#but the talbots are still cursed | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

hellowoolf · 1 year ago

Text

electra heart

pairing: din jarin x prostitute fem!reader

summary: with the softness of your body you have bought your piece of luxury, clawed your way to opulence, and wait now on the lustful whims of the rich and powerful. what havoc is wreaked when the only client you've ever loved, your mandalorian, finds you in the golden smoke of a gala on canto bight?

warnings: mention of alcohol, prostitution, reader is literally a prostitute, reader goes by alias "edie", din calls her “edee”, angst, quick mention of killing (bounty hunting), porn with plot, SMUT, soft!dom din, unprotected piv, beskar humping (sue me), tiiiny bit of degradation if you squint your eyes and pat your head and rub your tummy, little bit of begging, fucking in a literal suit of armor, creampie (if i left out any, let me know <3)

word count: 4.7k

authors note: first din fic alert !!! hand on heart i meant to keep this light hearted. and that’s what counts…right ??!!!!

woolfie’s masterlist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

you had been small, once. a young thing born into the streets of tatooine, conjured by them, slipping dirty like a curse through the city with a beggar's cup. in the day, the sand heated to glass and fire, and you trailed in the shadowed coattails of men the passers by could think your father, but with nightfall came the slow, syrupy suck of warmth from land, and even pressed up against building corners and doorways you shivered in the starlight. and what a cruel thing it was to know—to be, even then, so certain of your own poorness. you stuck little fingers through the holes of your clothes to cork the heat of your skin, and reconciled, in the meanwhile, with your birth as a nomad with no place to journey.

oh, but you loved the ships. with festivals held on the plains came warships and single-seat fighters, great discs of silver settling the baking sand, and you circled the throngs of people to let the gleam of sunlit metal blind you, if only for a moment. with scrap metal and a child’s palms you laid your plans there in the tatooine sand, to seek out whatever precious lavishness was left out there for you. beads of sweat jeweling down your wrists you thought yes, you were fit for that sort of life.

it became clear to you, when you came of age, that your body was your only currency for purchasing such plans. kicking stones while you wound through the cityscape, you supposed the home you could make in a brothel, and the money, too, made for an even exchange, and besides, you’d absorbed worse than man. you tap a manicured nail down your glass and hum with the bellish chime. where had all those girls gone? where were they now? you wonder if they’ve caught wind of you from here, if your perfume has traveled that far. you hope so.

“my edie, how are you honey?”

kel talbot is even blonder than you remember him. with his chest to your back in the sprawling porcelain of his bathtub he’d admitted, along the skin of your shoulder, that it wasn’t real, the color. he dyed it when he went home to naboo, he said. still damp and soapy he’d tipped you an extra 5,000 credits, for your discretion and your loveliness.

“i’m well, kelly. it’s always so wonderful to see you,” you lilt back to him. and because you can’t help yourself, so prone to indulgence now, you add, “have you been off home? i haven’t seen much of you here.”

he’s lovely, really, and delighted that you would ask. “as a matter of fact, i have. my mother’s been remarried a sixth time, if you can believe it. a great big ceremony and all, and i really couldn’t miss it.”

you smooth your free hand down the lapel of his jacket, black silk gleaming between the pillars of your fingers as you drag them. you wouldn’t mind him, for the night. “i really miss you so much when you’re gone.”

he steps closer, flattered little smile, and you look up at him through your lashes. “don’t stroke my ego, edie, it’s unbecoming,” he whispers, so thoroughly pleased with your attention on him, and you tug on the bunch of his coat in your palm.

“do you want me to stroke something else for you, kelly?”

he lets out a shuddered breath across your face. heir to an agricultural fortune on naboo, he is all tradition, brought up on pomp and circumstance and a set of shoulders shaped for the head of a long dining table. your innuendos fall heavy on him, always. he doubles over with them, sinks into you to realign himself upright. edie, edie, someone called you edee once, it means jaws, teeth, he’d told you. when it came time to shed your first name, your real name, it’d come naturally. edie, edie. kel is ripe for biting now.

“i–i have somewhere to be, honey, i can’t.” you pout at him a little. he tips generously. “don’t look at me like that.”

you set him back by your hold on his suit and he brushes himself with his palms, dusting the fabric from whatever coital indecency you’ve smeared on him.

“i’ll let you know when i’m in town again, okay?” and he offers it like a favor, and you suppose he hopes it to be one, so you nod with a gentle sigh.

“go enjoy your night, kelly. i’ll be here if you change your mind,” you promise, and with a tender smile his platinum hair filters back through the ballroom.

if you’re honest, you don’t really know the purpose of this event to begin with. canto bight shines bloated with galas and gamblers, and you dance, ephemeral, through the lot of them in search of clientele. scanning the dancing gold and satin of this crowd, collected on the bottom floor of the hotel you work from, you find mostly elderly men, married and elderly. you certainly aren’t above servicing either, though you went out tonight for the delights of it more than anything else. draping yourself in the inordinately expensive wrappings gifted by your previous clients, arms and collarbones dripping over with fine jewelry and precious gems, you enjoy the ritual of it, now. you enjoy the rest of it, too, with the right sort of client. you drag a red gemstone, set in gold, to and fro along its chain, your first little opulence left with the credits on the windowsill. edee, edee. a passing, devastating thought: like the girls from that first whore house you hope he smells you, hope through the filter of his helmet he’s struck with the scent like a sharp ache that sweetens in the middle. and—

you should’ve missed it, really. an inconsequential glimmer in the face of all the light you’ve gulped down these past years, but still you seem to find it, the little silver spotlight convexing through the curve of your glass. it points right on you, the beam, and you tilt the glass back and forth to watch the light twitch along your sternum. your body tenses with the stretch of a memory, of you in the sand on your back with the sterling starships jumping into hyperspace above you. but surely there’s no ship here, you reason, and when you look up, he’s right there. they all wear the same getup, creed driven and plated, but you are certain it’s him. with a cock of his hip and a shoulder leaned up against the wall you are certain, so certain, and he is right fucking there. it’s all coming back to you now, his beskar in the rotting wood of your doorway, little words in mando’a, your name, the first one, in his mouth. your mandalorian.

gliding through the dancing bodies of the ballroom—they part for you, now—you shiver with the breeze of your dress, a great sweeping curtain of red silk. you don’t remember, really, when he stopped coming to see you, only that you were wholly and inappropriately devastated. you missed the stick of him between your thighs, the way he loved you. you were so sure he did, back then, and you find that still, as this diamond sea of people carves a path for you to him, you are still sure. you can feel your own wetness collecting at your seam; you cannot unlearn this want for him.

he doesn’t notice you until you’re inches from his side, and still he won’t turn his head. from his peripheral you are unrecognizable, you suspect.

“which one?”

and you don’t think you’ve ever seen him move the way he does as your voice echoes behind his visor. it’s a startled jump, a straightening, a tip of his helmet to the side. you think he’s frightened, at first, a heavy terror that collects through the tendons of his hands, but the fear leaves easy, sugars into wonderment. he says your name, arced in question and through the rasp of his modulator.

you shake your head, look out at the ballroom. “i don’t use that name anymore.”

“i–you…” he shakes his head, knocks something loose, “...what are you doing here?”

you snort. “i could ask you the same thing.”

“i have someone i’m looking for.” and it should be ominous—i have someone to kill here—but his voice is still soft, airy with the sight of you. you turn back to him and nod to the crowd.

“yes, i ask again, which one?”

“you know i can’t tell you that.” and he says it like a memory, like the sweet juice of nostalgia on his lips, he says it like i remember you.

you shrug. “i hoped maybe the rules had changed.”

“mm,” he hums, “century old creeds don’t seem to, i’m afraid.”

you giggle with the youth he brings you back to. it’s so easy, falling back here with him. the tilt of his helmet leans to his other shoulder, dark visor tipping down your dress, and your skin fizzles.

“what’s brought you here, then?”

you mirror the angle of his neck. you know, you know. he grunts around something thick in his throat, your name, the first one, you think. he remembers what you said.

“what do i call you? now?”

the delight that twists through you is a sacred one. “edie.”

this does him in. his head tips back against the wall behind him, steadying breath filtering out. “edee?”

“not quite. e-d-i-e.” he lifts, with what seems a great effort, his head back up to look at you. you continue, softer, “but almost.”

and because you know your mandalorian, you see in the shift of his boots on the ground that he’s as ecstatic as his metal plating will allow. his hands twitch, and you want them to touch you, need him to touch you.

