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ruiniel · 2 years ago

Text

Frost - II

Fandom: Castlevania series (2017-2021)

Characters: Lisa Tepes, Carmilla of Styria

Count: 1.7k

Relationship: Lisa Tepes/Carmilla of Styria (pre-rel)

Rating: G

TW: alternate universe, first meetings, sapphic, gothic, vampire x human

Summary:

This is a continuation for the anon in this ask on writing more of Frost, a Lisa x Carmilla oneshot:

"Please write a second chapter to Lisa and Carmilla meeting. I want to know what they talk about. You sound like you had so much fun writing it and I had so much fun reading it."

Anon, (aka possibly the only person in the world into this ship other than myself rn), I took some references from literature for this one and melded it into a parallel with Dracula's story *sort of* (will explain in the end notes). Hope you like this, I sure had fun writing up the atmosphere. All other asks, still on them, have not forgotten. Bear with me, dears.

A long shriek like the moan of a dying man enters her consciousness; her eyes flash open. Lisa stirs again, but this time, thankfully without a headache to encumber her. Slowly she rises from the soft, dark brocade cushioning, finding herself in the same abode where she had her unusual first encounter with a denizen of this palace. There is no sign of the peculiar yet beautiful stranger, or anyone else, though two sconces now shed their golden light over the vast enclosure, adding some warmth to its tasteful austerity.

She stands, glances around herself: at the sleek but stern refinement of this place, at the windows tall and reaching down to the floor, giving the impression of doors to a balcony though there is nothing beyond them, or so she guesses. Lisa walks past a lonely candle fizzling in a holder on the dark, wooden desk, which is empty but for the note the lady Carmilla had scribbled before her departure. Keeping to her sense, Lisa resists the urge to walk over and read something likely not meant for her eyes.

Her steps echo in the tall chamber like faded memories and soon she stands before one of the two imposing windows. Lisa gently pulls aside the heavy crimson drape. The source of the earlier sound, she discovers, is a vicious snowstorm, obscuring what she supposes would otherwise be a magnificent view of the mountainous area this country boasts. The ice-winds that had cut at her face before now howl like ghouls in the night, lashing against the thick glass, as if in anger for being deprived of their warm, breathing quarry.

“At least I reached shelter in time,” Lisa says aloud, needing to fill the barren, pressing emptiness with a voice, even if it is only her own. She gazes at the storm for a while, lost in its curving trails, rubbing at her arms for there is no working fireplace here; wondering whether the lord of the castle had decided to postpone her audience to the morrow. It is rather late, after all.

Or worse, perhaps he’d decline to see her altogether, which, is also to be expected. As bordering on abrupt as lady Carmilla’s words had been, she had good reason: Lisa has nothing to trade for the knowledge she seeks—at least, nothing she would surrender willingly, that is; which is herself. Besides, the way the lady had watched her makes Lisa doubt her plea and pledge were met with more sympathy than a fox in waiting would grant a lone rabbit.

She snorts at herself. Yes, the world reeks of hazard and threat, but Lisa likes to think she is no complete fool, for she’d made the journey here from her homeland unharmed, at times owed in no small part to her quick wit more so than coin. Belatedly, she also recalls how said coin is now largely spent, having barely enough to garner passage for a portion of the way back.

If you make it back, comes a devious thought.

Lisa shakes her head; it is unlike her to doubt. She releases the curtain, turning to the chamber, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible while satiating her heightened curiosity of its owner. There is no manner of clock to be found anywhere, thus she has no idea of the time. Still, she feels somewhat rejuvenated after that short and sudden bout of rest, and though chilly here, it is still better than being frozen solid on a secluded mountain path in far Styria.

Her roughened fingers glide over steely-white furnishings, a not unpleasant meld of glimmer and red to the room, now darkened though it is but for the wretched lighting offered by the wall sconces and the burning candle on the desk—had it been there before? She does not remember.

She stares at a generous array of paintings hung on the walls, some of which have darkened with age, others more fresh and colorful, set in ornate rectangular or oval frames. One, in particular, catches her eye. Frowning, Lisa draws nearer to see.

Though she is rather forgetful of names, the physical features of persons Lisa well remembers after the shortest of glances, which makes the view before her all the more curious: she stares at a small, oval portrait of a young lady. Her complexion is full of life and red-cheeked, her eyes dark and long-lashed; her hair is raven-black, sparsely done up but fallen straight over her shoulders, spidering in languid soft coils over a simple white dress with an ornate neckline. In the lower right-hand corner are letters brushed by the artist in silver. Lisa narrows her eyes, and reads: “Mircalla, Countess Karnstein, 1300.”

Lisa wonders yet again, at the mystery of Man: of how features and physical likeness are carried through generations, for the face staring back at her is the spitting image of the lady Carmilla, whom Lisa had met not hours ago.

The person in the portrait bestows upon Lisa a doe-eyed look set beneath an intelligent brow. An ancestor, then? A young countess, no less, which relieves the question of the present lady’s noble heritage. The likeness is uncanny, indeed, and if she ever gains access to the knowledge she needs, Lisa is determined to discover the intricacies of such biological mysteries.

For now, her stomach rumbles unpleasantly, putting an end to the thought. Lisa walks away from the paintings, heading over to the doors beyond which the stranger had disappeared.

They open easily, but not one step does she take before two polearms are crossed before her, stalling her advance.

Lisa stops short, gazing left, then right, at the armored guard set on each side.

“Excuse me,” she says, finding their hidden features to be another oddity about this place. They are rather tall, taller than most men she’d seen, and there is a grim set to their mouths.

“You may not wander,” one of them says curtly, the words lacking inflection.

Lisa frowns. “I understand, but I have been waiting—do you know if the lady Carmilla will return this night, has she left any word?”

“You must wait,” speaks the same guard. The weapons are still crossed before her.

A sprig of annoyance curls up her spine. “I must? I came here freely, and were I to wish to leave, I don’t suppose you would deny me the courtesy,” she states, doing her best to be polite.

No reaction.

The guard who’d spoken turns suddenly, faster than she expects, and takes a mechanical step towards her. The movement has Lisa retreating until she stands inside the chamber once more. “You must wait,” the guard repeats, and the doors are shut in her face.

Lisa swallows emptily, and turns around; for the first time since her arrival, her doubt lengthens, creeps, and coils about her mind, and the shadows slithering up the walls from the lone candle on the desk no longer seem impotent; instead, they carry a sense of the ominous as they tremble before her, in tune with the storm outside.

She watches. The castle has many hidden passageways and secret chambers, known to none but her and the despicable fool she’d relieved it of, years ago. Rarely had they proven useful—there are none stupid or strong enough in the region to try and assault them now, when the enclave is at its strongest. Arms crossed, observing beyond the wall through an ancient, carefully crafted nook, her icy gaze follows the steps of the raggedy woman she'd left to her own devices.

Carmilla sees her eyeing the paper she’d left on the desk—but not reading it.

Good.

Not as nosy as she first thought, though humans, the vampire knows very well, tend to be unpredictable in many such matters. She was one, once, after all. If the woman calling herself ‘Lisa’ had read the note, she would have found nothing of import—assuming she does know how to read, a skill which her unabashed interest in the shelves with books denotes. It was with success that Carmilla had maintained her composure upon this first meeting, and then mirth stole at her with the foolish, though rather endearing and expected belief from the woman that this castle belonged to some lord or other.

Which, truthfully, it had; once. But this new, warm presence in her refuge has a distinctive effect, one Carmilla had not preempted and which had admittedly found her ill-prepared, as rarely happens. She now watches, with a clenched fist and a latent creeping of resentment, as the human stares at the paintings. She witnesses her fearless ask and rebuttal by the guards—Carmilla had left orders that their visitor was not to leave the chamber, not until she decided upon the next course of action.

The simplest would be, obviously, the least troublesome: feed, then throw the remains to their horses.

She stalls. It is impossible. She knows. And yet…

Carmilla closes her eyes and lost in memory, hating every second of loving reminiscence, listens to the human heartbeat drowning out the snowstorm. She listens until it slows, and the woman is, again, fast asleep on the couch; exhausted, no doubt, for as Carmilla remembers, trudging through the colds of Styria is no mere trifle and she knows the willpower it takes to do so.

Whatever the intruder is here for, they are determined to see it through. Head high, arms raised, the vampire disperses into mist, materializing to the other side of the wall, inside the chamber proper like one would wade through a barrier of water.

Soundlessly, she approaches and regards the tired face, smoothened by slumber. The breath of life trapped inside a ribcage, rising and falling. The shining hair with its ringlets of gold spread over her couch. The countenance, pale with fatigue, and the pulse fluttering at the long, slender neck.

Carmilla sits on the side of the couch, leaving no impress upon it, in so fine and ghostly a movement Lisa does not even stir.

The vampire watches until the storm quietens. Time passes, and the spears of a violet dawn strike against the chamber's red-draped windows. A moment. A mere moment in time, she can allow herself this. It has been so long, and all she wants is to take nowadays, to take and to punish. It all began, so long ago, too long for it to matter, not long enough to forget.

Involuntarily her thin, taloned hand reaches and softly strokes the warm cheek, the face she’d not glimpsed in over a century.

“You have found me again, it seems,” she murmurs.

The morning spreads its wings wider over the horizon; she cannot stay. “What am I to do with you this time,” she asks, her cold fingers retreating, “...my Laura?”

Part I

AN:

Made a mash here. I took some speculative elements from Dracula's story in the gameverse LOI (that Lisa could possibly be the reincarnation of Elisabetha, Mathias C's first wife), but let's call this something of a Carmilla version. I then took elements from the novella 'Carmilla' such as the name 'Mircalla, Countess Karnstein', the name 'Laura', and inspiration for the portrait scene. Like I said, a mash.

Likes/reblogs/comments are always appreciated.

MASTERLIST

#castlevania netflix #castlevania fanfiction #castlevania fic #carmilla of styria #lisa x carmilla #ruiniel:fanfiction #carmilla #carmilla castlevania #lisa castlevania #castlevania

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uh-oh-howd-i-get-here · 2 years ago

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Achilles Come Down

Bakugo Katsuki X gn! Reader

This deals with a super-serious topic, but it's self-indulgent. I'm feeling better than I was in my last fic belive it or not. If you need help, or if you feel like it's hopeless, please reach out to someone. This is based of the song 'Achilles Come Down'.

Link to the Song: https://youtu.be/T_V76Dm42bY

Summary: Reader is going to jump, Bakugo talks her down.

Pairing: Pro! Bakugo Katsuki X gn! Reader

Warnings: Deals very heavily in Suicide, Do not read if it will trigger you. Attempted suicide, does not go through with it. Mentions of death. Angst.

Word Count: 1,826

Masterlist

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

“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

You're scaring us and all of us, some of us love you

Achilles, it's not much but there's proof

You crazy-assed cosmonaut, remember your virtue

Redemption lies plainly in truth

Just humor us, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?”

His voice was so sweet, so gentle, trying to coax you down from the ledge. You on one building, him on another just parallel. Police car lights flashing up the buildings and reflecting on the both of you. Your friends 50 floors below on the ground. You’d never seen Dynamight so desperate, your heart would break for him if you knew it weren’t because of you. How had this become so complicated?

“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

The self is not so weightless, nor whole and unbroken

Remember the pact of our youth

Where you go, I'm going, so jump and I'm jumping

Since there is no me without you”

His threat hung heavy in the air, causing you to falter. You had been smitten with Bakugo since you were little, and then a crush bloomed right before you when you were in the same class at UA. He had hardly expected to see you, since the last time he had seen you was when you were paralyzed by the car accident. It wasn’t immediate friendship, but you’d quickly become close with the rest of the Bakusquad and the two of you had grown closer. You’d started dating before graduation and through being sidekicks at different agencies. When he told you that he and Kirishima were creating an agency and asked you to be part of it, you’d accepted immediately.

During your first official patrol with Dynamight, you made a pact with him that no matter what, you’d always be on each other’s side. You’d since moved in together spending time with each other and with your mutual friends. Life was a hero’s paradise until the accident.

“Soldier on, Achilles, Achilles, come down

Won't you get up off, get up off the roof?

Hurt and grieve but don't suffer alone

Engage with the pain as a motive

Today, of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above”

He was pleading now, his voice shaking. Tears welling in his eyes. It broke your heart, but your guilt was heavier. He was offering you forgiveness, a second chance because everyone makes mistakes. You couldn’t be forgiven though. You didn’t really want to jump, you wanted to call for help, to beg Dynamight to save you. To ask any of the bystanders below to help you. You knew deep down that this emotion wasn’t yours, but the effect of the man behind you. His quirk amplifying and intensifying your guilt and agony over your mistake until you couldn’t bear it anymore. Jumping was the only way to get rid of these effects, the only way to rid yourself of this guilt that was literally drowning you. Even as you were fighting for your life, even as close as Dynamight was, the man was right behind you, whispering in your ear.

“Achilles, Achilles, Achilles, jump now

You are absent of cause or excuse

So self-indulgent and self-referential

No audience could ever want you

You crave the applause yet hate the attention

Then miss it, your act is a ruse

It is empty, Achilles, so end it all now

It's a pointless resistance for you”

His voice was smooth in your ear, and you felt your burden intensify. Two days ago, while on patrol by yourself, you’d ended up fighting a villain. There weren’t any other heroes in the area so you were alone until your backup could arrive. Your first priority was to save the bystanders, and you tried, you really tried. The villain was relentless and used the innocents as a shield. It wasn’t until the fight was over that a life had been lost. A young man had had a heart attack during the fight. You hadn’t been able to get him somewhere where someone could help him. He had died before you could finish the fight. Bakugo held you that night as you sobbed for him.

His family had made a statement to the press and magazines were eating up the story. The family wasn’t suing, which you were grateful for, but you still visited them and apologized profusely. The man’s mother was understanding, as was her husband, but you could tell that the man’s brother was angry. Fury was radiating off him, and you took it because you knew you deserved it. What you didn’t expect was to see the brother that night on your way home from the office. All he did was grab you and yell, but looking back on it, that was when he’d put his quirk in use.

The next day your guilt was tenfold what it was yesterday, and it only grew. Your friends, your manager, and Bakugo could tell you were off. They didn’t ask questions though; no-one had gone through what you were feeling. You were all so young. That night you went on patrol with Dynamight and a couple other of your friends. You were on lookout on the very same roof you were standing on now when he had come up behind you. Every word he said enhanced what you were feeling until he saw you glance at the ledge. His smile was cruel as he said what you were thinking. A life for a life, it was only fair.

Now, in the present, Dynamight saw the man and recognized him for who he was. Puzzle pieces started to fall into place, that you weren’t in full control of yourself. He had to wait until he had more backup though, he couldn’t tip off the brother that he knew.

“Achilles, Achilles, just put down the bottle

Don't listen to what you've consumed

It's chaos, confusion and wholly unworthy

Of feeding and it's wholly untrue

You may feel no purpose nor a point for existing

It's all just conjecture and gloom

And there may not be meaning, so find one and seize it

Do not waste yourself on this roof

Hear those bells ring deep in the soul

Chiming away for a moment

Feel your breath course frankly below

And see life as a worthy opponent

Today, of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond

Ah, it's more courageous to overcome”

You wanted so bad to believe him. Wanted so bad to be able to reach down and know that you had been forgiven. That it wasn’t your fault. You wanted to rise above it, but you were drowning. Flailing like you never learned how to swim. Was it really going to end like this for you? After everything that had happened in your life? After every obstacle you had overcome, this was it?

You briefly wondered if this was the kind of guilt that the drunk driver had felt when he learned that he had paralyzed a young child. If he had overcome his own guilt to help come up with your cure. You’d have to ask him if you survived. Oh, how you wanted to survive but what you did was unbearable. You’d killed a man. This quirk was so powerful, and you were feeling very weak.

“You want the acclaim, the mother of mothers”

His voice whispered again, smooth as silk.

“It's not worth it, Achilles”

Dynamight’s voice was quieter, like he was getting farther away.

“More poignant than fame or the taste of another”

You shook your head, shame filling you. He was feeding off other emotions now. Amplifying them to be your undoing.

“Don't listen, Achilles”

If only it were that easy, but the ledge was right there, you already had one foot on it.

“But be real and just jump, you dense motherfucker”

You stepped up onto the ledge.

“You're worth more, Achilles”

You were so high up; your knees feel weak.

“You will not be more than a rat in the gutter”

The lights down below were so mesmerizing.

“So much more than a rat”

You could see the outline of your friends down below, fewer now than before.

“Be done with this now and jump off the roof”

You moved one foot forward, ready. It would be fast right? You wouldn’t survive the fall.

“Can you hear me, Achilles?”

Your head snapped up to make eye contact with red eyes. So many emotions floating in them. Sadness, anger, desperation, and fear. You’d never seen him so scared. His fear frightened you, but not enough to shake this. Your foot hanging over a 50-story drop.

“I'm talking to you

I'm talking to you

Achilles, come down

Achilles, come down”

You loved him. You loved him so much it hurt. You’d die for him, you’d kill for him, but in this exact moment you wanted to live for him. You wanted to live so that he could propose, so you could get married to the love of your life. You wanted to build a family with him. Tears welled up in your eyes. You wanted to live but you didn’t know how after this. You’d killed a man. You deserved to die, didn’t you? The look on his face told you that this wasn’t the path to take but you were so sure.

Is there a way that you could be forgiven? The poor man’s mother had said so. Your friends had said so. Your agent had said so.

Bakugo Katsuki had told you that when he was holding you that night. He had never lied to you, that was a truth that you could live your whole life knowing. It was a pillar in your life. Maybe you could step down from here and continue living.

You faltered again, this time backwards.

Your eyes still locked with Dynamight, a voice behind you shouted,

“Throw yourself into the unknown

With pace and a fury defiant”

Then silence. A hand grabs your arm with a grip that could’ve broken it and yanks you off the ledge. Your heart seizes before you fall into Kirishima’s arms and start sobbing. What happens next is a blur, you’re handed off to familiar arms and they carry you. Sat in the back of an ambulance, Bakugo whispers into your hair,

“Clothe yourself in beauty untold

And see life as a means to a triumph

Today, of all days, see

How the most dangerous thing is to love

How you will heal and you'll rise above

Crowned by an overture bold and beyond

it's more courageous to overcome”

#mha #bakugo katsuki #bakugo x reader #bakugo x gender neutral reader #my hero acedamia #my hero fanfic #angst #katsuki x reader #katsuki bakugo mha

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nincompoopydoo · 3 years ago

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CAUGHT IN A CROSSFIRE

— CLARITY ; PART 4 / ?

PAIRING: Theseus Scamander x reader WORD COUNT: 3.4k SUMMARY: You don’t deal with night terrors well when awakening in a place unfamiliar to you although you finally feel a sense of belonging. With every intention to dispose of all sense of strangeness, you make a blinded decision that may have ended badly. However, in the light of your impulsiveness, Theseus seems to always appear when you need him. Even if you don’t know it. A/N: Wohoo! This series is back and so am I! Please enjoy this chapter, I can’t wait for you to read the rest I have planned. gif by @movie-gifs from this gifset WARNINGS: Pretty detailed description of a night terror consisting of fire. Swearing. Bad decisions. Awkwardness overload! MASTERLIST ; MASTERPOST

Silence. Darkness. Unperceived to your surroundings. There is liquid, your clothes drenched in a stench you cannot quite comprehend. A puddle takes form around your bare feet. With your bearings out of touch, the size of this void remains unknown to you. Whether large or compact, it is still hard to breathe over the constant flowing of the strange liquid from above and onto your face with an overwhelming smell of extreme potency with a tinge of sweetness—the smell of gasoline.

