, a duck skateboarding, etc etc)

A set of 4 swords on her left thigh, seemingly from media she enjoys. (Sting and Andúril from LOTR, Excalibur, the Master Sword from LoZ)

‘Should I Stay?’ above her left knee, ‘Should I Go?’ underneath the same knee – a reference to her favourite song

An effigy to Laika on her left bicep surrounded by a scattering of scars, with the message “patron saint of one way trips”

Special file note: Do not dare her to get a tattoo, she will do it. She will regret it. And then she will proceed to do it again the next time someone dares her. DO NOT LET HER OWN A STICK AND POKE KIT. 

Early Childhood:

Broz’s earliest memories revolve around worship; the wave of incense invading her nostrils, being bathed in a kaleidoscope of rich colour as the sun refracted through the stained glass windows of her local church with the taste of salty wafer heavy on her small tongue. There, under the roof of the small chapel, strangers united by their shared devotion. 

Her mother was undergoing her postulancy and in the process of becoming a nun when she found out she was pregnant with Casimira (out of wedlock, no less). The embarrassment and stigma pushed her family out of their small, rural Polish town, and as such they immigrated to England when Broz was still an infant.

There was a distance between her and her mother growing up, marked by a mutual understanding of disappointment – on drunken evenings with too much wine in her stomach, Iga would complain loudly about the life she gave up to have her. 

Her Babcia, on the other hand, adored her. While she was never one for verbal expressions of love, hidden between half-hearted jabs, tuts and constant worrying was proof of her adoration. Knitting her scarves and gloves and blankets because you’re always wearing such little clothing, pilling her lunchboxes full of home-cooked food because when did you get so thin, mały Gwiazdko?

As Broz grew older, mindless devotion grew less enchanting. The church became a stuffy little place instead of a second home, and she often left with more questions than answers. As she grew more doubtful, her mother grew more evangelical and fanatical in her beliefs, which was only worsened with the birth of her younger brother to another nameless father. 

In school, it seemed as though nothing academic came to her naturally. What other students could do as easy as breathing, she had to devote herself fully to in order to make good grades. She felt as though she constantly had something to prove, had to fight to be praised for her efforts and be noticed. 

Athletics, on the other hand, came to her like breathing. She joined almost every athletic club her school had to offer – from archery, to track, gymnastics. Team sports specifically; netball, football, cricket, rounders – she excelled at them all. There was something about working as part of a group; following signals, obeying commands, non-verbal communication was where she thrived. Always willing to make the risky play in order for her team to excel. 

Around the time of her brother’s birth, at age 15, was when she started considering joining the military. As her home life grew more tumultuous, she grew desperate for any way to escape. The comradery witnessed at careers fairs enticed her. The idea of working together to actually achieve something, to influence the world in an important way, to help! 

She joined shortly after turning 17. 

Military Career:

Broz originally wanted to enter the military with the aim of becoming a Chaplain, but changed her mind shortly before enrolling.

Unwaveringly loyal, endlessly patient and respectful, she hastily rose through the ranks. She made fast friends with everyone in her first squad, quickly earning the nickname Grandma due to her constant faffing and dry humour. 

She grew to be well-liked by her superiors also; her history in team sports and devoted nature made her a brilliant soldier. She was cooperative, level-headed, and very eager to impress. Excelled at stealth, hand-to-hand combat and at sniping. A jack-of-all-trades type soldier, she fell easily into any role. 

Her only flaw was her tendency for martyrdom. She would do anything for her team to succeed, even if it meant pulling the self-sacrifice play. It landed her in many difficult situations – the only issue on her disciplinary record. 

The trajectory of her career was altered dramatically with the death of most of her team, with herself and her Lieutenant being the only survivors.

Broz fought tooth and nail against the idea of honourable discharge in the wake of this tragedy, and her determination caught the attention of Kate Laswell. Heretic, after her recovery, now serves by flitting between squads under Laswell’s purview. Whether it be helping with gathering intel and infiltration, ambushing and sabotage, she offers her services to teams temporarily to fill whichever role is needed of her. 