“come dance with me, mando.”

he does his best to hesitate, really, but then you’re out among the swaying people, one gloved hand at your back and the other clasped between your fingers, closer now than you’ve been since he last came inside you some years ago in whorish darkness. you squeeze him thinking of it, the stick and the smell, and he presses you further against the gleam of his chest, yes, i remember, i remember. it’s only here, molded around him, that you feel how much bigger he is, the broad width of his shoulders cemented out past the lines of him you used to tend to.

“you look…sort of different.”

“is that so?”

maker, you love the sound of him like this, so close in, so insistent on whispering, so incapable of doing so. “mhm.”

“doesn’t hold a candle to the changes you’ve made, cyar’ika.”

“mm,” you hum, “you know, it’s funny, i feel much of the same.”

he bunches his hand a moment in the silk of your dress. “the glamor hasn’t pulled you under?”

your laugh reverberates against his chestplate. “oh no, i’m sure it has. i just mean i’ve always liked shiny things.”

he groans, quiet and tight. “and why’s that? you like your reflection in them?”

he unlatches you from his chest to spin you around before fastening you back to him, and your scoff whips an arched path around you. “please, the vain one between us has always been you, mando.”

he lowers his head, great secret on his lips. “i haven’t shown my face in decades, edee.”

you can hear his tongue on the word, and you know he hasn’t said your new name, similar as it may sound. the lapping scoop of mando’a washes you over again with the memories of him. and laughing, again you are laughing. you love this bit. “yes, i do remember that part. though i find it awfully excessive that you prance about the galaxy in this welded jewel of a thing.” you knock against the beskar with a knuckle.

“welded jewel. you’ve gotten metaphorical while i’ve been gone.”

“this crowd enjoys it.”

he glances over and around your shoulder. “and you enjoy them?...this crowd?”

you suck on your front teeth to think on it. “you know, most of them don’t ask for it. not all of it, anyway. it’s mainly a lot of talking, now.” and it’s true. even above the lust, this powerful lot is lonely, irrevocably lonely. he nods, and as your heart hammers and wails you tilt your head up to his helmet to whisper against his visor, “you never wanted to talk, did you mando?”

the band of his arm around your back constricts again, a gruff admission, “no, i didn’t.”

he never did take anyone else in that little brothel, it was only ever you. the other girls liked to watch him pass by through the hallway, luster of his armor glinting in the low light, but he walked a tight line to your door, knocked twice, soft as anything. even in that wooden box, a bed and a window and an empty dresser, you remember the metal of him grating at the joins as he tried to make you feel something. you remember, too, that so green, so newly wrung out as you were, your limbs went limp before his credits ran dry, but he defected to your will, watched your body and worshiped at its altar. when your spine loosened and your hips unwound, still with time paid for, he stepped back into the sanded stench of tatooine, hand-cupped pile of credits on the windowsill. yes, the windowsill and the i’ll come back for you and the creak of the floorboards, you remember it so well.

“how much do you charge these days?”

you’re tightening your thighs together as you sway with him. “don’t patronize me.”

“i’m not.”

a ribbon of air releases from your nose, be steady. “20,000 credits.”

and he doesn’t flinch, only lets the hand around your back slip along the gloss of your dress, drawing a line above your ass with his thumb, the line he won’t cross without purchase. “i’d pay it.”

you can’t help this now. “will you?”

whatever mark he’s come to kill tonight is slipping through his fingers, but you fill that space just fine. his helmet tilts, and you feel a leather paw come up to retrieve that little red necklace from the hollow of your collarbone. the pad of his glove passes over the gem once, twice, body tightening and buzzing in metal. “this is mine,” he chokes.

yes, it is. you nod. and he’s decided, it seems. with a modulated groan and let’s go in your ear, he’s shepherding you from the ballroom, hand tight at your waist as you find your way to the elevator. and what with the ceremony of your mandalorian, the tediousness of his armor coming off, you fill the elevator shaft with the smell of your drooling pussy and the air thickens with the buzzing glow of you both together again, but you do not move. the tickle of his eyes through tempered glass rubs behind your ears, still a killer, always a killer, you think, just as you are forever what you have always been. the two of you, frozen in blood and sex, the only warmth you’ve ever known. this reality pulls behind your tongue and you gag on it.

ding. the doors slide open.

you press a thumb to the screen on your doorknob and your mandalorian crowds up behind you, lets you feel the cool touch of his body, the heat that peeks out at the corners. with thick fingers squeezing at your waist and the hard curve of his helmet at your hairline, your knees buckle with the thought that you might have loved him, too, perhaps fatally, but as the lock clicks open and he pulls you inside you suppose it doesn’t matter much now.

you’ve worked this room for nearly a year. a window expands from one wall to the other, beams the morning light and warms the bed sheets, and in the drab of afternoon, twinkle of the city just barely cresting over the sunshine, you watch the people below. drunkards and lovers and princes, you scratch their heads with the cliff of your nail, nose against the glass and breath fogging there, drawing up their mythology and smudging it with the skin of your palm. now, though, with the constructed starlight of clubs and casinos shouldering its way through the night’s darkness, the room bathes in polluted light and the faint sound of wealthy indulgence. there is no windowsill for your mandalorian to balance his payment.

“come here, edee.”

he’s sat himself on the edge of the bed, hand running up and down the metal expanse of his thigh. you stalk your way to him, ruck the hem of your dress up passed your knees to straddle his leg, and slowly, so slowly, through honey and slick and years of parted wanting, he brings his hands to your sides. you splay your fingers on his helmet.

“been a long time, mandalorian.”

he hums in agreement, tips of his thumbs just grazing the underside of your breasts over the silk of your dress before running down again, relearning the ends of you. “my cyar’ika,” he whispers.

your cunt clenches, sobs with his sounds and the pressure of his thigh. breath shuddered and indignant you drag your pussy along the plate of armor. throat tight with a whine you ask him, “how do you like it now, cyare?”

his body takes to the slice of mando’a in your mouth like water to sand, something dark and heavy, and his hips tilt up to you as you undulate your cunt along him again. the coil of you both is raveling taut and knotting at the edges, perhaps permanently now, twisting back into the shapes you used to make together. and it was always this way between you, this dancing walk to madness; with the head of his cock he fucked a shard of beskar into you, you think, that first time, and in every meeting since he’s rut his hips to claw the thing back out, but your body has absorbed the alloy of it.

“i want you to fuck me like you missed me.” a shuddered breath, a secret thought, and then: “did you miss me?”

and that question doesn’t come from the metal. no, with your palms warming his helmet you know he’s asking from the fleshy lines between the silver pieces. this is a bloody question. the drag of your cunt against his leg continues still, toes curling beneath you with the cold sting through the fabric of your panties, and perched here atop him you suppose your honesty costs you little in the face of all the rest you’ll give up.

“yes, i did.”

his hands collect your dress like water, silk spilling out between the fingers of his gloves, as he bares you to him, and his visor tips with the sight of you, a feat of topology he memorized so long ago. with a brush of red fabric against your ears you cling to him in only the little scrap of lace that licks along his leg with the wet kiss of your cunt.

“this pussy get wet for me like it used to?”

fuck.

“yes, yeah,” you breathe out, little bites of ecstasy weaving their way from your clit to the nape of your neck.

“oh, my edee, look at you,” and he grips a hand in your hair, pushing your eyeline down to watch the gleaming strip of want brushed and rewritten over on his armor. “you like drenching me like that? fuck cyar’ika i’ll leave this hotel like this and everyone will know i’ve fucked a fucking whore.” fuckfuckfuck. you remember the vein along the underside of his cock, want him to hurt you with it now.

“so fuck your whore, mando, you’ve paid for her,” you plead, but he drops his helmet to your forehead, the both of you still awe struck at the starlit gash of slick you’re dripping on him as your hips gyrate.

“you’re no more patient than you used to be,” he chuckles, but the wobbled rasp of his voice strips him all but naked to you. his hands grind you harder on his body and you wail, neck open as your head falls back. the pleasure sinks its teeth in you now, all hot bloodlust and bubbling open like seafoam.

“fuck, mando, i–i’m gonna come.”

“yeah, that’s it, right here, make that pussy gush for me and then i’ll fuck her open.”

ecstasy knocks through your arteries as your body pulls tight against him, and with desperate hands he grabs at you, around your asscheeks and between your shoulder blades, to feel you jerk with it. he’s groaning something deep and unforgivable watching you move, but already you’re looking for the weight of his cock.

“fuck me, fuck me,” you heave into his shoulder as you slump over, and he’s nodding silently with you, yes, i remember, i remember. the preamble of fingers and tongues is being leapt over, but neither of you seem to mind. he pulls the leather of his gloves off to maneuver you onto all fours on the bed, and after working his pants open with the bared warmth of his fingers the pads are back on you, running down your back and up your thighs. the heft of him pokes at you and you’re clenching with the feeling, the memory, again the memory. from between your open legs you drop your head to watch him pump his length, fingers tan and thick and a little tattoo between them.

his head catches at your opening and a whine spills from between your teeth.

