#Soundproofing Experts | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

leviathanleva · 6 months ago

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Haven

[Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Experiment!FemReader]

Makarov and his men were nearly wiped out. And all they had to go off of was the static recording from a security camera. Bodies strew along, a dogpile of dead men. And at the center of it all a small figure clad in a dress the color of dirt, arms smeared with blood to the elbows.

It was you. Subject 46.

[Blood and Gore, Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Death (not of any major character)]

[5.1k words]

Chapter 1 "Star-spangled Canvas"

“Fahcking hell…”

That’s all his mind could make of the grotesque scene. Initially, he’d thought he was watching a gory horror movie, but no, this was real. As real as the security camera in the bunker he and his team were spying on. It jitters with every invisible punch that squashes yet another nameless, faceless Makarov goon who tries to get close to you.

And you don’t even have to lift a finger, someone or something does it for you. A shapeless force so powerful it instantly eliminates anyone who tried to lunge at you. It is so potent that the rain of bullets coming your way cease their movements inches away from your skin, as if caught by an unseen hand.

Screams, grunts, pleas and prayers in Russian echo from the speakers and all around the cluttered meeting room, he only hoped the walls were soundproof. Orders are barked around, but nobody listens, and how could they with the monster let loose before them? Fear was humanity’s biggest enemy and so far, from what he saw, you were an expert at enforcing it.

The camera shakes again, the outdated medical equipment scattered around you is sprinkled with crimson, like a mad painter set free to create chaos on a canvas.

It’s over as abruptly as it had started, a messy red circle around your feet which you bend down to touch as if you’d not seen blood before.

Ghost watches you glide your palms over the ichor, smear it to your elbows, maybe it’s not the blood, but the color that you’ve not seen in so long that commands you to spread it over your skin, it’s too pretty to resist.

The reinforced steel wall you’d been leaning against wrinkles and curls up like aluminum foil, it’s torn to pieces and you simply walk out, slightly limping, disappearing under the cloak of night as sirens blare in the background along with a horde of rushed footsteps.

But what disturbs him the most is that just before you do, your head slowly turns, and you face the camera. Your eyes sink into his soul like claws, and for a moment, he’s completely frozen, feels a chill run up his spine.

Hazy, dead orbs and gaunt features make it easy to guess you’d been starved. Heavy lids cast over ruddy, veiny sclera. Who knows when the last time you slept was.

He’d be sympathetic if not for the massacre you’d caused by merely existing in the same vicinity as those soldiers.

The video replays over and over and the more he watches the harder it is to believe what he’d seen. Maybe his sights are deceiving him, maybe he’s sleeping and this is just another strange nightmare to add to the collection, one he’ll tell Johnny once he’s awake.

“What the hell is this Laswell?” Soap’s voice sounds behind him and he’s ripped back to reality, shakes his head to regain some composure and turns to the aforementioned woman who’s anxiously sucking the life out of a cigarette.

“Telekinesis is what the reports say.” She answers in a hoarse voice and combs a hand through her hair to let loose some steam before her fingers travel to the bridge of her nose where she pinches and squints her eyes shut with a sigh. “A God damn freakshow if you ask me.”

Despite her shaken state, she rolls the unease off her shoulders and straightens up before fetching the file where the security flash drive had been.

141 had tried to trace it back to its original owner, had their experts delve through the databases in the hopes that something pops up. But ultimately they’d ended up emptyhanded. One of Makarov’s men who had finally had enough of the horror stories he’s been forced to live had given up intel in the hopes that someone else would bear the burden of taking down the monstrosity they’d created. He’d been found dead with a self-inflicted bullet wound to the skull not long after.

So much to getting more intel out of ‘em…

“Apparently Makarov has been…testing certain chemicals on unwilling victims. People of all ages taken off the streets to be used as lab rats. Sick bastard.” Kate opens the file that barely had any papers and sifts through them as her frown deepens. “There’s not much to go on. That there – ” She nudges her elbow towards the large monitor then heads to turn on the lights in the conference room because the atmosphere is already too dark for her tastes. “ – is all we have to go off of. No idea where they keep the rest. Probably scattered all across the globe, if they aren’t dead already, the poor sods.”

“Well ain’t that just perfect.” Price takes off his hat and rubs a hand over his face, body visibly shrinking with the long exhale he produces. “Bastard’s already a menace and now he’s making fucking mutants.”

“She’s the only clue we have as to what’s been going on under our noses.” Laswell puts out her cigarette with jittery force, blows out a cloud of smoke and turns back to the video snippet, rewinding it to where you’re facing the camera with more than an unfriendly expression. “Last sighted somewhere in Moscow. Couple days ago from what I could gather.”

There’s an uneasy silence that follows, nobody really knows what to say or how to proceed because they’ve never faced such an anomaly before. Deadly gas stored in missiles and hostile enemy soldiers was one thing.

This…This was something completely different, unheard of before. They weren’t equipped for this. They needed an exorcist or the fucking Men in Black for such a case.

From what the video had shown, there was no other way to treat you than point a gun to your head and ask for your cooperation. You were hostile to anything that breathed and walked on two legs, Ghost and his squad included if they dared to come after you.

“So what? You wan’ us to hunt down a lass that can barely walk?” Soap’s voice rises dangerously as he crosses his arms over his chest, refusing to suffer another look at your pathetic appearance. “Think the poor thing’s been through enough.”

There’s no denying your condition is worthy of tears, that little dress had hung off you like a sack. Your nails were short, but jagged, most likely bitten off because nail clippers were a luxury your kind wasn’t offered, let alone soap and a shower. He doesn’t want to think of the last time you’d been offered a bath or a warm drink, new shoes or even socks to keep your feet somewhat isolated from the frostbitten floor you’d no doubt been forced to sleep on.

“You saw what she can do.” Kate spits back and lays a hand on the conference table before reaching for her cigarette pack. “There’s no telling what she’ll do if faced off against civilians. She’s alone out there.” The zipper of a lighter, a flame to the cancer stick pinched between her thin lips, then a long drag to calm her strained nerves. “She’s alone out there, Soap... No family that we know of, no way of getting food, probably barefoot and freezing. We need to take her in. She needs shelter.” When she sees that the menacing expression on his rugged features doesn’t change, but instead darkens, she softens her tone and considers slightly altering her priorities, at least verbally. “We’ll take care of her, then ask questions.”

“I ain’t pointin’ no gun at a random girl after she got fuckin’ tortured by some sick bastard.”

“Soap, this isn’t just about her.” Laswell sighs, rubs at her forehead in thought; she doesn’t like this any more than the handful of men locked in the room with her. However, without an alternative and her superiors pushing down on her, she’s left with no choice.

It was her fault she’d not managed to come up with anything else, she knew that, cursed herself for it. The longer she looked over the papers the more she wanted to scream bloody murder, wanted to stuff the barrel of her gun right down Marakov’s throat.

To think that someone was capable of such cruelty…

“She’s the 46-th specimen, there are dozens more just like her that need rescuing and she’s the only one who might know where they’re being held.”

“We’ll do it.” Finally, Ghost speaks up.

“Ghost?” Soap’s apprehension wavers at the Lieutenant’s interjection.

“We’ll do it.” He repeats, cracks his knuckles and heads for the door, already steering towards the armory and set on his new mission. “I ain’t lettin’ a monster kill innocents just cus’ she pulled the short end of the stick.”

It might have come off as coldblooded, heartless, inhuman, but his job was to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves and that’s exactly what he intended to do. Because you weren’t a damsel in distress, you were the dragon tearing down the castle.

That’s how he ended up here, in this God's forsaken forest on the edge of the Russian border, dusting snow off his shoulders and trudging over slushy mud and wet leaves and pine needles. Owls hoot and sneer down at him from somewhere in the darkness above. The foliage is dense despite the harsh weather, he feels thorns and branches tugging at the exposed fabric of his gear as if warning him, trying to pull him back before it was too late.

Ghost couldn’t afford to return with empty hands, not when he was hot on your tail, following the disturbed dirt and broken twigs. The moment he’d noticed the trail, he’d split from Gaz and Soap, told them to circle the area in case he moved too slow to catch you.

He didn’t want to risk exposure, no flashlights, so his night vision goggles led the way, going dark was his specialty. Slow and steady, he skulked about like a predator, armed and dangerous, the apex of his military branch. There was no fear in his heart when he found a small piece torn from your dress hanging off the chipped bark of a pine tree. He steps forward with subdued determination, rifle at the ready in case you were stupid enough to try and ambush him.

Taut muscles move with precision, his strong legs keeping him low to the ground, undetectable, as he made his way through the intense shrubbery. If not for the squishy mud under his boots, he’d be completely silent, but a man of his size would rarely ever be gifted complete stealth, it came with the territory of being built like a tank.

A disturbance on his left makes him freeze. Ghost shoulders against a tree and knees down, one knee dug into the dirt to steady himself as he raised his rifle slowly, finger steady on the trigger.

A deer.

He sighs softly and lowers his weapon.

Just a deer, the same color as your dress, staring back at him startled with its wide watery eyes that glow like stars in the night. A delicate creature, all dainty legs and finely etched hooves, large ears that are sprung up in alarm and listening for danger, its breath visible due to the low temperature. It bolts as soon as Ghost ends their staring contest and starts to rise from his spot, disappearing among the trees.

He shakes his head at the odds, pushes the image of the furry pest out of his mind, and is back on his lead a moment later.

The owls have stopped tormenting him, the lulling breeze gets stronger the further he infiltrates the forest, the branches keep tugging him back and still he refuses to relent. The ominous weight lingering on his shoulders becomes too potent for him to keep ignoring any longer. Everything is hinting at him to stop and turn around, leave the beast he’s hunting to her peace, to save his hide.

He nearly scoffs at all the signs.

A mission is a mission, no matter the danger. He’s accomplished suicide tasks before, this one won’t be any different.

The more the darkness surrounds him the more distorted the memory of you becomes. You’re unbelievably tall now, towering over him, with sharp claws and a grotesque face, glowing eyes, and crooked fangs. Your hair glistens not with unwashed grease, but with slime, you’re hunched over, spine visible through the rags you use for clothes, two hanging flaps of skin for breasts, and arms so skinny they rival the twigs he’s crushing under his feet.

Except you aren’t all that he pictures you to be and you’re standing right there to prove him wrong.

Dress flowing in the howling wind that is so strong yet doesn’t push you off the edge of the cliff you’ve stopped to rest at. Hair no longer a mess, washed somewhere in a frozen river, scrubbed clean with snow, leaves and pine needles cling to it like priceless ornaments. Your arms are clean of blood, spotless, skin glinting in the moonlight, bare feet planted firmly on the freezing rocks and head tilted up towards the stars.

That’s how he met you the first time, under a star-spangled canvas, free and at peace, belly empty but heart full. Lungs greedily gulping down fresh forest air so desperately that he can hear your breaths from where he stands.

Hidden in the shadows and immobile should have made him undetectable, he was just a splotch of black in the vastness, and your back was turned to him, you’d not moved since he’d found you. So there was no explanation as to how you’d come to acknowledge his presence. Yet a single word rolls off your lips and breaks the deafening silence.

“Come.”

His body explodes with goosebumps so prominent they hurt. The rifle shudders in his grasp and his eyes widen, his breath hitched and his heart abandons its leisurely pace for a quick beat that drums in his ears. His vision blurs and he’s forced to blind away stray snowflakes.

Ghost doesn’t move, calls it a bluff you’ve learned from being hunted by Makarov’s men already. His hesitation is snuffed out instantly and he readjusts his weapon before cocking it towards your head.

But then you turn to look him straight in the eye and smile.

“Come look at the stars with me.”

Despite every cell in his brain shrieking for him to run, his body moves on its own accord. Slowly he leaves his hiding spot, stepping carefully towards you and leaving the safety of the forest behind.

“No sudden moves!” He barks out and reloads his rifle as a warning.

You lethargically raise your hands in the air, high above your head to imitate that no harm will come to him, but instead of your expectation for him to let his guard down, he snorts.

“Don’t think I don’ know your tricks?” There’s a menace in his voice despite the panic of being caught, a certain trained anger that all military staff are taught to maintain in a risky situation. “Don’ need your pre’y li’le ‘ands to rip me apart. Quit the theatrics!”

He tries desperately to contact the rest, shakes the mic in front of his mouth and his helmet in an attempt to get a response, but aside from white static nothing comes.

“Shite.”

“Radios don’t work here.” You say casually and let your hands fall back to your sides. There’s a gap in your interaction – you silently stand there while he fumbles with his equipment and spits a multitude of hushed curses. And you lack patience for you’ve been denied the privilege of conversing with someone other than the voices in your head. Your mouth unseals to produce more words, you want to talk and you want him to answer, his voice, although raspy and deep, brings you a sort of comfort, an escape from the constant ringing in your ears. “Are you going to shoot me – ”

“ – Don’t. Move.” He cuts you off, growls at you like a guard dog protecting its territory. The rifle moves to point at your head once again.

