#what if his accent is HORRIFIC?

[jonathankai]

After learning that Gorilla was working for Fathom prior to working for Agreste, I really want to see an episode in french dub, where Gorilla just opens his mouth and starts talking in english and proves to be rather talkative guy, maybe cracks jokes and really like idioms. All this severe atmosphere all these years, and it seems like he’s just a foreigner who... never got on good terms with french phonetics, I guess??

[suiana]

(yandere! polar bear hybrid x gn! reader) (CW: slight gore description/murder description)

if it's brown, lay down.

if it's black, fight back.

and if it's white, say goodnight.

especially if it's a male hybrid who developed an infatuation with you.

"shit shit shit! get away!"

you scream at the polar bear hybrid, running away as fast as you can. your lungs burn, chest heaving as you hear the male hybrid chase after you.

you were a researcher sent to antarctica to research about the wild life and how they coped with climate change. you saw arctic foxes, penguins, seals, all of which you were ecstatic to see. they eere just the cutest after all!

unfortunately, you had also garnered the attention of a polar bear hybrid.

you knew that polar bears were carnivores. you knew that it was dangerous. but you were curious about him, especially because he looked friendly. you should've turned your back on him and ran away when you had the chance.

you first met him a few months back when you were observing some seal hybrids that came up to land to bounce about. he was standing a few feet away from you, your eyes wide as you felt your heart freeze up.

you had thought you were going to die that day. after all, meeting a polar bear was not a coincidence. not with their keen sense of smell and their history with hunting humans down.

but you saw him outstretch his hands towards you, holding a fish as his cheeks flush red, trying to communicate with you with random sounds.

"for me?"

"n...ngh..."

he nods his head, trying to nudge the fish towards you. you were hesitant to accept, but you eventually did. which led to you two talking often, growing closer and closer by the day.

you had taught him english, basic english at the very least so you two could communicate. he was eager to learn, listening intently. and in return, he taught you about himself and his way of life. much was gained from your exchanges with one another.

you found him endearing with how he always chirped and repeated your words, english rolling off his tongue with a heavy accent. you thought it was cute for him to call you 'his' and for him to say he loved you.

rightn he was just testing out new words! perhaps he found it interesting to say and repeat like a newborn child! that's normal, isn't it?

"love... love. mine."

"yeah, you love me, don't you?"

you tease, bumping his shoulder as you teach him a few new phrases, not noticing the faint blush he always had on his ethereal features. he probably meant it in a joking or friendly manner after all.

little did you know, he was not joking when he constantly told you he that he loved you.

nor did you remember that he was still a hunter at heart.

"a-ah!"

screams of pain awoke you from your deep slumber that fateful night. you immediately sit up in your bed, looking around before quickly wearing your thick coat and venturing out of the research base. what was that shouting? did your fellow researchers see something crazy?

well, you definitely did.

and it was a horrific sight. the sight of your polar bear friend ripping one of your researchers to shreds, scarlet blood staining his skin as he rips the poor guy to pieces. that's not even the worst part, for you saw two of your other team members laying not too far from the polar bear hybrid, bodies unoving and mangled beyong recognition.

you instinctively let out a scream at the sight, eyes widening as you bolt out of the base. your heart thumped loudly with each step you took, tears brimming at your eyes as you hear the polar bear hybrid chasing after you.

was he hungry? did he finally decide that he was going to kill you?

no, it was a fate far worse than that. and you finally realized that as the weight of what he called you hits you hard.

"mate! no run!"

he shouts at you, chasing after you on all fours as you run away as fast as your human body would allow you to. adrenaline ran through your body as you did your best to escape nature's natural hunter. but it wasn't enough.

"shit shit shit! get away from me!"

you shout, whimpering as you trip on your laces, falling face forward into the cold snow. you immediately try getting back up to run away. but by the time you pushed yourself up, the hybrid was already standing over you, eyes filled with an expression you wished would not exist.

obsession.

"mate... mate... scared? no need scared... no hurt mate."

he mumbles gently, face softening as he bends down beside you to rub your cheek reasuringly. but it was hard to be reassured with how his mouth and body was stained with your team members blood.

"n-no don't touch me! you're going to kill me too aren't you?!"

you shout, shivering as you try backing away from him. your words cause the hybrid to pause, his sharp eyes narrowing at you as his grip on your face tightens ever so slightly.

"said... won't hurt mate. no scared."

he mumbles, staring at you before pressing his forehead against yours.

"only get rid of trash."

he sighs happily, looking at you with adoring eyes before rubbing your cheek with his thumb.

trash?

your heart stopped at his words, realization settling in. shit, so he wasn't lying when he said he loved you, nor when he was saying he only wanted you to himself.

you could've prevented this.

you.

could've.

prevented.

this.

guilt seeps into your veins, tears finally rolling down your cheeks as you let the polar bear hybrid cradle your body in his arms.

"no... you didn't have to kill them-"

you sob, weakly wiping away your tears as the male tilts his head at you. confused, he doesn't understand why you eere crying or why you wished for him to not killyour teammates. why was his mate so sad? he should probably cheer you up!

"mate no cry... why? was... going to eat them since start. was watching you since the start. hate the way you always go back to... them. mate is mine since then. since mate... take offering."

the male hybrid says in an attempt to reassure you. but obviously, it did the opposite of just that.

oh. so he really was watching you since the beginning. that offering with the fish wasn't just him being curious. did he fall for you at first sight? shit, you knew you should've just ran away at the sight of him!

"the fish was an offering?"

"yes. offering for mate."

he nods his head, smiling slightly as he reminisces his first actual meeting with you. after all, he had been observing you for quite a bit before that. he just finally got the courage to meet you that day! and you accepted! unknowingly of course.

you look away from the hybrid, shaking slightly as some of the guilt leaves your system. ah, so maybe this wasn't fully your failt. you couldn't have predicted that it was actually an offering, could you?

"bring mate home now. mate tired."

the polar bear hybrid hums, goving you a bloody smile as he stands back up, cradling you in his arms. but you start flailing about, squirming as fear enters your mind. wait what? home? were you getting kidnapped by him?

the male says nothing for a bit continuing to walk back in the direction of his home. but as you continue to struggle and shout at him to be let go, his patience grows thin and he looks down at you with a warning look.

"stop moving."

he grumbles, glaring at you as he grips you tightly. blood drips down onto your face as he talks, your eyes widening in fear before you quietly obey not wanting to upset him.

no, you were just reminded of how brutal he could be. and you didn't want to be at the end of his anger. not at all.

the both of you remain quiet for a bit, the only sounds being heard were the sounds of his feet coming into contact with the snow with every step he took. thatw as until he broke the silence.

"love mate. mate so precious."

the hybrid mumbles, looking down at you with a longing expression before he sighs softly.

"mate mine now. all mine."

he giggles, cradling you closer to him before stopping in front of an igloo looking thing. was this his home? you weren't sure, but seeing as he was staring at it, it most likely is.

"temporary home. will build mate nicer house soon."

he mutters, placing you down on a makeshift bed made using... what looked like seal and fox fur.

you sit uncomfortably on the fur, not moving as the hybrid sits down beside you, holding you close to him. silence fills the air as he looks at you fondly, not saying anything at all.

he leans his head against you, rubbing your hand affectionately before sighing again.

"love forever. only us."

he mutters before pressing a blood stained kiss onto the back of your hand. you could only stare quietly, unsure of what to say. on one hand, you didn't love him. i mean he's not even fully human! but on the other hand... you didn't want to trigger his anger by trying to escape or refuse him.

oh well, you guess this is your new life now.

[sweet-as-an-angel]

Yandere Wild West Outlaw!'s Reaction to You Trying to Escape

Warnings: Slight Sexual Content, Implied Sexual Thoughts, Dominant Outlaw Confirmed, Kidnapping, Restraining/Binding, Binding Kink ( 👀), Punishment, Outlaw having Intrusive Thoughts, Forced Proximity (And They Were Roommates), No Pronouns Used For Reader Except ‘You’.

♡ He has you tied down to a chair so quickly you don’t even get the chance to feel the wind being knocked out of you.

♡ Yandere Outlaw hasn’t survived this long by letting pretty little things like you turn the tables on him. And if his unwavering strength and endurance aren’t enough to confirm that, his knotting skills are.

♡ “Thought ya could pull the wool over my eyes, didn’tya,” the Outlaw drawls, pulling the rope tight over your wrists, panting, recovering from your frolic with freedom.

♡ He leans in, close enough that you can smell the rock-beaten freshness of his shirt, can feel the warmth of his anger radiating against your skin.

♡ “Suppose I’ll just have to discipline ya. Make ya nice and obedient.”

♡ Despite the low, husking tone of his voice, the quiet promise of promiscuity in his drawl, Outlaw’s rendition of punishment comes as… solitude.

♡ He leaves you tied to that chair for hours, riding off into the desert, leaving you with nothing to entertain you save for your thoughts and the wonderings of what he’d do to you when he returned.

♡ You might view this as a cold, calloused method of behavioural conditioning. Starving you, not letting you stretch your legs or go to the bathroom.

♡ Of course, the punishment is still horrific. But, rather unintentionally so.

♡ You see, in the moments between Outlaw’s two-minute tango between you, himself and his rope, something in his brain had switched. Snapped.

♡ Having you look up at him with wide eyes as you writhed beneath his touch, the burn of the rope, the pleas starting to fall from between your lips for him to let you go, stirred something in him. A primal frenzy. A dark need.

♡ Yandere Outlaw can’t think straight, his mind flooding with involuntary ideas, notions of what he could do with – to – you while you’re bound and at his mercy.

♡ He doesn’t know what happened; why having your body pressed so closely to him in such a thrashing, violent, desperate encounter has left him with a heavy burden in his heart and in…other places.

♡ He’s wrangled captives before and they’ve never had the same licentious effect as you did. Then again, he’s never kept a captive for this long, either. And certainly not willingly.

♡ Yandere Outlaw eventually returns, the thought of you helpless in that chair weighing heavy on his mind all day, taking him down avenues and annals of thought he’d only have the opportunity to explore under the cover of darkness.

♡ Of course, he was concerned that you must be hungry by now. Thirsty, too.

♡ That, and…

♡ How there’d be nothing to stop him from having his way with you.

♡ Yandere Outlaw shakes his head, his horse letting out a puff, as if she could read his mind. Don’t, she told him.

♡ “Don’t worry,” he said, voice quiet. He patted her mane, rubbed the space between her ears. “I won’t.”

♡ Upon Yandere Outlaw’s return, he cuts you loose. He doesn’t apologise, but his silence is thick enough with the accent of shame that you can tell he regrets, in whatever slim capacity, what he’s done.

♡ He puts together a simple meal tonight, either for a lack of trusting that you won’t spike his meal with one of the earth’s thousand natural poisons, or as an apology for his actions.

♡ That night, as you lay next to the Outlaw in bed, your hands and legs bound to the bedposts, the Outlaw looks over you. Watches you.

♡ He doesn’t know why the image of you being tied up hadn’t aroused him as much as it had earlier. Especially now, of all times, with you sleeping beside him, entirely incapable of defending yourself if he acted on his primal desires.

♡ Perhaps it was the thrill of the prospect of having everything on the line, of losing you. Perhaps it was the display of his strength, his ability to make you do whatever he pleased through physical force alone.

♡ Yandere Outlaw tried to dampen his thoughts by placing his hat over his face; to stop the heat he was certain made his cheeks glow in the pitch blackness of the cabin. 

♡ And to stop the onslaught of another issue. 

♡ Taking a dip in the cold waters of the river this time of night didn’t much appeal to him. Especially when he could indulge himself a little longer in the image of you gagged, bound and entirely his.

Reblog for more content like this! It helps creators like myself tremendously and it is greatly appreciated :-)

Masterlist Yandere AI Masterlist Masterpost

AO3 Wattpad

[wileys-russo]

Alessia Russo “if Kim asks Kyra did it. Training.

recovery roomII a.russo

"well well if it isn't our little hat trick hero!" you looked up from your phone with a grin, steph getting out of her own car as you pushed up off of the side of yours.

"if it isn't the mighty captain catley! where's your child?" you teased, kyra not having left stephs side basically the entire camp. "oh god i have had the most blissful two days kid, you don't even understand!" steph moaned happily, dean having whisked her away to a spa to help with the jetlag.

"you picked a good one steffy." you smiled, always happy to see how well dean treated her and had treated her for the many years they'd been together.

"your turn next! when are we going out to test my wings?" steph asked with an excited glint in her eyes as the two of you started to wander across the parking lot waving to a few of the girls doing the same.

"oh my god stop that stephanie please." you laughed, face burning bright red at the way the older girl was flapping her arms around like she was a bird. "what? i'm being a wingwoman." steph grinned as you shoved her and the two of you fell into step again.

as far as your teammates both for club and country were concerned, you were in their eyes painfully single.

they went out of their way on team nights out to try and take turns pointing out people from all walks of life they felt would be a good fit for you, or stealing your phone to argue over whose turn it was to swipe away on your dating apps.

and up until a couple of months ago, you appreciated their efforts. as much as what most of the girls perception of your 'type' was, was horrifically wrong.

but that all changed when a certain blonde striker came barreling into your life, knocking the air from your lungs and kicking the cobwebs off your heart, filling you with emotions and feelings that up until then you'd assumed were permanently retired.

but neither you or alessia were oficially 'out' and hadn't ever had any sort of public relationship your entire careers, so with a plaguing fear in the back of both your minds that allowing the public eye into your little bubble would pop it entirely, you'd kept things very much to yourselves.

you'd both made an agreement before international break that you were feeling near ready to tell your family and closest friends at the very least, neither one of you feeling any sort of pressure from the other which was a welcome relief.

but not having seen your girlfriend for going on two weeks now, with you away on camp with the matildas and alessia with the lionesses, you were in an extra chirpy mood.

which is how you found your jaw near aching with how hard you'd been smiling all morning, relishing in catching up with all of your teammates and friends.

but eyes flickering to the doors of the cafeteria every few seconds awaiting your favorites blonde entrance you couldn't contain the butterflies fluttering around in your stomach in anticipation.

"oi! spade cadet, you still with us?" you were snapped back to reality as leah clicked her fingers in your face, humming and trying to tune into their conversation. "sorry, had some weird dreams, slept funny." you were quick to speak, excuse seemingly accepted as no one else prodded you for anything further.

then finally you heard her before you saw her, her boisterously melodic laugh echoing around the cafeteria as she walked in with vic and emily, shoving the shorter dutch girl beside her who hurried away to jump on teyah.

her eyes roamed the room before they locked with yours, sending you a dazzling white smile and a wink before she grabbed a tray and loaded up with breakfast, making a beeline for the spare seat at your table as the girls all greeted her happily.

"hi lessi." you smiled softly, swooning as she repeated the greeting back in the sweet accent you'd grown to adore, her foot brushing up against your calf beneath the table as she pushed you her juice and your eyes lit up, her own heart melting at the sight.

"steph!" you protested as before you could grab the small bottle it was snatched from your path, the older girl cracking it open and downing a large mouthful, pushing you away with her free hand as you reached for it.

"i had to poison check it! i'm just looking out for ya." your national captain grinned finally handing you back the now half empty bottle as you scowled and she only pinched your cheek in response.

"kyra's been a bad influence on you." you huffed with a roll of your eyes, her shoulder bumping into yours before she returned to her conversation with beth.

you looked up as someone gently kicked you, a smile curling onto your face as you and alessia played footsies under the table, careful not to stare too adoringly at one another and engage with your teammates around you.

catching your gaze you saw the blonde subtly nod behind her as she stood, grabbing both her tray and yours as well as leah and beths, a chorus of thank you's sung her way as she made her way out of the cafeteria.

you waited a few minutes before doing the same, lying to steph that you left something in your car and wanted to hurry to grab it before training when she stood to go with you, assuming you were heading to the media room for the mornings debrief.

caught up saying hello to a few more of the girls on your way you eventually made it out and carefully ensuring you weren't being followed or watched ducked away to your usual meeting place with your english striker.

you'd barely stepped into the recovery room before her hands were on you, a laugh leaving your mouth as the door banged shut and she had the audacity to shush you, wolfish grin on her features as she pressed you against the tiled wall.

"me? you made me slam it!" you whisper yelled at her, both of you pulling the other into a tight hug, melting into one anothers touch with content sighs.

"i missed you." alessia mumbled out, peppering a few kisses to your neck before pulling her head back. "we facetimed nearly every night!" you teased, arms wrapping around her neck as the taller girl smiled lovingly down at you.

"no thats where you say 'baby i missed you more'. then we argue for awhile over who really missed the other more, and then i just shut you up with a kiss." alessia beamed as you shook your head, fingers scratching at the base of her neck, fiddling with a few loose baby hairs which had fallen out of the bun at the back of her head.

"can we just skip to that part then?" you teased, puckering your lips and pulling her closer as her body vibrated in amusement but she wasted no time arguing, quickly pressing her mouth against yours.

you exhaled happily at the sensation of kissing her, forever consumed with the euphoric feeling which warmed your body from the tips of your toes right to the end of your nose, your whole body alight.

"babe we have the meeting!" you reminded with a laugh, the words mumbled against her lips as alessia pressed you more firmly into the wall, hands squeezing your hips and using the moment to slip her tongue into your mouth.

"less." you warned, pulling back with a slight gasp as she held your bottom lip captive between her teeth, sucking it back into her mouth as her right hand moved to cup the back of your head so she had a little more control over you continuing to pull away.

right as her feet kicked your own apart, her thigh slotting in between yours and your breath hitched, a few more gentle but sloppy kisses trailed down your collarbone, the door suddenly flew open.

both of you breaking apart alessia wasted no time taking your hand and yanking you around the corner, both of you ducking out of view as your hands covered one anothers mouths and you heard a few members of staff discussing the plans for today, clearly grabbing some extra yoga mats before they departed, both of you exhaling in relief.

"that was way too close. you have no self control russo!" you smacked her chest, the grin still sitting happily on her face as both of your cheeks were flushed red with heat and your eyes rolled.

"we've still got seven minutes to the meeting and it only takes two and a half to walk there from here?" your girlfriend wiggled her eyebrows making you laugh as she pulled you gently into a much softer kiss, hands falling either side of your face as you sighed happily into her mouth.

"okay! we can continue this tonight." you pulled away and poked her, tugging her hands off and pushing for her to start walking. only you really should have taken into consideration that it was alessia you were dealing with, the girl born with two left feet both ten sizes too big for her body apparently.

so though it was a hardly a rough push, it was enough for your girlfriend to consequently trip over her own feet and go sailing toward the ground, reaching out for a shelf to try and steady herself but instead she only succeeded in pulling that down with her.

you stifled your laugh as she shielded her face and the viles of various essential oils and creams they used for massages came sailing down on top of her, somehow not breaking as finally the noise stopped and you both held your breath for a moment that no one would walk in.

when you heard no footsteps you doubled over laughing, the striker sitting up blushing in embarrassment and smacking your ankle, mumbling that it wasn't funny as she stood to her feet with a huff.

