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joels6string · 1 year

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First Time For Everything

Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: There's something you've always wanted to try, but never found someone you trusted enough to share it with. Until now.

Rating: E

Word Count: 1.7k

Content: smut, oral f-receiving, butt play, rimming, anal sex

“Patience, sweetheart,” he cooed, “If I hurt you I’d never forgive myself.”

Joel Miller Masterlist

It all began with soapy hands soaking the hem of your shirt and whiskered kisses to the sensitive skin of your neck, a gravelly mumble into your skin you couldn’t quite make out vibrating down your body and landing heavily in your core. It was always this easy. As his tongue swiped out over your pulse, another jolt shot down beneath your thighs, your knees buckling as his arm wrapped tightly around your middle, catching you as your hands gripped the edge of the counter still wet from the evening’s dinner clean-up.

“Joel?” you mewled pathetically, his nose dragging along your pulse as he hummed in response, graciously taking his lips off of you to give you a chance to formulate your words, “Can I ask you for something?”

“Uh-huh,” he agreed, fingers pressing into the softness of your waist.

“There’s something I want to… try. With you.”

“Go on.”

It shouldn’t be nerve-wracking, but it was, even with the knowledge there was no edge of the Earth he wouldn’t hurtle off for your benefit.

“I want to try something new,” you continued, still skirting around the request, pressing yourself back harder against his groin, “Upstairs.”

“Honey, I’m gonna need you to be more specific,” he chuckled hot against your throat, “Tell me what you want.”

The words came blurting out awkwardly, his eyes going wide as his jaw dropped slightly, your heart hammering as you waited for his response. Clearly, he was stunned in silence. Or maybe horror. It was always hard to tell with him.

“You want that…” he began quietly like his throat was closing in on itself, “with me?”

“Yeah,” you answered, cupping his jaw in your hand, “Only you.”

“Okay.”

Shaking hands pulled off your clothes slowly seconds after the bedroom door clicked closed, the backs of his fingers dragging down the bare skin of your arms reverently as you worked on the buttons of his shirt. When you were both bare standing at the foot of the bed, you could see the wheels in his head spinning, his thumbs rubbing wonky circles in the dips of your hips as his eyes flit from your mouth to your wide gaze.

“How do you wanna…” he mumbled nervously, your lips cutting him off with a simple kiss, “Tell me what to do.”

“Have you done it before?” you asked, pressing back with another gentle peck before his nerves could take over again.

“No. I…I’ve watched it…on the internet…And I’m sorry–”

“Are you…apologizing for watching porn on the internet over 20 years ago?”

“I guess so…”

That was the icebreaker you both needed. Hysterical laughter broke out as you collapsed against his chest, nuzzling into the dark hair covering his torso, the rumble of his laugh vibrating against your cheek. When your lips reconnected it was all fire and passion, your hands exploring the dips and curves of his muscular body as your tongues danced to a steady rhythm you’d had memorized for years.

“Just stay close,” you requested as your back hit the mattress, “Please.”

“Yes ma’am,” he answered, sealing that promise with a kiss as he lay on his side beside you, his hand splaying across your inner thigh spreading your legs gratuitously.

His calloused fingers brushed gingerly over your open slit, the rough skin catching on your sensitized bundle of nerves just enough to have you gasping into his open mouth, your back arching off the bed in search of more contact as he teased that featherlight touch up your stomach. When he slipped down and perched your legs on his broad shoulders and down his back, you waited impatiently for what came next. This was a position you found yourself in often, his head buried in your heat as he lapped and suckled to his heart’s content.

It began as it always did, his tongue collecting what had already accumulated before swirling over your swelling nub, every motion lazy and natural yet so pinpointed. You were too distracted to care when his palms swallowed the backs of your thighs, pushing your knees to your chest and opening you up further to his onslaught. The dizzying effect had you ensnared, and when he pressed cautiously to the puffy muscle that was now exposed you couldn’t help the guttural cry that ripped free and bounced off the walls of the bedroom you shared.

He prodded and flattened his tongue, spit dripping down your crack as he soaked his intended entrance for the evening, his pecks to the surrounding area only working to build you up further. He began with his middle finger, slipping it past the clenched barrier gently and crooking his first knuckle, his mouth latching onto your clit once again as he stretched your hole open, thrusting gently until your hips were rocking in an attempt to find more. His ring finger was added next, a watchful stare fixated on you searching for the first sign of discomfort as he began to scissor you open, your stomach clenching as discomfort merged with pleasure, your legs spreading wider as you chased the high.

“Please,” you begged, your fingers locking into the gray hair he’d let grow out, tugging in hopes of bringing him to the next stage.

“Patience, sweetheart,” he cooed, “If I hurt you I’d never forgive myself.”

The iron grip you had on his strands loosened in favor of soothing strokes, your body settling to enjoy the way his fingers and mouth worked in tandem over both of your holes until he got what he’d been seeking. A white-hot wave washed over your sweat-soaked skin, every muscle tensing and then releasing as you crested, his name the only recognizable word drifting off of the incoherent babble falling from your lips.

As your chest heaved, he repositioned himself back beside you, your legs draping over his body, his erection resting heavily against your swollen folds. Your taste was heavy on his lips when he focused your attention back on him, his beard so shamelessly soaked with spit and your arousal it dampened your chin. When you reached between your bodies to line him up, you found his hand already gripping his length, your fingers then drifting to your cunt to collect what was still leaking freely to add to the tight ring of muscle he was now pressing the head of his cock against.

“Ready?” he asked softly, teasing with enough pressure to have you whining for more, “You tell me if I need to stop, you understand?”

“Yes,” you agreed, your tongue lapping against his puffy lips reinforcing your words.

It was painful at first, the stretch something even his fingers couldn’t prepare you for, yet somehow it wasn’t unbearable. He was slow, stopping when the head had breached far enough to stay seated, his fingers once again rubbing gentle circles on the dips of your hips, and puffs of barely-controlled breaths hot against your ear as you realized he was already panting. With each inch deeper, you felt impossibly fuller, his thumb now begging your body to relax as he pressed on your clit, flicking gingerly as he pulled out slightly and pushed in again, slightly further this time.

“Tell me you’re alright,” he grunted, forehead pressed to your temple, and you nodded, “Use your words.”

“M’okay.” That was going to have to be enough, your brain was too focused on the feeling of him splitting you open in the very best way possible, a pathetic whine slipping out when his hips notched against yours, his cock fully sheathed inside of you.

After the second steady thrust, all of your discomforts had dissipated, you wiggled your hips over him, silently asking him for more, clenching around him enough to have him moaning softly into your ear in that way that made you dizzy. A turn of your head had you drinking in the sight of his teeth gnashed together, every ounce of his focus being used to control himself as he plunged into your tight depths over and over, his desire to keep you from harm outweighing his own search for pleasure.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he whimpered as you kissed the scar on the bridge of his nose, “I can’t…”

“You don’t have to,” you reminded him, his fingers still somehow working over your nub like it was a reflex, you weren’t sure if he even knew he was doing it, the pressure in your belly building with every drag of his cock through your now-gaping hole.

“Feels so god damn good.”

“I know.”

The confirmation you were enjoying this as much as he was had him relaxing enough to pull your lips to his again. He got you to the edge first, holding back his own release until you were strangling him, the tightening of your ass around his cock enough to have him sputtering louder than you knew he was intending. He was choking on it, the overwhelming surge that had him twitching with aftershocks as he softened still buried inside of you, his release leaking out onto the sheets you’d changed just the day before.

Sweat had his hair matting around his eyes, making him look younger than his five-and-a-half decades led on, the tension that held his features hostage had melted away in the haze he found himself drifting in. It was in these rare moments of bliss you found yourself unable to stop adoring the scars, fine lines, and sun spots you cherished, every freckle and mark on his face worthy of memorization and esteem.