You can’t help the frown which sags your features, but comply with his demand and stop trying to turn around and see him proper.

Curiosity will have to wait, you can tell he’s in no mood to be approached and you’re too peaceful and refuse to stain the forest grounds with his blood considering his threats don’t have any backbone to them. If he’d intended to shoot you, he would have tried while under the guise of the forest, at a somewhat safe distance.

So you knew that wasn’t his intent and there was only one other thing he could be after. Heavens be damned, you wished things could be different and he’d been just a hunter who’d stumbled upon you by chance.

But it was never that simple.

“As much as I dislike saying this…” You hum, turn your gaze back to the stars, seeing them is a gift which you’ll never take for granted again, not as long as your heart keeps beating. Your hands clasp behind your back, and your chest pops out, filling slowly with the scent of pine sap and frost. Freedom was truly a blessing, if not for the sacrifices needed to achieve it. “If I wanted you dead, you’d be dead already. I’m not a threat.”

It’s an unsavory truth, a stitching of ugly words that you’d rather not be a part of your conversation. But you bid him a smart man, he did track you down after all. You do not doubt that despite the bluntness of your confession, he’ll understand it as you making a truce.

“I’ll decide that.” He snaps back and takes a step closer, inch by inch until the barrel of his rifle is pressing against the back of your head. He nudges your hair to the side and confirms the tattooed “46” on your neck in thick bold numbers. The worst part is the claw marks over the number, faded and new. You’d tried to scratch it off with your bare hands so many times the skin was completely discolored around it. “Really are specimen 46 then. Bloody Christ…”

You suck in a sharp breath when the cool feeling of metal comes in contact with your tattoo, then clench your teeth and swallow thickly, willing away the memories it carries with it. Instead of letting yourself crumble into a pile of self-pity, you snap back at the stranger with teeth bared.

“Are you always this desperate to be in control?” Then you add more venom to your retaliation with the intent of putting him in his place, but in reality, it’s more to comfort yourself. “Because you aren’t.”

Ghost snorts at you like you’re the dirt on the soles of his shoes, then removes the rifle from your neck.

“So why am I still alive?” He demands, pokes at you with a metaphoric stick you restrain from biting. “Either you ain’t got the guts anymore or I’m just tha’ special.”

The corner of your upper lip rises in disgust, your nose wrinkles and you avert your eyes from the stars to the dark horizon. You can hear the cocky smirk on his lips and it makes your stomach churn in revulsion.

Bastard…

“I don’t hurt those who don’t hurt me.”

If he’s going to be happy, then so are.

You take the chance of his guard falling at your words and turn your head. A skull mask waits for you there, looming over your frame along with broad shoulders. Powdery lashes gleam in the weak moonlight, looking like frosted spiderwebs, his eye color – something dark and unwelcoming. A wide-built man, a boogeyman if encountered in the forest at night, you would have been scared once upon a time. Now it stirs nothing inside you aside from curiosity. You wonder why he wears such a distinct mask.

Does it have meaning? Is it only for show? Why wear such a thing if it only blows your cover?

“What makes you think I won’t hurt you?” He bends down until you’re eye to eye, tries to stare you into submission with those tired lids and pretty lashes. His weapon lowers along with him, no longer pointed at you, but still at the ready.

You take that as your cue to turn fully and face him properly because that’s the polite thing to do when in the company of a “kind” stranger.

“Well for starters you don’t speak deranged Russian.” You point out, and tuck the stray hair behind your ears when the wind blows it into a wild flurry. “You’re not one of them.” Your tone lowers to a grave toon as you murmur out the last part, the faces of those you’ve slaughtered coming to haunt the premises of your mind. Even though they’d deserved it, even though they’d shot first, it still felt wrong. It’s a heavy burden bestowed upon you, one you wished hopelessly to be rid of, but it’s too late now. “Why are you here, soldier?” You turn your gaze back to the stars, voice hoarse with hidden tears that you refuse to let spill. “Don’t you know I’m a scary monster?”

You lower yourself until you’re sitting on the stone ground, tuck your knees to your chest and wrap your arms around them to fend off the cold.

Ghost almost falls to his knees at the sight. A broken little bird, tortured, its feathers ripped out and discarded, stamped for a life of suffering and with no escape in sight. It hurts because you aren’t the monster your file had made you out to be. If anything, he was the monster for wanting to take you away from your serenity, he’d been the first to point a weapon at you while you’d simply beckoned him to keep you company.

“Here to take you home.” He forces out, tries to reason with himself that this was for the betterment of everyone. It wasn’t just about you. Sacrifices had to be made for the greater good and as unfair as it was, you were to be one of those sacrifices. “Somewhere safe.”

A vile lie. He knew what they’d do to you the moment they got their hands on you. It sickened him to the core.

He sits next to you with a heavy sigh, sets down his rifle, and rests his elbows on his knees.

“I’m safe here.” You say even though it’s useless to argue.

“Ain’t up to you…or me.”

It’s as you suspected. He was just a soldier doing his duty, a pawn on a bigger chessboard, nothing more.

“Do you think all these stars are already dead?” You huddle close into yourself and place each hand on your shoulders, letting your numb fingers find respite in the thickness of your hair. You wish you could offer the same salvation to your feet, but aside from a pair of ratty shoes you’d found in a dumpster, there was nothing more you could do. Looking up again, you speak more to yourself than the soldier sitting beside you. “They remind me of myself in a way. Maybe I’m dead already and I don’t know it yet.”

“Don’t have to be tha’ way.” Ghost shrugs and palms over his pocket before pulling out a battered pack of cigarettes. He tugs his mask up enough to expose his mouth and stubbly chin to the cold and pinches a cigarette between his lips.

You see the scars, wide and deep, curving over his pale skin, they call to you and you extend your arm out to touch them. He grips your wrist, nearly breaks it when the tips of your fingers ghost over one of them. It shakes you out of your trance and still long enough to look into his eyes and see pain underneath all the hatred warning you to keep your distance. And so you press on, reach forward until your hand is on his scars again, tracing delicately.

And he doesn’t let go of your wrist, but doesn’t stop you either.

“I’m sorry…” You want to say. “Seems like you’ve suffered as much as I have…”

“And what? Come back with you? To another secret facility where I’ll be poked and probed?” Is what you hiss out instead, retract your arm and shoot down your unwelcome tenderness, rip apart the intimacy it has brought with it. “No thanks.”

Bitterness stains your words, Ghost doesn’t blame you. He’d set you free if it were up to him, give you some cash to buy yourself a few nights worth of a bed and supper.

Instead, he takes a long drag from his cigarette, runs a hand against the side of his head and puffs out a breath.

“Survival first. Survival. Survival!” You repeat internally, force yourself to swallow back the desperation touching another person has awakened inside your chest.

Silence follows, unbroken by either of you, because nothing he can say will make you change your mind and nothing you say will get him off your back. He knows you’ll run, you know he’ll try to stop you and fail. So you take the time to rest and enjoy the chilly breeze nipping at your skin, the rough stone against your bare feet. Maybe it’s high time you slip your shoes back on before you catch frostbite and so you do while hoping that the soldier doesn’t take your actions as a cue that you’re about to take off.

He doesn’t budge, not bothered in the slightest and you’re grateful.

The sky calls to you, twinkling gloriously, you give it your best smile despite your predicament. It didn’t matter that you were nearly freezing to death, that you might perish in this forest, never to be found by anyone, a nameless corpse. You were free now, free to go wherever you wanted and the blisters between your toes wouldn’t stop you, the ache in your joints wouldn’t either.

“I haven’t seen the stars in years…” You say softly, absentmindedly. “Haven’t spoken to another person for longer…” You turn away from the night sky long enough to direct your smile at Ghost and from the bottom of your bleeding heart mumble out. “Thank you.”

Something vulnerable passes by his guarded gaze, a flicker of warmth that eases the cold rattling your bones. You take the plunge, rest your head against his shoulder and don’t mind how he suddenly stiffens and awkwardly clears his throat. You don’t care that he’s practically trying to crawl out of his skin by your close proximity, if he was to aim bullets at you in the next few moments, he could at least give you a second of comfort.

Every period of harmony, however, must end, and this one does when your stomach growls.

“Sorry.” You snort and clutch your caved-in belly harshly, scolding it for taking away your tranquility. “Haven’t been fortunate enough to find food.”

You would have been too embarrassed to look at him if it weren’t for the crinkling that reaches your ears. Your eyes dart to the hand he’s stuck inside his back pocket and your mouth starts salivating in anticipation. A crumbled pack of crackers shines in his large palm, more resembling crumbs than actual crackers, but the spark of life that returns to your hazy orbs tells him it’s more than enough.

“ ‘s all I got.” He grumbles and lets it roll into your waiting hands.

You’re too impatient to be lady-like, rip the foil with your teeth and scarf down the contents, nearly choking as the crumbs tickle your throat. Another growl comes from your stomach, a pleased one this time.

You’ve gone without a proper meal for so long that you only manage to eat half before you feel like you’re about to burst. The other half you carefully tie and set by the heel of your foot – a snack for later. You groan in delight, fall back until your shoulder blades press against the stone, then stretch and curl your arms under your head.

How fortunate you were – you’d found shoes, met a kind stranger and now you nurtured a full belly.

“Will they kill you if you go back without me?” You ask nonchalantly and cross your thighs, one knee over the other as you bob your foot in the air.

“Nah.” Ghost scoffs and lights another cigarette before tucking the pack back in his pocket. He leans his weight on his palm and turns to gaze down at you. “But I’ll have to keep searching for you. ” His eyes skim over your form, at all the skin exposed to the cold, the sight makes a shiver run up his spine. “Ain’t you cold?”

“A little. I’m mostly fine though.” You answer honestly. You’ve been so cold for so long that it no longer catches your attention when you shiver and your limbs start to prickle. Maybe you are cold, you couldn’t tell.

The rustling of fabric fills your ears, you look to the soldier and bolt up into a sitting position.

He’s shedding his gear, first the vest and then his jacket, leaving him in only a hoodie you hope is thick enough to keep him warm because he’s draping the jacket over you before you have time to protest. It’s heavy and warm over your shoulders, sagging against your body because he’s that much bigger. It smells of gunpowder and dampness, tobacco and musk.

“You’ll catch your death.” You pull it closer despite your words, bury yourself in it and swallow back a sob.

“Why…”

“Don’ worry ‘bout me.” Ghost shakes his head and clasps his vest back in place before puffing out a cloud of smoke.

“I want to see the ocean, bury my toes in sand. Some place warm, maybe I’ll go there next.” You stand up and roll the stiffness out of your ankles before stepping closer to the edge.

It’s time to go. You’ve taken enough from the poor soul and you’d rather not keep him when the temperatures will only keep falling. You want to go somewhere alone and cry your eyes out at his kindness before continuing down the path of faith. You hope he gets back to wherever he came from, safe and sound, that he warms up and gets some good rest.

Your eyes are on the horizon again, skimming over the jagged treetops awaiting you below.

“Where?”

You shrug at his question, not because you’re a tease, but because you don’t know yourself. Whenever the wind takes you, you’re sure he’ll find you, he got this far, after all.

Maybe he doesn’t try to stop you because he’s realized that the only thing you want is to see the world again. Maybe he doesn’t have the heart after he found out how much torment you’d gone through. Maybe he’s a coward who values his life over his duty. You’ll just have to wait and see.

“I’ll wait for you. Don’t take too long, soldier.”

Chapter 2 >>>

Masterlist

[Jumping from one niche idea to the next, that's my jam. At least Cujo is finished right?]

#x reader #ghost fanfiction #ghost x reader #ghost cod #simon ghost riley #simon ghost riley x you #simon ghost riley x reader #simon riley x reader #cod fanfic #cod mw2 #cod x reader

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lokidjarin-7567 · 9 months ago

Text

Kinktober Day 7: Secret Relationship

Spencer Reid x you

Contents: fem!reader x Spencer Reid (Criminal Minds), oral sex fem receiving, flashbacks, ooey gooey feelings

W/C: 3.2k

Ok so I’m behind again, oops, but I’m proud of this one! Again, not the kinkiest but I got carried away with the fluff and I also got into a cipher-related rabbit hole so I hope you enjoy regardless :))

PS: This is also a love letter to pre-boyband hair season 5 Spencer, AKA my favourite hair era, as depicted below

Kinktober Masterlist | General Masterlist | AO3

“Do you want to grab some coffee?” A voice whispered beside you, a touch too close to be just colleagues. You smiled uncontrollably, heart rate picking up as his hand brushed across your back.

