FANTASTIC BEASTS

Hi Lauren, happy new year!! 🥳 I hope you had a great start to the year and that it’ll bring you all good and joyful things!!

Would it be okay to make a request with Newt Scamander and reader? You see I’ve watched the 2nd movie again, and I was so sad that Teddy got hurt while helping Newt retrieving the blood pact pendant, I know he healed well, but I felt like ripping Newt a new one, although know he must feel bad for it too. She’s very kind, quiet, intelligent, and usually very calm, but when she finds about this, she really rips a new one and everyone is shocked of her outburst and Newt is all on his own in this. She tends to Teddy and spoils him rotten while he heals and Newt is in the dog house (no kisses, no hugs, no nothing for a while).

Frost

Newt Scamander x reader

Angsty but cute

Summary: When Teddy gets hurt, she turns cold, leaving Newt to earn back her trust while she spoils their injured Niffler rotten.

AN: Thank you lovely anon! Happy New Year to you too! I’d hope that you have the best, most fulfilling year you can get. I thought this was a pretty cute idea (it too broke me to see Teddy injured.) So I hope I got this plot right, this is the first ask that I’ve ever received so I’m really stoked for this. (You have no idea how excited I got when I saw this) Once again, thank you for asking. If I haven’t gotten it right, don’t be afraid to pop into my inbox/messages to drop down some constructive criticism/ amendments to make. Without further ado, let’s get to it!

Story under the cut

Newt Scamander sat at the wooden table in the small kitchen of your shared home, his hands wringing together anxiously. The usual warmth in the room seemed to have vanished, replaced by an icy tension that clung to every surface. Across from him, you paced back and forth, your quiet demeanor utterly shattered.

"You—you let him get hurt!" you snapped, your voice cracking with the sheer force of your emotions. Teddy, the mischievous Niffler who usually brought joy and chaos in equal measure, lay tucked in a makeshift bed by the fireplace, his tiny paw wrapped in bandages.

Newt flinched at your tone. "I didn’t mean for—"

"Didn’t mean to?!" you cut him off, your usual calm and gentle nature nowhere to be found. "You knew he’d follow you into danger! He always does because he adores you, Newt! And look at him now!"

Your voice, usually so soothing, now carried a sharp edge that startled even you. But the sight of Teddy injured, his usual cheeky energy dulled by pain, had unleashed a storm within you that couldn’t be contained. You glared at Newt, your chest heaving as you struggled to keep your composure.

"He was trying to help," Newt said softly, his voice thick with guilt. "I never wanted him to get hurt, love. I… I thought I could keep him safe."

"Well, you didn’t!" you snapped, and Newt’s head hung lower. "He’s just a baby, Newt! A baby! And you dragged him into some reckless mission that could have… that could have…" Your voice broke, and you turned away, blinking back tears.

Newt stood slowly, his hands reaching out to you, but you stepped away, your arms crossing protectively over your chest. "Don’t," you warned. "Not until I… not until I can trust you again."

He froze, his outstretched hand dropping to his side. The weight of your words settled heavily on his shoulders, and he looked over at Teddy, who stirred slightly in his bed. Newt’s heart ached with guilt and sorrow.

Turning your back on Newt, you knelt by Teddy, stroking his fur gently. "Oh, my sweet boy," you murmured, your voice trembling with affection. "You’re so brave, aren’t you? But no more heroics, you hear me? You’re going to rest and recover, and I’ll take care of you."

Teddy let out a small, contented chirp, his little paw curling around your finger. You smiled softly, tears threatening to spill over again as you whispered promises of treats and snuggles to the injured creature.

Behind you, Newt watched helplessly, his heart breaking at the sight of you turning all your love and attention toward Teddy while he was left out in the cold. For days, the frostiness between you lingered. You tended to Teddy with tender care, showering him with affection and little treats, while Newt remained in the doghouse. No hugs, no kisses, no soft smiles meant for him—only the occasional glance, and even those were weighted with disappointment.

One evening, desperate to make things right, Newt crept into the kitchen while you were preparing Teddy’s dinner. In his hands, he held a small bouquet of wildflowers, their vibrant colors dulled slightly by his nervous grip.

"I picked these for you," he said tentatively, his voice barely above a whisper. "I know they can’t make up for what happened, but I wanted to… to show you how sorry I am."

You paused, glancing at the flowers before returning your focus to the task at hand. "It’s not flowers I need, Newt," you said quietly. "I need to know you’ll think before putting him in harm’s way again."

Newt’s shoulders slumped, but he nodded earnestly. "I promise. I’ll do better. I… I’ll earn back your trust."

Your hands stilled, and you turned to face him fully. The sincerity in his eyes melted a bit of the ice around your heart, but you weren’t ready to forgive completely. Not yet. "It’s going to take time, Newt."

"I’ll wait," he said without hesitation. "As long as it takes."

For the first time in days, a faint smile tugged at your lips. "Alright," you said softly. "Now go sit with Teddy. He’s missed you."

