#phasma x reader

[rottedheart]

Does anyone else find it weird that people are posting sexualized ai generated photos of Gwendoline and her characters or is that just me

[rippersz]

𝐄𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐃𝐢𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐬

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Zombie Apocalypse AU w/ Gwendoline Christie characters; (~9.2K words)

(Featuring: Larissa Weems, Brienne of Tarth, Jane Murdstone, Anna from WTM, Lucifer Morningstar, Miranda Hilmarson, Captain Phasma, and Jan Stevens) x Reader

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

It started about two months ago. Russia went down first, then Mongolia. China. India. And in the midst, Finland, Sweden, Norway, the United Kingdom, down to the very southern tip of Africa. The Ocean is no killer of disease, frozen or not, and encouraged it to ravage South and North America, then Canada and Greenland. Until every place was overrun by dead freaks. Stinking corpses and moving gore. 

They traveled in herds, packs, whatever it was that people wanted to call them—murders, perhaps—and shuffled aimlessly across any land they could find. Eager for food, for sustenance, to fill the empty bellies that would never be full. Gorging themselves on creatures like you. 

Officially ‘the other’. Officially ‘the enemy’. The sole survivor of a good group that was attacked some days ago because an idiot forgot to shoot one of the creatures in the head. And by sunrise, it was over. Screams echoed into the silence and you soon found yourself alone… running for your life with a duffle bag over your shoulder (slowing you down) and a gun in your hand (low on ammo). Trekking through thick woods in a heavily-infested Vermont town was not a good idea, but you had no choice. The house you were camping in was left behind, ravaged by bullets that you put into your friend’s heads, and every other spot nearby had been looted. You couldn’t move all of those bodies yourself. You couldn’t do much yourself. There was no army background attached to your name, no conspiracy theorist survival-obsessed gene in your body, and not much training in fighting either. All you could do was run. Run and run and run until you were miles away and your lungs started to burn. Not the most useful skill considering most people could run, but if you were quick enough to speed past the shuffling bastards, you were quick enough to make it to safety. 

—

Safety…what a joke. A shit joke. A joke that was, quite honestly, the worst joke to ever exist. There was no safety. No place, nowhere. You’d been walking for a few hours, hearing nothing but the forest’s silence, and stumbling over leaves and branches. They ravaged the animals, took them into their mouths like they were people, and ate until there was nothing left. Not even a squirrel, or a fox, and the birds had grown weary of the vast number of hunters (both dead and undead) that found themselves in the woods looking for food. So no birds either. And no houses. And you were pretty sure, as you paused to catch your breath, that you were doomed. 

Only a few bullets left and your aim was never perfect. One knife tucked into your waistband but it was getting uncomfortable, digging into your skin, and caked in blood. Creature blood. Everything smelled horrible. Like burning flesh or dirty meat, raw and soiled. You probably didn’t smell too good either. It wasn’t like the world still worked without the people; only a few places had running water and you couldn’t trust the creeks and rivers. The undead enjoyed walking through shallow water, knowing somehow that there’d probably be prey nearby. 

But you hadn’t seen anything in a while. A long while. A suspiciously long while... 

Everything was green and brown around you, whisked by wind and soil, and you stood out like blood against snow. The last thing you saw was yesterday. Ever since? Not a single flash of undead flesh. 

You swallowed, throat embarrassingly dry, and tapped your fingers against your thigh. 

It wasn’t good when everything was still. You were vulnerable, out in the open, and without a good few rounds of bullets to spare. Every muscle and organ in your body screamed for mercy, crying with the effort it took to keep surviving even when you didn’t want to. 

You thought about it a few times; gave the gun in your hand a long look on several occasions, but ultimately decided that ‘opting out’ was only a last resort. Somehow, even amidst the chaos and hatred and swill of humanity’s nature, you managed to hold hope. And often wondered where it would get you. How it would get you. While you were sleeping? While you were already wounded? Fighting off the hands of a loved one? The twist of hope’s rope… would you feel it closing in around your neck? A literal metaphor for the eventual death you’d experience? 

Thinking about it gave you a headache. 

For where was the point in wondering? 

You had no one else. Whatever form of death awaited, it would end up being your fault. Probably because you couldn’t run fast enough. Probably because- 

Because-

Wait. 