“louder, cyare,” he grounds out. another inch in and you keen.

“fuck.”

his palms find purchase on your side and he anchors himself there, partway within you. you both whistle out whispered breaths listening to the sound of you joined together, him pulling out a centimeter before sinking it back in, fucking you with the head of his cock.

“oh, it’s just the fucking tip and i’m stretching you already, cyar’ika,” he moans.

“more,” you mewl, “i want more.” and really that’s always been your problem, you suppose.

his hips are speeding up now, wretched little humps into the tight clutch of your cunt, but he abstains from the whole of it. “fucking beg me for it, edee, i’ve waited this fucking long.”

into the sheets, bunched by your fingers and your jostling knees on the bed, you moan, “please, please, please, fuck me on your cock, cyare, i need it, please.”

the piece of himself, the metal and his creed’s tongue, that he rutted into you all those years ago comes roaring at him now, is cracked open in the air of your voice, and he stutters with it. he fucks you like retribution, hips slapping against your ass with a wet crackle, and you’re screaming, suddenly.

“that’s it, edee, that’s it.”

the walls of your cunt pulse velvet around him as he punches in and out of you, cock reaching up like he’s trying to touch your tongue with it, run through the length of you with his steel and grunting. your body blooms for him, petals open like it always did. when was the last time fucking him felt like your job? it’s all coming back to you now, crying at the foot of your bed, missing him dearly. you have always been a professional despite the intimacy of what you do, but you feel wholly unprofessional here.

“fuck, you’re so fucking tight, it’s like you’re sucking me back in,” and you can’t help your clenching now, “yes, edee, again for me, again.”

and you do, pulsing and clamping on his shaft, and he nearly wails with the feeling. the hum of his voice through the helmet protects him some, but maker you know him well, years worth of your mandalorian, and so you hear it all clearly, him melting behind the metal and fusing at the edges. you push away the thought that he’ll pay you for this.

“maker your pussy feels so fucking good, i’ve never stopped—ah—never stopped fucking thinking about it.”

the jut of his chestplate bites your skin as he pulls your hips up but you barely feel it. “no?”

“never, never,” he repeats, and his own babbling eggs him on, you think, as he thrusts impossibly faster. he fucks you like he needs it, has always needed it, and you’re reminded again that you loved him before, that you love him again, now, perhaps, but it’s all so hard to see clearly with the tight chain of pleasure running up your spine.

slick seeping from your hole around him you moan, “feel so f–fucking full of it, fuck.”

a frantic hand comes around to your front, pulls the red gem from your chest to lay along your back, and watching the glint of red and gold that he left you bounce on your skin makes him growl and choke. “fuck, fuck, i’m so close, cyar’ika.”

he bends to meet your back and drops the weight of his helmet on the wing of your shoulder and you might not survive the angle of his cock in you now. you’d clasp your hands in penitence if they didn’t hold the both of you up, because this luxury, him greeting your body like it’s his final gutted conquest, is the last you’ll ever beg for.

with both of you sputtering your souls out on the duvet he groans, “i miss your old name, edee, give it to me again.”

the begging makes you pulse, but you shake your head. your name is your first and only born inheritance, and when you grew old enough to realize it you’d had to shed the thing, or rather hide it, stashed away, untouched.

“please cyar’ika, just one more like this, just like this, your real name.”

your moans screech with the tragedy of him pleading with you this way, and bellow because you want to let him. yes, you love him now, and you wheeze, “i don’t know your real name, mandalorian.”

this knocks the wind from him and it blows out along the back of your neck but the piston of his cock in you continues, heightens further, and you’re both on the precipice of something devastating. he groans out breathless “din, din, it’s din,” and then, “maker please let me use it.”

as deep and jagged as the naming cuts you, you have never felt this hallowed a thing. him inside, and knowing what to call him, is unlike any bliss you’ve ever known. “din,” you wail.

he nods at your back. “yes, yes, din. let me use it.”

at last you’re nodding, crown of your head bobbing back on his body, and a torrential downpour of your name spits from his mouth, slides down his helmet and onto your spine. and the coming is unlike all the rest, a slow climb, a painful clawing that rips your flesh from the bone, but suddenly you’re both heaving with it, his warmth pumping through you and your gushing slick sliding out. for a moment you panic, worry for the windowsill, for the way it always ends. but your din. the panic catches on din and smokes away.

your limbs give out and you meet the mattress with your eyes closed, aching and a little empty, but mostly as satisfied as a desperate creature like yourself is capable. you’re reminded of the clank of his armor as he rights himself behind you. it’s so easy to forget it, what with how human he feels.

“din.”

the rattle of beskar stills. he returns your name, the real one again.

i love you, i loved you then, and you loved me. no. no, you think, it’s far too true to say. so instead: “will you come find me again?”

the bed dips as he sits on it and a gentle glove strokes through your hair. “always, cyar’ika. i’ll come back for you.”

and because you believe him, din, you do not lift your head to watch him place the credits and dissolve away. you’ll save the shine of him, you vow, for the next time he arrives for you. your mandalorian.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

#din djarin #din djarin fic #din djarin smut #din djarin fanfiction #the mandolorian #din djarin x reader #din djarin x fem!reader #hello woolf

115 notes · View notes

kidcataldo · 5 months ago

Text

Concept: Downton Abbey in a new generation (the 1960s)

Lady Mary “Granny” Crawley, age 72:

Mary still runs Downton, despite her son’s insistence that she retire. She’s far more active at 72 than she was at 20.

The last surviving member of the original Crawley Family (the only one who still truly matters anyway, as far as she’s concerned—she has a sister up in London who visits from time to time).

She doesn’t get a new lady’s maid after Anna retires and begins dressing herself and doing her own hair. She changes with the times, slowly but surely.

She feels nostalgia for the old days when servants tended to her every need, but doesn’t necessarily miss it. She mourns the people, really: Carson, Anna, and so many others no longer with her. She remembers them fondly.

Lord and Lady Grantham, ages 42:

The first lord and lady of Downton to have full time jobs: George—with the encouragement of his other grandmother—becomes a doctor; his wife, Harriet, is a local lawyer.

They never use their official noble titles, except for special occasions (and when Lady Mary forces them to).

Mary complains about them never being at the house to tend to it. They don’t even live in it half the time!

George just wants to sell the house and be done with it (it’s more upkeep than it’s worth, he thinks), despite his mother’s insistence that it should remain in the family.

Harriet suggests they make it into a historical museum or something to keep its relevancy.

Sara Crawley, age 17:

Born 1946

Often the voice of reason, especially when near her eccentric little brother.

She’s fond of her granny but not so much of her conservative ideals. She sometimes feels her great aunt Edith is better company.

Her dream is to leave Downton and go as far away as possible to rid herself from the Crawley/Grantham baggage.

Robin Crawley, age 12:

Born 1951

The heart of Downton: makes an effort to be kind and befriend everyone he meets.

He loves Downton and everything surrounding it. Like his Granny, he wants to see it thrive in the years ahead.

A rock n roll fanatic, he tries to get everybody into it (granny mary shutters at the very sound of those Beatles and that Elvis fellow).

Caroline Talbot Bates, age 37:

She ran off and married young, but that’s what happens when there’s a war going on.

Her marriage to Johnny was a little bit of a scandal, as his family were servants and hers were very much not. But her mother wholeheartedly approved of their union; she only wished she could have been at the wedding.

Their son, Michael, was born shortly after.

She serves as her mother’s companion when not running charity functions.

Michael Bates, age 18:

Born early 1945

Son of Johnny Bates, Jr. and Caroline Talbot.

His father died in the war shortly after he was born. (His granny starts to wonder if the Crawley women are cursed because of this.)

He wants to go off and explore the world before going to University; his mother is keen on keeping him near.

Staff:

Mrs. Willoughby, the estate manager:

She runs the estate while lord and lady grantham are away at their jobs.

She works closely with Lady Mary to assure everything is running smoothly.

Rhodes, the butler:

While the title may be old fashioned and not necessarily accurate, Lady Mary still insists someone be in charge of the upkeep inside the house. He makes sure everything’s tidy for upcoming events and gatherings at the house and keeps the small staff under him in check.

He’s no Carson, Mary thinks, but Robin’s fond of him.