Newt’s face brightened, and he hurried to Teddy’s side, his fingers brushing gently over the Niffler’s fur. As you watched them, the warmth began to seep back into the room, a small step toward mending what had been broken.

Well, shuck.

Maze Runner Minho x Runner!OC (Lauren)

Angst, fluff

Summary: Minho and Lauren get trapped in the Maze overnight. With no way out and no clear path to safety, they keep their spirits up with jokes and sarcasm, finding comfort in each other.

AN: You’re not alone.

“You really know how to pick the best nights to get us stuck, huh?” Lauren muttered, hands on her hips as she stared at the towering walls of the Maze that had just sealed them in.

Minho grinned, crouching to catch his breath, the night air cool against his sweat-soaked skin. "Well, if you weren’t so slow, we’d be sipping Gally’s special brew by now."

Lauren shot him a glare, swatting his shoulder. “Me? Slow? I saved your slinthead back there when you almost got Griever-pie’d.”

He shrugged, smirking. “Almost.”

They leaned against the cold stone walls, their banter not doing much to change the fact that they were well and truly stuck. Night had fallen, the Maze silent but menacing, the darkness thick and unnerving. The Grievers hadn’t shown up yet, but both of them knew they’d be out soon enough. It was only a matter of time.

“Think we’ll survive this one?” Lauren asked, her voice quieter now, tinged with a nervous edge.

Minho looked over at her, and despite his bravado, he softened. “We always do, don’t we?”

She chuckled, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Yeah, but it feels different this time. Like we really might not make it back.”

Minho didn’t respond right away, instead pulling off his jacket and laying it down on the cold ground. “Well, if we’re going out, might as well be comfortable, right?”

Lauren followed his lead, sitting beside him, their backs pressed against the unforgiving stone. “I’m gonna miss this, you know? Running through this giant death trap with you.”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “No better runner I’d rather be stuck with.” He looked at her then, something serious in his eyes, but before the moment could turn too deep, he added, “Even if you smell worse than a Griever sometimes.”

She shoved him with a grin. “Yeah, well, you snore like a herd of ‘em.”

They both laughed, the sound hollow and almost strange in the empty Maze. The laughter faded, though, and they sat in silence for a while, the tension hanging in the air.

“I’m serious though,” Lauren said softly. “If this is it… I’m glad it’s with you.”

Minho shifted uncomfortably, unused to moments like this. “Hey, we’re not dying tonight,” he said, trying to keep it light. “We’ve got too much running left to do.”

Lauren smiled, her eyes heavy now as exhaustion from the day’s run finally caught up to her. “I’ll hold you to that, Minho.”

They didn’t say much after that, their backs still pressed against the stone, the Maze shifting occasionally in the distance, the sound of moving walls echoing in the night. Lauren's head eventually lolled to the side, resting on Minho’s shoulder as they both drifted off into an uneasy sleep, lulled by the idea that if the end came, at least they wouldn’t face it alone.

Morning came with an odd stillness. The sounds of the Maze were different—quieter somehow, the usual mechanical groaning replaced by silence. Minho stirred first, blinking groggily at the sunlight streaming down through the Maze’s walls. He nudged Lauren.

“Hey, wake up.”

She groaned, rubbing her eyes. “We’re still alive?”

Minho frowned, standing up to look around. “I think… I think the Maze shifted.”

Lauren scrambled to her feet beside him, and they both stared in shock. The walls, which had sealed them in last night, had shifted perfectly. Not just enough to give them a way forward—but a straight path back to the Glade.

“Holy shuck,” Lauren breathed, her eyes wide.

Minho just shook his head, grinning. “Guess the Maze likes us after all.”

They didn’t wait for a second invitation, taking off down the path, their legs still aching from the previous day’s run but fueled by the adrenaline of survival. The towering walls soon gave way to the familiar clearing of the Glade, and as they stumbled out into the open space, they were met with gasps and cheers.

“Minho! Lauren!” Thomas shouted, sprinting over, followed by the rest of the Gladers, engulfing them in a whirlwind of hugs and claps on the back.

“You guys made it!” Newt grinned, ruffling Lauren’s hair.

“Like there was any doubt,” Minho said, though his cocky grin was tired, his eyes betraying the relief he felt.

As the Gladers pulled back, giving them space, Lauren turned to Minho. She gave him a sly smile before suddenly wrapping her arms around him in a tight hug. “I told you we’d make it.”

Minho stiffened, glancing around at the gawking Gladers. “Okay, okay, don’t get all mushy on me now.” He awkwardly patted her back, but there was a warmth in his voice that made it clear he didn’t really mind.

Lauren pulled back, smirking. “Tough guy act still going strong, huh?”

Minho just shrugged. “Can’t ruin my rep.”

But as they stood there, alive and surrounded by their friends, there was no denying the truth: whatever else the Maze threw at them, they'd face it together.

OKAY IF YOU LIKE MAZE RUNNER PLS REBLOG THIS POST I JUST WANNA KNOW ABOUT MY FELLOW FANS

REBLOG THISSSS

Christmas at The Burrow

Harry, Hermione, the Weasleys, Sirius, Remus (and all the other good characters) X Reader

Fluff

Summary: A bad day melts into laughter, love, and chaos at the Weasley’s on Christmas.