"come on clumsy." you shook your head in amusement, grabbing her hand and guiding her toward the door as she pouted clearly feeling very sorry for herself.

only right as you went to exit you both jumped a foot in the air as another one of the shelves came down, apparently attached to the other and this time the various containers which fell did break with an almighty crash and smash.

you and alessia shared a wide eyed glance and booked it out of the room, your girlfriend pulling you again around a corner and stealing a kiss as you both laughing into one anothers mouths to try and stifle the noise to no luck."

"if kim asks, kyra did it."

[snaileer]

Time Unsolved

Dp Unsolved

“Today on Buzzfeed unsolved we cover the Timely Disappearance of Charles T. Williamsworth.”

Danny slurped loudly on his drink as the intro played. Was he maybe crazy for watching a Buzzfeed Unsolved True Crime alone, at night? Maybe.

But Danny had been attacked by ghosts. What was a human gonna do that Skulker couldn’t?

“What a name!” Shane cut it immediately, yellow words typing themself across the screen. Ryan laughed.

“‘Ello, yes, my name is Sir Charles T. Williamsworth, how art thou Ah yes, jolly good!” Shane mimicked with a horrifically bad posh British accent.

Ryan laughed harder, “We’ve been to London, they don’t sound like that!” He said between laughs.

“Uh, /he does! There’s no way a man with a name like that is not ‘mm yes I will take a spot of tea with my biscuit thank you.’ I’m calling it, he definitely talked like that!”

Danny smiled at the antics as Ryan wheezed, “Well it’s too bad we’ll never know for sure then isn’t it, what with his disappearance, y’know what we’re actually here to talk about.”

“That’s okay. /I’ll know. I know my buddy Charles.”

“Alright then.”

The screen was lit up with an image of a man on a black backdrop.

“The Williamsworths were a French-German family who moved to Biel, Switzerland in early 1914, just months before the largest war in European history kicked off.

They were one of the lucky few families to have left France before the war broke out…”

“Oh a family moving, that’s suspicious now?” Shane cut in.

“Well, it was right before World War 1, I mean the timing is kind of suspicious.” Ryan replied in blue.

-People move, Ryan.-

-Okay, okay, it’s just the facts of the case,.-

Danny rolled his eyes, ready for the story to continue.

The images came back.

“This move would evidently prove to be quite fortunate for the family for obvious reasons. However, it also led Charles to find his true passion: … Watchmaking.”

There was a pause as a map of Switzerland came on screen. “Biel, the town that Charles would live in for the majority of his recorded younger life, was known for watchmaking, being one of several in the heart of an area named ‘Watch Valley.’ “

-You ever own a Swiss watch?-

-Nope-

-Heard they’re good. Reeeal good.-

-Yep.-

-…-

“Charles would reportedly develop a passion for clocks, watches, and timepieces in general, only getting more entrenched in his obsession over time.”

The image of the man now shifted to be overlaid on a map.

“By the time the First World War was over, Charles had gained an ostentatious apprenticeship under one of the premiere watchmakers of the time, Max Stührling. This lasted until Stührling’s death in 1938, after which Charles vanished from any records for two years.”

-Well y’know, his mentor had just died. -Maybe he wanted to grieve. Y’know curl up in his room and not see anybody for a bit.-

Ryan laughed, -2 years, he was crying in his room for 2 years and nobody found him?-

-Well, it’s not like records were great back then, I mean what are you gonna write on the census… just.. like..-

-Loud weeping heard from inside. One resident. Unnamed.-

-Yeah!-

“The next time Charles T. Williamsworth appears on record, it is in the back of a photo from France in 1940. Showing Williamsworth standing in front of a watch shop wearing dark clothes, a distinct pocket watch, and looking into the camera.”

The black and white image appears on screen, zooming in on the background figure. Danny tilts his head at it, something about it niggling at him.

“The shop and its owner would go on to be infamous within the town for the duration of the Second World War. Charles was unwillingly drafted in the summer of 1941, serving on the front lines for no more than 3 months before sustaining a wound to his face, leaving him with damaged eyesight, facial scarring, and a medical discharge.

He returned to his shop soon after.”

Danny frowned at the mention of what the man had probably gone through.

“With later evidence statements regarding Charles stating that he was an ‘odd man. He never mentioned the war, leaving it behind once he was not forced to be a part of it. He seemed to be separate from it all, he only cared for his watches.’

This sense of separation would extend to his shop, as when the town was bombed in 1944 leading up to D-day, his shop was left miraculously unharmed. It was reportedly open the very next day.”

-I can appreciate the dedication- Shane says in yellow.

-Yeah, I mean, the morning after is a bit soon, but he did really love watches. If he didn’t have to, I guess he wasn’t gonna close his shop.-

-He’s advertising, ‘Sure you were almost killed in a fiery explosion, but look! I’ve got new watches!’-

Ryan laughs.

“Over the next 50 years, Charles T. Williamsworth would disappear from records repeatedly, sometimes for months, only present on seven censuses between 1952 and 1979. Despite this, the clock shop was never sold, remaining in wait for its master’s return.”

Multiple pictures of pocket watches came onscreen. “It became known in the surrounding area for especially good pocket watches and grandfather clocks. Each personally made using Swiss essemblage practices, often engraved.

While it was a place of prestige, some described the shop as having ‘an unbearably loud sound of ticking, as if a thousand clocks were set to the same second.’

Apparently, Charles ‘seemed to enjoy the sound, often standing in the front room when no one was present. He was able to pick out one clock if it was off time.’ Witnesses stated.”

It cut to showing Shane and Ryan at their table.

“God, I can’t imagine. That’d drive me crazy.” Shane said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I don’t know, a thousand clocks at the same time? Just..” Ryan looked back and forth frantically, as if there were sounds from every direction, “I’d go nuts pretty fast, I can’t even handle one sometimes.”

“I’d just go off and punch one of the clocks, just- RAAAH and -oh my god is that where that comes from?! I’m gonna punch your clock? Or like you clock somebody!?! Oh my god I never realized that!”

Danny’s jaw drops at the realization as Ryan laughs. Shane looks to be losing his mind as well.

“However, Charles’ most notable disappearance was his last.”

Dramatic music played as Danny zoned back in.

“Due to his frequency of vanishing for extended periods of time, it is unknown when exactly Charles disappeared. The last definite sighting of Charles T. Williamsworth was late at night on April 23rd, 1999, when neighborhood patrolman, Elliot Dubois, noticed him locking the door to his shop with its lights still on. Elliot, concerned for the safety of the elderly man, questioned him but eventually allowed Charles to leave, noting that he turned down a road that only led into the woods outside of town.

Two weeks later, 12 year old James Chappellè, a mailboy in the area, noted during his morning run on May 7 that mail had begun to pile up in front of the shop’s door.

Something that had never happened before.”

The word ‘before’ faded into red.

“It reached such a point that the mail system declared they would no longer deliver, as they couldn’t guarantee it wouldn’t be stolen.

At this point, the police got involved and the case was assigned to Detective Jacob Laurent.

It turned out to be a more difficult case than first expected, as when they looked into Charles’ past, they were unable to turn up any such notable documents as a birth certificate nor any document containing a birthdate.

But when police entered the shop on May 10th, they found it largely empty, with only the shelves, register, and equipment left remaining between the front and back room.

It should be noted that there was still money in the register, and a light on in the back though the other bulbs for the front seemed to have been burnt out.

Upon entering the living space above the shop, it was found to be covered in dust, and all of Charles’ clothes and belongings still present.

Rather, there was evidence that Charles largely slept in his shop, with a cot beside his workbench.

A workbench that, upon police entry, only held one gold pocketwatch, personally engraved with the initials ‘C. W.’ As it was known for Charles to always carry the pocketwatch, he was officially declared missing and possibly presumed dead.

The watch’s presence also led detective Laurent to suspect foul play.

However, despite the declaration of foul play, the police did not extensively search the town woods, citing the size and density of the forest.”

The video cut to Shane staring at Ryan, face deadpan. Ryan was clearly trying to hold back laughs.

“So… let me get this straight… an old man who’s… how old at this point exactly?”

Ryan laughs, “Nobody knows, there’s no known birthday-“

“That’s weird too, but okay, let’s say he’s like what, at least 95? I mean… there’s a certain age that like if you disappear… ..eh.” Shane shrugged.

Ryan looked at him incredulously, “Eh??”

“Yeah,” Shane shrugged again, “Eh.”

“What???”

“I mean… y’know… old people wander into the woods sometimes, maybe he just went for a walk and got lost. At that age… death has gotta be around every corner, I mean come on!”

Ryan wheezed into his elbow.

Danny laughed quietly.

Once Ryan calmed down, he organized the file, clipping it down on the table, “So! With the story finished, let’s get into the theories,”

Shane rolled his eyes, “Oh god this is gonna be one of yours isn’t it? What ghosts are abducting people now?”

Danny smiled, briefly considering how much effort it would take to go haunt Shane all the way in LA.

“The first theory is that Charles T. Williamsworth was involved with the mafia at the time and was a long standing or high ranking member that had crossed the wrong people.

Some reasons for this theory is the lack of early documents, suggesting a fake identity or forgery.

This case is especially supported by the long absences, where his shop remained closed and yet still remained in his possession.

In fact, the deed for the shop was not listed under Charles’ name, instead Iisted as owned under a private organization.

This theory explains his disappearance and possible subsequent death as an act of revenge from an enemy made from illicit activities. Leaving no body behind, there would be no evidence to prosecute the acting party.

Within this, there are also some who believe that if Charles was engaged in the mafia and lived under a false identity, that his disappearance was him returning to his actual identity, possibly due to being caught.

Prison records indicate 6 Swiss-German inmates arrested at the approximate time of his disappearance, roughly matching the age and appearance of Charles. Notably, none of them had a distinct facial scar and no identification was ever confirmed.”

The screen switched.

Shane smiled at Ryan, “Oh Ho Ho, my boy Charles is getting into some funky stuff, huh? Workin’ for the Mob, breaking knees, chopping fingers?”

Ryan laughed, “Yeah maybe, it definitely lends credit to him being a part of something. Maybe he was out in the woods breaking knees y’know. Or burying something.”

“Someone,…”Shane said ominously, then burst out laughing, “What if he buried himself! Just-“Shane mimed digging, clapping his hands like he was wiping off dust, “Alright, thats a good illegal grave right there, just a good hole for a dead- woaaah!” He pretended to fall, “Boom, stuck in his own grave.”

“Really, this old man dug a 6 foot deep grave? On his own?”

“Hey you don’t know his strength, maybe he lifts.”

“Alright.” Ryan shook his head, still grinning.

Danny smiled, considering it, it did kind of make sense.

“The second theory is that Charles T. Williamsworth did indeed just walk into the woods and never come out. If this is the case, what happened in the woods is widely speculated on. Some saying that animals may have attacked him, or that he simply fell or was injured and could not get up due to his age.

This theory loses support due to the fact that no body was ever found. Though some say that if the woods were too big for the police to search, there may be a den or that his body was covered naturally.”

“Or in a grave.”

“You really think he was mafia?”

“I mean, who could tell?” Shane shrugged.

“The third theory, much like the first, is that Charles was a federal agent for one of the Allied Powers.

This theory is also supported by the significant periods of absence and lack of documents to indicate a forged identity, meant to fool the German government and allow him to work behind the lines. However, unlike the first, there is also evidence of a man with the same distinct scar on his eye, showing up in the background of photos at the British Intelligence Office, the Eiffel Tower during Germany’s occupancy, and behind closed Swiss borders.

None of which would be possible without the unique skills and permissions of a government agent.”

Silence reigned as Shane and Ryan stared each other down, Shane clearly ramping up for something.

“The name’s Williamsworth. Charles Williamsworth.” He said dramatically.

Ryan burst out laughing. “You support this one more then?”

“Yeah, I’ve changed my mind, he’s not in the mafia. His suspicious activities were in the name of secrecy, national secrets, confidential war trades. Espionage…”

“Well I guess, nobody’s gonna suspect the 95 year old man to be up to anything. I mean, if I saw an old man somewhere I’d just be like, huh I wonder who lost their grandpa, not ‘I bet he’s secretly working to take down Hitler.’ Y’know.”

“Charles gets caught: just ‘Whaa-at me~e? I’m just a gentle~e o~ ol~ld ma~an, I can’t harm nobody~y.” Shane mimed leaning over a cane.

“He gets caught and just pretends he has dementia, ‘Who am I? Who are you? Why am I here? Where’s my breakfast?”

Shane cackled as Ryan laughed.

Danny considered it more, this one seemed the most likely, though… he’d definitely be the oldest agent.

“Another theory is that the shop was robbed and Charles returned while or before it was happening, catching the criminals off guard and leading them to react rashly, injuring or killing Charles. They then would have hidden his body and cleaned out the shop to hide any other evidence.

This theory however is disproven by the lack of money taken from the register.

Despite this, it is the official claimed circumstance by the police at the time.”

“Fucking police, always with the boring one.” Shane said ruefully.

“Our last theory, and my personal favorite,-“

Shane groaned. Danny smiled, this was gonna be good.

“-is that Charles T Williamsworth was a time traveler. And that all of his disappearances were when he was traveling through time.

This theory supports his families early move to Switzerland under odd timing, his appearance in so many photos and even his obsession with clocks. As well as why he seemed unbothered by the tumultuous times.”

“I can… accept it.” Shane said, hesitant.

Ryan laughed, “I’ll take it.”

“Despite all of these theories, there is still significant information missing from the case.

And so, like clockwork this case shall remain:

Unsolved.”

Danny’s mouth dropped as the screen went dark.

No way.

No freaking way.

He lurched upwards, eyes wide.

Obsessed with clocks, scar on his eye, fricking weird and talks in riddles.

Oh mygod!

Danny threw himself out of bed, “I’ve connected the dots!” He rushed to untangle himself from his sheets, transforming immediately, “I’ve connected them!”

He dove for the ghost portal.

Holy frick!

Charles T. Williamsworth was Clockwork!

[beejunos]

SINNERMAN | Alastor x f.reader | part 1.

Summary: After Sir Pentious's failed attempt at spying on the hotel, the Vees approach you to make a new deal—a deal that you can't refuse. Help them take down Alastor, and you will get to kill him again.

After all, the great butcher of New Orleans had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. And you would love to do it again.

Tags: Alastor x f!reader, slow burn, obsessive behaviour, enemies to lovers, spying, murder

PART 1. | AO3 | PART 2.

Chapter 1. The Deal

The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

Hell was not just a place where souls who had done horrific things with pleasure went, but also with people who had done appalling things out of necessity. Murderers, thieves, abusers and, growing more in numbers every year, politicians - hell was not a place for the weak-minded, but sometimes a human could be pushed into such acts, not because they themselves were more inclined to such behaviour, but because circumstance could turn anyone into a bloodthirsty killer.

You were one of those people.

Condemned to Hell for an eternity for a crime that you still believed to be justifiable. After all, the great butcher of New Orleans killed your brother, so it was only fair that you killed him in return.

"I told you it was a bad idea to pick that idiot to spy on the hotel. Did you honestly think it would work?" said Velvet without looking up from her phone. She was typing something with rapid-fire as she blew a bubble with her pink gum. It made a big popping sound that seemed to echo in the living room, making Vox clench his fist so as not to destroy the desk again. They had just replaced the last desk after he had dug his claws into it and left deep and long marks in the wood, and he did not feel like getting yelled at again for ruining the decor.

Vox counted to ten slowly backwards before he turned around from the monitors to look at the short woman. She was sitting curled up on the sofa before him, dressed in luxurious loungewear with hearts all over it. Valentino was sitting stretched out right beside her, his arm casually on the backrest. He was on his phone as well and did not look up when Vox came closer, but Vox could see that he was also irritated by Velvet's comment from the slight twitching of his right eye.

"Well, Velvet, my dear," Vox said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “I don't remember you having a better idea, but please, if you do, share it with the group."

Vox stopped walking as he reached the sofa, hands behind his back, and leaned down in front of the female sinner to force her to look at him. He had never been good with others ignoring him, and Velvet was taking her sweet time finishing her text before she even looked up from her phone. When she met his eyes, electricity was firing between his antennas, filling the air with static noise.

She just sighed before she picked up her phone again and started typing.

"You picked an idiot; that's why your plan didn't work. Little Miss Sunshine will believe anyone; just pick a smarter spy next time," said Velvet in her heavy British accent, popping another bubble with her gum. Vox's irritation grew with every word she uttered, and for a moment, he entertained the thought of grabbing her phone and throwing it out the window.

"And who do you suggest we'll ask?"

It took Velvet a few more seconds of searching before she found a decent photo, and then she turned her phone and showed Vox who she had in mind. The photo was old and blurry, with its subject in the distance, but it was still possible to distinguish who was in the picture. Vox turned his piercing gaze from Velvet down to her phone and quickly stepped back.

"You can't be serious!"

"Who?" said Valentino, now interested, as Vox started to pace the room. Velvet turned her phone towards the moth demon, and he reared back in alarm. "Are you out of your fucking mind? Do you even know how expensive she is?"

"So what? If you want the job done well, then pay a fucking professional," stated Velvet as if it was apparent.

"Professional? She runs a PR firm! Glorified party whores. Why the fuck should she be the spy?" cried Valentino, throwing his arms in the air. The gesture would have made anyone in his studio flinch, waiting for an impact, but Velvet sat rooted in her seat. She was used to the man's physical displays of anger by now but never feared them since he would never dare lay a hand on her. She lifted one of her eyebrows and continued with her argument:

"Didn't you see the fucking joke of an interview the princess did on the news? The hotel has a serious marketing problem. Everyone thinks it's a joke! What if the princess had someone to help her with the marketing and networking? Someone she would trust wholeheartedly, and that person worked secretly for us? It would be the best fucking spy! Not a guest but a staff member who could manipulate everything from the inside. We would know everything. A staff member would also be with the princess all the time and could keep an eye out for Alastor to make sure that no deal is made!"

Valentino groaned loudly before throwing his phone on the coffee table. He knew that Velvet's argument was good; he just did not like how expensive it would become if they went with it. There was a reason only the top of the elite of hell hired this PR firm, and it wasn't just for the public relations part. Rumours were travelling around the underground networks that you also dealt with some shady businesses, but who weren’t in this town?

"Can't we just kill them ourselves? I still want to shoot someone," mumbled Valentino, knowing none of his partners would accept the idea.