“Everything you hoped for?” he teased, his voice an octave higher as a grin stretched across his face, an arm slinging heavy across your stomach.

You hummed in agreement, your nails scraping over the course hair covering his forearm, “Everything you hoped for?”

“Can’t be sure. Might have to try again.”

“There he is. He’s back.”

A toothy smile and hearty laugh preceded the abrupt loss of him from inside you, the soreness of your activities settling in as you sat up and readied for a shower. He noticed your unease, snapping into action immediately as he lifted you into his arm effortlessly, his lips distracting you as the water boiled, his choice for a bath to end the evening surprising even you as the soapy bubbles began to rise.

Not proofread, I die with my typos like a true amateur.

#joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfic #joel miller smut #the last of us fanfiction #the last of us fic #tlou fanfic #tlou fanfiction

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firstkanaphans · 1 year

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I love that Idol Factory is letting their girls be just as horny as their boys. So often—especially in Thai media—women are stripped of any kind of sexual desire as if the act of wanting makes them lesser. Mon and Sam have been allowed to express their love through sex without any sense of shame. And honestly? That’s pretty fucking revolutionary.

And not only that, but the NC scenes themselves aren’t catering to the male gaze AT ALL. There are no gratuitous shots of boobs or butts. No fake moans. They know their audience and they know what we find attractive. I’m just so happy to see lesbians on my screen who haven’t been distilled down into something palatable for straight audiences.

#god bless saint suppapong #gap the series

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sinisterexaggerator · 11 days

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Stars Above! | Cad Bane

Chapter 14

Explicit: Semi-slow burn, gratuitous smut /pwp, canon-typical violence, mildly dubious consent, angst, Tatooine Slave Culture.

This chapter: Flashbacks / nightmares, whump, mild-medical procedure involving a needle/dispenser and sedatives.

Word count: 5.3k+

Notes: It only took me TWO YEARS TO UPDATE. SORRY ABOUT THAT. I promise that I will try to update more regularly from now on.

[ Ao3 ] - [ Masterpost ]

《 Previous chapter ||

“Supposin’ us bein’ partners don’ mean nothin’,” Bane flippantly offered. Though feeling despondent, he masked it well. The two men were a lot alike in that respect; Bane hardly knew what went on inside the Mando’s over-complicated mind.

“You’ve learned everything there is to know, Cad. And what you don’t know, you don’t want to learn, even if given the opportunity.”

“What’s dhat even mean,” the Duros asked bitingly, throwing down the butt of his cigarra on the cold, hard ground. The two began to make their way, Jango sighing under the beskar helmet that hid his face, Bane trudging along behind, albeit slowly; he was freezing.

Vandor was an icy planet, located in the Sloo Sector of the Mid Rim, currently home to a target that had made his home in Fort Ypso, a snowy village that lay sequestered in the foothills of the Iridium mountains, only crossable by bridge. The wooden planks groaned under their feet as the pair of hunters ventured onward, Slave I left beyond its borders so as not to attract attention and give the game away.

“It means you are stubborn,” Fett returned, his voice carrying over the blistering wind. “Perhaps it is time for you to branch out on your own; be your own man. I am beginning to think I cramp your style.”

The Duros sneered, offended in more ways than one, fangs chattering even though he wore specialized gear meant to curtail the cold from leeching through to his very bones. “Says de man who don’ know when te turn down a job; if Ah had nips, dhey’d already be frozen off.”

“You didn’t have to come with me,” Jango informed him, his joke lost on the dour man. He wasn’t in the mood for Bane’s attitude, much less his complaints.

“As fer style, Ah got plenty, naht countin’ dhis ridiculous ‘fit ye’ made me wear.”

Bane frowned despite himself, feeling each minor movement of his facial muscles; they were stiff from the frigid temperature, the younger man desiring to find a place of warmth. At least his body glove was able to retain some heat, otherwise he was sure to succumb to this positively ridiculous weather within mere minutes, seconds.

“Fine; maybe Ah should leave ye te it dhen; wait in de ship, if yer so keen on gettin’ rid of me.”

Then, his sour expression deepened, Bane’s footfalls ceasing as he came to a full stop. “It’s ‘cause Ah don’ agree with ye, ain’t it.”

“It’s not your life, nor your decision,” the Mandalorian shot back without delay, unable to hide his bitterness. “I know what I want, even if you don’t.”

Bane braced himself, realizing this was about to become more personal than he had bargained for, Fett having never bothered to explain his motives. All Bane knew was he had won some contest, proving he was the best bounty hunter in all the galaxy—a title he assumed might one day rightfully be his.

Fett had trained him, after all. More than that; he had become his friend, his confidant. Bane might go so far as to think he even loved the man, though never voicing those sentiments out loud; he buried them, like everything else he felt.

Perhaps it was fear that kept him quiet. Fear, or maybe anxiety. They both lived in the same place—inside his chest. The chest that currently housed a heart beating furiously behind a wall of ribs, even as Bane reached out to touched Fett’s shoulder.

What he couldn’t understand was why he needed a million of himself; Jango would be tasked to train an army for an unknown benefactor, an army of clones.

The idea sent shivers down Bane’s scales. He understood there were credits to be made, and lots of them. But even so, this was a line Bane himself would never cross—playing God by ignoring ethics, by ignoring quandaries he thought might only come about in science labs. Not in the field; not in the relatively short life of a bounty hunter.

“Ah know what Ah want,” he muttered softly, “de one of ye.”

The Mando whisked around, batting his companion’s hand away. He could not see his face, but Fett’s annoyance easily radiated out beyond his suit of armor. He thought Bane would never understand his hatred for the Jedi; the duty he had assigned himself that consumed half his personality. “Come off it.”

Bane hesitated. The sky began to darken; he thought he had been to this place before.

“You’re a fool,”Fett’s voice, a low baritone, seeped into Bane’s ears, in turn causing the Duros to tremble. It was not out of the coldness of the weather, but the coldness of his words, that Bane’s body involuntarily shuddered, wide, red eyes blinking away flecks of snowflakes as they floated toward the ground; they were gossamer, each one intricate by its own design.

“But Fett-”

“Shut up,” the Mando cut him off. Something wasn’t right. Bane gazed around himself, even as Fett continued. “You really think I care about what you think?”

Bane stared at him, a wounded look taking over his already glum face. Even so, he thought to follow-up, wondering if he had said these words before. “Just dhat-”

Flames were birthed from blankets of white snow, shooting up as pillars of an all-consuming heat, Bane taking a step back as he watched the fire cast a shadow on Jango’s beskar helmet. Those little flecks, those tiny snowflakes, were now tendrils of hot ash, the icy ground nearby the bridge they stood on a carpet of dirt and soot.

“Ja-Jango?” Bane stuttered out; the man approached, deliberate, even as his voice rose in his anger.

“You are nothing to me, Cad. You are nothing.”

The fire blazed more luminous than a main-sequence star; the heavens were black as pitch and no sun shone; Bane heard another sound, this one the creak of weakening ropes as the Duros realized the bridge they stood upon was near to collapse. It was old, rickety, and the only way into town.

“You are not my friend, and you will never be my family,” Fett assured, his vehemence laced with mockery. The Mando laughed, dry, and borderline sadistic; it was out of character for him. Bane grimaced.

“Fett, we gotta go back!” Bane ignored his hurtful remarks, noticing the bridge was starting to sink and give beneath their weight and the onslaught of the flames. The youth would peer over the side, eyes set to broaden as he realized the mountain valley was now nothing but a pit of hellfire.

“You are weak; pathetic; worthless-”

“-stop it!”

“-just a frightened little boy.”

“Enough!” the Duros shouted; he could hear the panic in his voice. He cursed himself, wanting to be brave; wanting to prove to Fett that everything he said was erroneous, inaccurate – but he was right; Bane was frightened.