AN: Merry Christmas and a happy new year ya filthy animals!

story under the cut

The Burrow, as usual, was glowing with warm light and the sound of clattering dishes, laughter, and chatter spilling out even before you reached the door. You hesitated, your earlier frustrations from the day clinging to you like a stubborn shadow. But before you could even raise a hand to knock, the door burst open, and Fred’s grinning face appeared.

“There she is!” he crowed, pulling you inside as George popped up behind him.

“Late as always,” George said, shaking his head dramatically. “It’s a wonder you ever make it anywhere at all.”

“Oh, leave her alone,” Ginny said, sidling up to you and taking your coat. “Come on, sit down, get comfy. Mum’s been waiting to stuff you full of food all day.”

“I have not! I’ve just made a bit of stew and treacle tart, that’s all,” Molly called from the kitchen, where she was stirring something that smelled divine.

“Stew? Treacle tart?!” Ron perked up from the table, where he was already halfway through a biscuit.

“Save some for the rest of us, Ron,” Hermione scolded, though her soft smile was already directed at you. “Come on, sit with us. You look like you need a good laugh.”

Harry leaned forward from his seat, glasses slightly askew. “We’ve been plotting how to cheer you up all day,” he said, grinning. “And we’re excellent at it, if I do say so myself.”

“We are excellent,” Fred corrected. “Harry’s role in the operation is just sitting there looking tragic.”

“Oi!” Harry protested, though he was laughing too.

“Enough of this nonsense,” Sirius’s deep voice boomed from the armchair near the fire. He stood, a cheeky grin plastered across his face, and made his way to you. “Come here, kid.”

Before you could say anything, Sirius pulled you into a firm, fatherly hug, holding you close like he’d known you needed it. “You’re with us now,” he murmured into your hair. “No bad moods allowed. Got it?”

You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips despite yourself.

“That’s better.” He pulled back but kept an arm slung over your shoulder. “Now, sit. Eat. We’ve got plans, and you’re going to enjoy it.”

The plans turned out to be a mix of dinner, chaos, and ultimately, a movie night. After Molly served up her famous stew (with Neville nervously asking for seconds, clearly trying not to look greedy) and Fred managed to accidentally charm a bread roll to scream when bitten into, Ginny declared, “Alright, enough. It’s movie time.”

“Movie?” Luna’s dreamy voice piped up. “Oh, I do love Muggle contraptions.”

“Tonight’s feature: Home Alone 2: Lost in New York,” Hermione announced, holding up the DVD case like it was a sacred text.

“What’s it about?” Fleur asked, her lilting accent drawing curious looks from Cedric and Neville, who were already settling on the couch.

“Traps, chaos, and Christmas,” Harry explained simply, grabbing a bowl of popcorn and flopping onto the sofa next to Ron.

Soon, everyone was crammed into the Weasleys’ cozy living room. Sirius, with his arm draped around your shoulders like a comforting anchor, pulled you close.

The movie started, and it didn’t take long for the chaos to spread.

“Oh, that’s brilliant!” Fred said, pointing as Kevin tricked the hotel staff with his recorded messages.

“Can you imagine using that on Filch?” George added, cackling.

“Forget Filch,” Ron said, mouth full of popcorn. “I’d use it on Snape.”

“That’s awful!” Hermione scolded, though she was laughing along with everyone else.

“Well I know I’d pay to see it,” Remus mused, chuckling at the thought.

When Kevin’s elaborate traps started, Ginny groaned. “Imagine the cleanup after that. No thanks.”

“Cleanup?!” Sirius roared with laughter. “Ginny, it’s art! Pure, chaotic genius!”

“Poor burglars,” Luna mused, tilting her head thoughtfully. “They really should’ve worn helmets.”

As the Wet Bandits stumbled through the traps, Cedric winced every time something crashed or cracked. “That’s gotta hurt,” he muttered, shaking his head.

“You’d think they’d give up after the first house,” Neville added.

“But where’s the fun in that?” Harry said, grinning.

By the time the credits rolled, the room was filled with laughter and leftover popcorn scattered across every available surface. Sirius ruffled your hair affectionately. “Feeling better, kid?”

You nodded, smiling for what felt like the first time all day. “Yeah, I am.”

“Good,” Remus said from his spot by the fire, where he’d been quietly sipping tea and chuckling at the madness. “Because around here, happiness is non-negotiable.”

As you were pulled into a group hug orchestrated by Fred and George (complete with Ginny trying to shove Ron’s popcorn bowl out of the way), you realized that no matter how tough the day had been, you had a family here—a wonderfully loud, chaotic, loving family who could make you laugh until your sides hurt.

“Merry Christmas and a happy new year ya filthy animals!”

And as Fred squeezed your shoulder one last time before heading to the kitchen for a second helping of treacle tart, you couldn’t help but feel like everything was going to be alright.

