#wouldn’t it be a shame if you had to date gaz instead

[lunarw0rks]

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZT8Sb5t8B/

gaz does this…show him a picture of some guy you’re talking to on hinge or tinder and his smile would drop so fast, muttering “oh that’s not—“

he’s trying so hard to be supportive. he really is. but like… you really know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?

[yeahnahalrightfairenough]

You are the best of the best, which is why you were hired to take out Kyle Garrick.

Gaz x gn!reader

Warning: murder, no explicit scenes only stated, sad gaz. Terrible writing

Walking into the nightclub you were quick to make two observations, Garrick was in a darkened corner of the club and he wasn’t alone. Making your way toward bar you studied his companions. The rest of the 141, you turn your sights to Garrick to find that his already watching you, you smirk making a show of checking him out before you reach the bar. It only takes 40 minutes and you’re both in your hotel room.

You didn’t kill him that night, you meant to but he tired you out. He was a lot better than you were expecting and you decided that it can wait until morning. But morning came and he was up first and left to bring back breakfast. The day went on and you had found plenty of opportunities to take him out but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. He was sweet and was treating you like a princess even though he only met you less the than 12 hours earlier.

The day rolled into weeks and the months until it hit the three month mark since you first set out to kill Kyle and you had still failed to complete you’re task. It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the opportunity, you had plenty, in the short time he has known you he has fallen for you. Even going as fair to introduce to his team that , aside from Ghost, seem to trust you as well. So why is it that you seem unable to complete your mission? It seem you have fallen who him too.

It might have been the constant dates or constant sex, it might be the fact that in the first time in your life you are getting treated like you are human and not a monster or a machine. It could even be the look he gives you when he comes to you home after a long day, a look that seems to be calling you his home. You had fallen hard for him and your contacts were pissed.

Sitting on Kyle in the living room while a movie plays to no one, you have only made progress in removing his shirt when you notice it. Something was wrong, you go to pull away from him, when the sound of clicking makes you both freeze in place. A gun presses into the back of Kyles head and you look up to see Graves sneering down at you.

“Please, let them go and we can talk about this”

You look at Kyle in shock as Graves begins to laugh “if they had done their job in the first place, we wouldn’t of had to worry about any of this” Kyle face drops, a broken look crossing his face as he stare up at you. You lift you self of him mumbling an apology as you get up and look back at Graves “I’m sorry I failed you sir.” He studies you for a moment before reaching his free hand to his side and pulling out a knife “make it up to me. Finish your mission now” handing you the knife, you stare down at Kyle, who you note, had started tearing up at the full reality of the situation dawned on him, Ghost had been right.

You shift the knife towards his throat with a sigh, “Shame it had to end this way,” half a second later the direction of the knife shifted arching up instead, into Graves throat instead of his. “I think I would’ve fallen in love with you Garrick” you yanked the knife out of Graves throat and slammed the hilt into Kyles temple.

A few hours later he awoke to Price looking down at him. “What happened” he said, his head spinning. “Could ask you the same thing mate. You share you location with us, only for us to get here to a dead body and you taking a nap” He sits up to fast, grasping the side of his head he still looks around desperately for you. You had left without a trace of you ever being there in the first place.

[mullersturtleneck]

Sticking With the Schuylers (22)

You thought I would give you James’s POV that easily?

Here’s another flashback chapter instead.

1  2  3  4   5   6   7   8   9   10   11   12   I   13  14   15   16   17   18A  18B   18C  I   19   20   21

In the bright white light, there are only shadows. They cross slowly through the fog and the blinding brilliance with a purpose. Slinking; crawling, they appear and dissipate through with the lingering feeling of distant memories. Each shape elicits a different reaction-two bodies with natural bouncing curls bring yearning, an older, cane-bearing man accompanied by sorrow. Then, there’s another man; young, fit, who strides across the white light with an air of unbridled confidence. Her bones hurt. Her heart tenses. It feels as though it’s stopped beating altogether when in reality its rhythm is slow, strained, yet there. Pounding. Aching.

               She can’t feel a thing.

               I shouldn’t be crying like this. Am I even crying? Where am I, why can’t I move?

               There’s a silence that lingers throughout the room and buzzes through her ears. All that accompanies it is a low beeping-steady, resilient. She counts the beeps as they happen, in an irregular rhythm that’s too slow to enjoy. She wishes there was more to this world.

               She wonders what’s beyond the light-the light that had given her so much hope, and joy, before ripping it away with one glance at him. He’d been her joy. He’d also been her demise.

               The memories come back slowly, painfully, and in flashes against the bright light. Their story dances like fog across the water, monochromatic figures over the blinding backdrop. A powerful puppet show presenting horror that shakes her core. There’s a man and a woman, side by side by the crashing waves. They’re dissolved by a wind which turns them into the same figures, this time posing for the flashing lights that flicker against the blinding backdrop. Another wind brings them to closed fists, shaking, and open mouths that let out grey sparks that fill the air between them. The sparks fall and they’re changing again, the man and the woman. The shouting sparks that have fallen turn to flames upon the ground, rippling and spreading until they’ve engulfed the ground they’re standing on. The shadow woman cowers in horror. The man raises his arms.