Suddenly, Bane had nothing below his feet, just a gaping hole and a river of bright flames. Fett was hovering; he had activated the thrusters of his jetpack; Bane aimed to do the same, pressing a button on his wrist gauntlet, except his boots wouldn’t fire; they sputtered and died out.

He kept on falling.

“Jango!” He heard his voice crack, Bane reaching out and up toward the Mando. The man only laughed that wry, cruel laugh, even as Bane fell to what he knew would be his death.

With hands grasping, arms flailing, and legs kicking erratically, Bane yelled one last time as his body was engulfed, swallowed by the void.

“Ah’m sorry!”

---

“Oh, no!” Todo 360 articulated. “I was afraid this might happen!” the droid verbalized in a mild state of panic. He began zooming around the room, peeking into cabinets and pulling out various tools, utensils, and medical implements. It appeared to Zulara that he might be looking for something in particular, so hurried were his movements in his haste.

“Can I help?” she asked quietly, though eager, not sure what was even wrong or what it was she would be looking for. The girl had been seated on the floor, tinkering with one of Bane’s fancy vambraces; it was sparking.

The girl glanced to the bacta pod where Cad Bane slumbered, but something was amiss; his eyelids twitched. She stood, then approached with caution, peering down into the coffin-like contrivance – that’s when she noticed.

The Duros trembled, the muscles of his face distorting into what looked like fear, then pain. His head shifted back and forth from side to side, though not awake. Zulara’s heart ached for the man.

“What’s wrong with him?” she asked, turning to stare at the frantic Todo. He was too busy in his search to hear her, muttering his many grievances and even a few expletives.

“Todo?” she asked again, the concern apparent in her voice. She stepped forward toward the little droid, tapping him gently on his tiny shoulder.

Todo whirled on her, having forgotten momentarily that she was even aboard the ship, Zulara noting she had startled him by the widening of his citrine eyes.

“Do not do that!” he proclaimed, immediately taking back up the search. Zulara’s lower lip quivered as she turned on her heel, refacing the injured man; he at least seemed calmer now, which Zulara pointed out.

“He’s stopped moving,” she whispered.

Todo zipped on by, a cool rush of air tickling her arm. He observed his master through the glass, a pane of two-inch thick transparisteel.

The droid sighed a human sigh, then rounded on his thrusters. He stared up at the girl, finally managing to find the time to give her a halfhearted story of some kind.

“When in the bacta pod, Bane’s subconscious is left totally unguarded! He is vulnerable to whatever it is his mind can conjure up, and I will have you know these things are not pleasant.”

“He had a nightmare,” Zulara stated, though the end of her phrase had a questioning lilt to it.

Todo nodded in assent, then added: “He has a lot of those, I am afraid.” He wondered if he should be telling all Bane’s secrets. Was this a secret? Nightmares were common among organics. He was unsure.

Zulara frowned at him, then looked down at her boots. She often had nightmares herself, a reoccurring one; the one where she was stripped from her mother’s arms by her drunken father; the one where she was ushered off like chattel into a life of slavery.

Her gaze returned to Todo once she had repressed that bit of sordid memory. “Will he be all right?” she questioned anxiously.

“You are humorous, human. Mister Bane has endured much worse. But I must find this pneumatic dispenser! It holds a sedative we may need; it is only a precaution.”

“You are going to sedate him?” Zulara asked, perplexed.

“Well, it is better than what Bane would do!” Todo scolded, continuing his rummaging. “I, for one, do not wish to suppress my memories, but in all likelihood Bane will hurt himself in this state, and he is already wounded.”

Zulara seemed confused. “What do you mean?”

Todo was becoming irritated. If this woman was not present, he could work in peace! Just who did Boba think he was, leaving her with him! Granted, she seemed to care about his master, but she was still a nuisance! Perhaps the droid was now beginning to understand why Bane called him that on limitless occasions - and when he meant well.

He started to have a change of heart, though his metal shell was empty besides his circuitry; his own thought process set him straight. Todo simply sighed again, though trying to be patient. “Mister Bane seems to think that libations will solve his problems. Why, ever since Boba Fett shot him in the head, he has never been the same!”

Zulara’s frown remained fixated, though deepening. She had heard this mentioned once before as they had dragged Bane inside his ship. Why would the man that had helped to rescue him want him dead instead? It made no sense. She thought to ask, but wondered if the droid would answer her.

Todo seemed two things: high-strung and untrusting, though Zulara’s interest was not self-serving, she was only curious. It was hard not to want to learn all she could about the Duros, his history, and those things that made him tick.

“What happened?” she finally managed, fingers trailing a path down the outside of the convex, transparent glass. “Boba would not tell me how he knew Bane,” she added, studying the curves and angles of the hunter’s face despite the mask he wore that fed him oxygen.

“Because then Boba would be admitting to attempted murder!” the incensed droid piped up, rounding on her. He was flustered by the question, and even more so aggravated by the answer he was about to give. Young Fett was a traitor and a deserter in his opinion; a fly-by-night, disreputable scoundrel to say the very least!

“When one commits to a job, or when one is given a home and specialized training - for free might I add – with only the expectancy of loyalty, and then for that person to defect, to try Mister Bane’s patience after all he did for him!”

Todo scoffed, turning back around. He opened up a lower cabinet, somehow sticking his large head inside, so his words were muffled. “To question his authority is one thing, but to shoot him?!” Todo’s voice was elevated, despite being dampened within the cupboard he was scouring. “Simply because you do not agree with his methods!?”

Zulara watched Todo’s metal chassis shift back and forth as his upper half continued with its plundering, tossing things haphazardly behind him. The girl would lift one leg, dodging something sharp that vibrated—a sonic scalpel? What did Cad Bane need that for?

Zulara bent down to pick it up; she switched it off. Her eyebrows furrowed as she thought about the head plate Bane always sported. “So, then Boba betrayed him? He shot him at point-blank range?”

Her thoughts drifted to the man whose comlink was in her pocket. The youthful face, the curly hair, the deep brown eyes – so soft and rich – she could not imagine him to be a killer, yet he was another bounty hunter. A bounty hunter like the Duros she had feelings for, the one who left her, the one who desired her dead for the sand she had thrown into his stark garnet eyes.

“Well, no,” Todo admitted. He had been there, after all, observing it all unfold. “There was a duel. It was a tie-” the little droid emerged to swivel toward her once again, “-but Boba cheated! A Mandalorian’s helmet is made of beskar! And while Boba is no Mandalorian, his -er- father was.”

Todo 360 made an irritated harumph. “A solitary clone should have been grateful to have Mister Bane mentor him! I know I would be. Of course, he did owe Jango many favors, or so Mister Bane has said…”

His voice trailed off; Zulara realized something. It was no matter that this droid was comprised of ones and zeros, or its many servos. Something clicked inside her brain—Todo had no bolt, no way in which he was restrained. He loved his master, and to some extent, Cad Bane must love him.

She could only imagine this Fett harbored some kind of guilt, as well he should. If she ever saw him, if he ever commed her…yet it was not her business.

Zulara refocused her attention, “a pneumatic dispenser, no?” Her inquiry was soft, calming. Todo perceptibly unwound, as the organic’s voice was somehow soothing.

He was not used to women hanging around; he had only known those that Bane kept on retainer for one reason or another, namely Aurra Sing; she had not one gentle bone in her whole body. In fact, he might blame her for the way young Boba had turned out. While Mister Bane had a hand in it, it was not until he had been abandoned and thrown in prison thanks to the Palliduvan that his master had offered Fett his guidance.

“Yes,” the exhausted droid replied, returning to his work. He kept one eye on her, but he was thankful for the girl’s assistance, however wary. One could never be too careful.

---

“Boba?” Bane had heard the name, floating out in empty space, inside his mind, or spoken by a God. It lingered, the two syllables leeching their way into his cerebral cortex, even as pure darkness surrounded him, enveloping his cold flesh like a thickset, heavy blanket of unease.

