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ghoul-bonez · 9 months

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~Your New Home~

(Neteyam x Fem! Na’vi! Reader)

Summary: You had never had any intention to meet another Na’vi, nor did you expect to ever visit Neteyam’s clan, but when he asks you to come meet his family you can’t say no.

Word Count: 5.5k

Author’s Note: PT 2!!! Very fun! Very excited! ENJOY! Thank you @eywas-heir for beta reading <3

~Last - Next~

~Series Masterlist~

~Main Masterlist~

Your New Home

Spending time with Neteyam was easy.

It was the calm within the eye of a hurricane, a time to relax between the chaos the forest brought to your life. He was calming to you, his presence, his energy, his voice, and as you laid on the soft grass of your meeting spot he would often tell you stories.

He would tell you many stories, one of your favorites being how he claimed his ikran. You were in awe of it, the way he did it being so different from you. All you had to do was call out and one of the many ikrans who had helped raise you would come to your rescue, scooping you up and taking you high above the ground. He had one, you had many.

It was so simple for you, a struggle for him. Many things were simple for you, and a struggle for him.

Meeting up with him was simple, you left your hunting for later in the day, leaving your den early in the morning, and returning late at night after a quick hunt, just enough for you and your palulukan mother.

Him meeting up with you was harder. He had to do his morning chores in a rush, meet up with his father, and figure out a lie for why he had to venture into the forest on his own. Most of the time it being hunting practice without distractions of other people. Then when he got back home he would rush to do his nightly chores so he could be ready in time for the clan’s dinner.

Hunting for you came so easy, it was natural, like you had been doing it your whole life, and he supposed you had. You were so in touch with your surroundings it took you maybe ten minutes to find a trail, ten more to track down the animal, and the takedown was quick, quicker than he had ever seen. It was a clean kill every single time, like it was so simple for you.

Hunting for him was easy enough, but not natural like it was for you. He was one of the best hunters in his clan, being a decorated Omaticaya warrior, but most of the time he took double the time it took you. His bow skills were sharp, he was taught by the best of the best, but somehow the best of the best could never match up with your self-taught skills.

You had been living in the forest your whole life, growing in the middle of it, never having a break. It has hardened you, taught you to survive. There was no true safety in the forest, nothing was promised to you, only vague messages telling you it would be okay.

Living in the forest would wear him down. He had grown up in the safety of his clan’s village. He had loved the forest ever since he was young, adventuring with Lo’ak and his other siblings, but at the end of the day he went back home to the safety of his village, surrounded by people sworn to protect and kelkus that protected him from the elements. The forest is too harsh for him.

He hates that you have to endure that. You deserve safety as much as he, or anyone, else does. You deserve to be warm and safe as storms pass overhead. You deserve to be happy and safe as you have a lazy day around the village, weaving or doing whatever you wish. You deserve to be full and safe after a meal, not having to worry about hunting for yourself every single day.

He wants you to be safe.

The only way he could think to do that was for you to live in the Omaticaya village, where he felt most safe. Where you would be protected and unbothered.

What he didn’t know was you felt plenty safe in the forest. You actually quite enjoyed the danger lurking throughout the shadows of the underbrush. You didn’t mind the rain outside your warm dry den. You didn’t mind sitting in the elements as you relaxed. You didn’t mind hunting every day.

The forest was calm today, or as calm as it could be. Birds chirped, ikrans screeched in the distance, a breeze blew through the trees, rustling the leaves, all of the background noises blended together into a quiet comforting buzz. The sun peeked through the trees, warm on your skin as you ran your hand over the grassy ground.

Neteyam was smiling down at you where you laid on the lush green grass, head in his lap, eyes up on his face, admiring the smile that you had once wanted to slap off of his face. He looked beautiful, ethereal, with the sun shining down around him.

You smiled as well, placing a hand on his face gently, feeling his soft skin like you loved so much. You breathed deeply, calm, as you listened to the sounds of the forest around you while you sat in silence with Neteyam.

Whenever you would first meet up in the morning you had silent time, a time where you didn’t have to focus on forming words, but instead got to bask in Neteyam’s presence. You could simply exist around each other, your gentle touches expressing anything you needed to say.

He carefully brushed some hair out of your face, still loose like it had always been, but less tangled than before. The softness of it when it was brushed out was surprising to you, but very welcomed. You felt pretty with your hair loose and untangled, dark and wavy as it fell down your back.

Neteyam smiled wider, humming, making a thinking face which made you giggle. He cleared his voice, like he always did when quiet time was over, and you prepared yourself for the conversation to come.

He spoke softly, quietly but loud enough for you to hear, “What story would you like to hear today?”

You cleared your throat too, humming, “Hm,” You thought, for a second, “Tell me about your home.” You paused for a second, adding on, “Please.” remembering your manners Neteyam had been desperately trying to teach you.

“Okay, if that’s what you want.” He was surprised, he hadn’t expected that to be your request, he had expected you to ask for the story of his Iknimaya or any of the folktales he had told you before.

You smiled, “It is. I have heard all of the other stories plenty of times before.” You explained, and that made enough sense to him.

Neteyam smiled, thinking about his home, “Well, it is nice enough. There are many kelkus scattered about, some bigger, some smaller, but all big enough for the families that live in them. They are warm and comfortable, nice to come home to at the end of the day. We are a very tightly knit community, everyone knows everyone. We have nightly community meals where everyone gets to mingle. I love it.”

“What about your family?” You asked curiously.

“My family is rather large, there are six of us. My mother and father lead the family, they make sure we are all safe and happy, even if they go overboard sometimes. Then there are my siblings. I have a brother and two sisters. My brother is a pain in the ass, he’s always getting into trouble, and won’t stop disobeying father. My sisters are Kiri and Tuk. Tuk is the youngest, she’s eight, and she’s a ball of energy. Kiri is more calm, and she loves animals and plants, and they seem to like her too. She is also adopted, much like you.”

From hearing about Kiri she seemed a lot like you, but maybe with less rough edges, adopted by her own kind and not a bunch of animals, but you were grateful for your animal family. You thought about her a bit more, deciding, “I like Kiri.”

He laughs, smiling “I thought you would.” He waits for you to say something before asking, “Do you have any more questions?”

You thought, concentration on your face, then you decided on something, curiosity overtaking you, “You have told me about roles in your clan before, so what do you do in the clan?”

“I am going to be the future Olo’eyktan when my father is ready to retire. My father says I will be a strong leader,” Neteyam smiled proudly, before focusing on you, “but I will need a Tsahík.” He tried to hint at his intent.

You didn’t get the hint, mumbling, “Oh…” You frowned. No future leader would want you by their side, but Neteyam took all this time to help you learn, and he said he loved you, you knew he loved you. What was he doing?

He frowned then, cradling your face in his warm hands, “What’s wrong yawne?” He did not intend to upset you, but clearly something he had said had hurt you. He did not want to hurt you.

You sighed, trying to smile convincingly, “Nothing. I am okay.” You hoped he would drop it, you were not ready to address it. Instead, you wanted to move on, maybe drop the whole conversation about his clan.

He sighs as well, still frowning, “I know something is wrong, but I will not push you.” He wanted to get to the bottom of it, but he knew even with all your time with him you were still skittish. He was worried you would scurry off, and leave him alone. Instead of pushing it he switched the topic, “I want you to come meet my family.” He offered.

“Oh…” You were shocked. You had never intended to meet his family, happy with learning little bits and pieces about them from him from time to time, but as you thought about it you wondered what it would be like to meet them, deciding, “I would love to.”

A serious look was on his face, but you could tell he was anxious, very anxious, “How about we go now…” His voice fades off, “If you are ready?” He proposes.

You frowned, “Won’t they be busy?” They sounded like busy people, his parents being the clan leaders, and you knew his siblings often went out on adventures.

“Not really,” He cracked a smile, giggling, “I kind of told everyone I would be bringing a visitor today…”

You were surprised, and let it show on your face, “And I was not going to hear about that until now?”

“It is supposed to be a surprise,” He rolled his eyes sarcastically, “but please?”

You hesitated, were you ready for this? You weren’t sure, and you wished you had more time to prepare, but you made up your mind, “Okay… let’s go.”

Neteyam smiled fondly at you, placing a soft kiss on your forehead, “Thank you, tiyawn.”

“Mhm.” Was all you said, anxiety starting to gnaw at your stomach, butterflies inside, but instead of them fluttering around happily their wings beat hard, knocking all around.

You slowly sat up so that Neteyam could get up, and once he was and you hadn’t moved, feeling stuck to your spot, he reached his hand out, offering to pull you up.

He sighed, offering you a small smile, “You don’t have to do this if you don’t want to.”

“I want to.” You reassured him, and tried to convince yourself you were ready.

The walk was short, you never knew Neteyam lived so close to your meeting place, or maybe it was longer than it seemed as you zoned out the whole walk, coming back to reality when Neteyam stopped and you slammed into his back. You apologized, and he reassured you it was okay.

You were going to be okay.

When you stepped out of the brush it was like all eyes around you focused in on you, and they had. There weren't many people, but they all looked in your direction, and it scared you. You found yourself feeling uncomfortable and skittish, maybe even a bit hostile as you glared back at the people, ready to scatter off if anything were to go wrong.

All of your thoughts, negative and positive, stopped when Neteyam reached out to you, wrapping an arm around you, and squeezing tightly enough to calm you a bit with his embrace. He quietly whispered, “It’s okay. You are okay.”

You tried to calm your breathing, “Teyam, they are staring at me.” You felt targeted, threatened, like they are waiting to pounce and hurt you, whether that is physically or verbally.

Neteyam knew they were just curious, they had never seen you before, and that was odd for them, to see another Omaticaya person, and looking the way you did with scars littering your skin. He tried to calm you, “They are just curious, I promise.”

“Okay…” You were not convinced, but tried to allow yourself to believe him.

“We are going to the Tsahík tent, to my grandmother. You will wait there, and I’m going to get my parents.”He informed you, “Think you can do that?” He asked, cautiously. He was willing to go about it another way if you were not comfortable with that plan.

You took a deep breath, preparing yourself beforehand, “Yes, I think that will be okay.”

Neteyam smiled, “Good.”

The rest of the walk was silent as you kept your eyes down, focusing on the ground instead of the many onlookers studying you. People whispered between each other, asking questions that they would have to wait for the answers to.

“Who is she?”

“Where did she come from?”

“Why is Neteyam with her?”

“Why are they so close?”

You ignored the whispers, and soon enough you were entering a tent. As you looked around you there were plants hung on the walls drying, many pots and jars sitting on tables, rolled herbs and leaves everywhere, and a woman sitting in the middle working a mortar and pestle, grinding something up into a thick paste.

Neteyam smiled at the strange lady, greeting her, “Oel ngati kameie, grandmother, it is nice to see you.”

You realized she must be the Tsahík, dressed in her special clothes, most likely making a healing paste. You remember Neteyam teaching you about her, about the significance of her clothes, about her exceptional healing abilities, and how she communes with Eywa.

You quickly snapped back to yourself, zoning out once again, when her head turned to you, “Oel ngati kameie.” You greeted as well, remembering Neteyam telling you that was a customary greeting. It was polite, and you had manners.

She smiles calmly, and it calms you as well, “It is nice to see you too, grandson, and it is great to finally meet you (Y/n), Neteyam has told me so much about you.” You are shocked. You figured he had talked about you, but you didn’t expect it to be her, maybe his mother or siblings.

You pulled on a polite smile while you felt yourself crumbling, “It is nice to meet you too.” You didn’t have much else to say, you figured there was more you probably should, but nothing came to mind.

After greetings were done Neteyam took a deep breath, turning to you, “(Y/n), I’m going to get my parents okay?”

“Okay…” You were hesitant, not too excited to be left alone with a new person. You felt your body itching to run, to sprint off and never return, but you tried your best to hold yourself together.

Once Neteyam left you felt like you were going to cry. Your body and mind didn’t know what else to do besides break down. They were battling, your body wanted to run, but your mind wanted to stay. You wanted to stay, for him, and so you did, digging your feet into the ground and taking a deep breath.

“You are okay, I do not bite.” Mo’at smiled at you. She was trying to calm you down, being as calm and slow as possible in her movements.

“I’m sorry.” You apologized, for what you weren’t quite sure, but you did anyway. Maybe it was because you were so uncomfortable, maybe it was because she could sense that.

Mo’at completely ignored your apology, pointing to a cushion you could sit on like she was currently. You carefully approached it, pulling it a few feet away on instinct, before sitting on it. It was comfortable, but something you were not sure of.

She hummed, speaking carefully, “Your connection with Eywa is extraordinary. It is like a piece of her is in you.” She told you, or you took it as a complement.

You were curious, about her, about how she communed with Eywa, “How can you tell?”

She just laughs quietly, to herself, not necessarily at you, but your ears lowered, “I am Tsahík, I know everything there is to do with the Great Mother.”

You frown, not quite understanding, asking, “Ah, okay. I have heard about Tsahík. You talk to Eywa, yes?”

“Yes,” She smiles at you, and you can see the anticipation in her eyes, she is waiting to tell you something, “and she has told me about you, shown me visions of a girl raised by the forest.”

You smiled this time, thinking about the forest, about your home, about your family, “She did raise me. She cares for me, she granted me a family, and a community that taught me to survive.”

Mo’at nodded her head, taking in your information, she had heard about how you were raised by the forest, but not by who in particular, “Ah, I see. Who is your family?”

You smiled, thinking about your family. Usually you wouldn’t be this open, but for some reason you felt you could open up to the woman, “I have a mother, and a sister, but my sister left recently. Now it is just me and my mom.”

Mo’at hums, “Hm, who is your mother?” She asks, digging a little deeper.

You hesitate, knowing that your raising was not traditional, but you decided to answer, “My mother is a palulukan, her name is Riir. I was raised by her, and the other animals of the forest.”

“Oh.” She paused, she looked slightly surprised, “You are very lucky Eywa granted you that.”

You smiled, nodding your head, “Yes, I am grateful to her.”

She stops, thinking, asking Eywa for guidance before continuing, when she got an answer from her she said, “I would like to teach you, do you know anything about healing?”

Thinking about whether you should do this or not, you shake your head, “No,” You pause, really thinking about this, you decide she might be able to teach you some valuable skills, “but I think it would be good to learn.”

She smiles, clapping her hands together, making you jump, “Good, I will teach you then.” She sets it in stone.

There is a beat of silence, comfort settling over you as you sign contently, getting a small break from the constant chaos since you had gotten there. You sit on your cushion, watching Mo’at as she goes about her business, studying her already, even before your lessons have started.

As soon as your heart rate had slowed to a normal state there was a knock on the doorway. Your ears swiveled in its direction first, your heart jumping up your throat, your stomach twisting uncomfortably. Your head was quick to follow your ears after your body’s natural responses, wide eyes holding fear and apprehension in them.

You fought off your flight response, keeping yourself firmly where you were, but you were still ready to take off if the need arose. Your eyes were unfocused as you looked around, looking for some sort of safety, some semblance of your normal.

You couldn’t see anything through blurry eyes and you panicked, ready to stand and run. Then hands came to your shoulders, shaking you carefully, and that was the last straw. You thrashed out of the person’s hold, shooting to your feet, and when you realized the entrance to the tent was blocked by people you panicked more. A loud, aggressive, hiss erupted from you, and you watched as everyone flinched away.

You were stiff as a board, looking for any way out, but when you failed to find one you felt your body giving up. Your knees were weak, and you felt like you were going to collapse in a pile of tears, but before you could, arms wrapped around you. You flailed, squirming and thrashing to get away from them, but when they didn’t let you go you surrendered.

“(Y/n)...”The word was extremely muffled, but you could make out your name, focusing in a little more, “(Y/n) listen to me.” You were still on edge, but could now understand what was being said, “(Y/n), it’s okay. It’s just me. Just Neteyam.”

You let out a sigh, calming down a little as you realized it was him, “Neteyam…” When he was convinced you were done freaking out he let you go, “Thank you. I’m sorry.” You looked at him, then the ground as you apologized.

He carefully cradled your face in his hands, “It's okay. You’re okay.” He reassured you, “I brought someone to meet you.”

You turned to the people, embarrassed you had freaked out in front of them, remembering your manners you said, “Oel ngati kameie. I am so sorry.”

You looked at the people, examining them. They were older, obviously Neteyam’s parents, and you could definitely tell by his mother. They looked so alike. His father was intimidating, they both were, but his mother less so, seeming more at ease than her mate, a small smile on her face. His father’s face was hardened, but you could see the shock on his face that he was desperately trying to hide.

His mother addressed you first while his father watched on, “It is okay.” She smiled at you, before turning to Neteyam, “You picked a feisty one. She has a strong heart.”

“She’s something…” His father commented, he drifted off at the end, not sure what else to say.

“Ma Jake.” Neytiri hissed a warning, quiet enough for just him, and unfortunately you with your super focused hearing. You weren’t sure what he had meant, but now understood it was supposedly an insult of some sort. Before you could overthink it she spoke again, “I am Neytiri, my mate is Jake. We want to welcome you to the Omaticaya clan.”

“Thank you.” You replied simply, still not sure what to do.

You heard someone shout for Jake in the background and he flinched, hissing out “Shit.” Before turning to everyone, “I have to go, I am so sorry. I hope to see you again (Y/n).”

Neytiri looked like she was about to complain, but Jake took off before she could say anything to him, so instead she turned back to you and Neteyam, “Neteyam, I think your father will need your help. If it is okay with (Y/n) I can show her around the village.”

Neteyam turned to you, and you smiled, she reminded you so much of him, and you reassured him, “I think that would be okay. Go help your father Teyam.”

He nodded, smiling at you, “Okay yawne I will find you again as soon as possible.” He promised, taking your hands and kissing the backs of them.

You felt your cheeks warm up, blushing, “Okay tiyawn, see you later.”