#downton abbey #stock images #the granthams #lord grantham #lady grantham #lady mary crawley #george crawley #edith crawley #concepts #ideas #fanfiction

14 notes · View notes

dross-the-fish · 29 days ago

Note

This is an intrusive thoughts, but I'll ask it anyways.

If they knew us for a long enough time, how would the each of the Motley Crew react to being proposed to?

Watson-has been widowed twice, iirc, he's now committed to enjoying bachelorhood with Sherlock. He'll politely decline. Selma Morris-is not looking to marry, She's not had a great track record with husbands and doesn't want to be tied to someone like that. She may warm up to it in time but she'd weigh the practical benefits vs the potential risks first. Henry Jekyll - left the room 5 minutes ago as soon as he saw you reaching for the ring. Edward Hyde- Smacking the ring out of your hand and telling you to "fuck off" this man is pretty firmly aromantic and has zero interest in marriage or monogamy or life long commitments of that nature. Adam Frankenstein-will say yes without even thinking of the logistics. He has wanted a companion, any companion, and won't say no to the first person who seems genuinely interested. Erik Phantom-isn't over Christine. Thinks he can never love another person again now that he has been loved for himself. He doesn't even want her romantically anymore as he did happily let her go with Raoul but he's still built her up in his head so much that no one is ever going to measure up. Larry Talbot- if he likes you he'll say yes but wants to wait until he's cured of being a werewolf Quincey Harker- Thrilled, gushing. He is the most romantic person in the crew and he's already dreaming of having a marriage like his parents.

Theo Kipp-in another life, in another time, she'd have loved to be married but the nature of her curse makes that impossible as she would be a constant threat to anyone she tried to love. It was a thing she wanted so much when she was still alive that to receive a proposal now when she cannot have it would probably upset her.

12 notes · View notes

lady-of-the-spirit · 2 years ago

Text

Universal Monsters + Fuckability

Qualifications (choosing movies)

I have seen the movie.

Characters listed as part of the Universal Monsters lineup (Phantom of the Opera from 1925 for example is not included.)

Personality and events of film considered just as much as physical attractiveness.

[ID: Picture of Bela Lugosi as Dracula, dressed in black clothes and a cape, staring at the camera with an annoyed expression. His face is slightly in the shadows. End id]

Dracula (1931)

Bela Lugosi kinda handsome

Vampires hot

Rich.

Has three wives (dick is good) (plus you can hang out with wives)

Hypnosis

Loses points because the movie was boring and he kills Lucy Westron, poly icon (antifeminist)

7/10

[ID: image of Boris Karloff as Frankenstein, holding his hands to his face, looking offscreen and with a disturbed expression. The lighting only lights up his face. End ID]

Frankenstein (1931)

Literally just born (minor) and doesn’t understand sex

Movie diverged too much from the book for me to like it

Too awkward and big

Unclear if he has any genitalia at all

1/10 because this image is cool and a little sexy

[ID: Boris Karloff as Imhotep the mummy. His skin is dried and sunken in. He's glaring at something offscreen. He's dressed in a high collar brown shirt and a cap that covers the top of his head. End ID]

The Mummy (1932)

One of my faves

Backstory is centered around LOVE - will literally curse the gods and forsake everyone for his lover. Hot.

The opening scene where he came awake for the first time was sexy.

Anti colonialist

Hypnosis

Nice voice

Loses points for unfortunately not being very attractive - dry skin

9/10

[No image for this slide]

The Invisible Man (1933)

Wanted to take over the world and went to his best friend and not his FIANCE??? Gay, and clearly doesn’t care about lover’s needs (even with said best friend).

Not a monster, just an asshole

Pushed over a baby carriage! Disgusting

We don’t know what he looks like. Sexiness only comes from whether or not you think having sex with someone you can’t see would be hot or not.

Gets points for being a silly little guy, ambition being hot, and the “villain goes soft only for his loved one” trope

Still. -5/10

Bride of Frankenstein (1935)

Like Frankenstein, Literally just born (minor) and doesn’t understand sex

Also had strong reaction AGAINST being an object of desire and so ranking her is missing the point

However because she’s the ONLY woman on this list she gets special privileges.

will be ranking her as if she was not literally ten minutes old and if she understood sex

[ID: Elsa Lanchester as the bride of Frankenstein. The lighting of the image is very bright, so you can see her whole upper body with very few shadows. She's staring at something offscreen with a curious but frightened expression. She wears white robes, and her hair is black with a white streak up the sides, in a beehive style. End ID]

Bride of Frankenstein (1935) (cont.)

Horror movie scream A+

Gorgeous and Iconic

Understands No Means No. (Unlike other creatures on this list)

Baby Girl you are SO unnerving 💖💖💖

Tall Woman. Probably strong.

10/10.

[ID: Two images of the wolf man. One is the wolf man as the wolf man, standing in thr woods, his face covered in fur, his hands furry and clawed, looking panicked. The second is Lon Cheney Jr. as Larry Talbot, a white man with short dark hair slicked back, dressed in a suit with a plaid tie, with a stressed out look on his face. End ID]

The Wolf Man (1941)

This movie just makes me sad. Larry Talbot is a tragic figure.

But he’s also kind of a stalker (spies on woman)

Only a monster half of the time

Wolf form isn’t attractive. (human form okay.)

No sense of control.

Not even a little okay with his murders. Too pathetic and sad.

2/10

[ID: Image of the creature from the black lagoon, a creature the size of a man covered in scaley and amphibian-like skin with a fish-like face. He's mostly submerged in water, only his head and finned hands with sharp claws poking out of the water. End ID]

The Creature From The Black Lagoon (1954)

Definitely my favourite

Environmentalist! Anti colonialist!

Swimming scene half creepy half romantic, also gets points for inspiring The Shape of Water (2017).

Phenomenal creature design, A+.

Just wants someone to love

Will kill everyone else but NOT lover.

Underwater sex. Rough sex.

Sex will probably be awkward because of this.

8/10

[ID: profile of the Bride of Frankenstein. Her head is tiled up and her eyes are mostly closed.]

Congratulations to our winner! Runner ups, The Mummy and the Creature From the Black Lagoon.

187 notes · View notes

waihtie · 3 months ago

Text

Need entertainment while I do dishes, so

Season 3 Episode 3 - Bad Day at Black Rock

○ Gordon is gonna be a real problem, as always

● He's blaming Sam. Thinks he opened the gate to Hell on purpose

● "I'm not even sure he's human"

○ Sam wants to use Ruby. Dean thinks it's a bad idea

○ Ou John has a storage locker. Wonder what he's hiding

● He went through a LOT of work to keep people away from this cursed object

● A rabbits foot

○ It works

● But it was locked up for a reason. And Sam touched it. This can't be good.

○ These boys got a couple people on their tail. These guys Gordon sent to kill Sam, and the person who paid these other guys to steal the rabbits foot

○ Damn one of those other guys died by falling on a fork

○ But Sam's got all the luck now, and Dean's using that to his advantage (by buying a bunch of scratch tickets)

○ Damn, whoever touches it gets good luck, until the next person does, then that first person has bad luck (and dies in an unlucky way (tho I guess all ways are unlucky))

○ The waitress stole the foot. That is not good for Sam...

● Okay, I know it's supposed to end up killing him, but watching him trip over everything is hilarious

● "I lost my shoe" 😂

○ Poor Sam. Stuck on a chair. Yet he's still finding bad luck. (AC caught fire). Now he caught fire lmao

● And of course when Sam falls and takes the curtains down with him the mofos who want to kill him are right behind it. This can't be good

● Like it wouldn't be good in any situation, but Sam's got supernaturally bad luck

○ Great. Now Dean touched it.

● "I'm batman" lol

● Of course Dean has to scratch a few more tickets before he breaks the curse 😂

○ Damn, Bela shot Sam

● Kinda smart tho

● Dean throwing her the foot was even smarter

○ We'll be seeing Bela again

● And the ones who want to kill Sam

○ LMAO she stole the thousands of dollars worth of scratchers

This was a fun one

Bela Talbot - Someone who steals and sells supernatural things

Kubrick, Creedy - Guys who want to kill Sam (Gordon's friends)

Let's appreciate the colour change's affects on Dean once more

#supernatural #dean winchester #sam winchester #spn #spn first watch #spn rewatch #bela talbot #spn s03e03 #spn Bad Day at Black Rock

13 notes · View notes

eolewyn1010 · 4 months ago

Text

Downton Abbey Fashion 83 - festive occasions in 1925

We have three celebratory occasions this season: Mrs Hughes’ and Carson’s wedding, of which only two outfits don’t get repeated in everyday situations. Mary’s wedding to Henry Talbot, which is a little on-a-moment’s-notice affair for which also only three people bothered to get new dresses. And Edith’s wedding to Bertie Pelham. Which is poorly-lit for the most part. *sigh*

I’m surprised Violet of all people would get a new dress for Mary’s blitz wedding. It’s a pretty typical Violet deal and also beige, but I’m slightly inclined to forgive that because the curlicue applications on her collar and lapels are gorgeous. And the little bits of darker piping set in to highlight the pattern; it looks really nice. I also get a look at the back construction and the piping that goes around there, and, while the second hat is a repeater, the one for the wedding is new, and it’s a pretty sweet deal with the black and white plumage.