“Sounds good.”

That’s how you found yourself pressed against the door of the copy room, Spencer’s lips on yours, his hand up your skirt.

“We’ve got time, baby…” He practically whined between kisses, bucking his hips into yours.

“Spence! We have…“ you checked you watch absentmindedly, “5 minutes until briefing.” He grinned.

“I take that as a challenge…”

His head started to dip, moving to kneel down, but you grabbed his hair with a fake gasp of disbelief, pulling him back up to his usual height, looming over you.

“Oh honey, I don’t doubt you could, but I’m not sure these walls are soundproof.” Your fingers moved to his cheek, and he sighed into your lips, his hands returning to your waist and squeezing.

“But you left so early this morning, I didn't have time to start your day right…” You were grinning ear to ear, noses bumping into each other clumsily, and you whimpered into his mouth as his teeth grazed your bottom lip.

“I know, I know, I’ll make it up to you later, I promise…” You kissed him one last time with finality, pushing off the door and smoothing your skirt, but he was slightly less keen to leave, pressing himself against your hip as he helped straighten your hair and lip gloss. “I should probably leave first. You clearly need a minute.” He huffed behind you, but you had already slipped out of the room, heading into the bullpen as if nothing had happened.

You’d had a crush on him for a long time before anything happened. You joined the team a couple of years ago as a linguistics and code-breaking expert - something that was surprisingly helpful in the cases the BAU took on. You’d harboured years of butterflies, coy glances, occasional hand grazes… and you thought you’d done a pretty good job at hiding it. You’d known it was unrequited - he never so much as looked in your direction unless he was asking your opinion on something he was working on. It was starting to get to you. Your feelings had slowly been growing, swelling in your chest as you watched from afar, to the point where you had considered transferring departments. And then it all changed.

It was a case in California; a serial killer who was carving encrypted messages into his victims posthumously, only you had no idea what cipher he had used. You and Spencer had been working tirelessly for days to crack it while the rest of the team were searching for physical evidence, and it was a distraction you were grateful for. Even though you were working alone with him in close quarters, it was one of the few times you could briefly forget about your feelings, too consumed with your work to allow yourself to think about him.

It was night 3 of sleeping at the station. JJ had predicted it was going to happen, moving your go bags from the hotel to the precinct on the first day, and you and Spencer had been taking turns napping on the small couch whenever you physically couldn't keep your eyes open. You were sleep deprived and strung out, but you were close. You could feel it. You knew it wasn’t a shift cipher or some kind of alternate alphabet converted back and forth - you had exhausted every possibility of that days ago. You had been testing more complex ciphers, Garcia running everything imaginable through software to attempt to decipher it, but with no luck.

“What haven’t we tried?” Spencer muttered, pacing the room after a last ditch attempt at some kind of converted polybius square. Garcia was on speaker, confirming that she had tried every option available to her twice over.

“I mean, at this point, it could only be some kind of complex Vigenère cipher that somehow hasn’t been deciphered through Garcia’s software, or…” You didn’t even want to say the other option aloud - just the thought that three days work would’ve been completely wasted sent a shiver through your body.

“Or it’s a one-time pad.” Spencer said what you were too scared to, collapsing on the sofa with a sigh.

“A one-time pad? Is that the…”

“Unbreakable cipher. Yeah.” He confirmed.

“Unless…” A thought struck you, and you stood to the whiteboard you had set up in the room, scribbling down the ciphertext from the first body and converting it to numbers. “We need to think about this from the unsub’s point of view. He wouldn’t use a true OTP because if he truly wanted to hide this code, he wouldn’t carve it on his victims. But, the key might not be random.”

“Yeah, but then it would’ve been picked up on Garcia’s systems…”

“Not if each body had a different key….” You had written and converted the next two bodies’ codes while you were speaking, and you stood back briefly, showing Spencer what you had written. “We’ve been collating the messages and running them as a whole, but…do you see a pattern?” He paused, eyes scanning over the board frantically, and then he calmed visibly, a wave of realisation hitting his features. You smiled as he saw what you did, standing quickly and grabbing another pen to scrawl the keys beneath each.

“The Bible.” He whispered. “A Vigenère is hardest to break if the key is as long as the plaintext. Seven letters. Six letters. Nine letters. Genesis. Exodus. Leviticus.”

“It might work.” He nodded, brow furrowed in thought as he stared at the lettering.

“Let’s try it.” He wrote the corresponding letters as you did the sums, converting them back to the alphabet and - to your shock and relief - it was making sense.

P. L. E. A. S. E. H. …

E. L. P. M. E. I. …

C. A. N. T. S. T. O. P. J. …

“Garcia, can you read the last body please? The one we don’t have photos for yet…”

“No need.” Spencer muttered, writing it down without glancing up. You forgot how immaculate his memory was sometimes.

“Thank you.” It was seven letters. Perfect. You wrote numbers, he converted, you did the sum and muttered the letters aloud…

A. M. E. S. T. O. L.

“James. James ‘tol’? Is that a name, or the start of one?” Garcia asked over the speaker, but Spencer wasn’t listening, muttering to himself as he moved to the files quickly, flipping through them.

“No, I…” You answered for him, “I think Spence is onto something Pen…”

“Get Hotch on the line.” He barked, finding what he was looking for and bringing it to you.

“Hotch here…” A tired voice rung out in the small room just as you realised what Spencer was showing you, a gasp escaping your lips.

“It was David.” He breathed immediately, his words tumbling out at a breakneck speed. “The message on the bodies said something about James followed by T-O-L, and that reminded me of your interview…”

“David kept referring to a colleague throughout the interview, a James, that ordered him around a lot…”

“If he kills again, I bet the phrase would be completed. James told me to, maybe?” You mused, and Spencer nodded.

“Garcia, have you got his file.”

“Yes, I’m opening it now and… oh my god.”

“What is it?”

“He had a brother called James. Hung himself when David was 11.”

“And all of his victims died from strangulation.” The pieces had fallen perfectly into place.

“Address?”

The unsub’s home had been closer to the hotel, so Hotch and the rest of the team went to his listed address, leaving you and Spencer to wait nervously in the precinct. You were pacing frantically, knotting your hands as the sound of your heavy boots echoed throughout the room. Spencer cooed your name calmly, and you turned to him, blushing lightly. He was sitting on the edge of the sofa, leant forwards with his arms on his knees looking up at you with… a look you’d never seen before. Concern mixed with something else, something foreign to you. But it was gone as quickly as it had appeared, replaced with a kind smile.

“Just sit for a minute. Try and relax.” You nodded weakly, perching on the edge and trying to still your racing heart, leg bouncing and hands still twisting in each other with nervous energy.

“Sorry, I… I know we’ve done our bit now but I hate not being there when the team are apprehending him…”

“I know what you mean,” he muttered. You sat in silence for a few minutes, mind racing with what might be happening. What if he was armed? What if he’d decided to shoot his way out? They could all be dead right now, and you would have no idea….

Spencer’s phone rang. He stood, answering it quickly. It was Emily, and you heard him mutter a few affirmatives, smile playing across his features.

“Did they…” You asked as soon as he hung up, and he nodded.

“Yep, it went perfectly. He’s in custody, and they’re on their way back now.” The relief you felt was palpable, a sigh falling from you as he sat back down on the sofa next to you, sinking into it and resting his head back, mirroring your position.

You hadn’t realised your leg was still bouncing until his hand fell to it. Your breath caught in your throat as he squeezed lightly, stilling you effortlessly. He was so warm, slender fingers fanned out across the space just above your knee, and it took a moment for you to compose yourself. You turned your head, and he was already gazing at you, the mysterious expression from earlier back, his dark eyes meeting yours with warmth.

“You were incredible today…” He muttered, hand still resting on his leg, and you couldn’t help but blush. He was the most intelligent person you knew, and likely would ever know, and even without your feelings being involved, a complement from him was about the highest praise a person could get in your line of work.

“Thank you, but I couldn’t have done it without you…”

“Bullshit.” He whispered, and you laughed.

“Ok, maybe I could’ve, but it would’ve taken me twice as long.” He chuckled then, eyes scanning over your face with an intensity you only saw when he was trying to analyse something. It felt as though his eyes were boring into your skin, and you had to look away, heart near beating out of your chest. His hand shifted slightly on your leg, and oh sweet Jesus you just remembered it was still there. It had a strange affect on you - like when you put a harness on a cat and they suddenly couldn’t walk. You were frozen solid, trying to breath and staring at the ceiling.

Then his hand touched your chin. It was light, delicate, just guiding your eyes back to his and it wasn’t until that moment you finally realised what that look had been, the one you couldn’t identify. It was a reflection of what you had been feeling for months. The longing, the restraint, the need that swirled up inside you every time you stole a glance at him, and now, seeing those same emotions in his soft eyes, it was sobering. He wanted you too.

He moved first, gently pulling your lips to his and kissing you, light as a feather. It was tentative and sweet, so unsure and your body took a second to process that the thing you had been imagining for years was actually happening. And then you smiled, hands moving to the base of his neck, fingers twisting into his gorgeous hair and you pulled him back to you, lips clashing in a kiss full of years of pent up desire and desperation. You felt his body relax under your touch as the kiss deepened, his hands wandering to trail your waist and hips, before tangling in your hair and holding tight, pulling you closer. You had twisted until you were practically on his lap, hands falling to his shirt and bunching it up as his tongue finally hit yours, every bone in your body turning to jelly as you tasted him. It was magnetic, everything you had wanted for a long time finally coming to fruition and you couldn’t even break away for a second of air, so lost in him that breathing was no longer important.

And then the Precinct door banged open, and you jumped away as though you had been electrocuted. You laughed, cursing quietly as you tried to smooth your hair, tousled from his hands, while he just smiled, gazing at you.

“Spencer!” You whisper-shouted at him, still grinning uncontrollably, and he finally moved, straightening his shirt and placing his jacket over his lap. You giggled like a school girl, standing and moving to the whiteboard to try and convey a more believable working situation, and to put some distance between you and him, not sure how well you’d be able to hide your smile if he was so close to you.

You still jumped when Rossi opened the door to the room, although, you were more surprised when he didn’t speak. You turned to him, confused, and he pointed at Spencer. When you followed his eye line, you realised he was pretending to sleep, head slouched to one side and mouth slightly parted. He looked beautiful.

It had been six months, and you were stronger than ever. You honestly weren't sure how you were still keeping it a secret. You had had years of practice when you were just pining after him, sure, but it was a hell of a lot harder to not give anything away when every time you looked at him, you got flashbacks to the night before. Even if the team somehow did suss out a vibe, no one said anything, which was something you were grateful for. Spence was a lot better than you at masking his feelings, so anyone who noticed something probably assumed you just had a crush on him. Which was true enough.

You had managed to avoid looking at him the entire briefing, which was honestly a miracle, but your mind was ever so slightly distracted by your rendezvous in the copy room. As JJ spoke, you heard something about male victims, and she might have mentioned Tennessee, but all you could think about was that travel meant your date night plans were cancelled. And you were always cautious in hotels - too close to your other colleagues. It was hit or miss; sometimes, the fear of it was fun, the idea that someone could knock and catch you in the act, but if you had adjoining rooms with any of your teammates… well, them hearing you scream his name might just be a bit awkward. So, naturally, all you could think about now was finishing what you started earlier. You wanted this meeting to be over, to get him somewhere private and to let him completely wreck you before the long plane ride, to get this idea out of your head so you could focus on the case at hand. And then, at last, came the magic words…

“Wheels up in 20.”

The team dispersed quickly, and you caught Spencer’s sleeve just before he left the room.

“My car?” You muttered, earning a grin.

“Change your mind, baby?”

“Shut up.” You smiled. “I’ll meet you down there…”

“What’re you doing?” You practically whimpered, as he opened the passenger door instead of joining you in the backseat. He chuckled.

“Just making space.” You were about to ask what for, when he deftly moved the seat forwards, before getting in the back. Oh. You grinned as he pressed his lips to yours with hunger, backing you into the corner and you let yourself be dwarfed by him. His fingers trailed your collarbone, to your waist, and gripping onto your thigh with urgency. You whined as his lips left yours, earning another soft laugh. He managed to fit his tall frame mostly in the footwell, pushing your skirt up to your hips as you bit your lip, admiring him. He was so beautiful, the way his hair fell over his face, his earnest eyes, almost pleading in the way he looked up at you, his long fingers that so deftly moved your panties to one side.

“Can you…” he muttered gesturing to his hair, and you giggled, hand running through the front locks and holding them away from his face. Your leg draped over his back as his head dipped, tongue going straight to your folds, lips circling your core and kissing your sensitive bud with a hum of contentment. Your body relaxed into him, moan escaping your lips. He’d always been enthusiastic about eating you out, and you’d never complained about it. He was good. Really good. And today was no different.