Then, a flash. So overwhelmingly bright and blinding, you have to squint your eyes. It gradually dims, and suddenly, your eyes are able to adjust to your surroundings. You spot something in the distance; a young boy roped to an armchair with his wrists, ankles, and waist restrained. His seated figure is seemingly lighted like a spotlight, shadows cascading his facial expression. The curve of his mouth is drawn downwards in fear, glassy and wide eyes glinting with terror. It is the way the boy looks at you, a silent cry for her that you realise the familiarity of the boy—it’s your brother.

Instinctively, you step forward, wanting to run and reach for him, but it’s the sudden grasp of aggressive hands that lunges you back with force. Your brother is just a child; his figure disappears from view as you collapse to the ground. Your body is frozen. It feels like it’s shutting down. The sense of numbness creeps wildly onto you, and the compelling weakness prevents you from screaming.

Then, you hear a woman’s voice through the silence.

“You dirty witch.”

Her voice is shrill, ringing in your ears as it reaches a deafening crescendo.

You cannot see anything. You yearn for the safety of your brother—the tears beg to cascade down your cheeks. Promptly, you see a ball of flame in the darkness, lit on a matchstick. It seemingly floats around aimlessly, drifting to you. Then, you see him. A man. Tall and looming as he creeps from the shadows. He holds the little match with a grim twist to the edge of his lips.

“You did this to him...So long, witch.”

He tosses the matchstick.

Flames engulf you.

Open. Your eyes are wide open.

Your heart is pounding, and so is your head, panic coursing through your body. It’s hard to see with the haunting images of the dream that is still very much clear in your mind. You’re curled under the sheets. It’s starting to feel like your whole body is burning, strangely parallel to being burned by a toss of a matchstick. The heat, your head, and your heart, it’s unbearable. It seizes you up in bed, head leaving the feather pillow as your eyes begin to adjust to the rest of the room. It’s not yours, you don’t recognise the clean white walls, the lace cream curtains hung by the window and the dresser by the foot of the table. It’s foreign and you cannot recall where you are or how you got here. Too many thoughts running through your head—it’s noisy and it's frustrating. Your eyes become glassy and once the first tear breaks free, the rest follows in an unbroken stream—The man, your brother, this...room. You feel lost.

Then, you hear the door creak, eyes flying across the room to find it ajar. Through the crack, you spot the familiar sight of the living room as the memories of last night come flooding back. The most absurd night of your life—magic, the attack, your brother, the letter and Theseus. You remember it all now.

You crawl out of bed, legs swinging over its edge, and you hobble across the hardwood floor. It squeaks with every step. Halting at the doorway, your eyes skirt across the expanse of the apartment. Nothing to be heard within its walls. No signs of life except your own.

Sunlight pours in through pristine ivory lace curtains, hung against tall and open windows. They give the room a sense of warmth, yellow hues against wooden furniture. They add colour to the brown of the wallpaper. It strangely feels like home, even if it’s not your own. It’s something you have never known before today.

Yet, the only thing that comes to your mind is to leave. When things are strange and possibly threatening, you always leave. It’s just a mere instinct.

You scurry around the place in search of your trench coat but to no avail. Instead, you are left admiring the little trinkets around the house—books on spells and charms, strange-looking documents, and photographs of two young boys. They move under your star-gazed eyes, caught up in mesmerisation of how once still photographs are seemingly and magically in motion, hung in frames on the wall. You almost took no notice of the lingering scent of toast until your stomach involuntarily grumbles in hunger. You find yourself drifting towards the kitchen.

It’s a small space, equipped with a stove under an array of cabinets and furnished with a table for two by a tiny window overlooking the street below. Then, you see it. A full English breakfast served on a white porcelain plate along with a steaming cup of tea that sits idly at the very centre of the wooden dining table.

You hear your insides rumble once more, protesting against your attempted abstinence.

God, you’re starving.

Perhaps one bite wouldn’t bring any harm.

As you swiftly slide onto the chair, you spot a note neatly tucked under the plate. You snatch it, only to find it addressed to you with your name inked in cursive lettering.

Gone to the Ministry in pursuit of urgent business. Breakfast and tea are for you. Do not be alarmed by the owl. He is a friend.

For your safety, do not step out of the apartment. I should be back in the evening. I’ll see you then.

Theseus.

Your eyes skim the sentence about the owl once more as you turn up to see a barn owl with feathers of cinnamon perched by the windowsill. His watchful eyes are trained solely on you. You wonder if owls in the magical world could read minds because this certain owl must know how torn you are between leaving and staying to make use of the breakfast prepared for you.

You don’t even know why you want to leave. You just have to.

Despite your true intentions, you know a single breakfast dish will be enough to sustain you for an entire week. What was supposed to be one bite turned into many more, your tastebuds indulging in the savoriness as you let yourself relish in enjoyment towards your appetite. You power through the meal, and the tea, like it’s your first and possibly your last in a matter of minutes as you attempt to eat away your regret for leaving the one person you almost trust.

Perhaps you are finding it hard to wrap your head around the fact that your life will never be the same again. You haven’t seen your brother since the war—it took you years to finally accept his fate, and now, he’s alive. But certainly not the same boy you used to know.

Everything from your past is now abruptly thrown at you when you spent so much time trying to bury it. It’s almost unfair to how you have carelessly found yourself in a situation so foreign yet so familiar. You are well versed in the strangeness of danger, the unknown happens to pressure you into flight or fight mode. Though kindness is what your heart wants, your fierce and stricken mind always depends on the flight for your safety and survival. Even when others tell you otherwise.

Don’t think about it. Just leave. It’s presumably for the betterment of everyone’s sake.

You make it a point to at least leave the now empty plate in the sink, cautiously avoiding the owl. The owl continues to watch you as you turn to leave out the doorway. You cast him a look, unable to fight the clenching of slight dejection in your chest.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter to the barn owl, lips curving in a small smile.

The owl simply flutters the feathers of his wings.

You hum with amusement, and your eyes instantly spot a clock hung by the corner of the kitchen.

Five minutes to four. Bloody hell. He would be here any minute now.

You find your coat hung on the arm of the chesterfield by the fireplace and your shoes by the doorway. As you hurriedly shrug it on, the front door creaks as you swing it open gently, peeking through the crack—an empty landing. The parquet flooring with wooden panels along the walls and the twisting staircases with similar wooden bannisters that lead to the floor above and below. There’s sunlight pouring down the staircase that leads to the top, you spot a window above, with intricately patterned grills of ebony. You don’t recall seeing that last night as you were wearily trudging your way up the steps.

There’s another flat across the landing, the door slightly ajar. There’s chattering.

You carefully slip out the door, and you hold your breath as you gently close the door with a silent thud. With a heavy sigh, you finally feel a sense of relief, but feeling as terrified as ever. You hadn’t figured out where you were going to go.

You’re back to square one.

“What are you doing here, young lady?“

The aged voice of an elderly woman hurls you from your racing thoughts. With wide eyes, you turn to see a small-statured woman with brushed silver hair styled in a firm bun that glints under the light like strands of golden thread. The sunlight casts shadows onto her face that cause her wrinkles that line the strength of her expression with even more prominence. It accentuates the raise of her brow as she stares at you with sharp eyes.

There’s a bird with brilliant colours for feathers, perched on her right shoulder who cocks its head as it echoes the same question the lady had just asked.

It's a parrot. You have only seen one in pictures.

You’re frozen in your stance, mouth agape with words wanting to leave your lips, but not knowing what words should leave in the first place. With one hand still on the door, you stare at her, blatantly confused.

“Are you alright?” she presses on, nearing you with growing curiosity. Again, the parrot repeats after her. You gulp, hoping that by wrecking your brain, you’ll be able to say something. However, in a state of panic and under this small and fierce lady’s watchful eye, your mind persists on blanking out, lips sealed shut. You watch her gaze flit between you and your hand on the door handle, an insistent look upon her face.

“Mrs Monet.”

A voice calls out from below, echoing through the stairwell. Your eyes immediately drift to a pair of familiar blue ones. His figure is at the foot of the stairs, peering up at you as he attempts to hide the bewilderment in his expression by shooting a smile to the older lady that now has a name. Mrs Monet lights up at the sight of him scurrying up the stairs, with what you realise is your suitcase in his grasp.

“Oh, Mr Scamander! How wonderful it is to see you!”

In an instant, she pulls him into a hug, leaving two pecks on either side of his cheek. The parrot echoes its owner.

“Your mother tells me she hasn’t heard from you since spring.” The lady has a tone of affectionate disapproval. She speaks to him like he is her own son. Theseus laughs nervously at the mention of his mother as he tries his best to manoeuvre to your side while keeping his distance from the parrot. “Well, I am mostly preoccupied with the Ministry.”

Mrs Monet clicks her tongue in slight irritation. “You mustn’t let those frog-brained ministers take over your life, my dear.”

Another nervous laugh, “You very well know I will never let that happen.”

Suddenly, her gaze returns to your still stunned look, gesturing to you. “And who is this young lady?”

You and Theseus share a look. You still look scared.

“Well, this is... a friend. She has come to visit London.”

In a silent moment, you watch Mrs Monet’s eyes move between the two of you as you wait for a reaction. You finally gain enough courage and common sense to flash her a faint smile. Then, a smirk grows upon her lips, eyes bright with amusement. She lets out a thrilling laugh.

“Oh, I understand. Yes, a friend indeed.” The lady whispers enthusiastically as she attempts to suppress her laughter of delight at this unknown epiphany that might suggest something more to you and Theseus’ relationship. “It is no wonder you are always so busy, my dear. Now, tell me, are you—”

“My apologies, Mrs Monet, but we really must be going.” Theseus somewhat politely interrupts her to prevent more questions from being asked and further risking exposing your true identity. You don't realise how his hand is on the handle of his already opened front door, palm briskly brushing against yours as his other hand finds your shoulder, guiding you back into the flat. Mrs Monet continues to press on or rather pester Theseus because as far as you are concerned, it seems that you’re the first woman she has ever seen crossing the threshold of his home. You still don’t say anything as Theseus bids his prying neighbour farewell with a tight smile and shuts the door behind you.

Once more, you return to the sight of a mellow household. Theseus is now standing across the way and by the settee, settling your suitcase on the woven carpet. You decide to fixate your gaze on your tethered shoes on the wooden flooring, creaking as he shifts in his stance.

“Why did you leave?” were the words that left his lips after a heavy exhale. His voice is soft, his tone confiding. You can feel his gaze on you.

You blink, a sudden realisation to the unknown purpose of you wanting to leave. Was it because you felt unsafe or for the first time, you felt truly safe?

"I am not certain how to answer that.”

Silence, a beat too long. You hear the movement of his feet. “Are you uncomfortable here?”

A chuckle escapes your lips, hinted with bitterness, purely directed towards yourself. “No. Not at all. Far from that. In fact, I feel right at home here. Truly.”

It’s the irony of wanting a home for a long time now, and when you finally feel at rest, it all seems a little too much for you to handle. You sigh, your fingers trailing the curve of your forehead as if to wipe the imaginary sweat from your skin. You feel anxious under his gaze, but in the best way possible. You want to be open, to stop hiding.

“Forgive me,” your voice cracks. “This is all—it’s a lot to take in.”

You wave a hand in the air, struggling to suppress the sudden urge to cry. You aren’t sad, just overwhelmed and frustrated. For a long time, you have been constantly pushed around, you had no control of your life. Now, when you finally had the chance of making a proper decision, you aren’t so sure if it was made in righteous aid or in vain.

Theseus looks at you with saddened eyes, heart-clenching at the sight of your distraught figure. It’s the stress and intricacy of settling in a puzzling environment, in a society where you are preferably not accepted. He never wished to see you this disheartened and threatened; you seem nice, sweet and extensively intelligent though you harbour issues from your personal life. It’s probably what makes you seem strong and accurately intuitive.

He approaches with caution until he sees the tears welling in your eyes with clarity. They are still focused on the ground.

“I understand the adjustment is tough, and we are asking you to do more than you should. If you have changed your mind since yesterday, I must say that you have every right to do so.”

He watches the crease of your brows deepen, eyes blinking rapidly with every deep inhale and exhale. Your gaze is cast to your left and towards the window, pupils shifting with the swaying of the withered branches of the tree outside with leaves of the colour orange. In the glow, your face seems bright though it perfectly presents fresh tears drifting across your cheek, the darkness upon your eyelids and a smudge of sauce from the baked beans of your breakfast.

He is glad you have at least eaten. It’s the least he could do if this were to be the last he will be seeing you. It’s a tug of disappointment although Theseus hasn’t quite realised the reason for his sudden and minor irrational feelings.

Another deep breath, your fingers find the trails on your cheeks, swiping them away vigorously. “It’s a first, in my life, that I finally feel I have a purpose. All I ever wanted was a place where I can find solace and see my brother once more. Now that I have the opportunity to have both, I find myself not knowing how to act or even to accept the kindness you have given me.”

You’re looking at him now. He has a fond look.

You swallow with every intention to pull yourself together and from the solemnity of your speech seconds ago, fingers now picking at the loose seam of your coat. “I am sorry for leaving as I had not been thinking straight this morning. I know it’s for my own protection, and I don’t want to die just yet. Bloody hell, I just had the best meal in my entire life, and I still thought fleeing was a better idea.”

Theseus finds himself smiling, laughing lightly at your tone of sudden implied hilarity. Then, he says your name, articulated with an enigmatic hint of endearment albeit you may have been imagining things.

"You don't have to apologise. We have nothing against muggles--non-magical folk, but a certain group does and they have eyes everywhere. I should have never left you alone without assuring you were well adjusted."

You nod, feeling reassured. “Then, that makes us even.”

“Well, not exactly," he chirps, lips quirking. "I did also save you from being discovered moments ago.”

You chuckle. “Right. Mrs Monet; the woman with the parrot. Thank you, I was lucky enough you showed up in time.”

Theseus clears his throat. “I wouldn’t call you lucky because she now thinks I am involved...with you.”

You frown. “Involved?”

A pause, clearing his throat once more. “Involved...romantically.”

You purse your lips, also growing silent. You feel the heat growing upon your cheeks.

“Oh.” is all you manage to muster in the sudden emerging tension wafting in the air between the two of you. Barely friends and barely strangers. You don’t have to answer, it would only make it worse. What was it to make it worse? Your already augmenting attraction for the man although you aren’t admitting anything, even to yourself or how you constantly spins at the thought of being among magic? You have a feeling it isn’t the latter.

He brings his right hand to his face, scratching his jawline, and you wring your fingers together. He seems to be on edge when he turns to look behind him, spotting your suitcase. His index finger extends, gesturing to it.

“Your suitcase.” He says even though it’s obvious.

Nevertheless, you simply nod, pursing your lips. Theseus’ gaze returns to rest on your face, blinking once then twice. You watch him with an expectant look when in reality, not actually what to expect.

“I should—I’ll run you a bath.”

And with that, he leaves, scurrying down the hallway towards the bathroom. When you hear the muffled sound of gushing water, beating against the porcelain of the tub, you subconsciously bring your arm to your nose, sniffing it. You stink, quite badly and now, you feel a little embarrassed.

Staggering back in your step, your back hits the door as you lean against it. You throw your head back, blinking up to the cream coloured ceiling as you attempt to steady your sudden erratic heart. You don’t recall ever experiencing this strange feeling. Could this be just an emerging sense of wanting to belong and be in the company of someone? No matter the circumstances, you’re just glad Theseus is very understanding of your situation.

For once, you want to stay for the sake of clarity, and Theseus is now your only clarity.

TAGLIST:

@crumpets-are-better-with-jam

#theseus scamander #theseus scamander x reader #theseus scamander oneshot #theseus scamander imagine #theseus scamander x you #fantastic beats and where to find them #crimes of grindelwald

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jamie-leah · 4 years ago

Text

Traitor

Bucky x Reader

Oneshot

Summary: Everyone thinks you're a traitor but Bucky isn't convinced.

Word: 2592

Warnings: Swearing, action stuff, hints at abuse and violence at the end.

A/N: I had a half formed daydream that turned into this. Starts strong, ends weak, enjoy!

Oneshot Masterlist Series Masterlist

Steve throws your file on the desk in front of Bucky. Bucky just stares at your face on the front of the folder, pinned by a silver paper clip.

Silver was your favourite type of jewellery. Bucky remembered storing the information away for when he bought you a silver necklace for your birthday not long ago.

“I’m sorry, Buck, but we had an operative confirm everything I just told you. Y/N is a contract killer, an assassin and she was sent here to infiltrate and kill. Namely, all of us.”

Bucky hears the words coming from Steve’s mouth, but he can’t understand them. Images of you flash in his mind. You laughing at one of his lame jokes, you crying in his arms from a nightmare, you underneath him moaning his name as he kisses a trail down your neck.

Bucky shakes his head, “I don’t believe that Steve, I can’t. Who’s the source? How do you know they’re legit?”

Steve picks up a remote and points it at a screen in the room. It blinks to life on a still image of you in a restaurant, kissing the cheek of one of the most prominent mob bosses in the city and known Hydra agent.

Bucky stands so fast his chair cracks on the floor as he tears out of the office at full speed. He skips passed the elevator and takes the stairs, missing steps in his rush.

He keeps going and going until he hits the lowest level underneath the tower and storms passed all the guards. None of them challenge him, too afraid of the former Winter Soldier to get in his way.

As Bucky gets to the cells, he grabs an agent by the scruff and grinds out, “which cell?”

They all knew who he was talking about. Everyone would be talking about this for a while to come. The agent points into the open space of cells and stutters, “its, c-cell 203”.

Bucky drops the agent and stalks through the cells until he finally comes to 203. He steps into view with clenched fists and doesn’t pause before he asks, “why?”

You sit on the edge of the cot, elbows on knees, staring at the grey wall opposite. It takes you a moment to build up the courage to look at him. You never intended for this to happen. You never wanted to get feelings involved, but as you look at Bucky, you know it’s far too late for that now. Now you have a mess on your hands.

You debate how to play this. Do you keep up the contract killer façade or do you confess, tell him everything you’ve ever wanted to tell another human being before?

“Barnes, I should have known you would pay me a visit sooner rather than later.”

Bucky felt like you had struck him in the face with the way you addressed him, but he holds firm, “why?”

“Why what? I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific”, you reply coolly as you stand to face him.

Bucky changes his question, “is it true? Are you a contract killer?”

It takes you a few moments to keep the mask in place, “yes”.

You watch the pain flash across his features for the briefest of moments before he locks it away to be felt in private. It breaks your heart, but you’re so used to the feeling it never shows on your face.

Bucky goes to turn from you, wanting to get away, the sight of you too much to bear. You throw a question out into the void between you before he can retreat, “are you really going to leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Bucky never turns back to look at you, but he whispers, “was any of it ever real?”

Despite knowing this was the question, despite hearing it from a few people across your lifetime, it was the first time it ever hit you in the gut with such force you had to take a silent gulp of air before choking out, “no”.

He leaves without another word.

You wait a few days. Working out the routine of the place before you wait for your next move.

You wait with your back to a small portion of the concrete wall next to the cell door. A blind spot. And when the guard brings your food and slides it under the metal bars, he looks up to find you missing.

Just as he steps closer to look, you strike. You shoot your arms between the bars and pull so hard his head bangs into the metal and he crumples, out cold.