Violet’s final outfit on the show is obviously dusty Crawley purple, but she once again has a nice embroidery around the trim; I think those are black lilies. How goth of you, Violet. Other than that, silk satin, white lace blouse with a scratchy-looking neckline, and – oh, she leaves the show with a darling hat on! A new hat, I think; she didn’t wear this before Edith’s wedding, and it’s got golden leaves applications on cream and more dusty purple, plus a cute buckle and dusty pink feathers. Slay, queen. And RIP, Maggie Smith.

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

Isobel’s church coats for the various weddings were repeaters, so I only have a gloomy, grainy shot of her at Edith’s reception. It’s dark grey and underwhelming, although the fabric has this look of, like, shimmering splinters? Could be voided velvet. The front has one of those deep Vs and the sleeve cuffs repeat the plain fabric, and Isobel didn’t even have the decency to wear a contrasting necklace or a showy hat. Whatevs.

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

Lady Shackleton is nowhere to be seen at Edith’s wedding, but since Henry is her nephew, she’s around for his and Mary’s shindig, and she wears a goddamn beige coat. The mottled weave of it is nice enough, the collar has a cute little flowery embroidery, the hat looks like a piece of postmodern pottery with a lace trim slapped on, and the blouse she’s wearing under that coat is honest-to-god Edwardian, complete with a puffy pigeon chest. Fascinating.

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

Cora has the only new outfit at Edith’s reception beside Violet. Swallowed by the beige curse, she presents this sandy dress with lace at the hem, sleeves, and making up the yoke. Nice lace; love the flower motif and the scallops. But was a color to contrast it really too much to ask? Even dusty Crawley purple would’ve done. The hat is nice enough with more lace applications and white feathers, and the collar is admittedly nifty, two ribbon ties crossing over the throat and then hanging over her shoulders down the back. Still would have preferred to talk about the lady in the background with the golden printed coat and the glorious plumage on her hat.

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

Mrs Pelham has apparently learned simpering from Cora. Her outfit is boring; it’s just plain brown silk satin mostly covering a slightly more interesting lining fabric with some golden beading. I like the ruffled shoulder seams and the flowers on her hat, but please, someone bring me something else than brown before a brown background with yet more brown on top of it!

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

…Huh. Well, Rosamund went all-in for Mary’s wedding. Everyone else is like, “less is more”; she is like “I will compensate for ALL of you!” I think with a subtler hat this outfit might work. The ensemble is very lively with black roses and greenly-outlined leaves on cream, but red is a good color to contrast this, and a tassel element would not be considered unusually busy for the time. I even like the rose. Just put it on a less busy hat, that doesn’t have a curved brim and translucence and a cream trim going on.

For Edith’s wedding, she decided to blend into the crowd after all. I only get this one halfway clear shot of her, and she wears a brown dress with some glittery beading in vertical lines that, under her chest, run into a more intricate pattern of zigzags and curlicues. Where are your red contrast points now, Rosamund? A hat with some feathers, a necklace that may as well be not there, and the lighting is not making this any better.

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

The beige curse also got to Laura. For the church, she was still wearing fur and a reddish rust shade; now, the best I can say about her dress is that its shimmering gives it a bit of a golden impression. At least it’s a nice material, set off against plain chiffon sleeves that coordinate with her hat. It just isn’t much else.

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

Mary’s first wedding guest outfit is the better of the two (bride fashions go into a separate post later), and I cannot fathom that this lovely deep red dress never shows up again after Mrs Hughes’ and Carson’s wedding. It’s Mary’s color! It’s got a stylish asymmetrical neckline! It’s nice material! And it has this cool gathered element on the front! All this makes up such a chic, classy look that I can’t believe she would never wear that again. Not even the hat, a pretty simple and adaptable style, makes a reappearance.

For Edith’s wedding reception, the theme is apparently “brown”, so Mary is already adventurous by adding in gold. And where Edith takes the wild prints and adventurous colors of art deco, Mary takes the sharp, geometrical motives and the metallic looks. Set together from various diamond shapes, this dress ends up looking, while as shapeless as the 1920s do, quite glamorous. I only wish the longer chiffon sleeves were either plain or not there at all.

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

Edith also has an outfit exclusively for Mrs Hughes’ and Carson’s wedding which we never see again, this silvery chiffon and satin ensemble with a boat neckline. I really like this look on her; it’s so simple yet so elegant, in particular that yoke panel and the turquoise jewelry she chose to pair with it. Also, cute hat with an even cuter twig-shaped pin.

Probably the most colorful guest at Mary’s wedding, Edith is the only one who soundly rejects the greys and beiges (well, the shot is from her little outing to the cemetery, but I think she wore this for the ceremony?). We’ve seen this reddish orange dress with little rectangular elements near the end of season 5 when she went out for lunch with Mary, Rose, and Tom, but this time, she pairs it with a glorious dark blue coat with a white and sandy print. Edith also gives a last nod to her Michael-Gregson orange-and-indigo color pairing while looking at her and Michael’s daughter. Thematic congruence!

#Downton Abbey #Downton Abbey's costume fund #historical fashion

7 notes · View notes

rootsofdread · 1 year ago

Note

May I request some headcanons for The Knight, The Blight, and The Wraith with a twitchy boyfriend who has trouble staying still? Sometimes I'll be sitting still and my head will jerk to the side randomly or one of my legs will kick out and it drives me insane to the point I have trouble falling asleep sometimes :(

i have a similar problem! mine get soo bad when i'm tired lol. we're in this together anon ✊

Philip Ojomo / The Wraith:

Philip tends to keep a close eye on you. He worries about you -- even if you've told him not to be -- and fears you may hurt yourself accidentally, so he just wants to make sure you're okay when he knows that your twitching is acting up. If you're standing together he'll put his hand on your shoulder or around your back, but otherwise, he frequently checks in on you.

In a really weird kind of way, he finds your twitching...comforting? It lets him know you're still with him. When the two of you are close in any way, like when you're laying together or he's holding your hand, and he feels you jerk around, he pulls you closer. He would prefer it didn't happen, for your sake, but he appreciates knowing you aren't suddenly gone.

And he's certainly no stranger to having problems sleeping, being haunted by nightmares, himself; so he knows how you feel, to some extent. When he feels you jerk around in bed, he'll immediately wrap his arms around you and lean his head into your back or chest. He doesn't really know how to help you, because he doesn't know how to help himself, but he hopes that helps...at least a little.

Talbot Grimes / The Blight:

Talbot has always loved having you around since he met you; he finally has someone more like him around the fog. It really does something to his old, shriveled up heart seeing you do the exact same thing he does. Granted, his are more frequent; it still has always made him happy.

And he always tries to make this clear to you. Even before you were together, he'd frequently hobble over to you just to sit with you. He's not much of a talker, so he usually conveys his thoughts through gestures or tapping his cane. He didn't think you understood for a while, but was delighted when he realized you did.

When you're having problems sleeping, he'll always offer you some sort of tonic or tincture to relax you and help you sleep. If you don't want any, that's fine, he'll let you cuddle up and rest your head on his chest, so that he can rub your back while he reads quietly beside you.

Tarhos Kovács / The Knight:

Tarhos was always interested in you from the moment he saw you. He's never seen someone do...that, before. He had long assumed you were cursed for your hubris, once upon a time, or something similar. Yet, you seemed to be taking it quite well. Resolve is one of his favorite qualities in a person.

He's always around to make sure nobody gives you a hard time for something out of your control -- something so inconsequential, at that. The last thing he wants is for you to feel embarrassed about it. If anyone so much as snickers, they will meet his blade.

When you're frustrated by not being able to sleep, he tells you that fire is important, but it will be better spent elsewhere. He settles you back down, tucks you in, and will usually either read to you or recount stories from his time as a true knight for you. By this point, you've probably heard all of them, but he still hopes they soothe you.