After Neteyam ran off you smiled at Neytiri hoping it was friendly and didn’t show how anxious you were, “You are okay. I am not going to do anything.” She reassured you, smiling back, but more comfortably, “Let us go.” She said, offering you an arm to hold, before beginning to walk when you cautiously held onto her, but you had to admit it made you feel a bit better.

She explained what everything around you was, what different people were doing, and who a few important people were, like the group of elders watching you curiously as you passed with Neytiri.

As you weaved in and out of the kelkus around you Neytiri explained what you were doing there, “We are going to our home now, so you can meet Neteyam’s siblings. If they are too much call me, and I will come help.” She explained to you.

“Okay. Thank you.” You smiled at her, grateful for her offer, but a little worried about why she had said that. You hoped they would not be too much.

When you arrived someone was already waiting outside the kelku, a boy around you and Neteyam’s age. He looked like Jake, like Neteyam looked like Neytiri, so you put the pieces together that this must be his brother.

As soon as you were close enough the boy practically pounced on you, circling you and looking at you from every angle, looking for what Neteyam saw in you. You were odd, not what Neteyam would usually go for, not like what he had gone for in the past, and it didn’t matter to you, but to his brother it was puzzling.

He was about to say something, mouth already open, before Neytiri held her hand up, “Lo’ak go inside. She will join you when she is ready.”

Lo’ak’s shoulders slumped in defeat before he ducked inside, and you smiled at his disappointment before speaking to Neytiri, “He is a lot already.” You were a little unsure about him, but you would try talking to him.

She giggled, covering her mouth with her hand like Neteyam does, “Yes, trust me I know.” She paused, and when you didn’t say anything she spoke again, “Take your time, step in when you are ready.”

You took a few deep breaths, calming yourself as much as possible, “I think I am ready. Thank you.” You expressed your gratitude to her before stepping inside.

When you got inside you were immediately bombarded by Lo’ak as he sprung up from where he was sitting dejected, “Hey! I’ve heard a lot about you, but Neteyam wouldn’t tell us your name. What’s your name?”

You were immediately overwhelmed, a little spooked by him springing up, immediately in your face, but you tried to answer his question, “(Y/n)... Neteyam gave it to me.”

He smiles sarcastically, “Awe, a little nickname. What’s your real name though?” He questions you, nearly pushing you to the edge.

You tried to reason with him, “You would not understand my real name…”

“What does that mean? I promise I could figure it out. You’ve gotta tell me!” He shouts enthusiastically, talking a mile a minute.

You were trying to figure out what he was saying, but he was just talking too fast, so you tried to let him know as simply as you could, “I’m sorry you’re speaking a little too fast, I am struggling to understand you…”

He gasped, realizing something, “Is Na’vi not your first language?”

“No.” You said, hesitantly, not sure what else to say.

“Oh…” He trailed off, thinking of what it was, but not coming up with anything, “ Well what is it?”

You stuttered out, struggling, “I- I’m, uh, not sure if I am ready to share that with you.”

He looked disappointed, and you were tempted to just tell him, “But you have to-” He was then cut off by a girl who you hadn’t even noticed was there, but was now standing up from her spot in the corner where she had been watching.

She scoffed at him, “Lo’ak, you skxawng, go away. She will talk with you when she is ready.” Scolding him, almost like you were sure Neytiri would.

“But-” He tried to protest, but she cut him off again.

She put her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes, “Lo’ak, I am serious, buzz off.”

“Fine…” He huffed, walking away to only Eywa knows where, defeated.

The girl turns to you, smiling, “I’m sorry, he's an idiot.”

“It’s fine. He’s just…” You paused, looking for the right words, “A lot.”

“I’m Kiri.” She introduces herself, and you can feel something special about her. She feels like you in some way, she feels connected to you somehow, and that comforted you.

“I am (Y/n), but you already know that.” You giggled, letting loose with her unlike anyone else, something was just so comforting about her.

With her comforting vibes you were able to relax, making small conversation as you sat in the middle of the home. It was nice, and you allowed her in more than anyone else in the village so far. Telling her about your experiences up until now, and how you appreciated her listening. She had smiled, and reassured you that she would be there anytime you needed to talk.

As you finally got comfortable something spooked you once again, a little girl who rushed into the home like a tornado ready to take down anyone in it’s way, “Kiri!” A little voice shouts as a younger girl sprints through the doorway, clinging to Kiri, “Someone stole my toy!”

Kiri sighed, sending you an apologetic look as you tried to calm yourself once again, “It’s okay, Tuk. We will get it later.”

Tuk whined, turning around and finally noticing you. She gasped, “You’re so pretty.” She complimented, “Are you Neteyam’s mate?” She asked, putting two and two together.

You froze in surprise, trying to form a response, stuttering out, “Oh, um, not yet…”

Kiri sighed, placing her face in her hands, “Tuk! That is rude to ask.” She scolded the younger girl.

Tuk was a lot, much like her brother, but you appreciated her young innocence, “It is okay, she is just curious.” You admired her curiosity about you, introducing yourself, “I am (Y/n).”

The girl smiled widely at you, “I’m Tuk!”

You smiled back tightly, “It is nice to meet you Tuk.”

The girl was excited to meet you to say the least, and you were slightly uncomfortable with her energetic demeanor, but less so than Lo’ak as she typically asked less pushy questions. She was adorable as well, a bright smile on her adorable soft baby face. You decided you liked her, much like Kiri, but in different ways.

Eventually Neteyam was released from his duties and he found you back at his family’s kelku. He smiled softly when he saw you talking with Tuk, but he could tell you were getting overwhelmed, your social battery running out.

He knew you wouldn’t do it yourself so he excused you from the conversation, explaining to everyone that you had to go home before it got dark. You were grateful for that, getting tired, ready to go home to your mother palulukan and go to sleep.

You and him swiftly exited the village and began the trek back to your usual meeting spot where you could make your way home from. When you got there the overwhelmedness from the whole day overtook you, and all you could do was hug Neteyam and cry quietly in his arms.

He held you, allowing you to let it all out, whispering to you about how proud of you he was, how good you had done, how everyone had enjoyed meeting you, and that made you feel slightly better, but you were just so tired you couldn't process that.

When you were done crying it out he let go of the embrace, instead holding you by your shoulders out in front of him, “I love you.” He whispered to you, just for you, and he placed a kiss on your forehead.

“I love you too, Teyam.” You smiled at him, kissing both of his cheeks. He smiled widely at that, and you could tell he was grateful for you as you were grateful for him.

You trudged your way home once you had parted ways, and when you arrived home you were surprised to find your mother palulukan had hunted today, giving you dinner when you got home. You gratefully ate, happy with the silence she gave you after the day you had.

When you were finished she was already peacefully asleep, and you cuddled up next to her, thinking about your day.

You had been on edge, anxious, skittish, the whole day, but overall you would call it a success. You had enjoyed meeting certain members of Neteyam’s family more than others, but overall you liked them.

You could see them being your family, in some ways, but they were truly Neteyam’s family, not yours. No matter how much you learned to love them they would never replace your family in the forest, the ones who raised you. They would never replace your palulukan mother.

Their clan was fine enough, their homes were nice and clean, probably safer than yours, but you would never trade your home for theirs. The forest would forever be your home, your first, your safety, but you could see yourself living there. You could see yourself living with Neteyam, your new home.

Word Bank:

Ikran (Mountain Banshee)

Palulukan (Thanator)

Omaticaya (Forest Na’vi)

Kelku (Omatikaya homes)

Iknimaya (Omatikaya rite of passage, claiming an ikran)

Olo’eyktan (Clan leader)

Tsahík (Spiritual leader)

Yawne (Beloved)

Tiyawn (Love)

“Oel ngati kameie.” (“I see you”, greeting)

Eywa (Na’vi goddess)

Great Mother (Eywa)

Skxawng (Idiot, moron)

@xstarsmvxz @netedoongie @c-h-i-l

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moodymisty · 4 months

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Chapter reactions to their Primarch's beloved [ part2 ]

[ 𝕸𝖔𝖔𝖉𝖞𝕸𝖎𝖘𝖙𝖞'𝖘 𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙 | 𝕬𝖔3 ]

[ Part 1, Part 3 ]

Author's Note: Another 4 of the 'Chapter reactions to their Primarch's lover' series I said I went too crazy with. I chose them at random, if you want any more feel free to say.

Relationships: Implied Lion'el Jonson/Gn!Reader, Implied Konrad Curze/Gn!Reader, Implied Vulkan/Gn!Reader, Implied Magnus the Red/Gn!Reader

Warnings: Some vague implications of the Night Lords being creepy little shits but tbh is that really surprising?

➧ Dark Angels:

Paranoid. You were actually kept a secret from most of the Legion apart from Lion'el's closest Commanders for quite awhile, until he made his decision to reveal the that The Lion of Caliban had taken a lover.

You can only assume he did all of it as another layer of his ever expanding list of contingency plans and secret keeping. You're quite familiar with his thought process at this point; At least what isn't also another secret.

They are, more than a bit confused as to why their Primarch has dedicated his time to such pursuits, but you suppose it all could be far worse.

Their 'upbringing' and Lion'el's inability to show pretty much any emotion has heavily affected their ability to do or understand anything that could be considered 'affectionate'. It just seems pointless to them.

They have a pompous aura, and an overall 'nose turned upward' attitude regarding you. Despite being their Primarch's beloved, you are seen as beneath them by nature of your existence. This could quite possibly change overtime however, depending on how much of an active role you take in Lion'el's legion.

However Lion'el's paranoia extends to his sons in force, and his men are hyper vigilant of you if you're ever put under their watch. They may not have the best attitude, but you couldn't be safer. Expect to basically be chained to one spot for periods of time. Figuratively. Maybe.

All of this makes interacting with them, difficult, but manageable. At least they don't want to murder you.

...As far as you know

➧ Night Lords:

Avoid every single one of them like your life depends on it, because it very much does. Becoming the object of Curze's obsession is probably the worst possible thing you could do for your overall life expectancy.

Because he pretty much brought a prey animal into den of slobbering wolves, being with you. As while Konrad may love you (at least as much as a man as troubled as him can) many of his sons see you as little more than a brand new thing to be toyed with.

While Heresy era Night Lords may be marginally less deranged than their 41st millennium counterparts, they still heavily enjoy instilling fear; Particularly to keep humans in line.

So they tend to circle around you like they're herding prey animals; Biting the air if you wander too far away from their Primarch's shadow.

There's really only a few that you 'trust' enough to be in their protection for more than few minutes. And while you might feel safe, there's always... Something off.

You can stand to be in the same room as Sevatar- given his more stalwart, repressed nature which makes him much easier to communicate with than the average Night Lord- but you don't like the way any of the Night Lords look at you. Even him.

There's always something deep within their dark eyes, or something behind their rare smiles. Being near them makes your neck tense, hair standing on end. Every single siren in your head screaming to run run run. It's like they're waiting for the moment Curze leaves you alone to take something they want.

You don't want to know what that something is.

➧ Salamanders:

The most sane of them all besides the Ultramarines and the White Scars. They treat you with respect and kindness, in that stunted, overly formal Space Marine way. You can tell they're trying, so it's kind of sweet, honestly.

Even from the moment that Vulkan first formally introduced you as his beloved, they always seemed to welcome you into the chapter, so to speak.

They're also helpful; For example given the sheer scale of the Flamewrought, you've been helped by them before when you found yourself horribly lost. Something Vulkan finds very amusing.

Overall, they are one of the few, if not the only chapter that would probably be actually somewhat, happy, to see their Primarch happy.

They see the way Vulkan softens whenever he looks at you, and know that those things are what they're fighting for.

Vulkan has spent years emphasizing the importance of protecting the Imperium and it's people, and it's paid off with a chapter that is not only of a somewhat normal disposition, but isn't completely fucking insane.

They'll keep you safe no matter what, as even without orders, they genuinely seem to care for your wellbeing.

Just keep your new sons away from the lighter fluid, ok?

➧ Thousand Sons:

Many of them disapprove of Magnus going down such a path, seeing it as unimportant in the grand scheme of things, but when they see how Magnus is absolutely stupid in love with you and will not hesitate to scold dissent on the matter, they end up having to stay largely quiet about it.

No matter how much they may object at the end of the day, Magnus won't budge; So they have to just learn to accept it. Afterall, Magnus had made it very clear you aren't going anywhere.

While they perhaps might not be as overtly as pompous as the Dark Angels, for awhile they won't be much more than amicable to you.

As their Primarch's beloved, they will be more than ready to protect you if need be, and while at first it might simply be because their Primarch has ordered them to, overtime they do warm up a bit. You can smile at them and watch them hone their skills, and they begin to see why Magnus likes you so.

Just don't finger up the tomes, and you both can coexist.

#lion'el jonson x reader #magnus the red x reader #vulkan x reader #konrad curze x reader #primarch x reader #warhammer 40k x reader #reader insert #reader #mywriting

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misguidedasgardian · 2 years

Text

The white dragon

An alternative universe for The House of the Dragon

Summary: How the existence of Rhaenyra's younger sister can change the course of history, the youngest daughter of King Viserys Targaryen and the Queen Aemma Arryn.

To cover the heir to the throne's transgressions, you are obligated to marry his lover, Ser Harwin Strong

Main pairing: Harwin Strong x Targaryen!Femreader

AU Warnings: violence, blood, murder, cheating, adultery, mentioned incest, (more tags added by chapter)

Main Story

Prologue

A Dragon or Goat

Collateral damage

The wreckage

What is left

Forced Landing

Name day

Seeds of mistrust

Two headed dragon

While you were gone

Taking roots

Kicks of a drowning man

Harrenhal

Driftmark

Dragonstone

The Seed is Strong

Sow what you planted

Claimed, not given

Second sons

Were loyalties lie

Were loyalties lie part 2

The Hour of the Owl

The Hour of the Bat

The Blacks

Storm's End

The North Remembers

In the dragon's den

The Greens

The march

The crossroads

The Red Keep

All roads

I bring the storm

Shield bay

Kings of Nothing

Jorraegalon

Under seige

The man of Gold

The Kraken and The Dragon

The Rock

King's Landing

Maegor

Monsters of Land and Sea

The Trident

The Dragonpit

The Great Council

Kept Promises, Epilogue

Archive of Characters

The archive of characters of The White Dragon

Headcanons & Oneshots

The White Shadow: Ser Steffon Mangold, sworn protector and sword of the princess and how he came to be

Vhaelar: how the bond between dragon and rider happened

The hunt: what was the princess doing during the hunt?

A hellish match: Jace dances with Aemma, and Baela with Aemond, but they wish it was the other way around

What If Series

what if... Harwin never stopped his affair with Rhaenyra?

what if... Reader married Cregan Stark?

#misguidedmasterlist #misguidedhotd #harwin strong x targaryen reader #harwin strong #harwin x reader #ser harwin strong #harwin breakbones #daemon targaryen #princess rhaenyra #rhaenyra targaryen #rhaenyra #house of the dragon

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pregnant-piggy · 1 year

Text

The Trap

part one of THWARTED

Six of Crows x fem!reader

word count: 3.2k

summary: Someone keeps outsmarting Kaz Brekker, snatching his jobs right from under his nose, and he will not sit idly by and watch it happen. He sets a trap, but what he finds almost seems like too much trouble for its worth.

warnings: being knocked out, light panic, reader has killed someone (this series deals with quite a lot so let me know if i’ve missed anything!)

The doors of the Slat slammed open, but the anger was sizzling in Kaz’ ears and he didn’t even hear it. His leg was throbbing and he was leaning on his cane more than he liked but there was no time to dwell on it. There were bigger issues that needed to be taken care of.

His eyes found the lanky sharpshooter he was looking for easily. “Jesper. Upstairs. Now.”

Maybe Jesper was in the mood to obey or maybe he heard the barely contained anger behind Kaz’ voice, but he got up and followed without a word.

Kaz limped up the three flights of stairs, his body protesting against every move. He’d barely slept in three nights while preparing for this job. He had taken care of everything—the plan had been faultless. And yet…

Up in his office, Inej was already waiting, leaning against the wall. She shared a glance with Kaz, as if asking if she should stay. He gave a single nod.

“Not that I don’t appreciate you calling me up here,” Jesper said as he stepped inside, “but I’m guessing it’s not to have a nice cup of tea?”

Kaz sank down in his desk-chair. An almost imperceptible sigh slipped from his lips as he stretched his leg out and he caught Inej sending him a worried glance from the side but ignored her. This wasn’t the time for pity.

“It happened again.”

The vault had been empty. Nothing. Not even a trace of someone else having been there, but all that Kaz had wanted had been gone.

Jesper whistled through his teeth. “What’s that now? The third time?”

“How?” Inej asked.

Kaz folded his hand together. That was the thing—he didn’t know how. Someone had been thwarting his plans and he could not for the life of him figure out how they did it. Or why. Why they only picked some of the hardest jobs while there were easier and more profitable undertakings they could have chosen.

There was a pattern, Kaz was sure, but clouded by his vexation he couldn’t see it. The gambling den on East Stave. The store in the Exchange. The vault in the councilman’s office. Something was connecting those three workings but he didn’t know what.

“We have to take different measures,” he said, ignoring Inej’ question. “Somehow, someone is aware of our plans and keeps beating us to them.”

Jesper frowned. “Any idea who? That’d make shooting them a little easier.”

“No one will be shooting anyone.” But at Jesper’s pout Kaz added, “Yet.”

Hands already resting on his guns, Jesper flashed a smile. Then he turned grave. “Do you think it’s Rollins?”

Kaz bit back the red haze of anger. “No,” he said. “No one would do this so silently unless they had something to hide. If Rollins had done this, the whole Barrel would’ve known. Besides, the Exchange job would be stealing from his own pocket. A whole lot of trouble for nothing.”

“He’s too lazy for that,” Inej added.

“So who then?” Jesper asked.

“Yes, who then?” Kaz pulled out a map and let his finger wander down the streets of Ketterdam. “That’s what we’ll find out.”

No one outsmarted the Bastard of Barrel, and they sure as hell wouldn’t attempt it from the shadows. If whoever was hindering him didn’t want to show their face, he’d put the spotlight on them himself.