               The sparks swallow the woman in a haze of slate and silver until they stop, sinking into the background of the blinding light and taking her figure with them.

               All that’s left is the man. His silhouette stands, defiant, against the blinding light. His hands on his hips, muscles tensed…the fog-flames do not touch him. He has a shield. The man who had brought the furious fire is impervious to its powers, and it sets her skin ablaze.

               There’s a brush along her arm-a warmth that feels comforting upon contact. Yet as soon as the warmth finds her a warning signal shoots through her spine. She jumps involuntarily. Her body burns in response, stabbing and pulling until she’s settled back down again.

               “Is she going to be alright?”

               “There are some serious injuries here, mostly in the ribs and the right side of her body, where she was down. There was some concern about her head as well but the results of the CT scan showed no signs of brain trauma.”

               Brain trauma. Trauma. She swallows back the word as it dances in the air above her, a sign she couldn’t quite comprehend. Amongst the jargon there are hummings, stifled sniffs as the hand finds its way back to hers once more. She cringes. She’s not sure if her body has listened to her brain’s requests to move. Every word traces itself in and out of a murmuring state-through the ringing silence in her mind she is only able to make out small details; trauma being one of them. Victim being the next.

               Lungs aching, pulse thundering within tired veins, she could hardly manage more than silent, shallow breaths. There’s a rickety creaking within the walls of herself, pinching with each short intake of breath. No matter how much she wished to keep her pain within herself, her teeth bite her bottom lip as her eyes squeeze themselves tighter. The hand on hers-Angelica, it’s only Angelica-tightens its hold.

               “Eliza, can you hear me?”

               Yes.

               “It’s me, it’s Angelica.”

               I know that.

               “You were hurt-it doesn’t look good. My god, it doesn’t look good at all.”

               Her answers linger in her mind-she can’t bear to open her mouth, to continue the conversation that is only audibly one-sided.  There’s a certain shame to lying here, needles in her veins and tubes in her body, as her sister sits beside her. For a moment, Elizabeth wonders what she looks like. She decides she doesn’t want to know. She’d rather face the imaginary horror of the dancing shadows and the blinding light than the reality of the injuries that make her body burn. At least she has that choice. At least she can pretend to hide just a little bit longer.

               She can feel Angelica’s presence by her side the entire day; doctors come in and out of her room, whisper her name as if she can’t understand what they’re saying. There’s a layer of disbelief in their tones. One of them, a deep feminine tone, had even snickered along to the sound of rustling papers. They only made Eliza sink deeper into her hiding.

               In the late hours of the night, when the traffic through her room had died down, Elizabeth Schuyler finally dared to open her eyes. At first, even the slight and barely-there lighting within the room felt to be too much. She squinted against the reality of it all. The first thing she notices is the physical-her half-opened eyes give her a long-ranged perspective of her body that snaps them shut in response. She breathes-a mental pep-talk. She lets the doctor’s words wash over her again, pairing the experience with what she remembers to piece a picture of the possible damage into her mind.

               She’s still shocked when she finds the will to open her eyes again.

               There’s a blanket-thin, cheap-that’s thrown over half of her body. The scratchy fabric begins at one hip and flows across to her other ankle, barely covering anything. If she didn’t know any better, she’d think she was home again, kicking blankets and pillows to the floor in her usual active sleep. Eliza’s sure she couldn’t kick a shoe onto her foot if she tried, at this point. There’s no pinpoint to where the pain begins, rather it dwells in each piece of her body like a parasite, sucking at the life inside of her and leaving no feeling at all. There is only the remnants of what had been-a dream-like hallucination of the moments that had past that hits her as such. Each memory, each moment from that night, brings forward a new level of injury until-when the end of the events comes into play-a throbbing is pulled to her head as she watches herself hit the ground.

               So that’s what he meant when he said brain trauma.

               She winces, and the sound pulls her even further into reality as the intake of breath stabs her insides once more. She shifts, trying to rid herself of the feeling. But with each slight movement of her muscles the stabbing, burning sensation spreads, like wildfire through her veins. Her eyes move wildly along her body; wires, tubes, the shaking lift of her chest-until she’s gasping for air, grasping for a grip on a different reality.

               Dark hair and comforting eyes fill her vision then, hovering over her as her hands move rapidly to find her hair, to bring comfort to her. Eliza shrinks back from the touch-her head is tender, delicate. Each grazing of skin on her skin is a reminder-a flash of what had been-of what could be again.

               Her distant memories aren’t so distant after all.

               “I deserved it.” They’re the first words that leave her mouth since the incident-she’s not sure how long it has been or how long it will be, stuck in this room, but with each passing minute a new memory surfaces. She doesn’t want to be here any longer.

               “Elizabeth Schuyler you did not deserve any part of this.”

               “But I did. I was the one who tried to leave. I was the one who called you.”

               “You don’t deserve a single thing this man has ever done to you.”