You drag is body parallel to the door and you sweep his body for keys. You start to lose hope when your hand flits over cool metal and a little jingle rings out.

You wait fifteen minutes until lights out and the use the keys. You drag the guard into the cell, swapping your uniforms before closing the door and locking him in. You check all your hair is tucked until the cap before heading for the locked door between freedom and your prison.

You rap on the metal with your heart beating furiously against your ribcage. But the door opens without a problem and you have to stop yourself from sprinting down the hall and up the stairwell.

Once you make it up one flight of stairs with no alarms raised you start to sprint. Before you leave, you have to make it back to your room for your go bag. You can’t leave it when it has all the information you need for what started this all off.

You run and run and run. You run until your lungs burn with a fire that’s been flowing in your veins since you were born. You run until your legs scream at you to stop and just when you don’t think you can take any more flights of stairs, you make it to the top.

You stop. Your hand on the handle, taking a moment to get your breathing under control. You push the handle down slowly and open the door a crack to find the hallway in darkness.

You slip through and creep on the tiles without a sound as you make it to the first spare room in the hall.

You get into the room no problem and let out a breath when you realise no one knows you used this room to stash your information.

You waste no time in grabbing your go back from the closet, checking everything you need is in there before heading for the door again. Three steps from the exit and alarms scream out, waking everyone from their slumber. The alarm is followed by a female robotic voice, “alert, alert, prisoner escape. Alert, alert, prisoner escape.”

You swear under your breath as you rush out the door to see Bucky, Natasha and Sam at the end of the hall, near the stairway. Your only exit.

They spot you seconds after you spot them, and you take off running in the opposite direction. You can’t afford a hand to hand with all three of them. As confident as you are in your abilities they have just as much, and you don’t want to hurt them.

They shout in your direction, but you ignore them as you unzip your bag and rummage around for a miracle. You get to the living space when you finally feel it and a flimsy plan comes to mind.

You turn, gun in both hands as you drop the go bag. Bucky, Natasha and Sam all creep into the room, guns pointed in your direction as yours is in theirs.

“There’s nowhere else to go now, Y/N,” Sam says in his calm way.

You hold firm, the sofas keeping the four of you apart. You look in Bucky’s direction as you talk, “things are more complicated than they seem. And I’m sorry you were caught up in it. I’m not a good person and I’ll get what I deserve, but I have something I need to do first.”

“And what’s that? Kills us?”, Nat asks.

You shake your head, still looking at Bucky, “If I wanted to kill you, I could have done it three times over. You’re not my mission.”

“Then give yourself up and explain.” Sam tries to reason.

You lower your gun slowly, “it would take too long, and you may never believe me. I can’t afford that, and I’ll never get a chance like this again.”

Bucky remains silent throughout the whole exchange, but you study each other the entire time. You try to convey that you lied earlier before reaching up your arm with lightning speed.

Two shots and the chandelier that Stark insisted on installing for the living room crashes in front of the three as you turn and shoot the glass window. As the glass spiderwebs, you drop the gun and run at full speed. You have a moment to acknowledge that throwing yourself from the top of the tower is the dumbest move you’ve ever made as the air rushes to greet you.

You twist with a hand in your pocket and throw upwards, watching and praying for your miracle to work as the rope and hook catches and you plummet.

You fall down the building on the rope watching the ground and unclip at the last second, rolling with the momentum as the impact jars through your bones.

Bucky couldn’t believe you threw yourself out the window. He was the first to recover, leaping over the lights and the sofa to dive head first after you. He digs his metal hand into the concrete and slides down after you.

He sees you roll and run immediately like the pro that you are and wastes no time pursuing you.

You dart between traffic and glance behind to see him behind you. You growl in frustration at the stubborn solider, having to change your plans once again as you head for the roads.

You instinctively feel Bucky gaining on you with the serum pumping through his veins so when you spot a cargo truck coming on the road below. You don’t hesitate to jump off the road you’re on and slam into the truck underneath.

Your lungs scream for the third time that night as all the air leaves them, but you pay no attention as you look up to find Bucky staring after you.

You walk in the quiet of the night, looking down at the folded piece of paper. You check you have the right address when the empty warehouse finally comes into view. You slip in without any problems and head over to the machine where you stashed more stuff.

Just as you go to reach for the bag you hear the click of a gun. You freeze. You turn slowly, with your hands visible and find yourself staring into the face of Bucky and the barrel of his gun.

You resist the urge to roll your eyes and sigh, “how did you find me?”

“Please, do you really think I don’t know you after all this time? After our talk in the cells, I checked all the spare rooms. Found your go bag and the addresses. This was the closest one to the tower”, Bucky replies with an easy shrug.

You nod your head, “but if you found them, why did you leave them there? Why didn’t you tell anyone else?”.

“Tell me what’s going on, Y/N”, Bucky dodges the question.

You knew there was no other way out of this now. You had to tell him if you ever had a hope of getting this done tonight.

“Look, can you put the gun down-“

“Not until you tell me what’s going on. I can’t trust you.”

You pretend like his words don’t hurt, though they’re warranted, “okay, okay. Look, most of it is true. I am a contract killer. Long story short, I was born into a mob family. Mum died giving birth to me and left me and my older sister with my piece of shit father, the “use you as an ashtray type father”. At least he did with my sister. She took the brunt of his shit…anyway, when I turned 13 and had my first period, he sold me to a man. That man? Was the mob boss I know you saw me with, Joe Selene. I’ll skip passed all the torture and right to the part where he trained me as a contract killer for him and bided my time. My father had gone underground and with my limited access to resources I couldn’t find him.”

Bucky lowers the gun as you go through your story, his features softening at your tale of tragedy.

“I swore to my sister that I would come for her but I needed to gain the trust of Selene so I could get the resources to find my father. That was when he got involved with Hydra and they asked him to take you out. I agreed, knowing that you would have all the resources I needed to find my father and my sister.”

Bucky shakes his head, “why didn’t you tell me, us, any of this? We could have helped you.”

You look away from him, “because about a week after I got to the tower, I read my sisters name in the obituary. All the people I had killed to get to my sister was for nothing. She died alone, waiting for a rescue that never came and I knew…I knew that I was going to kill that bastard for everything that happened. I also knew that none of you would let me. You would reason about justice and doing things the right way. But I know what’s right and that’s that bastard six feet under and in hell.”

You look back up at Bucky to find him already watching you. You square your shoulders and jut your chin as you say, “so, you’re either with me or against me and so help me God, if you try to stop me from leaving this building and killing that piece of shit, I will not hesitate to put you down. I told you that you’re not my mission, but I will damn make sure nothing gets in the way.”

Bucky nods, “I’m in.”

You turn back to your bag and pull out the knives to strap around your body. You hand a few to Bucky and he takes them without a word.

As he turns to head back out of the warehouse you throw the question out again, “are you really going to leave without asking me the question you’ve been dying to ask me?”

Bucky turns to look at you this time. He captures your eyes with his as he stares into your soul and whispers, “was any of it real?”

You reply without hesitation, “yes. Every single word.”

Bucky takes a few long strides before grabbing your face with his hands and crashing his lips to yours in a bruising kiss. You return with the same ferocity, gripping his shirt in your fists to try and bring his body closer to yours.

When you can no longer breathe, you break the kiss. You both pant as Bucky brings his forehead down to meet yours. He whispers, “after we go drop a few bodies, what do you say we go take a trip. Just you and me?”

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awindylife-writes · 4 years ago

Text

Meeting Martha

Relationships: 10th Doctor x reader, Martha x reader (platonic), Martha x Doctor (platonic), Rose x reader (mentioned, platonic)

Summary: s3e1 Smith and Jones rewrite. The Doctor and you meet Martha and defeat the Plazmavore Florence.

Warnings: short description of a panic attack, mentions of the loss of Rose, the Doctor almost dies again

Genre: angst and fluff

You had just gone to get a cocoa. Just a cocoa, from the coffee machine, in a hospital, ON EARTH, and then suddenly there was an earthquake and you were ON THE MOON. You had stopped to help the terrified people around you and then when you got back the Doctor's room, HE WAS GONE. And you couldn't even go looking for him because there were SPACE RHYNOS marching around. You evaded them, because you figured they were searching for aliens and for all you knew you were alien enough to be in danger. And that meant the Doctor was DEFINITELY in danger and that made breath catch in your throat.

Okay okay okay. Don't panic, just don't panic. He's okay, he's clever, he'll stay alive long enough for you to find him.

You breathed deeply and started your search.

Dangerdangerdanger and he couldn't go looking for Y/N, there wasn't enough time. He knew she was clever and perfectly capable of taking care of herself, but the thought of her alone, out of his sight slipping through his fingers youcan'tprotecther everythingyoutouchcrumblestodustNONONONO-

Martha was calling his name in worry.

"I'm alright, I'm alright," the Doctor assured her as soon as he could breathe.

She gave him a flat look. "I'm almost a doctor, Doctor, and that was a panic attack." She squeezed his hand. "What's wrong?" she all but demanded.

He found himself speaking, "I have a friend, Y/N, she was here with me, and she's not here. She can take care of herself," he assured Martha, "but..." Griefgriefgrief a hole in his chest that could swallow the universe, terror coursing through him like a river and he'll drown-

He was prepared this time and managed to pull himself out, focused on Martha's warm hand in his. "We don't have time for this," he told mostly himself but her too and turned back to the computer. Distraction, he needed a distraction.

Seemingly coming to a decision, Martha asked helpfully, "What are we looking for?"

"I don't know, say, any patient admitted in the past week with unusual simptoms? Maybe there's a backup!" He grabbed the computer and started examining it.

"Just- Keep working," Martha told him. "I'll go ask Mister Stoker, he might know." She left, throwing a worried look over her shoulder.

"That's the thing about Slabs, they always travel in pairs.

"Where the hell have you been?" You finally found the Doctor crouching behind a water dispenser. He was with a doctor, and wasn't that funny. "And why are you barefoot?" you went on in disbelief before he could answer, then decided you really didn't care. At least he was alive, which meant they hadn't found him yet. Relief was so, so good.

You waved in a 'nevermind' gesture and turned to the woman crouching beside him. "Hello, I'm Y/N Y/S," you offered her your hand with a smile. She took it and you helped her stand up. "I travel with him. I hope he hasn't been rude yet."

"Oi!" the Doctor exclaimed, offended. You grinned fondly at him and then focused back on the doctor.

"I'm Martha, Martha Jones. And no, he hasn't been rude yet," she replied, returning the smile and firmly shaking your hand.

"Nice to meet you," you said, pleased, and then there was a platoon of pink rhinos four steps away from you.

"Run!" you yelled, and off you went. (The feeling of the Doctor's warm hand in yours did wonders for your nerves, even though you were being shot at.)

"Y/N, I need time," the Doctor told you.

"Okay, what do we do?" you asked, looking between him and the aproaching army.

"Hold them up." The Doctor was holding your face in his hands and kissed your cheek. "Stay here, get processed!" he ordered and then he was off.

You and Martha glanced at each other. "Well, this should be fun," you remarked. "Don't worry, you're completely safe. You should go before me so they don't mistake you for my associate."

Martha shook her head. "Wait, aren't you an alien too? What if they execute you?" she asked, her black eyes wide with worry.

"Nah, I'm as human as you are," you assured her with a grin and then there were rhynos marching down the corridor towards you. You never did ask the Doctor their name, there hadn't been time.

They flashed that light in Martha's face ("Human.") and then it was your turn.

"Human. Wait. Non-human trace suspected. Non-human element confirmed. Authorize full scan." They pushed you against the wall.

"What are you. What are you."

When the army moved on, you and Martha followed them.

Then there was a room, and a door, and then there was the Doctor. He was on the floor, unmoving. He was as white as a sheet. He wasn't breathing.

"Conformation - deceased."

Everything stopped.

There was someone rushing past you but you didn't care. Then there was something cold against your back and you slid down to the floor. There were shouts and screams but they were so far away.

The chasm in your chest opened and swallowed you whole. There was nothing. There was nothing anymore.

Sometime after darkness took you.

Your eyes flew open and you gasped for breath. You sat up, looki-

Doctor. The Doctor was holding your hand, warm and grinning and alive. Something in you burst and you fell around his neck. He held you tightly as you clung to him, desparatly repeating, "You're-alive-you're- alive-you're-alive-you're-alive-"

"I'm here. I'm here, I'm so sorry, I'm here..." his soft voice joined yours.

You realized you were sobbing and hot tears were streaming down your face. "I thought-" Your voice broke and you couldn't go on. You buried your nose in his shoulder instead, eyes closed, and breathed.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Y/N. I didn't know any other way." His warm breath brushed your neck. The Doctor's voice was tight with sorrow, but there was fear too. Fear that he'd gone too far.

You stopped him, "I know. I know. And I don't blame you, but if you ever-"

"I won't," the Doctor cut you off and held you even tighter. "I swear I'll try to stay alive. I'll be careful, at least for the time being," he vowed, his voice serious.

You nodded into his shoulder. "Good. 'Cause I know what we do is dangerous, and that this'll probably happen again, but please, not now. Not yet." (Not after Rose went unspoken, but you both heard it.

"I promise," he vowed and something in you relaxed. This didn't mean the pain is gone, but the terror had been subjued. You would carry their marks for a long time.

The Doctor gently let go of you enough to see your face. "Promise me too," he pleaded softly.

You were a bit lost so he went on, "D'you think I could bear it any better if it had been you?" His voice was increduolus but full of sorrow, like he couldn't believe you didn't know already.

You squeezed his hand with a nod. "I promise."

He exhaled in relief and found your gaze with his own, then he smiled and his beautiful brown eyes were a little brighter. You returned the smile.

He pulled you to him again now, and you settled in his arms. You held each other for a long time.

When you finally let go, Martha came closer. She'd been opening the windows, and then you thought she'd just stayed away to give you some space.

"Who did you lose?" she asked gently. She wasn't stupid. She was a doctor and she knew grief.

The Doctor and you turned to look at her, and then glanced at each other. "Rose," he answered. You could hear the pain in his voice. "Her name was Rose."

"She was our best friend," you continued. "We loved her, we were a family, and she's gone." You were NOT going to cry.

"She isn't dead," the Doctor gently reminded you, holding your eyes with his intense gaze. "She isn't."

"I know. I know. But we'll never see her again," you said to him and goddamnit you were on the verge of tears. "Not ever."

"She's in a parallel universe," the Doctor told Martha while looking at the floor, "locked away. The walls are sealed, we can't get to her and she can't get to us. The end."

Silence followed.

You took a steadying breath. "But she is alive," you nodded to yourself. "We can hold onto that. She has a future, and we have a future, just not together," you smiled sadly at the Doctor with tears in your eyes. "We'll be alright," you nodded.

He returned the smile with the same sorrow on his face. "Yeah."

You could hear talking somewhere below you, and then sirens and the crowd outside.

"We should go," you told the Doctor, looking up at his face. He sighed and nodded, then pulled himself up and offered you a hand.

After you stood up, you turned to Martha. Brave, strong, clever Martha. You stepped towards her with open arms. She smiled, her black eyes warm, and pulled you close.

"Thank you," you told her, your voice tight. "Thank you so, so much. I can't thank you enough, not just for saving everyone, but for saving him. Thank you."

She chuckled and pulled away to look at you. "You're welcome, and no problem. All there in the job title," she joked.

"Well, thank you, doctor Martha Jones," you grinned.

"But I'm not a doctor yet."

"You will be," you said and it was time.

"Right then, you two. I have patients to tend to, and I'm sure you have some place to be, so off we go." Martha waved you toward the door.

You and the Doctor left the wrecked room and started down the left, while she went down the right corridor.

Next challenge: how to get out of the hospital unnoticed. After a day like this, you thought it would be easy.

"What if we took Martha with us?" the Doctor suggested when you were both safe in the TARDIS.

"I think that's a fantastic idea," you replied with a smile. "But we have to make sure she doesn't feel like she's... like she's second best," you said seriously. "Like she's a rebound."

The last thing you wanted was to hurt the brilliant woman you had met. You knew the Doctor, and you knew yourself. You were both emotional messes right now but that didn't mean you got to demean Martha. You wouldn't stand for that.

"We won't," the Doctor assured you. "We're making a friend, that's it."

"That's no small thing," you told him. "And we're not taking her for just one trip, because if that's what you mean, then it's better to leave her alone," you made sure to look him in the eye. "That would just be cruel," you said sadly.

"I know," he nodded, looking down at the console. "And we're not just taking her for a spin."

"So, if she agrees, she still might not," you pointed out, "she's in for the long haul. Or until she decides she's had enough." But deep down you didn't think she would. She would always have the option to, of course, but there was something telling you that she wouldn't.

"I think she'll stay," the Doctor voiced your thoughts with a soft smile on his lips.

"You know what?" you grinned. "I think so too."

"Let's go get our Martha," he said in that playful tone of his and released the hand brake. At once the TARDIS shook wildly and you both laughed.

Off you went.

#doctor who #doctor who x reader #the doctor x reader #10th doctor x reader #tenth doctor x reader #10th doctor #tenth doctor #the doctor #reader insert #doctor who fanfiction #martha x reader #martha jones x reader #martha jones #martha #rose x reader #rose tyler x reader #rose #rose tyler

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yostresswritinggirl · 4 years ago

Text

A Yearly Memory

~Zhongli x Reader

Warnings: None

Characters: Zhongli, Lesser God!Reader

Relationship: Ambiguous

Word Count: 1.2k words

A small drabble because I got self-conscious seeing y'all greet the Geo daddy- Happy Birthday, Zhongli hnghhh, first time greeting a fictional character kek and writing in tumblr sooo Enjoy a happy new year and let's hope this one does end happy!

Made this at 2:55 AM so don't expect much kek

Can you imagine 6000 and more years of the same day passing, taking time to organize a feast for that particular date? In their circumstance, time isn't relevant, for Gods who lived beyond a millenia. Honestly, everyone who lived in Celestia saw time as irrelevant and passing, nothing but the sun and the moon exchanging thrones in the sky for 365 rotations.

But for Rex Lapis who prides himself the oldest archon also relives those 6 milleniums ever so clearly.

And in his passing, and even before, he has grown accustomed to the importance of 'time' and 'day' and 'night'.

Yet, he stood atop a grassy cliff, overlooking the harbour of his own land where comes a perfect view of the moon parallel to where he stands.

In this particular day every passing year, he finds himself here as if pulled by the winds himself for reasons he cannot fathom.

"Morax-? Morax!" Calls from behind him accompanied with light footsteps crunching the blades of grass under it. His amber eyes only widen slightly before willing it to pull away from the waves that bounced the moonlight.

"God of Memories— (Y/N), I was not aware of your immigration to Liyue, are you perhaps here to document the coming of the annual departure to a new cycle?"

Your form finally catches up to his side, straightened after gathering yourself from what seems to be a marathon just to find him. The ex-archon besides you possessed a slight smile at the height difference. For it was ironic that despite the same age you had lived (and maybe even more for you, as you had existed whence the first memory had came), he was still very much heads above you, contrasting to him as you don a younger appearance to his olden self.

You carry with you a device he does not recognize and when his eyes bounces back to where yours shine in hidden mischief, you looked at him almost offended, incredulous.

"Mr. Newly-Retired, I've heard you abandoned your position to live among the humans you once overlooked," you didn't even bother to answer him.

He'd perked up, tensing his shoulders, ready to be lectured by yours truly. For after all it was you two left that remained longest standing in the history of higher beings, he'd known you'd feel betrayed that he had just abandoned your side like so.