Inej and Jesper shared a glance.

“Scheming face?”

Inej nodded, stepping closer to the desk. “Most definitely.”

Kaz gave his bad leg a stretch and rolled his shoulders. There’d be time to rest later. “Let’s set a trap, shall we?”

-o-o-o-o-o-

You hid your face in the collar of your coat as a group of workers passed you. One of the men laughed loudly and you shrunk together even more, pulling your hat closer over your face. The men walked past you without taking notice, but you didn’t dare to breathe out until you’d turned the corner.

Between the constant stadwatch patrols and the dark, solid storehouses, the Warehouse District wasn’t exactly one of your favourite parts of the city. That it was the best secured place in Ketterdam also didn’t work in its favour. Not when you were there to steal something.

At exactly eleven bells you turned into the street that served your destination. You glanced around, but there was only silent nighttime around you, and took your hat off. Keeping your hands in your pockets, feeling the lockpicks in one hand and the small handgun in the other, you walked until you reached the door under the third street light.

Everything had almost been ridiculously easy. The man that had boasted about the cheque he’d gotten from his latest shipment had almost been too loud. When you’d checked whether the shipment was real it had almost gone too smoothly. And the street was almost too empty, too silent, too dark.

But you needed the money and with the way you figured the man had earned it, it wouldn’t be too much of a loss if he never got to spend it. Honest work didn’t exist in Ketterdam and you really did not want to go back to living on the street.

At the door, you dropped to your knees and let the lockpicks slip into your hands. If anyone were to walk by you could pretend the ties of your shoes had come loose, but the lock clicked before you’d seen anyone. After one last glance at the dark street, you slipped inside.

The storehouse was no different from any of the other ones in the Warehouse District. You entered an entrance hall that was shielded from the vast space of the warehouse by wooden panels. On your left there was a table and some benches for the workers and in the darkness you could make out a discarded coat and a stack of newspapers.

The silence of the warehouse gave you chills, but you shook them off. You were here for a simple thing and you’d be out quickly. It was easy, just like stealing those authenticity papers on the jurda shipment at the Exchange had been.

But all sense of confidence left you as you saw the faint light coming from the office up in the corner of the storehouse. In a single move you had pulled the gun from your pocket and felt the dagger slip from your sleeve to your palm.

You should turn around and leave—that was the sensible thing. But when had you ever been sensible?

Slowly you walked through the stockpiles, keeping your footsteps as soundless as possible. You could hear nothing, no voices, no movement, but the light shouldn’t be burning. The most fortuitous explanation would be that someone had left it on, but you’d learned the hard way that luck was only for those who could afford it. And, considering you were here to steal money, you clearly weren’t one of those.

At the bottom of the stairwell up to the office you halted and listened. There still was no sound. You crept up the stairs, glancing over your shoulder once you were halfway. From up there you could see the entire hall of the storehouse, but it was empty.

You went on and at the top, you nudged open the door with your elbow, keeping both the gun and knife ready in your hands. The door opened with a squeak.

There, on the desk in the middle of the office, stood a single lantern, illuminating the entire room. The rest was empty. With a relieved sigh, you stepped inside, lowering your weapons.

“Wrong choice, darling.”

The door closed.

You spun around.

There was a flash of silver before something hard hit your head and you went down.

-o-o-o-o-o-

It was a trap.

Of course it was. You should have realised that, but you’d been on a winning streak lately and you’d overestimated your own abilities. A little confidence had never hurt anyone, but this shouldn’t have happened. You couldn’t afford missteps.

Your head hurt so much that you couldn’t open your eyes just yet. The pain spread from your left temple and it came in waves.

Upon trying to move you found your wrist stuck in ropes and you tried not to panic. Apart from the pain in your head, you seemed unharmed and you tried to take relief from the fact that whoever had bound you at least hadn’t killed you. Yet.

What if they had found you? Had they come for you like they had all those years ago?

Your breaths grew ragged and your chest felt like it was the part of your body bound with ropes. There was something acidic in the back of your throat, the sense burning behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding, sending the blood through your veins in wavering shocks.

You needed to open your eyes. You needed to breathe. You needed to get loose. You needed out.

Between your fits of panic you heard a door open and behind your eyelids you noticed the faint hue of light. In a reflex you opened your eyes and then quickly turned your head away.

The room you were in was dark, but in the weak light you could see a stone floor and heaps of what you presumed was cotton. You told yourself to breathe.

One step at a time. Eyes, breath, wrists.

Once you had gathered your breath, your panic stilled. Instead, resolve filled you. You had seen worse situations, had lived through more danger—you could get out of this. And perhaps, you thought as you slightly lifted your gaze and caught two pairs of feet and the tip of a cane, there was even something to gain.

It was time people paid their debts.

Eyes, breath, wrists. You took one final deep breath and looked up. The pain in your head was distracting but you bit it back. There was no time for weakness. As soon as your eyes landed on the person standing in front of you, you grinned.

“Well, well, well. Kaz Brekker, as I live and breathe. To what do I owe the pleasure of being kidnapped by the Barrel’s bastard?”

Kaz Brekker didn’t move a muscle as he stared at you. “Councilman Frederiksen recently lost his opal-inlaid family crest. It has disappeared from his vault, along with documents proclaiming his investment in the business of another esteemed councilman. Slootmaekers, I believe his name is.” He blinked. “Whoever has stolen the crest seems to have disappeared with it. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

Brekker’s dark glare was piercing and you felt a shiver run down your spine. Out of all people that could have come for you, he was the last one you’d expected. But it did bring forth a fortunate opportunity.

Maybe luck hadn’t given up on you after all.

“I’m afraid not.”

“No, of course not. Let me try again. Maybe this will ring a bell: A week ago, a shipment of jurda came in from Novyi Zem. Quality stuff, rumoured to have been handpicked and to last longer than any other kind on the market right now.”

You pursed your lips. “Sounds like a pricey investment.”

“It was one. You can imagine the investor’s fury when he found out someone had stolen the papers declaring the jurda’s authenticity. Without those, not only did the jurda lose its value, so did the investor his credibility. Almost as if the thief had wanted that to happen. You do not, by any chance, know something of it, do you?”

“Can’t say I do. But it sounds like an impressive job.”

“I must admit that it was.” He flexed his gloved fingers on the head of his cane and you saw he was narrowing the edge of his composure. “Allow me to try one more time. Mr. Jim Albert. Ever heard that name before?”

You froze. “What about him?”

“Hm.” A ghost of a smile passed Kaz Brekker’s face. “He disappeared three weeks ago, right before he was supposed to meet new investors. I’d know, because I was one of them. We waited two hours but he never showed. The next day his body was found in his gambling den’s backalley.”

The game was over and you had lost. You knew and so did Brekker. He tilted his head to the side and looked at you. “I suppose you don’t know anything about that either?”

You started to laugh, simply because you didn’t know what else to do.

“Very clever. The crest and jurda I would have left unclaimed easily, but” —you let your laugh die out— “Albert’s death is mine. And if you want an apology for your failed investment, I’m afraid I’ll have to disappoint you.”

Kaz raised an eyebrow. “I never expected it to pay off anyway, but I admit it would have liked some power after his bankruptcy. No, keep your apologies to yourself—I was curious as to why.”

“I was trying to find a new hobby. Spice things up?”

The person next to Brekker barked a laugh and you moved your gaze. “You’ve brought your loyal companion, I see.” You flashed a smile. “Jesper Fahey. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, although the circumstances under which would not have been my first choice.”

“You know me?” Jesper asked.

“I do my homework.” You looked around, silently noticing that you hadn’t left the Warehouse District, judging by the cotton storehouse around you. “So, now you know I stole the crest and documents, and I killed Albert. What do you want?”

“I want to know why.” Brekker took one step closer. “You have cost me time and money, so you better make it worth it. Who do you work for?”

“Work for?” you scoffed.

“The Razorgulls? Black Tips? Did Geels hire you? Or is it Rollins?”

The anger got to you before you could stop it. You surged forward with a snarl. If your hands hadn’t been bound, you were sure Brekker would have been a heap against the wall now.

“How dare you? How dare you suggest I work for that lowlife asshole?” You heard the soft click of a gun being loaded and when you looked aside you found Jesper’s gun pointed at your face. You turned back to Kaz. “Choose your words better next time, Brekker, or even that poor cane of yours won’t be able to help you walk anymore.”

You sunk back in the chair, fingers clutched around the rope on your wrists. Jesper lowered his gun.

“So not Rollins,” he said. “Noted. Kaz?”

This one was staring down at you with a strange, dark expression on his face. It lasted for a second, then it cleared and he was back.

“I work for no one,” you said, trying to keep your voice from trembling. “It’s just me.”

“Why those jobs? Where did you get the information?”

“Word is all around, you just have to listen to the right things.” You gestured around with your head. “Of course, not everything pays off.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“You asked two questions at the same time, that makes it rather hard to answer.”

Kaz squeezed his eyes. “Why did you kill Albert before the meeting?”

“Albert gambled off children in his club,” you said. Upon seeing Jesper’s shocked face and even Kaz’ shadow of disgust, you added, “Yes, quite the secret, isn’t it? He deserved the ending he got. They say death is like falling asleep, but I made sure Albert got haunted by some nightmares first.” You shook your head. “If I had known there’d be money to be earned with his death, I would’ve chosen a different time, but I do not regret killing him.”

In the back of your head you could still hear his screams and your own hysterical laughter. Cruel, but you weren’t lying. Albert had thrown you into this life so it was only fair he got what he deserved.

“I see. And the jurda job?”

“It was an easy one,” you shrugged. “Anyone in their right mind would have done it. You tried too, but I suppose you don’t care to tell me why?”

Brekker stroked a hand over the lapel of his coat. “Same reason as you, no doubt. What about Frederiksen?”

You huffed. “Do you expect me to reveal all my secrets, Brekker?” When he said nothing and just kept watching expectantly, you turned to Jesper. “Is he always this relentless?”

“You learn to deal with it,” Jesper said, giving you a light grin.

“I doubt that.” You looked at Kaz. “The crest is worth a lot. Of course there are easier ways to get money, but where’s the fun in that? Getting into the mansion wasn’t the problem but the vault was a puzzle. Took me three nights to figure it out, but I guess there are worse ways to spend your evenings.” You felt the rope in your hands. “Like being bound to a chair.”

“And the documents?”

“They were… a lucky surprise.” You thought of the papers under your mattress, the effort they had cost you to get to them, and the rage which with you had almost torn them apart. Even after all those years, that name still did that to you. “A nice way to stir things up.”

Jesper laughed. “I like her, Kaz.”

You smiled at him. That was one. But with just Jesper’s support you wouldn’t get far.

“So,” you said, tilting your chair back. “What more do you want to know?”

Brekker stared at you for a minute and you had the strange feeling he could see through your act. “One more thing.”

“Let me guess: Why tonight?” You shrugged. “A girl’s gotta eat, not? I hate to admit that you had me fooled so easily, but you did.”

“No.” Kaz pointed with his cane to you. “I want to know why you are still here when you have freed yourself from the rope minutes ago.”

Eyes, breath, wrists. You held out your unbound hands in front of you. Then you looked up; Jesper was staring at you with an impressed look on his face but Kaz seemed unfazed.

“The same reason you haven’t killed me yet, if I judge correctly.” You crossed your arms and leaned back. “You’re interested. So am I. We could work together.”

Brekker said nothing but you could see on his face that you’d guessed right. You truly hadn’t wanted to ruin his jobs, it had been a coincidence. And now he knew, perhaps there was a chance here. An opportunity to finally get your revenge.

“We could still kill you,” Jesper offered, but there was a smirk on his face.

Brekker wasn’t so merry. “One wrong move and it’s over,” he said. Then he nodded, “What do you have?”

You straightened, the excitement of a new job filling you with that familiar tingle, and grinned. Time to get to work. “Oh, it’s got it all. Money. Danger. Fun.”

Revenge.

Once, you had vowed to bring them all down, to never rest until you saw their bodies lowered into the ground. For years you had been nurturing your rage, preparing for this moment, when you would see them fall one by one.

You would come for them as they had come for you.

- - - - - - -

six of crows taglist: @xxinvisiblexx @awritingtree

MASTERLIST

#thwarted #six of crows x reader #six of crows imagine #six of crows #soc #kaz brekker x reader #kaz brekker imagine #jesper fahey x reader #jesper fahey imagine #inej ghafa x reader #inej ghafa imagine #kaz brekker #jesper fahey #inej ghafa #shadow and bone #shadow and bone x reader #shadow and bone imagine

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themissinghand · 7 months

Text

Genshin Impact: Queen's Guard Dog [2]

Part 1!

Summary: In which you are Tsaritsa’s closest retainer and servant, the one who is at the Queen’s beck and call.

You are Brighella, the Queen’s Guard Dog.

Or, the Harbingers treat you a bit differently, and you take advantage of that.

Pairing: La Signora, Scaramouche, Sandrone, Pierro, Tsaritsa x GN! Reader

Note: Part 2 and final part of this series, I won’t do other Harbingers since I don’t really know how to write them. Hope you enjoy!

Part 2 is slightly darker than part 1 in terms of themes, but nothing too serious.

Warning: Mentions of violence and toxic behaviors.

★・・・・・・★

To Signora, you are a sharp sword, a trusted ally on missions in service to Her Majesty Tsaritsa.

You've pledged your loyalty to the Tsaritsa, and with your streak of successful missions, there is no one to doubt your abilities.

Sometimes, there's a hint of playful teasing in your voice when you approach Signora, where you jest about treating her as you would to Her Majesty.

“My lady.”

When you bow before her presence, or when you knelt before her very feet, the power she feels is tantalizing, but who is she to deny?

Your offer, dangerous yet tempting, is nothing but a little gambit. It's clear that your loyalty runs deep, even if it means taking drastic actions to please Her Majesty.

Signora have heard the times where you were much violent and malicious, but even now the shadow of your past still lingers.

On her first and only mission with you, it was a moonless night.

You and Signora embarked on a covert mission together, cloaked in shadows and secrecy. Your destination was a den of conspirators who dared to defy Her Majesty Tsaritsa’s rule.

As you infiltrated their hideout, your sharp senses and honed skills ensured that you moved with deadly precision.

In the midst of this operation, Signora observed your ruthlessness firsthand.

“Why hello there.”

A snap, followed by screams.

Those who disobeyed Her Majesty's orders were met with swift and uncompromising justice. Your actions were as cold as the steel of your blade, leaving no room for mercy when it came to protecting the interests of the Crown.

Signora, who had witnessed countless battles and covert operations, couldn't help but be both impressed and slightly unnerved by your unwavering dedication. She saw the depths of your loyalty, the lengths to which you would go to safeguard Her Majesty's reign.

As you and Signora emerged from the shadows, victorious in your mission, there was a palpable tension in the air.

You had a gentle smile on your face, as if you were on a leisurely walk. There were no stains of red on you, maintaining your professionalism and elegance.

“Dear Lady, I hope I haven’t disgusted you with my actions.” You pull out a handkerchief and gently wiped the blood by her lips.

You leaned close until Signora pushed you aside while rolling her eyes.

But you were unfazed by Signora’s action, for you think they are cute and quite adorable.

Like a cat who likes to scratch.

A successful mission as always, and just like usual, you fade away in the shadows to be by Her Majesty’s side.

Signora couldn't help but ponder the dangerous duality of your character—a loyal and deadly weapon in service to Her Majesty Tsaritsa.

How frightening it would be if you were a double-edged sword.

To Scaramouche, you are a mask.

A mask that hides your true self.

A mask that you can put on others.

You play a unique role in his life, akin to that of a father figure.

You take care of him exceptionally well, providing support and guidance when needed. From the moment he joined, you were an inspiration, a listener, and a trainer.

Yet, Scaramouche knows your care is driven by pity. After all, he has told you many things (even when you told him nothing).

So what?

“My dear Balladeer.”

When he calls for you, you answer.

The Balladeer wears this knowledge with a smug demeanor, as if your special attention validates his worth.

“I would never betray you.”

The little head pats and the little nods. The cheeky little smile and the gifts he received.

“Happy birthday my little Balladeer.”

“Let this day be your birthday.”

With your special attention, it felt like a drug, something to keep him content in this dirty world.

You possess the remarkable ability to shapeshift into the very people he's encountered in his life, indulging in his elaborate fantasies.

“I’ll kill you!” Scaramouche cackled as tears flowed down his face, as a sword plunge deep into the Lord of Electro, Bal’s chest.

Blood spilled, but his laughter subsided.

Seeing Bal’s dead body brought so much pain but so much relief.

You brought him close to you in an intimate hug.

“Good job, my little Balladeer.”

Together, you both create a fake reality, one that you both know is built on falsehoods and pretense. It's a charade that you willingly participate in, if only for a fleeting moment.

A mask is easily put on, as it is easily taken off, you play this game of pull and push well.

But Scaramouche doesn’t mind, for he is too far in with this drug of yours.

But an illusion will forever be fake, and just like this relationship, it will never be real.

To Sandrone, you are a rose.

Something so beautiful yet deadly.

As the annual tradition went, Brighella entered Sandrone’s sanctuary of automatons, a place where gears and mechanisms whirred harmoniously, creating a symphony of mechanical marvels.

“My dear Sandrone. It’s that time of year again.”

“Brighella.”

Sandrone greeted you with a gleam of excitement in her eyes, for she had a unique fascination with you.

"I’ve been waiting for you," Sandrone smiled, her gaze locked onto you.

"You never change. I wish my automatons could be as pretty as you."

Her words were flattering, and as you stood there, she couldn't resist the urge to touch your face and body.

“You say that every time.” You responded and leaned forward to indulge her.

Her fingers moved with a delicate curiosity, as if seeking to understand the secrets of your agelessness.

From your eyes, to your nose and lips, she gently traced them with her hand.

With a sly smile, you decided to play along.