MARVEL

angst : 🌩

fluff : 🌸

requests : 📩

This is a SFW blog, so no smut (because I'm not quite there yet)

ROCKET RACCOON:

oneshots:

>> Tough love 🌸 (synopsis: You pass out from overworking and it shows how much Rocket actually cares.)

LOKI LAUFEYSON:

STEPHEN STRANGE:

oneshots:

>> Outplayed 🌸 (synopsis: A spy seduces Doctor Strange to steal crucial information and distract him for long enough to draw what she wants from him)

SCOTT LANG:

T’CHALLA 🤍:

This will be updated, please give me time to populate it. Thanks loves 🤍

The escape: Backup plan

(Pt. II)

Janson (Maze Runner) x OC (Lauren)

Angst with a teeny tiny bit of romance

summary: Lauren’s narrow escape from Janson

AN: do I need to put trigger warnings on my stories? And if I do, what exactly must I state? Like depressing scene? Violence? Errr in this case, I’ll say trigger warning is: vulgarities used.

—————————————————————————————————————-

Inspired by:

Lauren didn’t stop running, her legs burning as she raced through the dimly lit corridors. Her chest heaved with each breath, but her mind stayed sharp, focused. The exit—just a few turns ahead—was her only goal. She could feel the weight of the real cure pressing against her side, the real cure tucked away in her jacket pocket. She only had one more decoy to save her.

She could still hear Janson’s footsteps echoing behind her, relentless and close. Too close.

Her heart pounded, but she wouldn’t let fear take over. She had a plan. She always had a plan.

She reached the last corner before the exit, her eyes locking onto the door at the end of the hallway. Freedom. Safety. But then—an alarm blared through the facility, loud and jarring, the shrill sound piercing through the air like a blade.

He triggered it.

Lauren’s stomach twisted. The door ahead was her only way out, but now the entire facility would be on high alert. Guards would be rushing in any moment, and Janson was right behind her.

She gritted her teeth, her eyes narrowing. She had no choice.

She sprinted for the door, pushing her legs harder, faster, ignoring the searing pain in her muscles. The hallway seemed to stretch on forever, the exit taunting her from the distance.

But then—she heard it. The unmistakable sound of footsteps closing in fast. Janson was gaining on her, his fury propelling him forward like a predator closing in on its prey.

Lauren’s mind raced. She couldn’t let him catch her. Not now. Not when she was so close.

With one last burst of energy, she reached the door, slamming her hand against the keypad to trigger the exit. The heavy metal door creaked open, but before she could slip through—

A hand grabbed her bag, yanking her back with brutal force. She stumbled, the momentum pulling her into Janson’s iron grip, her back slamming against his chest. His arm wrapped around her waist, holding her firmly in place as she struggled to break free.

“Going somewhere?” Janson’s voice was low and deadly, his breath hot against her ear. His grip tightened around her, his other hand reaching for her jacket pocket, where he knew the real cure had to be.

Lauren’s heart raced, her body thrumming with adrenaline. She twisted in his grasp, trying to pull away, but Janson’s strength was unmatched. His hand slipped into her pocket, his fingers brushing against the vial—

“No!” Lauren’s voice was raw with desperation, and in a sudden move, she reached up and jammed her elbow into his ribs, hard.

Janson grunted, the impact loosening his grip just enough for her to wrench herself free. She spun away, her back now against the doorframe, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Her eyes locked with his, fiery and defiant.

Janson straightened, his gaze dark and predatory, his chest rising and falling with the same intensity as hers. “You think you can get away with this?” he snarled, his voice venomous.

Lauren’s pulse thundered in her ears, but she didn’t flinch. “I’m not giving you anything,” she said, her voice steadier than she felt. “You don’t deserve it.”

Janson’s eyes flicked to her jacket pocket, where the real cure still lay hidden, and a slow, dangerous smile curled at the corners of his lips. “You really think you’re in control here?”

In one swift move, Janson lunged forward, slamming his hand against the doorframe beside her head, trapping her between him and the exit. The tension in the air was electric, charged with anger, fear, and something else—something darker.

Lauren’s heart pounded in her chest, but she met his gaze with unwavering determination. “I know what you are.”

For a moment, Janson didn’t move, his breath coming in sharp, measured bursts. His eyes burned into hers, filled with a mix of fury and something dangerously close to admiration. She could feel the heat radiating from his body, his presence overwhelming and suffocating.

“But you know nothing of what I’m capable of,” he whispered, his voice low, almost a growl.

Lauren swallowed hard, but she didn’t break eye contact. “I know enough.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and loaded. Janson’s jaw clenched, his hand twitching at his side, as though he was fighting the urge to grab her, to force her hand. Lauren’s heart raced, her pulse hammering in her throat. She had seconds—just seconds—to turn the situation to her advantage. Her mind scrambled, searching for an escape, a distraction, anything. Then, in a flash of desperation and instinct, she made her move.

She lunged forward, her hand gripping the front of his jacket as her lips crashed against his.