He was lapping you up, relishing every taste and you were getting closer to your orgasm with every circle around your clit, cunt clenching around nothing.

“Spence…” you managed to gasp out, writhing in the seat, “fingers…” He didn’t hesitate for a second, one of the hands firmly holding your thighs apart trailed down to your centre, two fingers slipping into your soaking core. Your groan was filthy as he found that spot that made your toes curl with such perfect precision it was blinding.

“Oh god Spencer…” you choked out between moans and pants… “baby I’m so close…” Your hands tightened in his hair, pulling him closer, and he groaned into you, sending a wave of pleasure through you that sent you over the edge into that searing hot pleasure you were so used to receiving from him. He held onto you as you rode it out, his tongue still circling you until you were finished, finally stopping when you started to whine and squirm from overstimulation.

“Fucking hell, Spence.” You muttered, as he gently returned your panties and carefully let your skirt fall back around you. You watched in awe as he quickly licked his fingers clean, but it was mostly pointless, as his lips and chin were covered in your slick. You giggled.

“You might have to rinse your face before you join the team.” He grinned, pressing his lips to yours with force, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, making you hum into him.

“Now you will too.”

After a quick clean-up in the parking lot toilets, you both joined the rest of the team, entrances tactically staggered. For once, you couldn’t help but look at him, stealing glances as much as possible, watching as his hands scanned pages as he read and all you could think about is what those hands were doing to you just minutes earlier.

When you started looking into the case, you would be focussed, fully invested, but… you just wanted to stay in this headspace a moment longer. A happy one. A scary one still, for sure, but a fun kind of scary. A hopeful kind of scary. It was peaceful. And peaceful moments were rare in your line of work. His eyes caught yours, sending you a soft smile, and you knew you were in for the long haul, no matter how many people you had to lie or, or how much time you had to hide it for. It was all worth it for the moments of peace with him.

Taglist 🩵 - @emma-e-a

#kinktober 2024 #kinktober #fanfic #spencer reid #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #spencer reid smut #Spencer Reid soft #spencer reid fanfiction #criminal minds

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holmesianlove · 6 months ago

Text

Chapter 29 - Music

John woke, alone, in Sherlock’s bed, momentarily confused by the situation and then the memory of last night came back in a flurry. They had kissed, and then kissed some more and… well, one thing had led to some more very nice things and Sherlock had demanded John stay close. And John had no problem obliging, now that he knew he wasn’t imagining things. Now that he knew Sherlock felt the same.

He could hear Sherlock playing his violin out in the lounge. Music filled the apartment. It sounded much happier than his usual mournful music. Hopefully, it was good thinking music, and not regret-filled music. Or “I wish John would go back to his own bed” music.

John got up and pulled his T-shirt on with his boxers, wandering down the hall to find out. Sherlock turned and smiled, a beautiful, content smile at John and stopped playing. John sighed with relief and moved closer to place a kiss to those lips again and Sherlock was very happy to receive it.

“Aren’t you supposed to be heading to the train?” John asked.

“I cancelled.”

“Oh, Sherlock. No—“

“It’s fine John, it’s already done,” Sherlock said, with a little wave of his hand.

“But you should—“

“It’s done,” Sherlock said firmly.

“I’ve come along before. And they did invite me. Did you want me to—“

Sherlock closed his eyes and shook his head. “Mycroft would know the second he saw us and there is no way I’m giving him a shot at spoiling this in the first twenty-four hours,” he sighed.

John had to admit he agreed with the assessment, although he felt terrible that Sherlock now wouldn’t go and see his family at Christmas, as originally planned. He opened his mouth to argue.

“Nope. You’re stuck with me today, I’m afraid,” Sherlock said, with a twinkle in his eye. He put his violin down and pulled John in closer.

John smiled back at him. “Oh dear whatever shall we do?” he asked, suggestively.

Sherlock couldn’t help chuckling, deep in his chest. “I can think of a few things.”

God, that sound was incredible.

“If any of them involve dead bodies, I’m going to your parents’ house without you,” John scoffed.

“Not a chance,” Sherlock said, pulling John close to kiss him.

The very best surprise of this whole thing, had been that, aside from having an incredible chemistry with each other, and experiencing the excitement of realising they felt the same way about each other, the reality was that Sherlock was still very much Sherlock. And John could just be John. It was like this physical addition to their relationship was simply an extension of what they had already built together. Sherlock Holmes kissed like a bloody expert, and John had the confidence and swagger required to lead someone as head strong as Sherlock, who simultaneously lacked some experience, sexually. But all in all, when they were together, it was as if they had been a couple all along and this was just simply an extension of things. John could finally understand what everyone had seen between them, because it was absolutely there, and had always been there. They had just finally lifted a curtain that had hidden some information. Sherlock and John were still very much Sherlock and John, just a little friskier. And that, was a huge relief to John.

“I’m going to make some tea,” he sighed happily, reluctantly removing himself from Sherlock’s arms to walk to the kitchen.

“Yoo-hoo!”

“Hudders!” Sherlock cried out, enthusiastically.

“I thought I’d just invite you both down for a spot of Christmas lunch this afternoon. I know we’d spoken about it briefly, John, but I thought I’d formally invite you. We can celebrate the good news,” she said.

“Good news?” John asked, walking out of the kitchen to see her.

“You two finally getting yourselves sorted,” she said with a wink.

“Mrs Hudson how…?” John asked.

“How soundproof do you think these apartments are, dear?” she simply stated, with a look that made John blush profusely. “No need to be embarrassed. I’ve lived. It doesn't bother me. I’m just pleased. And if I know this one he will want to avoid the family and hole up here with you alone now,” she said, of Sherlock. “But you’ll need your sustenance too, and I have a roast beef that is too big for me.”

John closed his eyes, trying to adjust to the idea of Mrs Hudson listening in. “Well... thank you,” he managed to say.

“One P.M., don’t be late,” she said, and already started walking out of the apartment.

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Sherlock said, from the side of the room.

“Well that was embarrassing,” John said, planted to the spot with humiliation.

Sherlock smiled and moved over to him to kiss him again, to reassure him. “I think it’s perfect. Everything feels just right.”

John looked up at his detective and smiled back. “It does, doesn’t it?”

“Mmm-hmmm,” Sherlock agreed.

“Right then. Tea?” John asked brightly.

“Please,” Sherlock replied, giving him one more kiss before he let go.

“Done. Now go back to your music. I didn’t mean to interrupt. I hope it was happy thoughts inspiring your playing?” he asked a little nervously.

“The very best, John,” he simply said. He returned to his violin and this time he played the Bach that John liked while their tea was being made.

As John stood in the kitchen he smiled to himself, remembering last night. He felt sure that this thing with Sherlock was all he needed. All he wanted. But he had felt that way once before and been very wrong and suddenly his stomach started to churn. What if they did this thing and it went sour? What if they weren’t actually suited to one another and then he would have spectacularly miscalculated and not only lost a partner but lost his best friend and a roof over his head. Was he being reckless by jumping into this with Sherlock?

The thoughts plagued him as he brought the tea out and settled onto the sofa. Sherlock put down his violin and came to sit beside John. They drank their tea in silence for a while, John thinking he was doing an excellent job of hiding his thoughts by staying silent.

“I’m not him,” Sherlock finally said. “I’m not going to—“

“It’s ok.” John cut him off uncomfortably.

Sherlock grabbed John’s tea from his hand and put both cups on the coffee table. “No, John, listen,” he said firmly. "You really are terrible at just listening." He turned to face John, popping a leg up onto the sofa to face John properly and grab John’s hands in his. “When I said all the things I said about love in the past, it was because a great many people proved to me what a weakness it can be. Just as they have done to you. But then I met you.” He smiled. “And for a while there, I hated love, but only because I knew I loved you and you weren’t going to return it. Or so I thought. It was a protective layer I placed upon myself. Just like when you announced repeatedly that you were not gay. Protection, John. And I don’t need to know… as a matter of fact I don’t want to know what Alex did or didn’t do. It’s irrelevant to me. But I can promise you, whatever he did that made you think people would just hurt you… I promise you I won’t be that. I’m not him, John. I am going to make a great many mistakes because I’m me, but you’ve seen me at my worst already. So you know that. But I won’t be him. And we can just be... us. And you can stop hiding and second guessing and running. I’m right here as I’ve always been for as long as you’ve known me. And I won’t be going anywhere.”

John sighed and pulled Sherlock in for the most tender of kisses.

“Now come back to bed. I wasn't actually done with you yet,” Sherlock said and they both laughed at him being flirtatious.

“The tea…”

“Really John?” Sherlock asked.

“No, you’re right. You’re right. The tea can wait. I’m all yours,” John said.

“Yes, yes you are,” Sherlock sighed, the sound full of contentment, and he took John’s hand to lead him back to the bedroom.

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#sherlockbbc #bbc sherlock #sherlock fandom #johnlock #fanfic #angsty #ao3 fanfic #sherlock holmes #john watson #holidaze2024 #December Prompts

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tireddal · 2 years ago

Text

TFP!Soundwave x Cybertronian!Reader (G/N) with oversensitive audials

--- before war ---

• having sensible audils always has been a trouble for you;

• you were able to hear almost anything – ordinary gossips, howls of pain from gladiator's rings, pumping of energon throughout whole Cybertron, Council discussions, but also sounds from other planets and living creatures. First time it was rough, as you tried to assist anyone who managed to croak a quiet plead for a help. Moreover, listening to whimpers and painful groans all the time hadn't done to you any good;

• so you decided to block your audials at all. working as a tech meant having ability to get written instructions, active communication wasn't necessary while you've been repairing gadgets. Audio plugs hadn't solved problem fully, but other bots' talking was like a constant whisper, not a deafening roar as before;

• than you met Sentinel. You had never expected someone as respectable to take even a glimpse at you, ordinary clerk from small workshop;

• at least working under his authority wasn't too bad. Sentinel requested from you espionage work and in return provided you with soundproof quarters, audials' plugs and any necessary supplies;

• his secretary - Soundwave, was the only one who decided to get acquainted with you beside work terms. You interpreted his actions as an attempt to become more successful in executing tasks as you were both working with espionage –

• or maybe, you just had accidentally saved one of his minibots, who was buried under ship's debris on the mission and struggled until you hadn't tracked his quiet whispers for help;

• friendship between you two had been building slowly. At first, you hadnt listened to him in attempt to ignore any loud noises – but Soundwave, needless to say, was (unexpectedly) extremely gentle with his voice while speaking to you as other Cybertronians always shouted and didn't care about your audials. Being an expert with sound, Soundwave knew how much you were hurt from hearing everything on Cyberton and above it. Soundwave had spent almost three cycles gathering information about your sensitivity, and with which noise level you'll be convenient;

• his amount of knowledge about your comfortable hearing was shocking to you – other cons had never shown any interest in you because of your created "deafness", but Soundwave showed you somewhat of respect, gaining your trust by small steps and infinite patience, not getting annoyed when you've forgotten to turn off audials' plugs;

• the wariness hadn't left you immediately. Soundwave was a great spy as Sentinel wasn't a simpleton, so believing velvet mech at once would be self-destructive decision. However, Soundwave hadn't tried to hurt you at all, only speaking quietly enough for you to be comfortable, or sometimes even reassuring and supporting you when espionage work became too stressful;

--- while war ---

• you had thought a lot about joining the Autobots. They might be not the best side, but few of them often hadn't interfered in fights, so it was absolutely a thing which you had desired for a long time while working with Sentinel. He had been patient with yours audio problems, yet never offered you to be out of the battle if there had been one;

• you've been convinced by Soundwave to stay with Decepticons. He persuaded you that Megatron soonly would become a winner, so you must be with them, but deeply inside Soundwave just can't lose you after losing every minibot except Laserbeak. To him, the last minicon and you are a reminder of calm and peaceful life on Cybertron;

• Soundwave is still the only true friend of yours. You are in good relationships with other mechs like Knock Out or Dreadwing, but they still seem not as caring as communications officer. Sometimes they try to talk quietly, but forget about it often. Not the reason to blame, however - Soundwave has spent with you a lot of time, so he's much more adjusted to your features;

• he's jealous when other mechs talk to you without due respect. In his opinion they're annoying and have no concern about your audials in the same way as himself, also they even bother you with matters outside the job;

• Soundwave almost hates Starcream. Air commander may be a great strategist (rarely), but usually Seeker rises volume of his voice, which is unpleasant not only for you, but other Cons as well;

• you engage in fights only when Soundwave is able to assist you. For Megatron, your ability to hear anything is a great weapon against Autobots, and there's no reason not to use it. However, Soundwave had made attempts to persuade Decepticon's leader to exclude you from battles at all. Although fighting alongside Soundwave is comfortable – jet takes attackers on himself and leaves you to gather information and espionage from distance. Also, there is always a Laserbeak who's ready to protect you from intruders.