You took a delicate necklace from your pocket, and with a mischievous glint in your eye, you carefully tied it around Sandrone’s neck. As your fingers brushed against her skin, you leaned in closer, your lips almost touching her ear.

"Shall we take this elsewhere?" You whispered, your voice carrying a hint of playful suggestion.

Sandrone’s eyes widened, a mixture of surprise and anticipation dancing within her.

But how could she dare covet something that belongs to the Crown?

“Your Highness, I wouldn’t dare.” She says, though her hands drop to your neck, slowly tracing your collarbone as if she was a sly snake.

“A shame.”

You pull back with a cat-like smile, and she showed a face of frustration for a moment before dissipating.

“Now, shall we get to work?” You extend a hand, and she accepts it greedily.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

If only you could be her marionette, how nice would it be?

To Pierro, you are a candle.

“Do you seek revenge?”

A light burning so bright in his life.

Khaenri'ah.

Pierro remembers Brighella as a mysterious figure, yet a figure of power and privilege.

The Immortal, is what people called (worshipped) you as, and Pierro never understood why.

Until he saw the Immortal go against the Gods.

An indescribable, impossible scene of the battle of immortals.

But you fell from grace, as if the heavens were not by your side.

That was the last he saw you.

His light flickered and died.

At least that was what he thought.

In those tumultuous days, where he thought it was the end, you extended a hand to him, a hand filled with promise and a hint of mischief.

“The Immortal? But you perished?!”

With a wave of your hand in front of your face, you changed your appearance from a fallen warrior to a clean butler’s appearance.

“‘I’ have perished. But who says ‘I’ cannot be reborn?”

Brighella smiled, a smile that held secrets and intentions known to no one.

“My name is Brighella, won’t you come with me and defy fate?”

It was an offer of partnership, an invitation for Pierro to seek revenge together.

Who was he to deny?

Pierro, brave and determined, took that hand without hesitation. Pierro had never regretted that decision.

You two had a transactional relationship, a give and take as you will.

It may seem distant, but to the both of you, it was enough to get work done.

Time connects the two of you like a thread, and even if Pierro wishes to, he couldn’t stay away from you.

Because he was like a moth to a flame.

You who shined so brightly, and him who would protect your light. Taking on your tasks in secret and ensuring you have the best of everything.

Over the years, your paths diverged, and Pierro went through profound changes. Life molded Pierro into someone unrecognizable from the man Pierro once was.

Yet, you remained unchanged. Time seemed to have no hold over you.

You was the constant in Pierro's ever-evolving world, a mysterious figure who transcended the years.

Perhaps that was your role, to be the remnant of the past.

A reminder of their purpose and their reason.

And Pierro didn’t want that to change. Ever.

To Tsaritsa, you were like a mirror.

A mirror that revealed who she truly was beneath the crown and the title.

One who had traversed the world and learned of the dirty secrets just as she did.

“You called for me, Your Majesty?”

Tsaritsa saw not just followers but molds, reflections of a world that had shaped her reign.

Tsaritsa sat on top of her throne with elegance, her expression as cold as ice.

“Brighella, report to me on the Harbingers.”

You smile, one of professionalism and acknowledgement.

“Of course, Your Majesty.”

Out of all of her subordinates, you who have stayed by her side since eternity, are the only one she ‘trusts’ the most.

You were her shadow, her sword, her ever-vigilant guard dog, and no one else could lay claim to what was rightfully hers.

Not even the other Archons could dare to lay your hands on you.

“Your Majesty, may I?”

Tsaritsa returned a nod, and you quickly ascended the steps to her stone and knelt by her feet.

You glanced up, admiring the cold beauty of your master before lowering your eyes to her feet.

Tsaritsa never understood why, perhaps it was your shrewd nature or your hidden desire. Or was it your pursuit for power?

Even now, she could not fully comprehend your heart.

However, she has your loyalty.

Your loyalty was a pledge sealed with unwavering dedication. That was all Tsaritsa required of you.

A gesture that transcended words, you kissed her feet as a symbol of your eternal bond, a testament to the power of their connection in a world where power was everything.

“Your Majesty, I am your guard dog. Use me as you see fit.”

You smiled so brightly, only with her, as she is the only one that can understand you.

“I’ll bring the world down to your feet.”

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greycaelum · 10 months

Note

Hi! Could you maybe make something protective Satoru-like? Maybe the reader is bothered by some drunken while coming back home?

Overall just angsty-fluff with comfort. Your style of writing is really to my liking and I've been thinking of taking a request for a while. I hope its not too much ❤️

Kaleidoscope Series—Love Me Now, Love Me Never Chapters: { Tipsy }

—Gojo Satoru X Sorcerer Reader

𑁍 Synopsis:

"You sure you don't need me to drive and pick you up later? It's a den full of wolves." Satoru crossed his arms, leaning on the doorframe as he watch you wear the Jimmy Choo black pumps fitting your Friday night fashion for a girl's night out. "Satoru, baby. You don't know how to drive." You looked at him and sighed. "Y'know I don't need to drive, I can just whisk you away in a second back to bed!" He gasps dramatically and argued.

𑁍 Genre: mild angst to comfort, sfw (mild suggestive content)

𑁍 WC/CW/TW: (1.3k)—/ alcohol, suggestive violence (not towards reader), the reader being bothered in the club—/

𑁍 A/N: Hi sweetheart, I hope you like this one. Drunk trope isn't my forte but it was fun writing this, better late than never —Grey,

Having a Gojo Satoru as a boyfriend means there's often a 6'3 giant lurking around you. Or if he's unavailable, undoubtedly one of his subordinates is tailing you in the shadows. It's a compromise you both reached knowing your lover has many enemies and it's for your protection too. Satoru won't take it kindly if ever something to you. He will lose it.

"Satoru, baby. You don't know how to drive." You looked at him and sighed.

"Y'know I don't need to drive, I can just whisk you away in a second back to bed!" He gasps dramatically and argued.

You giggled and threw your arms around Satoru's neck. Satoru won't have to admit it, but you have him wrapped around your finger.

"Call me when you wanna come home, 'kay?"

"Okayyy~"

That was the plan... Until Utahime started wailing about still having no prospects for marriage even at her age. Shoko is too busy having a drinking contest with herself and you... well, Satoru's lightweight tendencies must be rubbing on you. Just one glass of margarita and you can tell that you are already tipsy, two more shots and you knew that was enough for tonight.

"Mei-san can I leave the two of them to you? I'll go home, I'm feeling a little lightheaded."

"I don't mind. Should I call Gojo for you?"

"No need, I'll call him. See you around Mei-san."

You made your way through the bar. It's so loud with the full-blast speaker and people dancing on the stage, some are getting a little more frisky in the open.

Did Satoru also go through this kind as a teen? You know he doesn't drink but did he ever go to a bar too? Did he also make out with some random girls and do the deed? Did he also—?

The dark thoughts are suddenly attacking you from all directions.

"Hey Miss, you look so lonely, care to spend some time with me?" A tall guy approached you, just from his scent you could tell he was wasted.

"No, I'm on my way home. Don't bother me." You stumbled a little but managed to grab onto the nearest wall to support yourself. Damn, maybe you should've stayed home instead.

"Awee c'mon, going home?" hiccup "Your cat at home got no tuna or somethin'?"

Fuck, the liquor in your veins is starting to get dizzying.

"Her cat is actually a territorial one. Now, fuck off from my woman."

The familiar cool spicy scent overpowered the bitter taste of liquor surrounding you, your body collided with a hard chest and a hand over your shoulder guided you close to his side.

"Hey, hold on to me alright pretty girl? 'M gonna get us home in a second."

True to his words, you feel the ground melting from your feet and in a second landed back on the floor of your home. There's a faint aroma of the chicken noodles you love.

"Satoru..." A small whine like a child escaped your sealed lips. You don't have the energy to wash up or even take off your clothes. You just brought up your arms asking for a carry.

"Y'know, you're too spoiled." Satoru sighed and hugged you while your feet clumsily took off your black pumps and left them there.

Satoru watch his girl act like a baby, whiny and more needy than usual as he carried her to the sofa and brought the warm mug of noodle soup to her hands.

"I told you to call me. What if I didn't come?"

Satoru helps you take off your makeup and at the back, he's running the water in the tub for you. He wants to scold you but the sight of your hazy eyes and flush cheeks will only evoke something else other than anger in him.

"Liar..." You slurred. "You always come even if I don't call..."

It's the perks of having a sober man who is too protective to let you go in a den of wolves as he would often phrase it, and yet still supportive enough to let you go on a girl's night out.

You don't wanna get used to him being a superman in your life but he does show up at the split second before the pinch. And you can't help but be complacent at the thought Satoru will always be there to catch you. Selfish... You silently berated yourself and finished the second mug of soup.

You stared at Satoru who is now drying your hair after a quick bath you had. The thoughts from earlier came running back to you.

Satoru set down the blower and that's when you turn around and crawled between his legs, your noses hit as you took his glasses down and stare into his cerulean orbs.

"Babe... wanna get frisky with me?"

"B-Baby?" Satoru uncharacteristically stuttered at the sudden aggressiveness, but he easily recovered and look down at your plump lips that seems to invite him to take a bite.

"Uhmp!" You gasped and felt yourself being rolled into a burrito roll towards your side of the bed and Satoru patting your head before he drop a kiss on your forehead.

"Ask that question again when your sober, you drunkard." Satoru chuckled at your pout and frown.

"'m not a drunkard! Satoru you coward!" But no matter how you spite him Satoru merely shrugs and gently pats you to sleep.

He watches you murmur empty threats with that feisty mouth towards him while he hums and lets you tire yourself out with the liquor in your veins still making your thoughts fuzzy. He thinks you're really cute when you're drunk, and if he was a lesser man he doubts he'll have the strength not to rail you all night.

But Satoru doesn't like the thought of doing it when you're barely sober to give him decent permission. So he painfully stuffs a pillow between the two of you while you're rolled in the blanket as he shushes you to sleep.

The next day, you woke up almost rolling down the bed to free yourself from the blanket. Satoru was already downstairs. He looks at you with a knowing smirk as you approach him for a morning hug and kiss.

"Hey, ask me the question again, Baby." Satoru hugged you as if he could press you any closer to him when even a thread can't pass between the two of you.

You could feel the fast beating of his heart against your chest.

"... What question 'Toru?" You pat his back and look at him. Did you ask something weird last night?

"..." Satoru stopped swaying you and frowns before running his hand over his face.

"Eh? Did I do something while I'm drunk?" What's with his reaction? You tried going back to your memory but you can't remember anything more than him giving you chicken noodle soup.

"This is why I don't drink." Satoru huffs and pouts at you. You're hopeless when you're drunk. Satoru looks at your (his) clothes. His shirt looks oversized in your frame running down to your mid-thighs while your hair falls freely to your back, your legs are in his full view, plump and full to his touch while you wiggle your bare toes in the warm insulated flooring.

"Hey Baby... wanna get frisky with me?" He rasped, tipsy with you.

—GreyCaelum

PLAGIARISM IS A CRIME

Check out the Masterlist for more

All rights and credits of the Jujutsu Kaisen character(s) mentioned images(s) and songs(s) used, belongs to their respective owner(s)

General/Kaleidoscope Series Taglist: @ice-icebaby @aeanya @gummy-dummy @tender-rosiey @lexiene @nevermoresworld

#kaleidoscope series #lmnchapters #gojo satoru x reader #gojo satoru x y/n #jjk gojo fluff #jjk gojo angst #jjk gojo #gojou satoru x reader #gojo fluff #gojo headcanons #greycaelum #jjk gojo satoru #gojo satoru x you

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nexility-sims · 2 months

Text

𝐍𝐎. 𝟖 ❛ 𝐝𝐨𝐥𝐥 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭 ❜ | THE DEN, MID MARCH 1991

❧ 𝐝𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐲 / 𝐛𝐞𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 / 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐨𝐮𝐬 / 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭.

❛ Leonor had attended a recital just the day before, but this performance was an entirely different experience. She was unprepared for how arresting it would be. Without knowing, she had noticed the lead singer earlier that night, ostensibly holding court by the far edge of the bar, distracting the bartender with animated conversation. Leonor hadn’t heard anything she said, but her movements were full of energy, almost frenetic. Now, she held still. The bassist swayed from hip to hip. Behind them, the drummer stared out at the audience with a face full of shadows. Leonor thought the frontwoman resembled a pious statue as she stood there, chin tilted upward and eyes closed. The crowd hummed with impatient anticipation, but what she reflected back to them was unfazed tranquility. 𝐮𝐧𝐚𝐛𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞 𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧

❧ (the song here, as you perhaps could have guessed from the episode title, is meant to be "doll parts" by hole.) lightly phoned this one in BUT i'd rather keep moving than skip a week bc i was sick, so :^) this is an abridged version, and i'll post an unabridged version later today w/ a label for good measure !!! additionally, we are now done with the entirely self-indulgent red light filter, i promise sdfsdf

𝐬𝐜𝐞𝐧𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐮𝐞𝐝 & 𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭 ↓

The very first chord sent a chill up Leonor’s spine. She watched, rapt, as the statue came to life in a fluid series of motions. Her voice was low and rough, not ethereal by any means but still somehow, to Leonor’s ears, exquisite. The lyrics washed over her unheard. She fixated wholly on the singing itself—on the emotion of it, how the crooning turned to a harsh quaver, within it a lament that felt more defiant than mournful. It was raw. The song’s inspiration, why this woman performed it as she did, was a mystery. It was the vulnerability of it that resonated. Leonor felt the emotion in her bones as she listened. Music was never her preferred outlet but, as she experienced the song, she wished it had been.

For these three minutes, Leonor was alone again. The stage’s pit had been packed with an eager, noisy audience that responded enthusiastically to every line of the song. As it became a concert for one, they faded. Leonor’s eyes followed the movement of the singer, how her lips parted and her fingers strummed the guitar she played. They existed together in a suspended moment outside of time. It might have occurred to her later that extending, even possessing, such a moment was well within her power. For enough money, she could have anyone’s private time—especially artists, people who needed and understood patronage. It wasn't it in the spirit of the venue, but neither was her very presence, arguably. However, she was entirely in the moment as it unfolded. Feelings welled up inside of her. Her skin prickled. Her eyes, too, felt the familiar sensation attendant to being overwhelmed.

Still, even euphoria had a blush of grief these days.

The song ended, and the bar's spirited ambience rushed back in like a sun-blocking wave. As she began speaking casually to the audience, the singer’s captivating voice changed. Whatever spell she had cast broke. Her friends remained enlivened, but Leonor felt only the desperate need to reclaim the quietude again. The minute of transition between unfamiliar songs felt like too long—too risky—of a wait. Perhaps the night had caught up with her. Or, perhaps, if she ducked into a quiet corner and collected herself, she could resume the admirable attempt at normalcy that had characterized the evening so far. That was her preferred outcome. She knew, on one level, that she was having fun. This momentary lapse wasn’t really an aberration, she feared, but she was determined to treat it as such.

Leonor turned to Kore instinctively, leaning close to exclaim the most convenient and innocuous escape valve within reach, “Where’s the restroom?”

TRANSCRIPT:

RENZO | Okay, settle down. Next up is a treat. The Fluke girls have a new song for us. This is a songwriter’s song, alright? Conceived in this building. Show some respect.

LEONOR | Where’s the restroom? KORE | Stairs, near the bar!

[Leonor sighs, door opening]

LEONOR | What are you doing here?

LEONOR | Oh—[Laughs]—sorry. RENZO | It’s a bathroom. Maybe I gotta piss.

RENZO | Hey, don’t leave. I’m kidding. Wanted to check on you. LEONOR | Really?

RENZO | Sort of. I also had an ulterior motive. LEONOR | Did you?

RENZO | I wanted to be alone with you again, too. LEONOR | You’re in luck.

RENZO | You know, you do look different in person. More real. LEONOR | I get that a lot. RENZO | Do you? Huh— LEONOR | [Snickers] No, of course not!

RENZO | So, what do you think— LEONOR | No more talking now, okay?

RENZO | I’ll show you the dressing rooms next time. LEONOR | Next time? [Chuckles]

#;long post #ts4 story #sims story #sims 4 story #royal sims #simblr #ts4 legacy #1992.story.post #1992.a1 #1992.e03

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shinjisdone · 6 months

Note

Hi! If it's possible can I request a version of f!Mc and friends with Rook or Azul? (whichever is easier to write) I’m loving the series thank you for writing it! (o^ ^o)

Rook👏 it👏is👏. He may not be in my top 5 but there is SOMETHING about him. He is so predictable but for that the man goes full out. Literally wears his heart on his sleeve so much that there is no need to think about what he would ponder to himself/keep to himself. Nah. The guy has no filter, he just does and says it👏. Rook also holds nothing back and is kinda crazy?? And too much into his 'hunter' thing?? It's great for writing though, I can also go full out lol

Female!MC and Friends - Rook Hunt

Wohohohoho. Rook Hunt.

A true enigmatic yet predictable charmer from beginning to end.

He is awfully nice and kind despite his oddball behaviour. Loyal to a fault while knowing which side to choose. His view of 'beauty' proves itself to be more than just superficial.

He sees it in everyone equally. Including you...

When He Spends Helloween With You...

Oh boy. Hoooo boy! Someone tell wannabe Dracula that this is just cosplay!

Rook lives for the vampire act - so much so that he seems to become one. No other needed to bite and turn him - he has the passion for it all on his own.

Beginning from when dusk fell and stalking through the dorm and the makeshift graveyards, dancing under the stars as he hovers close and closer to all that appraoch him carelessly...while greeting them with his fangs...

It's quite ironic. Since he was always so keen on hunters, you'd think he'd rather hunt monsters than become one. Au contrair! Rook is open for all kinds of roles...

The guy sticks close and attempts to scare you with the classic Dracula stick - his shadow passing by the bushes, seeing a glimpse of his cape as he ever so slowly stalks behind you and hands goofily shooting up like in a cartoon.

"It is quite late for young ladies such as yourself to roam around..."

Rook. Please.