The kiss was fierce, a clash of heat and adrenaline. Janson stiffened, completely caught off guard, his breath faltering for the briefest moment. Lauren pressed closer, her lips moving against his in a wild, reckless attempt to confuse him, to throw him off balance.

For an instant, it worked. His grip on the doorframe loosened, his hand hovering in mid-air as if his body couldn’t decide what to do next. His breath hitched, and she felt the tension in his body shift, softening, hesitating.

But Lauren wasn’t waiting for a reaction. The kiss was not a moment of surrender—it was a weapon. She pulled back abruptly, their lips parting with a gasp, leaving him stunned. His eyes were dark, searching hers, his chest rising and falling with the same intensity as hers.

For the smallest second, there was something between them—something dangerous, magnetic, raw. But then Lauren’s mind snapped back to reality. She used his stunned moment to duck beneath his arm, slipping out of his reach.

She bolted through the door, her feet hitting the pavement, the cold air biting at her skin as she ran into the night. The real cure still burned in her pocket. She had seconds.

Behind her, Janson stood frozen for a heartbeat longer, his hand hovering at his lips where hers had been. But the confusion only lasted a moment. With a low growl of frustration, he was after her again, the fire in his eyes darker than before.

“You little bitch!”

She could hear him cursing under his breath, the sound of his footsteps thundering behind her, relentless and determined. The facility lights flashed above her, casting long, ominous shadows across the courtyard.

Lauren ran harder, her lungs burning, her legs trembling with exhaustion. She was so close—so close to escaping. But Janson was faster, stronger, and he wasn’t about to let her go without a fight.

Suddenly, she tripped over a rock, her coat getting caught by the thorns on a bush. He gained on her, taking the opportunity to yank her back with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of her. She stumbled, falling to the ground, the cold concrete scraping her hands and knees as she hit the ground hard.

Janson was on her in an instant, pinning her down with his weight, his face inches from hers. His eyes were wild, his breath ragged as he glared down at her, his fingers digging into her skin.

“Give me the goddamn vial,” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

Lauren’s chest heaved, her heart racing as she struggled beneath him. But she wasn’t done fighting. Not yet.

With one last burst of energy, she reached into her jacket, her fingers brushing against the cold glass of the real vial. In a split second, she pulled it out, holding it up between them like a shield.

Janson’s eyes flicked to the vial, his breath hitching in his throat. For a moment, he froze, his grip on her loosening just enough for her to slip free.

Lauren scrambled to her feet, backing away from him, the vial clutched tightly in her hand. “This is it, Janson,” she said, her voice steady but laced with warning. “The real cure.”

Janson’s gaze darkened, his eyes locked on the vial as he slowly rose to his feet. He took a step toward her, but Lauren held her ground.

“One more step,” she warned, her voice trembling, “and I’ll destroy it.”

For a moment, they stood there, the tension between them thick and palpable. The weight of everything that had happened—everything they’d both done—hung in the air like a storm about to break.

Then, slowly, Janson took another step forward, his eyes never leaving hers. “You won’t.”

Lauren’s heart raced, her fingers tightening around the vial. “I will.”

And for the first time, Janson hesitated.

Lauren saw it—the brief flicker of doubt in his eyes, the way his hand twitched at his side as though he wasn’t sure what to do next.

She had him.

But before she could make her next move, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the courtyard. Guards. They were closing in fast, and Lauren knew she was out of time.

Without another word, she turned and ran, disappearing into the shadows, the real cure still safely in her grasp.

Janson stood there, watching her go, his chest heaving with a mix of anger and something else—something he couldn’t quite place.

She’d won this round. But he wasn’t done with her yet.

Not by a long shot.

send help

Y’all I wanna write but I’ve been having writers block 😭 I want some requests so badddd like it’s been so long since I’ve posted anything. I promise I’m still active but I genuinely don’t know what I should be writing about. I’ve been caught up in school so I haven’t had much time to watch or read anything new either 😔

so please pleaseeeee if y’all have any ideas, even unusual ones, send them in! I have no problem with it and in fact I highly encourage it! No judgement on my end, I swear.

Resistant

Kylo Ren x ResistanceSpy!Reader

uhm.... slightly angsty, being forced against your will

Summary: After finding a Resistance spy on his ship, there is nothing more he'd want than to break her.

AN: My exams are over (I'm back!)

story under the cut

Her breath was a silent tremor as she crouched in the shadows of the First Order ship, watching the patrol pass. She’d been running for what felt like hours, slipping through every gap and doorway she could find. The metallic scent of the corridors filled her nose, cold and sterile, a contrast to the heat of fear thrumming in her veins. This ship was her way out, her chance to vanish. She just had to get to an escape pod, and she’d be gone.

A solitary stormtrooper rounded the corner, moving in her direction, his helmet gleaming under the dim lights. She didn’t hesitate. A swift blow to the back of his neck, and he crumpled, hitting the ground with a muffled thud. She had the armor on in seconds, adjusting the mask, letting its cold weight smother her expression. She fell in line with the rest of the squad, silent, unassuming.