#soundwave transformers #transformers prime #tfp x reader #tfp headcanons #soundwave tfp #soundwave x reader #soundwave #transformers

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ranger-rai · 3 months ago

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I know the way I've got my mime.jr to help with disabilities (turns out, skill swap and soundproof work WONDERS to avoid noise-induced panic attacks)

but I'm wondering what other methods they've got to help a guy out? you're the expert in it right?

And see, that's a very unique skill and service they can provide that I didn't even consider.

Of course, not every pokemon is locked into one specific job, with some being able to do things outside of their expected services if trained right.

Mime Jr. And Mr. Mime are one of the most versatile Service Pokemon because, well, they have hands.

Mr.Mime are used to teach Sign Language and make for Excellent interpreters.

They can read and use their powers to air write Braile, making instant communication a lot easier.

This, along with assisting elderly and mobility challenged clients or simply helping with cooking and housework, they are incredibly helpful.

Mime Jr. Is special because while they can do pretty much everything Mr. Mime can (save for full sign language because ya know, no fingers)

They have much faster learning and adaptation on new skills, meaning that they can learn newer abilities that Mr. Mime might not have considered.

What i said about Electric Types helping with seizures? Studying under an electric type and using Mimic can help them learn that skill.

How about skills for Narcolepsy? Mimic Hypno or Munna, along with some training, could help them learn so much sleep therapy.

These little guys are basically learning sponges and can be trained very well for many different special needs and services.

Of course not all of them will want to do this exactly how you want, and at times they might want to learn even more skills but never use most of them, so that can be an obstacle.

#ranger rai #pokemon ranger #the ranger base #ask me anything #rotomblr #ranger net #mime jr #service pokemon #pokemon and disability

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kit-williams · 1 year ago

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Hi! Concerned mom anon here!

We’ve figured out a method that so far seems to work

We have the garage soundproofed as much as possible, and whenever my son, his friends, and his noise marine want to do some band practice, the baby and I leave the house to run errands or go to a park or something

I do have another thing I want to check with. My son’s birthday is this summer, and I was thinking of letting him go to the local arcade. I’ve been thinking about it, and from my logic as long as the noise marine is careful to not break anything, then he could join (and maybe even let off some steam with some shooting games)

But, I want to be sure, and who better to ask than the expert? I figured I’d ask now since it’s close enough for not much to have changed by his birthday, but not too close to be a last minute decision and make any promises I can’t keep.

Also, what typical “party food” should I keep away from the marine? I don’t want him getting sick or something.

Also, Im not sure if this is the final name decision as of yet but my son has been calling him “Dischorus”

Well that's good your littlest one does come first and Astartes can be loud, noise marines even more so!

Oh you're lucky Astartes are easy to feed; they don't each much normal food it's akin to a treat for them. They actually eat this nutrient paste that's like 10k calories and all the vitamins they need but they can eat anything and I do mean anything.

You can look on YouTube or Vine for videos of an Astartes just eating anything. Death Guard eating trash isn't just for them... Iron Hands will pop rocks into their mouth and chew... Night Lords like to crunch on bones its why you see them wait behind butchers like dogs waiting for a bone. The list goes on! I think the only stuff they can't eat is radioactive isotopes or something... there's probably a list online about what they cant eat but its probably closer to like industrial waste level of materials verses like keeping a pet away from food.

Dischorus should behave but Noise Marines will randomly "act up" it just depends on how devoted he is to his patron still. But otherwise he should behave. And note for if he does get sick just inform an apothecary which you can just call either the local base. Is he staying with you or does he just come by?

But yeah should be fine for party!

#warhammer 40k #reply #space marine husbandry sentience #space marine husbandry #tales from the barn #answer #sorry for taking so long #momrad has had a trying week #and also this getting lost amongst my other wips didn't help #kit's astartes advice #kaa

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griffinswitch · 1 year ago

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Some Headcanons for Griffin (Company of Light AU)

I’m sharing a rough draft of my headcanons for Griffin, a bit of her backstory and her reason why she studied the Dark Arts and joined the Ancestral Witches before it continues to gather dust in my drafts. I'm still working out the story and this is for my Company of Light AU, some may be canon compliant and canon divergent.

My background story for Griffin is that she grew up in a realm where it is surrounded by the stars. Her father is a wizard (dark magic user), who used to teach at a wizard school but left after the rise of threat towards dark magic users. He was the one who introduced Griffin to astronomy becoming a profound expert in it among other things. It also makes her feel closer to home. Her love for the stars is one of the first things she shared with Faragonda when they met since she always felt at home with the fairy (but that’s another hc for another time). I haven't quite figured out what her relationship with her mother is yet but she is an only child.

Anyway, Griffin moved to Magix to study in Cloud Tower. Throughout her time as a student, she excelled in ALL of her classes, creating her own spells, potions, and hexes (especially healing and defence). As she learned more and more about the disparaging indifferences between light and dark magic and how the council and most Magix society favour light magic and ordered the execution of any dark magic users, thinking they were a threat, she started to dabble in magical research that would help dark magic users rise and be seen as equal to light magic users. She wanted to break the stigma and shame against them to free them from the oppression they were facing, so after she graduated, Griffin left Magix in search of her quest, her research.

During one of her missions, Valtor encounters Griffin in a[n unnamed planet] chanting an ancient spell using a Whisperian Crystal to measure levels of magical energy in an object and watches her steal it for her to use at a later time. He was charmed by her knowledge of using an ancient relic and enamoured by her beauty. He followed her to see what she’d do next. Along with her other extraordinary abilities, Griffin is an expert in cartography (study of maps) and with her combined knowledge is astronomy, sigil, divination, and ancient runic magic. She was able to locate the next magical object she needed that Valtor has been after for so long, but a creature was guarding it. He was impressed at how she handled the creature protecting the object as she effortlessly used her own hex that lulled the creature to a deep slumber.

He approached her using his charm and convinced her to join the Ancestral Coven. She doesn’t immediately accept his offer because a witch never works in groups let alone trusts anyone but she realises if she wants to accomplish her selfish pursuit of her goals quicker and safer than by herself, what better way for a witch to work with someone than through a coven, and a very powerful one. Plus, she knew she’d have their protection, her powers would further develop and she’d be invincible. In fact, studying the Dark Arts wasn’t easy but Griffin loved a challenge and she was exceptional at all their missions. She was also a HUGE asset to their missions, her knowledge in astronomy, defense strategies, cartography, alchemy, among others were useful in completing their quests.

After decades of working with them, she finally received an invitation to join their inner circle during a blood moon. (A mission with Valtor prompted this unexpected "invitation" that I'll share at a different post.) The night before her initiation, one of the members of the Ancestral Coven was discussing an annihilation of magic in Domino. Baffled by the revelation and her refusal to participate in mass destruction, she reached out to Faragonda casting a soundproof bubble sending the fairy cryptic messages, to warn the King and Queen of Domino. She never intended to cause mass destruction of lives. Yes, she and Valtor would steal artefacts that the Ancestral Witches and Darkar think contain the Dragon Flame, such as the Ring of Solaria but Griffin never took another life. She was blinded by political propaganda, by power and her thirst to reinstate dark magic users, to be seen as equal. When she declined their invitation, the Ancestral Witches captured her and severed her magic using ancient runic cuffs.

Just as soon as her magic was severed, Faragonda felt something was off since she was Griffin’s counterpart. She couldn’t feel Griffin’s magic anymore nor Griffin’s presence even from afar, which caused concern. Despite being on both different sides and having drifted apart for decades, Faragonda still cares for Griffin. They had gone through SO much and grew up together ever since they had met. Hence why Faragonda planned a rescue mission to save Griffin. (I’m still working out the logistics for this) My other headcanon is that Griffin sent out a distress signal that reached Faragonda all the way from Obsidian to Alfea (or the Fortress of Light or Domino) just as soon as Griffin was being handcuffed. OR it could also be that Faragonda and Griffin made a pact from when they were younger that no matter what happens between them, they would ALWAYS have each other's back and they swore on it.

Side note: In my verse, Faragonda and Griffin are endgame and my OTP, always and have been but it's not until later on in their lives that they finally confess their feelings to one another. I really don't 'ship' Valtor and Griffin but they did have a 'fling' once or twice (okay, maybe more than that), especially considering that they've worked together for DECADES. Griffin is also pansexual in my AU.

Anyway, I just want to share this page in issue 21 from the Winx comics. After the fall of Domino and aside from being the Headmistress of Cloud Tower and her immense care towards her students, I feel like Griffin kept all of the ancient key knowledge, dark secrets, forbidden magic, curses, spells, objects used to summon creatures and books she learned (and took) from Ancestral Witches (after they were sentenced) and hid them somewhere safe in Cloud Tower, so it doesn’t fall into the wrong hands and prying eyes of evil, which is one of the reasons why the Trix keeps trying to take over Cloud Tower as well as Valtor and other forces of evil. She's just as protective of Cloud Tower just as she is protective of her students and the good for the whole Magix Dimension.

Because of this, one of her expertise aside from astronomy and basic witchcraft, she teaches Defense Against the Dark Arts. (Yes, that is a HP reference *and no, I do NOT support the HP creator in any way shape and form* but after everything that Griffin has been through and being a headmistress with huge responsibilities towards all the students she cares for, she'd do anything to make sure they will be well-versed in dark magic to use it for good, the same way fairies are. I also think this position is very fitting for Griffin because she doesn't want her students to make the same past mistakes she made when she joined the wrong side.)

#winx club griffin #winx griffin #winx club #winx club faragonda #griffin winx club #winx #griffin winx #winx club headmistress griffin #headmistress griffin #headmistress griffin winx #winx club headcanon #winx club hc #winx club headcanons #winx club griffin x faragonda #winx club griffin hc #winx club griffin headcanon #Harry Potter crossover #the marauders era #marauders era

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himcomindia · 11 days ago

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Comparing Journalism Institutes in Delhi: What Makes a Good Media School?

Choosing the right journalism institute can shape your future career. Delhi, being the hub of national media, is home to several reputed media schools, each with its strengths. But what separates a good journalism institute from an average one? Let’s explore key factors you should consider when comparing journalism institutes in Delhi—and how HIMCOM sets a benchmark in each.

1. Curriculum Relevance

Good media schools adapt their curriculum to match current industry needs. The best institutes offer modules in digital journalism, mobile reporting, data journalism, and influencer media along with traditional print and broadcast. HIMCOM, for example, includes hands-on training in podcasting, YouTube content creation, and social media journalism as part of its BJMC and MJMC programs.

2. Industry Connections

Placement opportunities, internships, and industry exposure are non-negotiables. Look for institutes that regularly collaborate with leading media houses. HIMCOM has strong tie-ups with Zee News, News Nation, Radio Mirchi, and even content creators, which translates into real exposure and job opportunities for students.

3. Faculty Experience

A good journalism institute is only as strong as its faculty. Experienced faculty who’ve worked in newsrooms, studios, and production houses offer not just knowledge but mentorship. HIMCOM boasts journalists, editors, and media veterans who bring real-world insights into every class.

4. Infrastructure and Facilities

From state-of-the-art studios to editing labs and soundproof recording rooms, infrastructure plays a key role. HIMCOM provides a newsroom-simulated classroom, green screen-equipped video studios, and digital audio labs that mirror actual media environments.

5. Student Work and Portfolios

An institute that encourages students to build a practical portfolio—like video stories, blogs, podcasts, or social media campaigns—is preparing them well. HIMCOM emphasizes live projects, YouTube shows, and student editorials that become part of a strong job-seeking portfolio.

6. Campus Culture

Vibrant campus life, student clubs, media fests, and events like panel discussions or movie screenings contribute immensely to creative growth. HIMCOM’s campus life includes film screenings, newsroom simulations, and interactions with celebrities like Sunil Shetty and Suraj Pancholi.

7. Alumni Success

Where do the students end up? A strong alumni network working across major media houses is a testament to an institute’s effectiveness. HIMCOM alumni are placed in top channels, have started their own ventures, or run successful YouTube platforms.

8. Student-to-Industry Transition

A good journalism college helps students make a smooth transition to professional life. This includes placement drives, mock interviews, resume-building workshops, and media networking sessions. HIMCOM ensures a strong support system for final-year students gearing up for placements.

9. Value for Money

Cost is a factor, but what matters more is the ROI (Return on Investment). A great journalism institute justifies its fee through placement support, skills development, and media exposure. HIMCOM stands out with a competitive fee structure and consistently high placement rates.

10. Recognition and Rankings

Finally, recognition matters. Institutes ranked by media bodies, education portals, or the HRD Ministry often reflect quality. HIMCOM has earned recognition as one of the top journalism institutes in Delhi, consistently praised for its holistic media education.