You are no Dracula, Alucard, Nosferatu - whatever it is, you ain't it.

Well, if you are able to say that. Perhaps it does spook you to have someone creep up from behind but seeing it's just Rook, you are sure to calm down.

He might ask for candy but is definitely the type to tend to give you sweets instead. Mademoiselle, you look terrifiyingly beautiful! (get it) Here, take these sweets!

However, will also ask you to give your best scare! A monster is only truly a monster when their heart is wicked, no? And wicked hearts terrifiy humans.

Will give a little laugh when you fail. Not out of mockery but, hey, you did try! Still, have some candy. Don't tell Vil.

Doesn't stop talking about Helloween. The makeshift horror, the beauty of the night, the calling of darkness, the mieschief when it comes to candy...he's really living it. Would like to have you enjoy the night as much as he does.

A haunted house? Oh my, how exciting! We cannot let such a moment not be seized! To the horrors!

Gracefully links his arm with yours. He is still a charmer as ever and insists that vampires are one of the most charming monsters out there. So he cannot disappoint you~

Winks as he takes your hand and guides you into the lion's den~ Fear not, this vampire shall protect you.

Treats you a bit as a damsel in distress mixed with his captive. Vampires are graceful and gentlemen but also...selfish. Lonely. Longing. Monsters.

Well, only if you are into vampires as well!

It's hard to imagine him getting scared but rather indulges in these spooks. Heartily laughing. Tres bìen! How wonderful this terror is! Everyone put such effort into everything!

Takes you under his cape. Does mademoiselle seek shelter in his magical cape?! Calm down Rook

Protects you but keeps reminding you that accepting his protection is accepting to become his~

Rook. Pls. Bro, come on.

When He...Proposes To A Ghost?!

GASP

ROOK WAS BORN FOR THIS.

No matter if alive or not, Rook will be sure to have everyone get the love they deserve!

A great romanticist. It is all so beautiful, all so magical. Like in a fairy tale! Oh, he'll gladly play prince charming!

And of course to be worthy for the great, dead princess, Rook will be sure to ask you to practice with him. You do not even need to do much! Just play the part and see if you'll fall in love with him.

Rook is something more, distinctively more than just a mere prince charming. His actions, his words, his gifts are something no royal would think of, the most lovesick fool would not think of! The play and the dozens upon dozens of poems he thinks of in a span of minutes and the flowers he so gently plucks the thorns off before offering them to you - you might actually fall for him!

Don't tell him that though. He might not stop.

It is...confusing for the heart. He treats you not like nobility, but like royalty, a red rose in a maze of daisies. The names he so fondly bestows you seem even more...longingly dreamy, as if the mere utter of your nickname feels like sculpting your perfect face. He shall say it perfectly with the utmost love as to not to insult you.

His dance movements are swift and light, his poems escape his lips like birds out of cages and even his gaze seems so....genuine?

This is what it makes it so hard. Rook is through and through genuine.

The most candid student you know and just like his openness, his kindness is abundant.

The princess MUST fall for him! There is no other perfect match!

"Oh, you think so? Mademoiselle, your praise delights me and makes my heart free like a bird! ...But, I'd rather stay here with you."

OMG OMG OMG HUUUH???!?!?!?!?!

WAIT WAIT WHAT DOES HE MEAN

When He...Hunts You Down...

Oh, my, oh my...what a predicament.

In this Beans Fest, it looks like Rook will be the monster and you the hunter...yet you do know that it really isn't the case, right?

Rook will always be the hunter. Of guards. Of monsters. Of your heart.

Try to trick him, try to find him. You are supposed to be the one playing the hero yet Rook takes the initiative like it is his instinct.

Finding you is his instinct.

He takes a certain glee and excitement while playing this wonderous game! Why, he cannot stop himself from chasing and challenging you!

Deep in his heart, the thought of you being his prey is exciting~

Go on, do your best!

Things do get...odd.

You often find yourself facing Rook several times in the forest all alone.

He appraoches you and exchanges words and tips...some of survival, some of how to hunt down his own teammates and their weaknesses.

You joke how this feels like a meeting between enemies...but more like between opposing phantom thieves or rivals in a game.

Magnifique! Exactly like that, sustain an energy just like that!

He'll play around but he does not really wish to defeat you...he kind of wants you to win. But alas, he might as well have his fun and meet up with you. A forbidden love between two opposing teams spiced up with excitment and a clear winner.

#twst #twisted wonderland #twst x reader #request #rook hunt #female!mc #rook hunt x reader #rook hunt twisted wonderland

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sprout-fics · 1 year

Text

Takedown

Part Two of Snowblind

(Simon "Ghost" Riley x Medic "Fix" Reader)

Rating: Teen and Up Wordcount: 9.1k Tags: Slow Burn, Mutual pining, Angst, Implied Trauma, Found Family, Team Bonding, Sparring, Wrestling, Takedown maneuvers, Dad Price, Mom Laswell, Taskforce 141, Team Dynamics Warnings: None A/N: The official part two of Shadow and Bone featuring our beloved Fix! Fix uses she/hers pronouns and is AFAB but is written in 2nd person POV

Summary:

"My turn."

Ghost seems to materialize from thin air. With a roll of his shoulders he straightens from where he was braced against the wall, just to Gaz's right. The shade of the building did nothing to hide him, and yet it still feels like all the world like he wasn't even there. Like a daytime phantom, he simply appears, a fragmentary blink all that's needed to mask his arrival.

You're stunned into silence when he raises his eyes towards you, and there's that familiar prickle of trepidation, a warning murmured below your heartbeat of the danger present in his stare. It flays you open effortlessly, laying bare your secrets and closely hidden truths, rendering you transparent against his masked, piercing gaze.

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Taglist (Please reply to this post to be tagged in future updates of this series!)

@dankest-farrik @zwiiicnziiix @moondirti @sritashimada @ladiilokii @yeyinde @sandinthemachine @verdandis-blog @guyfierriii @fan-of-encouragement @starlitnotes @novellas-den @kkinky@myblackwolfs2 @soapskneebrace @stressyanddepressyfoodservice @mvtthewmurdvck @pettyprocrastination @day0walker

-----

Dry grass on your back. Arms folded as a cushion under your head, the bitter, jaunty breeze of September in Staffordshire brushing against your face like the whisper of an old friend onto your cheeks. It whooshes softly over your ears, ruffling the edge of your T-shirt sleeves and up, away into the fluffy cumulus clouds that puff over the landscape of the English countryside.

You didn't know England could be this beautiful.

It seems like every time the 141 ends stationed back at Beacon Base it's in the rife, cold dead of winter or the soggy, laden dampness of spring. Yet the past two weeks here have been blissfully beautiful, temperate in the way only Autumn is, crisp and braided with the colors of changing seasons. In the late afternoons, in the hour before the sun kisses the horizon, the entire base is painted with a soft, golden light like the god Apollo has bestowed a singular touch on the dying embers of daytime. You drink it in like the nectar of the gods, imbue it with hazy, resplendent glimpses in the repository of your memories.

The team had been grateful the first few days you were here, having returned from the Nepal mission fatigued but successful, thankful for a break. You hardly remembered coming into base in the witching hours of the morning, the world still cloaked in inky darkness. As soon as your legs hit the edge of your bunk you had collapsed into it, gear and all. It wasn't until you woke nearly 13 hours later that you realized someone had mercifully peeled off your vest, boots, helmet, and outer layers while you were asleep.

(When you had asked Gaz, he'd looked over your shoulder worriedly at someone. Yet when you turned, there was nothing there.)

Laswell had warned you all that the hiatus was a temporary one, that you were all on standby as she worked to verify intel on the next mission she directed you all towards. Her promise of only a night had doubled into that of a few days, only for that to lapse into uncertainty as the sizzle of August had faded into September.

It had taken only a few days for the team to get antsy, used to motion, movement as a core, steadying force in their lives. You failed to understand it the first few times you had all been on shore leave, trying to soak in as much peace as you could during your scarce time off-duty to combat the exhaustion carved into your marrow. Now, almost a year into being on the team, you began to see it- the way velocity was a need variable in these mens' lives, how it kept the demons that hid in the back of their thoughts at bay.

Even so, you had all adjusted to life on base, ephemeral though it was. You had each of the 141's schedule mapped out by now, keen eyes observing the silent lives your teammates lived outside of wartime.

Price rose early, before dawn. The only time you ever saw him without his hat was before his first coffee. When you had mentioned to Soap that the man looked like a bedraggled Airedale terrier at first light, the sergeant had nearly spat his drink. Yet that look was combed over by the time he was at his desk, poring over reports with Laswell on the phone. More than once he had enlisted your help with the matter, looking over your shoulder as you traced satellite images under your calloused fingertips, brow scrunched in thought.

After one exceedingly long day, your eyes still swimming with Russian and Arabic as you stared dazedly up at the aging ceiling of the captain's office, Price's hand had landed on your shoulder. His voice was tired but warm as he offered you a smile.

"Good work, Fix."

You had practically strutted back to the team's common area, head held high and smile broad across the planes of your face, darkening in the evening light.

(Unaware of the stare that had traced you from the shadows.)

While Price remained holed in his office all day, Soap and Gaz had been approached by the base commander after the first few days in, enlisting their help training a fresh batch of recruits that had arrived only a week prior to the 141. They both had grumbled about it at first, but you now often found them at the training grounds on the other side of base, barking drills to the younger men and women who regarded them with as much respect as they did fear.

Soap is a natural born leader, you realized; The sight of him overlooking the troops, arms crossed and dressed in tac gear is enough to inspire any soldier. Gaz's inspiration, however, comes not from the way he demands deference and respect the way Soap's strictness did, but from his easier, more hands-on approach to the younger, less experienced soldiers. You often found the sergeant assisting them in their specialist training, hovering over their shoulder at the shooting range or offering a demonstration on weapon safety and management to bright faces and eager eyes.

You couldn't stifle a sense of pride at the two, reminded every time you saw them with the recruits at just how experienced, how reliable they are, these two men you trusted your life to with every mission. Soap, with his cocky but friendly, approachable smile and Gaz with the softer, kinder eyes- those of a friend. They had been wary of you at first, all those long months ago when you had joined the team, regarding you with a cordial distance as you sought to prove yourself to them. It wasn't until your most recent mission, since Nepal- where you had taken down a dozen men with your sniper rifle despite being alone, injured and half snow-blind- that they had truly opened up to you. Since then they had welcomed you into the fold, if their teasing and amicable banter was any indication to go by.

You watched them from the infirmary, where you dedicated the majority of your hours, tracing their broad backs from the hospital windows at the training field just beyond. When your hands weren't busy inventorying your field kit or striving to keep your skills sharp as the team's designated medic, you found them outside, smiles as warm as the afternoon sun that shone down on you three. More often than not you found them waiting for you at the end of your shift, chatting and bantering in the lobby until you made yourself known, strolling easily with them in the golden hour painted by the metamorphosis of Fall.

There was an easiness now that wasn't there before, as Gaz enlisted your help cooking a group meal (His mother's recipe, you later found out) as Soap and Price bickered over soccer matches just beyond the kitchen, as they both griped at you for refusing to use the term 'football', as Soap asked you to spot him with his weight lifting, making a point to flex playfully at you until you conceded as gave a shy pat to his bicep. The evenings between the five of you are quieter, relaxed in a way you're unfamiliar with.

It seems like the world was always doing that, putting you in places you least expect.

Just like it had done in Nepal, with your frigid, shivering form curled into the warm, protective embrace of your Lieutenant.

Neither you nor Ghost had discussed what happened, had dared to mention the soft, fragile words exchanged between you on that clear, starry night as frost had sifted down from the trees above the outpost.

"You see my mistakes."

"I see you. Just you."

Yet after the team had returned to England Ghost had made himself scarce, absent within the daytime regimens of your teammates. You think he might be nocturnal, the way he only appears after dark, waiting until the sun dips low below the horizon to ooze from the shadows, eyes blank, haunted. He hovers in the corners of the rooms you're in, silent, vigilant, slouched with a bone-deep fatigue that no amount of rest seems to cure.

It's a bit startling, truth be told. This calm, this stillness in him is beyond the scope of what you're familiar with. On missions Ghost is the sharp, cutting slice of a blade, concentrated, soaked in blood, piercing with his fatalistic aim and hungry, driven gaze. When he moves it's like watching a predator stalk prey, rippling muscle and broad, unfaltering steps. His eyes glint in the darkness like he can see there, can discern targets from the distant, trembling thump of their heartbeats alone. At your front he's an unstoppable force, yielding no ground no matter the shower of bullets that rain down on him. At your back he's an immovable object, a wall to pin yourself to when the enemy forces you there, ready to strike down encroaching hostiles with his adamantine, skeletal grip.

Now, outside the theater of battle, there's a distance there in Ghost's eyes, decaying there like necrotic flesh. It's something that's been there since the beginning, that's been engraved black in his bones long before you even knew he existed. You see it in his eyes as the lights of the muted television flicker across his mask, playing advertisements he doesn't seem to see. If the other members of the 141 need inertia as their own mental gravity, Ghost craves the ever-existing tides of the ocean to drive away the specters in his thoughts.

You know that unnamed emotion. Know it too well.

Dusky pink sky. The sound of a trumpet, the flurry of figures and clothes and voices blurring into morning fog. When the world shifts it's your hands on the ropes, calloused, sweaty palms digging in for purchase. As the sun rises your weapon thrums under your fingertips, and the voice of the instructor seems louder than the rapid fire that jolts you backwards until you're scrambling for balance- tipping into the dark of evening when the alien shadows of night vision color your gaze. It still feels too bright, too bright, until-

The memory flashes like lightning, and the resulting thunder has your heart hammering in your chest at the shiver that runs through you. It feels endless, infinite, stretching like lengths of gauze on a shallow slice of a wound. Yet there's a familiar heaviness there, bitter and grounding like the crunch of gravel underneath combat boots. There's a comfort in the mindless triumph of combat, of training and needed movement that settles everything else like a murmured, macabre berceuse. It's dark, it's haunting, it kills demons not with the scepter of divine radiance, but in a crepuscule so deep that their shadows are indiscernible from the lack of light in your eyes.

It's hard to imagine now that you lived like that for years, whittling down yourself until there was no hurt, no pain, no lingering words of disdain from familiar voices puncturing your ears. Nothing. Only bones.

And then.

Then there had been Laswell.

Ethiopia, you think it was. Sent for your field requirements for your combat medic training, the air stifling, dusty, caked in a scent that smelled innately of foreign soil. Laswell had been overseeing a mission there, helping gather intel. She hardly slept for days, existing on cooling coffee and leftovers from the impromptu mess hall. Eventually she'd stumbled into the medic tent, had asked for painkillers, an adrenaline, something to keep her awake. Yet then she'd looked up, looked into your eyes without light and hesitated.

A conversation followed, one fragmented over the course of weeks, bleached by the sun and chilled by the nighttime wind. Steaming mugs sitting together, over a desk piled with reports, voices muted with fatigue and sparkling with the rare bite of laughter from her. Evenings spent together, her voice like a needed balm to the cracked sinews of you. Eyes focused, sharp but warm, and you had ached for it, desperate for the regard of this older woman who felt like the things you wanted from the one you called mother. You wonder if Laswell saw that too, with her ever searching eyes and scalding stare. Perhaps she did, perhaps she saw the hollow inside you just as she saw what you tried to fill it with- a raw, unflinching determination that weighed on you so heavily it forced you to crack, to endure and crystallize like blood diamonds.

"Find me after you get back to the states." She told you, voice raised over the sound of the chopper that would take her back to base, and then to home. Her eyes had glinted for a moment in the dry, raw heat, tracing your face with an insight you couldn't comprehend, a prophecy that glittered at the edges and made you blink from the brightness.

So, you did. American soil under your feet, you had found her exactly where she said she'd be, once again basking in the warm flicker of her gaze, the hand on your shoulder that of a friend.

"I have a proposal for you."

It felt like decades ago now, when you had sat alone in the back of a black-hawk, carted off to a base you weren't allowed to know the name of, the earth again shifting endlessly under you.

It was weeks into your training before you understood why you were there. The brutality of it threatened to crack you, the endless and violent force which required your entire concentration and nothing less. The squad around you seemed to stare past each other, dazed by the ceaseless waves of intel, of briefings, medic practice, language courses, nighttime ops, bomb disarmaments, air raid drills, parachute practices, terrain training-

All for them. For the 141.

It was you, in the end. One out of a dozen, a dozen out of a thousand, a thousand out of a million. You. Only you. Designed, bred, honed like a weapon of old, deadly ossein bleached white by nothing other than an oath, a duty. You lived these men's lives before they even knew you existed, had traced each of their steps with your smaller ones, looking up and to the future where they marched onwards.

Now it was their voices, soft and firm, streaked with laughter and teasing that had filled the void inside of you where you had carved everything else away. Slowly, like phases of the waxing moon, you became full again.

Yet there's a doubt there, one present inside just you. Like earl grey steeped for too long, it curls acrid and bitter against the back of your tongue. You swallow it down, forcing it lower and lower even as the aftertaste clings to you, flavors the edges of your words. A fear, an abyss you are constantly trying to avoid tipping into, one that threatens to swallow you and all your achievements in a single, mortifying instant. You walk the tightrope between confidence and fear, and try not to look downwards into the chasm below, where the wind howls with inadequacies and alienation.

If the team notices they don't say. You see it though, see the way their eyes linger over your expression as if they can see the pause there, can hear the voices that whisper sinister prophecies of failure to you even in sleep. You're not sure which to believe between the two divinations- of Laswell's fledgling hope in you, or of the cataclysm which seems to be constantly dwarfing the horizon in a gaunt, pale wash of color.

"Fix!"

You startle, and your callsign sounds for all the world like a gunshot that rouses you from a ruminating slumber, thrusting you back into the crisp air of the Staffordshire countryside.

"Sir!" You bark on instinct as Price's voice directs itself at you, shooting to your feet with your shoulders straightening and muscles coiled in readiness.