While she still proves to be dependable and loyal, she seems to have developed an issue with fraternising with new teams. Her issues with self-sacrifice still place her in trouble for insubordination often. 

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Imagine laying on your back, your hips elevated by a pillow with Ghost fucking into you at such a nice, deep and pleasurable angle that all you can do is whine and moan, your high pitched noises driving Simon crazy; he wants to bring you as much pleasure as he can even at his own overstimulation :((

His cock is gently tapping against all the sweetest spots but he starts to get sore and achy, he came so much already but you're still insatiable today so he keeps going but his own moans start to get higher and more frequent and the steady rythm of his thrusts starts to falter :(

You notice the sudden lack of rythm, Si's cock starts to slip out and not hit the sweet spots anymore but you're so close to cumming! You can't have that!

So you lock your legs around his broad hips and just keep him in you; the former thrusts now more of a quick grind into you and you moan out loud with happiness and pleasure while telling Simon what a good boy he is and to stay just like that♡

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Introducing: Rook “Duke” Alistair

(Just a little character intro before she makes a proper appearance in the SpecGru fic)

It’s 2am.

It’s 2am and Kate’s phone is buzzing. A rapid, violent bzzt-bzzt-bzzzzzzt pattern that shakes the few other items on the nightstand. Incessant. Important.

She plucks it off the charger already wide awake, propped on one elbow to block some of the screen light from reaching the other side of the bed.

“Laswell,” she answers, hushed.

The voice on the other end is not. “Gooood mornin’, boss.”

“It’s 2am, Duke.”

“It’s 2:17 to be precise.”

Kate doesn’t bother to check the clock. “You're calling for a good reason, I assume.”

“Of course!” In the background, there’s a computerized ding. Then the clacking of a keyboard. Duke continues, still bright as birdsong, “I have a lead on that terrorist cell. Not - hold on - Nelson, put my slushee back in there I’ll get it in a damn minute! Anyway, not the one with the ugly flag. The one with the dumb name.”

Nelson, Kate thinks vaguely, is going to get mysteriously transferred if he doesn’t stop messing with a certain tech’s frozen treats. This is the third time this week.

“The Gun Fathers?” she offers.

“Haha, yeah them!” More clicking. A thump and a yelp in the background. “They’re planning on taking some exchange students hostage in Russia.”

Kate’s slips out of bed, phone held in place with her shoulder. Sighs a little wistfully at her wife’s sleeping form, but duty calls. She’ll make this up to her - dinner at that nice tapas place, maybe. Duke can get them a reservation.

“What students?”

“Working on the individual files now, but it looks like a fun mix. Some Australians, some Brits, a bunch of US citizens… ooh, someone from France, that’s rough.”

Hell, that’s a lot of governments to coordinate with.

“Where?” Kate asks, tugging her socks on.

“Looks like they’re going to grab them from a hotel in the Caucuses. Caucuses? Cauc-ussies? Cucksies?”

She pauses to drop a gentle kiss to her wife’s cheek, then pads out of their bedroom. The house is dark, cool. She navigates without light, stepping into her shoes.

“How many?”

The cats stretch as she passes through the living room, snatching her shoulder holster out of the hall closet.

“16 students total, not sure how many terrorists. Aw, is Chauncey awake? Give him a smooch for me! These dummies usually go for a ratio of three innocents to one dummy though. Ugh it’s not a round number.”

More clacking. The sound of a plastic rapper through the earpiece. Duke’s broken out the candies then.

“What else have you got for me?”

“It looks like we’ve got about 35 hours until they move in. But! We confiscated their new supply of guns during that border raid soooooo—” she clicks her tongue, the typing sounds get much louder and faster for a moment. “They should be… pretty… low… on… ammo…”

A pause Duke seems to focus on something. Kate takes the opportunity to finish’s dressing, keys in her hand. She pats Chauncey and Augustus as she passes them.