He opens his mouth to explain— "And so, to start your new chapter, it's only fair we impart to you some human tradition!" and it stays open in confusion.

The glint in your eyes finally surfaces full blown and he couldn't help but relish in that cheeky smile you matched it with, arms shifting to lift the contraption hanging from your neck. "I'm fairly certain I'm accurate on my counting so

Happy 6052nd birthday, Zhongli!"

He hides his raw surprise and fluster in an airy chuckle, following your twinkling giggle as you nudged him with an elbow.

Is that why he's subconsciously sentimental of this day ever since? For it was the exact date but rolled back thousand of years ago, to when he first set foot on Teyvat?

"Birthdays... I didn't even notice, and quiet so early too. Thank you, (Y/N), I am grateful for your time and consideration." Zhongli would flash a smile so sentimental and pure that it almost brings you to your knees with the innocence it carries. He's so precious— precious!

"Y-yes, you are welcome! I would have brought some fresh silk flowers as a gift," he'd tilt his head in silent inquiry as you once again fumbled on the rectangular box, "but such gifts wilts too easily, swept aside in just four days! Too quick and easily forgotten." Now the god before you would love to protest, for everything you'd leave behind for him will always be immortalized in his heart and mind.

"So I created this thing over here! I call it a Kamera!" Despite his confusion over the contraption, your triumphant grin only sends him fluttering and urging you to continue. For others it was a rare sight to see someone else do the talking when Zhongli was part of the conversation, but the man in question also enjoys lending an ear, indulging himself especially when it comes to knowledge he has not heard of. "It freezes a moment in time, capturing it in a parchment to be kept forever. As your first celebration, I wanted to capture it clearly for us to look back to together! Like so!"

Without another word, you had grabbed his forearm to urge him lower, using the same hand to loosely wrap around his neck. He'd almost had to kneel from the height difference as he stumbled upon your forcefulness when a click and a fragment of light sounded from afront before he could get his bearings.

"Tada! Oh look, you look so good in an image, it worked perfectly!"

Your energy matched a very particular person Zhongli had to deal with but yours were refreshing and contagious despite the nigh hours of the night.

He had patted his sleeve straight as he watches you mercilessly flap a piece of paper that somehow appeared on your hand. He has questions, a lot, and he was once again interrupted by you: shoving the paper to his face like it was a trophy of a competition you'd been waiting for your whole life.

It was a portrait but accurately colored and captured to a size as big as his palm. Your arm around his neck with a wide, closed-eye grin while looking straight ahead and him (clearly unprepared) with an obvious surprise and touch of obliviousness, glowing amber eyes slightly trained to your profile.

He was glad he was a professional in keeping a calm composture, because he saw just about the most obvious red dust on his cheeks, now immortalized for everyone who sets their eyes upon on the paper to witness.

"Ah, I'm so happy it worked even when I had to rush it to be on time! Here, keep this, as your birthday gift!" You practically shoved the device and the image to his arms with buzzing excitement and pride. "Happy birthday, again!"

An advance technology constructed with the sole idea of being a gift for him? His appreciation is beyond words that rendered him speechless and you patiently watch him take into account everything that has been thrown at him.

"Zhong-zhong... you're too quiet—"

A snap and a flash blew your pupils and forced you to cover your eyes to rub the spots dancing in your vision. He was a fast learner but damn, he could have warned you of his impulsive ministrations.

As you whine over your semi-blinded state with jumbled protests spewing out of your lips, the man before you holds a euphoric smile over the new paper clutched between his fingers.

It was the best gift he'd ever received in his lifetime.

"Thank you, for this and everything. I hope you know how deeply I appreciate you."

Morax's smile, the God of War, however faltered at the edges when he saw the darkened stare looking down upon him. The twitch of your eyebrow makes a sudden sweat fall off his.

#genshin impact x reader #genshin impact #genshin impact zhongli #genshin impact oneshots #zhongli #zhongli x reader #exile.flower

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jangofctts · 5 years ago

Text

Don’t Push Your Luck (Boba Fett x Reader)

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k wooF

Warnings: smut, language, handjobs, oral (male receiving), fingering, heavy petting, there is SOFT. I REPEAT SOFT FLUFF. but only SOME

Chapter (1), (2)

a/n: hey y’all...welcome...finally this bITCH IS OUT. thanks to @djxrxn WHOMST HAVE BEEN THE MAIN MOTIVATOR BEHIND THIS. I LOVE YOU SO MUCH 💖🥵🤠

(also lmk if you wanna be tagged or just wanna YELL at me)

It’s impossible not to count down the days, the hours, the seconds leading up to your untimely end. A sleep cycle and half to be exact. A perfect amount of time to finish counting each loose wire and rusty screw holding together this heap of junk—a miracle really, that it’s able to jump to hyperspace, let alone fly.

You’re no expert on the inner workings of a spacecraft, but your familiarity with Imperial grade cruisers gift you the impeccable skill of deducing that the hiss of air every couple minutes out of the hydraulic piping is not ideal. Nor is the solar light overhead that flickers and hums, skirting the precarious line of exploding in your face or simply plunging the cargo hold into murky darkness.

At this point you’d take either.

You sigh, resting the back of your head against the wall as the barbed tendrils of an oncoming headache settles behind your eyes.

Between that, the stupid light, and your boredom; it’s enough to make anyone stir crazy. Stars—even the arduous task of talking to Boba Fett is morphing into something akin to craving. Even if his idea of a conversation runs parallel to the art of smug, male pride and snide words meant to pick and prod—it’s better than whatever this is.

Scoffing, you curl your knees up to your chest and rest your chin over your knee. This is pathetic.

You should despise him—feel like kicking his teeth in—or helmet—whatever. He aided in the killing of you friend—probably took care of all the other poor souls who even dared to breathe your way too. Boba Fett is a despicable, no good bounty hunter who finds far too much fun in the misfortune of others.

And yet…

The task of attaching your hate to the man is proving to be more difficult than you would’ve guessed. You don’t regret what you’ve done with him—far from it in fact—but your tolerance, bordering enjoying his company, is concerning. To say in the least.

Nothing good will come out of the conflicted ball of knots that settle in your chest, ensnaring your heartstrings into that endless monstrosity.

Though none of it stops the way your chest constricts, heart skipping a few vital beats at the familiar sound of his spurs resonate through the ship. They chink against the metal pegs of the ladder, boots settling on the ground with a heavy thump. A moment later Boba steps into your line of sight, tattered cloak and chipped armor in all its battered glory.

He isn’t an immanent threat, but your eyes still track each movement. The rational part of you knows he won’t lash out, but you’re still his quarry and even a wolf with a severed head has the power to bite. No part of you wants to brave the sharp points of his teeth.

Not even a fraction of his attention is thrown your way as he does his routine inspections of your fellow captured quarries, frozen in their carbonite prisons. You just hope none of them spontaneously reanimate—you’re not too keen on another shipmate. Your little corner is crowded as is and forget sharing your blanket. It’s tattered and smells like dust and mothballs and you have a sneaking suspicion it’s just one of Boba’s old cloaks he outgrew—but you’re thankful for it anyhow.

You flinch as he punches in a code, the loud grate of metal on metal piercing your ears as the carbonite slabs swing back into their storage space. With an incline of his head, his weighted gaze settles on your person.

“Still nervous?”

You sniff and shake your head. “You just…startled me is all.”

Boba snorts in disbelief and pads closer. He reaches the toes of your boots and squats, one gloved forearm resting over his knee as the other reaches out to capture a lock of your hair. He twirls it between his fingers and gently tugs, quiet as he studies you behind the visor. The action is familiar—doesn’t scare you as much as it once did, but his closeness still overwhelms.

“I see you’ve found some courage, gentle Rabbit,” he surmises, untangling his fingers from your hair to tap beneath your chin. “While we’re at it…any last favors I can provide?”

It’s whiplash—so stupefying it renders your tongue speechless, a heated blush rushing up your cheeks and to the tip of your ears. He snickers and shakes his head, rocking back onto his heels to stand as you sputter for words.

It’s a joke—a garbage one at your expense. Always at the butt-end of things with no room to snap back. Yet, as he turns on his heel to return to the cockpit—it’s the perfect opportunity. Not the sort of favor he’d be expecting, but a favor nonetheless.

“Can I—“ He pauses and casts a glance over his shoulder as you muster enough bravery to follow through. “Do you think I could—could sit in the cockpit? Just for a little while…”

It’s a long-shot—like launching a flimsy javelin at a target no larger than a thumbtack three thousand clicks away. Not happening—more likely to beat a rancor in a fucking wrestling match then sway the bounty hunter’s opinion. Regardless, the question must stun him—the terse silence drags on for an agonizing amount of time, amping up your anxiety tenfold.

“I’m sorry—I just—I wanted to see the stars one last time,” you mumble, curling into yourself with a wince. “It’s stupid—“

“It’s hyperspace—not much to look at.” He curtly interrupts. “An asteroid if you’re lucky.”

Your spirits plummet further—scraping against the dirt like a crashed speeder geared to the highest velocity and headed straight for a brick wall. Maker this was dumb—

“The second you try anything funny—“

You perk up, your spine straightening as he turns swiftly on his heel and marches back. He leans down at the waist, firmly ensnaring your chin between his forefinger and thumb, straining the muscles in your neck. “—you’ll end up in there.”

He jerks his head over his shoulder at the carbonfreezer. Yeah. No thank you. Absolutely zero interest in becoming a human popsicle.

“You won’t even notice I’m there,” you breathe, holding your stare steady. “Promise.”

Boba hums in thought, releases your chin and pats your cheek. He straightens and taps at his vambraces and with a hiss of air the stasis cuffs around your wrists clatter to the floor. You stand and sigh, rubbing at the angry raised lines, just shy from a dark bruise.

The bounty hunter ushers you towards the ladder, his hand anchored to your shoulder. You stop yourself from scoffing. The action is useless—you’ve got no clever scheme up your sleeve or malicious motive but you can never be too cautious you suppose—not with this line of work.

You try not to snoop once you clamber up into the second level—but Maker—it’s interesting. There’s a small bunk on the other end of the short corridor, messy blankets thrown on top and a deconstructed blaster that’s seen better days. Gray and off-white undershirts hang off the metal rigging on the bunk and the sight of his laundry is undoubtedly jarring. It’s silly not to think he doesn’t do laundry but—imagining the most feared bounty hunter in the Galaxy washing his tidy whities is hilarious.

“Come on,” Boba urges, nudging your shoulder with his own.

Your tiny smile never falters as he leads you into the domed cockpit, the neon blue of hyperspace reflecting across his chipped armor with miniature streaks of light. He gestures at the co-pilot’s seat tucked beside the com board, a litany of buttons blinking and flashing as you gingerly sit.

The hinges squeak as the chair spins, your eye catching the mess of beaded and jeweled necklaces that hang on a tiny hook above the board. You recognize a few—Kashyykian ceremonial beads, the glittering coil of pure, refined diamonds from Pantora and the braided strands of bantha leather common on Tatooine. Your fingers drift up and thumb at the carved wooden Wroshyr beads.

Trophies—

“Don’t touch those.”

You jump and yank your hand back. “So...all I can do is...sit?”

“Isn’t that what you asked for?”

You have to agree—there isn’t much to look at. Hyperspace, as fascinating as it is, looses its charm once the vertigo sets in. To be honest—you weren’t expecting to get this far.

Oh well.

A change in scenery is always nice. Different loose wires and screws to count…

And the seat spins. Score.

Boba however, does not share in your bemused sentiments. Your mopey sighing and the constant squeak of loose bearings on your spinny chair is not pleasant to the ear, apparently.

“If you’re that bored, Rabbit,” he sighs, casting a sharp glance over his shoulder. “You could always put those hands to work.”

You pause and swipe a finger through the dust between the toggles on the comm board and absentmindedly respond. “I don’t think I’d be much help. I’m not very technically inclined and oh—“

Your cheeks flush when he tilts his head. “You, uh...didn’t mean that sort of work, did you?”

Boba snorts and crosses his ankle over his knee and rests his helmet on the headrest. The stretched out figure of his body is alluring—fascinating to studying each nick and scratch on his armor without the repercussions of him staring back. His vambraces clink against his cuirass as he laces his fingers together, resting his hands just above his codpiece.

“Do you need something, Rabbit?”

You swallow, your eyes flicking back up to a more respectable place for them to linger. “Um..n-no. I’m fine. Just…”

He rolls his head to the side, the shadows from hyperspace carving out the sharp lines of his helmet into an even deeper dramatic cut. You squirm and focus your eyes on the frayed laces of your boots.

“It’s alright. You can tell me, sweet girl.” His goads, tempting you out onto that slippery slope of desire.

He uncross his legs and uses the tip of his boot to languidly spin himself around, his knees spread wide in a display of mock easiness. Boba’s thumbs drum against his ammo belt, the quiet, rhythmic tap…tap…tap…the only sound filling the charged silence. It’s the Academy all over again; sat down and scrutinized until you crack—spill every secret until they’re satisfied— and Boba Fett is no different…

You scramble for words, wrangling your thoughts into something somewhat comprehensive. “I’m—I—well—“

He cocks his head, light bouncing off the silvery pockmark on his helmet. Boba’s hand idly travels lower, brushes off imaginary dust on his thigh and settles his fingers over the clasps to this codpiece. His thumb flicks it open then closed, all too keen on where your eyes are glued to.

“You want your hands on my cock again? Is that it?” Boba purrs in amusement. You tongue passes over your lip as you wrench your eyes off of him yet again.

“There’s no need to be play coy, girl,” Boba snickers, “Tell me.”

The words jump out of your mouth—no forethought and apparently not an ounce of self control. “Yes—I want...to p-put my hands on you.”

“On me or my cock?”

You mouth goes dry as you mumble out a feeble agreement. “Your…cock.”

Boba huffs in self satisfaction. “Come here then.”

On already shaky legs you stumble out of your seat and plant yourself in front of him. You have no visual confirmation but the hair-raising sensations as his eyes rake down your body sends shivers up your spine.

Your mouth parts, but before you’re even able to ask what he wants—he beats you to it.

“Your choice, Rabbit.”

Not helpful, you think.

Regardless of the lack of direction, you chew on the inside of your cheek and slowly lower yourself onto your knees, sliding easily between his parted legs. The only indication you know he’s aware you’re there is a quick shift of his hips, settling further into the leather cushion.

His leg jumps involuntarily as your fingers skim up his knee. If you weren’t interested in receiving a lovely black eye, you’d have the nerve to accuse him of being ticklish.

Biting the corner of your lip to stave off your coy smile, your hand continues its path up along his inner thigh. There’s a short huff of air that filters through the vocoder as your fingertips reach the codpiece. They brush over the circular dent left by a blaster, curiosity piqued at the strange location.

You want to ask—but—the thought is fleeting, far more interested in finding the tiny clasps on the side that easily pop open, the offending piece of armor going lax in your grip. You toss it to the side with little hesitation, greeted by the firm outline of his cock filling out the front of his trousers.

Boba Fett is not a patient man and your lecherous gawking, enough to notice, irks him. With a grunt he snakes his fingers around your hand and presses it against his cock. He rolls his hips, guiding your hand into applying a firmer touch until you’re palming him without the extra help. You give the hardening flesh a rougher squeeze, a bolt of liquid heat settling in the pit of your stomach as a stifled moan reaches your ears.

By the time your hand sweeps up to ease off the heavy ammo belt around his waist, the bulge in his pants is considerable—a fucking pain to maneuver around as you tug down his trousers into a dramatic ‘v’. Boba’s hand, hanging off the arm rest, jerks the moment your fingertips brush along the dark curls, trailing up and taking a hold of his cock with a careful grip.

He’s heavy in your hand, thicker than the circumference of your forefinger and thumb pressed together, and harder than kriffing durasteel. You can feel his watchful gaze carve a burning path over the contours of your face, drifting to where you hold him.

He grumbles an inaudible complaint under his breath, curling his fists by his sides. Despite his obvious irritation with your feathery touches, he lets you continue without so much as a grumpy sigh or snippy redirection. You preen at the small victory, delighted you’re able to explore before the short rope of his patience runs thin and snaps.

A sharp hiss of hair passes through the vocoder as you lightly tug on his cock, mesmerized by the firmness and the searing heat beneath your palm. From the base up you pull, fixed upon the dark flesh, flushed and pulsing as wetness pools at the tip as you pull down the foreskin, exposing the entirety of the wide head.

With your thumb you spread the bead of liquid around, intent on continuing your little exploratory endeavor until Boba shifts and grumbles out an order to stop.

“Not like that,” he huffs, laying his fingers over yours that hold his cock. “Harder.”

A fiery blush licks at your cheeks as he squeezes both sets of fingers into a firm fist, leading your hand into the pace he desires.

It’s rough, much firmer than you’d think would be pleasurable—but you oblige. The wetness that dribbles from the flushed tip lessens the friction but with quick lick over your palm, he glides easily in your hand. Boba’s head rolls back against the headrest, exposing a sliver of brown skin beneath the lip of his helmet.

It’s not long before your wrist aches—just shy of a couple moments. Luckily enough for you and your poor hand musculature, it doesn’t take more than a handful of minutes—rough and with no real discernible technique other than just fucking into your fist. Boba’s knee jerks as he lifts his head and arches his hips, chest heaving with shallow inhales.

“Take it in your—in your mouth,” he orders in a rough rasp. His chest heaves as his hand finds purchase in your hair, jerking your head closer to his cock. It stings—Maker, why does he pull so hard?

With a huff, you listen and part your lips. The tip of his cock slips into your heated mouth, twitching as your tongue rolls against the small slit leaking a near continuous stream of precum. With a couple short tugs and a gentle suck around the head, his fist clenches tight and drags you further down his shaft.

You gag around him, a low grunt rattling through his diaphragm as he cums. It’s warm, thick and fills your mouth, but the heavy weight on the back of your head leaves you no other choice than to swallow. Boba curses, cock still twitching when he lets you up and pulls out of your mouth. You gasp for precious air as you wipe off your lips with your sleeve, sparring a look up at the bounty hunter.

The reclined figure of his body molds into the chair, a strip of dark skin peeking out from beneath the cowl has his head rests back against the seat. His fingers twitch when you shift, squirming as the twisting heat in your lower stomach festers and grows.

You watch his throat bob as he speaks, “If you want something...take it.”

The hard enamel of your teeth cut into your bottom lip as you carefully rock forward, dragging yourself off the ground. It takes a moment to shuck off your pants and perch yourself over his knees after shimming his trousers further down his legs. Boba only bothers to look up with lazy interest once your cunt, soaked and smeared over your inner thighs presses against his upper legs, wetting the muscled limbs.

You steel your nerves against the sharp analytical gaze through the carved lines of his vizor and give your hips a tentative roll along the length of his softening cock. For all you know he could be asleep—yet you have a sneaking suspicion as to what his eyes are glued to. You’re no idiot.

Boba’s gloved fingertips skim up your thigh, tempted to go higher but instead they drop back onto the armrests. You chew the inside of your lip, shooing away the urge to frown. Whatever—dwelling upon the quick movement is best left in the dark.

He sucks in a sharp breath of air as you rock your hips for a second time, your slick folds gliding smoothly along his member. It’s a light pressure, no more than a gentle caress so as not to overwhelm—but nonetheless still pleasurable, sating that untamable fire that burns bright in your belly.

Your eyes drift back to those white gloves, his fists balled and stationary on the armrest. You want them on you. You want to feel his callouses scrape over your skin—one last craving you need to put an end to.