But her calm was short-lived.

The corridor hushed, and she sensed a presence before she even saw him. He was at the far end, tall, his figure a shifting shadow beneath the black robe that rippled as he moved. Kylo Ren. His helmet turned, the empty void of his visor pointed right at her.

“Trooper,” he said, his voice a deep, corrosive rumble, heavy with command. “Step forward.”

She swallowed, controlling her breaths, her mind racing. To hesitate would be a death sentence. She stepped out of line, the weight of his gaze pressing on her, solid and inescapable, as if he were already carving into her mind.

“Remove your helmet,” he ordered, the authority in his tone brooking no defiance.

Her fingers tightened on the edges of the helmet. This was it—her mask removed, her cover shattered. She slipped it off, feeling the cold air hit her face as her eyes met his. She forced herself to stay still, blank, giving nothing.

The silence between them thickened, stretching as his stare bore into her. His helmet tilted slightly, a silent calculation, as though appraising a dangerous specimen. There was something eerie about the stillness that filled the space between them, like the calm before a storm.

He took a step closer, and the dim lights cast deep shadows over his mask, giving his presence an even darker, sharper edge. “You’re not one of mine,” he said, each word edged in steel.

She didn’t respond, her expression remaining impassive, like a soldier who knew exactly what her end looked like. Silence was her only armor now, her one fragile defense against the darkness he wielded so easily.

Another step. The gap between them was closing, and she could feel his anger like a heat radiating from him, an aura that threatened to crush her. “Nothing to say?” His tone was mocking, laced with a quiet fury. “It’s rare for a spy to be so... compliant.”

She met his words with the faintest arch of her brow. It was subtle, but enough to show him that fear wasn’t her game. She’d faced worse odds, held her own in situations with no escape. If this was how she would go, she would go quietly, and she would go with dignity.

“You think silence will protect you,” he continued, the low cadence of his voice crawling under her skin. “But I don’t need words to uncover what you’re hiding.”

The air between them pulsed, his power reaching out like tendrils, slithering into her mind. She felt him push, testing her, looking for cracks, for any hint of weakness. Her jaw tightened as she held her ground, her mind steeling itself against the invasive pressure.

“Interesting,” he murmured, though there was no warmth in his tone. “You’ve been trained.”

The smallest twitch of her mouth was her only response. She was prepared to withstand pain, to endure the tearing of her thoughts and memories. If he thought he could break her that easily, he was mistaken.

“Not even a name?” His helmet leaned closer, and she could feel his voice resonate through her. “Then allow me to remind you who I am.”

The Force clamped around her throat, an invisible vise that tightened slowly, inexorably. She could feel her airway constrict, her vision darkening at the edges, but she forced herself to remain still, even as her lungs burned, fighting for air.

But her expression didn’t change. She looked at him, a defiance woven into the quiet depths of her gaze. She might not be able to speak, but her eyes told him everything. She would die before giving him what he wanted.

A flicker of something almost like irritation crossed his stance, and with a flick of his fingers, he released her. She stumbled back, catching herself against the wall, her breaths shallow and quick. His stare remained unbroken, as if assessing how far he could push before she shattered.

“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” His tone held a hint of amusement now, but it was cold, twisted, like the edge of a knife. “The Resistance has sent me a spy who thinks she can survive simply by keeping quiet.”

Finally, she spoke, her voice barely above a whisper, but laced with an unyielding calm. “If you think intimidation works on me,” she murmured, “then you don’t know the Resistance.”

Kylo tilted his head, a silent, menacing appraisal that sent a chill down her spine. “Intimidation?” His voice was barely above a whisper, deadly and soft, like the edge of a razor. “I don’t waste time with intimidation.”

Without warning, he raised his hand, and she felt the world tilt as her feet left the ground. An invisible force pinned her against the wall, her shoulders pressing hard into the metal, the cold seeping into her skin. She could feel the weight of his anger, his frustration, pressing into her mind with a relentless pressure that threatened to rip her apart from the inside.

He stepped closer, each step deliberate, slow, until he was mere inches away. She could see her own reflection in the glossy surface of his mask, her own narrowed eyes staring back at her.

“Tell me your name,” he said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble that reverberated through the cold metal at her back. The Force held her in place, unyielding, and she could feel the ice in his command, a thinly veiled promise of pain.

She held his gaze, her expression betraying nothing, even as her pulse thundered in her ears. Silence was her only weapon, her only shield, and she wielded it with a stubborn, quiet resilience.

Another beat of silence, stretching, twisting, as his patience waned.

His hand raised slightly, and she felt a sharp, crushing force against her ribs, like invisible fingers digging in, pressing down with a cruel, unyielding pressure. Her breath hitched, but she bit down on the pain, refusing to make a sound, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

“Defiant until the end,” he murmured, almost to himself, as though he’d expected something different from her. As though her silence was somehow more intriguing than he anticipated. “But even the strongest minds break.”

He dropped her suddenly, and she stumbled forward, catching herself before she fell to her knees. Her breaths came in short, shallow gasps, her vision swimming, but she steadied herself, her gaze lifting to meet his once more.