#inbox #gender neutral reader #survivor reader #killer reader #philip ojomo #talbot grimes #tarhos kovacs #dbd imagines #dbd x reader #dbd x you #philip ojomo x reader #the wraith x reader #talbot grimes x reader #the blight x reader #tarhos kovacs x reader #the knight x reader

113 notes · View notes

nerdypuddincup · 11 months ago

Text

Cold Morning in Blackmoor

Talbot Hall, once stood above the abject squalor of the village below it. A reminder of the difference between the classes that lived in Blackmoor. But now it sat in cinder and rubble. The fire had been started in the sitting room, where two beasts ripped from folklore and nightmare did battle. Father and son, locked in immortal combat. Now, only ruin was left as a monument to their sins.

Gwen Conliffe who had helped free the last living Talbot from the curse put upon him by his father stood silently as she surveyed what remained of the hall in which she had to her dismay called home for a year. First being engaged to Sir John’s son Ben, and then falling in love with his other son Lawrence after Ben had been slain. She shed a single silent tear for the two men who fell here. And cursed the man who had brutally taken them, all so he could have her alone.

It was a cold morning. It was always a cold morning in Blackmoor. But there on the breeze carried the warmth of the fire with it. It wasn’t much. Only a brief embrace before returning to the frigidness as per usual. Within the tavern of the town sat Inspector Francis Aberline. In his hand was a glass of straight whiskey he was using to numb the pain he was in. Though it helped with the physical, it was the spiritual that caused him to drink himself further and further into stupor still. For he had been attacked by Lawrence Talbot the night before. Or more accurately, he had been attacked by the beast that Lawrence Talbot had turned into.

And, if the legends were true as they shockingly seemed to be now…then in time Francis would indeed befall the same curse. And, whenever the moon was full and the wolfsbane bloomed he would stalk the night as not a man or a beast but something in between. A Werewolf.

That was something that Aberline did not want to think about, but as he drank more the more, he realized that it was something he couldn’t ignore. He had always prided his sharp intellect and hold on logic and reason. But now, it was all crashing down. Just like when nothing ever came of the Ripper case, The man just seemed to bugger off. No longer stalking the whores of Whitechapel. This of course was worse. The Ripper had destroyed his reputation in Scotland Yard, and now this had tarnished his immortal soul.

The girl, the Conliffe girl had told him what had been told to her by the gypsies. That release could only come from someone who loved him. As Aberline got to the bottom of his pint he concluded that he would never find peace then. There was no one who loved him and no one who he loved for that matter either.

The thought popped up a few times in his mind, to take out his service pistol, put it inside of his mouth, and pull the trigger. But would that accomplish anything more than hurting him badly? Would he be dead? Would he survive? Would he seem dead only for the pale light of the full moon to bring him back as a monster? That last one was of course the worst case. The very thought of it chilled his blood more than the damned cold of this accursed little village.

For now, all Aberline could do was weep.

#werewolf #the wolfman #universal monsters #gwen conliffe #lawrence talot #the wolf man #the wolfman 2010 #benicio del toro #talbot hall #fanfiction #fanfic #aftermath

7 notes · View notes

oughtabeinpxctures · 4 months ago

Text

As mentioned in the tags of my reblogged post, much like @phantomcurtaincall, I very much enjoyed The Wolf Man. I found it to be a really unique and fascinating way of telling the story, and there are a number of shots that I found absolutely stunning. I also deeply appreciated the references and how smoothly they were incorporated. They were very much 'if you know you know' and 'blink and you'll miss it' in a way that doesn't disrupt the flow of the story and still made sense, which I loved. Similar to Invisible Man, I recommend going into the movie with an open mind. It's not a full out remake of the original wolf man and it isn't intended to be. But I found it to be a good story and to be more aligned with the emotions and true heartbreaking horror that came with Larry Talbot's experience of the curse than is seen with most werewolf/wolf man creatures today. It's not perfect by any means, but overall, I really enjoyed it and absolutely intend on watching it again. My biggest shock from the movie? I came out of the film actually liking the design of the Wolf Man.

#🌙 off camera (ooc)

3 notes · View notes

sleepyiswhumping · 1 year ago

Text

Immortality is a Curse

Garrett gingerly wrapped his arm around Talbot, the once-thick, muscular frame withered by age. Snuggling into his embrace, Talbot, in turn, pulled Alex close to him, the three of them lying in bed, their bodies pressed together. Alex was already asleep, his small frame rising and falling with his almost indiscernible breaths. Talbot heard Garrett's breath behind him slow into a light, steady rhythm. Smiling, he let his eyes drift shut and slowly fell into the soft embrace of sleep.

When Talbot woke up, he was surprised to find Garrett and Alex still lying in bed with him. Garrett usually got up early, to make breakfast. Gently shaking Garrett, he tried to wake him up, but to no avail. After about a minute of trying gently to wake him, Talbot had a thought. A chill ran through his body. Did he...? As he checked Garrett's pulse, Talbot's greatest fear was confirmed. Garrett had passed in his sleep. He knew it was only a matter of time, of course. Garrett was old, for a human, almost 100. But he was so fit and healthy, Talbot figured he might have some more time left. Breathing heavily, Talbot slumped backwards, bracing himself against the wall. God, how am I going to tell Alex? Talbot had no clue, but he couldn't leave Alex in bed with Garrett's body. Shakily, he turned, facing his body toward Alex.

"Darling, it's time to get up."

Receiving no response, softly, he caressed Alex's cheek.

"Hey, Alex? Love, I need you to wake up."

Alex didn't react, not so much as a twitch.

No.

"H-Hey. Alex, please? This isn't-this isn't funny."

Nothing.

Tears welling in his grey, cloudy eyes, Talbot bit his lip and reached for Alex's throat. Fumbling, he eventually slid his fingers under Alex's neck and felt for a heartbeat.

Please. Please, please, please just be asleep.

But he felt nothing. Not a single pulse.

Talbot slid back, resting on his knees. He gently, oh so gently, reached forward and pulled Alex and Garrett's limp bodies to his chest, holding them close.

For the first time in centuries, Talbot cried. He cried long and hard. Sadly at first, for the loss of the lights of his life, his soulmates, the two men that had brought him from the brink of darkness back to life. He cried for the moments they'd shared together, the sleepless nights spent talking endlessly, the victories they'd shared, large and small. Bittersweet tears, reminiscing about the love they'd had, the truest love he'd ever felt, a love he'd never feel again.

Talbot sat there, holding his loves. He set them down gently, oh so gently, covered them carefully in the blankets, and wept.

#whump #whump writing #whump scenario #emotional whump #immortal whumpee #major character death #immortality is not as cool as it seems #yall i cried writing this #these are my boys :'(

10 notes · View notes

derinthescarletpescatarian · 2 years ago

Note

Have just a few chapters left of Curse Words and damn, you weren't lying - these kids do be making bad decisions. Been a great read. Though I did get punched emotionally by [REDACTED] dying (just in case ppl are still reading) (like it was very highly likely to happen to this character but still! T_T). Can't wait to see how Kayden gets out of this with only a few chapters left...

Also, I love that one member of the magihacker club who's like "i WILL get the Pit to run DOOM". And the entire not-official queer club. And Talbot and Hua too. Lol.

Anyway, I'll get back to reading it, and hopefully they manage to deal a massive blow to the mage world's system, bc, jfc, does it need to be burnt down and rebuilt from scratch.

Glad you like it, enjoy the rest of the story!

#it's a machine it can run DOOM

28 notes · View notes

dross-the-fish · 2 years ago

Text

Trying to upload this again. While I wait for an invite for Ao3 so I can start posting the fic here’s an excerpt from the first chapter of my crossover au ...

It was a chilly autumn afternoon when Doctor John Watson heard a knock at his door. Three hesitant taps, followed by a long pause and two firmer knocks. He knew the latter meant that whoever it was, their trouble was urgent, enough so that it was unlikely they’d simply leave if he didn’t answer. With a deep sigh he put down his badly crumpled newspaper, nearly three months old and worried almost to tearing by anxious hands, yet still unread save for the blaring headline:

“STRING OF GRUSOME MURDERS IN SMALL VILLIAGE. SHERLOCK HOLMES INVESTIGATING CLAIMS OF VAMPIRISM AND OCCULT ACTIVITY IN KENT.“

Smoothing down his thinning hair and shaking a wrinkle from his dressing gown in an effort to look presentable, Watson prepared himself to deliver a speech he’d already given more times than he could count. No, Sherlock Holmes is not here. No we are not taking further cases. No I don’t know when he’ll be back I’m sorry but you’ll have to enlist help elsewhere.