Yet instead of the displeased, furrowed brow of your captain all you see is the three men before you freeze, turn halfway from the training area in surprise at your yelp. You see Soap's eyebrows raise in a silent question of your yipped response, but the pause gives Gaz the opportunity he needs to kick the Scotsman's legs from under him. Instantly, the brief look of surprise on Johnny's face morphs into shock as he tilts, mouth opening as the shorter sergeant wraps a leg around him, arms straining as he forces his brother to the ground.

"Getting distracted, Johnny?" Gaz asks breathlessly as Soap struggles under him, biting out a curse tinted with stupefaction at his opponent's surprising burst of strength.

Whatever Price was going to say to you dies on his lips as he barks a laugh, arms crossed and supervising the scuffed section of terrain the team has designated as their sparring mat.

"Gaz is right, Soap. Should be paying more attention to your opponent and not your audience."

Soap doesn't respond, he can't. Not with Gaz's arms securing him in a headlock and his legs forced together so he can't free himself. Briefly, his arms flail out beside him, stirring brown dust into the breeze. Yet he seems to realize the futility of the effort, because you watch his eyes close, see his jaw grit as he grunts, taps twice on the shorter man in a signal of surrender.

It's only once he's released that he sucks in air with a gasp that's a little too dramatic given the circumstances. Yet it only draws a warmth flickering inside you, a smile tickling your lips as you take in Soap's cocky grin and Gaz's glinting eyes, both of them oozing a camaraderie and mischief that occurs only between brothers of the same oath.

"A point to me." Gaz huffs, winded, and when he stands it's to offer Soap a hand, attempting to lift the sergeant to his feet beside him.

Soap goes for the hand, but you see the flicker of playfulness there that sparks behind his gaze. Before you can warn Gaz, Soap's hand shoots forward, grappling Gaz by his forearms and dragging him off balance and into the dirt once more.

You watch as they scuffle, hearing Price's bemused chuff of laughter steps away from you. You know usually he'd issue a strictness between his team, enforcing a set of boundaries designed to keep the sharpness of their skills from dulling. Yet here, in the golden afternoon of fall, there's an ambience that feels lighter, lifting the spirits of the men and you.

It feels a bit like watching the boys from your youth wrestle, all smiles and gangly limbs as they test the boundaries of their strength. Both Soap and Gaz are grinning, the wrinkles of their smiles almost broad enough to obscure the flash of focus in their gazes. Yet there's no adolescent awkwardness there, not with their broad, straining forms and deep, resounding grunts as they battle for supremacy.

"Had enough?" Soap asks between gasps as he catches Gaz between his legs, calves pressing down hard on his chest. Gaz only grunts, thrashes, trying to buck his weight up and disturb the hold Soap has on him.

"Alright, that's enough, both of you." Price interrupts with a wave of his hand, and just like that the two men separate, chests heaving and muscles still coiled. "Gaz, a point, but you best make sure your opponent is down before you gloat."

"Aye, he's right mate." Soap crows, knocking dust away from his shirt. Yet all he gets in response is a nudging elbow in the ribs, and for a moment the two of the jostle, grinning and grappling.

"Fix, you're up." Price nods at you, and you blink, arch your eyebrows at the captain in a silent question, pausing with uncertainty. Yet Price merely nods at you, eyes flicking over to the sparring area meaningfully. "Go on then."

So, you do, standing from your perch on the sloped grassy area beside the dirt pit and cautiously entering the circle. Trepidation, a flutter of courage bounces through you, escaping as an exhaled breath as you steady yourself.

Yet when you look to Gaz, it's Soap who's pushing in front of him with a lopsided smile, extending one brawny arm in front of his comrade.

"Mind if I take this one, cap?" He asks Price, and despite your little murmur of apprehension Price merely shrugs, nods at the Scotsman in a silent assent. Your heart races a little higher in your chest, legs widening as you try to ground yourself, eyes flicking over Soap's larger form and trying to pinpoint weaknesses.

Soap is built like a brick wall, rigid, strong. There's not an ounce of fat on him. The sleeves of his T-shirt cling to his biceps. You can see the veins under his brawny arms- designed for wrangling opponents far larger than yourself. It's not that you think you can't defeat him, smaller as you are, this man who's taken down dozens with his bare hands, it's just a matter of summoning the wit, the endurance to fend him off long enough to do so.

"Easy, Fix." Soap warns, and your eyes dart up to catch his. He's seen your gaze, caught sight of your eyes glinting with determination and a near fatalistic focus. "I'm one of the good guys, yeah?"

You think you hear Gaz scoff behind you, the sound disbelieving and warm all at once. Soap's eyes flicker over to him, feigning hurt.

You launch forwards at that exact moment, using Soap's lapse in attention to your advantage. Soap reacts a moment too late, trying to sidestep you as you barrel at him and try to knock him in his center. Yet that only gives you the opportunity you're looking for, sweeping under his lifted arm and grabbing it in an attempt to lift it behind him, force him to his knees.

Unfortunately, Soap seems to see exactly where you're going, and instead sidesteps around you, securing one, long, leg behind and between yours. It's a move you should have expected, given his size, but by the time you try and twist to correct it's too late. It takes the Scotsman hardly any effort to scoot his leg to the side, and suddenly you're losing balance, teetering backwards. Yet you refuse to relinquish your hold on him, and Soap chokes as you shoot out an arm, wrapping it around his throat and taking him down with you.

The impact of the harsh dirt ground on your back is nothing compared to the weight of the sergeant atop you, the back of his head against your collarbone as you strain to contain him. Yet Johnny is a force, a raw mass of rippling muscle as he pries your headlock enough for him to flip over and shake you off.

On your back, hands free and Soap sat up between your legs you try and scoot back, gain ground on which to recover. When he turns, Soap's eyes are gleaming, and he reaches for you, one massive hand wrapping around you calf and scooting you closer to him. Even when you try to kick him he simply bats aside your attempts, dirt scuffing around you both as he secures his hands around your hips.

A loud "Oof!" leaves you as the Scotsman flips you, settles his weight across your lower back, effectively immobilizing you. He grapples with your arms for a moment, as you scramble and writhe under him, but eventually Johnny manages to catch both hands behind you, your face pressed into the dirt and his immense weight weighing down on your back.

"Nice try, hen." Soap tuts down at you, breath caught in his chest. His hands clasp on both your wrists, and you know you could get them free if you wanted to, but even then it's an exercise in futility. "Better luck next time."

You sigh, limbs going limp under him in surrender and face scrunching in dismay.

"Curse you and your stupidly large body." You groan as he releases you, your hands pushing you up out of the dirt to a stand once more. Soap only chuckles, the sound like warm summer sunshine as a single dusty hand claps you across the shoulder.

"It's not about size." Price responds, summoning your gaze to him once more. His arms are crossed, his gaze leveled at you strictly, eyes narrowed. "It's about form, making sure you can outsmart your opponent."

You feel the chafe of dismissal run through you, tighten across your shoulders. It stings, this reprimand of his, even if you know it's only for your benefit. There's something about his words that knocks against something hollowed, deep inside you where the voices of the past threaten to spill through.

"Of course, captain." You manage, voice tight even as you meet his gaze head on, make sure he doesn't see the bitterness masked behind your stare.

If Price sees he doesn't say, instead nodding to the sergeant next to you in a wordless gesture. "Again."

You nod stiffly, shaking the tension from your shoulders and the dirt from your clothes, turning back to Soap, eyes focused once more. He settles into his stance, and he seems looser somehow, ready for you.

"He's bigger than you, Fix." Price calls. "You've got the advantage of speed and center of gravity. Use it wisely."

You nod absently, trying to gauge Johnny's movements, watching the Scotsman bounce on the balls of his feet. It's a difficult choice, trying to find that target that will put him off balance and allow you enough space to recoup if needed. You think if you can have some distance, land a few strikes to give you an opening...

"C'mon now Fix, show me what ya got." Johnny taunts playfully, fingers waggling at you.

Smug bastard.

You feint to start, watching how Soap favors his right leg as he reacts. You can feel his tension in the air, feel it ripple through and bolster you with a steely, calculating confidence.

He's just another obstacle, another hurdle. You haven't fallen from that tightrope thus far, and you won't start now.

At last, you launch forwards, ducking out of the way of Soap's outstretched reach and placing a well-earned kick to his upper leg that has him grunt, briefly buckle down-

Oh shit.

Now at the perfect height, Soap locks his arms around your middle, hauling you to him. You try and struggle, kicking apart his legs in an attempt to disturb his balance, one hand trying to push up at his jaw-

The world tilts, Johnny's hands on you shift, and you shriek as suddenly you're being hauled up. Your feet kick uselessly in the air as Soap lifts your shrieking form higher, his raucous laughter loud in your ears. With a heft, you're suddenly over one broad shoulder, his hands balancing you precariously as you squirm.

"S-Soap!" You squeal, face warming and unable to contain the abrupt gasp of hysterical delight that rises inside you. "Johnny! You-!"

"The cap'n told you to watch your balance!" Soap cackles over your protests. "How's gravity now, eh?!"

You beat at his back with your fists, but even then you can't contain the sudden burst of laughter that's being squeezed from your chest. When you try to kick, Soap merely shifts an arm down, locking the back of your thighs.

"You little shit!" You giggle, trying to raise yourself off his shoulder, only for him to twist where he stands, sending the world flying into a haze of color around you. "Put me down or I'll-!"

"There's no escape!" Soap crows in triumph, and you laugh truly this time, the warmth of it bubbling up your chest and vanquishing the solemnity there in a breezy gasp of air. "I have you now!"

"Alright, that's enough." Price interjects, but you can hear the smile on his voice, and when Soap spins again to face him you're left with Gaz, who grins broadly at your form splayed across his mate's shoulders despite the disbelieving shake of his head. "Put the medic down and back away slowly."

"Aye cap'n." Soap affirms, and the world shifts as you slide down, your shirt catching on his vest for a moment long enough to make it rise a few inches up your stomach. Once your feet are on solid ground once more you fiddle with it, shooting Soap a look of pure mischief as you playfully shove at him.

"You're a right bastard, you are." You jeer at him, but there's no true malice behind the insult.

"Oho! Looks like our bonnie medic has picked up some British slang, hasn't she?" Soap grins wickedly back at you, pretending to rub a bruise left by your touch.

"Shut up."

"She'll take you down with words alone, mate." Gaz quips off to the side, a grin stretched across his face. "Better watch your step."

You turn to him, still smiling, feeling that bravado wash over you now in the wake of Soap's prank.

"You want some too, sergeant?" You shoot back, and Gaz feigns surrender, tossing up his hands and taking a step back against the wall he's braced on- only to freeze.

You see him at the same time Gaz senses him, shoulders going rigid at the figure, the mass behind him, leaning in the shadow casted by the aged, brick building. The air seems to suck into silence, drowning into a ringing nothingness like the aftershock of flashbang that was far too close.

"My turn."

"Oh, uh, sure LT." Soap is the first to speak, and even he seems a bit disturbed by this, by the almost garish sight of Ghost in the brightness of daytime. "Lemme just-"

"Not you."

You stop breathing.

Ghost's eyes are locked on you. Hell, they never left you, trained on your form since the moment he announced his arrival. You think if he steps closer, into the training are he might hear your heartbeat, reach out a hand to feel it thrum under his fingertips-

Your pulse flutters against his fingers like a trapped bird, wings spread and beating the frozen air around you. He's never been this close before. He's hardly ever touched you- much less with his bare hands. The sensation of it threatens to throw you from that precipice where you balance precariously, falling once more into that asymmetry you fail to understand. You can only pray that your rapid, strumming heartbeat doesn't betray you, doesn't let him sense the thoughts you're holding silent within your heart.

You swallow, but all you taste is dust.

"H-hang on now." Soap intervenes, stepping up beside you. He's a weight at your back, keeping you steady, grounded against the gale inside you. The wind whips higher, and it seems to carry the scent of your uncertainty, the carpal, raw taste of it filling the back of your mouth.

He's huge. Larger than Soap. Immense and looming. Ghost occupies enough space in your mind it rivals your own doubts, blending at the seams with the dark, inky bleed of him into your form. The weight of him, even at this distance, threatens to bear down on your shoulders, and you feel that pressure, that muscled strain compress you until there's almost nothing left.

Only bones.

"It's fine, Soap." Your voice is surprisingly steady when you speak, lift an arm to gently halt the Scotsman behind you. "I can do it."

It's a lie. You're not sure if you can at all. It's not Ghost's size, his stature that concerns you. No, rather it's you, the way the lieutenant before you seems to summon those linger doubts in you- the urgent, insurmountable need to prove yourself. You can't explain it, can't fully understand why it's Ghost of all people that needs to see this, needs to see how you fail to crack, that no amount of pressure here will force you to fail.

Then again, perhaps you do know. After all, you've always known it was him.

You trace the marrow white paint of Ghost's mask up to his eyes, watching as they slide from you to Price, waiting for his assent. You hear Price inhale deeply, eyes flickering between the two of you before he at last sighs, gestures Ghost into the ring.

When you try to step back, Soap catches your arm.

"You don't have to do this." He tells you, and the tone of his voice makes you pause, frown at the odd tint of concern there.

"Yeah, I do." You tell him instead, and jerk your arm from his touch, brushing past him to give Ghost the space he needs to prepare. When you glance at the sergeant there's an odd pinch to his face you don't recognize. It feels oddly like doubt, a sourness that doesn't believe in you. It chafes against the inside of you, brittle and pale.

When you turn to face Ghost a few paces away, he's stretching. It almost catches you by surprise, the sight of his hulking frame as he rolls his shoulders, pops his neck with an audible crack. Again, you're reminded of the breadth of him, this man who's shielded you more times than you can count by now, can take down a man larger than you with nothing but his bare hands.

Your mouth dries.

Even so, you nod at Price when you settle into your stance, preparing yourself for his assault. The captain returns it, lets his stare linger over your unsteady hands before his voice rings out into the afternoon sun:

"Begin!"

You tense, preparing yourself, but even then you aren't ready for the sheer, massive strides Ghost takes towards you, closing the distance so rapidly your mind reels trying to catch up. You sidestep him a moment too late, trying to get a leg under his frame and use it to upset his balance, send him stumbling.

A hand seizes your shoulder. The world spins.

The gasp that escapes from your chest upon impact with the ground floats upwards into the eggshell blue sky.

Just like that.

You blink once, twice, trying to understand exactly how Ghost managed to flip you so easily, barely even touching you before you're flat on your back staring up at the clouds. Gaz hisses a grimace somewhere beyond you, and you hardly hear it, thoughts spinning.

"Up."

That puffy crisp September sky is blotted out as Ghost hovers above you, towering over your prone form as your breath stills in your chest. You stare at him dumbly for a moment, still trying to understand how he moved fast enough to make your head spin.

He doesn't offer you a hand, letting you sit up on your own, dusty with dirt and heart rattling in your chest. When you stand he's already paced away from you, wordlessly waiting for you to resume your stance.

"Give him hell, Fix!" Soap calls from the side, but even he doesn't sound entirely convinced.

You ignore him, trying to clear your thoughts, trying to focus on exactly how Ghost managed to flip you. Maybe his arm was around your middle- or was it your shoulder, you can't tell, he-

"Don't make me wait, sergeant." Ghost tells you, and the low scrape of his voice is enough to startle you, feeling like bone meal grinding against the recesses of your mind.

You tense, observing, watching, seeking weaknesses in his stance. When you launch forwards again, you move fast, ducking under Ghost's outstretched arm as he reaches for you. It's enough to give you an opening as you reach forward, throwing an arm out to his middle and aiming a fist with all your strength. It's not enough to send him stumbling backwards, but you know if you unbalance him you can get one of his legs, force him to his knees-

Ghost deflects your strike with ease, however, and before you can retreat to recoup that same arm twists your outstretched hand deftly. You're spun, boots skidding in the dirt. Yet this time Ghost doesn't put you down in the ground. Instead, he hauls you backwards until you're pressed against his front, and a heavy arm settles under your throat in a vice-like grip, rising up enough to threaten your airflow.

"Better." Is all he tells you as you struggle, and the motherfucker isn't even out of breath.

When you aim an elbow back into his stomach he merely grunts at the impact, and after a brief second the world spins wildly out of control as Ghost flips you over his hip and into the dirt once more.

You think you may have skid a few inches past where you landed, the impact harsh and unforgiving against your form. When you open your eyes you're on your side, staring at his boots as he again looms over you.

"Get up." He tells you, and there's not a single ounce of hesitation there, his tone harsh and unforgiving. It bites harder than the bruises forming on your flesh, sinking deeper past the sinews of you into the place where you harbor your own self-doubt. Ghost doesn't give you any recompense, demanding your immediate restitution even as you brace on your elbows, try and catch your breath.

"If you stayed down this long you'd be dead." He tells you plainly, and when you grit your teeth you feel your jaw threaten to pop. Frustration, humiliation clots under your skin, racing along your nerve endings and threatening to set your skin aflame. It boils inside of you, this shame of being defeated so easily, of not being able to stand your own, of him seemingly mocking you for your lack of strength.

"E-easy LT." Soap tries from your other side, trying uncertainly to intervene. "She's just catching her breath, she-"

"She's getting caught in her head, Johnny." Ghost replies, and the tone of his voice has shifted now- irritated, impatient. You grimace against it where he can't see, with your brow bent over your arms as you push yourself upwards. Yet the motion isn't fast enough for Ghost, who's gloved grip settles on your bicep and hauls you to a stand.

When you try and shake him off, however, Ghost doesn't budge. You turn to him, ready to snap a complaint bitten with anger, but the pale paint of his mask looms over you instead.

"You're only seeing me." He tells you, voice dipping lower, quieter. A growl. "Not an enemy. You're seeing someone bigger and stronger than you and it's messing with your head."

You blink at him for a moment, trying to process his hissed accusation. For a moment it feels as if he's bragging, lauding over the fact that you aren't a towering six foot six and built from unbreakable bone and mass. Yet beyond that is the harsh, unrepentant bite of his words, digging like thorns into the smog of despondency that clouds your thoughts.