It’s a risk—a big one. Yet, throwing your worries out the window is easier than your indecisiveness.

Both your hands slowly crawl over the white gloves, cautious in pulling them off as if he were some rabid Nexu ready to bite. He is, in a way and your sneaky little ploy certainly does not go unnoticed.

Boba jerks his hands up the arm rests. “What makes you think you’re allowed to touch me?”

His tone is scathing—knocks you so far off that small pedestal of bravery you’ve mustered and leaves you wilting. You should’ve known, stopped while you were ahead. Though knowing in the back your mind that something like this would happen, doesn’t take away from the razor sharp embarrassment that cuts through your chest.

Your forearm shoots up to rub away the burning itch of tears that threaten to fall, your head turning away in a mixture of shame and regret. Stupid—

You’re about to retreat, slide off his lap like a miserable pile of goo, but the delicate touch on your chin, coaxing you to face him startles you. Even more so when he tugs at the offending glove and brushes a bare finger down your cheek, a mere whisper against your skin. “You have a soft heart.”

Your heart leaps into your throat, your pulse roaring in your ears as he slips the other glove off, settling one of his bare hands over the swell of your hip while the other tentatively slip between your legs and presses against your clit. You gasp and arch into the light touch, your thighs involuntarily jerking as he increases the pressure.

He trades his hold on your hip to slide his hand into your shirt, palming and kneading your breast through your bra as you roll and whine against his fingers. The tight circles he's drawing over your clit burns through your abdomen, drags you closer to the precipice that you’re all ready so close to. You whine his name as wicked heat licking up your body and spreading to each limb. You arch into him and with a firm hand, he parts your soaking cunt and thrusts two of his fingers inside, grinding the heel of his palm into the little bundle of nerves.

With a chuckle his hand leaves your shirt to pull you against his chest, the vocoder rumbling against your ear. “Good little Rabbit—cum on my fingers.”

Your body seizes as white hot heat sears through your core. Stars, brighter than a dying sun burst behind your eyes, a long whine filtering past your lips as shake and fall apart in his arms, your cunt clenching tight around his fingers.

You whine as he pulls out, little aftershocks of pleasure wracking through your body after your euphoric high. You’re barely conscious of your actions as he lifts your head and pushes his digits, coated in your juices into your mouth. You lick them clean, tasting the tang of your own arousal and the salt on his skin. With a satisfied hum, he slips them out, allowing your head to finally rest against his chest.

His hands are warm around your hips, tracing little patterns into the exposed skin—so light you’re sure you’re imagining it. You chide yourself—there’s no space for these kind of things. Not now.

The beskar is an uncomfortable thing to lay your cheek on—cold too—yet his soft sigh convinces you to stay put. Just for another second, suspended in a strange intimacy that neither of you should be dipping your toes into.

A gentle hush encompasses the cockpit, lulling you into a light doze. Though as your eyes struggle to stay open, the subtle inhale before a sentence is spoken keeps them from shutting. You wonder if he’ll muster the courage to speak or if he’ll let the words settle back into that lake teeming with uncovered mysteries and things better left unsaid.

“What would you do...” The beginning of his words tapers off as if he could pretend you wouldn’t hear it. It’s low, almost...uncertain. Well, as uncertain as Boba Fett could be with a head so full of his arrogance and pride.

His fingers drift higher up your back, ghostlike and teasingly soft.You hate the goosebumps that are left in the wake of his bare fingertips crawling up your spine. Swallowing, your fingernail taps at the chipped paint and circles the little brand on his cuirass. “Do what?”

He doesn’t answer right away—chewing on his words like they’ve stuck to the roof of his mouth and don’t intend to leave. He shifts and you’re afraid he’s about to shove you off his lap and storm away, but all he does is clear his throat and settle a palm on your upper back. “If I...if I let you go. What would you do?”

Your brows furrow, your heart kicking up into a rapid flurry of panic. That’s not fair—that’s not fair of him to say. You look up, your own twisted features staring back at you in the muted spectrum of blacks and grays in his visor. This is a joke—another one of his games to push you over the edge while he gets to bask in his idea of proclaimed hilarity. “That’s not funny.”

“It’s not supposed to be.”

You ball your hand into a fist as a tidal wave of resentment, followed with chilly anguish washes over you. Your head spins and battles with opposing opinions and reasons why he should just go through with delivering you to his employer. Be done with it and get his moneys worth without any consequence.

And yet, there’s a minuscule part of you, sprouting away from the dark cloud of inevitability, that wonders. Wonders if you should fight—convince him you deserve to live, untangle you from the disastrous web the Empire has cast around your limbs with no hope of escape. You sigh and shut your eyes.

“I’d never escape from the Empire even if you did,” you murmur. “The only time I’d be free is if I were dead.”

<><><><><><><><>

He promised himself that this would never happen.

Never let his own desires and emotions interfere with a job.

It’s irresponsible, bad for business and frankly quite stupid. This could cost him his credibility, his credits, his life.

You don’t double cross your employer—it’s the first rule of business that even a child would understand.

Boba Fett is cunning and clever; always one step ahead of his enemies. Always methodical, refusing to leave any loose ends that even hint at coming back around to bite him in the ass. He’s convinced himself that a will of iron is necessary—the only way to survive and to grow stronger than those who’ve hurt him—bested him in the game of life.

Cold, methodical, a legend.

And you…

You are soft. Gentle and too kind for someone to be caught up in this sort of mess. He shouldn’t be delivering you to Death’s doorstep in exchange for credits. You should be off living on some remote planet, far out of the reaches of the Empire. Away from him. Billions of miles from his bloody fingertips that stain your skin like black ink against a white canvas.

But you’ve made your choices and he’s made his.

And none of it soothes the festering storm, with winds more forceful than those on Kamino, that rattle through his ribcage. It tears through his sternum, cuts through the beskar and leaves an open wound—raw and tender that grows tenfold the second your eyes land on him.

You don’t beg when he hoists you up from the floor, no blubbering tears or last minute bargains to spare your life. Not even as you both reach the loading ramp, one mere tap of the button that would reveal you both to the man waiting on the landing platform. One button and he’d be free of you. You’re braver than most.

He’ll give you that.

He shouldn’t have said anything—saved himself from the steady ache that comes with having to look you in the eye. Drives a stake so deep into his chest the second you spare him a precious smile that twinkles like unrefined coaxium and thank him. You’re thanking him for the barest amount of kindness he offered to you on your last days of life.

Boba isn’t sure who he hates more; himself or you.

He must be staring too long—committing each soft slope and contour of your cheeks, the freckles, your softly parted lips, to memory—because the gentle nudge to his arm startles him.

“I’ll be alright,” you grin. You make a poor impression of a blaster with your finger and thumb and mimic the sound of it firing. “One shot to the head and I’m gone.”

“I know how blasters work.”

You shrug and glance at his hand that hovers over the button. “Then why are you hesitating?”

The million credit answer. One that you both know the answer to.

“Because you won’t be dying. Not today and not while I’m still alive.”

<><><><><><><><><><><>

The outfit is garish.

Too white.

Too clean.

A color that deceives his true nature and masks what he truly is— a viper laying in wait for unsuspecting prey and witless victims. The smile that curls along the man’s unshaven face is meant to charm, but all it does is unsettle.

Boba has never once trusted a man who relies solely on the weight of his words rather than his own actions. All that this man has are words. Words, and a flimsy position within the ranks of the Empire. That, and twelve heavily armed Death Troopers that guard him, if you count them as well.

Orson Krennic.

A man that’ll get what’s coming to him. Perhaps not Boba’s own plasma bolt through the middle of his finely pressed uniform—but something equally as satisfying.

Grey hairs that escape his hat glint like shards of metal shrapnel in the midday sun, the Director’s smile steady as he speaks. “Took you long enough, bounty hunter.”

Boba’s teeth clamp onto his tongue, the metallic taste of blood flooding his tastebuds. “Too bad you have to rely on one, Director.”

Krennic snorts, folds his arms behind his back and saunters closer. “And your bounty? What of her?”

“Dead.”

#boba fett x reader #boba fett x you #UH OH CLIFF HANGER KJDKFJ #star wars #boba fett #fanfic #my writing #the last favor series #orson krennic #reader insert #FINALLY THIS HOE DONE

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waywardwrestlewritingwaif · 4 years ago

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Fortune’s Rule, Part 2

Here’s the second part of story. You can find the first part here. Damian does make his appearance in this one! I *think* the next part will be the final one.

Pairing: Damian Priest x OFC

Word count: 3,268

Content advisory: Nothing for this part, unless you count some references to the violent bits in the first part.

50 days.

You spin the plastic coin on the table in front of you and sip your beer while you contemplate it. The coin says 30 days because it counts from when you first started Narcotics Anonymous, but really it’s 50 days since you’ve taken any kind of drug except alcohol. You know that you’re not supposed to touch that either but it’s not like you’re getting dead drunk. Just a drink to take the edge off. You work in a bar. It would be a bummer for the clients and the rest of the staff if you refused to drink anything at all. Besides, alcohol was never the problem. The other stuff was the problem.

Still, you’ve avoided mentioning anything about working in a bar or having a few drinks a week to anyone at your NA meetings. You’ve told them that you’re a waitress at a restaurant. That’s almost the same thing.

You look around the cramped room that’s become home. It came furnished and the landlord lets you pay in cash every week, which is the arrangement you need, but it’s not exactly thrilling to come back to at the end of a shift. There’s a small table that looks like it’s out of the seventies that just barely fits between the end of the bed and the wall. And you have to be careful to push the sole chair all the way in when you get up or it blocks the door. There’s one grimy window that looks out onto the fire escape and the alley below where homeless people and hookers come to relieve themselves or take whatever drugs they’ve managed to get their hands on.

It’s irritating that you know you could actually afford a better place; not an expensive place but an actual apartment. Between the amount remaining in the bag you grabbed from the sinking car and the salary you’re pulling down from work (although that’s under the table), you’re doing better than the residents of this shithole building. But getting an apartment would mean putting your name on a lease, getting a credit check, declaring income. That’s still not safe. You don’t know if that will ever be safe.

45 days ago, you’d come to in the night lying face down in the woods, moss and twigs and dirt stuck to your skin everywhere. You felt like someone was pounding a railway spike into your forehead and when you touched the point where the pain was centered, you could feel a cut. Your arms hurt. Your ribs hurt. Your knees hurt. You were soaking wet. But you were awake and you had a bag of money underneath you.

The moon was so bright that it illuminated the area around you, not that it helped much. You were in the wild. After a few minutes, you became aware of some unnatural noise coming from near the river and squinted to see what was there.

The commotion was coming from the far side of the river, the whirring of a heavy engine and the grinding of tires against the ground, followed by men’s voices. This repeated a few times and you crept forward, staying on your stomach, to get a better look. That’s when you’d seen the lights. Flashlights, the flashing amber light of the tow truck, the blue and red of a police car parked a little further back. You had to squint because the lights hurt your eyes but squinting hurt even more. But gradually, you’d been able to see what was happening: they were pulling the car out of the river. It was agonizingly slow work but inch by inch, your boyfriend’s car was rising from its murky resting place.

“Shit!” yells one of the men. “Stop it, cut the engine, we got a body!”

A body. Just one? Or just one that they could see? Did one person escape? Was there another body in the river? Did they know that this accident was connected to a drug crime? Did they even know about what had happened at that downtrodden little house, the one you’d fled?

You never knew.

You’d curled up next to a fallen tree trunk and tried to stay warm for the rest of the night. The pain in your head kept you from falling asleep and early the next morning, you’d started walking. You didn’t go back to the apartment you’d shared with Johnnie. You didn’t even go back to the town. You’d kept walking parallel to the highway, occasionally checking road signs to get your bearings. You’d walked for five days. You rested as little as possible, although the longer you walked, the more rest you needed. You drank water from streams or springs when you could find them, or directly out of the river. You ate leaves. You ate tree bark. You ate dirt. You hadn’t known enough to try the berries or mushrooms you saw along the way.

After five days, you finally reached the city. You’d been there before but not in years. It was far enough away from your town to be a hassle to get to. It was far enough away for you to disappear and be safe.

You’d sat down at a fountain downtown and washed yourself off as best you could. Then you’d gone to the first greasy spoon you found and ate a huge breakfast. Then you’d found your way to the part of town where seedy landlords rented rooms to people who didn’t want to answer questions.

For two weeks, you’d barely left your room and even then, you only left after dark. You expected the police to arrive at any time and haul you back home to face charges or at least to answer a lot of questions but it never happened. After those two weeks had passed, you knew there was no chance that the story was still in the news, if it ever had been, and you’d started to look for a job. You also joined Narcotics Anonymous. You went to meetings in the evening. You worked at night. After a month, you still felt uneasy that people might get too good a look at you, that someone was going to come for you.

You take another gulp of your beer and touch your forehead. The cut has healed but it’s never stopped hurting. The pain wakes you up some days, bad enough to bring you to tears. But whatever damage you suffered, it’s going to have to get better on its own because going to a hospital is too risky. In case of an absolute emergency, you have your sister’s old driver’s license that you used to use to get into bars when you were underage.

Unconsciously, your hand falls to the leather bag at your feet. You’d replaced the satchel the day after you’d found this place. Nothing fancy, just an old messenger bag but it was sturdier and had a good thick double zipper. The bag went everywhere you went, no exceptions. You slept with your arms wrapped around it. It was a little lighter than it had been but there was still plenty left. You’d never even bothered to count it. You bought what you needed and very little else: cheap food, thrift store clothes, a few cans of beer from the corner store.

Your head throbs for a while, enough that the vision in your left eye goes a bit blurry, but then it subsides, as it always does. You’ve got this, you tell yourself. You made it out of the car. You made it out of the woods. You’ve bought yourself the time you need to figure out what to do next, how to make your life into something.

Rather than climb into bed, you open a second beer. You can tell this is one of those nights that you need to stay awake until your body simply can’t handle it anymore. If you let yourself drift off to sleep, you can tell that the nightmares are going to come, the nightmares where you’re back near the river, trying to lift yourself but your head hurts too much and your soaked body is too heavy. And as you’re trying to get up, you see them: Cynthia crawls from the river, her body shattered and bloated, her eyes opaque, and nearby you can see Johnnie staring at you. His face is unchanged, but there’s blood streaming from his nose and mouth. He doesn’t seem to notice. His eyes stay locked on you as Cynthia creeps ever closer, snarling and sobbing.

The best thing about your job is that you get some actual human interaction. You’re happy to talk to the regulars and to the ones who just stop in. It’s not a glamorous place but it’s a few steps above a true dive. There’s a long-standing clientele, people who were coming here before the current owner bought the place. But young people are showing up with increasing frequency, people desperate to find cheap rents and willing to take a chance on a neighborhood that’s still pretty scary. In a few years, this whole area is going to be gentrified and places like the one where you work will be hip hotspots and if you want to stay unknown, you’ll have to move somewhere else. Perhaps by then, you’ll be able to live something like a normal life. Perhaps you’ll find a way to a decent apartment and you’ll be able to make actual friends. Until then, you make friendly chit chat with the motley mix of patrons and keep yourself to yourself.

By law, you’re allowed to stay open until two but by about twelve-thirty or so, it’s always empty. Your boss has told you to lock up whenever it gets dead and trusts that you won’t just keep the place open to get an extra hour or two of pay. And you’ve never once taken advantage of him. Your nest egg means you don’t have to.

But sometimes, you’ll lock the door and pour yourself a drink (that you pay for) and sit in silence, watching the streets through the tinted windows, the cars of hollering college kids, the prostitutes hurling insults at drivers who disrespect them, the occasional wide-eyed suburbanites and tourists who came because a couple of edgy websites recommended a couple of nearby restaurants for a sort of “authentic” experience of the city.

Mostly, though, you find yourself watching for Him.

You don’t know who he is. You don’t even know his name, much less his back story, but the second you see him, it’s like there’s nothing else that exists. He seems to own, or at least be in charge of, the place across the street, the shop that advertises tarot, palmistry, charms, amulets, books of secret knowledge, and more. It has an inappropriate-seeming neon sign that screams “FORTUNES TOLD” and there’s a collection of strange trinkets in the window in front of a black curtain that obscures the interior.

Whatever goes on in there, the place keeps the weirdest schedule you’ve ever seen. You’ve taken to casing it, dropping by work when you’re not really needed so that you can try to discern a pattern, but there is none. Sometimes, the place is open in the afternoons. Sometimes, it opens in the early evening, around when your shift starts. Often, it opens during the night, or right at the end of your shift. Sometimes, it stays open all night, which you know because a couple of times you’ve sat here waiting it out. Other times, it’s like the place only opens for an hour or two.

The erratic schedule doesn’t seem to bother customers, though. They’ll show up whenever, sometimes visiting the bar and waiting until they see the sign flicker to life. Whenever he’s there, people show up. Especially women.

You can’t blame them for that. The first time you saw him, it was like all the oxygen was sucked out of your body. Your head started to throb a little and you shivered, despite the fact that it was summer. There he was, tall and muscular, his sleeveless shirt showing off his powerful arms, marked with tattoos. His dark hair was shaved at the sides but cascaded past his shoulders. He’s given to running his long fingers through it, the movement consciously slow and sensual, as if he knows he has an audience. Sometimes, he’ll come out and smoke a cigarette on the doorstep, stretching out every part of his long frame in a way that leaves your throat dry.

He seems to know a lot of the people who come to see him, or perhaps that’s just part of the act: he wants people to think he’s been waiting for them.

Tonight, it’s close to one when he shows up, casual as ever, and your eyes are fixed to him as he opens the security door and disappears inside. A moment later, the neon sign flickers to life. You bite down on your thumb as you imagine yourself crossing the street as if you’re just curious because you work so close, telling him that there’s a man you’re intrigued by but are too shy to approach, and asking him to do a reading to tell you if there’s a chance for you.

You’ve imagined this before. You’ve imagined this a lot. It’s a fantasy you’ve thought about many nights in your gross little room, thinking of how he’d grab you and throw you down on the table, tarot cards scattering everywhere, maybe The Lovers falling next to the two of you as you indulge your wild passions…

Once he’s been inside for a few minutes, you finish wiping up, packing the bottles into boxes for return, counting the cash, and starting the dishwasher. Your tasks completed, you head out, locking the door behind you. It’s only when you cut an inadvertent glance across the street that you see him on the step, eyes fixed on you.

He takes a drag from his cigarette and smiles at you, and you give him what you hope is a natural looking smile in return.

You start to head down the street when you hear a deep voice behind you.

“Nice night.”

He grins again when you turn to look at him, like he’s pleased he caught your attention.

“Yeah,” you answer, “very nice.”

The two of you lock eyes for a long moment and just as you start to leave, he speaks again.

“You should come by sometime. I’ll tell you your future.”

“I don’t know if I believe in that,” you stammer.

“Give it a shot. It’s on the house.”

He drops his cigarette and grinds it into the pavement with his heel, giving you another wicked grin as he steps back into the shop. And part of you wants to go rushing in after him but you stop yourself, because on the off chance that he is the real deal, you don’t want to risk anyone finding out who and what you really are. Better to go back to your dank little room and imagine what could happen from the safety of your bed. Which is exactly what you’re going to do.

A couple of nights later, he ups the ante.

Around eleven, he saunters into the bar like he owns the place and gives you a look like he can’t believe you haven’t taken him up on his offer.