               “But I’m the one who started this relationship, aren’t I? I’m the one who said yes to a date. I’m the one who kissed him first.”

               Angelica comes to a stand-still, cautious eyes and hands dropped to her side before her entire demeanor changes.  She grows soft, sitting on the bed next to her and tilting her head, eyes wide and shining as she looks down at her middle sister.

               Elizabeth Schuyler has never been quiet-or soft, or put-down. From the moment she’d been able to talk, she’d been extremely sociable, always chatting Angelica’s ears off and driving her up a wall. Now, she was shattered.  Her voice is soft, almost a whisper. She can barely make herself move, even if she’d wanted to. No, she simply sits, eyes glazed over and staring straight at the pristine white brick ahead of her. She refuses to look at Angelica. She refuses to make herself into something she’s not.

               A victim. She’s not a victim. She refuses to be a victim.

               But she feels pretty close to one now-from the sensations that linger throughout her body, her mind. And Angelica; standing over her, doting-Angelica isn’t helping much at all. She shuts her eyes.  She wishes she could go back to sleep, that she’d never decided to open her eyes to such a nightmare. She almost wishes she’d died right there on that bedroom floor. Then, at least there wouldn’t be an aftermath. There wouldn’t be snickering nurses.

               Angelica is tense; she’s staring out the window, out at the doctors passing by their room. Her back is turned to Eliza but her body is tense; shoulders to her chin, hands curled into fists…her posture is straight and ready to fight, antsy and unsettled. Eliza watches through half-closed eyes as her sister gets up, shaking her head before pacing the room. Her eyes remain trained outside the window. Eliza manages turning her head, looking at the same view her sister is.

               The clock reads 2:20 A.M

               There are three nurses and a doctor outside of her room.

               All three stare straight back at her-they avert their gazes when she looks at them but it’s already too late. She’s seen them all.

               Eliza’s not sure what happens next; she feels the tears well in her eyes, pooling and seeping over, rolling down her cheeks in unforgiving tracks that she can’t lift an arm to wipe away. Instead she just lays there, the sensation of warm tears overcoming her cheeks. But along with the tears, there is nothing. Her heart doesn’t ache. There is no pull. Her body is magnetized to the bed. Her mind is numb. There is nothing.

               The nurses laugh.

               One pulls out her phone.

               Eliza rolls over then, unwilling to watch the unraveling of her demise. What would happen when her father found out? What about when the press got hold of those photos? And what would happen when it all came down-would she be forced to pursue action? Would she have to face him in court?

               The door slams, and Eliza’s sluggish pulse quickens. Her head turns so rapidly to the side that it aches, throbbing with the movement. There’s a moment-she shuts her eyes against the stinging, hoping she’ll open them to a new day, a new place-without this hospital, or her wounds, or James. She wishes it could be that easy.

               Then there’s Angelica-mouth wide and finger pointing menacingly at the nurses. They’ve stopped leaning on the counter. They’ve even stopping looking at her. Instead, they stare at her with wide, shocked eyes and shaking heads, shoving their phones into their pockets. She’s intimidating-a force of nature. Eliza does not dare open her eyes again, but instead focuses on the sounds; muffled shouting, accusatory words, and not a single sound from the people responsible for her care.

               In the hallway, in front of the nurses, Angelica stops. She stops shouting, or lowering her eyebrows. Her posture drops a bit, and her arms fall to her sides. And then, glancing furtively at the room-Eliza’s eyes are still shut-the oldest Schuyler throws her bag on the counter, digging through it. The nurses crowd around her, watching her movements with wide eyes rounded in disbelief.

Eliza opens her eyes just enough, just in time.

               Angelica Schuyler hands a check to each of the nurses, pausing to look at each one with narrowed eyes before letting the money go. They nod, understanding, without meeting her gaze-until she makes them. Angelica speaks to them for another brief moment before shooing them, standing at reception with her head in her hands. She paces, running her fingers along the strong wooden surface as her lips move with words that Elizabeth can’t hear-or read. Then she comes back in, Eliza hiding her eyes and feigning sleep as her sister sits back next to her, the bed sinking with new weight. Angelica’s hand gentle through her silken hair. It’s nearly comforting-still, uncomfortable. She shifts herself back so that she can look up at her oldest sister.  She blinks, the façade of a yawn finding its way to her lips.

               “Where’d you go?”

               “It was nothing-just a couple of nurses looking over your chart. They had some questions, luckily I’ve been paying attention.” She pulls the blanket over her younger sister. –Two fractured ribs. Near brain trauma. Sprained wrist. Then, she finds her way to the door.

               “I’m going to get a coffee and call Church back-he doesn’t know anything, I won’t tell him anything. He’s just worried.”

               “I’m alright.”

               “You are.” She stops, one hand on the door handle, her eyes looking over Eliza’s form once more. Angelica sighs, shaking her head before stepping out the door. The middle Schuyler watches as she walks away, phone in hand, a force of nature. Then she closes her weary eyes, silence overcoming her. And Eliza is overcome with the feeling of absolutely nothing.