Somewhere behind you, on the right, was a low sound. A hum. The smooth whoosh of something quick. The parting of wind… the low growl of… 

“Fuck.” 

You shot off in that direction, bag smacking against your shoulder blades, and instantly felt the exhaustion pull at your body again. It lingered like a plague, like the undead disease, and you yearned to fall to your knees - to give in - but it wasn’t the time for that. You had to at least try. You had to at least make it over the hill. Right over the hill. So close but so far. You leaned forward, threw yourself at the ground, and grasped onto gnarled tree roots. The Earth smelled wet with decay, sweet with promise - you huffed against dry leaves. They crunched and scratched at your fingers, eventually crinkling into nothing when your arms worked to drag you up. You probably looked a little mad, scrambling up a steep hill to reach something that probably won’t save you, but there was no other option. The hum grew louder, the quiet was broken, and you only had a few moments to get this right. 

“Help!” Your lungs caved around your scream, but the forest swallowed it instantly. Greedy trees with their greedy barks, wanting to keep you hidden from salvation. The hum grew louder. Your fingers grew clammy, sweating and slipping against rough wood. 

You’d be bruised to high heaven later, and probably exhausted, but the hum and the growl of an engine meant a road and a road meant civilization and goddammit you just needed to get over the stupid fucking hill. 

There was a loud ringing in your ears, nearly deafening, and making your voice sound fuzzy. 

“Help! Help!”

Was that you? Were you the one screaming like that? Why couldn’t you be quiet? Those things could have been lurking… wandering nearby… coming up behind you, eager to grasp at your ankles and drag you back down to Hell. 

A glance back over your shoulder, aching from the duffle bag, found nothing but blurred terrain and darkened leaves–a symptom of the setting sun. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. If the light went out, you’d be screwed. You couldn’t use the last of your matches and the world went black when evening struck. So there really was no choice. As the growl turned into a roar… there was no choice. Just a little higher- a little more. Your arms pushed, biceps straining against the cotton of your shirt, and your pants threatened to get caught on wayward sticks and tear into rags. The boots on your feet pressed hard against loose rocks, kicking them out of place, and gained just enough ground to push you up - over the ridge. The final stretch. Your chest pushed to the hard dirt and forced a grunt of effort from your tired body; the sound echoed through the woods, through the ground, and through the air that sat above the concrete road in front of you. Hard and vast, grey and long… you looked at it as though it were the holiest of grails, lying just beside it with your arms outstretched, your fingers still pulling at dirtied grass. Soil covered your skin, masked your features, caked beneath your fingernails, and when the roar of the speeding vehicle grew so close you had to close your eyes and wince, you knew raising a hand for help would not be enough. In the shade of the forest’s edge, half draped over the peak of the hill, you were inhuman to other survivors. Your dry mouth opened, your throat croaked, and your legs moved to push you up–closer–just short of the wind that caressed your hair when the car, the truck, ran past you with no second glance. You looked after it, watched it pass, and felt the burn in your heart grow into its own inferno. It licked at your insides, at your desperation, and had you hauling the duffle bag off of your shoulder and out onto the road. It rolled, a shuffling sound, and you followed after it with deep growls of effort and dwindling strength. 

“Please,” you wheezed, panting for breath as soon as you staggered up to your feet. 

In the distance, the car turned into a disappearing black spec. It drove and drove, out of sight, and you stood there, putting your arms in the air to wave it down and bring it back. To beckon it back. To beg and plead.

“Please please no-,” your voice was soft, weakened by days of rugged survival, “no…” rough and lost to the wind, it dissipated into nothing and you were forced to swallow again.  

The thick smell of car exhaust settled against the steaming road. You watched the horizon, tracking the space in the atmosphere where the gold traced into a deep blue, and felt your bones quake beneath your skin. Their final cry. The last hurrah as you watched your future, the tatters of it, drive away from you. 

Too late. 

You were too late. 

And you’d die there, on that road, and they may never come back and find you again in the morning. And your corpse would be chewed upon by undead bastards who would never give you a proper burial. And you’d be just another stupid human that found themselves trampled beneath the stinking feet of the walking dead. 