Conclusion

Not all journalism institutes are created equal. When comparing your options in Delhi, look beyond brochures and check for real-world impact. HIMCOM distinguishes itself through a future-forward curriculum, expert faculty, powerful industry ties, and a campus culture that nurtures creativity. For students seeking to turn their media dreams into reality, HIMCOM stands as a leading example among journalism institutes in Delhi.

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lesorciercanadien · 1 month ago

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May 17 - National Fiddlers Day - la journée nationale des violoneux

This year, I’m earnestly starting up my fiddle learning as part of my spiritual practice. For many Acadian and French Canadian families, having a violoneux (fiddler) among us was a guaranteed entertainer!

My great great grandfather Dominique Malaison, out of thirteen siblings, was the only one to pick up a musical talent! He would keep his fiddle attached to an old red ribbon, and mounted it on the staircase wall. He would play the Hangman’s Reel and the Devil’s reel to my then young great uncle Leo’s requests. Dominique’s wife Anasthasie Arsenault would be the expert podorhythmic and would turlutte the songs with great breath control! They passed on this gift to my great grandmother Angèle Malaison. She would play tunes and my mother would dance to them. I also have vague memories of dancing to her playing as well when I was really young.

Others in my family also had the penchant for the fiddle. My great great grandfather Joseph Gilbert would learn his tunes with recorded vinyls, and practice late into the night. Their house was really small and no soundproofing! His daughter, my great grandmother Florida Gilbert, would be sleeping in her room and tell him “you don’t have that part yet!” And he’d go to her bedroom door and ask her “well then sing it for me!”

My mother took violin lessons, but never really stuck with it. Although, she does keep Angèle’s fiddle displayed on the mantle in her house. I’ll inherit it one day.

Learning fiddle for me is a struggle, it being a really hard instrument to learn anyway. As I’m attempting to understand how to read music and develop my musical ear, I remind myself of those who came before me, and that I am carrying on for them. I want to bring that same joie de vivre and dancing joy to my own house with this heritage, and participate in my musical culture in full swing! I try to light a candle every time I practice, to remember them and to wish me luck at the same time!

Dominique Malaison

My mom (little kid at the right), enjoying Angèle playing tunes while her son Raymond sits nearby.

Florida and Noël on their wedding day, with Joseph Gilbert on the right.

#fiddlers #violoneux #folk music #acadien #french canadian #quebec #acadia #canadian

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mumblesplash · 1 year ago

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*in a reporter voice* Topsy Mumblesplash, World's Leading Expert on the Deep Dark, what thoughts do you have on the fact that villages frequently spawn over/beside/falling into cave entrances in relation to your knowledge of the Deep Dark? I randomly thought about it two seconds too long and was interested to see what you might have to say on the matte

oh i didn’t actually know they did that!

i have to admit i don’t exactly have thoughts on the spawning locations of *villages* in relation to the deep dark. i do however have thoughts about woodland mansions, those thoughts being mainly that i think the frequency with which deep darks spawn under dark forests is related in some way to the pillagers’ later discovery and investigation of the ancient cities. (as evidenced by things such as their hallmark building style appearing sporadically throughout the cities in apparent attempts to repair parts of them, and the identically colored piles of wool that can be found in both mansions and ancient city camps)

now *personally* as i’ve mentioned in other posts i’m a bit annoyed about the evidence of the pillagers’ presence in the cities. partly because they could have taken things from the chests, meaning the mystery of why there are zero weapons in the loot chests has an obvious and somewhat boring answer, and partly because the slow decline implied by the varying quality of the city’s repairs is so much more horrifying if you assume they were all done by the original citizens and the wool in the camps was scavenged from dead people’s clothes for more soundproofing materials.

in any case, i think the ancient cities were empty ruins for a long, long time before any villagers OR pillagers could have possibly found them. also i haven’t given it much thought atp but i am definitely interested by the possibility that the pillagers who found the cities weren’t pillagers before they went down there

#the sculk told them to do unethical experiments on their fellow man #the lack of sun is why their skin looks like that #you see the vision #splashasks #amaraudermind #minecraft #ancient cities

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kats-chaotic-wonderland · 2 months ago

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CAA Chapter 1 (rewrite)

So I did some rewriting on this fic, I swapped out a few characters and added some extra bits. I also decided to include an excerpt from Triple Zero by Karen Traviss, I highly recommend her books. I edited it slightly so it's not too long, otherwise enjoy!

Excerpt from Triple Zero-

TIPOCA CITY, KAMINO, TEN YEARS BEFORE GEONOSIS

Kal Skirata had committed the biggest mistake of his life, and he’d made some pretty big ones in his time. Kamino was damp. And damp didn’t help his shattered ankle one little bit. No, it was more than damp: it was nothing but storm-whipped sea from pole to pole, and he wished that he’d worked that out before he’d responded to Jango Fett’s offer of a lucrative long-term deployment in a location that his old comrade hadn’t exactly specified. But that was the least of his worries now. The air smelled more like a hospital than a military base. The place didn’t look like a barracks, either.

The cavern—surgically clean, polished durasteel and permaglass—was filled with structures that seemed almost like fractals. At first glance they looked like giant toroids stacked on pillars; then, as he stared, the toroids resolved into smaller rings of permaglass containers, with containers within them, and inside those— No, this wasn’t happening. Inside the transparent tubes there was fluid, and within it there was movement. It took him several minutes of staring and refocusing on one of the tubes to realize there was a body in there, and it was alive. In fact, there was a body in every tube: row upon row of tiny bodies, children’s bodies. Babies. “Fierfek,” he said aloud. He thought he’d come to this Force-forsaken hole to train commandos. Now he knew he’d stepped into a nightmare. He heard boots behind him on the walkway of the gantry and turned sharply to see Jango coming slowly toward him, chin lowered as if in reproach. “If you’re thinking of leaving, Kal, you knew the deal,” said Jango, and leaned on the rail beside him.

“You said—”

“I said you’d be training special forces troops, and you will be. They just happen to be growing them.”

“What?”

“Clones.”

“How the fierfek did you ever get involved with that?”

“A straight five million and a few extras for donating my genes. And don’t look shocked. You’d have done the same.” The pieces fell into place for Skirata and he let himself be shocked anyway. War was one thing. Weird science was another issue entirely.

“Well, I’m keeping my end of the deal.” Skirata adjusted the fifteen-centimeter, three-sided blade that he always kept sheathed in his jacket sleeve. Two Kaminoan technicians walked serenely across the floor of the facility beneath him. Nobody had searched him and he felt better for having a few weapons located for easy use, including the small hold-out blaster tucked in the cuff of his boot. And all those little kids in tanks… The Kaminoans disappeared from sight. “What do those things want with an army anyway?”

“They don’t. And you don’t need to know all this right now.” Jango beckoned him to follow. “Besides, you’re already dead, remember?”

“Feels like it,” said Skirata. He was the Cuy’val Dar—literally, “those who no longer exist,” a hundred expert soldiers with a dozen specialties who’d answered Jango’s secret summons in exchange for a lot of credits…as long as they were prepared to disappear from the galaxy completely. He trailed Jango down corridors of unbroken white duraplast, passing the occasional Kaminoan with its long gray neck and snake-like head. He’d been here for four standard days now, staring out the window of his quarters onto the endless ocean and catching an occasional glimpse of the aiwhas soaring up out of the waves and flapping into the air. The thunder was totally silenced by the soundproofing, but the lightning had become an annoyingly irregular pulse in the corner of his eye. Skirata knew from day one that he wouldn’t like Kaminoans. Their cold yellow eyes troubled him, and he didn’t care for their arrogance, either. They stared at his limping gait and asked if he minded being defective. The window-lined corridor seemed to run the length of the city. Outside, it was hard to see where the horizon ended and the rain clouds began.

“Ko Sai said something wasn’t quite right with the first test batch of clones,” said Jango, ushering Skirata ahead of him into another room. “They’ve tested them and they don’t think these are going to make the grade. I told Orun Wa that we’d give him the benefit of our military experience and take a look.” Skirata was used to evaluating fighting men—and women, come to that. He knew what it took to make a soldier. He was good at it; soldiering was his life, as it was for all Mando’ade, all sons and daughters of Mandalore. At least there’d be some familiarity to cling to in this ocean wilderness. It was just a matter of staying as far from the Kaminoans as he could.

“Gentlemen,” said Orun Wa in his soothing monotone. He welcomed them into his office with a graceful tilt of the head, and Skirata noted that he had a prominent bony fin running across the top of his skull from front to back. Maybe that meant Orun Wa was older, or dominant, or something: he didn’t look like the other examples of aiwha-bait that Skirata had seen so far. “I always believe in being honest about setbacks in a program. We value the Jedi Council as a customer.”

“I have nothing to do with the Jedi,” said Jango. “I’m only a consultant on military matters.”

Oh, Skirata thought. Jedi. Great.

“I would still be happier if you confirmed that the first batch of units is below the acceptable standard.”

“Bring them in, then.”

Orun Wa stood back with a graceful sweep of his arms like a dancer. And the doors opened. Six identical little boys—four, maybe five years old—walked into the room. Skirata was not a man who easily fell prey to sentimentality. But this did the job just fine.

They were children: not soldiers, not droids, and not units. Just little kids. They had curly black hair and were all dressed in identical dark blue tunics and pants. He was expecting grown men. And that would have been bad enough. He heard Jango inhale sharply. The boys huddled together, and it ripped at Skirata’s heart in a way he wasn’t expecting. Two of the kids clutched each other, looking up at him with huge, dark, unblinking eyes: another moved slowly to the front of the tight pack as if barring Orun Wa’s path and shielding the others.

Oh, he was. He was defending his brothers. Skirata was devastated.

“These units are defective, and I admit that we perhaps made an error in attempting to enhance the genetic template,” Orun Wa said, utterly unmoved by their vulnerability.

The kids’ gaze darted between Skirata and Jango, and the doorway, and all around the room, as if they were checking for an escape or appealing for help.

“Chief Scientist Ko Sai apologizes, as do I,” said Orun Wa. “Six units did not survive incubation, but these developed normally and appeared to meet specifications, so they have undergone some flash-instruction and trials. Unfortunately, psychological testing indicates that they are simply too unreliable and fail to meet the personality profile required.”

“Which is?” said Jango.

“That they can carry out orders.” Orun Wa blinked rapidly: he seemed embarrassed by the error. “I can assure you that we will address these problems in the current Alpha production run. These units will be reconditioned, of course. Is there anything you wish to ask?”

“Yeah,” said Skirata. “What do you mean by reconditioned?”

“In this case, terminated.”

There was a long silence in the bland, peaceful, white-walled room. Evil was supposed to be black, jet black; and it wasn’t supposed to be soft-spoken. Then Skirata registered terminated and his instinct reacted before his brain. His clenched fist was pressed against Orun Wa’s chest in a second and the vile unfeeling thing jerked his head backward. “You touch one of those kids, you gray freak, and I’ll skin you alive and feed you to the aiwhas—”

“Steady,” Jango said. He grabbed Skirata’s arm.

Orun Wa stood blinking at Skirata with those awful reptilian yellow eyes. “This is uncalled for. We care only about our customers’ satisfaction.”

Skirata could hear his pulse pounding in his head and all he could care about was ripping Orun Wa apart. Killing someone in combat was one thing, but there was no honor in destroying unarmed kids. He yanked his arm out of Jango’s grip and stepped back in front of the children. They were utterly silent. He dared not look at them. He fixed on Orun Wa. Jango gripped his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to hurt. Don’t. Leave this to me. It was his warning gesture. But Skirata was too angry and disgusted to fear Jango’s wrath.

“We could do with a few wild cards,” Jango said carefully, moving between Skirata and the Kaminoan. “It’s good to have some surprises up your sleeve for the enemy. What are these kids really like? And how old are they?”

“Nearly two standard years’ growth. Highly intelligent, deviant, disturbed—and uncommandable.”

“Could be ideal for intel work.” It was pure bluff: Skirata could see the little twitch of muscle in Jango’s jaw. He was shocked, too. The bounty hunter couldn’t hide that from his old associate. “I say we keep ’em.”

Two? The boys looked older. Skirata half turned to check on them, and their gazes were locked on him: it was almost an accusation. He glanced away, but took a step backward and put his hand discreetly behind him to place his palm on the head of the boy defending his brothers, just as a helpless gesture of comfort. But a small hand closed tightly around his fingers instead. Skirata swallowed hard. Two years old. “I can train them,” he said. “What are their names?”

“These units are numbered. And I must emphasize that they’re unresponsive to command.” Orun Wa persisted as if talking to a particularly stupid Weequay. “Our quality control designated them Null class and wishes to start—”

“Null? As in no di’kutla use?” Jango took a discreet but audible breath. “Leave this to me, Kal.”