Kylo watched her, silent, his stance unreadable, his posture cloaked in shadow. Then, after a long, tense moment, he leaned in close, his voice a low, dark murmur. “You may have nothing to say now. But I will uncover every secret, every lie, until you have nothing left.”

With that, he turned sharply, leaving her alone in the silence of the dark, cold room.

Lucky

Peter Hayes x small!Reader

Idk what to call it at this point. Not fluffy enough to be a fluff or angsty enough to be angst. Just for your amusement ig.

Summary: Peter Hayes has always thrived on cruelty, sneering at others’ weaknesses to make himself look stronger. But when you—a quiet, seemingly small Dauntless initiate—beat him in a trial, he’s forced to see you in a different light. 

AN: in this one, I imagined it to be that reader is small in size and often undermined but you could imagine it and tailor it to your preference. (Maybe that she just SEEMS weak or smth)

The lights of the Dauntless training room cast long shadows across the stone floor, the sound of fists hitting punching bags and the grunts of effort filling the air. You stood off to the side, small and unassuming compared to the towering forms of the other initiates. But looks, as you’d proven time and time again, were deceiving.

You cracked your knuckles absentmindedly, watching as Peter Hayes towered over some poor recruit, a smirk curling his lips. Peter thrived on being intimidating. He fed off the fear that shimmered in the eyes of those around him, always sneering, always two steps ahead of his peers—if not in skill, then in sheer malice. He was, in many ways, the embodiment of Dauntless’ harshest traits.

But today, things were about to change.

"Alright, fight time," Eric barked, pacing along the sidelines like a predator circling its prey. His cold gaze swept over the group before landing on you. His lip curled in an almost-smile. "You."

Everyone’s eyes snapped to you, and you didn’t flinch under their scrutiny. If anything, you felt a rush of adrenaline course through you. The room grew quieter, expectant, as Eric nodded toward Peter. "You’re up against him."

Peter's smirk widened. He didn’t even try to hide his amusement. "Really? This ought to be good."

You rolled your shoulders back, stepping into the circle without a word, feeling the weight of all the eyes on you. But you were used to being underestimated. It was your advantage, your weapon.

Peter sauntered forward, cracking his neck as if the fight was already won. His confidence radiated like a toxic cloud, infecting the room with tension. His smirk deepened as he came to a stop a few feet from you, towering over your smaller frame.

"You sure you’re up for this, sweetheart?" he drawled, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

You ignored the taunt. There was no need to respond. The game had already begun, and Peter just didn’t know it yet.

"Fight!" Eric’s voice echoed through the room like a gunshot.

Peter moved fast, closing the distance between you in a single step, his fist swinging toward your face with brutal force. But you were faster. You ducked, sidestepping at the last second, causing him to stumble forward.

His eyes narrowed as he straightened, his smirk faltering for just a second. "Lucky."

But luck had nothing to do with it.

The next few seconds were a blur of motion. Peter lunged again, his movements aggressive, fueled by arrogance. Each time, you dodged or blocked with fluid precision, making him look clumsy. The others watched in stunned silence, whispering among themselves as you began to gain the upper hand.

Peter’s frustration grew, evident in the tightening of his jaw, the wild swing of his fists. He wasn’t used to losing—especially not to someone who looked like you.

Finally, you saw your opening. Peter’s guard dropped for just a moment, and that was all you needed. You spun on your heel, sweeping his legs out from under him with a swift kick. He crashed to the ground with a grunt, the air knocked out of him as you stood over him, victorious.

For a moment, the room was still. Peter lay on the ground, eyes wide with shock, while you stood above him, not a single drop of sweat on your brow.

Then, slowly, Eric’s voice cut through the silence. "Impressive."

It was one word, barely a compliment, but from Eric, it might as well have been a standing ovation. His expression remained unreadable, but the flicker of approval in his eyes didn’t go unnoticed. Eric wasn’t one to show emotion, especially when it came to initiates, but even he had to respect what you’d just pulled off.

Peter groaned, pushing himself to his feet, his cocky façade crumbling as he wiped a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. He glared at you, anger boiling beneath the surface, but there was something else there too—something he would never admit. Respect.

"You got lucky," Peter growled, brushing himself off.

You met his glare head-on, unflinching. "No, I’m just better."

There it was—plain, simple truth. And Peter, for once, had no snarky reply. He clenched his jaw, still trying to nurse his bruised ego, but the look in his eyes told you that he knew. He knew you weren’t someone to mess with.

Later, after everyone had left the training room, you sat alone, wrapping a bandage around a scrape on your hand. The adrenaline had worn off, leaving you with a dull ache in your muscles and the satisfying knowledge that you’d bested Peter Hayes.

But you didn’t have long to savor the victory.

"You really think you’re something, don’t you?" A voice sneered from behind.

You didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Peter’s smug tone was unmistakable. You rolled your eyes, continuing to bandage your hand.