Tears teased your eyes, burning the dry lands of your irises, and you felt the heart in your chest lurch against its cage. 

 Too late. 

You were too late. 

You had a duffle bag, a handgun somewhere off to the side, and the clothing on your back. One lasting water bottle, the knife you felt poking your side, and small bags of food that wouldn’t last you long at all. The tent, too, was destroyed by animals the night before. The most you could go was perhaps one more day, but your feet were aching so terribly that each step was a journey within itself. And you couldn’t push yourself to go further. There was no further. There was nothing in the woods and there was nothing beyond the road and you were running on fumes that no longer existed. 

But you couldn’t just lie there and take it. You were about to reach over, bending at the waist, to grab your bag. To pull it up over your shoulder and trek on, even though it was pointless. But something stopped you. 

Something–a sound–made you freeze. 

It was faint. It didn’t sound like the undead, with their discordant groans and disgusting squelches, no… it was far. Getting closer. Closer. The hum and the growl. The purr of a motor. The hiss of pavement. 

Your head snapped up, eyes bulging wide as you looked over the horizon to see…. Yes. Yes! Yes, it’s them! The car! A grin pulled at your lips. Halle-fucking-lujah! You felt the anxiety ebb, slowly falling away from your body, as they got closer. The black spec turned into a black blob, then a figure that took shape, and finally you could make out a Vermont license plate and the dirt that stuck to big wheels. Up close, it was a sleek thing, tall and well-built. Midnight black and aside from the splatter on the rubbered wheels, it was polished and clean. The dark paint reflected the bright world around you, turning it into weird warped versions of a faux-paradise. You swallowed at the feel of warmth against your legs, the exhaust from the truck flooding over the smallest sliver of skin around your ankles. Suddenly fearing a changed mind and bad intentions, you stumbled back until your heels pushed against your bag. 

Tinted windows stared down at you, menacing and opaque. Not a thing to see behind them, even if you squinted. Nothing moved, nothing jumped, and you watched with bated breath for a window to roll down - until finally, it did. 

The driver’s side. It went whirr-ing down, sliding for the shortest period of time in the world until only a shadow met you - and then a flicker of movement. And then- 

“Oh my god! Jesus! Okay okay!” You flinched, not even hesitating to raise your hands above your head. You spread your fingers out, desperate to prove your innocence to the stranger in the car. And the gun they were holding, pointing at you, through the gap. 

“Were you bit?” A rough voice, muted and deep, broke the atmosphere. 

You shook your head.

“Words. Use them.” 

“No,” you licked your lips, instantly deciding to turn around in a slow circle. “Not bitten. Not scratched.” You tried to ignore the way your hands shook, even as you shifted all the way back to face the gun’s muzzle. 

“Ask where…” a voice, soft and feminine, came from somewhere beyond the driver’s seat. It was saying something, telling something, but faded into a whisper so quiet you couldn’t hear a thing. Your eyes shifted to the dark backseat windows, trying to see something- anything- and found no surprise in the lack of life. 

“Any weapons?” The driver seemed to ignore the other person, and instead held the gun steady. You watched it with weary eyes.

“Yes.” And before they could ask, you tugged the knife out of your belt and the gun out of your pants pocket. They were held up in the air, another white flag, and you twitched the hand that held the firearm. “At least three bullets left, but that’s it.” 

“And the others?” 

You blinked. “Others? What oth-”

“Where is the rest of your ammunition? In the skull of a human or scum?” The stranger spat, and you detected the hints of an accent. 

Scum… you’d never heard them referred to as that before. Your last group called them walkers, and some others claimed flesh-eaters. You were tempted to use ‘zombies’, but it felt rather silly. The world took that term too lightly, and the undead were nothing if not a very serious problem. But scum? Like they were beneath humanity and not its current destroyer? You’d ask about it later, you decided, if they deemed you well enough to take in. 

“Both,” you breathed honestly, dropping your weapons to your sides with a heavy sigh. “They um- weren’t quite there yet. Got ambushed overnight.” 

The gun still didn’t move. 

“They don’t ambush. What really happened?” 