"And what? Piss of Lucifer for attacking his daughter? We could just piss on our own graves instead! If we pay her, we know she will get the job done; after all, you've heard the rumours, right?"

"What rumours?" snarled Valentino, sinking deeper into the sofa. His night was now officially ruined.

"No one hates Alastor more than she does."

"Well, that's not new! Half the city hates the old-timey prick." Vox, who had been pacing back and forth deep in his thoughts, abruptly stopped and turned around to look at Velvet. He also highly doubted anyone could hate the radio demon more than he did, but that was beside the point.

"So, let's use that to our advantage," said Velvet, growing more frustrated by the minute, "She is bound to at least be interested in the job if we can convince her to take down Alastor with us."

It wasn't a dumb idea, which annoyed Vox the most. However, his desire to take down Alastor outweighed any concerns for costs. He was prepared to cut his own leg off with a rusty saw if it meant he could take down the demon that plagued his very existence.

Vox sighed and crossed his arms in front of him, effectively giving up on arguing against Velvet.

"Okay, how do we contact her?"

On the opposite side of the entertainment district, where the Vees residence was located, was a small part of the pride ring where the older architecture still stood. The sinners who lived there were usually the ones who had stayed in hell the longest, many of whom had lived during the 18th and 19th centuries. There were fewer flashing lights and billboards in this part of town, but that did not mean that the sinners who lived there were anti-technology—for the most part.

That was why you liked living in this part of Pride, being from the early 20th century yourself. There were no loud noises, and during the night, you would, on more occasions than not, get a good night's sleep. Compared to the entertainment district, where no one seemed to sleep ever.

Your PR firm was located on the top floor of an old Gothic Revival building in the centre of this district. With its intricate stone details and towering spires, the building could feel almost cluttered and overwhelming on the outside. However, the rooms were spacious and elegant, with large stained-glass windows that cast colourful lights throughout the building.

You loved your office building and its moody exterior and interior. It made you feel like a character in one of the gothic novels that you had only learned to appreciate after your death. You could also argue that the whole thing had been influenced by the fact that when you had died and woken up in hell, your soul had taken the form of a bat. Reminding you of the book Dracula that your mother had loved so much, but that was irrelevant.

Walking around dusty old stone buildings, surrounding yourself with heavy wooden furniture and thick dark fabrics worked much better with the wings, big pointy ears, claws, and razor-sharp teeth you had now.

You had tried in the beginning to surround yourself with things that reminded you of the time you had been alive, but as time ticked on and the years went by, you could not help but leave most of the 20s and 30s behind and welcome the new ages, and all their inventions and quirks, with somewhat open arms. Your youngest assistant, a young sinner named Claudine, who died at the age of 25 in 2015, talked a lot about how similar social media in hell was to when she was alive, but considering the things she liked to show you, social media was one of the inventions you did not have any interests in. Your people could handle it for you instead, and if the three overlords that had strolled into your office like they owned the building were running the biggest tech and social media company in pride, you would happily leave that responsibility to Claudine.

Vox, Velvet, and Valentino were indeed a sight to behold. A poor sight for you. Their fashion and colourful clothing clashed horribly with your moss-green couch.

It was always a satisfying experience to observe new customers arrive at your office. However, this time, you could not help but wish they would just leave.

You put down the silver tray you held, with all the teacups and the teapot, on your mahogany coffee table and sat in the armchair on the opposite side of the sofa. Slowly, you started to pour the tea from the pot into the small and thin teacups before handing the first to Velvet. 

"Suger?" you asked, opening the lid to the sugar bowl. 

"Yes, please," she said, putting two sugar cubes in her tea. The smaller sinner grabbed one of the tiny spoons before she started to stir her tea, making the spoon hit the side of the teacup. The clinking sound seemed to bounce around the room endlessly. She may not have the most refined manners, according to you, but you suspected that she was the one who had wanted to see you in the first place since she was the one who was behaving the best.

"I must say, I was quite surprised when my assistant said that the Vees were waiting in my office." You took one sip of your tea that had one sugar cube and a dash of milk in it. "It is not often that I get these types of unplanned visits unless someone is in dire need of their reputation being saved, and last time I checked, you three had your own PR team." 

"We are here because we are interested in your more niche skill sets." 

Now, that was far more interesting. You had a sense that the Vees were not here for what your company offered on the outside but more for what you could provide that was strictly off the records. 

You looked over at Vox, who had spoken. Waiting for him to continue. 

It did not take the sinner long to tell you their plan and why they had decided to contact you specifically. Hell was filled with sinners and demons who said they specialised in espionage or assassinations, and although they could get the job done, more often than not, these "professionals" would leave long traces of evidence behind, which didn't matter in the end since hell did not have any justice system to speak of, but if you wanted to be undetected, it wasn't the best solution. However, you took your job seriously and worked with the utmost discretion, which led to you now holding almost the same amount of power as any overlord in pride. The big difference between you and the other overlords was that your capabilities were mostly unknown, and that's how you wanted it. It made it easier for you to work in the shadows. To hunt and kill without anyone knowing they were being hunted.

Only two overlords, Carmilla Carmine and Zestial, knew of your strengths and often hired you to deal with others they did not have time for or wanted to make time for. Yet, if the Vees knew about this side of your work, that meant the information about your skill sets was being spread around a bit more frequently than you wanted it. But that didn't worry you too much since you could always have Claudine and Earl fix it in just a few days.

"That is not a small task you have asked of me. To take down another demon is one thing, but to take down an overlord? Who also works for the princess? Now, why would I ever do that?" 

"We're not asking you to take down the princess. Only Alastor," said Velvet, putting a hand on Vox's arm. The man had started leaning forward unconsciously, his fists closing up with every second. 

Alastor. There was no man on earth or in hell that you hated more, and you would gladly watch him bleed to death, forgotten and alone in the forest again. After all, he had killed your brother, so it was only fair that you had killed him in return. But things had changed. He now possessed a form of power that you had never seen in another sinner in all your years in hell, and it made you pause. You knew that as soon as he found out what you had done, he would avenge his death, and you were not sure that you would survive that. So you stayed in the shadows, bidding your time. 

"Either way, we are not asking you to take him down alone. We want you to ensure no deal is struck between that radio freak and the princess. Find his weaknesses and help us take him down." Vox had the sort of manic look about him that you only saw in souls who were consumed by their obsessions, making him unreliable and reckless. But a deal like this did not come to you often, the type of deal that made you believe that you could kill Alastor again, and you never looked a gift horse in the mouth.

"Very well, I will help you, but it will cost you. Five hundred souls."

"Dea-"

You did not let Vox finish before saying, "Each."

"Each? Bitch, are you out of your mind?" roared Valentino, who had been quiet up till now. Even if the other Vees did not start shouting like the moth daemon, they were equally shocked and angered by your demand.

"My prices have always been high. Take it or leave it." You looked over at Vox, staring him down. You knew he would be the first to crack and agree to your demands. Velvet may have been the driving force that had led the Vees to your office, but she was still too rational and would start to bargain with you. Vox would sooner or later let his obsession win, making him agree to your deal.

"Do we have a deal?" You reached out your hand to Vox, trying to corner him and push him into a contract with you.

Before Velvet or Valentino had the chance to stop him, Vox shot forward and took your hand, and as he uttered the words that would sign their contract, an eerie green light filled the room. Cracks travelled up the walls all around you as the howling of hunting dogs travelled with the wind that started to blow in the office. Large shadows of the hunting dogs began to grow on the walls, their red eyes fixing the Vees in their places and right as the dogs would pause and devour the sinners on your sofa, the green light dissolved, and all that was left was the four of you in your office.

"Always a pleasure doing business with new customers," you chuckled, letting your sinister smile dance on your lips.

[euovennia]

hcs for reader getting carried away on a mission and getting tipsy and becoming the life of the party with the 141s reaction *smirk*

the fact you all can come up with such gorgeous ideas such as this one and then put your faith in me to write it out is something i'll never understand, but am eternally grateful for. thank you for requesting, and as always, i hope you enjoy <3

warnings: mission gone wrong, little tidbits of angst, reader being a comforting menace to the 141

summary: after the team arrives back to base from a mission gone wrong, you decide to step in with the best comfort known to man.

despite their aching bodies and exhausted faces, the 141 members begin to steadily file into the commons room after wrapping up their much needed showers. unified by their equally low and sour moods after a mission had gone horrifically wrong, they all come to a silent agreement to not discuss the mission. there'd be plenty of time for that when everyone had gotten the proper amount of rest. with price, gaz, soap, and ghost now all sitting in the room doing their own thing, no one really gives anything a second thought. that is, until price brings up the absence of you to the rest of the team. despite knowing you probably just made the decision to take a longer shower, they each can't help but feel a sliver of worry and doubt file into their minds.

had you locked yourself away in your room in a poor attempt to stop thinking about the horrors of the mission they'd failed?

had they somehow left you behind?

a dumb question, maybe, but they can't help but worry.

that is, of course, until you burst through the door of the commons room with a wide smile split onto your face and a full three bags of alcohol.

john price

personally, i don't think price is the type to drink very often simply because he has a more refined taste

this man has had his fair share of alcohol in his life so i feel like he's very picky when it comes to alcohol

like if you were to have a drink with him, he'd be the type to make you take small sips and hold whatever you're drinking in your mouth for a few seconds before swallowing

he'll say it's the best way to "experience the flavor"

meanwhile you're just trying to get wasted

anyway

that's not to say he'll turn down a drink simply because it doesn't meet his tastes; if he wants to drink, he's gonna drink

so when you barge into the common area with some cheap beer and liquor he's not complaining

what does make him want to complain however is when you stumble your way over to him and yank his beloved boonie hat right off his head and place it on yours

he's not quite sure what to think and he even opens his mouth to start questioning you, but then you do the unthinkable

you lean toward him, drop your voice, and start impersonating his fucking accent

it's nothing special really

just a simple, "Bravo six, going dark"

and as much as he wants to rip his hat off your head, drag you back to your room, and force you to go to sleep

he just can't

not when you've just hit him with the most atrocious british accent known to man

and the fact you're trying to impersonate him of all people?

he can't help but let a laugh slip past his mouth

you, obviously, love the fact you made your oh so stoic captain price break and so you continue your exceptionally bad impersonation of the poor man

and he just eats it up

maybe it's the alcohol flowing through his system, maybe it's fact this is the first distraction he's had since that dumpster fire of a mission ended

but he can't help but get into it and encourage you by telling you to say random, silly things in your terrible accent

it's comforting in a weird way

being able to laugh so freely even after the horrors of the last mission

it's hopeful in a weird way

so when you give him a small, drunken smile and say you're leaving to bother someone else

he just gives you a smile of his own and pulls you into a side hug before letting you depart to someone else

but just as he lets you walk away, it hits him

you still have his hat

john 'soap' mactavish

now soap, like price, also has his preferences when it comes to alcohol

they all do tbh

but he's younger and more easygoing about it so he doesn't really mind chugging down the cheap bottle of tequila you grabbed

that being said, i do think soap takes on a bit of a different persona after coming off a mission

i feel like he's more energetic and upbeat on the field simply because there's always so much going on and he thrives off the adrenaline rush

but i fully believe it's typical of him to be a bit more laid back and quiet off missions, at least at first

and that's when a mission goes good and is successful

in the event it doesn't go so well (much like now) he has a tendency to go back and think about the mission in terms of what could've been done better

in other words, what he could've done better

and while he may not notice it himself, he'll eventually fall into a small pit of self-deprecation

that's when you stumble over to him with your lips curled into a smile and price's hat lopsidedly settled on your head

he's not quite sure of your intentions at first so he'll just offer you a kind, but hesitant smile

then you'll say something like, "why are you giving me that fake smile?"

and he can't help but feel a little ashamed

he goes to say something, but you just put your drink on the table and wrap him in a hug

and, of course, he hugs you back (although he is a bit confused)

but he enjoys it

what can he say? you always give good hugs

you'll stay like that for a few minutes

but then you start to sway the two of you

he'll get confused and ask what you're doing

and then you pull back and tell him something like, "i wanna dance"

and soap being soap will say something like, "there's no music"

and for some unknown reason that just set you off

because in the blink of an eye, you're pretty much dragging soap up from his chair while holding one of his hands and chanting out, "spin me! spin me!'

and who is he to deny you?

that's how you and soap end up spinning each other around while the rest of the team watches on with silent laughter as you both try to fight off the dizziness so neither of you fall

unsurprisingly, it doesn't work for long

surprisingly however, it was soap that fell first and not you despite being tipsy

so now you're both sat on the floor with you rambling to soap that, "sometimes it's okay to fall! you just gotta get back up!"

and unbeknownst to you, he takes your words to heart

so now you're being smothered by soap as he wraps you up into a bear hug, his specialty

you'll stay like that on the floor for a bit longer before you catch gaz scrolling away on his phone not too far from you and soap

so you pull back and give him one of your signature grins as you motion over to the unsuspecting gaz

and when he turns back to you with a smile mirroring your own, you know exactly what you plan to do

kyle 'gaz' garrick

as mentioned above, gaz is simply scrolling on his phone when you and soap set your sights on him

as a soldier, one really important quality is being aware of your surroundings

gaz knows this and is really good about remaining vigilant both on and off missions

but he tends to be a little more lax when he's on base simply because he knows the place is jam packed with people who are quite literally licensed to kill

so it's because of this he sometimes get a little too wrapped up in his phone

price hates it, but really, what can you do?

he's young and likes being up to date on things, both in terms of pop culture and world news

side note, gaz would definitely be the best gossip buddy with soap coming in a close second and i will die on this hill

anyway

with gaz so wrapped up in his drinking and scrolling, he barely notices you and soap not so stealthily sneaking up to his table and planting yourselves across from him

eyes still planted on his phone, he reaches his hand out only to find that he can't seem to find purchase on the bottle of beer he'd opened not too long ago

cue him finally looking up from his phone just to see you and soap staring at him with huge smiles while you hold his half-finished bottle of beer hostage in your hands

much like the others on the team, he too is feeling the not so pleasant after effects of the mission so he's quick to put his phone down and stare back at you two with a glint of curiosity and mischief dotting his brown eyes

with all your sense of rationality dulled from the alcohol, soap's natural talent for getting into trouble, and gaz's carefree spirit, it doesn't take long for you three to start embarrassing yourselves

before any of you can really register what's happening, you each find yourselves leaned up against one another as you belt out the chorus to berlin's 'take my breath away' as the song plays from the speaker of gaz's phone

how you three ended up in this position? you're not quite sure

well

it may have had something to do with the extra shots of the fruity vodka you'd grabbed from the store shelf

maybe

but really, who even cares?

you're just happy to be here

and if the easy smiles plastered on the faces of the men beside you are anything to go by, they're happy to be here too

though right now they seem to be too busy fighting over a new song to sing along to

gaz wants '22' by taylor swift while soap is begging for the 'wellerman' sea shanty that went viral not too long ago

how he even knows about that, you're not sure

but as they continue to bicker over the next song they'll be singing along to, you look out the corner of your eye to see price stalking over, his gaze locked on the phone gaz and soap are fighting over

already knowing where this situation is heading from the few times it's happened before, you decide to get ahead of the situation

and by that, it just means you quickly detach yourself from the two men as you set your sights on someone else who just so happened to be brooding in the corner

simon 'ghost' riley

so by now i imagine that it's pretty common knowledge amongst the 141 that simon has a preference toward bourbon whiskey

so naturally you grab him a bottle of it while you were out filling up a cart with various types of beer and liquor

and if i'm being honest, i feel like ghost isn't too picky with what brand of whiskey you grab so long as it's bourbon

so when you stumble your way over to him, you're not at all surprised to see him shamelessly hogging the bottle of jim bean you specifically brought for him

what does surprise you is when he pushes out the seat beside him with his foot as he gives you a small nod of his head in a small gesture for you to take a seat

with the room starting to spin ever so slightly, you easily comply with his silent demand

you two sit in silence for a few moments before you sit up and reach for the bottle of whiskey sitting on the table

ghost doesn't seem to be on board with your line of thought however because this man does not hesitate in snatching the bottle from your eager hands before screwing the cap back on and setting it beside his chair on the floor

you just kinda stare at him with a mix of annoyance and betrayal as you say something along the lines of, "what the hell was that for?"

and this is where he just kinda narrows his eyes at you for a moment before motioning over to the middle of the room where gaz and soap are belting out the lyrics to 'hotel california' by the eagles while price seems to be taking a video of the two of them, a wide grin peeking through his well kept beard

once ghost is sure you've gotten a good look at the trio he'll turn back to you and say something like, "you're not roping me into any of that, no drinkin' when you're with me."

and as much as you wanna try to fight him on it to get just a few more sips, you eventually decide it against it and instead opt for slumping into your seat much to his amusement

the two of you sit and watch as price tries to reign in the mess that is gaz and soap before he eventually gives up in favor of capturing more videos on his phone he can use as future blackmail

the atmosphere gradually melts into a more peaceful one as gaz and soap begin to quiet their singing and move onto slow love songs that they seemed to have memorized by heart judging by the way they barely even look at the lyrics

who woulda thought

but it's at this moment ghost decides to make a comment

"you snuck a lot of alcohol over here"

and it's true, alcohol was strictly prohibited on base, it was something you and everyone else in that room knew

but having sobered up a bit since sitting with ghost you immediately thought he was gonna go into a lecture despite him hoarding a whole bottle of whiskey to himself

so naturally you open your mouth to offer your defense, but before you can even say anything he decides to cut you off

"not a bad move, kid"

wait what

you're confused

and he knows you're confused so he decides to elaborate, "place was dead 'fore you walked in with all that beer and liquor. you made 'em smile"

you frown, "what do you mean?"

he'll sigh and continue, "s not a secret that mission was fucked. thought you were all gonna have a hard time sleepin' tonight," he motions to the space where gaz and soap appear to be serenading price with god knows what song, "but that doesn't seem to be the case anymore, i think you'll all be alright now"

you tilt your head, "oh...i see"

the silence drifts over you two once more, but you decide to disrupt it

you turn to ghost with a questioning gaze, "what about you?"

he raises a brow as he glances at you, "what about me?"

you turn to face him fully, "are you gonna be alright?"

his movements come to a halt as he thinks your words over

would he be alright?

it's no secret that he's a bit more cold hearted than the rest of the team, but that doesn't mean he's no affected by any of it

he holds in a sigh as he glances over to gaz, soap, and price all smiling and joking around with one another before turning back to you

"long as you stick around, i think we're all gonna be okay, kid."

you grin at him

"i've grown on you, haven't i?"

he breathes out a small laugh, "i only keep you around for the whiskey"

you nudge his arm with your shoulder, "that's a yes, isn't it?"

he shrugs, "if you want it to be"

he holds back a small smile at the way you gleam before opening his mouth to speak, "you say anything to anyone and i'll–"

he doesn't get the chance to finish his sentence before you're bouncing off your seat and running over the group of three in the middle of the room chanting, "ghost said i'm his favorite!"

he leans back in his chair as he watches gaz and soap feign heartbreak at your declaration while price shakes his head in amusement

"no big deal," he thinks to himself, "i can always deny it"

even if it's completely true

[urdepressedslut]

Tears of an Angel ❝part two❞

♡ Pairing: The Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x Fem!Reader

♡ Summary: Unbeknownst to you, lots of time has passed and Bucky still hasn’t come back. You begin to wonder if he was ever real in the first place. There’s someone new. The Soldat— who is he?