"I mean, you got lucky once, but let’s not pretend like you’ll always come out on top," Peter continued, stepping into your line of sight. He leaned against the wall, crossing his arms, that infuriating smirk plastered across his face again. "You’re just a little fighter who had a lucky day. Don’t let it get to your head."

You glanced up at him, unfazed. "Sure, Peter. Whatever helps you sleep at night."

Peter’s eyes narrowed. "Don’t act like you’re better than everyone. We both know you don’t belong here. Just a little girl playing soldier."

The words were meant to sting, but they rolled off you like water. You had heard worse, from worse people. Peter’s insults weren’t anything new, and they certainly didn’t get under your skin the way he hoped they would.

You stood up, facing him, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. "It’s cute how you think you can still intimidate me after I wiped the floor with you today."

Peter’s face darkened. "Watch your mouth."

You shrugged, turning to leave. "I don’t need to watch anything. I’ve already seen enough."

Peter opened his mouth to retort, but nothing came out. For the first time, it seemed like he had no comeback, no witty insult to throw at you. You walked away, leaving him standing there, simmering in his bruised ego and thinly veiled frustration.

As you left the room, you couldn’t help but smirk. Peter might never stop trying to tear you down, but you weren’t going to let him win. Not today, not ever.

The Ghosts

Sirius Black

Angst, a whole lot of it

Summary: Sirius gets haunted by the memories of his childhood

AN: cried while drafting this, hope you enjoy

Inspired by:

Story under the cut

Grimmauld Place loomed like a mausoleum, heavy with silence and shadows that seemed to cling to Sirius Black like a second skin. The house had always been oppressive, but post-Azkaban, it felt suffocating. Every corner whispered memories he couldn’t suppress, no matter how much firewhisky he drank or how hard he tried to forget.

Tonight, he found himself in the drawing room, his eyes drawn to the cursed tapestry like a moth to flame.

There it was, the family tree. Black and gold thread wove generations together, its branches curling in endless, snarling pride. His gaze landed on the burned spot where his name had once been—a violent black hole scorched into the fabric, as if even the memory of him had to be eradicated.

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

“Might share a face and share a last name, but we are not the same.”

The words echoed in his mind, lyrics that felt plucked from his soul. He thought of his mother, her cold, sharp voice still cutting through years of silence. “You are no son of mine, Sirius. Do you hear me? No son of mine!”

He stepped closer to the tapestry, his fingers hovering over the charred fabric. The edges of the burn were jagged, almost alive, like the fury that had once consumed her as she’d banished him from the family. His shoulders tensed, the weight of those years pressing down harder than any Dementor ever had.

“How could you hurt a little kid?”

The memories came unbidden.

He saw himself at six years old, clutching a wooden toy broomstick with trembling hands. His father loomed over him, eyes blazing with the kind of fury Sirius had never understood. “You’re a disgrace to this family, Sirius,” Orion hissed. “No Black would ever stoop to such… rebellion.”

And rebellion had meant what, exactly? Laughing at something Regulus said? Mispronouncing an ancestor’s name? It didn’t matter. The punishment had been swift. A hex, a slap, a night locked in his room with only the portraits on the wall to keep him company—ancestors who sneered and hissed, calling him a traitor even then.

He clenched his fists, shaking his head to dispel the memory. He wasn’t that boy anymore.

“I can run, but I can’t hide from my family line.”

Except he could never outrun it, could he? His reflection in the mirror showed the same sharp cheekbones, the same stormy grey eyes that his mother had once wielded like weapons. The blood coursing through his veins might as well have been chains. Even in Azkaban, he hadn’t been free of them.

His lips twitched into a sardonic smile. “Free,” he muttered, the word tasting bitter on his tongue.

He laughed then—a hollow, rasping sound that bounced off the cold walls of the room. He was 36 years old, and it still bloody bothered him. All of it. The tapestry, the memories, the scars no one could see. He felt like a child again, stuck in the same damned house, walking the same damned halls, haunted by the same damned ghosts.

“Pathetic,” he said to himself, his voice laced with derision. He ran a hand through his unkempt hair, shaking his head. “You survived Azkaban, and this—this—is what keeps you up at night? Some bloody thread and scorch marks?”

But the laughter didn’t stop. It bubbled out of him, bitter and raw, until his chest ached and his throat burned.

Because the truth was, it wasn’t just the tapestry. It wasn’t just his mother’s voice or the ghosts in the walls. It was the inescapable reality that no matter how far he ran, he would always carry them with him.

Sirius sank into a nearby chair, his laughter finally subsiding into a strained silence. The house creaked around him, indifferent to his misery.

He tilted his head back, staring at the cracked ceiling above him. “Cheers to you, Mum,” he muttered, raising an imaginary glass. “You win. Even from the grave, you win.”

And yet…

The corners of his mouth twitched again, not with bitterness this time but something quieter. A tired acceptance, perhaps. Because while he might never be free of the Blacks, he could choose to make sure no one else suffered what he had.

The thought gave him no comfort, but it gave him purpose. And that was enough to get him through another night in Grimmauld Place.