Hm. They weren’t wrong. Animated corpses didn’t ‘ambush’, but when a herd of them went lurking about, it certainly felt that way. You didn’t think logistics were entirely necessary, but you understood the need for specifics. Trust among men was eviscerated in the face of danger, especially against those once living. You’d seen paranoia before, in others. Humans simply didn’t take each other in anymore… not without some level of severe mistrust. The second thought after seeing the truck drive off was that you probably wouldn’t be accepted anyway - you’d killed without technical reason. Could have just left. Run away. 

But you didn’t. 

You didn’t want to see them turn into those… creatures. 

So what else was there to say? You stared at the gun, willing a click and the shot of a bullet, as you opened your mouth. 

“A herd. A lot of them. Just… descended upon the place. Someone might’ve been walking around in the woods or something, and there was just not enough protection,” you paused, licking your lips, “...I was the last one alive. Had to shoot them and go.” 

“How long since?” 

“Few days, give or take,” you shrugged. The exhaustion only built as you stood there, trying not to sway and collapse in your spot. The truck was still running, hissing hot exhaust; it was the first genuinely warm thing you’d felt in so many days that you wanted to crawl underneath and take a nap. The world, turning to autumn, was growing chilly. There was no chance you could survive winter on your own. 

“...Give or take,” you heard the driver scoff and laugh, bitter and mean. You frowned. 

Then the window started going up, and you couldn’t help yourself. With a hard thunk, you pushed your shoulder hard against the car, and knocked on the thick glass with the butt of the knife. A look of utter desperation crossed your features, heavy and thick. Urgency, anxiety, fear forced any sense from your mind. There was no chance. There was no survival at all.

“No please- please I can’t be out here alone please- I’m smart and- and I can run fast and be an asset. Please,” you shook your head, searching with worried eyes, “please, please you can’t do this to me-” 

Something dark spliced through the corner of your vision, dragging a shadow with it, and you just barely dodged the sudden swing of the truck’s backseat door. It bounced with force and you glanced back at the driver’s window once before stepping back and hastily swinging your bag over your shoulder. The knife and gun were slipped back into your clothing, concealed, and you held yourself strong as the black leathered interior bore itself to the world. 

“-we can’t just leave them-” 

“-on’t be stupid. They could be a liability-”

“-not stupid. We need more people-” 

Voices, at least two, were rushed and tangled in an argument. You didn’t pay much attention to what you could hear, though the growing irritation was hard to ignore. It would be a hassle to be accepted, you knew, but you’d deal. There was no choice. The backseat door was open and there was a figure hustled back against the other window. 

“The offer won’t last,” the stranger murmured, somehow louder than the two people in the front seats, and you decided not to take any chances in the world alone. 

With a grunt, a push, and a final slam of the door, you found yourself in the truck. Your bag was pushed down by your feet, you tugged your knife out to rest it on your thigh, and you turned to say thank you- but was cut off by a cold blade at your throat. It grazed the soft dirty skin, less than a centimeter away from pushing, and you felt saliva pool in the back of your throat. Swallowing would have pressed you closer, so you fought the urge and only stared.

“Woah-” 

“Try anything and you die. I don’t want a peep, not a shuffle. Do I make myself clear?” 

The driver’s voice, clearer in such close quarters, was deep and mean. Accent, as you had clocked, from somewhere in the United Kingdom. It held a natural growl, a gruffness from years of smoking, perhaps, and you couldn’t help but sense the intimidation. It wasn’t fake confidence, you noticed, as you looked up and met the cool sharp grey gaze of a woman. Her hair, a deep blonde, was slicked back and short, ruffled slightly by the nape of her neck. A long neck… that led to strong looking shoulders. They were half covered by a jacket, but you could see the strength in the chords of her muscle. A force to be reckoned with. A leader, perhaps. She was pale, with a defined nose and lips twisted into a permanent sneer, and you probably would have thought she had some potential for post-apocalyptic modeling, if it weren’t for the scar that covered one half of her face. Slashed across the left eye, the wound was jagged and rough - it dragged from a point close to the exact middle of her forehead, right to the corner of her jaw. Thicker at parts and thinner at others, it split through a pale eyebrow and seemed to have permanently rendered her blind. The lid didn’t even move when one stormy eye shifted, and you suddenly felt extremely creeped out. Something about her was undeniably cold. Almost reckless, but her hand was so steady with control you knew not to make a move. She’d probably kill without hesitation, dump you back into the road, and drive off with the duffel. There was no choice but to answer, answer quickly, and do as told. 