♡ Warnings: HEAVY ANGST, some fluff, hydra, bucky’s trauma, torture, needles, abuse, hints to sexual assault

part one ✧ main masterlist

MINORS DO NOT INTERACT | 18+

You wondered how many times you could count the amount of stones on the walls before a guard approached your cell again— dragging you into the horrific room. The room that only held vile memories— ones that had you shuddering.

Ever since you had been left alone again— ever since Bucky was gone— you had lost track of time completely. Everyday blurring into one another, there wasn’t a pause in time. Every morning leaked into the night without recognition. It was disorienting and made you feel out of touch.

You rarely talked— the only sound of your screams ever escaping your lips. You would go so many days without uttering a sound— the slightest talking ached your throat. Your voice hoarse at the end of the day, with only six words leaving your lips.

You could hear the manic laughter as the guards teased you about being mute. Cackling sinisterly at the idea that they had broken you. In a way they had.

You weren’t sure why you were still here, and what your purpose was. You were sure you had an idea one time in your life— but with how things are now. You remember nothing, know nothing— are nothing. Well, you remember nothing but him.

Even after all this time, you still pathetically clung to Bucky. Hoping in your sick and demented mind that he’d come back for you one day— that he’d remember you just as you had him. But as the days melted into the other, you weren’t sure if that would ever be the case. But what harm would it bring you to hold onto the tiny hope.

The door unlocking to your cell had you jumping in surprise, having been lost in your head it spooked you. But otherwise, you sat still— even if the pain didn’t even start, you wished for it to end already.

You heard the door open completely and the sound of two footsteps enter.

“Soldat— take her to Room C.” One of the guards instructed, and you wanted to furrow your brows at the name.

Soldat?

“да сэр (yes sir).” A thick russian accent answered, and you risked a glance up.

You were disappointed to meet a half covered face, forehead curtained by thick brunette locks. It was definitely a man considering how deep the voice was. His lower half was muzzled— like a dog. But the look was certainly intimidating.

The Soldat grabbed your arm harshly, yanking you up— not giving you a second to steady yourself. You whined, the bruise on your collarbone shifting from the movement.

Ignoring your sounds, he dragged you out of your cell and down the hall towards the room of nightmares. You weren’t sure how much more pain you could take— you wish the darkness would just consume you already.

The guard had disappeared by now, leaving you and the Soldat alone. You weren’t sure if you should celebrate or not. The guards were harsh— mean. The Soldat so far has been aggressive— but you guessed that was nothing new.

“Please— don’t!” You whimpered when you could see the door to the room ahead.

You felt eyes on you, and you glanced to the side— your glossy eyes meeting with his dull ones. His stare gave you goosebumps, the fury hidden behind his eyes. Towards you? You weren’t sure— if so, why?

He didn’t respond, snapping his focus back ahead of him. Pulling you more aggressively towards the doorway. You could smell the room from here— even many steps away. You felt sick to your stomach, knowing what was to come.

“I’ll do anything, please! Don’t take me in there!” You cried quietly, as you tried to pull away from him— your feet attempting to plant you in your spot.

The Soldat whipped his muzzled face to you, his eyes wide with anger and something else. He wastes no time in trying to come up with a response— instead scooping you into his arms.

You gasped at the sudden movement, and didn’t try to wiggle out of his hold— as he was much stronger than you. You crying and walking to the room was already draining you of all your energy. With your weeks spent sitting in your cell— the walk from your cell to your room was tiring.

You continued to cry quietly, and noticed how close you were to him. He smelled of sweat and gunpowder— but also a familiar musk. A particular gust of the scent wafted into your face. It had you stopping your cries, looking up at him. At the same time he glanced down.

You blamed it on your delirious state— but you swore you saw his eyes.

Bucky.

Your mind wandered to the memories of his face through the gap. The way he held onto your hand— the feeling of comfort in this hell. The way you believed he was going to save you. Fuck— he couldn’t even save himself. You hated him, but you missed him more.

All too soon, the flashes of memories faded away into the abyss that was your mind. Coming back to reality, you felt the Soldat lower you onto the steel table. You immediately panicked, thrashing your limbs about.

“No! Please please!” You begged, grabbing his wrist in a tight grip. “Don’t leave me here!”

You weren’t sure why you begged this man for help when he was the one who brought you here. Meanwhile, the Soldat was confused. Your begging was sparking something inside of him. Something foreign yet familiar— it made him uncomfortable.

You watched as the Soldat grabbed your wrist— to the hand that held onto him tightly. He squeezed painfully, prying your hand off him. With a cry you had released him— your wrist throbbing from his hold.

He escaped your hold, turning to the right to exit the room— and that’s when you saw it. The sickly familiar flash of silver— his metal arm.

It’s Bucky… it has to be. Bucky.

Your cries went silent, your body going into shock that Bucky was so close. He was standing in front of you, in the flesh. He had held you— touched you. You were right when you had seen his eyes— you knew it was his eyes. The familiar smell. The familiarity that was his whole aura. He was here… so why was he treating you like a prisoner?

“Bucky?” You tried, desperate for his comfort as you had back in your cell.

He didn’t budge, simply continuing to walk out of the room. Leaving you alone in the torturous space. Your heart broke at him ignoring you— if he had heard you.

You wanted to call out again, but was interrupted by the door slamming shut. It was Bucky— he was here. You just needed to know what happened to him. Why he was acting like he didn’t know you.

You were left in shock, unaware of the scrawny doctors entering the room. You were stuck in a state of confusion— but also knowing just what was going on.

You didn’t want to believe it, he wouldn’t. Hydra wouldn’t. Yeah right.

A prick into your arm had you jumping, whipping your wide eyes to the doctors.

“Sleep now— you’ll wake soon.” The nasal voice whispered to you.

You weren’t sure if the fact that you’d be unconscious during your torture would be worse— not knowing what body part they’d be prodding. A part of you knew this was a true gift— not being able to feel and experience the pain. You’d be violated, yes. But you’d escape the agony— and that’s all you cared about.

The room spun for a little bit, until everything faded into darkness. You could only hope that it was the permanent darkness you’d been praying for— but you were never that lucky.

~

The sounds of metal clinking together had you jolting in your sleep hazed mind, the fog heavy in your brain. Your limbs felt heavy, like someone had tied weights onto your arms and legs. Your body was sore, even the slightest movement uncomfortable.

The metal clinking had you jumping again, and it was the sound of shoes shuffling against the floor that made you realize that you weren’t alone. Forcing your eyelids to lift, you could only see a blurry silhouette of someone standing over you.

You groaned in pain, as your body shook violently in agony.

What had they done to you?

The thought of not knowing had your skin crawling, the same feeling of wanting to rip your flesh off— coming back full force.

The longer you kept your eyes open, the blurriness started to clear, and soon you were staring into the eyes of him. Bucky.

But was it really him? You had assumed it was a him because of the metal arm— as no one else had one in this facility. Or so you knew of. But you still had that sliver of unknowing with him wearing the mask

His gaze was intense, his eyes full of a certain fury— but it wasn't towards you. His eyebrows were almost stuck in a furrowed manner, like he was always disturbed. He didn't shy away from your stare, if anything he held your gaze in a pleading manner— almost like he wanted you to see something hidden behind the striking blue.

"Bu—" You attempted but broke out into a cough, caused by the dryness in your throat, " Bucky... it's you."

His blues darted down to your mouth, watching the words slip past your lips. His eyes burned with confusion, like the simple spoken words were so confusing.

To you, it wasn't confusing. To him— he couldn't quite understand this nagging feeling that threatened to split his brain apart.

Who was Bucky? He thought.

It was a mixture of fear of the unknown feeling, but with that came an odd wave of comfort. He didn't understand why a prisoner like you would bring him anything of comfort.

You watched the war enrage in his mind, and you could almost hear the internal battle happening. His eyes flashed with pain, his eyes darting from your eyes to your lips frantically.

"Bucky, please stop acting like you don't remember me— I'm scared! Please!" You begged, forgetting your condition. You'd be nothing but dead weight with your limp body, as you were unable to sit up by yourself.

His eyes grew practically red with anger, and turned away towards the cell door. His metal arm whirred by his side, his flesh hand twitching in frustration. You felt the fear fill your body as he turned away, his body facing the door— you didn't want him to leave you.

"Don't leave... please." You whispered, your voice breaking at the end.

He slowly turned his body to face you, the desperation in your voice sparking something yet again within him. He hated it but clung to it at the same time. Without controlling himself, he had kneeled in front of you. Without uttering a word— he stared. Taking in every detail etched into your face. Your skin, the lines, the indents— everything that he was sure he'd forget by the next mission.

He found himself memorizing your features, and he wasn't sure why. He was shocked to find your features familiar— the nagging feeling coming full force. Knocking the air from his lungs as he struggled to breathe through the muzzle.

"Thank you." You whispered, your eyelids feeling heavy again and you were afraid to shut them— worried he'd be gone the next time you open them.

He didn't say anything back as he just stared at you with a longing gaze— his breathing heavy and fanning through the muzzle.

You wanted to ask him why he was here with you in your cell, seeing as there was no point. But instead, you found yourself lifting your frail hand— hovering your fingertips above the mask.

He instinctively flinched away, his head jolting back from your reach. You paused your hand in mid air— staring at him with glossy eyes. Watching him cower away from your touch, the way his eyes held fear. The blue in his eyes stormy— haunted.

"It's okay. I'm not gonna hurt you— don't think I could if I tried." You tried to joke through the tightness in your throat.

His eyes widened slightly at your words, and you quickly clarified.

"But I won't hurt you— I won't even try." You promised to him, holding his eyes with such genuineness it had shocked him.

He sucked in a quiet breath, easing his head back to your hand. You kept your hand still, waiting patiently as he leaned into your fingertips— deepening his push until your entire hand palmed his muzzled face.

As he waited for the pain to come from your touch— he found the pain had never come. He was leaned against you and he felt comforted. Your touch was soft, and even through the muzzle he could feel the warmth coming from your clammy hand.

"See... I'm not hurting you." You whispered weakly, your body curling inwards— throbbing with a wave of pain.

The brunette's eyes widened in panic, darting all over your body— frantically searching your being for the cause of your pain.

You recovered quickly, the pain passing as fast as it had arrived. Now it had left you weak and sluggish— the tensing of your muscles tiring your already frail body. You met his worried eyes again, the sight refreshing— to know he had a soul after all. His empty behavior was worrying you for the longest time— unsure if he was even your Bucky still.

"M'fine... just tired." You mumbled, unsure if he could even understand you— but you were too tired to care.

Your eyes shut only for a few seconds, and thats when you heard the sound of buckles unfastening. The sound had you cracking your eyes back open, a gasp of surprise escaping your lips at the sight of his fully exposed face. He had taken off the muzzle.

It was your Bucky.

Your dry and cracked lips broke into a smile, one that would never reach your eyes. Despite the hollow look he sported, and the way he didn't even look like himself in little glimpses— you were happy to see him. Enjoying the quiet moment— the peace that came with his company. It all came flooding back into this cell as it did in the last one. The gap in the wall that had you two connecting— clinging to each other.

A sharp inhale had you snapping from your daydream, your eyes focusing back on his face. His blues were shining with unshed tears— almost like he was unable to let them fall. He crawled closer to your crumpled form on the bench in the cell— his hands resting near your body, but just enough where his knuckles could brush against you.

His lip quivered in frustration, needing to say so much— but knowing he didn't have enough time.

"It's okay... I've got you." You mirrored from the very first time he had comforted you through the gap.

His breathing slowed and he looked like he had instantly relaxed— letting his guard just slightly. But with that, came the flood of tears that ached to be freed. The emotions he had muted, painfully burning from him. It was too much and not enough at the same time.

He sobbed, leaning his forehead down to your arm. Bowing before you in a way— hiding his face away by smushing into you.

You just sat still, keeping your arms by your side— unsure if your affection would be welcomed. His cries broke your heart— his whimpers making your stomach knot up. You were broken beyond repair, but if you could you'd take away all his pain.

Both of you were stuck— trapped in what felt like an enteral hell. There was no end to the tortuous tunnel and you both knew that.

At least with each other— you wouldn't suffer alone.

A/N: sorry if there is spelling errors, i did a quick proof read once but it was awhile ago🤍

If you want to be added

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[waddingham]

oH Ted as the 'someone coming every week to cook and stock her fridge with meals'!! your brain does so much good work and I am so thankful we get to reap the benefits <33

yeah!!!!!! and i couldn't think straight until I got rid of it!!! here take this it's killing me!!

×

She begs Phillip to keep her on. She begs him, tries to double his fee even, to keep him from total retirement, but he's steadfast in his decision. 

The thought of hunting down another chef is horrific. But he gives her no choice. 

She blows through them like tissues for three months, suffering over-complicated meals, over-powering flavors, chefs clearly trying to impress as if she wants a Michelin star meal every night. She doesn't – if that was what she wanted she knows exactly where to get it. 

When she's at home she just wants good food, that's easy to reheat and easy to eat. Which is how she ends up finally succumbing to Leslie's repeated insistence that she give his man a chance.

“He comes over once a month,” he tells her, more than once. “Puts together some things we can freeze and just pop in the oven. Simple enough for the boys to do it, so Julie and I can have at least a couple evenings where they can feed themselves.”

He brightens when she gives and asks for his info, and when she gives him a call, she's struck dumb hearing his American accent.

She's running out of options, so she takes a chance on him.

×

She taps her fingers on the counter, waiting for the doorbell, checking her watch when she finally hears it. He's perfectly on time, but she feels like she's already searching for a reason to be disappointed with him.

He has a pleasant smile for her, though, and a friendly demeanor and a firm handshake and a handsome face – none of which she can immediately find fault in as they introduce themselves.

“I'm sure you're busy,” he says as she leads him to the kitchen. “So I appreciate you taking the time to let me peek at the kitchen and ask you a couple questions.”

“Of course,” she says, used to the procedure by now. Most of them have some kind of sheet they have her fill out, usually via email, but she doesn't mind taking a moment to meet the person who's going to be cooking her food.

“Oh, this is nice,” he compliments, looking around the kitchen, as he sets down the backpack hooked on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” she says, gesturing for him to claim a stool. “Though you can probably infer from your presence that it gets little use.”

“That's okay, I'll go easy on it,” he chuckles, pulling a binder from his bag and opening it up on the counter. “First, though, I wanna make sure I know what I'm cooking.”

He doesn't have a questionnaire or the like, it seems. The lined paper in front of him is blank before he scrawls her name at the top.

“How many people am I cooking for, first of all?” he says without looking up.

She licks her lips, her gaze shifting. 

“Just me.” She keeps her tone matter-of-fact. She hopes.

The way he glances up makes her doubt whether she managed it.

“Makin’ it easy on me already,” he says with a soft smile, adding a 1 to the corner of his sheet. “You have any allergies or dietary restrictions?” 

“No,” she says, then adds, “Though, I do have the tendency to drop meat for a while every so often.”

“A part-time vegetarian?”

She cracks half a smile. “Sure.”

“Okay,” he chuckles. “What kinda meals are you after? Breakfast, lunch, dinner?”

“Dinner, mostly, though I won't say no to the occasional breakfast. Mostly out of curiosity.”

She doesn't think any of the chefs she's hired have offered to make breakfasts.

“I make a mean frittata,” he grins. “What do you like, then? What are some of your favorites, so I can get a feel for what you want?”

“When I eat at home, I want quick and easy,” she says. “The less steps for me, the better. I don't want extravagant, elaborate meals. Shepherd's pie, any kind of pasta, soups, salads. Fish, chicken, red meat on occasion, not every week preferably. Anything veg heavy will probably be a hit with me.”

He nods, taking rapid notes in what must be a very familiar format to him. He fires off a few more questions for her, elaborating a bit further on what she likes before switching gears.

“Anything you absolutely don't want?”

“Not especially,” she says. “I don't like to limit a new chef too soon. I'd rather you make me your best and I'll let you know.”

“Uh oh,” he smiles.

He does that a lot.

“Am I on trial?”

She opens her hands up, giving him a small smile and he chuckles.

“I've had six chefs in ten weeks,” she tells him. “So yes, maybe a little bit.”

“Why didn't they fit the bill?” he asks curiously. “So I can avoid a similar fate.”

“I don't think they quite believed me when I told them how simple I wanted things,” she says. “Too many sauces and sides and heat this up separately and put this on this. If I want a five course meal, I know where to get one. When I get home from work, I want to throw something in the oven or dump it on a plate and microwave it, not anything glamorous.”

He looks pleased to hear it – he seems to actually relax slightly, as if he'd been uncertain he could deliver on what she wanted.

“Well, I can guarantee you that going too fancy will not be a problem with me,” he says, writing a few more things down. “I'm used to basic.”

“Good.”

“I've got Tuesday afternoons free, if we're doing every week.”

She nods.

“Between noon and four, if that works for you.”

“I'll be at work, so you'll have free reign,” she says, opening a drawer on the island and pulling a house key from it. “Make yourself at home.”

“Alrighty,” he says, taking it from her. She watches him pull a roll of masking tape and a ring of maybe half a dozen keys from his bag. He rips off a piece of tape and labels it with an RW before adding it to the keyring. 

“If you ever have any requests, that number you have is my cell. Shoot me a text before Tuesday if you want it that week, or you can leave me a note.”

“Okay.”

“And let me know if you think of anything else you want me to know,” he says, starting to pack everything away again. “If you hate olives or can't stand Bleu cheese.”

“I love olives,” she says emphatically. “And there's no kind of cheese I will refuse.”

“Cheese is the best, right?” he remarks. “They're all good. Yellow, white, hard, soft. Even stinky, moldy…still good.”

She snorts a bit, but fully agrees.

“I'm pretty much always stocked with fresh mozzarella to nibble on so feel free to help yourself.”

“Oh, don't tell me that,” he says, shaking his head. “I'll clean you out every week.”

She chuckles as he throws his backpack over his shoulder. 

She sees him out, intrigued now to see what he cooks up for her.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, there's a delicate cacophony of smells hanging in the air and she remembers for the first time today – after a long, trying weekend – that Ted was meant to come.