He releases you before you can object, turning on his heel and striding away to the other side of the dirt pit, leaving you suppressing a shiver of fury. The sharpness of it digs harder than a combat knife, buries between your shoulders as they tighten and flex, trying vainly to push it down further into the depths of you. It imbues into your marrow, seeping like icy water and freezing, furthering the fractures that are already there.

"Again."

You breathe, steady yourself, turn to him. Behind you Gaz and Soap shift nervously, their boots scuffing against the grass as they exchange a look.

You're faster this time, as if that same righteous bleed into your bones has gifted you a speed you aren't entirely aware of- focused only on the massive looming form of your lieutenant in front of you. Yet when he blink he's not there- the after effect of him wavering before your eyes and you swear you see his eyes glint.

Just like that, you feel your legs out from under you. There's not even a breath in your lungs to yelp before you're landing on your side- a second too slow to land on your stomach. When Ghost reaches for you, however, you manage to catch his arm between your legs, pressing and holding, immobilizing it. Your victory is short lived, however, when Ghost twists and suddenly your whole body shifts with you onto your stomach. The hand that had held his arm, trying to haul it backwards is seized, and after a momentary scuffle it ends with Ghost pressing his weight into the small of your back, knee braced between yours.

Grunting, you try and push up, try and dislodge him from atop you, kneeling above your prone form. It's not use, and the only reward you get from your LT is a tightening, warning grip on your forearm, pushing almost painfully into your spine. Face pressed into the dirt, thrashing, you bite down on a yell of frustration. When you turn your head, glare venomously over your shoulder, Ghost regards you with an unwavering, unblinking stare.

"Tap out." He tells you coldly, but you refuse, still squirming and trying to buck him off you.

"I said." Ghost repeats, and the grip on your wrist is almost enough to bruise as he leans further over you, pressing more weight into your back. "Tap. out."

The "Fuck you." sits heavy on your tongue, bitter and acrid with venom. When you swallow the taste lingers in your throat. Yet you close your eyes in defeat, using your remaining free hand to tap the ground twice in surrender. Instantly Ghost is gone from you, weight and hands vanishing, but you can't deny the momentary touch of disappointment that flickers in your belly at his figure vanishing from atop you.

Traitorous. Unacceptable.

Dimly, your mind conjures the sensation of him, of the planes of his body curled around you, blunted at the edges by his gear and jacket in the darkness. The warmth of him seeps through, blanketing you, drawing the freeze from your bones. Now that same figure towers over you, casting you in his shadow- one you think you'll always dwell in, unable to outshine the sun.

You stand without his help this time, face smeared with dirt. Fists curled at your sides, heart thrumming too fast in your chest, you force yourself to breathe. The air feels dusty, putrid, cracked in your throat- rotting with frustration and bitter self-loathing. Price says something, but you can't hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, the clench of your joints popping under the pressure.

Ghost seems to suck the light out of the air at the other end of the pit, arms crossed as he silently waits for you to right yourself. His eyes, tinged black at the edges, bore into you. They carve deeper downwards, flaying you open and exposing your heart, your lungs, the spilling threads of you that reek of weakness.

You think he might see it, might see the thing you're keeping curled within you- a fragile tender thing made of glass you've kept safe all this time.

His voice, soft, just for you, murmurs against the midnight.

"I see you. Just you."

Oh.

"You're only seeing me." He told you.

Not an enemy. Him.

Ghost. Because you could never see him as anything else. Not when it's him.

You blink and the light changes. Your next breath, forced through parted lips, seems to ooze the toxicity from your veins, lifting the weight from your shoulders. The bones inside you are still cracked, fractured, and you know they probably will be forever. Now, however, you understand, and the knowledge seems to strengthen them, dull the bitter horrible pain of your own doubt long enough for you to see.

Not a shadow, a light in the darkness. Guiding you forwards even if it threatens to blind you, drawing you out of the confines of your own lack of confidence by force if he has to. He's not doing this to mock you at all. He's not looking down on you, he's not gloating or tossing you around for his own sadistic self-pleasure. He's trying, in his own way, to teach you, to show you that you do have what it takes. He's breaking you systematically, scooping you from the ashes and charred remains so the frayed and broken edges of you are polished into something new. Something stronger.

He's doing this because he sees you. Just you, and that's already good enough. You're good enough.

Sometimes you have to break bones for them to mend correctly.

"Fix!"

You jolt, turning to Price. Arms crossed, one shaggy eyebrow arched towards you, he regards you with scrutiny.

"You done?" Is all he asks, and he seems to see it too- the telltale twinkle of knowledge in his eyes at what his lieutenant is trying to accomplish.

"No sir." You breathe, and Price grins.

"Give him hell then, sergeant." He nods towards your opponent. You follow his gaze, and this time Ghost is focused entirely on you, eyes glinting in the afternoon sunlight.

You can do it.

Ghost settles into his stance, one arm extended slightly in front of the other, his tattooed forearm rippling with muscle. He's big, bigger than you, and that thought alone is enough to threaten you into a tailspin of doubt like before. You know now that if you indulge it, allow it to take hold it guarantees defeat. So, you push it down, refuse to see it, summoning a phantom in its place, one of your own design. it wavers before you, whispering sinister prophecies of failure, howling like the wind in the abyss of the impossibly high tightrope you tread upon.

When you launch forward Ghost tenses, ready for your attack. He throws out an arm to block your attack, but you merely twist around it, throwing it up and giving you the opening you need. It takes all your strength as you ignore his other hand settling on your shoulder. You shift, balance, and then bring your foot against his leg with vicious force. It's enough to make him stumble, shift his weight and grunt at the impact. His distraction allows you to free yourself, land another hit against his arm and throw it wide.

There.

He reaches for you, but the motion is slow, stunted by his size. You slide around him instead, ducking under his arm and instead kicking again to the back of his knee. It's enough, and Ghost buckles not completely, but the few inches you need to reach forward, wrap your arms around his neck and pull.

You both go teetering back into the dirt, the air whooshing from your lungs upon impact. Ghost doesn't wait for the dust to settle before he's struggling, trying to twist to his side and dislodge you. You don't let him, grunting as you force your forearm under his chin and secure it with your other arm. His hands reach up, but you raise your legs on either side of him. Twisting, you secure them around his front, clenching down with a cracked yell even as he thrashes under you. With one of his arms now trapped, Ghost grunts, tries once more to twist. His boots scuff in the dirt, stirring clouds of beige dust into the crisp air.

It takes all your strength to contain him, and even then you feel your grip slipping. Breath caught in your chest you strain against him, back arching off the ground and grunting low and deep at his form against yours. You know it'll take only a momentary lapse in concentration for Ghost to seize the opportunity and free himself. You don't intend to give him that much.

Gaz and Soap cheer from across the clearing, whooping encouragements as you strain to keep Ghost locked between your arms and legs. Their silence has faded to hollering praise you don't hear as you concentrate, use all the force in your body to maintain your victory. Blood rushes in your ears- a churning tributary of red pulsing under your skin, sharp with adrenaline. Like the river Styx it seems to burn you, scald you to the touch even as you emerge dripping with power and purpose. A god-like strength inherited only for this moment.

A tap, then another on your calf.

He concedes.

It takes you a moment to realize the gesture for what it is, so surprised are you at your own victory. It takes Ghost tapping an insistent third time for you to release him with a gasp, flopping back into the dirt and letting your weakened limbs collapse at your sides. Starved of air, your chest inflates rapidly, head tossed back and staring dazedly up at the blue sky above. The world spins, and at last you realize there’s noise beyond the war drum of your heartbeat in your ears.

"That'a fucking girl Fix!" Soap yells from somewhere beyond you, voice carrying loud and clear. You can hear Gaz clapping beside him- and even without looking you can imagine the wide spread of a smile plastered on his lips.

Ghost sits up from between your legs, but you can't find it in you to follow just yet- exhausted to the core. Your heartbeat throbs in your ears like a wound, your arms and legs shake with exertion. Yet the heaviness there is not of defeat, acrid and disappointing. No, this feels like relief, like triumph.

You did it.

A shadow falls over you, and when you blink it's Ghost's white mask that filters through your thoughts.

"Doesn't count as a win if you can't stand." He tells you, but there's no venom there. Instead, it sounds lighter, and it must be the dizziness because it almost sounds playful.

Still, you accept his hand when he offers it. He pulls you sharply to your feet, and you teeter for a moment before his hand lands on your shoulder, steadying you.

The boys are all grinning at you, pride blooming across their faces. It's enough to make you freeze, stiffen with surprise at the blatant delight they have at your small victory. The warmth of self-consciousness blossoms across your chest, crawling up your nape. You press a hand there nervously, averting your eyes with a small, shy smile.

"If you can take down Ghost, you can take down anyone." Gaz tells you, and his eyes are sparkling mischievously, the corners of his gaze wrinkled with a smile.

"Could take me down any day, Fix." Soap adds, and when he winks you roll your eyes at his suggestion.

"Stay down, Soap." You tell him, but you're unable to contain the smile there, tugging insistently at the corner of your lips.

"Good work, sergeant." Price tells you and when you turn he nods at you, satisfaction written across his expression. It lifts you, warms you and raises you higher on your toes. His pride bleeds into you, makes you straighten and raise your head a touch higher to meet his gaze.

"Thank you sir."

Price nods just once, and looks as if he's going to speak again, except-

"Captain!"

You all turn at the sound, and it's a recruit who's voice catches your attention. He jogs out from behind the shadow of the building, hair mussed and cheeks flushed with exertion. When he stops just short of your group he doubles over, panting and trying to catch his breath. it takes him only a moment- straightening before price can correct him, standing at attention.

"Captain." He greets. "You're needed at the commander's office. Kate Laswell has your briefing ready."

Just like that, the mood shifts. Instantly you're all moving, responding, gathering the supplies scattered around the training area as Price barks orders.

"You heard the man. Get sorted, I want you all ready for briefing in five minutes, understood?"

There's a chorus of "Yes Sir!"s that goes up from all of you, hard and unflinching, ever ready for the tasks set out ahead of you.

"Good. Get moving." Price issues, before he's taking long strides to follow the private, form coiled and stalking with the authority of a commander, a leader.

You yourself move to follow Soap and Gaz, watching as they excitedly push and jostle each other like friends, grins still spread across their faces.

Yet there's a hand on your shoulder, and you pause to turn towards the source, lips parted in surprise. Ghost hovers just behind you, caught in the shadow of the brick building, the angle slanted across his mask.

Yet then there's silence, and you see his eyes flicker behind the mask. It's brief, just a flash, but you see a hesitancy there, a contemplation you know he'll never voice. He squints, and in that instant you wish you could see him the way he seems to see you, gazing into you like looking into a glass prism, seeing the lights that reflects outwards. Yet in him it's only ever shadows, smoke obscuring the things you wish you could observe behind his coal dark stare, graze across with the tips of your fingers.

"You did well." He tells you. Yet he doesn't hold your gaze, his touch vanishing from you in the scarce heartbeat that follows. His boots crunch dirt as he eases past you, broad dark form vanishing in the direction where the others have gone.

You're left alone behind him, watching as he disappears. For a moment you feel it once more, see the four of them vanish before you into a cloud of snow, atop the mountain of impossible expectations you have for yourself. Yet stronger now is the fragile, crystal heart of you, the one where you keep your wildest hopes and secrets, the home of you where his voice lies in tender, sleeping wait.

You follow him.

----

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smurphyse · 10 months

Text

Big Bad Handsome Man | Spencer Reid

Series Masterlist | Smurph's Masterlist

Part 20 of Room 405

Warnings: angst, tension, awkwardness, strip-tease shows, morning sickness, blood

Summary: You and Spencer finally learn what each other do for a living

There were a few things in life that knocked Spencer on his ass. He really thought he had himself figured out more than once, and sure enough life came by and sucker punched him in the jaw, emerging from a passing crowd like an assassin in the night.

Each time his body lifted with the force. His feet left the ground and he hit the concrete with such force he was sure that blow would be the one to do him in. Each time, Spencer got back up. Sometimes it took weeks, months, even years …but he got back up eventually.

Those fists to the chin could never have prepared him for this, tonight. No, this was definitely another thing Spencer never saw coming.

"And now, the moment you've all been waiting for…" the announcer's voice rang out over the lounge as Spencer and Hotch waited for the Arends' to begin their set.

The crowd rowdily banged on tables and stomped on the floor, yelling in their excitement. Spencer looked around and cocked a brow at them. It was just a strip tease, how could these people be so into it when none of these performers would want anything to do with them on the outside?

"The Nocturne proudly presents, not for the first time and certainly not the last… the beautiful minds behind this den of depravity, the parents of pleasure, the owners and leads of this proud establishment…"

It felt wrong being here like this, with scantily clad people all selling the idea of sex and strip tease. He supposed it made some people happier to escape into this fantasy for a few hours…but you were his escape and he'd much rather be with you.

He blanched when he thought about how he'd tell you all about this, but then he thought maybe you'd like to see the show someday. Then he'd have to explain what the hell he was doing here in the first place… oh you were going to make such fun of him.

"Momma and Daddy, a song of lust and trust. Just don't cream your pants too early, children," the MC purred over the speakers as the lights went dark in the lounge. "It's about to get hot in here."

The curtain began to lift slowly, the drum rolls of the people and the band shuddering the ground beneath them. The tension in the air was thick, heady and putting Spencer on edge. A shimmering sinful red backdrop appeared behind the curtain, the glimmering dancefloor illuminating the whole place with the illusion of depravity.

Long, lean legs and glittery red stilettos began to appear, followed quickly by a matching bustier and feathered short skirt. Sleek hair was pinned up in a 50s style boudoir look, shining under the spotlights. The woman posed with a grin, leaning on one hip with a flourishing hand pointing up at the lights.

Charlie Arends stood behind her in black leather pants and a matching vest with nothing underneath, hair slicked back and a confident smirk on his face. He looked over the crowds as they began to cheer, the rest of the stage cast in shadow. He turned his head into the crook of her neck and placed a kiss there.

When the curtain hit the top, a sultry crimson glow blew across the stage, blinding Spencer for a moment.

A blasting of trumpets and saxophones exploded through the venue as his eyes adjusted, cheers from the crowd going wild. It was then that Spencer finally took in this woman and her outfit, and his stomach dropped as he noticed the final finishing touch.

A red collar with a heart charm…just like the one you'd surprised him with all those months ago when he came back from Texas after five weeks away.

Because the half naked dancer in a barely-there corset for every rich man in this room to see… was you… dancing with Charlie Arends.

Your head turned to press your cheek against Charlie's, and he quickly moved to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. His whole world stopped, a fifty pound weight sinking deeper in his belly as your hand pulled the back of his neck to bring him closer. You pulled away as the music swelled.

"The man is tall, mad, mean and good lookin', and he's got me at his eye," you sang sultrily as you and Charlie locked eyes with cheeky grins. Spencer's fingers gripped his pants leg tightly as boiling hot jealousy coursed through his veins. "When he looks at me, I go weak at the knees. Got me going like no other guy."

Your palm landed gently on your husband's cheek, his arm wrapping around your waist. He twisted you out in a flash, lingering fingers clutching yours as you posed for the crowds. They went wild as Spencer sat, mouth agape, watching you in the last place he'd ever thought you'd be.

"He's the devil divine, I'm so glad that he's mine. 'Cause he's my big bad handsome man."

A song of lust and trust…

Spencer foolishly thought you saved the lust part for him. Was this how you two always were? Clinging and close and unembarassed by touch?

Spencer's rational mind recalled you saying how close you were with your husband, that you didn't date because people never understood your relationship…but as he watched Charlie Arends dance sexily with you, he wanted to melt into a puddle of self-doubt and anxiety.

You twirled and sang with your lacquer-lined lips, smiling like a fiend. You turned back to him, belting out with a beautiful confidence, "Oh, the music he plays, the way he moves me and sways, rocks me to the floor."

Charlie placed a palm on your chest and with a choreographed shove pushed you to the floor. Your hand lashed out to grip his tie and pull him with you. Charlie leaned in close and licked a heavy stripe up your neck, and Spencer nearly shredded his pant leg as your eyes rolled back into your head. "When he sings in my ear, he makes me shiver and leer. Leaves me wanting more and more!"

Another carefully planned move later, and you were swept up high, then back on your feet. Charlie twirled you out, and with a faux look of surprise you gazed demurely at the crowd as your bustier slipped off and was thrown to the crowd, leaving you in just a lace red bra.

The crowd whooped and yelled, and without much thought besides not wanting any of these assholes touching anything belonging to you, Spencer’s hand reached up and snatched it out of the air.

“Cause he’s my big, bad, handsome man. He’s got me in the palm of his hand…”

A few celebratory claps and disappointed boos sounded out behind him, but Spencer's gaze was solely on you as he clutched the fabric. He vaguely noticed Hotch watching him worryingly out of the corner of his eye, but he ignored it. Instead he rubbed his thumb over the lace and beadwork, his usually lightning fast mind struggling to process.

He wanted to march right up on stage and throw you over his shoulder. He wanted to carry you out and make sure you knew who you belonged to… but another part of him was heartbroken. You looked so happy, in a way he'd only seen in Room 405. But then again, he'd rarely seen you outside it.

Your hair bounced free from your updo, falling over your shoulders. It flew with you as Charlie and you performed this routine. It was so practiced, so comfortable and full of trust between the two of you. He couldn't figure out why he felt so crushed, so betrayed. All he knew was that he thought he was falling apart in this stool.

The music swelled and boomed, the lights shone off your bright lipstick. Another flick of Charlie's wrist and your feather skirt was gone, disappearing over the crowd. It left you in only some lingerie and those sparkly stilettos, and it looked like something he would've bought for you.

Charlie twirled you out and you walked sultrily down the glossy stairs of the stage. Your hands flicked out expertly to draw attention to your figure. The music hit a peak, and with sudden fear, Spencer realized a spotlight had turned to him and you were fast approaching. This seat was a hot seat, a place for the performers to interact with the audience.