It’s not busy but there are a few guys lined up along the bar and two or three clusters of people at the tables, and you’re on your own, which makes it tricky because all you want to do is crawl on top of him and tell him all the nasty thoughts you’ve had about him. This is made worse by the fact that he doesn’t ever seem to take his eyes off you, shifting however he has to in order to make sure he’s always got you in his field of vision. He’s being incredibly obvious and doesn’t seem to care.

“So what can I get you tonight?” you greet him brightly, trying to choke back your nervousness.

“You know how to make a whiskey sour?” he asks in a voice that’s almost unnaturally deep and earthy.

“Yeah, honey, I think I can figure it out.”

“Well, give it a try but I’ll warn you, I’m a pretty fussy guy when it comes to cocktails.”

“Oh good,” you sigh, “a critic.”

Truthfully, you don’t remember exactly what goes into a whiskey sour and you have to Google it. Then there’s the fun of finding the right ingredients, although you’re pleased to find out that the bar actually has them. You resist the urge to make a test one for yourself because you wouldn’t know what it was supposed to taste like anyway and whiskey has never been your thing.

When you go to place it on the bar in front of him, you feel a soft tremor run through your body, like you’re afraid of his judgment but also because, looking into his dark eyes, you feel this sense of fate. Yes, you’re attracted to him. You’re very attracted to him and you haven’t felt that in a while. And you have a bit of interest in what it is he does, whether he believes there’s magic and power in the things he sells or if he’s just making a few bucks off gullible people. You even catch yourself wondering if he could be the real deal.

He notices your hand shaking and gives a wry smile.

“Am I scaring you?”

“I haven’t been sleeping well,” you snap back, more curtly than you intended.

He raises his glass to you. “Here’s to the power of a good, long rest.”

Your head starts to throb a little and unconsciously, you touch your forehead, willing it to stop.

“Must have been a hell of an accident.”

That’s enough to distract you and you turn to face him again. “I’m sorry?”

“You just flinched like you were in pain and you touched your head. There’s a little scar where you touched it. So I’m guessing you were in an accident not too far back.”

You’d thought that the scar was healed enough that other people wouldn’t notice. No one had mentioned it to you but now you figure they were just being polite.

“Just a bump on the head. I made out ok.”

“But maybe someone else didn’t?”

Once again, your whole body shakes and this time, it’s like your skeleton becomes hot, burning hot, your ribs especially pressing with the force of iron tongs into your chest.

“What the hell are you talking about?” you hiss, hardly able to make sound.

He keeps smiling his mysterious little smile and takes a long sip of his drink. “This is pretty good. Especially for someone who hasn’t made one before.”

“I never said that I hadn’t made one before. Just like I never said I was in an accident with someone else.”

He takes another deep swallow of the cocktail and rises to leave. “But I’m right about both, aren’t I?” Seeing your scowl, he continues, “I’m Damian and I have a gift for knowing things about people. If you wanna see how much of a gift, like I said, you should come by and let me read your fortune.”

“Yeah, maybe.” You try to sound casual but you know, even before he smiles triumphantly, that you’re going to accept his invitation as soon as you close up for the night.

#damian priest fanfic #damian priest imagine #nxt imagine #nxt fanfiction #wwe fanfiction #wwe imagine #wayward wrestle writing

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that-shamrock-vibe · 4 years ago

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Movie Review: The New Mutants (Spoilers)

Spoiler Warning: I am posting this review the week following the movie first airing in the U.K, so if you haven’t yet seen The New Mutants do not read on until you have.

General Reaction:

A three year delay for the final instalment of a twenty-year franchise, was it ultimately worth it? Well as an X-Men fanatic I am always going to say yes, it wasn’t a swan song or a wrap up to the X-Men Cinematic Universe, far from as it was originally pitched as the start of a trilogy and does sew the seeds for that. However, while Dark Phoenix did feel like a sombre instalment not only for that “First Class” timeline but also the team movies as a whole, this had an air of sadness to it because this is the last time I will see anything X-Men related on the big screen for who knows how long.

In that sense, this was an emotional movie for me, more than just the fact that the emotion of fear is a running theme through the movie. However, in terms of my actual enjoyment of the movie, it was a very good movie for what it was.

When your very final movie is effectively an origin movie then there’s always going to be that sense of incompleteness, and what this movie teases both for these characters and who is the big bad behind all of this, it’s really frustrating to know it’s over before it truly starts.

With that in mind, The New Mutants is very slow to get started as there’s a lot of exposition and because it feels like it’s own branch of the X-Men Cinematic Franchise, similar to Deadpool, there is a level of “Beginner’s Guide to Mutants 101″ at play here with the explanation of what a Mutant is and when a young or “New Mutant” first discovers their powers that, to give this movie credit, I have never truly seen explored properly outside of the comics other than a quick explanation from Storm to Jubilee in the first episode of X-Men: The Animated Series.

It’s also disappointing to know that unlike X-Men: The Last Stand or Dark Phoenix, there isn’t a sense of finality for these characters as we have just been introduced to them. Outside of Sunspot who has briefly appeared in X-Men: Days of Future Past, this is the first cinematic appearance for all of these characters. The X-Men are briefly mentioned and Professor X is alluded to quite cleverly but every character outside of Sunspot is debuting here and to know they’re never going to be seen in this continuity again with a chance to develop is very sad.

In terms of the “horror” aspects of this movie I have to say this is very comic-book horror as in how Blade in the late 90s was horror. If you know the jump scares in this movie are coming then there are no jump scares, so basically if you’ve seen the trailers you know the jump scares.

As a horror movie, it felt very much like It-lite in terms of the theme of bringing nightmares into reality, only without the hard R-rating of the blood and gore because outside of one maybe two scenes there is nothing truly horrific to look at here.

There’s also a great parallel to the Gentlemen from Buffy the Vampire Slayer shown from their episode in this movie and the Smiley Men who are Illyana’s nightmare brought to life. They’re creepy like them but they’re not as sinister as them...and that is a great choice of wording considering who the big bad behind the scenes of this movie is.

As an X-Men movie, which is what this is as the New Mutants in the comics are basically younger versions of the X-Men, as I say the first half of this movie isn’t that power heavy but is about introducing and establishing this team, the second half/last third on the other hand is power heavy. Not exactly Days of Future Past or Apocalypse heavy but still heavy for the powers this group of Mutants have.

Overall generally as both an X-Men movie and a comic-book movie, this was really a great movie particularly for the first new movie I have seen since lockdown.

Characters:

So this breakdown will be easy as there’s only really six characters to talk about but I’m going to make it a seven-character breakdown as the looming presence in the shadows of this movie deserves their own section.

Illyana Rasputin:

Alright so it is somewhat difficult to say if Illyana is my favourite or if Rahne is my favourite but I ultimately landed on Illyana for first as Anya Taylor-Joy is really in the spotlight the entire way through this movie. Every time she’s in a scene she commands the attention, and all five of the New Mutants have solo scenes so for Illyana to stand out the most, this is why she is #1 for me.

I’m not entirely sure where this movie takes place in terms of the overall X-Men timeline...but considering it’s supposedly in the revised timeline and Colossus is a member of the X-Men in the late noughties/early 2010s, I imagine this is either around the same time or can even be modern day (2017 or 2020).

Anya Taylor-Joy is as suited to the role of Magik as Channing Tatum would have been as Gambit in my opinion. Not only does she have a reasonable Russian accent but she just simply looks like how Magik looks in the comics.

I loved the rebel teen angst she had all the way through from when we first meet her to the very end, not only is it fitting for the movie but in my opinion it’s fitting for the character. This is a girl that literally goes through some resemblance of hell and is effectively a serial killer so of course she is going to have this icy dark exterior.

In terms of powers, I am slightly disappointed she never fully armoured up, it was always just her left arm that she had armoured complete with Soulsword, whereas in the comics her main look is her entire body. I guess the argument could be made the majority of it is simply a uniform and her arm is the only part armoured but I would have liked to have at least seen her crown.

But Magik’s powers for me here are an interesting combination of Zatanna and Nightcrawler which is a very good combination. The scene where she first appears through limbo fighting the Smiley Men was very impressive.

I would have also enjoyed it if we had spent more time in Limbo, given that we always saw cameo flashes of it whenever she manifested a portal, but we never actually had a full scene of her in her “special place”.

Not being too familiar with the comics however, I am almost completely unaware of Lockheed as a character. My only prior knowledge is his appearance in Pryde of the X-Men as a pest and I have to say I much prefer him here. The animation of both Lockheed and the Demon Bear were stellar.

As I say, I feel we have only just scratched the surface with where this version of Magik could go. I doubt very much Kevin Feige would bring Anya Taylor-Joy back if/when he does bring the character into the MCU because he doesn’t like playing with used toys but if ever there was an exception I would hope it would be her.

Rahne Sinclair:

It is slightly obvious to think of when Maisie Williams was filming for this movie as her hair, unless it’s a wig, is in that “Arry” phase of her Game of Thrones tenure.

Because of the current entertainment climate and the non-starting stance this movie finds itself released in, I think the lesbian romance between Rahne and Dani is going to go unnoticed. But considering this is the first major LGBT romance in a comic-book property I feel this movie will be cheated out of that representation in favour of what is to eventually come from Marvel.

Outside of the romance, I feel Rahne’s story rooted in her religion and mutation was fantastic. I love me some werewolf action and I feel I saw enough actual wolf to satisfy Rahne spending most of her time in “halfway form” as the character has been known to do in the comics.

The fact her nightmare was that religious leader branding her as a werewolf and thereby a monster, not only was it believable given her character but also the parallels to devout religious views on homosexuality were subtle but there.

I do feel the character spent way too much time screaming towards the end of the movie. This girl is a werewolf but spent most of the final battle as the screaming protector of her unconscious lover, I mean she was I guess helpful in waking Dani back up but never truly let rip like I feel the character could have.

I’m not entirely sure if Williams has any Scottish heritage about her but the slipping in and out of the accent was slightly distracting at times. When she was able to be loud the accent was often broken but in her quieter moments or longer dialogue scenes you could hear it.

I do appreciate keeping the nationality of the character from the comics, considering the mess they made of Banshee and Moira MacTaggert, and I do understand having an at the time name talent like Maisie Williams in the role, but there are surely Scottish actresses out there and the casting pool wasn’t exactly high for this movie.

Dani:

The main character in this movie, or focal character I guess as it’s an ensemble movie, is either Illyana or Dani, but because we start with Dani and are introduced to the other characters through Dani I guess she is the focal character.

Again, I give credit to the movie for keeping the nationality of the characters from the comics, but while Anya Taylor-Joy and Maisie Williams border on appropriation as they are not Russian or Scottish themselves, although Anya is of Scottish Argentine descent, Blu Hunt is at least Native-American as Dani is. I think they come from different tribes but I don’t think people are going to focus too much on that technicality.

Similarly to all these characters I don’t really know much about Dani so have no frame of reference to compare her to. I remember she appeared in one episode of X-Men: Evolution and I know her powers involve dreams, which similarly to the majority of the characters in this movie lends itself beautifully to a horror movie, but that’s about it.

I felt her relationship with Rahne was genuine and her own “survivors guilt” over being the only member of her family still alive after the Demon Bear attack was well explained.

I just didn’t understand why it was decided that Reyes had to kill Dani because of the severity of her powers, maybe it was the unpredictability of her powers because their limitations are literally the power of imagination, but I thought Reyes was responsible for sorting out those capable of being killers...surely the power to bring nightmares to life as many times as it takes to kill the person qualifies?

With the Demon Bear being tamed at the end of the movie, I kind of don’t see anywhere for Dani to go if they did continue, she still has the power to solidify nightmares, and I guess she can always call on the Demon Bear, but unlike Rahne or Magik I do not see any further development for her.

Sam:

Sam Guthrie aka Cannonball was an interesting one for me as I knew the character and I knew the actor, but hadn’t properly seen either one fully explored before. I have not watched Stranger Things so do not really know Charlie Heaton’s acting potential...but what I do know is he is from Yorkshire and cannot really do a Kentucky accent.

As for the character of Cannonball, I thought that early scene of him strapping himself to that weight while zooming through the air to either test himself or hurt himself was really well realised. There wasn’t enough of him going full cannonball throughout the movie, mostly it just came across as a sort of super speed which in a way I guess it is but projecting that force-field while he is zooming about is what makes the power set unique.

Similarly to Dani he had guilt over his nightmare which was him causing a mining accident which killed his co-workers and dad, but unlike Dani who never really developed the thought of it being her fault for her family’s death because of her conjuring the Demon Bear, Sam did at least hold a lot of guilt over what had happened...despite his nightmare being probably the weakest as the main effect it had was totalling a washing machine.

I also didn’t understand the back-to-back scenes of Sam suggesting he was meant to be in the hospital and felt he had to be there, but then in the next scene him trying to walk out saying he doesn’t belong there. Maybe it was the editing but it just seemed like a complete 180 from scenes that were literally back-to-back.

Roberto:

As I said this is Sunspot’s second cinematic appearance and I guess in the revised timeline he has gone from being portrayed by Mexican actor Adan Canto to now Brazilian actor Henry Zaga.

I didn’t feel the boys in this movie had that much to do, with both Sam and Berto it did feel like them simply coming to terms with their powers. I did like how both had that fear of hurting people and both had to learn I guess to push past that fear.

With Berto’s fear though, I do feel his power first manifesting in conjunction to him reaching sexual maturity was very well explored, because of course the combination of testosterone and becoming a living solar flare are not exactly two things anyone wants to mix. So when the result is burning your girlfriend to a crisp it is going to shake you.

Outside of his powers though there wasn’t a lot to the character and it is hard to remember a good line that he or Sam had that weren’t douchey, but for what we got he was a good character.

Reyes:

Wow this woman deserved to be eaten by the Demon Bear, which by the way I found almost as humorous as Katie McGrath being carried away by a pterodactyl in Jurassic World.

But yes, this doctor was the “villain” of the movie as she was the agent of the big bad Essex Corporation in charge of determining the new mutants’ powers and whether or not they’re worth progressing to their facility.

Outside of that I didn’t really think much of her as a character, she wasn’t a sympathetic character, she wasn’t believing to be doing this for the benefit of these young mutants, she was simply following orders.

It’s a deviance from the comics where Reyes is a hero and member of the X-Men, whereas here she is far from it.

Alice Braga is also regionally appropriately cast as she is Brazilian whereas the character is Puerto Rican, although whenever she spoke I kept thinking about Gal Gadot a lot, even looks wise there are similarities.

Sinister:

Now let’s talk about the looming big bad who I imagine would have been the major big bad of this supposed trilogy. Despite the new mutants believing the facility to be owned and run by the X-Men, it is in fact run by the Essex Corporation...Essex as in Dr. Nathaniel Essex, a biologist obsessed with evolution who became the Mutate supervillain Mister Sinister.

I want to see Mister Sinister in a live-action movie so badly it’s unreal, they’ve done Apocalypse so why they can’t do Sinister I don’t know.

This isn’t the first time Sinister has been alluded to as the Essex Corporation was in an end credits scene of X-Men: Apocalypse that acquired samples of Wolverine’s blood presumably to create X-23, but because those events took place in the 80s and these events take place in somewhat modern day it’s hard to correlate the two.

Obviously we are no longer going to get X-Men movies in this universe and continuity, but with the seeds being sown for Sinister more than once now, the baton has been laid down for Feige to finally bring this villain to life.

Reccomendation:

If like me you are more or less interested in just completing the twenty-year franchise because you love these characters and any interpretation of them then this is the movie for you. However, don’t expect wall to wall action, and I would recommend not getting too attached to these characters. It’s too late for me with Illyana I already love her and already feel Anya Taylor-Joy has set a high bar for whoever plays Magik next.

But for me personally, this franchise has been my favourite movie franchise and my favourite property. Even the bad movies I can at least find something good about them regardless of if the overall movies have been good or not. But just to reiterate, I do feel this is one of the good movies.

In a ranking of the 13 movies (not counting Once Upon a Deadpool), this ranks somewhere between #6-8 for me.

Overall I rate the movie a solid 8/10, by no means the best or a perfect X-Men movie but by no means one of the worst. The movie benefits from new characters (aside from Sunspot) but suffers due to the inevitability of this being the definitive end for the current franchise.

So what did you guys think? Post your comments and check out more Movie Reviews as well as other posts.

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estoniacobaltpayne · 4 years ago

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Judgement Day

Chapter 3: Temptation

Summary: Desperate, a force user bargains for her freedom; if she acquires the ‘asset’ deemed top priority, she would be free from the life that has enslaved her. Years of training has prepared her, but she’s stubborn and unlucky and more often than not she’s biting off more than she can chew. Maybe pulling the long con is the only path to freedom, but if it is, there’s a Mandalorian blocking it.

Warnings: language, sexual themes

Parirings: Din Djarin X Reader

Prologue: Here!

Chapter 1: Here!

Chapter 2: Here!

The air filling the cockpit of the ship is somehow both hotter than Arvala-7, and stuffier than Sorgan. The only sounds were the faint beeping from the dashboard, and the child’s playful cooing. Ragna sat in the copilot’s seat behind Mando’s left, and mulled over why she would bother to save him from the AT-ST walker back on Sorgan. What was the point? She just hindered her own damn plan! What the fuck is wrong with me? She thought hopelessly to herself.

Mando, in the pilot’s chair, was mulling over similar thoughts, and was just as confused. If Ragna was plotting against him, why would she bother saving him when she could have just as easily let him die? He wanted so badly to ask her why she helped him; to talk about the last few weeks and the child and her father and everything in between. He had to, really. He was going to. Yeah, he was going to.

“(Y/N)-“

But that’s as far as he got, because all of a sudden, another ship jumped out of hyperspace behind them and immediately got to work on shooting them down. Mando was quick to engage and fight back, but the abruptness of the engaging fighter caused all three of the them to be lurched from their seats. As Mando warded off the aggressor, Ragna leaped up to strap the child into the other copilot’s seat. She could hear an incoming message claiming that Mando’s insubordination to the Bounty Hunter’s Guild was to soon be his demise, but she paid little attention. The two hunters continued to converse, and after Ragna strapped in the child, she turned to help Mando. As much as she wanted to see him dead, if she didn’t help him take this other bounty hunter out, they’d both be nothing more than a waste of and in space. And then where would she be? She did her best to hold their opponent still using her abilities, but he was a slippery little bastard.

“I have an idea,” Mando declared. “I’m going to break. When I do, he’ll jut in front of us. You hold him still, and I’ll shoot. Brace yourself.”

And he did just that. (Y/N) braced herself on the dashboard, but the force of the manoeuvre was so strong, it threw her back onto the Mandalorian’s lap; she had no time to pay it any mind, because all conscious thought went into using the force to hold the other bounty hunter’s ship still. Once she knew their attacker had been terminated though, she began lamenting the fact that it was a random bounty hunter that was vaporised out of existence and not her.

Because being strewn across this man’s lap was bad enough, but looking up and meeting his visor’s gaze was worse. Instinctively, he had wrapped his left arm around her shoulders, and his legs had been spread further apart to make more room for her form. The two were unable to look away from each other- all reasonable thought had been thrown out the window, and they were stuck in time, once again. It wasn’t until the warning sirens blared out in panicked shrills that they pulled out of their trance. (Y/N) quickly stood up and moved back to the vacant copilot’s seat.

Not another word was said until they reached Tatooine.

Mando landed and exchanged quick words with the owner of the hanger before making to exit, off to find work. Ragna rushed out of the ship.

“Shouldn’t I come with you? You might need my help?” Ragna stated, realising that the Tatooinian dunes would be the perfect place to leave a Mandalorian corpse.