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” she says.

A hum. “Eleven, actually. I have the traffic system pulled up.”

Of course she does. Laswell would tell her to stop doing that if she thought it would do any good.

“I’m sending a bunch of files your way,” Duke adds. “Drive safe and give Chauncey that damn smooch!”

The phone beeps as the call disconnects. When Kate looks at her phone screen, she’s got a small library of information waiting for her. Names, locations, pictures and security feeds - and a note promising more on the way.

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

might fuck around and actually start posting the fics i write 😳

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Character File

Name: Rook “Duke” Alistair Aliases: Daisy Dukes, Daisy, Sunshine, Blondie

Age: 26 Gender and pronouns: AFAB using she/they Marital Status: Single Surviving family: biological father (estranged), adoptive mother, adoptive father, brother

Physical description: Standing at 5’9” (175cm) and 135lbs. (61 kilos) Rook stands tall and wiry. Though slighter than her brother, Castle Alistair, she’s still packed with muscle that is carried primarily in her thighs and abdomen. Her hair is strawberry blond, cut into a medium length bob – though it curls quite a bit. She is often seen with several pins and clips in her hair trying to keep it back from her face. Her eyes are green and large, set in a round face that makes her look young for her age. She had braces in her early teens to straighten her teeth.

Identifying/Unusual features:

Light freckles across her nose and forehead

No facial scarring

Tattoos: A daisy behind her right ear A simplified castle outline on her bicep (for her brother) A stylized sun on her left shoulder, crawling across one side of her chest and up her neck Binary for “service” on her forearm

Several burn scars on her hands, wrists, and arms

A birthmark on the bottom of her right foot that few people have ever seen

Special file note: Rook holds the records for most and dumbest injuries on base. Often the smallest and most unexpected incidents have led to a medbay visit. She is often seen with bandages, bruises, scrapes, and scratches. Thankfully, she is a good patient and most of the medical staff enjoy her cheerful demeanor.

Early Childhood:

Rook’s earliest memory is her older brother walking her to preschool. He was sharing an orange with her, carefully peeling off bits of pith for her to munch on.

While he, Helena, and Clancy are technically her cousin, aunt, and uncle respectively, she has always considered them her immediate family. She only met her biological father once when she was twelve and was not impressed.

Her childhood was filled with laughter and love, though she often felt oddly displaced. Helena and Clancy were much older and had never planned on a second child – never mind a girl. And her brother ended up shipping off to college when she was only five. He visited when he could, but she spent a lot of time on her own or unsupervised when she hit eight years old.

She was very close with Helena, the two of them playing the radio loud to sing along while they did chores around the farm. Rook absolutely adored her mother, and to this day dreams of her peach cobbler when she’s away from home. As a result, Rook picked up her love of clothes with interesting prints and bright colors.

Her relationship with Clancy was not strained, but not as easy as with Helena. Of course, he loved his adopted daughter, he just wasn’t sure what to do with her beyond that. Oftentimes, it led to him treating her like Castle, though her flightier and more energetic nature made some of those lessons take differently.

Rook was often praised for being an inquisitive and intelligent child – though some of her teachers found the constant barrage of questions to be disruptive. Somewhat unexpectedly, she excelled in math from an early age, followed quickly by the sciences.

In middle school, the blond farmgirl jokes began. Unlike her brother’s quick temper to defend himself and his family, Rook usually took the route of laughing along with them. (That said, nothing stopped her from pushing a girl down for trying to step on a frog one rainy April day.) This developed into a tendency to hide behind a ditzy persona, which felt safe and easy.

In high school, she took a special liking to physics and engineering. Focused more on schoolwork and helping around the farm, she didn’t date much. (That said, anyone with an interest in her had to debate the merits of her marine brother coming home to meet them.) She much preferred learning to code online and rescuing strays that happened across the farm – much to her parents’ chagrin.