His stomach lurched; he felt like throwing up. Instead, he sat upright and was faced with a nearly obscene brightness. Someone had unveiled the stars, but one shown more luminous than all the others; the one that warmed the desert planet he was now stationed on.

“Bane!”

The Duros’ eyes rolled to his left, spying within his hand a bottle of dark liquor, Bane ascertaining this might be the reason for his sickness; the empty feeling that tarried in his guts. But still, nothing was making sense.

Bane dropped the bottle, glancing up. Some distance away was a teenaged Boba Fett.

How many times would the kid shout his name in anger? How many times would he have to remember his father’s face when looking into his? That armor, that helmet – all a cruel reminder.

“You should have been there.” That’s what the boy had said that fateful day.

Bane stood, gazing out. He was supposed to say something, words that had been repeated time and time again. The outcome would never be any different, he suspected, but the hunter was caught in a web of his own delusions. Maybe this time he could make it right; maybe this time Bane would not lose his self-respect or his dignity to a fourteen-year-old brat.

“Ah wouldn’ be so-” Bane’s voice dropped; he said the rest quietly and to himself, “-hasty now, boy…”

No. This wasn’t at all accurate. This had happened once before. Bane studied his surroundings, noting the placement of the buildings, a fire that burned in the distance, wisps of dark-colored smoke emanating in tight curls.

Fire.

There was a fire.

He had fallen.

Boba turned his head; Bane followed his lead, spying C-21 Highsinger and his faithful droid companion. Held prisoner in their grasp was a white-haired old man. The child - Fett’s offspring - demanded that he be released along with all the other hostages.

What hostages.

“Let them go, Bane.”

What had he done? He could not remember, the Duros craning his hat and head to stare down at both of his blue hands.

“This isn’t their fight anymore.”

Bane knit his brow in thought, his gaze returning to the boy. He took a new approach, or at least he thought. He was unsure, second-guessing, caught in a place that resembled reality, yet Bane was positive none of this was real.

“Yer daddy ain’t here, boy. Ah knowit. But ye gonna go ‘head an’ bite de hand dhat feeds?”

Bane took two steps forward, somehow knowing what came next. He had always wondered if there was some other way than this, something he could have done to change Fett’s mind. But in the end, he had it out for him; it was a part of history that could never be rewritten. Boba had got it in his head that Cad Bane was his enemy, and the sole executioner of the people here, as if he was the only one who was unscrupulous among those present.

“Yer gonna wind up poor, or dead, out on yer own – dhis galaxy is harsh. Ye think Jango was perfect? Ye think he wouldn’ do whateva’ it takes te get de job done?”

“Shut up! I am not my father!” Boba scolded beneath his helmet; Bane ground his teeth as he glared at him, his expression full of venom. Always such an impudent, brazen child. He hated Jango then – all of them – and his clone army; his poor decision.

“No more innocent people are going to die, or be locked up, or live in fear,” Fett reiterated, brandishing a finger. It was ironic, all this talk, when Boba Fett was supposed to be a bounty hunter.

“Did ye ferget what profession ye’s in? We’re hunters, Boba. Unless ye ain’t one. Maybe yer just soft.”

A poor choice of words, considering the circumstances. Bane was sure he had only made things worse. He did not have the time to contemplate anything beyond that, for Bossk and Embo had arrived.

At least they were fairly trustworthy, the Kyuzo only second to Bane himself. Bossk knew how to take directions, even though he had connections, strong ones, to the Guild. Bane had thought, incorrectly, that they might back him up and take his side, but the blood that ran through Boba’s veins was a testament to his skill and to his mounting leadership, despite his age and stature.

Bane smiled a crooked smile. “Looks like yer lil’ insurrection has failed.”

Boba looked behind himself and to the others; Bane’s smile faltered. He glanced around as the thin shroud separating this world from the next shimmered and disjoined. He saw stars; realspace; a depthless abyss of nothing, like a curtain had been pulled back to reveal the stage, and he was the main character.

“I say we give the kid his shot,” he heard the Trandoshan rasp.

Bane dug his boots into the sandy earth. There was a suction pulling him, like a vacuum, toward a gaping hole that now stretched so wide the entire town was gone. The only thing that remained were the other hunters; Bossk and Embo had stood down, and Boba was rounding on him.

Bane realized they did not seem to be affected; it was like none of this was happening. He knew what he was supposed to say, as if only reciting his own name.

“So, dhat’s it – just ye and me dhen, Boba Fett.”

“I guess it is,”the boy would reply.

Their eyes met, or at least he thought they did. That damned bucket was in the way, Bane mentally cursing its utility – it’s why he hated them – it was a place to hide.

And kark the others; their loyalty was forfeit, Bane reminded of a most important lesson: he was alone, and he always had been. Always would be, save his droid for company.

A sharp wind picked up, yet Bane’s hat did not fly off—not yet. He fought with all his might against an invisible adversary, even as his fingers danced above one LL-30 BlasTech pistol. If he could only be a fraction faster, if he could only put this disgruntled adolescent in his rightful place, his anger, his heartache, his headaches—they all might vanish.

His quick draw was the cause of his notoriety. To be outdone - to lose to a snot-nosed kid - it would be an embarrassment, though highly understated. The only thing he had left to him was his reputation, and Fett was out to steal it from him, albeit fair and square. He couldn’t – wouldn’t – let that happen.

Bane pulled his weapon; he squeezed the trigger. Simultaneously, another shot was fired. Superheated plasma - imbued with an explosive quality - transferred kinetic and thermal force to the armor plating that lined his signature bolero.

It was not enough to stay the bolt; he felt a searing pain on the left side of his head, radiating across his brow and the upper part of his domed skull. He fell back flat, staring up at a now starless, barren sky. He was out of breath, and he thought this is where he ought to die.

Bane would close his eyes, legs stretched out and arms taut at his sides. He had no idea the outcome; that it had been a tie; that Boba Fett had saved himself from his demise by wearing that accursed beskar, yet the young hunter’s aim had not betrayed him.

“Mister Bane!” he would hear his droid call aloud in a worried tone. He had repeated it three times now, though the Duros found he could not move. The only thing he could perceive in this state was a scathing ache; an excruciating, endless throbbing, right where the bolt made contact with his hat and ricocheted.

The plasma had been so hot, so volatile, it had dissolved his scales clean off and scorched him to the bone—the durasteel panel had dented inward before his hat rebounded off his head and fluttered to the ground, molten metal boring easily through flesh and osseous tissue, slowed only partially.

Tears welled behind shut eyelids, as in that moment, he wished the boy had killed him.

---

Zulara, hours later, had traversed Mos Eisley’s streets. She had been looking for something, something good to eat. While she was not hungry, she imagined Bane would be the moment he awoke. The girl had not strayed far in her search for the right ingredients.

She aimed to concoct a Twi’lek dish, though she would modify it. Her palette did not enjoy the fungi that accompanied the rycrit meat. She would add carrots and potatoes, along with various other root vegetables, to cook a hearty stew, a thing to keep Bane’s strength up and paid for with her own meager credits.

Todo had confirmed there was nothing much edible aboard Bane’s ship; she had found out shortly that its name was the Justifier; curious, though she would not mention it. Once they had found the lost dispenser, Zulara made it her new objective to prepare a home-cooked meal for the healing Duros. Perhaps he would be appreciative and would not mind that she was here, doing her best to look out for him.

To think, she could still be napping in Ohnaka’s arms if Fett had not sounded the alarm. It was something more complicated than a mere regret; she did not feel that way. In fact, it pleased her. It had scratched an itch Cad Bane had left behind. Still, she had been hurt, a stupid thing, as the youth had asked how long she had known this man; her answer proved unsatisfactory, even to herself.