If that’s even what I want now. She was quick to push that thought aside.

“No, stay here and make sure nothing happens to the child,” came the Mandalorian’s response.

She tried not to let her face drop in earnest annoyance. “Yeah, I suppose that’s my job anyways!” she responded, trying to appear lighthearted.

Well, she could make that work too, she supposed. As soon as the ship was stable enough to fly, she’d take the child and leave. It didn’t matter if the bounty hunter was left dead or alive after his excursion. She’d be gone, ship controls in one hand, and child in the other.

Gods, please let this work this round, she thought. She was starting to get the feeling that if she didn’t end this soon, she’d never gain her freedom from the Empire. Or worse- she wouldn’t want to gain it if it meant bringing harm to the Mandalorian and the child. Whatever happens to the Mandalorian and the child is not my damn problem! she kept reassuring herself. But the repeated mantra was quickly beginning to lose its effect.

——

Mando had found that his guard was slipping throughout this whole ordeal in bringing in Fennec Shand. Catching her shouldn’t have been so hard, and he knew for damned sure he shouldn’t have entrusted Toro Calican with jack shit. And yet here he was, moping on the back of a damned dewback. But it wasn’t even that which contributed the most to his mood.

It was (Y/N).

The sight of her strewn across his lap had been nearly too much. It had been a while since he’d been able to… take care of himself in any way, and an even longer time since he’d been able to do so with someone he cared about in any capacity. He tried to reason with himself that he didn’t hold a single iota of deeper feelings for (Y/N), but he was beginning to realise that he couldn’t keep pushing these feelings back, no matter how terribly they were conflicting with the logic that he usually kept on autopilot. And, oh, was the ingrained image of her looking up at him from his lap interfering with that autopilot. She was becoming a problem.

More than anything, she perplexed Mando to no end. She had had several chances to slip behind his back and betray him in any number of ways, and yet, she hadn’t. But then why had both Cara and Omera been unable to trust her? Sure she had been caught in the middle of some weird situations that she had been able to explain away as mere extenuating circumstances, but if she had been attempting to betray him this whole time, why did she bother to save him not once, not twice, but three times now?

And why did he like it so damn much when she feel into his lap earlier? Oh, man. That was going to a persistent little reoccurring thought, wasn’t it?

——

Meanwhile, Ragna was beginning to realise that enacting any part of her grander scheme was going to be easier in theory. While conning the Mandalorian was proving to be easier that she originally anticipated (or so she liked to think), it was the detail in the plan of finding a moment of solitude that was really bearing problems.

The mechanic who owned the hangar, Peli Motto, was yet another of such obstacles in her plot. She was always around; always shouting at her droids, insisting that Ragna help her with the ship, and then there was the incessant talking. Oh, the talking. Ragna’s patience was beginning to wear thin. If she spent half as much time focusing on fixing the ship as she did talking at me, I could have left already! Ragna found herself thinking more often than not.

It wasn’t until Ragna was reporting back to her father the next evening where she began to grow restlessly desperate. His words had been particularly harsh that night, more so than usual, and it caused an untameable panic to rise in her throat, and her mind recalled the fear she felt when she was taken as a child, and paralleled it to her hunt for freedom in the present. Ragna could do nothing but helplessly watch the images flash by in her head.

A younger, though still just as terrifying version of Ragna’s Imperial father dragged away from a burning city. Though just a child, the severity of the situation had visibly wised her up instantly.

“I don’t want to go! Leave me be!” the young girl shouted.

“Quiet, girl! You’d do well to learn your place!” the man spit back.

“No! I won’t go with you! I won’t!” she pleaded, tears running down her round, adolescent face.

The older man sneered and let out a cynical laugh. “Oh? And what, pray tell, do you intend to do to stop me?”

“I’ll fight! I’ll never be one of you! I swear it!” she thrashed in the man’s arms as he led her away from her burning home. She thrashed and thrashed until she tired herself out.

She remembers being awake as he carted her away. Across the galaxy. To the Imperial Cruiser she would be forced to know as home. She was awake to witness this, but she was numb.

She was numb when her new ‘father’ laid her down in her new bed and told her this was her home now.

She was numb when he took her to a wrinkly old man who had the same powers as her. The same powers that her family had died trying to shelter her from.

She was numb when the wrinkly old man told her he was the Emperor, and, lord, was she thankful she was numb when he tortured her into using the force that her family had kept her from using.

The memories faded with dark echoes of, “you must embrace your potential,” and, “we are the only ones who want you.” Years of this brainwashing had been lost on her; trying to make her believe her family- her real family- didn’t want her. But she knew they had broken her in so many other ways; she knew when they sent her out on her first mission. She was not even eighteen years of age, and yet, she had killed so many so easily. This, of course, was not the first circumstance where she had been made to take another’s life, but this was the first time she had actually enjoyed it to some extent. She liked to tell herself that it was just the thrill of being let out on her own for the first time, but deep down, she knew that that was not the case.

She couldn’t settle after her reverie; her anxiety was pumping her blood through her head too hard. She needed to go. Immediately. The ship, whatever state it was in, would have to do.

She desperately clambered out of the ship to fetch the child, who had been playing with Peli’s droids in the shipyard. But, oh, so conveniently, he was no longer there.

“Kid? Kid where are you!” she whispered around the shipyard, doing her best to not be noticed by Peli or one of her many droids.

She was not expecting another, unknown person to catch her, though.

“The kid’s stayin’ right here.”

So close. She was so damn close to obtaining her freedom. If it wasn’t for this new asshole, Toro-fucking-Calican and his damned existence, she’d have already been out of here. He knocked her unconscious with one of Peli’s wrenches before she even had a chance to turn around and stare him in the eyes.

——

When she came to a few hours later, Calican had Peli Motto held hostage at gunpoint. The child was held in his arms, close enough to gunpoint to be a problem. She reckoned that her best bet was to try and manipulate him into doing what she wanted, but either Calican was smarter than he looked, or his head was too thick to penetrate, because nothing she said was having an effect on him. Eventually, she realised manipulating his mind wasn’t going to work, either.

So, out of options, she pulled out one of her oldest tricks. She hated using it, really, and had only used it a handful of times. It left a sour taste in her mouth, as she was made to use it for the first time at only the age of ten to force a prisoner of war into giving information. When he didn’t… Ragna didn’t like to think about that.

And she didn’t like to think about the world tuning out around her; she didn’t like thinking about how, even though her hand was at least twelve feet away from his neck, she could feel the blood clogging on either end of where the force was cutting off his air. She absolutely didn’t want to think about the panic that was flowing through the areas in his veins that his blood no longer could. She didn’t want to think about the child that was calling to her through the force to stop. She couldn’t stop. This was what she was supposed to do. Designed to do.

Ragna didn’t hear the Mandalorian arrive in the hangar. Neither did she hear him calling out to her. She didn’t hear him the second time, or the third. She couldn’t hear anything outside her head and Calican’s; only his pleading in his head, his screaming, and the screams of her past drilling holes in her sanity.

She was violently ripped from her spiralling when Mando laid a gentle hand on her upper arm and whispered her name, her real name, into her ear. Calican doubled over and sucked in gulps of air. (Y/N) could only spin around and stare into the dark visor. Ironically, it was the lightest thing in her line of sight, the rest of the world still dark around her. He gripped her arm tighter and leaned in, whispering her name again as she began to come back into the real world.

“Your girlfriend’s a psycho, Mando!” Calican exclaimed, regaining his breath. He was quick to aim his blaster again, his aim trying to decide between Mando, Ragna, and Peli Motto.

Mando only shrugged his shoulder nonchalantly, his aim at Calican’s head not once faltering. “Yeah? That’s not sayin’ much coming from you.” Mando’s words were pointed, calculated; their intended effect to sway Calican punctual and precise.

But what Ragna couldn’t stop focusing on was that Mando didn’t deny Calican’s statement about her being his girlfriend. The logical side of her knew that Mando wasn’t going to go into details with this man; he’d be dead within moments anyways, so why bother prolonging the conversation? But another part of her, a part buried deep down, liked that he hadn’t denied it. Which was dangerous, Ragna concluded, and something that should not, under any circumstance, be further considered or dwelled upon.

Mando and Calican only bickered for another second or two before things got messy. Blasters started firing, and Calican dropped the child in favour of an extra appendage. Ragna knew this was her last chance to bolt; with the Mandalorian still preoccupied with a shootout with Calican, she scooped up the child, dashed up the ramp of the ship and ascended in to the cockpit, closing the doors behind her. She had to get this ship in the air. It was cutting it close- too close- with the Mandalorian still in the hangar, but it was what it was.

The blood pumping through her ears muffled the sounds of gunfire outside, which was to her detriment, because just as she was about to finish firing up the ship, the Mandalorian entered the cockpit.

“What are you doing?” he said, pulling her out of her trance-like focus.

Ragna jumped; how did he crawl himself out of that so quickly? Actually, she thought, I really shouldn’t be so fucking surprised, at this point.

She knew she had to get herself out of this one on the spot. She pulled a pleasantly surprised face and turned to face him. “Oh thank the maker it’s you, Mando!” She let out a fake breath she wasn’t really holding. Or at least, not for the reason she wanted Mando to think.

He just continued to stare at her inquisitively. “Yes, but… what were you doing, Ragna?”

She opened and closed her mouth a few times while she thought up a quick lie. “It… it was purely instinctual! I couldn’t let Calican get the child! I…” she called upon every acting skill she could muster to look truly defeated in the chair. “So I ran up here. If I locked us in the cockpit, he wouldn’t be able to get in! I thought that by starting up the ship, I’d have time to get away should he get the upper hand!”

The Mandalorian tilted his head in a patronising manor. “Really? You think Calican would be able to out-gun me?”

“Well, you were the one who got himself out-witted by the novice in the middle of the desert!” Ragna gave him a teasing look. “Perhaps your reputation no longer precedes you. Maybe you’re really just the ‘okayest’ bounty hunter in the parsec.”

Mando only shrugged his shoulders and dismissed her teasing, before ushering her up and out of the pilot’s chair. She was heading out of the cockpit when Mando let out a final, “good job.”

Her head spun around faster than the rest of her body could, leaving her in an awkward, disjointed position. It reflected her shattered inner thoughts quite fittingly, she supposed.

“What did you say?” she inquired. She had heard him just fine, but she was having a hard time believing that he had said it at all. It knocked the air out of her, and it showed in her words.

“You… you did the right thing. If Calican had gotten the upper hand, I would have wanted you to have taken the kid and bailed. And that goes for any situation in the future, too. So… good job.”

Ragna could only let out a pathetic ‘thank you’ as she exited the cockpit. How could he thank her? How dare he thank her after what she had just attempted, and then lied about? How dare he make her feel welcomed, something she hadn’t felt in such a long time, when she was doing everything in her power to double cross him? How dare he make her question every moral, or lack thereof, she was trained to push aside in favour of the advancement of the Empire?

How dare he tempt her out of the darkness she had shrouded herself in for personal security?

#din djarin x reader #din djarin #din djarin fanfiction #the mandalorian #mando x y/n #mando fanfiction #star wars #star wars fanfiction #sw #sw fanfic #baby yoda

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ohyangchon · 4 years ago

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2020 Wrap-up: Favourite Works

Rules: It’s time to love yourselves! Choose your 5 (or so) favorite works you created in the past year (fics, art, edits, etc.) and link them below to reflect on the amazing things you brought into the world in 2020. Tag as many writers/artists/etc. as you want (fan or original) so we can spread the love and link each other to awesome works!

Tagged by the fantastic @beingjanee, thank you and do check out her works on Ao3 as well :D

1: Living Spirit (Psychdiary, 9k), where I reimagine Seo Inwoo the psychopathic killer as an otherwise hapless and maimed criminal who gains the ability to communicate and control plants. This was one of my earlier fics and essentially a supposed “claim to fame” in the Psychopath Diary fandom, and it warms my heart that once in a while people still tag me and go WAIT YOU’RE THE PERSON WHO CREATED FERAL GARDENER INWOO like ye it me

2: road trip (Hosplay, 19k, Chisong), an extension of my personal universe where Songhwa attempts to fake date her subordinate Chihong that eventually turns into real dates. Truth be told, I’m not particularly the type to write for romance, but their relationship and Chihong’s forward nature made me fall hard for these heteros, and the moment it happened to be a rareship the sheer amount of content I churned out for them is off-the-wall and borderline illegal.

3: sleeping dogs (Secret Forest, 47k), which is essentially my first attempt at shaming myself into completing a full NaNoWriMo piece but also put down my own universe regarding Changjoon and Eunsoo’s closure from pen to paper. I’ve never written anything this ambitious without either forgetting and abandoning it or giving up, and my first attempt at this remains on my Ao3 to this day ^^;;

4: what makes a (wo)man; what makes a monster (Secret Forest, 1.5k, Yeonbit), the dinner date for Yeonbit I never got but had to write down. I find their relationship fascinating, and it’s not a topic people usually explore especially considering their parallels to each other, but I enjoyed it even though it didn’t end up being much of a hit in any way. It’s just one of those self-indulgent things I created for funsies.

5: crossed hairs (Psychdiary x Secret Forest, 300), baby’s first Ko-fi commission and the first time attempting flash fiction of any type for a good cause! It’s a silly self-indulgent thing and has no bearing on canon whatsoever, but it gives me a warm and fuzzy feeling about earning my own keep so Crossed Hairs gets a shoutout by virtue of that :D

Tagging my partners in crime @ryn-s @amteun @sebumis @banghae @appassionataaa @hanyeri @noxdwn @ahnchihong @michyeosseo as well as anyone who wants to do this!

#secret forest 2 #psychopath diary #hospital playlist #personal

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rubinaitoart · 4 years ago

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Right so here's the idea

I discuss a looooot of potential story ideas that never actually make it past the planning stages, but this one has kinda grabbed hold of my brain and will not let go.

Bear with me here.

Prodigal Son x The Flash (CW) Crossover

now unfortunately I am far from a CW Arrowverse fan; I've barely watched a few episodes of The Flash, maybe the first episode of Arrow, and that's about it. There's just a lot of crisscrossing and zig-zagging through the shows and the characters and different universes and timelines and yeah. IIIIII can deal with complicated storylines but it starts getting hard to track on my own.

ANYWAYS

I do know that Central City is not the parallel to New York City in the DCverse/Arrowverse. I think I saw somewhere that it's more like Kansas City? But for the sake of this idea, we're going to say Central City = New York City.

We might get some very subtle Lucifer cameos since that show (although FAR from canon to the DC/Arrowverse and barely has any connections to its base material as far as I'm aware and actually uses real life locations instead of DC/Arrowverse ones) would fit in kinda nicely with this idea.

So to recap:

- The Flash, but using real world locations like Prodigal Son and Lucifer - Probably going to end up being less of a crossover between the shows and more like a crossover between Prodigal Son and whatever the hecking heck I make that's Flash-inspired since there is no way in Hell I'm going to have ANY sense of how the canon timeline shapes out to be. - Seriously don't expect The Flash side of things to be anything remotely close to canon I'm going based solely on what I have watched of that show specifically and sweeping the rest under the rug for my own damn sanity

Also. This project is entirely self-indulgent. Which means yeah, I might have a couple OCs pop in I might have slightly different personalities for the characters I just wanna write something and have fun with it and work on my writing skills at the same time

So, you know. If you're interested. Drop a follow and hang out. Maybe we can even do some brainstorming.

#fandom #fanfiction #crossover #the flash #prodigal son #dc heroes #arrowverse #project concept

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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years ago

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Goodnight, Aaron (Aaron Hotchner x OC) Chapter 1

Summary: After an informal interview, Hotch is surprised to find himself inviting his son’s potential nanny - a complete stranger - over to his home for a visit.

AN: Thank you for the love on the prologue! My niche lil series is thriving because of it <3

The instrument Sebastian has in his bag is a venu. It is a flute made of bamboo, used in Indian music.

Sebastian is half Indian on his mother's side - his father's ethnicity isn't disclosed in this story. While I have researched and included parts of his heritage in his character and the story, I'm not going to write about being a POC or being raised a Muslim because that's not my story to tell.

If you are a POC or a Muslim, and you have any advice for me on including his ethnicity as part of the story without speaking over POC voices or perpetuating harmful stereotypes, I would greatly appreciate it.

Tagging: @sunlight-moonrise, @clean-bands-dirty-stories, @genevievedarcygranger, and @davidrossi-ismydad

Prologue // Masterlist // AO3 Link // Chapter 2

“I still think I should have been there for a second opinion.”

“It was just meeting up for a discussion about what this job might entail,” Hotch sighed as Rossi pressed the button on the elevator. The doors slid closed and a jolt hit Hotch’s stomach as they began rising towards their floor.

Rossi tapped his side twice before making the leap, “So, what was he like?”

“He seemed the most genuine, if a little…” He paused, his eyebrows moving a fraction of an inch closer before settling on - “Nonchalant for an interview. But his references check out. He looked after a set of twins for seven years, and the parents were more than pleased with him.”

“He started early. Must have been like a big brother to them.”

“It was clear they mean a lot to him; he’s still buying them birthday presents.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Sebastian was dressed on the edge of smart casual to parallel Hotch’s suit: a bright patterned short-sleeved shirt plus chinos against the well-matched simple button-up and tie respectively. But it was the thick Mancunian accent that nearly tripped Hotch up when Sebastian called his name.

“Aaron Hotchner, right?”

“Yes, and you must be Sebastian. Good to meet you,” Hotch gave a polite smile and offered his hand once Sebastian had dropped his satchel and two boxes from Build-A-Bear onto his side of the booth. He gave a firm shake twice. Out of nowhere, a thought popped into Hotch’s head that his hand had gotten sweaty in the ten second interval that he had seen his interviewee.

Sebastian didn’t seem phased, smiling back as he dropped his hand, “You too.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“I’m alright, thank you.”

Both sat down in the booth of the quiet cafe Hotch had chosen to meet Sebastian at. Across the next fifteen minutes, Hotch mentally noted everything he could about the man he was interviewing behind Sebastian’s resume and references which had printed off earlier in the day.

Sebastian would always take a few seconds to process the questions. When he answered, he used his hands a lot when he spoke. Not out of nerves though. He held Aaron’s eye contact too well, alternating between both eyes and a spot in the centre of his forehead, to be anxious. As Hotch offered to show him some photos of Jack, Sebastian stood then moved next to sit beside him without hesitation. A subtle woody scent accompanied him.

“Aw yeah, little bruiser,” Sebastian said as Jack ran around the field doing the Spiderman webshooter gesture at a teammate who did the same back at him, “And good taste in superheroes too.”

And from that moment on, Sebastian talked about what Hotch wanted for Jack. He listened with constant attention as Hotch spoke. Those smiles he shared with hi,, they had no force behind them, and Hotch found himself gesturing with his hands like Sebastian – albeit on a smaller scale.

They were just getting to talk about the logistics of wages when Hotch’s phone rang out.

“Excuse me,” Hotch stood up to take a moment of privacy, “Hotchner.”

Midway through the call, he spared a glance Sebastian’s way. The man was checking in his bag for something-

Oh. A wooden flute.

It disappeared back into the bag as quickly as it had been pulled out. Hotch turned his attention back to his phone call. That too was over rather fast and he was back to the booth.

“I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve been called back to work.” He shook Sebastian’s hand again once he had stood up, “I’ll be in touch. Thank you for meeting me at such short notice.”