Throughout her life, Castle was her role model. In her childhood, he seemed like a third parent, but as she got older, their relationship developed into a more typical brother-sister bond. Even so, she needed no proud rambles from her parents to look up to him.

So, as her future began to loom, and decisions became necessary, she followed a similar path to him. Rook enrolled in the ROTC program at the same college he attended – though she chose a double major in engineering and computer science that set her down a different road.

Military Career:

Alistair’s early military years in the Air Force are riddled with ups and downs. Intelligent, positive, and respectful, she was well-liked by both superiors and comrades. Quick to finish tasks, solve problems, and aid others. That said, she had something of a disciplinary record for small but repetitive issues. Uniform violations, minor misconduct (forgetting to salute officers or speaking out of turn), and general… regulatory issues.

While not headed for dishonorable discharge, she was dodging demerits and often faced disciplinary action. However, upon finding a major leak in one of their information networks, she came to the attention of one Kate Laswell.

Laswell, impressed with her intelligence and work ethic, found that her military-defying eccentricities were easy to overlook considering her benefit to the military. Alistair was soon transferred under Laswell’s direct purview to aid different missions and teams as a “hacker” and engineer. While Alistair remains something of an oddball, she and Laswell have built a solid working relationship.

(During her employ with a certain Shadow Company during her Air Force days, Alistair earned the callsign “Duke” – a derivation of Daisy Dukes due to Alistair’s appearance and farming background.)

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

imagining Heretic in therapy like:

"I wanna fuck Castle."

"Your Captain..?" "Yes." "A good one?" "Yes." "Looks good in the..." "In the tactical gear, yes." "Do you really wanna fuck your Captain, or do you want to fuck the concept of Authority?" "CAN you fuck Authority??!?!"

“Oh yes”

Now see here’s the thing…… he’d be so about it. You want him in stealth gear? Desert gear? Reaper gear? He’ll happily fuck you in any of them

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

Character File

Name: Castle “Daddy” Alistair Aliases: Daddy, Captain Daddy, Big Daddy Age: 38 Gender and pronouns: AMAB using he/him/his Marital Status: officially unmarried; unofficially – very taken Surviving family: mother, father, sister

Physical description: Standing at 6’3” (190.5 cm) and weighing 225 lbs. (102 kilos) Captain Alistair is all around built strong and thick. Broad shoulders, slight tapering at the waist, and thick thighs. His hair is dark brown, shaved close at the sides and longer at the top – if he allowed it to grow out it would curl. His eyes are a very deep brown with a strong, square jaw and aquiline nose. Teeth are straight and even, though he has prominent canines. (face claim: John Bernthal)

Identifying/Unusual features:

Two facial scars; one across the bridge of his nose and one high on his left cheek. Both required stitches, though they were acquired separately.

Tattoos: The SpecGru symbol on the left side of his chest An ouroboros snake around his left thigh A rook with daisies on his right bicep (for his little sister) A full back pieces of the Grim Reaper with ravens

Two crooked fingers from a break that didn’t set correctly

While he has several scars, the worst of them is crisscrossing circles around his left calf; a steel cord wrapped around it multiple times and almost took the entire leg

Early Childhood:

Castle was born to Clancy and Helena Alastair in Michigan. Clancy had always wanted a boy, so after a difficult delivery, he and Helena were happy to stop at one and focus all their attention on their son. The first twelve years of his life were spent in a quiet suburb that was developed in the 50s.

Clancy owned fifty percent of a construction company that he built from the ground up with a childhood friend. When Castle was old enough, his father began to bring him to construction sites, teaching him the basics of both business and carpentry. Castle grew up with a strong appreciation for hard work and building things from the ground up, instilled by his father. He greatly admired Clancy’s dedication and hands-on approach as a leader.

Castle also had a deep love and respect for his mother, a music teacher at the local high school. She was both charismatic and eccentric, with a love of silly dresses and jewelry. She embodied kindness and compassion without compromising her own self-respect, the people she loved were her whole world. Family was everything to her and Castle feels that she taught him what love truly is.