“No, they’re not units.” The little hand was grasping his for dear life. He reached back with his other hand and another boy pressed up against his leg, clinging to him. It was pitiful. “And I can train them.”

“Unwise,” said Orun Wa. The Kaminoan took a gliding step forward. They were such graceful creatures, but they were loathsome at a level that Skirata could simply not comprehend. And then the little lad grasping his leg suddenly snatched the hold-out blaster from Skirata’s boot.

Before he could react the kid had tossed it to the one who’d been clinging to his hand in apparent terror. The boy caught it cleanly and aimed it two-handed at Orun Wa’s chest.

“Fierfek.” Jango sighed. “Put it down, kid.”

But the lad wasn’t about to stand down. He stood right in front of Skirata, utterly calm, blaster raised at the perfect angle, fingers placed just so with the left hand steadying the right, totally focused. And deadly serious. Skirata felt his jaw drop a good centimeter. Jango froze, then chuckled.

“I reckon that proves my point,” he said, but he still had his eyes fixed on the tiny assassin. The kid clicked the safety catch. He seemed to be checking it was off.

“It’s okay, son,” Skirata said, as gently as he could. He didn’t much care if the boy fried the Kaminoan, but he cared about the consequences for the kid. And he was instantly and totally proud of him—of all of them. “You don’t need to shoot. I’m not going to let him touch any of you. Just give me back the blaster.”

The child didn’t budge; the blaster didn’t waver. He should have been more concerned about cuddly toys than a clean shot at this stage in his young life. Skirata squatted down slowly behind him, trying not to spook him into firing. But if the boy had his back to him…then he trusted him, didn’t he?

“Come on…just put it down, there’s a good lad. Now give me the blaster.” He kept his voice as soft and level as he could, when he was actually torn between cheering and doing the job himself. “You’re safe, I promise you.” The boy paused, eyes and aim still both fixed on Orun Wa.

“Yes sir.” Then he lowered the weapon to his side. Skirata put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and pulled him back carefully.

“Good lad.” Skirata took the blaster from his little fingers and scooped him up in his arms. He dropped his voice to a whisper. “Nicely done, too.”

The Kaminoan showed no anger whatsoever, simply blinking, yellow, detached disappointment. “If that does not demonstrate their instability, then—”

“They’re coming with me.”

“This is not your decision.”

“No, it’s mine,” Jango interrupted. “And they’ve got the right stuff. Kal, get them out of here and I’ll settle this with Orun Wa.”

Skirata limped toward the door, still making sure he was between the Kaminoan and the kids. He was halfway down the corridor with his bizarre escort of tiny deviants before the boy he was carrying wriggled uncomfortably in his arms.

“I can walk, sir,” he said. He was perfectly articulate, fluent—a little soldier way beyond his years.

“Okay, son.” Skirata lowered him to the floor and the kids fell in behind him, oddly quiet and disciplined. They didn’t strike him as dangerous or deviant, unless you counted stealing a weapon, pulling a feint, and almost shooting a Kaminoan as deviant. Skirata didn’t. The kids were just trying to survive, like any soldier had a duty to do. And they looked four or five years old, but Orun Wa had definitely said they were two. Skirata suddenly wanted to ask them how long they’d spent in those awful suffocating transparisteel vats, cold hard tanks that were nothing like the dark comfort of a womb. It must have been like drowning. Could they see each other as they floated? Had they understood what was happening to them? Skirata reached the doors of his stark quarters and ushered them in, trying not to dwell on those thoughts. The boys lined up against the wall automatically, hands clasped behind their backs, and waited without being told to.

I brought up two sons. How hard can it be to mind six kids for a few days? Skirata waited for them to react but they simply stared back at him as if expecting orders. He had none. Rain lashed the window that ran the whole width of the wall. Lightning flared. They all flinched. But they still stood in silence.

“Tell you what,” Skirata said, bewildered. He pointed to the couch. “You sit down over there and I’ll get you something to eat. Okay?”

They paused and then scrambled onto the couch, huddling together again. He found them so utterly disarming that he had to make a rapid exit to the kitchen area to gather his thoughts while he slapped uj cake onto a plate and sliced it roughly into six pieces. If this was how it was going to be for—for years… You’re stuck, chum. You took the credits. And this is your whole world for the foreseeable future…and maybe forever. It never stopped raining. And he was holed up with a species he loathed on sight, and who thought it was okay to dispose of units who happened to be living, talking, walking children.

He raked his fingers through his hair and despaired, eyes closed, until he was suddenly aware of someone staring up at him.

“Sir?” the boy said. It was the courageous little marksman. He might have been identical to his brothers, but his mannerisms were distinctive. He had a habit of balling one fist at his side while the other hand was relaxed.

“May we use the ’freshers?” Skirata squatted down, face level with the kid’s.

“ ’Course you can.” It was quite pathetic: they were nothing like his own lively, boisterous sons had once been. “And I’m not sir. I’m not an officer. I’m a sergeant. You can call me Sergeant if you like, or you can call me Kal. Everyone else does.”

“Yes…Kal.”

“It’s over there. Can you manage on your own?”

“Yes, Kal.”

“I know you don’t have a name, but I really think you should have one.”

“I’m Null Eleven. En-one-one.”

“How’d you like to be called Ordo? He was a Mandalorian warrior.”

“Are we Mandalorian warriors?”

“You bet.” The kid was a natural fighter. “In every sense of the word.”

“I like that name.” Little Ordo considered the white-tiled floor for a moment, as if assessing it for risk. “What’s Mandalorian?” For some reason that hurt most of all. If these kids didn’t know their culture and what made someone a Mando, then they had no purpose, no pride, and nothing to hold them and their clan together when home wasn’t a piece of land. If you were a nomad, your nation traveled in your heart. And without the Mando heart, you had nothing—not even your soul—in whatever new conquest followed death. Skirata knew at that moment what he had to do. He had to stop these boys from being dar’manda, eternal Dead Men, men without a Mando soul.

“I can see I need to teach you a lot.” Yes, this was his duty. “I’m Mandalorian, too. We’re soldiers, nomads. You know what those words mean?”

“Yes.”

“Clever lad. Okay, you go and sort yourselves out in the ’freshers, and I want you all sitting back on the couch in ten minutes. Then we’ll sort out names for everyone. Got it?”

“Yes, Kal.”

So Kal Skirata—mercenary, assassin, and failed father—spent a stormy evening on Kamino sharing uj cake with six dangerously clever small boys who could already handle firearms and talk like adults, teaching them that they came from a warrior tradition, and that they had a language and a culture, and much to be proud of. And he explained that there was no Mandalorian word for “hero.” It was only not being one that had its own word: Hut’uun. There were an awful lot of hut’uune in the galaxy, and Skirata certainly counted the Kaminoans among them.

The kids—now trying to get used to being Ordo, A’den, Kom’rk, Prudii, Mereel, and Jaing—sat devouring both their newfound heritage and the sticky sweet cake, eyes fixed on Skirata as he recited lists of Mandalorian words and they repeated them back to him. He worked through the most common words, struggling. He had no idea how to teach a language to kids who could already speak fluent Basic. So he simply listed everything he could recall that seemed useful, and the little Null ARCs listened, grim-faced, flinching in unison at every blaze of lightning. After an hour Skirata felt that he was simply confusing some very frightened, very lonely children. They just stared at him. “Okay, time to recap,” he said, exhausted by a bad day and the realization that there was an unknowable number of days like this stretching ahead. He pinched the bridge of his nose in an effort to focus. “Can you count from one to ten for me?”

Prudii—N-5—parted his lips to take a quick breath and suddenly all six spoke at once. “Solus, t’ad, ehn, cuir, rayshe’a, resol, e’tad, sh’ehn, she’cu, ta’raysh.” Skirata’s gut flipped briefly and he sat stunned. These kids absorbed information like a sponge. I only counted out the numbers for them once. Just once! Their recall was perfect and absolute. He decided to be careful what he said to them in the future. “Now that’s clever,” he said. “You’re very special lads, aren’t you?”

“Orun Wa said we couldn’t be measured,” Mereel said, totally without pride, and perched on the edge of the couch, swinging his legs almost like a normal four-year-old. They might have all looked identical, but their individual characters seemed distinct and…obvious. Skirata wasn’t sure how he managed it, but he could now look at them and see that they were different, distinguished by small variations in facial expressions, gestures, frowns, and even tone of voice. Appearance wasn’t everything.

“You mean you scored too high for him to count?” Mereel nodded gravely. Thunder slapped the platform city: Skirata felt it without hearing it. Mereel drew up his legs again and huddled tight up against his brothers in an instant. No, Skirata didn’t need a hut’uunla Kaminoan to tell him that these were extraordinary children. They could already handle a blaster, learn everything he threw at them, and understand the Kaminoans’ intentions all too well: no wonder the aiwha-bait was scared of them. And they would be truly phenomenal soldiers—if only they could follow a few orders. He’d work on that.

“Want some more uj?” he said. They all nodded enthusiastically in unison. It was a relief. At least that gave him a few minutes’ respite from their unrelenting, silent attention. They ate, still miniature adults. There was no chattering or high spirits. And they flinched at every bolt of lightning. “Are you scared?” asked Skirata.

“Yes, Kal,” said Ordo. “Is that wrong?”

“No, son. Not at all.” It was as good a time to teach them as any. No lesson would ever be wasted on them. “Being afraid is okay. It’s your body’s way of getting you ready to defend yourself, and all you have to do is use it and not let it use you. Do you understand that?”

“No,” Ordo said.

“Okay, think about being scared. What’s it like?” Ordo defocused slightly as if he were looking at something on a HUD he didn’t have.

“Cold.”

“Cold?”

A’den and Kom’rk chimed in. “And spiky.”

“Okay…okay.” Skirata tried to imagine what they meant. Ah. They were describing the feeling of adrenaline flooding their bodies. “That’s fine. You just have to remember that it’s your alarm system, and you need to take notice of it.”

They were the same age as city kids on Coruscant who struggled to scrawl crude letters on flimsi. And here he was, teaching them battle psychology. His mouth felt oddly dry. “So you tell yourself, okay, I can handle this. My body’s now ready to run faster and fight harder, and I’ll be seeing and hearing only the most important things I need to know to stay alive.”

Ordo went from his wide-eyed dark stare to slight defocus again for a moment and nodded. Skirata glanced at the others. They had that same disturbing concentration. They had also stacked their plates neatly on the low side table. He hadn’t even noticed them doing it. “Try thinking about your fear next time there’s lightning,” Kal said. “Use it.”

He went back to the kitchen area and rummaged through the cupboards for some other snack to keep them going, because they seemed ravenous. As he stepped back into the main room with a white tray of sliced food-board that looked even less appetizing than the tray itself, someone buzzed at the door.

The Nulls immediately went into a defensive pattern. Ordo and Jaing flanked the door, backs hard against the wall, and the other four took cover behind the sparse furniture. Skirata wondered for a second what flash-learning program had taught them that—or at least he hoped it was flash-taught. He waved them away from the door. They hesitated for a moment until he took out his Verpine shatter gun; then they appeared satisfied that he had the situation under some sort of control.

“You scare me,” Skirata said softly. “Now stand back. If anyone’s after you, they’ve got to come through me first, and I’m not about to let that happen.” Even so, their reaction prompted him to stand to one side as he hit the panel to open the doors. Jango Fett was standing in the corridor outside, a small sleepy child in his arms. The boy’s curly head rested on his shoulder. He looked younger than the Nulls, but it was the same face, the same hair, the same little hand clutching the fabric of Jango’s tunic.

“Another one?” Skirata said. Jango glanced at the Verp.

“You’re getting edgy, aren’t you?”

“Kaminoans don’t improve my mood. Want me to take him?” He shoved the shatter gun in his belt and held out his arms to take the boy. Jango frowned slightly.

“This is my son, Boba,” he said. He pulled his head back to gaze fondly at the dozing child’s face. This wasn’t the Jango that Skirata knew of old; he was pure paternal indulgence now. “Just trying to settle him down. Are you sorted now? I’ve told Orun Wa to stay away from you.”

“We’re fine,” Skirata said. He wondered how he was going to ask the question, and decided blurting it out was probably as good a way as any. “Boba looks just like them.”

“He would. He’s been cloned from me, too.”

“Oh. Oh.”

“He was my price. Worth more to me than the credits.” Boba stirred, and Jango carefully adjusted his hold on the kid. “I’ll be back in a month. Orun Wa says he’ll have some commando candidates ready for us to take a look at as well as the rest of the Alpha batch. But he says he’s made them a bit more…reliable.” Skirata had more questions than seemed prudent under the circumstances. It was natural for a Mando’ad to want an heir above all else, and adoption was common, so cloning was…not that much different. But he had to ask one thing.