And apparently did.

The kitchen is spotless (thank God – chef number two had a tendency to slack on the cleaning up bit) and she eagerly makes her way to the fridge.

Each covered pan has a strip or two of tape on top – 35 minutes @ 175° the small square one requests. Thank God. One singular step.

If it tastes like shit, she's going to cry.

It reveals itself to be a lasagna and she flips the oven on, lets it get hot while she peeks at the rest of what he's made, then pops it in the oven while she goes upstairs and gets comfortable.

She notices the extra pan by the kettle when she comes back down, this one without a lid, left on a trivet. 

Three neat rows of shortbread lie within it, a note flat on the counter in front of it.

A little extra treat – maybe a bribe so I don't end up being Disappointing Chef Number 7 – and a thanks for giving me a shot. I'm told these are a winner with a cup of tea. 

He's signed it with a mustached smiley face that makes her chuckle.

They smell divine. She can't resist prying one up and taking a bite.

“Oh, fuck me,” she mutters to herself, looking at the biscuit with a bit of wonder as it melts on her tongue, perfectly sweet and salty.

Oh, wow. She glances at the oven, then the pan in front of her.

She might have struck gold.

×

Everything is delicious. He's clearly not a professional five star chef, but every bite has her in disbelief.

It's just so good. She was skeptical, but he even nails a shepherd's pie for her, dumping cheese on top without her even requesting it. Nothing is unpleasant or poorly made, nothing has her thinking to text him and tell him she didn't love it. His portions are more than enough for her and she frequently takes what's left to the office with her. She has never taken lunch with her to work. Ever.

His cooking tastes like dining at a friend's house, like family made it, like he loves cooking for people and puts it in every bite.

And the biscuits. She finished the pan before the week was even out, unable to help herself.

She's a little bit devastated when there are none on the following Tuesday. 

She leaves a note the next time she expects him.

Any chance for biscuits again? 

She's ecstatic to find a fresh pan when she gets home.

She's nursing her last three by the weekend, determined to make them last long enough to request more.

×

I hope no notes is a good thing?

She's been meaning to text him, tell him how pleased she is with everything he's made, but it continued to slip her mind.

How am I doing?

No notes is a very good thing, she sends back. Everything has been absolutely delicious.

Oh good :)

I love to hear it

The biscuits have become a problem though

No biscuits next week then?

God no

I'm hooked on them

Don't do that to me

You got it boss

×

She almost laughs at herself when she gets home.

She's turning down dinner dates and good-looking men in favor of a date with the container labeled prosciutto stuffed chicken breast in her fridge that she's been thinking about all day.

He'd probably get a kick out of the fact that his food is so good it's ruining her dating prospects, but that's most definitely not something she'll be telling him.

She gets herself a little bit of this week's salad while she waits on the oven – romaine with candied walnuts, dried cranberries, gorgonzola, sliced green apple with a deliciously sharp vinaigrette. She peruses the fridge in her typical Wednesday fashion – on Tuesday evenings she's made a habit of grabbing the first thing she sees and letting him surprise her – looking for the small container of sauce that the lid of the chicken makes mention of.

She chuckles when she sees it. Some of his notes on things have gotten more elaborate, sometimes teasing, sometimes with a wine pairing suggestion, sometimes just with a little smiley face. The lid for the sauce only says creamy pesto, but there's masking tape wrapped in a spiral over its sides, covered with writing.

I know, I'm gonna get in trouble for making a separate sauce for something but all you gotta do is dump it on when it's done! It's worth the extra step I promise! 

She snickers around her salad, setting it on the counter. 

It's well, well worth the extra step.

×

When she gets home on Tuesday, she's unexpectedly greeted by a strong, delicious smell and noise from the kitchen. She leaves her heels and her coat before turning into the kitchen.

Ted's at the stove, looking almost mortified as he immediately starts apologizing.

“I'm sorry, Rebecca, I'm so behind today, but this is my last one and then I'll clean up and get out of here–” he rambles, but she's taking him in more than listening. Namely, she's taking in his tired bloodshot eyes and his disheveled hair and the way his hands shake as he gestures to the mess of the kitchen. 

“I'm sorry–”

“No, Ted, it's alright,” she insists. “It's not a problem.”

“I'm almost done.”

“Are you okay?” she asks gently.

“Yeah, yeah, I'm fine, I just need to finish this…”

She frowns and rounds the island, unconvinced and unsettled – he's almost frantic with energy.

“Come here.” 

He frowns as she pulls him away from the stove.

“No, it'll burn–”

“In which case I'll survive with one less meal,” she says firmly, pushing him to the dining table. “Sit.”

He does – reluctantly – and she gets him a glass of water.

“Take a deep breath. Relax,” she insists before stepping to the stove. The pan there has a sauce in the making, a plate of meatballs next to it, as well as a pot of water getting hot.

“What needs done here?” she asks.

“I can–”

“Stop,” she commands, lifting a brow at him before he can rise. “Sit. Just tell me.”

“The, the cream needs to go in,” he says. “Give it a second, then the other two little bowls there, the Dijon and the Worcestershire and then the spices.”

“Okay,” she says, keeping her voice steady, hoping it'll relax him, show him she's far from upset that he's still here.

She follows his instructions, pouring the measuring cup of cream in and mixing it with the little whisk that's already there. She lets it get hot, then adds the rest, stirring it in.

“What am I making?” she asks with a small smile.

“Swedish meatballs,” he supplies, sounding distracted. “One of my favorites.”

“Swedish, hmm?”

“Well, I can't speak to them being authentic,” he says. “Recipe was my mom's. And she's definitely not Swedish.”

It smells delicious – whatever spices she just added were warm and aromatic and it makes her mouth water.

“What next?”

“Uh, turn the heat down and let it simmer,” he says. “Needs to thicken.” 

She dutifully turns the stove down and then joins him, taking a seat next to him. 

“What's wrong?”

“Nothing,” he deflects, “I'm fine. Just…didn't sleep so good and then this morning was…I'm fine.”

She doesn't push, seeing how much effort he's putting into forcing a smile and changes course.

“Do you have anywhere else to be today?” she asks.

“No, no, you're my last client on Tuesdays.”

“Then stay,” she insists, gesturing to the stove. “Looks like enough for two.”

“I shouldn't,” he tries, shaking his head. “I should get out of your hair.”

“You're not in my hair,” she asserts. “I would enjoy the company and I'm most certainly not complaining about getting a meal fresh off the stove.”

He looks her over for a moment, presumably looking for any hint of falsehood before he nods a bit haltingly.

She smiles.

“Should, uh, should put the meatballs back in to finish ‘em,” he murmurs. “And get the noodles on.”

“Yes, chef,” she says, giving him a wink when he finally smiles. 

“I'll do it,” he says, and she lets him this time for how much calmer he seems. She occupies herself by offering him a drink and pouring herself a glass of wine. He accepts a couple fingers of a scotch he's apparently had his eye on for the last few weeks and she watches with interest as he takes a sip.

“Oh, that's nice,” he mutters. 

“The only one I buy anymore.”

“You have excellent taste, I have to say,” he remarks. “Thank you.”

She helps him get the rest of the dinner together and is glad to see him relax more and more, until he's smiling easy as they both sit at the island with bowls of noodles and meatballs.

“Well, it smells fantastic,” she says, eagerly stabbing a forkful of noodles and half a meatball.

It's delicious. Creamy and warm and truly everything about it screams comfort food. 

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbles around it. 

“Yeah? That one a winner?” 

She nods emphatically, eyeing him as she chews.

“Nothing you make is bad,” she mumbles, watching him take his own bite.

“That's ‘cause I only make what I know I can make good for you,” he chuckles. 

“Why's that?” she asks. He can take a chance on her – he's built up plenty of faith in him already. One bad meal isn't going to have her canning him.

“Oh, to impress of course,” he says with a crooked smile that she returns. 

“You've already done so,” she says. “I haven't had a single thing I didn't like.”

“I'm very happy to hear it,” he says, sounding very genuine about it.

They eat slowly because conversation comes very easily. Whether it's the drink or the distraction of her company, he's light-years away from the frazzled ball of anxiety she was met with.

“Safe to assume you don't enjoy cooking much, huh?” he asks her as they both scrape their bowls. 

“I don't think I would mind it if I had ever learned,” she muses. “But I've had a cook for most of my life and learning how now just to feed myself seems more trouble than it's worth.”

“You've had a cook most of your life?” 

“My parents kept one when I was a kid, and then when I was married, my ex-husband insisted on a cook,” she says, half rolling her eyes. “Thank you, by the way, for not inundating me with pork pies and sausage rolls and roasts and dousing everything in gravy.”

“I enjoy a good gravy, but, oof, that's heavy eatin’ right there.”

“Too heavy,” she agrees. “Though my tastes were rarely taken into account.”

He hums as he wipes his mouth and she finds understanding in his eyes.

“How long were you married?” he inquires.

“Twelve years,” she says slowly.

“That's a lot of gravy,” he says more seriously than the words might call for. She hears his meaning plain enough.

“Yes. It was.”

“Well,” his tone brightens a bit, “now you got me to make whatever you please.”

“Too right,” she chuckles, sipping her wine. “And it's always spectacular. I don't know how you do it, what you're lacing everything with…”

“Oh, I just make sure I put a little love in everything, that's all,” he grins.

She takes in the sight of him, smiling and content, his creased eyes warm, and she likes this. She's enjoying this. She likes him. 

It's so hard to know though, even as his eyes move over her face, the quiet stretching long, if she likes him or if she's simply missed enjoying a comfortable meal at home without having to do it alone.

Her eyes drop, aware of how intensely she’s looking at him. She's not sure when it happened but they're both turned completely towards each other on their stools, leaning on the counter, and his fingertips are right there at the edge of hers – the mere straightening of her fingers would bring them into contact.

“I appreciate you letting me stay and have some of your dinner,” he says softly.

“You made it,” she offers with a grin.

“You paid for it,” he returns.

“It's not a problem at all,” she says, meaning it wholeheartedly. “It's nice to have some company.”

“I'm gonna be honest with you, Rebecca, you don't seem like a woman who would have any problem finding company.”

Her brows lift alongside the corners of her mouth, a little internally delighted by his boldness.

“I think I'll take that as a compliment,” she grins.

“As it was meant,” he assures.

“In which case…I'll amend to say it's nice to have such comfortable and easy company.”

His cheeks round, his gaze dropping in something akin to bashfulness and she thinks it really might just be him that's growing on her.

“I’m glad you stayed,” she says, her smile slanting crookedly. “Even if I pretty much made you.”

“I didn't wanna impose. You were very kind to give me a second to…calm down.”

She's not sure if it's embarrassment, exactly, or shame that has him toying with his glass instead of looking at her.

“Felt like I was trying to catch up to myself all day,” he admits.

“I know the feeling,” she sympathizes.

He's quiet for a moment before he responds. 

“My ex-wife was supposed to come out with our son in the next couple weeks here, but she called and they pushed it back until the summer.”

His frown is back and his gaze is faraway, but she doesn't speak.

“Been here for almost a year now and they still seem to be getting on just fine without me.” He sounds like he wishes he could say it with detachment, but it comes out rather devastated. 

“They're in the States?” she asks gently, pulling him back to here and now as he shakes himself a bit. 

“Yes.”

“Why don't you go see them?” she tries, though she's very aware she's got the bare minimum of facts.

“‘Cause I'm still stinging from her snapping that she just needs some goddamn space,” he says, giving her a twisted, wry little grin. 

She frowns but he shrugs, lifting his drink to his lips. 

“S’pose it's about time to just get over it,” he mumbles.

“That's not easy to get over,” she says kindly. “Especially from someone you love.”

“No, it's not,” he agrees. “Ain't much love to lose these days, though. You're probably right, should just take matters into my own hands, hop over the pond.”

“Don't go too long,” she says, only half teasing. “I shouldn't be left to feed myself for a prolonged period of time.”

He smiles again and the sight has warm satisfaction melting in her.

“Oh, if I go anywhere I'll set you up, don't you worry,” he assures her.

“Thank goodness.”

It's odd how difficult she finds it when she rises and steps away. A part of her wants her to stay put, keep the space between them minimal, but she writes it off as a result of just how long it's been since she had sex.

“Now, I don't see any biscuits,” she says. “But I suppose I'll give you a pass this week.”

He rises with a soft chuckle, following her with his own dish to the sink. 

“No, no, I'll do it,” he says as he starts to clean up from dinner. “Unless you need your kitchen back.”

She starts gathering dishes – he must clean as he goes, because it's not nearly the mess she'd imagine would come from cooking four whole dinners. 

“Oh, for what? You think I have a chef on the side coming over tonight?”

He turns, expression scandalized, a hand landing on his chest as if he's been shot.

“Tell me you'd never.”

She chuckles, joining him at the sink, hands full.

They clean up together and then she pours them both another drink before she claims a stool, content to watch as he puts together a batch of biscuits. She watches him move comfortably around the kitchen, chatting easily with her, and it's making an impression, one she's blatantly ignoring.

She half expects him to try to leave her once they're in the oven and has her excuses for him to stay at the ready, but he sits again, waiting the half hour they need to bake at the island with her. He asks her about her job, how she came to own the club, and conversation wanders to and fro.

“I'm intrigued to see what you've cooked up for me this week, chef,” she remarks at one point.

“You know I ain't really a professional chef, right?” he chuckles. “I dropped out of culinary school actually.”

“Really? Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “I wasn't having fun. I love cooking, I love making food and feeding people, but I didn't wanna do it the way they train you to, you know, cooking in a restaurant or joining the race to be the next big something. I like doing it this way. Getting to know people and cooking what they like. Feels like I'm paying the bills by cooking for friends and that's…” He clicks his tongue with a nod. “That's just perfect for me.”

“Well,” she says, smiling at how clearly he loves what he does. “You're still a chef. Definitely to me at least.”

He rises when the oven chimes, giving her a smile. 

“That's enough for me.”

The biscuits have filled the kitchen with the warm scent of vanilla – the same scent that's usually still barely lingering when she gets home.

He stays long enough to let them cool slightly and cut them and she watches as he arranges them on the trivet by the kettle, just as he always does. He packs his things up then and she sees him out, exchanging smiles and goodbyes.

She's still smiling when she finally goes upstairs to change for the evening and it takes her a while to identify the feeling.

She feels like she just got home from a really, really good date.

×

It wasn't a date, so she doesn't know why she's disappointed when she doesn't hear from him again over the week. She doesn't contact him either, trying to recategorize the evening in her mind. 

She's very pleasantly surprised, in that case, when she comes home the following Tuesday and he's still there. She knows by the smell of something sweet and nutty filling the air before she even gets to the kitchen. 

It's spotless this time. He's not all anxious energy this time either – he smiles when she peeks in, looking rather uncertain about his welcome, but it still makes something deep in her chest ache.

It's rather nice. To come home to a smile from someone.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello.” She lets her smile ease his uncertainty and her tone ask her questions for her.

“I, uh, wanted to say thank you,” he explains. “For last week, when I was…when I wasn't feeling so great, for being so kind, letting me hang out for a while.”

She starts to wave it off again, but he continues.

“I made a little something special for ya. Something I can't really leave for you to reheat later,” he says, gesturing to the ovens. “If you want a little snack?”

She nods eagerly, kicking her heels off toward the stairs before she joins him.

He pulls a dish from the oven and sets it on the counter. He fiddles with something there, but she doesn't see what until her turns, sliding a round plate to the center of the island between them.

Whatever it is is perfectly golden brown, looks delicious and smells heavenly.

“Honey baked brie,” he informs her. “With some walnuts and some fig jam, tiny bit of rosemary.”

“Oh my god,” she almost moans. “And it's what, wrapped in pastry?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he smiles. “Thought it might be something you like.”

“I can tell you already you're correct,” she says, rounding the island to find them some forks. “I can't wait to taste it.”

“Let me know how you like it.” She frowns, but he's got a small smile when she looks up. “I'll let you…”

“You think I'm going to eat that entire thing myself?” she asks, lifting her brows as she pulls two forks from the drawer.

“Well, I know how much you like cheese,” he chuckles.

“I'll share,” she says, handing him a fork. “With you.”

She doesn't even have the patience to sit down – she slices her fork through the pastry and creamy brie begins to ooze out. She scoops it up with some pastry, catching a nut and a bit of fig and shoves it in her mouth. 

“Careful, it's hot–”

“Fuck me,” she mutters without thought.

It's delicious. Creamy and sweet and savory, the pastry flaky and buttery. It's rich and indulgent but not sickeningly so and she’s in love.

She's bringing another bite to her mouth when she realizes he's just smiling at her, pleased as punch.

“Please eat some,” she begs around her bite. “Because I can not eat all of this and I will if you leave me alone with it.”

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles, cutting off a bite for himself. 

He hums, pleased with his handiwork. “Mm. Not to toot my own horn, but that's good.”

“Mm!” she hums, getting an idea. She steps away to the wine cooler, squatting down to look for one of her less frequent whites. She comes back with a pair of glasses and an off-dry Riesling.

“This was a bit too bright and citrus-y for me, but it might be gorgeous with this.”

“Okay. You’re the sommelier here, not me,” he says as she pours, then slides a glass to him.

“Oh, please, your pairings are always spot on.”

It does go nicely, complimenting every bite.

“God, this is lovely,” she tells him. 

“I'm glad you like it,” he mumbles around his own bite. 

“Did you make the pastry?”

He shakes his head. “No. Normally I would, but I didn't decide on this until I was shopping today and that takes some time.”

“How long did this take?”

She listens with interest as he explains how he made it, amazed at how straightforward it sounds.

“Christ, it sounds like I could make it.”

“Uh oh,” he says, eyes widening. “Am I talking myself out of a job?”

“Oh, hardly. Even if I figured out how to make everything you cook for me, I'd still keep you around,” she admits. “You’re good company.”

“Well, that's nice to know,” he smiles, eyes soft.

“Also, knowing how to definitely doesn't mean I actually have any desire to cook any of it myself,” she chuckles. “So you still have plenty of use.”

She winks with her teasing as his warm laugh has him tucking his chin, his crows feet deepening. 

“I see how it is.”

She can't help but take him in, delighted by how carefree he is today. God help her, she really does like him – she wants to know him better. He's so genuine, so unselfish and generous, and she wants to keep him smiling.

“Thank you,” she says when she finally really can't eat any more, maybe a quarter of the round of brie left on the plate. “That was very kind of you.”

“No, thank you,” he echoes. “It was nice last week, to sit and eat with someone and I needed it.”

She nods get agreement, leaning her hip against the counter.

“I won't, uh, make a habit of just hanging out here, though,” he says, presumably to reassure her.

Her brows tip, eyes on his as she lets out a disappointed, “No?”