The words never made it out of his mouth, as he opened the door he saw before him two young men who barely looked into their twenties. One, a pleasant-faced stocky man with round glasses and dark curls and the other, a thin, willowy fellow with deep circles under his eyes and the most harrowed look Watson had ever seen on another human being. It was the lean man who piqued his interest for Watson recognized the tell tale signs of an individual broken down by a long strain of illness. Perhaps it wasn’t a detective they were looking for at all…perhaps it was simply the aid of a doctor they needed.

The bespectacled young man spoke first, “Are you Dr. Watson?” he asked hopefully.

“I am. What can I do for you two? Is your friend ill?” Watson asked, already leaning forward to get a closer look. The thin man leaned away; his eyes fixed to the ground as though he were silently asking the earth to swallow him up.

“Yes, he is… it’s a long story,” the stocky boy held out his hand for Watson to shake, “My name is Quincey Harker and this is my friend, Lawrence Talbot.”

“Lawrence Talbot? I see, I’m sorry about your parents. I read about them in the newspaper, horrible tragedy. I hear they haven’t found the killer yet” Watson said, his heart sinking as Lawrence’s face crumpled. He hated to turn away a grieving young man, but without Holmes there was little chance of success and Watson was no longer young or brash enough to take on his own cases without his partner. The kindest thing would be to turn them away now rather than drag out the rejection, “You’ll have to forgive me. Detective Holmes hasn’t returned and I don’t know when he will, I’m afraid I’m no use to you. There is a chap who lives not far from here who might be able to help you. Little fellow, Belgian and a bit of a fusspot but I hear he’s very successful. You ought to try him.”

Lawrence’s friend, Quincey, shook his head, “No good, he wouldn’t take our case. He refused to entertain any consideration of the…supernatural nature of our problem. Listen, Doctor, we know Sherlock Holmes is still missing and, contrary to what you believe, we’re not looking for the, erm, person who killed Larry’s parents.”

The corners of Watson’s mustache dropped in tandem with his thick eyebrows shooting upwards in surprise, “You’re not? What are you looking for then?”

“A cure for lycanthropy,” Larry blurted and Watson winced at the weak, raspy sound of a voice strained by frequent harsh sobbing.

“Lycanthropy,” Watson’s frown deepened as he slowly repeated the word, “Surely, I don’t look like some superstitious backwater hag? I am a medical doctor; I do not deal in curses and witchcraft. I’m sorry for your loss, boys, but I have my own matters to attend to and no time for chasing after werewolves. Good day!” before he could close the door Quincey stuck his foot across the threshold.

“We can prove it!” he insisted, “If you’ll just wait until nightfall, we can prove we’re telling the truth. Just come back with us to Talbot manor and see for yourself.”

“Even if I did,” Watson rubbed the bridge of his nose in irritation, “What do you expect that I could even do if he really is a werewolf?”

Quincey dug around in his coat and, after a moment of frantic rummaging, produced a battered, plain, leatherbound journal. He shoved the volume into Watson’s hands with such enthusiasm that he nearly dropped it.

“We’re hoping you can find someone for us…someone who may be able to create a cure. Please, Doctor, we’re out of options! You’re the only hope we have left.”

Watson knew the moment he took the journal in hand that he wouldn’t be able to refuse. He knew it was a terrible idea to get involved in a case this bizarre without Holmes. He also knew, the minute he cracked open the journal and read the steadily more frantic and messy entries, that this was the kind of case that Sherlock would have jumped into feet first and though more tempered in nature than his partner, John Watson was no more immune to the allure of the strange and mysterious. As he skimmed the pages with increasing interest a particular passage caught his eye…

“…I had learned to dwell with pleasure as a beloved daydream on the thought of the separation of these elements. If each I told myself could be housed in separate identities life would be relieved of all that was unbearable the unjust might go his way delivered from the aspirations and remorse of his more upright twin and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward path doing the good things in which he found his pleasure and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil…”

“I’ve heard of this case; Dr. Henry Jekyll took his own life following some kind of failed experiment?” Watson asked, finding himself eager to know how this could possibly connect to Lawrence’s alleged werewolfism.

“Supposedly he did, but there was no body and no one has any idea where he’s buried. Larry and I think he may have faked his death. In any case, he managed to develop a serum that can separate man’s evil nature from it’s good and we’re hoping, if he can be found, he can find a way to separate the man from the beast in Larry,” Quincey gave Watson a pleading look, “It’s a long shot and I know all of this sounds very strange but please! We need help and we don’t have anywhere else to turn.”

Watson couldn’t help himself but to be moved to pity, though he was still skeptical. It was obvious that both young men were desperate and the Talbot boy in particular, clearly needed some kind of help. Against his better judgement he tentatively offered: “Alright, I’ll go with you tonight and see this werewolf transformation with my own eyes. If you’re telling me the truth we’ll discuss more about tracking down this Jekyll fellow.”

Quincey whooped and grabbed Lawrence in a full-bodied hug, “Do you hear that, Lar? He said ‘yes’! What’d I tell you? That cure’s as good as found!”

Larry gave him a strained smile and patted his back, “Tone it down, Quin, he hasn’t taken the case yet,” he disentangled his long limbs from Quincey’s grip.

“But he will! He just needs to see that were telling the truth and he will! Won’t you Dr. Watson?”

Watson wasn’t eager to make promises but something about this case was drawing him in. With all the rumors of occult activities cropping up he couldn’t help but wonder if there was some connection between this matter of the werewolf and the claims of a killer vampire that Holmes had been pursuing. Perhaps, just perhaps, there was more to the world than either of them had anticipated. He could practically hear Sherlock’s voice in his ear, encouraging him: Come on, Watson. Be bold! You were born to be a man of action. Your instinct is always to do something energetic, seize the moment.

“If Mr. Talbot really is, as you say, a lycanthrope, then I will take the case. We may not have the benefit of my partner’s genius but I will give you my best efforts and with luck they will prove fruitful. Allow me a few moments to make myself presentable and I’ll accompany you back to the Talbot estate.”

#john watson #lawrence talbot #jekyll and hyde #crossover au #third time I tried to post this...

21 notes · View notes

leftnotright · 2 years ago

Text

PROOF APOLLO WEARS HAWAIIAN SHIRTS

“The Tri-Ni-Sette machine is failing. The world will die.” “We can’t do anything going forward. Going backwards, however, is another matter.” Ryohei had his mission: To go back. To before the most recent Arcobaleno Curse, to before the slaughter of the Simone. To before the Tri-Ni-Sette System finally gave out. Ryohei was used to loss, in the ring and in life. But this time, he promises, he’ll win. Reborn had his mission: Get in this man’s pants, or die trying. After all, Reborn was nothing if not an Icarus.

(Or: The ‘size matters’ fic)

Parings: Reborn/Sasagawa Ryohei Characters: Reborn (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Ten Years Later Sasagawa Ryouhei, Sasagawa Ryouhei, Vindice (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Arcobaleno (Katekyou Hitman Reborn!), Checker Face | Kawahira Tags: Time Travel Fix-It, Alternate Universe - Time Travel, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ryouhei Time Travels

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11

CHAPTER 1: EVERYTHING I LOVE IS GOING TO DIE

“The Tri-Ni-Sette machine is failing,” Verde announced to the room.

There was a long pause before Tsunayoshi Sawada, the Neo Primo Vongola, choked out, “What?”

The room was full of some of the most influential people in the Italian Mafia. The Vongola Don and Guardians, Xanxus and Squalo of the Varia, Enma of the Simone, Dino of the Cavallone, Uni of the Giglio Nero, Byakuran of the Millefiore and the collection of every Arcobaleno in their late teens.

“The machine is failing,” Talbot reiterated, sighing regretfully. “The design won’t last as long as we hoped.”

“I thought this had been fixed long ago,” Xanxus of the Varia scowled, his Guardians flanking his chair. Belphegor was already bodily wrapped around a frighteningly still Mammon. “That machine of yours was supposed to be a fucking fix-all. That’s how you sold it.”

“We haven’t heard of any sort of degradation,” Dino chimed in, confused, “So it can’t be mechanical, you would have addressed it already.”

“Dino’s right,” Reborn agreed, ignoring the gentle gasp from the Bronto. “If it were something you could fix, you wouldn’t have let it get to this state, Verde.”

“It’s not the machine itself, no,” Verde frowned, “It’s more pertaining to the fuel. The Vongola Flames offered are not enough to sustain.”

Tsuna sat up sharply, his Guardians shifting in their spots. They had been the ones to supply fuel to the Tri-Ni-Sette machine years ago as youths.

“So, what? Do you need us to give more?” Tsuna asked, full ready to supply. Their strength had only grown in the ten years since the machine’s creation, if they tried now, surely it would buy them time if not completely cancel the problem.