Why? Why care? As if his attempt to free her was not enough, though Bane had made her feel things she had never felt before. Maybe Zulara has naïve, a woman with no sense, but what sense could she have considering her circumstances? Some might call it a learning curve, though that did not mean she was not harboring intelligence. In this case, she was thinking with her heart and not her head, but she could not help it; all she cared for was Bane’s good health.

Zulara absentmindedly stirred a pot; it was something she had located in a cabinet by the conservator. It barely appeared used; she wondered if Bane ever liked to cook, or if his starship had come equipped with those things he needed, whether utilized or not.

Once the rycrit stew was at a simmer, she lowered its heat setting and placed a lid on top of it. With this accomplished, she thought to find Todo and pose another question: where was there a workroom, a space with tools? She had it in her mind to fix Bane’s gauntlet, wanting to feel useful.

Now, just where had that droid gone off to?

---

Glowing embers of crimson red bothered to open up again as Cad’s body began to move of its own volition.

No – it was the wind, that suction. It had gained momentum; it was stronger, rolling him like a tumbleweed toward the open maw of nothing!

The hat went first, vanishing beyond the veil. Bane grimaced as he dug his fingers into the pliant earth. There was no stopping it, head pounding as his legs thrashed violently. He was like a fish out of water, surrounded by only grit and sand. Death, once more, seemed imminent.

The Duros panicked.

---

Zulara heard a crash, like something falling. She rushed back to where Bane rested, Todo’s mental state in a disarray as he had dropped something. Her eyes traveled toward the pod; Bane was seizing. The girl would gasp as she ran for the tank at lightspeed.

It wasn’t that the droid was clumsy, he had simply moved too quickly. Seeing his master at the mercy of his nightmares had drawn out all his worry; it must have been preprogrammed, but by who was an unsolved mystery—unless it was Vertseth Automata. Surely, Bane would have preferred a model with more strengths than weaknesses, but he had his purpose. Currently, it was to act as nurse, though he was not one; he had been built for techo-service.

By the time Todo arrived, Zulara had already pried open the bacta pod. Bane was coughing, sputtering, even while unconscious. The girl tried lifting him, cupping his upper back as he broached the surface; the sticky gel still held him, her face strained with the effort, though Zulara kept him aloft, fighting the weakness of her arms—Bane was too heavy for her alone.

“Todo, do something!” she pleaded, though she needn’t ask. The droid had readied the dispenser that housed the sedative mid-dash.

“I am sorry, Bane, but this will only hurt a moment!” he said in warning, still somehow afraid of incurring his master’s wrath, no matter that he was incapacitated. He aligned the needle and pressed with all his might; the medicine was injected directly into the site; it would disperse and travel throughout his bloodstream, suppressing his dark memories to the best of its ability.

Todo sighed, dropping his hand and arm. He let the empty dispenser fall onto the floor. Bane had noticeably relaxed; his breathing evened out. Zulara finally felt convinced enough to lie him back down within the healing gel.

“Is-is that it? Will he settle now?” the girl asked fretfully, adjusting Bane’s breathing mask for him; it had become somewhat crooked.

“I do believe so, yes,” Todo stated, though his confidence was shaken. He backed up a foot to let her work, watching how Zulara tended to his master carefully.

It was then Todo wobbled on his axis, believing himself to be tuckered out. For a droid to feel this way was like when organics suffered from lack of sleep. He could not remember the last time he had plugged in, knowing that his power supply was finally dwindling. “I do not feel so good,” he reluctantly admitted.

“What?” Zulara appeared alarmed, turning now upon the droid. He placed his feet down on the ground - too much time spent hovering was another drain on his internal generator – knowing he had only a few minutes left.

“It is not..hi..ng…to worry a..bo..ut,” Todo’s speech came out garbled and slowed down, “I am in need of a re..ch..ar..ge…There is a sta..tion…do..wn the ha.ll.”

Bane’s companion’s eyes flickered, like two glowing yellow fireflies, flashing her at intervals. What would she do without him? What if Bane woke up again? She ran to his aid as he began a make his way, albeit awkwardly.

“You can’t leave me! What if the tank malfunctions, or what if Bane has another nightmare!” Zulara begged of him.

“Bane will most likely be remain un..con..scious for se..veral hours n..ow,” he tried to reassure, his tiny, robotic hands trailing the wall to his right side; his eyesight was no longer reliable, and he had to feel for it: the door that would lead him to his charging bay where he would gladly sit and wait to be replenished. “Do not wor..ry, he is safe. You can always ca..ll… Bo…ba.” He could not believe he was saying this.

“Are you sure? But I don’t want to call him!” Zulara argued, watching as Todo ambulated toward another room. It was the place with all their tools, the one she had been searching for. Todo had nearly made it to his recharge station when he stopped dead.

“Todo?” Zulara whimpered.

There was no response; he had lost all power.

#Cad Bane #Cad Bane x OC #Cad Bane x Original Characters #Star Wars #Bad Batch #Clone Wars #TCW #BOBF #Book of Boba Fett #Star Wars OC #Twi'lek species #Todo 360 #Boba Fett #Jango Fett #Flashbacks #Nightmares #Lost Bounty Hunter Arc

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hackfurs · 2 months

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as of right now i'm not going anywhere. but if one day you try to find my blog and it doesn't exist anymore, you can always find me here:

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eggymf-archived · 9 months

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of paper planes and wildflowers; 14

ft. ominis gaunt with f!reader (series)

chapter warnings: mild violence, non-consensual legilimens, torture, kinda plot-heavy, a story within a story

chapter summary: it wasn't easy being a wielder of ancient magic, just as it also wasn't pleasant to have a partner-in-crime who was getting more and more volatile when it comes to his desperate search for a cure. luckily for the new 5th year, there was your circle of friends, who gladly took them in to destress for a little while. who would've thought that your fates will get intertwined on a deeper level by this innocent little choice.

word count: 5.1k

a/n: oh wow it took me way too long to update this (work was whooping my butt as usual sadly) sorry about that. also, i will be releasing a one-shot related to this series alongside the next chapter. until then, i shall continue writing (unfortunately).

main masterlist || series masterlist || AO3

Human bonds— the connecting threads that are either fulfilling or destructive; a means of self-discovery through interaction with others. Through having companions, one learns about the self and the world via their experiences together, and by staying in the relationship, a dynamic is made.

Although each dynamic had its own unique beauty and charm, the true-to-life depictions as opposed to the scenarios that play out within silly little heads usually had a stark difference, both of which are shown by the two present cases involving two pairs of Hogwarts students in this very moment.

The first pair was in the main room of the Undercroft, unexpectedly screaming their heads off in a pointless debate on morals. Their topic mainly revolved around the importance of “trust” and “allegiances”, which eventually shifted into the heated (and rather personal) discussion of one's “level of maturity” and “baseless accusations”. Their relationship wasn't this vexing before— in fact, they got along so well to the point that they'd share secrets with each other right off the bat.

The other pair was, unlike the previous, calm and collected, patiently waiting for the other two to cease their blown out-of-proportion argument for the betterment of their wits. Surprisingly, their dynamic wasn’t initially this harmonious either, until the layers of prejudice and false perceptions were eventually shed.

A sigh of utter dismay escaped your lips as you finally shut the lid of the inconspicuous chest, descending down the flight of stairs within the enchanted space and trudging back to a very relaxed Ominis. He was sitting cross-legged on the velvet-upholstered sofa, sipping a freshly brewed cup of tea while a plate of snacks lowered itself gently at the side table. As for the young Gaunt's flawless capability in maintaining his composure, it would seem that his mandatory etiquette lessons as a boy had served him well.

“This is the third time today, isn't it?” he nonchalantly asks. A biscuit floated towards you, which you accepted gratuitously as you sat beside him.

“Unfortunately, yes. Good thing we're done with lessons for the day,” you groaned.