His lips part, but he doesn't manage to form a response. It hardly matters – they're communicating plenty in their gazes, trading glances at each other's lips. The moment stretches, and stretches, her breath changing to suit the surplus beats of her heart at the intensity in his warm eyes.

He leans closer, tipping his head, and something jolts through the center of her when he kisses her. She returns the gentle pressure, daring to part her lips to close them against his. Her fingers curl into her hand at her hip with restraint, fighting the urge to sink into his hair or pull him closer.

It's too delicate, this lovely feeling, and draws a tenderness up through her she hasn't been able to find for months.

He eases back slowly and she catches the breath he stole. Her eyes open, finding his still closed and she watches his parted lips begin to tighten as he fights a smile. The sight inspires one of her own, pulling at her cheeks as he opens his eyes, the smile winning and straightening his mustache out.

“I, um…”

She rolls her lips into her mouth, not even trying for words. She has none.

He can't find any either.

She drives forward again, prepared this time with a little extra breath in her lungs, a little more confidence. He kisses her back with a little more something too and she can't restrain her hands anymore from rising to hold his face. She tries to imbue the motion of her lips with plenty of invitation, but it's not until she pulls back and he follows, wavering toward her, that he steadies himself with a hand on her hip. Her attention goes straight to the heat of it through her dress as it slides to a more respectable height on her waist.

“You are very welcome to linger here as much as you like actually,” she exhales.

“Oh, I feel welcome,” he says, voice low.

She grins, pulling him in again. “Do you?”

“I sure do.” 

He barely gets the words out before they're kissing again. She opens to him, tastes the brie and honey and the dry sweetness of the wine and finds it appropriate that he should be so indulgent. His hands finally make their way around her, narrowing the space between them even more. She's not sure when her arms found their way around his neck but they tighten there in response.

He doesn't let her go far when they part again, dropping a kiss on the corner of her mouth, her cheek. Her eyes close with the sensation, the scratch of his mustache and his warm lips. 

“I really like cooking for you,” he murmurs.

The way he says it makes it sound like a deep confession and she feels silly for how fluttery it makes her to hear. She smiles against his lips and discovers this isn't new information to her. It's in every bite.

“I know you do,” she says low in his ear. “I can taste it.”

“Can you?” He sounds surprised and pleased.

“Yes.” She guides him back to her lips. “I can.”

[shotmrmiller]

A chance encounter.

Pairing: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F! Reader

TW: none other than TOOTH ROTTING CUTE FLUFF

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

You have had a bad week but today has been horrific. You had awoken 15 minutes before the alarm, get up to shower, and the water had gone ice cold when you had shampoo in your hair.Stumbling out after a freezing shower, you were pulling on a tank top when the back of it twisted because you didn't fully dry yourself so that had you fighting it for 10 minutes and you still had to squeeze into an office skirt and button up. You ran as fast as you could in heels to your car and drove at an illegal speed to try and get to work on time— only to have your boss drown you in paperwork before snapping at you about a lack of coffee on his desk. Your only reprieve is that it's Friday and you don't work Monday. Fuck this job, fuck this week, and fuck whoever jammed the paper printer and left it like that.

Looking at the clock, you see the end of your shift has come— and you couldn't grab your keys and sprint out of the door fast enough. All you could think about was going to a grocery store and getting a bottle of wine before going home and ordering some Mexican food.

----

Standing in the alcohol section, you're biting the tip of your thumb as you try to pick which brand of cheap wine would give you the least painful hangover when a baritone voice from behind you interrupts your train of thought.

"I wouldn't recommend you a two-buck chuck for a Friday evening."

Without facing him, you say, "I'm sorry?"

With a lovely British accent, he translates. "A box of red Moscato will serve you in nothing but a terrible headache."

Scoffing, you turn to tell him to piss off— but your retort is caught in your throat. A beautiful man is the owner of that voice. Bronze complexion and tall like a runway model with a cap that had the U.K. flag on it. Chocolate eyes, straight nose, sculpted jaw, lush lips and a 5 o'clock shadow. He looked like a man out of a romance movie.

Your cheeks redden and stammer, "I— uh, don't want to pay for a good bottle I plan on getting drunk on."

He lets out a laugh, straight white teeth with pointy canines— you curse your weakness for mythical creatures— and extends his hand.

"Gaz. Gaz Garrick."

Shaking his hand, you give him your name.

"Well, speaking of wine, I'd love to personally recommend you a bottle over dinner."

'This isn't real,' you think. 'What could a man carved by Michaelangelo himself want with someone like you?'

He takes in your gaping mouth and widened eyes as a response.

"If you want, of course," he falters, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfo—"

"No!" you interrupt, "I mean yes! I'd love to go out to dinner with you, Kyle."

He relaxes his shoulders before letting out another entrancing laugh.

"Right, well, if you like— since I know you've got plans tonight— we exchange cell numbers and we can plan a date when it's the most convenient for you. I'll be in America for a bit."

You're too excited to wonder at what he meant by that and take out your phone, nodding eagerly. You're about to ask him what his number is when he shoves his unlocked phone into your hand and takes yours. Exchanging phones again, you look down at his contact page. Kyle with a blue heart next to it.

You're blushing furiously but look up at him and smile.

"Alrighty, Gaz. I gotta get goin', I got a couch and take-out calling my name. But I will text you."

"I hope you do, love. Otherwise, I'll be gutted."

Grabbing the box of wine, your heels click as you walk down to the register— and you can feel the burn of his gaze on your back. Someone somewhere was looking out for you because you just happened to be wearing the most flattering office skirt you own. Paying and grabbing the receipt, you leave the store with a pep in your step and a silly little smile on your face. You couldn't wait to see him again.

---

Finally at home in an oversized tee and sweatpants, you're lounging on your sofa. Fluffy socked feet up on your coffee table with a full wine glass in your one hand, you're changing the TV from Youtube to the Netflix you never use. Taking a sip as you scroll through the popular on Netflix list when you see a recognizable face.

You shoot up from the couch, spine ramrod straight as you squint your eyes at the screen.

No. Fucking. Way.

"Gaz?"

'Last letter from your lover' starring up-and-coming british star Kyle Garrick---- The letters after that blur together. No shot he's ACTUALLY from a movie!

Slamming your plastic wine glass down on the table, you scramble to your phone before sending 'Gaz' a text.

You: Hey.

Gaz: Hey, love. I didn't think you'd reach out so soon. Can't say I'm not glad though.

You: Yeah well, I just happened to come across something peculiar and I thought of you.

Gaz: Oh? I'm flattered I made such an impression.

You: Yeah! I just saw the preview to 'Last letter from your lover'. You wouldn't happen to be Kyle Garrick?

Gaz: Ah— right. Listen, my name IS Gaz. It's what friends and loved ones call me. You not recognizing me from the get-go was a breath of fresh air. I understand if this could be an issue for you.

You: It just took me by surprise. How about you make it up to me tomorrow evening? You've set high expectations for your choices in wine.

Gaz: Absolutely, love. I promise I won't disappoint. Tomorrow then, at 7.

You grab your sofa cushion and smush your face into it before screaming at the top of your lungs. Grabbing the box of wine, you store it in the fridge and get ready for bed. No hangover for you, after all—You've got a date!

☆ ★ ✮ ★ ☆

[hobiebrownismygod]

Researching Characters so you don't have to Part 4: Spider-Noir - How to write him

So this ones probably not gonna be as popular, since not that many people write Spider-Noir, but here's a short analysis anyway! <3

Art above is NOT MINE! Made by @ilikecarpet1 on Twitter and is linked!

His Time Period and how that affects his character:

"The Great Depression plays a significant role in the backstory of Spider-Man Noir, also known as Peter Parker. During this time, Peter's Uncle Ben was murdered for encouraging a strike against the local sweatshops, a reflection of the economic and social struggles of the era. This event spurred Peter to become an investigative journalist, seeking to expose the corruption rampant in New York. The era's atmosphere of desperation and injustice also influenced Spider-Man Noir's darker, more violent vigilante persona compared to other versions of Spider-Man. The Great Depression setting adds a unique, gritty layer to Spider-Man Noir's character and motivations." (Marvelfandom.com - source below)

Spider-Noir was born during the Great Depression and was raised by his aunt and uncle who were both human rights activists. His uncle was murdered and eaten by his universe's version of the Green Goblin. Spider-Noir has an extremely horrific backstory, and the way that you write him should influence that. His trauma actually led to him deciding to become a detective, who's goal was to expose the corrupted companies and individuals running New York.

Note: His backstory is actually fairly similar to Spider-punk's backstory, and both of them fight fascists, nazis and corrupted jerks so fanfictions and headcanons between the two wouldn't be far off!

His main nemesis is Norman Osborne, who basically runs the city and is portrayed in a mafia boss-esque kind of view.

Society during the Great Depression:

The Great Depression was a horrid time for anyone living in the US, during which thousands of people lost their jobs, their savings and worse. Spider-Noir's aunt was actually an activist who helped the homeless and unemployed, and Spider-Noir's family overall really tried to instill the idea of responsibility and the problems of governmental neglection onto him.

How does this affect his views?

He fights directly against the society and the corrupted government, and isn't afraid to use violence. He carries guns, has no moral compass directed away from murder and will often try to fight violence with even more violence. He's a very gritty and morbid version of the original Peter Parker that we have, so don't let ITSV's portrayal of him make you think he's a softie! He's actually a pretty terrifying guy.

Note: I've seen a lot of sources saying that he's socialist as well, so that may add into your writing if you decide to do any! This means that his views will probably be different than the average man from the 1930s, considering socialism has never been that popular in the US, especially back then.

Overall:

If you want to write him accurately, make sure to go really into depth about his trauma and the fact that he has nothing against killing. For Spider-punk, a lot of people bring up the fact that he kills, but only when talking about cops or Norman Osborne. Spider-punk doesn't kill normally. However, for Spider-Noir, its very different, because Spider-Noir has no problem with killing villains like the Vulture, while most spider-people do.

Last thing:

When writing his accent, don't write him with a transatlantic accent, which is what most of the actors and famous people from the 1930s had. This accent is also known as the Katherine Hepburn accent. It was an accent that actors were trained to use because it made them sound more upper-class. However, the average middle-class to lower-class person from the 1930s talks very similar to how they do today, with maybe a slightly more aged vocabulary. So when writing Spider-Noir, don't try to write him all fancy if you want to be accurate to his character. He would sound like the average dude.

Sources under the cut!

Sources:

[halcyone-of-the-sea]

A CROW'S CARRION COMFORT (X)

|| COV MASTERLIST || NEXT: CHAPTER XI ||

PAIRING: Kyle 'Gaz' Garrick x F!Reader

WORDCOUNT: 4.3k

WARNINGS: Banter, angst, death, guns, violence, plot lines coming together, mentioned insomnia/nightmares, wounds, mentions of stitches & blood, etc.

*I do not give others permission to translate and/or re-publish my works on this or any other platform*

You stare at the phone blankly, unblinking eyes in the darkness of your room stiff. At all sides, the shadows bleed away from the light of the device as it shows the small icon of an ongoing call—the picture void of any personalization, just a plain circle. Your eyes blink, and the voice that had been speaking comes back into your ears like a far-off murmur. 

“I swear on your mother’s life I didn’t mean to do it like I did, Kid.” That Jersey accent makes your lips thin. “My daughters mean the world to me, see? I ain’t shittin’ you when I say you remind me of ‘em. I…I can’t stand to see one of my girls hurt.”

Hector had a fast and hurried tone, and your phone sat on the coffee table unaffected—the door to your room closed and fastened shut in a lie that you were getting dressed for bed. It hadn’t been more than ten minutes since your outburst out back; Gaz and your… reconciliation? You didn’t know if that was the word, but it was the best you could come up with at the moment. 

Your lips don’t speak, and your face feels void of blood. 

“Kid,” Hector gets more desperate. “You don’t understand, alright? My girls mean so—”

You slap the red icon and his voice cuts out as if it were never there. 

Staring at your phone, you listen to the house as your mother’s voice wafts in through the vents, a roar and wave from an ocean with garbled words you can’t make out. Bringing a hand to your face, you slowly rub up and down; pushing back the weight as your fingers dig into your eye socket. 

A knock echoes off the walls. 

“...You alright in there?” You blink, slightly shaking your head. It was like the Sergeant had a radar on him—telling him whenever you were doing something other than what you’d told him. 

It struck you that this time, it didn’t dig so much into annoyance as it did some deep part of yourself that somewhat appreciated it. 

“Be out in a minute,” your voice calls and a firm tap to the wood moments later lets you know he heard; footsteps going back across the hall to his room. 

From there you do your normal routine—a shower, a quick brush of your teeth even if you were going to be grabbing food at midnight anyway, and pajamas. Nothing more than a large oversized shirt and sweats.

Feeling a chill up your spine, on the way out after grabbing your laptop and the attached USB, you snag a blanket as well, unwilling to put your dirty jacket on even if your fingers twitch to fiddle with your coin. Throwing the fabric over your shoulder, you push open the door and slink across the hall to enter Gaz’s room; the lights there dimmed, and the twin lamps shone a warm glow. 

Eyes flinching a moment, you sigh as the man looks up from where he’d been leaning against the frame of his bed. When he sees you, he pushes off and blinks carefully. There’s a tight moment of silence that borders on awkwardness.

“All squared, then?” The Brit asks, and you toss your chin. 

He was wearing gray sweatpants and a navy compression shirt, small white accents in the stitching; his hat was on the nightstand. Not letting your eyes wander, though it was, horrifically, hard not to do so when every muscle and dip was on display, you loosely passed him your laptop with one hand. 

“Suppose,” your voice eases out, eyes flicking at the sounds from downstairs—moving furniture and such. You wondered if your mom had enlisted Alex to do her grunt work, and you have to comment internally that he isn’t getting paid enough for that. 

Kyle watches you before softly taking the laptop, glancing down at the USB still stuck in it before he sighs under his breath. He places it down on the bed, feet shifting. 

The man wasn’t one to pry into things where he didn’t feel he belonged or it wasn’t his duty. Your personal affairs weren’t a part of this, but somehow, somewhere along the line, you’d managed to intertwine them like a jumbled pile of cords. Tonight, the pond out back and the willow trees…Kyle’s eyes dart to your injured palm; where the skin is bare and soft from your shower. 

Without a word, he walks to his duffel bag and takes out his med kit, nodding his head to the desk chair near the back wall firmly.

“Let’s get that hand re-wrapped properly, eh?” He watches as your tired body waits for a second more. “It’ll get infected if I don’t keep an eye on it.” 

You pause, and for some odd reason, an embarrassed heat builds in your cheeks. 

“Y-You don't have to do that,” your voice stutters, eyes jumping from his throat to his under eye before they settle on the wall behind his head. Kyle’s brows furrow, med kit slightly lowering in his hand as he studies you in confusion. “It’s not…that’s not…”

Your lips are thin, jaw clenching. But Gaz isn’t as clueless as he was when he first got you under assignment, he rubs at the back of his neck once and begins walking over slowly. 

“Spitfire?” He levels earnestly. You wait, blanket shielding your form. A hand is extended in front of your face, and you blink down at it. “Let me help.” 

Right about now you’d fire a quick insult his way—tell him to mind his own business and slink off to your room; you would have reasoned that was what he deserved. But, damn him, he seemed to know that you craved some semblance of a warm touch, craved to keep that comfort from just a tiny while earlier. 

The scene under the willows had changed something fundamental in your brain. Had taken the bits of what remained and sewn a fraction together. Like a reluctant recipient, you had allowed him in on the basis of your own gnawing guild—had spilled over like a glass of water. 

Yet, you admitted that for once in your three long years, crying hadn’t felt as much of a curse when his head was sitting atop yours.

With a lick of your lips, you slowly set your hand into Kyle’s palm—silent as a mouse. 

“Thank you,” he says, earnestly, before his fingers lightly curl over your own and he gently pulls you over to the desk chair. 

Kyle sits you down softly, kneeling like he had the first time you found yourselves in this position, and places the med kit on the floor before twisting your hand. 

“Any pain?” He asks as if talking about the morning paper. 

You have to wonder if he feels as awkward as you do—like you’re inhabiting another’s skin and pupating it, nothing but a marionette doll. It’s as if now since there’s nothing to bark or argue about, you’re rendered…mute.

Kyle calls your name and you blink, gaze moving to the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah?” You breathe out softly, still hearing the noise from downstairs. The Brit’s hands squeeze yours once, and you nearly shiver like a fool. 

“Do the cuts hurt?” Brown eyes narrow slowly, tilting his head. “I have pain medicine in my bag if it does. Most it’ll need now is just some tight bindings. No use with more stitches, the worst of it has pulled back together.” 

“They’re fine,” you whisper, flexing the hand. “Gaz,” your curiosity leaks in, and perhaps a bit of your boldness. 

The man hums under his breath as he grabs gauze and bandages. Your eyes stare into his scar. 

“Can I have his journal back?” You expected a quick and firm ‘no’ to roll off his accented tongue, but after a minute of his careful yet attentive eye, a smirk flashed on his lips. Amusement fills the air. 

“Oh, you mean the one you broke into a museum to steal?” Gaz raises a brow in mocking question. “That journal?” 

Your lips huff out, “Yes, Sergeant, that journal.”

“I suppose I shouldn't mention the unconscious security guard that was found in the hallway along the way, then?” He chuckles. “He’s fine, by the way.” 

“It would be best if you didn’t.” On your face, your lips fight a smile at the banter—the still pounding flesh under your eyes going to the back of your mind from the crying and the fatigue. Your voice is still raspy from sobbing.

Gaz shakes his head, smiling with white teeth. “If there’s a handful of things I’ll never understand, Spitfire,” he squeezes your hand one last time and stands up; your gaze following the small inhale he takes in his chest. “I think it’s safe to say you’ll always be one of them.” 

You chuff a laugh, stifling a yawn on your lips, as you push out, “Rich, coming from a guy whose file says he prides himself on understanding ‘even the finest details.’” 

The memory of the cafe, the first real meeting of the two of you, flashes through your heads. It felt like a lifetime ago. 

“Still can’t believe you bloody threw a pack at my head,” Gaz murmurs, rubbing at the back of his head as he walks away. He points a finger back at you as he flips and begins walking backward to the nightstand, you roll your eyes at him. “Head might still be ringing, you know?”

“If only,” you grumble, smirking. “I'd have been surprised if that was enough to bring you down. Pleased, but surprised.”

“Hell, so would I,” Gaz admits with a grin. “Not a bad arm, though.”

“Thanks,” you joke with a raised brow, standing as the man opens the drawer and digs a hand inside. “I use it to slap air vent covers into unsuspecting security guards.” 