“If only it was that simple,” Talbot murmured and a sensation of dread settled in Tsuna’s stomach, Intuition whispering that this was not going to be a quick fix.

Tabolt lifted his sunken eyes and looked to the Vongola Boss. The ancient man usually had an air of youth to him, scuttling about the Vongola Headquarters with his sheep in tow like some merry shepard. But now? He looked truly old. The wrinkles and lines in his face deep, his eyes pained.

“Primitive,” Verde scoffed, turning away from the group. “And that Checkerface was so uppity. His curse caused more damage.”

“Speak clearly!” Mammon hissed.

“One too many times,” Talbot uttered quietly, “The Arcobaleno Curse, it was slowly stripping away the thread that held the world together. Such an incomplete solution…”

Verde shook himself out and spun back around, seeing all the lost expressions that faced him. He grit his teeth, hands clenching behind his back.

“The Tri-Ni-Sette system itself has corroded. Centuries without the proper maintenance and fuel, the metaphorical cogs of the system have been ground down to mere nubs.”

“Then what do we do?” Tsuna pushed, having enough of this doomsday talk and wanting a solution. “There has to be something we can do!”

Uni, for the first time since the meeting started, looked up from her hands in her lap and said, “Nothing.”

Everyone turned to her. She was still so small, fresh in her thirteenth year and she barely took up any space in the chair. She was so young, but her expression was as jaded as any Arcobaleno.

“The fuck are you—” Xanxus began and Byakuran slid his chair down the table until he bumped up against Uni.

“Hey, hey, hey!” Byakuran laughed, throwing his arm around Uni’s shoulders. “Mind how you talk to the princess, little false-prince!”

Squalo stood up with a shout, “Voi! Where do you get off calling the Boss ‘false’ fuck you Byakuran! I’ll slice that look off your face, just try me!”

Tsuna sighed and massaged the bridge of his nose, a stress headache settling in for the long run.

“Uni,” he called and the room begrudgingly fell into a hush at his voice. “What do you mean, ‘nothing’? Surely there’s something we can do.”

“Not anymore,” Uni shook her head, her eyes overcast as if she were actively searching for a future where they could. “Like Uncle Verde says, going forward, there’s nothing we can do.”

“So that’s it then?” Dino asked, brows furrowed in stress. “We’re done. The Tri-Ni-Sette system will fall apart and the world will die.”

Silence hung over the room as reality set in. There was nothing they could do. You couldn’t just fix this sort of thing. And they were too late to stop it either. The Tri-Ni-Sette was broken, and they had no way to put it back together.

“We can’t do anything going forward,” Verde reiterated, and Tsuna flinched like salt was rubbed into his wounds. “However, going backwards is another matter.”

Everyone at the table turned at that, baffled and confused.

“Backwards?” Tsuna echoed.

“Ooooh, time travel!” Byakuran beamed, clapping his hands with enthusiasm.

“The past doesn’t like being tampered with,” Uni warned softly.

“Yes,” Verde agreed with a weary sigh, “The Bovino Family managed to create a loop between present and the future, however, they were met with significant resistance when they attempted to connect with the past. Records suggested there was some kind of force or energy, similar to the Tri-Ni-Sette, barring them access.”

Talbot moved forward and spread out a large piece of paper on the table, detailing a kind of mechanical monster that was almost, if not more, complicated than the blueprints for their original Tri-Ni-Sette machine. The Bosses leant forward and regarded the diagram critically, trying to understand the schematics.

“Using the Bovino’s research as a base, Verde and I were able to make a breakthrough. A machine that can pierce that barrier between the past and present.”

“We managed to narrow the Tri-Ni-Sette’s point of no return. Just over thirty years ago—”

“That’s!” Skull jumped up, “That’s before our curse! We broke the system!?”

“We didn’t break anything,” Mammon snipped, bristling where they stood, smothered in Belphegor’s arms. “That Checkerface is the one who insisted on cursing people until he burnt out the system.”

“Why are you stopping there?” Fon asked with a soft frown, “Wouldn’t it be safer to go back further? Rather than allowing the system to wear so thin.”

“The past doesn’t like being tampered with,” Verde said, “The further back you go, the stronger the resistance. We can only go as far back as thirty years, seven months, four days and six hours.”

“How long will this take you to build?” Tsuna asked, turning the page his way and trying to imagine how much this would cost.

“It’s already built,” Verde scoffed. “This is our only choice. Why would I wait to build it?”

“Question~!” Byakuran crooned, kicking his feet under the table. “It’s great and all that you made this time travel machine, I’m a huge fan of that trope, but how does that help us when the machine also failed?”

Tsuna shifted because Byakuran was right. Their machine had failed to both fuel and maintain the last of the Tri-Ni-Sette. Even if they took it back, they were using the wrong ‘fuel’. They’d end up with the same issue, in the end.

“Simple,” Verde hummed, “We use the correct fuel. Sky Flames are a volatile Flame, they’re too light and impulsive. The Tri-Ni-Sette needs stability.”

Talbot smiled thinly, “What better Flame to care for the earth, than Earth?”

Enma of the Simone looked up for the first time, eyes bright in confusion and surprise.

“Earth Flame?” Enma uttered, idly running his thumb over his Simone Ring.

Earth Flames, with their dense Gravity and strong synthesis with the planet, was the perfect fuel. It probably always had been, but with the rise of Sky-centrism and the fall of the Simone, it had been swallowed into obscurity. Forgotten until it was too late to beg for it back.

Adelheid lifted her chin from her station behind Enma’s chair and smiled. Vindictive. In the end, the Simone had the last laugh. Even if it did cost the world.

“And what of the machine?” Xanxus asked.

“With some reconfiguration, the current machine is more than enough. I’d like to remind you that my creation is perfect,” Verde uttered with almost a grit to his tone. “It just came to be too late.”

“In summary,” Talbot elbowed his way around Verde’s posturing and took centre stage before the table. “We have the blueprints for a competent Tri-Ni-Sette Machine, and we know what is needed to correctly and sustainably fuel the system.”

“So,” Xanxus crossed his arms and leant back in his chair, regarding the room with a callous and stubborn eye. “Now it’s just a matter of who’s going back.”

The hope that had risen in the room plummeted with a heavy hush.

Who would go back? Over thirty years ago. It was before many of them were even born.

“Please understand,” Talbot said gently, “This journey. There is no return. The past will swallow you.”

“This is a one-way trip,” Verde agreed, “Whoever goes, you’re not coming back.”

Tsuna stared when they said that, his mind, usually aflutter with thought and Intuition, was utterly silent. His hands clenched on the table.

A one-way trip. He couldn’t ask anyone to do that. To leave everything behind and never come back. To be left, alone, in a time so far back…

No, he couldn’t ask anyone to make that sacrifice.

“I’ll go,” Tsuna decided.

“No,” Reborn shot down. “The Vongola needs their Boss — same for you Dino. No Bosses will be going.”

“But Reborn!” Tsuna urged, turning to the hitman who glared at the rebuttal. “We can’t just send anyone, and I can’t ask anyone to make this sacrifice. They all have lives here, people they love—”

“And you have the whole of Vongola and your Guardians relying on you,” Reborn scolded, “You will not go.”

“I could go,” Enma offered, but Talbot raised his hand to stop him any further.

“No, we will need you, Simone.” Talbot said, “Whoever goes back, it will take time for the timeline to recalibrate according to new variables. In that time, we will need Earth Flames to hold us together.”

Adelheid reached out and gently squeezed Emna’s shoulder, both as a comfort and a warning. The Simone would not survive losing another Boss.

“I understand,” Enma nodded, “We will help any way we can.”

“Thank you,” Tsuna uttered gently, and smiled when Enma reached to lay a hand over his own.

“I can go!” Skull offered, jumping up in his seat again.

“No Arcobaleno,” Verde sighed and shoved Skull back into his chair. “The residue energy from the curse would interfere with the jump. It’s too fragile to add an unknown variable.”

“Then who can we send?” Xanxus snapped.

“Why don’t you go?” Gokudera grit out.

“The Varia need me,” he shrugged.

“I’m sure they’d survive.”

Squalo burst out a bellow that threatened to pop ears and the two Right Hands began to snipe at each other from across the table. The room descended into quiet chatter as each faction discussed their assets, who had more to lose, who they couldn’t bear to be without.

“I’ll go.”

Everyone snapped around.

Sasagawa Ryohei, the Tenth Sun Guardian, gazed back at them with a hand raised.

“I’ll go,” Ryohei said again, making sure he was heard.

#khr #sasagawa ryohei #reborn #fanfiction #time travel fic #fix it fic #khr rare pair #leftnotright #ao3

19 notes · View notes