“Not a problem. Part of this job too, isn’t it?”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“I think Jack would get on with him,” Hotch concluded.

“When do you find out if that’s true?”

“He’s coming to meet Jack this afternoon. If all goes well, then he can have a trial day. If that goes well, I’ll consider hiring him.”

“Thorough,” Rossi said just in time for the elevator doors to open.

Another good day followed – meaning it was mostly paperwork – but even with his time in his office mostly undisturbed, Hotch found himself packing several case files into his briefcase. At least he would have something to do instead of pressing his ear up against the wall to Jack’s room for the evening.

Jack charged out of the school gates, crashing into Hotch and flinging his arms around him. Hotch grunted as Jack’s P.E. kit smacked into back but it didn’t stop him from lifting his son off his feet. Those feet didn’t stop kicking, not even when Hotch lowered the volume of the Beatles’ tracks en route home. He listened dutifully while his father explained about the visitor that would be coming over that night.

“He might be around to help your Aunt Jessica look after you while I’m working.” Hotch said as they pulled into the garage, “But, if you don’t like him, we can find someone else, OK? He doesn’t have to stay.”

“OK,” Jack unclipped his seatbelt. Then he carried on talking about how his lunch break game of soccer had gone, all the way up to their apartment.

While Hotch checked on the slow cooker, Jack did his homework. He would occasionally pipe up to ask a question. Not because he didn’t know the answer, Hotch knew that, but because he enjoyed the conversations that would spawn from the homework. One such conversation was cut short at the sound of the doorbell. Jack carried on with his work, his head receiving a tussle from Hotch as he passed to get to the front door.

Waiting patiently in the hallway was Sebastian and Hotch greeted him, “Hello. Did you find us alright?”

“All good, got the third degree from your doorman about my ID though,” and Sebastian flashed the small card before pocketing it. The patterned shirt had been swapped for a muted red number but Sebastian had kept his satchel as part of his outfit. And it was then that Hotch noticed the various patches sewn onto it. Flags and symbols, likely from something Sebastian enjoyed but Hotch didn’t personally recognise any of them. It did, however, remind him a little of Penelope Garcia.

He had already taken one of his shoes off before Hotch could tell him that this was a shoes-on house, so Hotch decided to continue the small talk instead, “He’s very meticulous with his job.”

“Good,” and Sebastian spied Jack appearing around the corner, “Hey, you must be Jack. I’m Sebastian. Is it cool if we hang out for a bit while your dad works?”

Jack looked to between Hotch and Sebastian several times before he nodded.

“Jack, why don’t you show Sebastian your Lego?”

Hotch watched Jack lead Sebastian into his bedroom before he returned to his office, leaving the door ajar. Sebastian would have to walk past to make it out of the flat. Just a precaution.

Discarding his suit jacket on the back of his chair, Hotch lost himself in the slope of paperwork. His mind only strayed once when the toilet down the hall flushed. The conversation, too muffled by the walls to make out any words, became a comforting white noise.

The slowest and simultaneously fastest hour passed.

Hotch had just made a dent in his workload when he heard a shriek of laughter from Jack’s room. Clicking his pen, he abandoned his desk and crept around to the source of the noise. He could smell that the casserole was nearly done. As he peeked around the door frame to see, part of him wished he could blend into the background, just to catch more than a glimpse of what was happening.

Sebastian was lying on his back with his legs tucked into his chest and Jack astride his shins. Thankfully, Sebastian’s hands were around Jack’s middle as he pushed his legs up, and Jack’s arms were stretched up. Both were making sound effects that were fitting to the spacecraft Jack had constructed from random bricks and was currently flying over his head.

Hotch could watch Jack playing for so much longer. But he knew that he had to interrupt if he wanted him off to bed on time.

“And just what are you two doing?”

Both of their heads whipped around to see Hotch, now stood fully in view in the doorway. While Sebastian looked genuinely guilty, Jack just beamed at Hotch and waved his Lego model at him.

“Seb’s helping the spacecraft take off!”

“I see,” Hotch said, just as sternly but a smile creeping onto his lips betrayed him, “How about you go wash your hands, Jack? Dinner will be ready soon.”

Nodding eagerly, Jack dismounted his steed and a dishevelled Sebastian got to his feet.

“I’ll catch you later then, Jack. How do you prefer to say goodbye? High five?”

Jack opted to slap his palm against Sebastian’s then ran off to the bathroom. Both Hotch and Sebastian watched him go. When the door was safely closed, Hotch turned back to his interviewee.

“He’s crackin’,” Sebastian said, letting out an awkward laugh as he finished adjusting his hair.

He looked as pleasantly surprised as Hotch was when he offered a trial day with Jack. Trusting his gut, that’s what Hotch was doing. His gut was seldom wrong, and his gut told him that Jack getting along with Sebastian more in an hour than he had with his grandfather for years meant something was going right for them.

#aaron hotchner #aaron hotchner imagine #aaron hotchner x reader #aaron hotchner x oc #aaron hotchner fanfiction #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds #series #my writing #r: male #goodnight aaron #wc: 1k+

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cold-foam-butterbeer · 4 years ago

Text

Prince of Hell (HP x HH)

Authors Note: Hello and welcome to my Harry Potter x Hazbin Hotel crossover fanfiction, to start of this will be a somewhat happy story with elements of drama, colorful language, sexual innuendos, abuse, and angst but of course it will have fluff, family, and comfort added to the mix. I wrote this because I read a fanfic by Gamer95 about Charlie and Vaggie being a mother to Harry so this is my own take on that premise. This will be my first chapter story so bear with me if my writing is slow. All right then enjoy the first chapter of this tale.

Chapter 1: An Untimely Demise

We start our tale in a small town in England called Little Whinging in the county of surrey on a street named Privet Drive with houses identical and parallel to each other there lies a dark secret in the Number 4 house.

Harry Potter was no means a happy child, at 7 years old he was miserable, unloved and unwanted. His aunt, uncle and cousin hated him with a passion, and they have no hesitation in showing it, being bullied by Dudley and his peers, his Aunt Petunia yelling, and the worst one of all was Uncle Vernon who had taken it upon himself to “discipline” Harry when he did anything wrong with the god-awful number of chores he did or when he did the “freaky” stuff which earned him the nickname “Freak”.

Where were his parents you ask? “Your mother and father died in car crash!!” Yelled Uncle Vernon and Petunia albeit he asked on two separate occasions and got the same answer for each one.

Despite these circumstances, Harry always had hope that everything will get better, he will get away from his Uncle, Aunt, and Cousin.

“everything will get better” thought Harry he always yearned for a life where he could be happy and loved.

Unfortunately, things would take a dark turn on that faithful day of July 12, XXXX.

0v0

Uncle Vernon wasn’t having a good day so much so he kept muttering curse words while walking and his reddish-purple disposition did not help in easing the looks people were giving him as he trudged on the London sidewalk.

“Fucking...sponsor…not up to standards my foot…Ill show him…” muttered Uncle Vernon due to a potential sponsor not liking the company standards and its work ethic.

Soon he reached a pub and while still muttering to himself he took a seat in the pub “Bartender!!!” he bellowed startling everyone and the customers next to him.

“Buddy keep your voice down, now what do you want?” asked the bartender. “whiskey on rocks” Uncle Vernon angrily muttered. “coming right up” as he poured the drink and gave it to him “hopefully he doesn’t cause any more trouble” thought the bartender.

0v0

Harry was peacefully laying in his cupboard when his digital watch that he found because it was too small to fit Dudley chimed informing him it was 9:00PM.

“I better go to sleep, I’ll probably do a lot of chores tomorrow too” thought Harry as he suddenly remembered that he needed to weed the garden tomorrow and dreaded the summer heat that the weather forecasted for tomorrow.

“I’ll probably get sunburned again” Harry thought when suddenly he heard a door flew open and startled him.

“What was that?” thought Harry then his cupboard was violently opened Uncle Vernon looking at him angrily.

“Come here boy!!!” as Harry was grabbed by the collar of his large hand me downs from Dudley “Now listen here boy.” Uncle Vernon whispered to him, Harry could smell something like the red liquid from the green bottle that his Uncle and Aunt had visitors and when he was tasked to clean the dishes.

“We are going for a ride and don’t even dare make a sound” Harry could only whimper and nod as he was dragged on to the car, Harry thought he was going in the back seat when Uncle Vernon suddenly opened the trunk and threw Harry in “remember boy not a sound” hissed Uncle Vernon as Harry was enveloped in darkness.

Harry was terrified, he couldn’t see where he was and the ride wasn’t exactly smooth, he would bang his head on the ceiling of the trunk whenever Uncle Vernon drove over a speed bump or a pothole.

“I wanna go back to my cupboard” Harry whimpered borderline ready to cry but he couldn’t, he would always get disciplined whenever he cried.

“Stop that crying boy!! the voice echoed in Harry’s mind when he cried because he got a cut when weeding the garden one time. Harry was brought out of his thoughts by screeching brakes, he just realized they have stopped moving and suddenly the trunk was opened.

“Come here boy” the walrus of a man growled and suddenly Harry was being dragged out to what seems to be a cemetery.

“Where are we?” Harry asked with dread while looking at his surroundings.

“That’s for me to know and for you to find out brat” Uncle Vernon sneered, suddenly he threw Harry on the ground.

“I’m going to enjoy beating the daylights out of you boy” as he threw a punch to Harry’s stomach knocking the wind out of him.

“It hurts I can’t breathe” thought Harry as he struggled to even get air into his lungs when he was suddenly picked up and slammed to a nearby gravestone.

“Where not even close to finish yet boy, I’ve been in a bad mood since that shitty client stood up to me and frankly I need a way to vent my anger… on you that is” said Uncle Vernon as he threw another punch to Harry’s face, his glasses broken and chipped with his cheek bruised and now sporting a black eye

“Pl-e…ase... n-o…. m-...ore” croaked Harry but Uncle Vernon didn’t listen to instead he picked up a nearby branch Harry couldn’t fight anymore, he was helpless he thought as he looked at the raised branch swinging before his eyes.

0v0

Uncle Vernon with blood on the branch and on his calloused hands looked on at Harry’s mangled body with disgust and left the cemetery.

“Stupid old coot won’t know... I drove pretty far away...” as he muttered back to his car and peeled off. Harry couldn’t move.

“It hurts everywhere” Harry tried to move but to no avail “everything will get better” he chanted but despite this mantra he felt his strength slowly leaving his body.

“I’m cold… I want my mommy and daddy” Harry sobbed as he closed his eyes tears welling up at corner of his eyes a flash of his life flashing before his eyes, his time with the Dursley’s, his time on the dark cupboard, running away from Dudley and his friends, the principal and teachers looking sad at him whenever he tried to tell them about Dudley, it was just too much his breath was fading until it was no more.

Harry Potter was dead and it would shake the human realm to the very ground Muggle and Magical.

0v0

Hell, Pentagram City – Unknown Location

Hell wasn’t always like what they have written in famous novels and in the Bible, it would have been more compared to the city of New York than a realm with 9 circles or just a fiery inferno with the damned souls climbing a rope of spider thread brought down by God.

“Well some of those things did happen at one point during my reign here” an unknown figure mused in his seat while swirling a golden chalice filled with red wine and a cane shaped like a snake with a ruby shaped like an apple place at the top.

“Give me this week’s new inhabitants” snapped the fingers of the individual.

“Yes, my lord” a female demon with claws that are as long as tree branches wearing a skin tight body suit with white lines on the calf part vanished and suddenly reappeared in the blink of an eye.

“Here you are my lord” as she handed over a clipboard what appears to be a list of individuals.

“Hmm just serial killers, corrupt politicians and riff raff” he lazily flipped through the pages until he caught on to a certain name:

Harry Potter – Age 7, Death by murder by Vernon Dursley.

“Well well the wizarding world’s savior has died” he grinned this is perfect a diamond in the rough he thought.

“I need to get him down here but how?” As he set down the chalice “Give me everything you know about Harry Potter now!” he yelled.

“Yes, my lord” the demoness disappeared “Here you are my lord” as she handed him a red folder.

“be gone with you, I have important business to attend to” with that order she left the room without a word.

“Now let’s see what I can exploit resulting your death Harry Potter” he grinned maniacally “7 years old, Son of Lily and James, no…. how about injuries… *flip* broken bones... how about magical injuries… hit with the killing curse by Lord Voldemort… perfect… let’s put your pathetic mistake to use Tom” as he grabbed an ornate knife made of silver with rubies dotted at the handle and carved an intricate casting circle on the floor.

“ Let’s send your soul down to Hell Tom only thing is it will have a little passenger in for the ride” as he cut his hand and drops of blood dropped to casting circle and with a few second it crackled with red and green energy.

“The blood has been paid… the ritual is set… bring forth my heir into my Dominion of Death!!!” as he slammed his cane into the ground followed by an intense light of red enveloping the chamber where he stood. “I’ll see you soon Harry Potter” he laughed menacingly in to the crimson brimmed sky of Hell.

0v0

Harry was feeling strange, he was floating in what seemed to be like clouds and it was so bright and he saw something falling.

“Feathers?” he thought and he could have sworn he heard singing then a thought came across Harry he had watched a religious documentary during the Holidays and he learned about Heaven where all the good people go when they die. “

I’m in heaven?” questioned harry “I can see my mommy and daddy now…” he bit back a sob when suddenly his scar started hurting.

“Ahhhggg!” Harry groaned in agony his scar feels like it’s being burned and ripped open at the same time. The pain caused harry to faint and suddenly his body was falling nowhere to be found into the dark abyss.

0v0

Hell, Pentagram City – Back alley

Harry was feeling nauseous and his head hurts as he opened his eyes, it was all red and blurry.

“Where are my glasses” he squinted trying to find them until he found it next to him on the floor.

“There” as he put on his glasses clutching his head and trying to make sense of what happened.

“Where am I?” as he looked with confusion and fear as his checked his surroundings he was in an alleyway there were no white clouds, it was dark and red as he looked up into the sky it was a dark crimson with a star shaped symbol far as the eye can see.

“Where is this? Harry quivered as he tried to get up and get out of the alleyway.

“This place is scary” as Harry was walking actively avoiding the “monsters” and looking small when he suddenly fell in to ground.

“Move it pipsqueak” a big monster that looks like a cross between a boar and a shark wearing a black t shirt ripped at the sleeves and has a multitude of tattoos with distinctive patterns. Harry slowly picked himself up and continued walking until he saw a group of the creatures drinking from a bottle, slowly Harry walked up to them.

“Excuse me…” as Harry said this the group stopped drinking and eyed Harry with annoyance. “Where am I?” Harry shivered.

“Where the fuck do ya think you are dipshit??” one of the monsters with tentacles for hands snapped at him this cause Harry to shrink back and flinch.

“This is heaven… right? The beasts looked at each other and then laughed.

“Kid does this look like fucking heaven to you? Just because you transformed into a kid doesn’t even you have to be this fucking stupid! One of them said.

“But… I am a kid…. I’m 7 years old…” Harry whimpered.

“What the fuck?! You’re 7 years old? And you got sent to here to Hell?! Asked the demon in disbelief.

“Hell?... this isn’t heaven…” Harry’s blood ran cold.

The creatures laughed “Welcome to Hell kid” A demon with large claws and fangs approached him.

“You know you’ll do nicely as a punching bag or toy” Harry was beyond horrified now as he tried to run but was ultimately grabbed by the squid demon.

“Nuh uh, You are going to fetch us a high price kid! Maybe we’ll even get a shot at screwing Angel Dust” He grinned.

“No please! I’m sorry just let me go! I just want… Mmph! Harry cried as he was gagged by the tentacles of the beast

“Shut the fuck up boy! Or you’ll gonna have to feel these” the demon rubbed his claws to Harry’s cheek who bit back from crying but tears were still streaming from his eyes and was already walking with Harry still gagged.

“Why is this happening to me” Harry thought “I just want to be happy, I just want to be with my mommy and daddy.”

Harry’s emotions were all over the place fear, sadness, guilt but he had this buzzing in the back of his head something that was replacing all his fear, and sadness then everything came back to him, the Dursleys, the discipline, the beatings, not giving him any food it all came crashing down and at that moment Harry felt pure unadulterated anger and rage.

“Oh man were gonna nail Angel Dust after this and were gonna be… AGHHHH!” the demon screamed and looking at his dismembered tentacles he dropped Harry to the ground.

“You are gonna fucking pay for that you shitty brat” He yelled as he brandished a knife suddenly Harry stood up black smoke covering his body then disappeared all at once revealing his body with claws meant for ripping flesh, fangs long and sharp akin to a Viper, and his eyes were sporting a black sclera, iris and cornea an acidic green and his pupil instead of a round shape it was replaced by a slit.

“This kid can do a full demon transformation?!” one of the demons yelled. “He’s just a kid come on we can take him!” the clawed demon said to them and suddenly pounced when Harry suddenly disappeared and reappeared next to the demon biting his neck full force.

“ARRGHH fucking brat bit me! Get him off!!!” he trashed “he fucking poisoned me!!!, Get him the fuck off!!!” The demon suddenly fell into a heap then Harry looked at the other two demons baring his fangs “Fuck man let’s get out of here!!” as both of them ran towards a nearby alley but when suddenly they were pinned down by Harry

“He is so fucking strong what the fuck” the tentacled demon yelled.

“Die” Harry muttered he brought his clawed hands down on them and screams of agony and pain were both heard that night.

0v0

“Fucking finally this shit’s over, I’m never gonna do a double shift again” groaned Angel Dust as he left Porn Studios.

“Hmm… should I swing by the hotel or back to my apartment?” He pondered when he suddenly heard pained screaming in the alley.

“Screaming happens often here but that was too painful for it to be considered normal” as he cocked a revolver and pistol with both of his hands and cautiously made his way to the alley.

Harry was in a daze, he didn’t know what happened after he was dragged away by the monsters.

“Where am I” he said groggily putting a hand on his forehead when he felt something sticky and warm on his hands.

“What is this!” yelped Harry. “Is this blood…” he was scared then he suddenly went sick when he saw the murdered bodies of the demons who gagged him, blood everywhere, internal organs peeking out.

“What happened” then terrible thought passes Harry “Did I do this….” He was beyond sick but he was broken in his inner thoughts.

“Freeze! put yer hands up!” Angel yelled. “Woah what the fuck happened here!” Angel was shocked at the carnage before him but was even more shocked at the trembling form of Harry with blood on his hands and face.

“Kid? did you do this?” Asked Angel in disbelief that a kid can do something like this “Are you even a kid or just a really small demon?” Harry was confused and scared when he looked at the things the pink monster was holding then the creature started walking up to him then with a sudden rush of adrenaline Harry bolted out of the alley way.

“Woah wait up! And he’s gone, fantastic” Angel hid his guns and stared at the sky “How can a kid fucking murder a bunch of demons 5 times bigger than him?” Angel scratched his head then with a groan. “Maybe I should go to the hotel… The princess might know somethin” Angel contemplated as he started walking to the Happy Hotel.

Notes: That’s a wrap guys, so just a bunch of world building here and there and our saviour has met Hell’s most popular porn star. To clarify things I haven’t made this timeline canon to the Wizarding universe since it contradicts some of the characters deaths like Vaggie so I trashed that all together. Expect in the next chapter Harry will meet Charlie. Anyways I’ll try to keep updating ASAP until then see you next time! Peace :3

#hazbin hotel #hazbin vaggie #hazbin charlie #hazbin angel dust #writing #writings #fanfic #fanfiction #harry potter #dursley family #petunia dursley #dudley dursley

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