Spencer swore he saw the moment your breath caught in your chest as you spotted him. Your steps faltered, your jaw dropping. He shifted in his seat to sit up straighter, locking eyes with your suddenly pleading gaze. You looked back at Charlie with wide eyes, and his head cocked in confusion, but you quickly snapped back into gear as your part came up again.

Strutting to the hot seat he was in both metaphorically and physically, your hand slipped around Spencer’s shoulders as you plopped down in his lap. One long leg crossed over the other, and it took everything Spencer had not to pick you up and run you out of the lounge. Your palm slid over his chest, a perfectly manicured nail moving up to guide him by the chin to look at your beautiful face.

“With his rugged good looks, yeah, he’s got me hooked,” you sang sweetly, but your eyes were watery. You were scared and trembling in his lap at his reaction, and without much thought Spencer slid a hand over your thigh and squeezed your knee. “Got me where he wants me to be.”

“We’re going to talk about this later,” Spencer whispered in your ear as you sang. “Just act natural so nobody suspects.”

You didn’t react the way he thought, your eyes turning into a squint. In a flash you twirled off his lap. The spotlight followed you as you moved, hugging your curves in a silhouette. Your palms slid over his chest as you sang, “He’s the kind of guy that does it for me.”

With a quick push, Spencer’s chair flew back. He landed heavily on his back on the hardwood, watching in pure shock as you glowered down at him for a moment before turning on your heel away from him as the crowd roared. Hotch was there in a second, pulling him and the chair upright.

“He’s the devil divine, I’m so glad that he’s mine.” You sauntered back up the stairs slowly, hands flourishing out. The music pulsed through his veins as the crowd exploded with excitement and you wiggled your backside for every man in this place to see.

“Cause he’s my big. Bad! I’m so glad.” You turned enough to gaze sultrily out at the audience with a cocky grin, body posed seductively and wrenching Spencer’s heart in his chest. “That he’s my big bad handsome man, hmm…”

The lights cut out, flooding everyone in darkness. The crowd went wild, clapping and jeering. Spencer clenched his fingers around the bustier as he stared at the spot you and Charlie had occupied, a vein pulsing painfully in his forehead.

He knew this was irrational jealousy. You'd told him time and time again that your marriage was in name only…but that chemistry between you and your husband was undeniable.

Another act came on a few seconds after the lights faded, dancers flying about the stage in shimmering costumes and singing along to the beat, but his vision tunneled as it became nothing but background noise to Spencer's own insecurities.

You were the owner of the Nocturne, the wife of Charlie Arends, the mother of the witness to a brutal murder. You were the burlesque dancer who hated cops…the one Hotch said had a police officer ex who was abusive and cruel.

Why did you keep this from him?

"Reid," Hotch's voice came from his right, and Spencer turned to see his boss watching him with concern. "You okay?"

"I'm fine," he spat through gritted teeth. Spencer picked up the bourbon courtesy of Miss Fierce and downed it in one gulp before slamming it back down on the table.

You ran straight to your office after stepping off stage, flinging the door open to your private bathroom as your stomach lurched. Your knees hit the tile painfully as you threw your dinner up into the toilet loudly.

Clutching the cool porcelain, your sobs broke free as your stomach emptied itself. The music downstairs vibrated the floor beneath you as you sat in a red lingerie set and sparkly stilettos for everyone to see. God, what did Spencer think of you now?

Everything had been going so well, too well. Loud footsteps came up the stairs as you leaned back to lean on the wall. You suddenly felt so dirty sitting there in underwear and a collar on a strip tease bathroom floor. You were nothing in that moment, once again a pregnant whore who felt like she had nowhere to go.

What the hell was he even doing in a place like this? Had one of his friends dragged him here and he lied and told you it was for work? Could you really be mad at him for coming here when you're the one who owned the den of sin?

Act natural so nobody suspects. He'd talked to you like a dirty little secret…and after this that was probably all you'd be to him.

Charlie flew into the doorway, collapsing to his knees and putting his hands on your shoulders. You burst into unwanted tears and clung to him like a child. Your future was so uncertain at that moment, and all you wanted was your best friend.

Charlie curled you up in his lap, holding you so tight you were sure to burst. He brushed back your hair to see you as heavy mascara streaked down your cheeks through the glitter and foundation.

"Baby, what is going on? Are you okay?" he asked softly, full of such protectiveness you wanted to hold him forever and not let go.

"Oh, Charlie!" you sobbed hysterically. "I need to go home. Please, please take me home."

"I… I, uhm," Charlie sputtered. He didn't let go of you, but you knew how he got when he felt bad about something. You sat up and watched him warily.

"What did you do?"

Charlie hung his head in shame, "The FBI is here. They want to talk to you."

You shook your head, "I can't. Not tonight. I need to go home, okay?"

"What's going on?" he asked seriously. His arms around you kept you grounded, but you were terrified. Your whole world seemed to be crashing down around you, and you didn't know what was going to happen next.

"Charlie…" you whispered. Your voice wavered, and Charlie stiffened. Slowly you raised your eyes to meet his. "I'm pregnant."

His jaw dropped, eyes widening in excitement…but then his face scrunched up as he likely realized that baby had no way of being his. Your heart sank into your belly as you watched the father of your children come to his own terms with this, and he nodded slowly.

“The boyfriend?” he asked quietly. You nodded. “Does he know?”

You shook your head, becoming frantic once more. “And for some reason, he’s in the audience in the hot seat… he didn’t know where I work and now he does and… oh, fuck, Charlie!”

You motioned to the mess you looked now with your smeared makeup and scant clothing. “He’s not going to want me anymore… you don’t know about my past, everything… the more he finds out about me the faster he’s going to leave and so will you!”

Charlie’s hand clamped suddenly over your mouth, his brows furrowing together. He watched you with such determination and love you could have died right there. “I know about your past. I didn’t leave, and if he leaves you because of this then you and that kid are better off without him. I’ll be a dad of six instead of five, and you and I both know whoever you marry after me is going to have to deal with that anyway.”

Tears poured over your cheeks and onto his hand. Charlie simply slipped it away from your mouth and pulled you into a bone crushing hug. You sobbed into his shoulder as he rocked you back and forth. “You… you knew? About me this whole time?”

Charlie nodded against your head, “My dad wanted a background check after you told me you were pregnant. I saw everything, and well… I didn’t give a shit because I knew that you were my soulmate, baby. He tried to talk me out of it and… I lied and told you it was because of the club. I’m glad he’s not in our lives, because we deserve to surround ourselves with people who accept us for who we are.”

He pulled back to brush your hair away from your forehead and smile at you. You couldn’t help but smile back. “That’s what we’ve done for the people here, together. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Okay?”

Your voice shook but you believed him, and you were so happy he never made you talk about being a call girl or made you ever feel bad for having to do what you did to keep Tulip safe. “Okay.”

Charlie kissed you then, soft and slow. It wasn’t sexual, it never was anymore. It was comforting, full of love and devotion in a way so few people would ever understand. You kissed him back, clinging to him like the lifeline he was in the darkness you’d found yourself in so suddenly.

There was a clearing of a throat, and a soft knock on the doorframe, and when you pulled away you found yourself looking up at Agent Hotchner… and Spencer, holding your discarded bustier.

“Mrs. Arends,” he said softly, always nice to you even though you’d been a raging dick to him time and time again. “Are you okay?”

You nodded, but you couldn’t pull your gaze from the sheepish man before you. He lacked all the confidence he had in Room 405, and instead watched you with watery eyes… you knew he’d seen you kissing Charlie, and it had broken his heart.

“Spencer,” you murmured, mostly in shock.

“Y/N,” he replied quietly.

Agent Hotchner sighed and ran a hand over his forehead. He held out a hand for you. “I think we have a few things to talk about, including your relationship with Doctor Reid.”

He and Charlie helped you stand shakily while Spencer held himself back with his hands shoved in his pockets. Your brows furrowed, and you pointed between them, “You two know each other?”

Agent Hotchner nodded, “Doctor Reid works with me in the Behavioral Analysis Unit.”

Charlie gasped and his head shifted down to you. Everyone seemed to be staring right through you as your brain struggled to process what he was telling you. Charlie thrust a finger at Spencer, “This is the boyfriend?”

Spencer's eyes lit up a bit, turning to you with hopefulness. Anger and confusion battled in your mind for dominance, old memories of Tulip's biological father swirling to the surface.

“I… I didn’t know,” you muttered, staring hard at Spencer. You cocked your head, “You’re in the FBI? You’re a cop?”

“Yeah,” he murmured, almost shamefully. “I convinced your husband to let us talk to you tonight… about interviewing Tulip. We think she might be th-.”

“You’re a cop!?” you asked again sharply. All the men seemed to take a collective cautious breath in as rage boiled through you like a wildfire.

Spencer's eyes clamped shut for a moment, like he always did when he was frustrated, and he ran a heavy hand over the back of his neck like he did when he was nervous. You knew that about him, all those little things about his personality…and here he stood before you in too similar a job as someone who almost broke you.

He opened them slowly, those long lashes flickering as he struggled to contain himself. Spencer straightened his shoulders and locked jaw. His reached out his palm with your bustier and handed it to you. "You should probably get dressed."

Your battered mind struggled through the slosh of emotions and all this new conflicting information, but you managed to look toward the mirror above the sink and see how much of a mess you were.

Mascara stained your cheeks, your lipstick smeared. Your lingerie was rumpled and rucked up around your waistline. The only thing still in tact was that fucking collar. Your chin began to wobble as you saw yourself… you looked just how you did when you were stripping for money or getting dressed after visiting a client… like a whore, a sex worker no FBI agent would dare be seen with.

You nodded slowly and grabbed it from him, your arms moving up to cover yourself. Sucking in a pained breath, you moved forward and pushed past them without a word and into your office.

You had a paper divider by the window so you could change by yourself and in privacy, and a dresser behind it. With wobbly legs, you struggled to carry yourself over, but Charlie was right behind you, keeping you safe without having to ask for it.

There was a soft knock on the door, and Miss Fierce came in. Her jaw dropped a bit as she spotted you, but she didn't comment on it when she saw Charlie. She thrust a thumb over her shoulder, "I'm sorry to bother, but there's some guy bothering Tessa near the bathrooms."

"Where's Manny?" Charlie asked gruffly, making it clear he didn't want to leave you.

"He's on stage and so is Marty."

"Go," you told him softly, but he put a hand on your waist to tell me he didn't want to. You pushed him lightly, "Seriously, go take care of it. I'll be fine."

He shifted so you couldn't see Spencer or Aaron, leaning in close, "You sure?"

"We have to take care of our girls, Chuck." You gave him a soft smile, "You know me. I'll be okay."

Charlie nodded and pressed his lips to your forehead. He turned on his heel and made his way out of the office, making sure to take the time to eye Spencer on his way out. Miss Fierce followed after him, closing the door quietly on her way out.

"Have a seat," you offered, waving my hands at the fuzzy pink chairs in front of my desk. You went behind the divider and opened a drawer where they couldn't see you. There was a dressing mirror in the corner, and it took all you had not to break down looking at yourself.

"Obviously, this situation was unexpected," Aaron's voice came from the other side. You heard him sigh and continue, "I knew Spencer had a girlfriend, but I didn't know it was you and he had no reason to tell me as such."

You shrugged a long duster over a bodysuit tank top and pulled on some jeans, but something about that sentence bothered you as you dressed. You slipped on a black pair of stilettos and pulled your hair back into a ponytail. The anger bubbled further to the surface as you wiped off your makeup, and as soon as you were done you flew out from behind the divider in a rage.

“You knew your team was questioning my daughter!?” you snarled as you stomped toward the desk, your finger pointed at Spencer. “Did you read my file?”

His eyes turned to saucers, wide and a bit scared of your rage. Spencer leaned back in the ridiculous chair and braced himself on the arms. “I… I didn’t…”

Aaron put a hand between you as if to protect him. “Out of respect for your privacy and explicitly detailed lack of trust in the police, I did not divulge any information with my team except what was necessary. Doctor Reid had no idea you were the mother of a victim.”

Spencer watched you and nodded as your chest heaved. You couldn't seem to help but growl as you struggled to contain your anger. You hated cops. They couldn't be trusted.

You decided to sit down and pour yourself a drink of water from the bottle you kept in your desk drawer. You didn't offer Spencer or Aaron anything, just took a long sip and glared at them.

"We initially came here tonight to see if you were open to the idea of Doctor Reid speaking with Tulip," Aaron continued cautiously. "He doesn't seem to have had any idea you worked here even though you're supposedly together, but I guess that's something we can sort out later."

"I'm pretty sure I told you exactly where to shove your badge after talking to her last time," you replied coldly, setting the heavy tumbler on the desk. "She's had nothing but nightmares since she spoke with you."

"I understand, but Reid has a great rapport with children, and like I said before I believe talking about it is going to help Tulip more than keeping it inside."

You turned to Spencer, who watched you with those damned puppy dog eyes, "Why should she talk to you?"

"I, uhm, specialize in what we call 'cognitive interviews,'" Spencer started slowly. He cleared his throat awkwardly and rubbed his neck again, and all it did was make you angrier. "This is especially helpful with children. We talk them through the incident as if it's happening in real time, and they experience it again in a safe space where they know they can't be injured or harmed."

He swallowed thickly, hardly able to keep eye contact with you. How could he after seeing you on stage? "It helps people work through the effects of early PTSS, as the event no longer tends to appear in their mind like it's still happening."

You crossed your arms over your chest and leaned back, eyeing him critically. Spencer leaned forward with his elbows on his knees and finally locked eyes with you.

"You'll be right by her side, keeping her safe," he pleaded, eyes wide and full of what you could have confused for love for you if tonight hadn't happened. "Please, sweetheart, trust me with this. I won't let anything happen to her. You have to know that."

"I don't know anything right now," you whispered, and he nodded sadly. Using his nickname for you in this situation… it gutted you.

And knowing you were pregnant…you wanted to believe him, but your mind was so scattered. You had kids who needed you now, and your body was trying to create a new one. All this stress… it couldn't be good for you or the baby.

A sharp scream echoed from downstairs, jolting all three of you from your spot. Your family was down there, and you were on your feet quicker than Spencer or Aaron. You tore across the room without any thought, barreling down the hallway with them following closely behind.

"Sweetheart, stop!" Spencer called, and you heard the familiar click of a gun leaving its holster. You hadn't even noticed one on him… so many things you didn't know about the man you were in love with.

As you reached the bottom of the spiral stairs, you spotted a group of people gathered around the bathroom doors. The music had stopped, and someone had turned all the lights on, which only made the danger seem that much more nefarious.

"Move!" you yelled, shoving through the throngs of people. If one of your girls was injured, you needed to get to them. "Get out of my way!"

There were a few disgruntled hey lady's as you elbowed your way through them. Flinging open the door to the bathroom, you stopped dead in your tracks at what you saw on the tile floor.

A man was slumped under the sink, a bloody trail leaking from his stomach and over the porcelain. Your eyes glazed over the scene, not really processing it, until you saw Charlie.

He lay on his back, and he wasn't moving. His blond hair was flecked with splattered blood and mucus. His face was covered with thick red liquid, pooling beneath him and onto the floor below. Your veins filled with ice as you began to panic.

You collapsed with a scream, reaching out and cradling his head in your hands. It smeared under your palms and across his skin, but you tried to push that out of your mind. He grunted a bit but his eyes didn't open. "Charlie? C'mon, baby, look at me!"

"Move," Aaron's voice came from the side, and he pushed you away. His hands wandered under Charlie's neck, and you realized he was checking for a pulse.

"No, no, no," you sputtered, unable to comprehend the sight before you. It was all too much, and you couldn't do this without him. You needed him.

You tried to put your hands on Charlie again, babbling like a child, "Charlie, baby. Baby, please wake up!"

"Reid, get her out of here!" Aaron snapped, and before you knew it a pair of hands grabbed you under the armpits and lifted you in the air.

"Get off me! Let me go!" you screeched, kicking and flailing, but Spencer never dropped you.

He pushed you out the door, and you managed to wiggle out of his grasp, falling to the floor. Your morning sickness hit, and before you knew it you threw up all over the ground.

The gawking staff and customers cast a wide berth, not wanting to get your sick on them even during a time like this. Spencer's pulled back your ponytail as you threw up again.

"It’s okay, it's gonna be okay," he soothed, rubbing a palm over your spine. "Sweethe-."

"Get off me!" you snarled, shoving him away. Spencer lifted his hands from you and held them up to prove he wouldn't touch you again. You panted as you watched him on your knees, "Let me in there. Now."

He shook his head firmly, getting on his knees to block you. "I can't do that. I called 911, and they're on their way. You'll only get in the way."

Your face scrunched up in rage as you pointed past him, "That's my husband in there!"

Spencer sighed and nodded. You watched in confusion as a tear trickled down his cheek.

"I know."

"He needs me."

Spencer shook his head now and wiped his face, "He needs EMS, and Hotch is first aid certified. You need to stay here."

You couldn't focus your rage anywhere else but at him, lurching forward and shoving him again from your spot on your knees. "You don't get to tell me what to do! Not you, not ever again!"

"Okay," he agreed sotfly. Spencer looked like he wanted to touch you again, but he kept himself back. "Okay, whatever you want."

All the fight left your body as you began to hear sirens, and you went mostly limp on the floor. Tears streaked down your cheeks, your hands slick with blood as you watched the love of your life keep you away from your soulmate.

"He's my husband," you whispered tearfully.

"I know," Spencer said again, his chin wobbling. He nodded bravely, but his eyes were red and watery. He gave you a weak smile.

"I know."

Notes: I promise you we'll have a happy ending!

I also wanted to say thank you. I know this was a long update coming, but I have had some of the craziest stuff go on, both good and bad! I chose to work on other stories since I had a block on this for so long, and people gave me a lot of hate... so for those of you who were nice and encouraging, THANK YOU <3 It means a lot to me.

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