“So what is it this time? This is the longest argument they've had to date,” Ominis grumbles.

Two days. Two long, arduous days of unbearable tension between Skylar Evans and Sebastian Sallow— Merlin knows how long this will go on, but you sure hope that they'd stop all of this madness soon and just reconcile already.

"An argument? It's hardly just that, my dearest. It's a war, if you ask me. Sebastian's absolutely livid, going off about his incapability of trusting goblins. Apparently, Skylar considered working together with one?”

A grimace contorts itself on his formerly calm complexion, his slender hands gingerly placing the teacup set at the side table.

“That would explain his hostility then,” Ominis sighed. “Goblins were the ones who cursed Anne after all.”

You blinked owlishly before dread slowly dawned upon you, your blood running cold at his sudden revelation.

“Oh… Oh. I—”

“There's no need for apologies, my sweet. It's not like you were informed about it beforehand,” he reassures. “You wouldn't have been able to deduce it at first glance either.”

“But still…”

It was undoubtedly a touchy subject that stirred a sense of guilt in your chest for unknowingly bringing it up, yet despite it all, curiosity lingers at the back of your head: this had all begun ever since that recent incident that you had accidentally witnessed several days ago. Maybe it was related to all of that?

Ominis frowns at your sudden silence, his lips pressed firmly into a thin line, inwardly panicking within his poor head despite his calm demeanor.

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have said it…? No, no. I think it’s better if she knows. Oh no, how in Merlin's name do I deal with this?”

He was still inexperienced when it came to the unfamiliar process of soothing another person's nerves— he only had to fend off for himself for the majority of his life, after all. But what kind of a lover would he be if he made no attempts in easing your worries away? He had to try at least.

“Darling, scoot over for me, will you?”

Albeit the mild shame brought upon your bouts of self-blame, you did just as he requested, shifting towards the far end of the sofa. Your blonde-haired lover smiled ever so slightly, plopping his head right atop your plush thighs the moment you obliged his request. Your eyes, initially wide open at his sudden actions, softened at the ticklish sensation of his fingertips against your cheek.

“My dearest?” he calls out in the gentlest of tones, a bright, rosy hue peeking through your skin as his palm grazes against your face. The iciness that ran through your veins was immediately thawed, followed by a blissful sigh escaping your lips as he stroked his thumb across your cheek.

“Yes, my love?”

“I may be blind, but I can tell that a frown is not a good look on you,”

The corners of your mouth twitched upwards slightly at the statement, resisting the urge to burst unbecomingly into a fit of giddy giggles. “Is this your way of cheering me up?”

His opal eyes, ever so mesmerizing, lit up in joy and hopefulness at the hint of amusement in your mildly teasing tone. “Would you smile for me if I said yes?”

He chuckled at the slight shift of your cheek as you smiled, a laugh escaping your lips before planting an affectionate peck against his palm.

“You cheeky little rascal. Of course, I would.”

Sincerity was truly magical in its own right— easily capable of turning the most awkward of attempts into the most romantic gesture you had ever come across in your life (or perhaps it was merely just a part of Ominis' overall charm).

It was yet another comfortable silence looming over the both of you, him steadily breathing with his eyes shut as you raked your fingers through his slicked-back hair. You were humming a soft little tune— a tender scenario oddly reminiscent of what he used to experience as a wee boy with his favorite aunt.

His heart, worn by lethargy and disappointment towards the concept of emotional safety, was now throbbing almost painfully at the comfort of your presence. It was akin to being wrapped with a soft fluffy blanket, gently cradled with an unspoken promise of love and protection— one that he will never seek from another person except you. Only you.

But alas, he had to contain himself for now, much to his dismay. Since you have plans later that day with Garreth and Natsai, he intended to make the most of his remaining few hours with you. Inhaling a lungful of air, he quells the bubbling bashfulness and hesitance brewing in his gut.

“Say, is it alright if I make a request?”

A curious hum vibrated from your chest as your eyes gazed upon him. “What is it?”

“Could you… Read something to me? Anything you want. It's too quiet here…”

Butterflies bloomed within your chest at the innocent request, your poor self giggling quite helplessly out of pure adoration at his meeker-than-usual tone, much to his utter embarrassment. Despite his attempt in being indirect, you knew exactly what he meant.

How could you ever refuse him?

A slight jostle was heard from the nearby bookshelf, eradicating the bashfulness from his system. A specific book pulled itself off the shelves before hovering to your outstretched hand. It was rather plain and unassuming in appearance, but beyond its leather-bound cover lies the most intricate of illustrations on every page that depicts a tale of adventure. It was the copy of the very book that you had often pestered your father to read to you as a little girl— a moment of bonding that you had with him whenever he was at home.

He was quite the unusual man— seemingly square but was the kindest of souls especially towards children and magical beasts. He had the uncanny ability to tell even the most complex of flowery-worded tales in a manner that was easily understood by a mere child— an evident display of his wit, creativity, and sense of wonder. Had you requested another to read it instead, you would've fallen asleep due to your inability to perceive its true meaning.

This time around, however, it was rather nerve-wracking, for the reenactment of a fond memory was a gesture of great intimacy, especially to a non-relative. You were no storyteller for sure, and you could only hope that you'd do these literary pieces some form of justice when reading them out loud to Ominis himself.

“I hope that the genre of adventure is to your taste?” you asked him. With his nod as a go-signal, you flipped its fairly old pages open to one of the compiled stories within.

The guardian of this world was no writer, orator, or artist— they were a weaver: one who uses strings as their medium to depict all stories within the fabric of existence. One could assume that the guardian was a deity or a mere concept; a being or a non-being— the origin of all the principles; the organizer of chaos; the anchor that grounds this realm into coherence— to make it comprehensible by lesser minds. Each living being was a thread, signifying a lifespan and purpose. Within the plethora of such strands were those that gleamed of silver— beings who were capable of magic; and amongst threads of silver lay fibers of gold— a select few who were bestowed with the ability to wield the magic of yore, sworn to duty of serving all that walks upon the earth. Amongst the threads of glimmering gold that sparingly decorated the vast textile, there was one that shone brighter than the others: a young lady who had the kindest of hearts and the loftiest of dreams— to rid the world of all pain and suffering. Alas, despite the purity of her intentions, this will soon be branded as an act of defiance against the laws of this world. For there is no light without shadow, as there is no shadow without light— simply because one is capable of dispelling the darkness does not mean that one should. Extraction upon extraction, accumulation upon accumulation, her once brilliant thread soon loses its luster, gold turning into murky crimson— much like the pain that she had collected in enacting her arduous lifelong mission. Akin to ink that had been carelessly dropped upon fabric, the blight brought upon the world by her folly starts as a single dot atop the intricate embroidery, soon to be unleashed the longer it remains. Alas, the nameless artisan couldn’t abandon their eternal life’s purpose regarding this matter, for they had to keep weaving the threads of fate. If they were to stop, time would cease to move— a fatal transgression to the principles of this realm. But despite the shackles that ensnares them to their stern duties, they were a being of just and mercy; brimming with love for all that breathes— a silent overseer that gazes their gentle eyes upon the world. “For this was the doing of magical folk, it shall therefore be fixed by magical folk.” With a single strand of hair from their head, deft hands began to stitch a living creature within their magnum opus: an owl that embodies a fragment of their wisdom and foresight— a catalyst of transcendence from the blight that threatened to seep through the remaining strings of gold. Once fully embroidered into existence, its large amber eyes look expectantly at its creator, awaiting their orders. “I have granted you a part of my wisdom, for you are created from a thread that is nearest to the origin of my knowledge. So go forth and fulfill your purpose— seek the noble souls who shall undertake this task.” Thus, with its newfound purpose, the owl took flight, traveling through the vastness of the fabric in search of those who shall purge its filth.

BOOM!