“Why do these kids look older?”

Jango compressed his lips into a thin line of disapproval. “They accelerate the aging process.”

“Oh, fierfek…”

“You’ll have a company of a hundred and four commandos eventually, and they should be less trouble than the Nulls.”

“Fine.” Did he get help? Were there Kaminoan minders to tackle the routine jobs, like feeding them? And how would the non-Mandalorian training sergeants deal with them? His stomach churned. He put on a brave face. “I can handle that.”

“Yeah, and I’ll be doing my bit, too. I have to train a hundred.” Jango glanced at the Nulls, now watching warily from the couch, and began walking away. “I just hope they aren’t like I was at that age.”

Skirata pushed the controls, and the door sighed shut. “Okay, lads, bedtime,” he said. He dragged the cushions off the couch and laid them out on the floor, covering them with an assortment of blankets. The boys gave him a hand, with a grim sense of adult purpose that he knew would haunt him for the rest of his days. “We’ll get you sorted out with decent quarters tomorrow, okay? Real beds.”

He had the feeling they would have slept outside on the rain-lashed landing pad if he’d asked them to. They didn’t seem at all unmanageable. He sat down in the chair and put his feet up on a stool. The Kaminoans had done their best to provide human-suitable furniture, something that struck him as a rare concession given their general xenophobic arrogance. He left the lights on, dimmed, to soothe the Nulls’ fears. They settled down, pulling the blankets over their heads completely. Skirata watched until they appeared to be asleep, laid his Verpine on the shelf beside the chair, and then closed his eyes to let the dreams overwhelm him. He woke with an explosive jerk of muscles a couple of times, a sure sign that he was past the point of tiredness and into exhaustion, and then he fell into an unending black well. He slept, or so he thought.

A warm weight pressed against him. His eyes jerked open and he remembered he was stranded on a perpetually overcast planet that didn’t even seem to be on the star charts, where the local species thought killing human kids was merely quality control. Ordo’s stricken little face looked up into his. “Kal…”

“You scared, son?”

“Yes.”

“Come on, then.” Skirata shifted position and Ordo scrambled up onto his lap, burying his face in his tunic as if he had never been held or comforted before. He hadn’t, of course. The storm was getting worse. “The lightning can’t hurt you here.”

“I know, Kal.” Ordo’s voice was muffled. He wouldn’t look up. “But it’s just like the bombs going off.”

Skirata was going to ask him what he meant, but he knew in an instant that it would make him angry enough to do something stupid if he heard the answer. He hugged Ordo to him and felt the boy’s heart pounding in terror. Ordo was doing pretty well for a four-year-old soldier. They could learn to be heroes tomorrow. Tonight they needed to be children, reassured that the storm was not a battlefield, and so was nothing to fear. The lightning illuminated the room in brief, fierce white light: Ordo flinched again. Skirata laid his hand on the boy’s head and ruffled his hair. “It’s okay, Ord’ika,” he said softly. “I’m here, son. I’m here.”

(From, Karen Traviss)

Chapter 1

Ten years pre Geonosis.

The rains over Tipoca City poured hard that day, as Jango stood on the deck yard, waiting for the crew of the new ship to disembark. If it weren't for his armor, he likely would have been shivering in the cold. This planet was terrible, all rain and sterile hallways. No, Jango couldn’t say he was fond of the place he’d be spending his next ten years. But what they offered him was worth every storm and drop of blood. After a few more minutes, he was pulled from his thoughts as a figure stepped off of the old mando ship. A woman wearing armor he’d come to know all too well. Jango pulled off his helmet, “Zarina, it’s good to see you, ner’vod.”

A few short weeks had passed as more of the Cuy'val Dar arrived. Soon Jango found himself standing on the landing dock, waiting for that final ship to arrive. He was unsure about making the final call, but her skills were needed. And he couldn't think of anyone he trusted more to train the final Commando Battalion.

The woman pulled off her hood and shook out her hair, she'd cut it rather short since he last saw her, "Jango. Long time."

He nodded,"I've been busy."

"I see that," she nodded and he noticed something moving under her cloak.

He raised an eyebrow, "Sneak in a baby Nexu again?"

"Something like that," she chuckled and pulled away the cloak to reveal a small sleepy little girl snuggling against her chest.

Jango blinked, looking surprised, "Oh...when...who?"

"Adopted Jango," she laughed, causing the girl to stir, she adjusted and settled her.

He looked at her tiny face and realization dawned, "She looks like..."

Zarina nodded, "Yeah...."

"Is she?" He asked sadly

"Yeah.." her voice was softer, barely above the rain, "Three years ago..." She looked at the little girl like she was the entire world, "She's all I've got now."

"I'm sorry," there wasn't anything he could do now, he had half a mind to send her off now, save her from the job he was asking of her. Because once she stepped inside and knew everything, she couldn't leave.

"It's fine, things have been getting heated back home so I was looking for a long term job anyway." She sighed and shifted the young girl and placed her on her hip, “It’s been over a decade now, yeah? Thought you were dead after your headhunting of the Bando Gora?”

“Not exactly.” He smiled, leading them out of the rain, “Who’s this?”

“Kaviir.” She shifted the young girl's weight again on her hip.

The girl looked sleepy, as she cuddled against her mother. Her eyes were dropping as she looked like she was fighting between crashing and staying awake, he guessed from the exhaustion of the trip.

He nodded, then looked to her with a serious expression. His lips pursed into a tight line, “Well, we need to settle this before we go any further.”

Zarina narrowed her eyes at him, “Jango… what’s going on?”

“I did take that job for the Bando Gora, and I completed it. Five million credits, but… I lost Roz.”

“Oh, Jango… I’m sorry.” She said gently, she placed a reassuring hand on his arm. He relaxed a little at that, the two had trained together at a young age. And while there hadn’t been anything romantic between them, she had a way of making him feel much better. This was what made him reach out to her, but seeing her daughter, he was questioning if he should have.

“It happens, it’s part of the job… afterwards, I was approached by the man who hired me.”

“Tyrannus?” Zarina raised an eyebrow.

“You know him?” Fett sounded surprised.

“I got offered the job too, for the hunt of Komari Vosa.”

“You turned it down?”

“Had bigger priorities.” She began to lightly bounce the girl up and down.

“Right.” Jango nodded, “Well, here’s the hard part… I can’t tell you what’s next, until you agree to become cuy’val Dar.”

The girl felt Zarina tense as a scowl crossed her face, “You got some nerve, Fett…”

"What's that?" Kaviir asked softly.

“One who no longer exists.” Zarina spoke softly and brushed the girl's hair out of her face, “It means we wouldn’t be going home.”

"Oh..." She said quietly, "Ever?"

“Maybe someday… but it won’t be the one we recognize.”

“Twenty five million.” Jango spoke up.

“What?” Zarina looked at Jango, her eyes widened in surprise, “Twenty five million?”

“The price is high, and it comes from me… not some unknown source. On top of room, board and anything else you need.”

Zarina looked between Jango and Kaviir. With that kind of money, she’d never have to worry about taking care of her daughter again. She could give Kaviir any life she wanted. Kaviir looked up at her, "Will you be okay so far from home?" She asked, her voice soft, concerned.

“Wherever we go, kav’ika… when I’m with you I’m at home.” She nuzzled her cheek, “What do you say? Want to take that first step on our next adventure?”

She nodded, "Yeah, I think we can handle it."

Zarina nodded, “Alright, Fett… let’s hear it.”

“Okay," he nodded, "I'll brief you. Well…” he hesitated, “how much do you know about cloning?”

----------------------------------------------------------

Another hour had passed, Zarina and Kaviir had heard the entirety of what all Jango had been up to. From the jobs, to the clones, to why the Cuy’val Dar were needed. Zarina sighed and raked her fingers through her hair, “Fierfek, Jango. What’s this really about?”

“A chance at immortality.” Fett shrugged, his tone sarcastic, “An army of warriors crafted in my image? What’s not to love?”

Kaviir looked rather confused by it all, and had more or less passed out in Zarina’s arms about halfway through. She was clinging to her mother as she slept soundly. Jango smiled and pet the girl's hair, “So, you two decided it was time, eh?”

“Yeah… figured it was time to live for something other than the money.” She smiled and softly kissed Kaviir’s forehead, “Can’t afford to live in the fast lane like some of us.” She chuckled, nudging his arm.

“Well, it’s funny you say that.” He smiled as the doors opened and a young boy, spitting image of Jango, yawned and walked up to him. “Dad… I'm tired…”

“Bloody o’sik.” Zarina laughed, “You too, eh?”

“Yeah… this is Boba…” he smiled proudly and ruffled the boy's hair.

The noise stirred Kaviir, she let out a soft whine and sat up rubbing her eye, "Mom..."

Zarina smiled and stroked the girl's hair, “Shhhhhh, hun. Just meeting some of the other kids.”

"Kids?" She asked, still fuzzy from sleep as she looked around.

Boba was now staring at her, holding his dad's hand, he looked no older than two or three. Zarina softly chuckled and kissed Kaviir on the cheek, “This is Boba. Jango’s son.”

She looked down at him and gave him a small wave. The boy waved back to her and returned a similar smile. “Hi, I’m Boba.”

"Kaviir..." She yawned in quite an adorable fashion.

“Alright.” Zarina chuckled, “I know that yawn means it’s time for bed.” She stood up and pulled the girl close, “We can go over the details later, but yes, we’re in.”

Jango nodded and held Boba in his arms, “Agreed. You two have had a long trip.” They walked into the hallway, and split to head to their separate rooms. Jango paused and smiled towards Zarina, “Ner’vod… Thank you for coming. I mean it. It’s good to see you again.”

“You too, Fett.” Zarina smiled. They lingered like that for a moment, they could both feel the question hanging in the air. Were they making the right choice? Neither would know until it was all over. Zarina turned and made her way into her and Kaviir’s room.

------------------------------------------------------

It was white, like a hospital room. Everything in this blasted place was. Zarina frowned as she stepped into the apartment they had been given. The furniture was clearly not configured for humans, but they would make do. She walked into the main bedroom. It wasn’t much, just the basics. Clearly the room was set up for two. It would do. She went to the bed further from the windows and set Kaviir down for the first time since they landed. Kaviir held onto her hand as she rubbed her eye, "is this our room?"

“Mhmm.” She poked her nose, “Get cleaned up and get to bed. You did well today, so I think you can get some extra sleep tomorrow, okay?”

"Kay..." She yawned, "Mom..."

“Yes, my little Nexu?” She nodded as she began to pop her armor off and shook her hair out.

"This place smells funny..." Kaviir mumbled sleepily.

“It’s a new place, hun. There’s a lot of funny things we’re going to have to acclimate ourselves to.” She helped Kaviir to the freshers to wash her face and began brushing out her hair, “But… Jango has about one hundred mandalorians working with us, so we’ll have a bit of home as well.”

"All the furniture is funny too." She grumbled looking up at her in the mirror.

“Think so?” Zarina asked, “Maybe we can get some furniture to make this place feel more like home. Maybe see about getting you your own room too..” She stripped down into a sleeveless top and some shorts. She wasn’t quite comfortable in this place, but she trusted Jango enough to let herself get some sleep, “Definitely going to need to get some actual food. You’re a growing girl, you need to eat healthy.”

Kaviir nodded and tugged on her pajamas before she crawled into bed, "How long are we going to be here?"

Zarina paused for a moment, having doubts about all of this. “I… I don’t know, sweetheart.” She sighed, “Ten years… maybe longer, but once we’re done, we’ll have enough money to go wherever we want.”

"That's a long time to not exist." She yawned in that adorable child way that just made Zarina smile.

“It will pass, soon enough. And besides, Jango said we can leave every now and then, so we can still celebrate your birthdays… and life day.” She added, doing her best to focus on the positives.

"Yay!" Kaviir yawned and curled up in bed. Zarina smiled as she leaned over and kissed her daughter good night. She stretched her arms up and went over to her bed to fall asleep.

At some point during the night a clap of thunder woke Kaviir. She wasn't crying, but she sleepily crawled into bed with Zarina. As she settled, Zarina’s maternal instincts kicked in as she set herself between Kaviir and the window, she tucked the girl in and wrapped her own body into a crescent shape around her daughter, giving her most of the blanket as she let herself drift back off. Feeling far more content in her mother’s arms, Kaviir fell into a comfortable sleep for the rest of the night.

This chapter didn’t have too many changes, but due to circumstances I felt it was best to make the adjustments. Thank you if you’ve stayed this far, or if you’re just now finding this.

And big thanks to @helpmeimawkwardbutfun for looking this chapter over and helping with my awful punctuation XD

Go check out her fnaf Alien game!!!

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