In middle school, Castle developed something of a temper. Love, he thought, meant protecting his family. Insults or jokes about either of his parents were met with swift and violent responses. He spent many afternoons in the principal’s office (and many nights without dessert) from brawls in the lunchroom or curses traded across classrooms.

In the spring of sixth grade, Clancy got into an accident that left him with permanent damage to his knee and lower back. He chose to sell his half of the company to his business partner, then bought a small farm that he moved his family to that summer. While Castle initially was angry about the move, and angry that he had no say in the matter, he found that he really enjoyed the wide-open spaces and all the animals they now had to tend to.

Seventh grade brought better friends and a better attitude. Working on the farm gave him a physical outlet for all his growing hormones.

That winter brought a little sister.

Clancy’s younger brother (the well-earned black sheep of the family) had had an affair. When his affair partner died of birth-related illness, he was left with an illegitimate child. Neither his affair partner’s family nor his own wife wanted anything to do with the baby. So he brought her to his eldest brother, Clancy.

Even past their prime and with no particular desire for another child, Clancy and Helena took the baby girl in without hesitation. (Though Clancy did kick his younger brother’s ass quite soundly while Castle sneakily watched from the window.) She didn’t even have a name yet. Helena jokingly suggested naming her “Rook” to go with “Castle,” but then their son latched onto the name, and it stuck.

Rook became Castle’s whole world as he helped his parents care for both a baby and their new farm. He often sat with her when he came home from school – kept an eye on her while he did homework, giving his parents a break to take care of things they hadn’t been able to with the baby. While they weren’t technically siblings, they were blood, and Clancy insisted that the age gap between them meant that Castle needed to act responsibly with her. That she would look up to him since he was so much older already.

In high school, he would often walk (or carry) Rook to and from preschool on his way to his own classes. Clancy wanted him to join the football team, and while Castle enjoyed it to an extent, he preferred to be helping at home.

It was in his junior year that he began to seriously consider joining the military. By senior year, he had decided. When he graduated, he went into an ROTC program at the state college an hour away. Once he graduated, he joined the marine corps.

Military Career:

Alistair rose quickly in reputation and rank during his time in the marine corps. A level-headed and disciplined man, he became known for his leadership prowess early on. While not outgoing, he was well-regarded by his comrades and often a morale-booster, excelling in any unit he was placed in. He excelled in stealth and infiltration but had an impressive record as a sniper as well.

Unfortunately, his career was cut short when information leaked on a high-risk mission. The mission was a failure, with two teammates sacrificing themselves for the sake of the unit. At the safehouse, the remains of the team were ambushed just as exfiltration arrived via helicopter.

While trying to help a comrade up, a steel cord tangled around his leg and nearly dragged him from the aircraft. In the pain and panic, he dropped his teammate to his death. Alistair would have lost his leg if not for the quick response of his sole surviving team member.

Alistair would later discover that very teammate was the one to betray the unit. The man mysteriously disappeared, and Alistair was honorably discharged from service.

A year later, he was recruited for the PMC known as SpecGru.

SpecGru:

Keegan Russ is credited with coining Alistair’s callsign, “Daddy,” though his fellow teammate Nila “Nova” Brown quickly adopted it as well. They claim this is due to Alistair’s close observation, concern for health, and deep protectiveness for his squad. His adaptive and lenient leadership style has endeared him to even the most standoffish of his team – Nikto.

The addition of the fifth and final member to his unit has skyrocketed them to one of the highest success rates in SpecGru.

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

ending off the year with a third wizard. this time it's a custard (or flan) wizard (flizard)

Happy new year!

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FINALLY some good fucking feature ideas from the tumblr devs. tamagotchi renaissance now

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woke up this morning, rolled over, and very confidently tried to blow out my alarm clock like a candle. absolutely no precedent for that.

[s3mi-ch4rm3d]

The world was so ungrateful to you...