“Yes, clear.” Your head shifted half an inch up and half an inch down, still cautious of the blade. 

But she didn’t move. 

It was a battle of wills for just a moment, with your hands in your lap, empty and docile. You weren’t looking for a fight, or a staring contest, but the stranger didn’t let up until the figure to your right decided to sit up and speak. 

“Ah they do not seem so bad. Look at them. Tired and scared, like sad city mouse,” another woman, one with a Russian accent and a voice a hint too loud, cooed. 

Silence followed, persisted, for only a minute- and then the blade was tugged back so quickly you swear it nearly cut the air in two. The driver tsked as she twisted herself around, murmuring as she went. 

“More like a rat.” 

And then you were thrown to the side with a heavy wheeze as the truck lurched and began moving, working into a turn so you could go back the way they’d come.

You glared at the back of the headrest, not feeling above a little bit of irritation for some poor handling, but eventually grew bored. With some apprehension, your eyes flicked over to the person in the passenger seat. Their profile was strong, feminine, and you noted the unbelievably well-kept head of snowy hair. She looked clean, just like the driver, and a spark of hope welled up in your tired heart. Running water and food existed where they came from, wherever they were camped out, and if you played your cards right, you could finally indulge in some good hygiene. Unless the woman in the passenger seat was stingy with her water… god her skin was so clear, and she seemed to be wearing makeup. No one wore makeup anymore. Not the people in your old group and not the few stragglers you’d stumbled across. It simply wasn’t a necessary luxury anymore, but the woman sitting across from you, back straight and hands in her lap, seemed to think it was of the utmost importance. You wanted to speak, wanted to ask her name, but found yourself turning to your right - and catching the gaze of the person that opened the door for you. 

“Anna,” your savior spoke, tilting her head to the left and regarding you with curious eyes. A pale hand, big and long-fingered, shot out and hovered above your lap. You glanced down at it, at the clean skin and the perfect fingernails, and knew that you hit the survivalist jackpot. 

With a nod and a quick clasp of her hand, you whispered your name in reply. She nodded before leaning back against the door and crossing her arms; she seemed quite comfortable there, with a rather large gun resting across her lap. Her hair, blonde as well, fell in gentle waves to her shoulders. She saw with deep blue eyes - a contrast to the cold steel of the driver - and didn’t hesitate to flick them over your body in some sort of analytical search. Weapons, you figured, is what she was looking for. And the knife in your lap, which she eyed with some interest. 

You wanted to say something, wanted to thank them, but it didn’t feel like enough. Nothing felt like enough those days. Asking something of someone was a risk every single time. And you’d asked—begged—them to take you in. You needed to pull your weight, no questions asked. 

“Um- thank you for-”

“Shoot them.” 

“What?!” You straightened up, eyes going wide as, in your peripherals, you saw Anna’s hand inch toward her gun. Through the rear-view mirror, you caught the way the driver’s brow twitched. 

“You heard me. Shoot them.” 

“Pha-”

“I said no talking,” the stranger growled, not even bothering to address the woman in the passenger seat. The white-haired woman looked frustrated, her red lips tugging into a frown, as she watched the driver double down on her focus. “Didn’t I say that?” 

“But I-,” you wanted to plead your case, wanted to defend yourself, but were cut off. 

“I am not going to shoot,” Anna said before you could speak. “Why do you expect her to be quiet hah, Phasma? We just saved her жопa. No need for fighting.”

You glanced at her, picking up on the Native tongue. Fresh off the boat, or perhaps visiting, with the way she said it so easily. Zhopa? Given the context, it wasn’t hard to tell what she meant. Yes, they had just saved your ass. And yes, you wanted to say thank you. Even if that Phasma person wasn’t too keen on a bit of gratitude. 

“I hardly think thanking us for a kind deed is worthy of execution, no matter how much silence you require,” the fair-haired woman across from you said smoothly, throwing a slight glare to the woman on her right. And finally, she took that moment to turn around in the seat and make eye contact. 