Ominis shot right up while you screamed out of sheer fright, clutching your book tightly as the room violently trembled while the various trinkets in the room rattled audibly due to the sudden impact from above. As the tremors in the room allayed, you quickly handed the book to Ominis, hurriedly scampering to the entrance to take a peek at what had happened.

Long story short, the argument between Skylar and Sebastian took a turn for the worse.

“Sky, please—!”

“Don't you dare touch me, Sallow!” Skylar scowled, glaring hatefully at the brunette who had a panicked expression on his features.

“But that's… That's not what I meant! I didn't mean it!”

The Hufflepuff shot Sebastian the most hateful glower that they could muster before stomping off to the exit of the Undercroft, a panic-stricken Sebastian tailing after them in a feeble attempt of reversing the damage of their words. You winced as the metal door slammed shut, prompting you to open the lid of the chest fully. You curiously scanned the large space for any signs of damage, only to be gobsmacked by the sight of the entire wall behind the chest covered in soot— as if a massive fireball had been purposely shot onto the vacant space, or rather, missed its target.

“Is everything alright?” Ominis calls from below the room. Upon exiting the enchanted space, he sniffs the air, lips curling into a frown at the strong smell of smoke and burnt wood.

“Well, the Undercroft is still intact, I suppose…?”

Ominis sighed exasperatedly, pinching the bridge of his nose out of pure disdain towards Sebastian and Skylar's antics.

“Oh for the love of Merlin…”

The last of their classes today is finally over, and Skylar Evans immediately rushes out of the premises, hell-bent on dodging the presence of a certain Slytherin male who goes by the name of Sebastian Sallow. There was a saying that those who possessed the brightest of smiles had the cruelest of rage, and that statement bodes true for the famed new 5th year, who nearly burnt their classmate into a charred crisp for his insensitive, tactless tongue.

It was the first time that poor Skylar had ever felt so enraged towards a person before, and anger itself was the very emotion they despised, for it often resulted in a splitting headache soon after it all fades. Sebastian had made yet another fatal mistake due to his lack of control over his emotions— one that could both cost him a precious bond and a chance of ever finding a cure for his sister's malady.

Truth be told, the cause of his outburst wasn't even that rage-inducing. Skylar had merely tried to voice their worries regarding Sebastian's lack of sleep no thanks to his unhealthy hyper-fixation on a certain spellbook, only to be given a scathing, out-of-pocket insult from the vexed brunette.

“You want the truth so badly? Fine! You're all talk, barely any action! You're frolicking out there in the bloody Scottish Highlands, and I'm deciphering this bloody book ALONE. Must be nice to have your life all carefree, yeah?! Bloody hell, you're so fucking annoying!”

Skylar knew it was just the copious amounts of desperation and stress permeating within his system that resulted in his rude outburst, but their heart could only take so much before it finally reached its absolute limit.

“Stupid Sebastian… Stupid magic… Stupid curse…” they sniffed, angrily swiping the lone tear that cascaded down their cold-flushed cheek as they moped in silence. This gut-wrenching instance revived the homesickness that they had desperately repressed this entire time— to go back to London and live a problem-free life as a wee Muggle once again, for ignorance was bliss (and Sebastian Sallow wasn't).

They couldn't help it initially— the smooth, treacled flattery that spilled from his pretty pink lips was much easier to believe than the cold hard truth. But now that all were nearly in utter shambles as wrongdoings piled themselves atop one another, it was time to acknowledge the fact that Skylar's hospitality had gone too far— a good-natured trait turned psychological leash in the hands of a conniving little mastermind.

Oh, if only there were someone more sensible and less volatile around that could aid Skylar in their quest. Perhaps that would knock Sebastian's towering ego down to a more bearable height. Matters aside, the ancient magic wielder truly needed a break from it all, and much to their luck, Natsai had invited them over for drinks at The Three Broomsticks on this particular afternoon at the very last minute.

The walking trip to Hogsmeade felt a whole lot faster thanks to their preoccupied mind, their feet leading them to their destination without much thought. Emotionally exhausted eyes glanced at the wooden signage of the pub before pushing the doors open, their eyes meeting the positively jam-packed establishment filled with both students and locals indulging in their merriment and chatter while a pleasant tune sounded within the building’s wooden walls.

Amongst the crowd of students were you, Garreth, and Natsai, each drinking your respective fills of well-deserved butterbeer and occasionally munching on peanuts after a rather eventful day. The female Gryffindor immediately spots Skylar, soon beckoning them to come over while a tankard with its signature foamy top carefully floats towards the table from the bar.

“Glad you could make it!” the ebony-haired Gryffindor beamed.

“Thanks for inviting me,” Skylar finally managed to smile as they planted themselves on the chair beside Natsai. The floating cup of butterbeer placed itself right in front of Skylar, which they gladly sipped while you and Garreth were in the middle of your usual banter.

“You know, I'm quite surprised that you didn't bring Ominis along. Which reminds me…” Garreth trails off, a grin slowly forming itself on his smug expression while you narrowed your eyes in suspicion.

Oh no.

“Is there something you aren't telling us? Because I've been seeing you two everywhere together lately.”

His words immediately resulted in a half-hearted glare from your mildly blushing self as you tried to grip the remnants of your composure.

“That's quite the assumption, Garreth. We are just classmates, you know? Classmates,” you gasped, feigning your cluelessness while the bitter taste of denial and lies lingered on your tongue.

“Aww c'mon! You can't expect me to believe that!”

You snickered at his response. “Then why'd you ask in the first place?!”

“Because there's clearly something going on and you're obviously hiding it,” Natsai joins in, much to your chagrin upon hearing the red-haired male’s triumphant chortle.

“Why do I have a feeling I'm not going to be able to hide this for long?” you internally groaned, your nervousness skillfully concealed behind a veil of lightheartedness. Truthfully, there was a burning urge within you that wanted to just scream out at the top of your lungs that you were, in fact, proudly in a relationship with Ominis Gaunt. Alas, you had an oath of secrecy to uphold.

“Oh, stop it, both of you. I can assure you that it's all academic-related,” you tutted. “You've seen how the workloads are. Even Garlick’s been pretty merciless lately with her assignments too. He just needed some extra help.”

Natsai smirks before drinking from her cup, obviously not buying your bluff.

“Extra help, eh? Seems a little too extra in my opinion,” the male Gryffindor snorted, warranting a slap on his arm followed by a vicious battle of flicking peanut shells towards each other.

The remainder of the day was the most fun that Skylar had ever had so far. It was a breath of fresh air— harmless tomfoolery, discussing nothing but the simplest of topics, and recalling the never-ending mischief amongst students in Hogwarts for the past few years. From drinking butterbeer to buying all sorts of sweets from Honeydukes right after, this seemingly mundane and impromptu trip was exactly what Skylar needed. No mentions of ancient magic, a cure for an unknown curse, trials, or enemies— just the silly little struggles of students whose greatest woe was regarding how they'll make their written essays longer to fit the required minimum length.

It was unfortunate that time had passed by so quickly whenever fun was involved, and upon leaving the last of the shops that the four of you had opted to visit, the sun had already plunged back into the distant horizon, the sky no longer its usual shade of blue.

Amid boisterous guffaws and jokes on the way back, Skylar mustered a smile regardless of their evident sorrow that this small little hangout was nearly over, which didn't go unnoticed by your wandering, observant eyes. Upon nudging Skylar lightly, you uttered the very words that officially grant them a special place of their own within your circle of friends.

“You should join us again next time.”

And with just that simple invitation, Skylar's unpleasant thoughts fade into obscurity, replaced with a sense of true belonging— that they'd have a place to go to regardless of their feats, contributions, or even after their mission reaches its eventual completion.

But alas, there was still a long road up ahead, for this unfinished story was far from reaching its desired ending.