His laughs echo off the walls, and the noise momentarily stops downstairs; he covers his mouth with his forearm to try and hide it, but the sound itself makes your lips pull back in a pleased grin. You giggle tinily at his reaction, face going heated. 

“Fucking hell,” Gaz shakes his head, smiling wide as he stares at you. His throat bobs in a swallow. “So this is a pattern I need to be aware of, then?”

“Oh,” you tease, face pulling in.“One hundred percent.”

“Christ, Love.” Your father’s journal comes to light from the confines of the nightstand drawer, and it’s like all of the strange joy is sucked out of the air like a spell of smoke and mirrors. 

Your lips pull back down to a thin line, blinking at the black leather and the bulk of wrinkled pages. Kyle feels it too, shifting his jaw for a moment before clearing his throat. Along the sides of the object, his fingers tap twice. 

“You know I can’t let you have it,” he says, voice firm but begging you to understand his position. You do know that. 

Already your forked tongue is begging to be let loose—to snap and release venom. But your eyes hurt, and the night is long; there are so many more important things to think over than how to make this man miserable for just doing his job. You imagine he does that to himself more than enough if the confessions by the pond meant anything in the long run. 

There’s just so much that hurts, and you can’t figure out a way to make it stop. 

You rub at your face and grumble out a tired, “Yeah.”

Kyle sighs, looking away for a moment before he filters his gaze back. His foot shifts. “Guess that just means we’ll have to go through this shite together then, eh, Spitfire? You said the USB was password-protected?” 

You stare with parted lips as he puts the journal down on the bed, taking your personal laptop instead and flipping it open to the screen while the stick blinks to life. A swift brown glance is spared towards the chair. 

“Password-protected, right?” You nod in a soft jerk of your head, suddenly unable to look at the man as he blinks at you, shrugging. 

“It’s late,” Gaz looks you up and down—tilting his head as he also pulls out the other item from the nightstand, the laptop from the museum. “I’ll try my hand at finding something, but until you get some rest and come back, I’ll stick to skimming the—”

You interrupt him.

“I’m not going to be sleeping tonight,” your body pushes you up, and you stalk over to the bed slowly while pulling the blanket farther up your shoulders. The bindings on your hand are tight and sure. 

Kyle pauses as you take the journal, watching you with a furrow in his dark brows. He lets you explain as you feel his digging gaze—curious but confused. You clear your throat, flipping open the first page of your father’s life like that was all he was; words on thin paper, the indent of a pen nib. 

“Nightmares, remember?” 

“Yeah,” Gaz answers, “I just didn’t…” He pauses, shaking his head. “Never mind.” 

You both stand shoulder to shoulder, looking down at the laptops as the man lowers the first back to the comforter with a puff of air. The item in your hand you turn over to the first page—dated on a day you knew all too well. Your birthday. Your first birthday. Inside of your chest, your heart tightens. 

Your father had started journaling the very day you were born. 

You snap the journal shut and turn to sit on the edge of the bed, pushing out, “Do you ever wonder what your life would have been like if your dad hadn’t become a soldier?”

Kyle startles, eyelids blinking quickly. “W-what’s that,” he stutters, looking down at you in shock. 

“Your dad,” you say slower, mocking almost before your voice once more fades back to a genuine question. “If he hadn’t…I don’t know, if he hadn’t made the decision to sign that enlistment form, do you think you’d have become anything different? You said you took after him, I’m just wondering.” 

“Yeah,” he’s confused at this, going to cross his hands over his chest and stare at you as your mouth takes down a deep breath before re-opening the journal and skipping the first few entries entirely. “I…couldn’t really tell you. Haven't thought about it like that, I suppose.” Gaz’s fingers lightly dig into his biceps. “Why do you ask, Love?” 

You shrug, eyes scanning memories. 

“It’s like we’re all just shadows of what our parents were. Trying to carry on a legacy that died with them before they could ever complete it. It’s…funny, I guess.” Your lips take down a breath. “I tried so hard to become my father that I feel like I’m falling down the same pit he did.”  

“You’re better than that,” Kyle reassures immediately, taking a step closer to the bed. 

“You don’t know that,” your voice counters. 

Instinctual self-preservation kicks in, leaving your throat tight with the knowledge you should stop talking. On the roof, there begins the slight pitter-patter of rain. Talking to him, it seemed, had suddenly become addictive—perhaps it was because there was truly no one else who could offer you advice like he could. After all, he’d been there through all of it. You just had to say it.

“I need you to understand my position here.” you skim over your father’s account of your third birthday and the cake you’d gotten; two layers decorated with your favorite cartoon characters. Your eyes flicker away to stare at the man’s chest, at the cross of his arms. 

Kyle grunts under his breath but can appreciate the level-headedness you’re coming to him with. This was a conversation he could have—so much better than a round of insults from both parties and the hidden glares. 

“I understand it,” he admits, nodding once. “Through all of it, I always have.” 

Inside of your chest, your heart sputters. “Good,” you cough out and a moment later you’re changing the subject, fingers hot as Gaz looks away for a moment. “The USB had a limited number of password attempts—there’s only two left.” 

Brown eyes glance over the room, sliding past furniture and the old creaking of the walls. 

“Then we don’t try anything until we have something narrowed down, yeah?” Kyle, after a second of hesitation, moves over to your form and sits beside you on the bed, moving your father’s laptop onto his legs. “We leave it alone for now…” He side-eyes you. “I take this, you take the journal?” 

“Shouldn’t you be sending this off to an analysis team or something?” You interject, not complaining but cashing in on the fact that if you get him to speak to you, your head will stop spinning. Gaz’s scent pools in your nose like perfume, and you wonder if you can ever separate that scent from the press of his head above your own; the dig of his fingers as they kept you to his neck.

That steady pulse.

“Yeah,” that boyish charm returns as if it were second nature. “But the way I see it, Spitfire,” his shoulder bumps yours and you’re surprised you don’t immediately flinch away. “I’ll be saving my own neck if I don’t. Figured you’d have ransacked my room by now.” 

Your nose releases a puff. “Was about a day away.” 

“Knew it,” he mutters, smirking. “But, no, I will be calling in a team and writing up a report. Just…not right now.”

“I’m flattered,” you sarcastically comment. Yet, you really were. It’s…nice to be able to speak like this. The sins of the past haven't been forgotten, and they won’t be, but right now there has to be something said for the simple existence of someone to joke with—to tease and spill secrets too. When did you last have that? 

The rain patters far overhead as Gaz gets to searching, fingers tapping and his shoulder close to yours as you flip through pages slowly. The weight is back on your chest, but a portion has been chiseled off like a stone sculpture. Biting on your lip, your mind hones in on the details of the entries. 

Months and years fly past in mere minutes, things that your mind calls to but can’t fully recall—when your father had gone on his business trip to California, the meteor shower when you were eleven. Even when you had broken your arm in middle school gym class. There were family secrets and drama. Apparently, you had broken a back window with a baseball when you were thirteen, which, despite all of it, made your eyes widen slightly like a child who had just stolen a cookie. 

“Found something,” Kyle calls about half an hour in, moving through files and script down to the very base of the laptop’s components—you barely noticed, only blinking over when the thunder from outside makes you tense. 

“Hm,” you hum, sitting up straighter as your eyes burn from the tiny written words. The blanket around your body keeps you in a cocoon, and somehow, Gaz seems even closer than he had been before.

A finger is pointed to the screen casually, one hand moving the cursor as your eyes stay on his cheek.

“Encrypted files—dozens,” you furrow your brows. 

“How hard is it to break?” His lips pull thin.

“I’m not exactly an expert on it—” You take the laptop from him and roll your eyes. 

“Garrick, I got into CIA databases,” the man’s sigh is all but seen on the airways, letting you do as you wish as he shakes his head. “All you had to do was ask.”

He huffs, grunting out, “Well, if you’d have let me finish, Love, I would have.”

“Then you should have just started with it.” A smirk pulls your lips. “Chop-chop, Sergeant, there’s no time to beat around the bush.”

You enter each individual line of the script, fishing like a hook in water for something out of place or a mere segment that didn’t feel right—each time you dig deeper, past firewalls that you have to wonder why were even there in the first place—you feel his eyes on you. 

Gaz breathes quietly through his nose, not used to the way your vision eagerly skims the screen ahead of you as the minutes draw on into double digits; your sights trained like his are when behind a gun. You enjoyed this, he realizes with a tilt of his head. Enjoyed the thrill of breaking into something—the stab of achievement at…control. Kyle glances down at the bandages over your palm, and at the bags under your eyes. 

Control. His lips slightly parted. It was the thing you always seemed to lack; the thing you never had to begin with. 

Your words at the pond told him much, most of which he already suspected but hadn’t had the time to process with all the running around. Truthfully, the man didn’t know if you even knew it yourself, but it was painfully obvious that despite the history of this estate and the memories, you gained a sheen of mild fear every time you came home.

At the creaking, the nothingness—he could see it in your eyes. 

You hated it here. You loved to hate it; to hate the darkness and the groaning frame, the neverending rush of water through the pipes like a tsunami amplified by the static silence. 

For not the first time that night, the man’s chest tightens and he clenches his jaw to force down his stiff expression. 

So many questions, so many things to say, but so little time. 

“Got it,” you snap your fingers, bringing your legs up to fold on the bed, knee knocking into Gaz’s thigh. The both of you don’t care enough at that moment to move, and, in fact, the Sergeant’s body leans even closer—shoulder right behind yours. 

Files alight on screen; a folder already opening for you as the script peels back.

“Now, what do we have—” The name of the overarching folder in the white bar makes you freeze, face going dead-still like something had just shot through you; a spark of shock making your eyes widen. 

“Spitfire?” Kyle asks, face pulling closer as his fingers grab the side of the screen, turning the device somewhat his way. “What’s going…” 

Brown eyes lock on the same item that yours are on and his heart skips a beat. Each MP4 file in that folder was dated, named, and either holding one of two letters: ‘A’ or ‘D’.

But the folder name. The dates all fall on the same as the red ink that had been in your father’s office, once a month, all detailing different entries into the museum. The fifteenth; the day he was always home, waiting to take phone calls but still…with you and your mother.

The name.

Chiyou.

Before Gaz can stop you, you’re clicking on the first file—dated on the fifteenth of September, 1999, and named ‘Randal Wolfe - D’. The video pops up, and your finger slams on the unmute button. 

The screaming is the first thing you hear, but your eyes land on the man not even a millisecond later. Kyle’s eyes go wide, air stuck in his throat. It wasn’t smart, but neither of you could take your gazes away from the scene in front of you. 

A man was tied to the ceiling by chains, hanging from his arms as his feet dangled. There’s so much blood, even the large pixels and the fuzzy recording can pick up the puddles of it, drops dripping to the floor. Your jaw falls open as your pulse mimics a war drum, lungs decreasing the amount of oxygen available to your brain. 

He, this Randal Wolfe, is begging. Begging for his life just as the long arm enters the frame, a jet-black pistol held in its gloved grip with gold detailing. You stare at that gun and take down a violent inhalation, hands on the laptop shaking as the flick of a safety is lost below the wails and pleas.

“It’s not just a name,” Kyle breathes, stopped dead in his tracks even as his brain screams at him to move. 

You stare in growing dread and horror, guts tightening inside of your abdomen and your fingers jerkily clenching into fists. So many files—so many names that had been cataloged like the storage room in the museum; laid out in alphabetical order. Execution tapes, extortion tapes, ‘D’ for dead and ‘A’ for alive, MP4s with cold evidence of the same caliber that Kate Laswell had been looking for, if the surroundings offered any clues as to secondary locations. Organized with the staples of a man dedicated to his work. 

Work.

Chiyou. The way you now recognize the title is a curse, a stain that bleeds your soul black until nothing remains but a void. Why now? Why, out of all of the times to remember, why did it have to be now?

A Chinese mythological figure, now revered in a different sense. Your own father had taught you about him in passing, textbooks from school, and the large books in your own library. Stories that he’d read to you in front of a fire—rain similar to the storm outside battering the windows. A God of War. It was never just a name. 

Your tongue is lead.

“...It’s a business.”

Kyle’s hand snaps the laptop closed just before the gun can be fired, the sound cut out as your eyes continue to stare straight ahead—knowing the boom and the spray of blood that came immediately after like the back of your hand. 

The silence extends like purgatory and if you think hard enough, the dripping of crimson can be felt still on your face just as the sound of glass breaking from downstairs snaps your attention away.

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[babygirl-riley]

Stains

Simon always hated stains but blood that came from you was the worst type.

Warnings: blood, violance, torture, mentions of rape, swearing

simon x reader guide

simon x reader fluff/angst list

How did you both get here? Being tied across from each other surrounded by cement walls. Chained to chairs that were hooked to the floor. One single light hanging above both of you. Simon thought about how you both were surrounded, you were shot in the shoulder.

He didn’t even notice the man behind him as he got knocked out. He woke up with a cold water splashed on his face. His face was bare. No mask. Simon glared at the three men in the room then his eyes landed on you.

You were looking at him worry written on your face. “Where is your captain?” One of the men said next to you, his Mexican accent thick.

Both of you didn’t say anything, you looked at Simon. “Come on,” he said grabbing the back of your head pulling back. Simon tried not to move when he did that, you just grunted and glared at the man. “What about Alejandro?”

Nothing. Simon’s mind started to race, they both couldn’t say anything, they both were trained to withstand torture. However, he was afraid for you. Simon wanted to break out and protect you, have them not hurt you.

His teeth were yellow as yellow could be while his smile plastered his face. His hand running down your neck, you shuffled hard having his hand get away for a moment. “Chica bonita que no ha sido tocada por un tiempo.”

Ghost glared at the man standing near him. He caught certain words in that sentence. “parece que.” The man that had a hold of you.

“Fuck off.” You said spitting at the one near you.

Ghost watched as the three walked towards you. Ghost shuffled a bit. “Ah riling him up boys.” One of the said taking a knife out.

Ghost glared he couldn’t say anything if he did they would make you scream. Which who knew what could happen. He slide the knife down your throat before stopping at your breasts. “Hermano I say we take her for,” His eyes darken. Ghost’s stomach dropped. “Out for a little bit.”

You knew what that meant. You closed your eyes, you have been told the cartel were not nice to women. That they did horrific things to them. “Si let’s start with that.”

You snapped your eyes up to Ghost shaking your head once. “Don’t your fucking touch her!” Ghost yelled his accent deeper.

They ignored him as they took her out of the chains and thrown around. You tried to fight before one of them dug his finger into your bullet hole. Next thing he knew you were gone, out of the room. Ghost yelled for you even when you were out of the room.

He heard you scream and cry to get off of you. He eventually heard water. Ghost closed his eyes trying to wiggle out more and more. Trying to vent out your screams. It was a couple hours before they dragged you back in, you were ragged clothes, blood was seeping through places. You were drenched.

They threw you in front of him, having you knelt down, as the ripped your head up to look at Ghost. His heart sunk. Your eyes was basically shut purple, your lips were cut and swollen, a deep cut on your cheek. You were awake, that’s all that mattered to him. He looked over your body, bruises already forming.

“I’m going to ask one more time fantasma,” He grabbed you hand placing them on his thigh. “Where is Alejandro?”

You shook your head. He pulled back making you make a small whimper. Ghost just looked at you, he was trying to think of anything else but this moment.

Maybe when you both went on a picnic, guiding him to the highest hill. In your pretty blue flower dress. Hair down. Smiling. The sun hitting your eyes making that pretty shimmer he loves. The way your warm lips pressed against his. How you…

“Ah!” You screamed snapping him out of it. Your finger was bent a non normal way.

Ghost shifted. “Enough!”

His grin was even more wider, making his stomach turn. “My hermanos and I could go for round two,” He said sliding his hand up to your neck. “If that’s what you mean.”

You whimpered as you looked away. Those fucking bastards. “Get your hand off of her.” He growled wiggling a bit more free.

The man pulled a large knife out pressing it in the side of you. “Tell me or your pretty lady will have blood spilled.”

Ghost pushed forward trying to get him to stop. He should say something. Say everything. But the look you have warning him to say nothing. “So difficult.” He pressed the knife into you, making your eyes wide and scream. He twisted the knife more and more in.

Ghost yelled for him to stop and tried to break out but the chains weren’t budging. You eventually stopped as he pulled it out. You were panting. Blood pooling out. He looked at Ghost before wiping your blood on his sweatshirt and face.

“You will fucking die,” Ghost whispered looking down at you in horror, your skin was becoming more pale. “I will GUT YOU!” He yelled back at him.

The man was about to say something until one of his other men came in. Explaining something. He growled before throwing you down. “This will only be a second.”

It was still on the room only the humming of the light. Ghost panted for a moment, before swallowing. Are you dead? You haven’t moved or even breathed in that matter. “Y/n,” He whispered wiggling more. “Come on baby.”

“Ghost.” You whispered softly. “Here,” You slowly rose up and handed him a small key, to his hands behind him, before laying back down, to the side of him. “Fucking bloke.”

Your breathing was heavy. Blood was seeping more and more out of your side. Ghost chuckled as he fumbled the lock before hearing the click he shoved the chains off. Working on his ankles. “Just stay awake beautiful.” He mumbled looking at the door and you.

He reached for you pushing you gently to see your face. You were awake, very weak, pulse almost not there. “Take me home Simon.” You whispered reaching to him.

Ghost’s body boiled as he reached for you. He promises as they leave he will kill and gut for what they did to you. For touching you. For making you bleed. Fuck the stain. He needs to get you out of here.

Ghost nodded picking you up bridal style. “Yes ma’am.”

[loudblonde]

"A Pretty Bird in a Gilded Cage" John Price x Male Reader

summary: (Y/N) Price, aka Birdie, an ex-MI6 intelligence officer turned spy on British soil gets kidnapped by Makarov's men, all his life falls apart as Makarov has him tortured simply to get revenge on his husband.

warnings: torture, violence, allusion to rape(throw away line it doesn't actually happen,) angst with a happy ending

word count: 2,2K

December 10th, the room was freezing cold and damp, water dripped down the walls as mildew and mould alike grew in the corners, being in this abandoned hellhole was sure to make anyone sick. (Y/N) tested the bonds on the wooden plank he was tied to, they were not giving away enough leeway for them to have underestimated him though he didn’t have a guard on him so they obviously only knew the official story. Retired and injured intelligence officer.

Many people meeting (Y/N) for the first time formed 3 opinions, that he was handsome, that he was capable and that he had Captain John Price fully wrapped around his finger. It was no secret that the not-very-hidden, retired intelligence officer for MI6, was the proud and semi-supportive husband of Captain John Price.

Many people around base knew him as “The Only Man Capable of Making the Captain Relax” or rather, househusband, though what many people, including John Price himself, didn’t know, is that (Y/N) is not retired, he is still very much so active, just not in MI6, instead he works close to the ground as a priced horse, waiting to get kidnapped which had happened two times while Price was away, after all, he had many enemies.