The cold evening air was commonly accompanied by the soft howling of distant winds along with the faintest crackles of ice, yet this particular ambiance felt strangely rebarbative. It was too quiet— the air was dense and still, devoid of any sounds apart from crunchy footsteps on snow. A foul sense of dread was prickling your skin from within as the four of you traversed down the unassuming, dimly lit path.

Skylar seemed to bear the same sentiments as you did, deftly reaching for their wand concealed beneath their coat while you promptly did the same. Unblinking eyes scoured the surroundings for anything suspicious while Garreth and Natsai remained unaware, still trudging along the path that leads back to the castle with you and Skylar tailing after them cautiously.

And then you saw it— a silhouette of a cloaked figure lurking amongst the shadowy, frost-withered trees, slowly pointing their wand in your direction. Much to their momentary misfortune, your reflexes were far quicker.

A turquoise-colored flare erupted from the tip of your wand, hitting them right on the chest and flinging them back. Garreth and Natsai's eyes widened in mortification as they heard the strike of the spell, whipping out their wands immediately. The unknown person, now laying face down, desperately tried to fight against the Impediment Jinx's effects by wriggling himself around. Several red bolts of light shot from the same location where they once stood, followed by an all-familiar spark of green that made your heart panickedly hammer itself within your ribcage as Garreth managed to narrowly dodge the fatal attack.

The Killing Curse.

“RUN!”

All of you immediately broke into a sprint, only to be halted in your tracks shortly after as multiple jets of black smoke swarmed towards your retreating figures. The grip on your wand tightened as the surroundings became screened with swirls of a densely dark fog, men dressed in tattered black robes and weathered silver masks covering the upper half of their visage emerging from the shadowy swirls. Skylar grits their teeth in defiance, firing a jet of red towards one of them while the rest of you follow suit to aid them in the fight.

The ferocious exchange of spells illuminated the dimly lit surroundings with flares of various colors, accompanied by the sound of blitzes, the shattering of magical shields, and explosive blasts. Your heart pounded rapidly, deflecting and dodging an onslaught of fatal curses and pesky jinxes, strategically flinging various spell combinations to their defeat. Your foes fell one by one until all were either incapacitated or gasping for air at their fatal injuries. The escape promptly resumes, the sound of footsteps rapidly thumping against the earth as the four of you bolted for your dear lives.

But alas, villains always had a plethora of the dirtiest tricks up their sleeve, only to be revealed at the very last minute to instill absolute terror within the heart of their prey.

Skylar quickly grabs Natsai, preparing themselves to apparate away while you reached out to Garreth's outstretched hand, only for the same puff of black smoke to push you away from him. Your grip around your wand loosened as soon as a strong hand encased itself around your neck, your only weapon falling onto the ground before the stranger apparates you away.

Upon materializing out of thin air, you were then slammed against the tree with a pained gurgle escaping your dry, chapped lips.

The man was clearly one of the dark wizards you had encountered earlier, dressed in the same black cloak and a silver half-mask. You could only watch in fear as his towering figure looms above you, his stare devoid of any mercy, yet adorned with a glint of pure malice. A sharp sting penetrated your head, an intrusive force beginning to plow its way through your mind, destroying every built-in defensive mechanism to rummage through every nook and cranny in desperate search of a specifically vital knowledge within the archive of your memories.

The House of Robard.

The murder of your loved ones.

The wall in the Undercroft.

He wickedly flashed his prominent canines upon finding the information he needed, a deep, predatory chuckle rumbling from his muscular chest.

“Found you.”

Color visibly drained from your complexion at the sound of the all too familiar gravelly voice from your deepest nightmares, fear began to rapidly suffuse itself into every fiber of your being, your dainty, delicate hands feebly trying to pry his hand away from your neck.

It was him. The man from 6 years ago— the cold-blooded murderer of your late uncle and brother.

The moon enshrouded itself behind a protective layer of clouds, almost as if it did not wish to bear witness to the direst cruelty that would soon befall you once more. The meek whimpers that escaped your lips fueled his bloodthirst as he traced the tip of his wand along your jawline before digging it into your temple. With an eerily serene smile, his lips parted to mutter the incantation of the spell that caused your brain to blank out of inevitable despair.

“Crucio.”

Your high-pitched cries of sheer agony pierced the stillness of the night as the curse was brutally cast directly into your head, your body thrashing and flailing in a futile attempt to escape. The pain was beyond anything you’ve ever experienced in your entire life— your skull was being split open in the slowest and most agonizing way possible all while getting viscerally twisted and torn apart from within. His piercing gaze was still ransacking your memories in the midst of it all, hot tears uncontrollably running down your face as waves upon waves of torture brutally surged within your mind.

Alas, it was all for naught.

It was still the same set of memories without a single trace of any changes despite jolting you with nothing but pain— the most savage of means to remove any possible Memory Charm that had been cast upon you prior to this encounter. He clicked his tongue in annoyance, reluctantly releasing you from the Cruciatus Curse, your limp body falling onto the snow-covered ground with red crackles occasionally sparking from your temples.

This mission was like his prior attempts: another failure.

It was ultimately all his doing— the fabled silver-tongued traitor of his family tree who connived with the enemy centuries ago. Even in death, the betrayer himself had managed to outwit his descendants again and again, and it was no different this time around. The tall male could only scoff disdainfully, his monologue sounding incoherent as your brain struggles to fathom all that is within your surroundings. Your vision was blurred, consciousness on the brink of fading into black out of sheer exhaustion.

The shouts of your name were soon heard from a distance, a familiar wooden stick with a trail of gold dust meandering its way towards your incapacitated form, tucking itself snugly back into your hand. Before your valiant rescuers could reach you, the cloaked male spares you one final glance, his fragmented parting words blending into the howling winter winds as he dissipates into the shadowy hours of the night.

“...remember… knowledge… power… ours…”

From cities to hamlets, nature to settlements, the owl searched tirelessly for the worthy. Alas, many days passed, but all was futile. It was akin to finding a needle in a haystack, much to the poor bird’s despair. The owl hooted sadly at its predicament, hopping alongside a small stream: whether it was for the sake of collating its thoughts or if it merely wanted food or drink, it wandered with no clear destination in mind, following the trail of running water instead. It soon came across a lone human male who sat atop a large rock, nibbling on a piece of bread as he seemingly gazed into the far horizon. The owl blinks in curiosity, pausing its activities to quietly observe the human before it. This man was rather unusual compared to the others, for he possessed an ethereal appearance: he had slicked-back blonde hair, smooth porcelain skin decorated sparingly with little moles, gaunt-like features, a lithe frame, and enchanting yet sightless opal eyes. The little owl, ever astute and highly perceptive, noticed a sorrowful human emotion beyond the veil of his mortal beauty— loneliness. Its gentle hoots snap the male out of his reverie, his mouth hanging slightly ajar at the sudden sound of ruffling feathers beside him. The little owl rubbed itself affectionately against his arm, rousing a soft chuckle from his thin lips. “Why, hello there, little one. It's rather unusual of you to be out and about at this hour,” he hums, running his slender fingers through its fluffy plumage. It hoots back enthusiastically to his words, much to his joy. “Do you have an owner? A family?” the asks further, only for the owl to adorably tilts its head before hopping onto the male's lap. A grin graces his face, giving the owl a much-appreciated scritch. “Very well, you shall be my companion from now on. Now for a name…” he trails off, closing his eyes shut and feeling the sun kiss his skin as he ponders. Moments later, he casts his unseeing gaze to the unknown distance with a smile on his face. “I have been told that the sky looks ‘reddish’ around this time of day. Henceforth, you shall be known as Russ— in honor of the time that we both met.” At long last, Russ the Owl meets one of the few worthy mortals of this quest: a man that embodies both light and dark; compassion and cunning; a hero and a traitor— The Author.

< chapter 13: a hideout within a hideout 🔞

chapter 15: tba... >

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