Footsteps could be heard coming down the stairway, and the light bulb hanging a meter from his face turned on, blinding him. By the sound of it, 4 people entered the room, 3 heavy sets with boots on, probably soldiers the size of Simon, if not a little smaller, and one person wearing business shoes. (Y/N) turned his head and looked at them through squinted eyes. “Whatever you want, I won’t give it to you,” He said.

(Y/N) sighed in his restraints, clearly, he was going to be here for a while. There was no window that hadn’t been painted over, letting no light in, it was hard to tell what was day and night but he hadn’t been here for long, he had counted 9 hours so far.

Laswell had either yet to notice the tracker being activated or she was in the middle of an operation that required her focus. (Y/N) didn’t doubt that last one, he knew John was on a mission away, he probably wouldn’t be home for another month or so, maybe more.

“Oh, we aren’t the ones with questions, Birdie.” The man’s heavy Russian accent spilt through, causing (Y/N) to roll his eyes. “But we are here to pretty you up for the pictures we are about to take, your husband will want to know what you look like.” (Y/N) felt a fist hit his stomach, and all the air was knocked out of his lungs, he gasped for breath at the same time a wet cloth was thrown over his face followed by water. “We were told to be… creative with the prettying.”

December 11th, everything was sore, bruised and bloodied. His whole body hurt and he was pretty certain he didn’t have any internal bleeding. He was left alone, his stomach growled for food but he held on.

December 15th, he finally got food, but they were on a jet someplace, they didn’t speak to him the entire time. Everything still hurt but he managed to keep calm. Laswell crackled to life in his ear. “Are you alive?”

(Y/N) grunted out once, meaning yes.

“Good, when you land, gather information, we are already decrypting everything the linefeed is sending over.” She said, her voice was a comforting niceness in the last few horrific days of torture. The com crackled again, signalling she had left.

December 18th, a cold and barren winter morning in the middle of the Siberian taiga forest, in one shitty run-down cold shack, (Y/N) was sitting tied to a chair just waiting for his captors to return, he needed to get information out of them, it would ultimately help his husbands team, these were their enemies.

An icy wind was tearing through the shack, threatening frost burnt appendages and pneumonia. The silence of the forest was torn apart by the sound of a helicopter above them. It landed, whipping wind against the shack, like the big bad wolf blowing down the house of the pigs, (Y/N) wasn’t sure how much longer he could stay without risking his husband finding out.

Makarov was a true scumbag. (Y/N) knew in his heart that he wouldn’t hesitate to dispose of (Y/N) as soon as he was bored off him or he had had his fun. (Y/N) didn’t like either of those options. (Y/N) spit down at Makarov’s shoes though it seemed to only further the man's twisted amusement.

The door opened with a creak, it shuttered against the wall, the wood groaned and the metal creaked further. (Y/N) shivered at the frost-ridden air that entered, each set of feet crunching the snow that had blown into the shack through the cracks of the wood. His hood was ripped off, alongside some hair and (Y/N) stood face to face with Vladimir Makarov.

(Y/N) raised an eyebrow, unimpressed with the dramatic entrance of the man. “Doing your dirty work all by yourself?” He knew that he should be scared but he didn’t want a man such as Makarov to see his fear.

“For one such as you, yes.” Makarov grabbed (Y/N)’s face and tilted it painfully up, the bones in his neck groaned and the muscles were pulled dangerously taunt, one quick knife and (Y/N) would be dead. “A pretty songbird in a gilded cage. You have such potential and yet… you fail to use it in any way. You were a world-class intelligence officer and now you are but an ant beneath my boot. Your husband has already noticed that you are here when he and his team rush here…” Makarov smirked.

“You plan on killing them in a trap? Use me as bait, that is cruel even for you.” (Y/N) growled out, he let fake hot anger rise up just enough to heat his skin. “You bastard!” (Y/N) hadn’t been sent undercover as many times as he had, without picking up a thing or two. Tears of disbelief and anger welled in his eyes and froze against his skin as they spilt. Shards of ice fell into his lap.

(Y/N) frowned, he needed to get out, these people were dangerous enough as is, they shouldn’t have a hostage for any more than needed. (Y/N) already had gained as much information from simply being close to them, all agents like him had a device embedded under the skin for long-distance download, it wasn’t the safest of experimental devices but (Y/N) was more than ready to do what he needed to do in order to keep the world safe, much like his husband he was no stranger to war crimes.

Makarov chuckled darkly and shook his head. “No, I plan on breaking your mind after they are dead, there is nothing better than having a pretty bird by my side. It would be the biggest disappointment to the Price legacy.”

He let go of his face, leaving behind red marks that would undoubtedly create bruises, it would be hard but not impossible to hide from Price. Makarov took one last look at him and walked outside the shack, a sickening smirk on his face the entire time. He slammed the door with enough brute force to make it hard to open it, the door locked in place.

A small voice in his ear crackled to light. “Need rescue?” It was Laswell’s voice. (Y/N) whispered a no close to his chest and leaned back in his restraints, the sound of a helicopter flying away signalled that Makarov went away again. (Y/N) counted every second until an hour went by, being sure to prepare himself enough. “Don’t attract attention when you leave, we don’t want them chasing you. We are trying to find an extraction point.”

(Y/N) undid the handcuffs with ease, getting out wasn’t as hard as one would think and untied himself. He glanced around outside the windows before snaking his way under the wood in the back. He escaped into the forest safely and didn’t stop running for an hour.

His lungs were on fire, and everything was bruised, beaten and hurt, he was expecting to at least come out of this with hypothermia and that was if he was lucky.

“Laswell, do I have an extraction point?”

“Yes.” A voice cackled in his ear, a much deeper voice that didn’t belong to a woman he considered his sister. It was Price. (Y/N) sighed with a groan. “Two more miles and we are ready to pick you up.” Price sounded pissed though also worried.

“Hello dear.” (Y/N) said, his voice wavering a bit. “I didn’t realise you were in the country.”

“I didn’t realise you have a habit of getting kidnapped in the middle of me being away on a mission.” Price said, considerably less angry.

(Y/N) held his ribs as he chuckled, it sent jabs of pain coursing through him, though he had had worse. “I try not to make it a habit but it’s hard when your husband has enemies. May as well take advantage of the fact I am capable of getting myself unkidnapped.” (Y/N) said as he made his way through the snow-filled area.

“Do you need a medic?” Price asked.

“Not immediately, I may have broken my ribs but other than that I hadn’t been tortured badly enough for me to be in any danger.” (Y/N) replied, his voice somewhat strained. “I can run without killing myself.”

“Yes, I saw that. When were you going to tell me that you hadn’t retired?” Price sounded hurt, clearly at the lack of trust.

(Y/N) sighed, his feet dragging in the snow. “Honey, you and I both know my security clearance will always be higher than yours, I was told to never tell anyone, not even you, ordered. Laswell is barely allowed to know and that is on the basis of her knowing you intimately.”

“Does this happen often?” He asked.

(Y/N) shook his head before realising his husband couldn’t see it. “No, not often. I think this is my third time. Though the hazard pay bump is to die for.” (Y/N) chuckled at his own joke, his husband didn’t.

“How much further?” Price asked, ignoring the dark joke, he was more worried about his husband surviving than laughing at a joke.

“A mile. I will contact you when I get near.” (Y/N) said and they both went silent.

A very brief reunion happened before John almost had an aneurysm. “We need a medic as soon as we land!” He said into a long-distance communicator. “Not hurt my ass!” He hauled (Y/N) into the yet and it took off. (Y/N) sighed in relief as he sank into comfortable seats.

“How long?” John asked as he brought over something to clean the cuts and blood away from him.

“Hm? What date is it?” (Y/N) asked, he was tired, starving and thirsty.

John sighed and started cleaning the wounds. “18th, but I meant, how long have you been doing this?”

“Ahhh, hmm, maybe 8 years now, since I recovered from my injury, mostly I just fuck around in Britain, spying on people there, making certain we aren’t going to succumb to infighting, fucking Tories are making my life a living hell though, all of them are so blatantly willing to become traitors if it meant keeping their wealth.” (Y/N) said. “But I was taken for 8 days this time. I don’t remember how much I have eaten.”

“We will get you checked over and then get you back on food… how have you been able to hide all of this from me?” John asked.

“Honestly, most of the time I am only there for 3 days, minimal torture and bruising, but without the support and with Laswell not present, I couldn’t risk escaping early on, they had no reason to kill me, Makarov wanted you dead and me as a glorified whore.”

John growled out in barely contained anger, his body tensed up at the thought of it. “I will kill him myself.”

(Y/N) placed a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t you worry your head about it, I am back, safe and your mission is already to kill him.”

“My mission doesn’t matter when he attacks my husband-“ John started, “-who is a very accomplished field agent who despite his career-ending injury still managed to end up being a total badass and escape one of the most dangerous groups of international terrorists right now.” (Y/N) ended, making John smile softly.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, old man.”

It took a total of 5 days before (Y/N) was allowed to leave the medical ward and another 3 for his husband to stop fussing but (Y/N) fully knew that only happened because he had been called out on a mission and when John returned near dead, (Y/N) was now the one fussing over him and making sure he was healed up nicely after the whole Makarov situation.

While John stayed employed for several years after this, the two eventually both retired, including (Y/N) properly this time, to a small homestead in the Scottish countryside, close to where McTavish and Riley retired too but far enough away to have peace and quiet.

And in the end, their last remaining family members buried them side by side where they would forever rest.

The End. 

[am-i-interrupting]

I'm curious what Vox's first impressions were of the Alastor's daughter, like as a kid, I mean he briefly mentions it but I kinda wanna read his reaction about learning the radio host he grew up listening to has a daughter (and if he learned before the serial killer thing was announced, did imagine scenarios of meeting the radio man and his daughter like little kids do with their imagination or teens with their daydreams).

Another inquiry is what his impressions were when he read the reader's book (obviously he read it) and if he could sense there was more to it than the words written down

OATSH Master List

To answer your second question succinctly, yes. Not to the extent that he would suspect them of anything but he would have definitely picked up on some very subtle hints of defensiveness when it came to Alastor’s killings. I think he’d probably read it as them feeling like they need justification for still caring about him despite what he did but in reality, it’s less about their own justification and more so like a “he’s not a monster. He was helping people, why can you see that?” you know?

To answer your first question, thank you for giving me a reason to write this:

A Voice on the Radio | Vox x Alastor’s Child Reader

It was a surprise when the radio switched from producing the sound of blues to voices. For the past week, nothing but blues music came from the station. A very stark change from the upbeat jazz that normally played. There had also been no speaking. Not a single soul had spoken for the last nine days.

A throat cleared. “Is this on?”

“The light,” another, much younger sounding voice said.

The fifteen year old paused eating breakfast and looked at his mother who was staring at the radio with furrowed brows. Neither voice was familiar.

“Ah, yes, right,” the first voice said with a laugh. “Good morning all, we would like to apologize for the radio silence on our part this past week. Some unexpected tragedies came our way and with them uncovered some gruesome truths.

“The dearly beloved host, Alastor, has passed. He was killed by a misfire of a hunter. A truly tragic event but with it came to light the horrific acts of the late Alastor. As you likely know if you’re a long time listener, for the past decade or so, there have been many murders that have befallen this otherwise serene part of Louisiana and it’s been confirmed to be the acts of our previous show host.

“Today, I have here with me the one person who knew him better than anyone else and can hopefully shine some light upon the situation and perhaps give some peace to the families of the victims. Alastor’s daughter—“

He looked towards the radio now. His breakfast was forgotten now. His fork barely dangled in his hand.

Not only was his mother’s (and by extension his own) favorite radio show host dead but also a murderer and he had a daughter? So much information in less than three minutes. His brain was struggling to keep up.

Even his father set down his paper to listen in.

“Why don’t you say hello to the people?”

“I’m not dignifying you with a proper greeting until you dignify me with a proper introduction. You’re doing a terrible job, Gregory,” the younger voice said.

He smiled curiously at the radio.

“I— um, I’m sorry?” the man, Gregory, said. There was only silence in reply. An awkward chuckle, “Well, my apologies then. Let me introduce the daughter of our show host—“ Gregory said your name and silently he tested it on his tongue— “Do you have anything to say to the people before we begin?”

“Yes, I would like to sincerely apologize for Gregory’s lack of bravado and charisma. I did do my best to convince them that Raymond would be better but alas,” you said.

That’s when he got it. You did sound like a younger, more feminine version of your father. Down to the tilts of the accent.

There was a longer pause and then, barely picked up and barely able to decipher, “You have your father’s creepy smile.” Louder, intended to be heard, “Why don’t we get into the questions then?”

“Yes, let’s. The less time spent listening to you, the better for everyone, hm?”

“You little— So—“ the sounds of hands clapping together— “the reports I have here suggest that you knew about the murders. Was there a reason you didn’t say anything?”

“I’ve been raised by a serial killer, Gregory. Please, take a guess,” you replied.

He couldn’t help but snort as reached for his glass. His mother shot him a look. He bowed his head down as he took a sip.

“Right, well,” Gregory cleared his throat, “did you happen to know his motivations?”

“He’s a very righteous man,” you said. “You’ve seen him when people are being disrespectful. He’s not just some ravaging animal. He’s very selective.”

“Was,” Gregory corrected. “He was very selective, you mean.”

“Was,” you repeated and he could hear you seething even through the crackle of the radio.

“Oh, heavens! Get your stuff or we’re going to be late,” his mother said.

He didn’t want to go though. He wanted to stay and listen to you on the radio. He was having fun listening to your snark.

It truly surprised him, impressed him how you were able to have such moxie so soon after tragedy. He couldn’t imagine being so quick witted so quickly.

His mother called his name and he snapped back to reality. As he headed out the door, he heard you snap back at Gregory one more time, “And would you call yourself a saint? Don’t think no one’s noticed the looks you’ve shared with Ms. Brown, as a married man, no less!”

He compressed a laugh to his chest as he followed his mother.

The next day he saw a paper with a headline related to a serial killer in Louisiana. He paid for the paper and read another interview with you.

He couldn’t help but wonder what you looked like. What would such a snarky, confident girl look like? He wanted to know. He wanted to meet you. Even in tragedy, you seemed like good company to have.

[verus-animus]

Finally Home

"Uuuggh.... fuuuck... that's gonna hurt for at least a few hours..." A deep groan escaped from my mouth as I rubbed the pain in the back of my head. Having him fly across the room and slam his head on the hard concrete floor was definitely not in the plan, but at least everything else had been successful.

You see, for years and years I had been lusting over this one handsome hunk that frequented the gym I went to. Damien, as I later managed to find out his name, wasn't just any normal gymgoer. No, he was beyond that and more. The way he easily lifted those weights with his huge biceps, the tension of his massive quads as he ran on the treadmill, and the short breaks he took between each set to give everyone around him a prideful flex show... He was a god among gods... at least in my eyes.

Some might have called me obssessed, but I just found myself mesmerized by everything he did, everything he said, and everything he was. I loved the way his tall muscular body moved, I loved the way his deep accented voice sounded, and I even loved the way his pungent after workout musk smelled (Yes, I might have broken into his locker a few times just to bask in that wonderful scent of his...).

At first I really thought I was just in love with him, but I quickly realized it was something more than that, something more possessive. I didn't want to be with him. No, I wanted to be him. I wanted... no yearned to parade around with that wonderfully fit body, to watch myself flex with those massively thick biceps, and to simply own all that he possessed and had worked hard for. The very thoughts would make me quickly chub up and I'd often be forced to release a big load in the gym toilets while imagining running my hands across that chiseled flesh of Damien.

That's why I've spent the last seven months browsing through every book in the library, every website on the net, and every tattered research paper I could get my hands upon to find some way to actually make my desire come true. It took countless sleepless nights and an almost empty bank account, until I finally found what I was looking for. All that was required was the right place, right time, and right person...

I wasn't going to risk anything, so after finding out where he lived, what time he usually went to the gym, and when he would most likely come back home, I immediately put my plan into action. Yes, I broke into his apartment. Yes, I smeared chicken blood all over his living room floor to draw a glyph and lit incense sticks everywhere. And yes, I sat in the middle of it all naked and drenched in chicken blood, while clutching a piece of dry wood with runes carved on it in my hand.

You would think I had gone mad at this point, but you have no idea the dedication and yearning I had felt to actually make this go through. Patiently I sat there and waited for him, minutes and hours went by, but I was just as ready for the moment he would be back.

And when I could finally hear the entrance door to his apartment unlock, and saw the shocked expression on his handsome face as he found a complete stranger sitting in the middle of his living room floor, I immediately brought the unusual dry wood high up in the air and split it into two. Almost instantaneous an intense burning pain washed all over me, followed by the horrific sight of my physical body being engulfed in sweltering purple fire. A pile of ashes and flesh pieces was all that was left, as I now found myself hovering above the glyph in some sort of hazy non-physical state.

Not letting the opportunity pass me by, I immediately focused my form towards Damien's body and flung myself against him. A look of absolute terror was plastered on his face, as the words "Oh fuck" left his mouth. A wide gaping mouth that turned out to be the perfect entrance for me to slam myself straight into. The very force of my invasion however caused him to suddenly be flung backwards and across the living room.

I was rapidly forcing myself down into his gagging throat, and quickly filling him up with all of my essence. I could feel him starting to fight back, but I had no intention of giving him that chance. Immediately I pushed down even deeper and found his core. It was warm, livid, and pulsating... and I wasted no time completely enveloping it and absorbing it into myself. I could feel all his memories, dreams, and desires wash over me. If I wanted to become Damien, I had to go all the way.

One the outside, Damien's face was red and exhausted, as his expressions went from ones of pain and anguish to pleasure and joy. For a few brief minutes he closed his eyes and just laid there on the floor in eerie tranquil.

Until they finally opened again with me in complete control.

I tried to push myself back up, only to fall back down on the floor with a heavy thud. As much power and strength that flowed through my new bigger body now, I found myself beyond exhausted. Not only that, but my broad muscular back was now drenched in sweat, as were my armpits with my new wonderfully pungent musk.

Accepting that I wasn't getting up from this floor anytime soon, especially with this pounding headache in the back of my head, I decided to enjoy my new self right there and then. With one rugged hand shoved deep down in my gym shorts and squeezing my new engorged manhood, the other massive arm was busily being kissed, flexed, and having its wet armpit being worshipped.

Basking in my new perfect body and identity, I spent the rest of the evening filling the apartment with groans of my deep accented voice, and my stomach with pounds after pounds of my sticky white Damien cream...

I was finally who and where I had always meant to be, with the perfect body, life, and identity.

Finally I was home.