Something that proved to be far more difficult than you thought it would. Good lord, she was gorgeous. Pale skin, deep admiral blue eyes, and lips redder than blood. Not even a scratch on her face, not even a single spec of dirt - as if the apocalypse never happened and there weren’t dead people roaming every street in the world. In fact, she didn’t seem incredibly worried about the predicament the human species found itself in, and was looking at you with kind eyes, a furrowed brow, and a smile that she hoped was welcoming. 

“My name is Larissa,” her hand, gloved in white fabric as soft as silk, reached out as an olive branch. You wanted to take it, wanted to feel something so lovely for the first time in a long time and create some sort of bond, but your hands were very dirty. A part of you guessed that Larissa hadn’t put them on earlier that day with the hope to return to camp holding soft fabric smudged with dirt and dried blood, so you only looked down at your palm and then back at hers. 

“Oh uh- I don’t wanna get your gloves dirty-” 

“Oh,” she glanced down, realizing that she was, in fact, wearing hand-coverings. “Later, then,” a warm smile shone back at you - and you were helpless, instantly offering her a nod in return. 

“Finished?” The driver piped up, eyes cold as she stared at you in the rear-view. 

As if on cue, Larissa turned back around in her seat, rolling her eyes as she went, and you could only fall quiet. Introductions were over, you were warming up to the easy heat in the car, and Phasma–if you dared address her by name in your head–had a good handle of the wheel. You were safe. For now. And with one last suspended look at the gun on Anna’s lap, you reached over for the seatbelt, tucked yourself in with a click, and leaned back in the seat. It was so suddenly comfortable, such a huge contrast to the shit you’d dealt with recently, that you couldn’t help but close your eyes and revel. Even for a moment. Even for a second.

—

“Get up,” a mean grunt, paired with a quick rush of piercingly cold air, tugged you from the depths of sleep. 

Before you could even open your eyes properly, a shiver set itself into your bones. Eager to escape it, and the confines of the car, you jolted and scrambled for your seatbelt. Leaning against the open door, watching you grab your things, was the driver. Phasma? Weird name, but there was no time to dwell - especially not when she was looking at you like that. Eyes sharper than the knife on your lap, holding a polished chrome pistol in one hand, and waiting with some tension for you to hurry up. The duffel was pulled up onto your shoulder, the knife was tucked into your belt, and your hands scratched at the leather as you looked around wildly for your gun. 

“We took it. You’ll get it back when you prove you’re not a complete imbecile,” she spat, peering down her nose at you. Disgust danced in her expression, sparking flames of unwanted insecurity, and you felt compelled to look away. Her nostrils were flared, her pink lips curled into something disdainful and mean, and you couldn’t help but watch the way her jaw shifted as she tensed, watching you watch her. The hatred seemed a bit out of place, too strong for normal trust issues, and you briefly wondered if perhaps she’d always been that way - even before the end of civilization. She was clearly a bitch, and not interested in showing you kindness any time soon, so you decided to forgo a response, ignored her glaring, and slipped out of the car without a word. 

Before your feet were completely on the ground, and your bag was out of the way, the door slammed closed behind you, quick and sharp. The speed of it nearly clipped your shirt, and you whirled around to face the stranger’s irritation. She seemed to have lost interest in you and side-stepped your figure without another glance. One finger on the trigger, a shit-ton of audacity-filled swagger in her walk, and a back broad and strong. She looked like an outlaw, tall, mean, wearing grey with a belt around her strong hips and a leather jacket over her shoulders. You wanted to throw your gun at her and watch it hit the back of her head, but there was no way in Hell you’d be able to run away faster than she could catch you. 

“Come,” you heard Anna speak, interrupting your train of thought as she trudged up to your left. You turned, seeing the way she cocked her head. “I’ll introduce you.” The gun swayed in her grasp as she turned, making little shuffling sounds in the grass. 

The grass. 

You went to go forward, but stopped. The grass. It was… terribly neat. Very well maintained. Not like apocalypse grass, which was flat and bloodied and mudded and dusted, but like rich person grass. Striking green grass, healthy, it bounced back behind you when you stepped on it. And the air… you took a deep breath and closed your eyes. It was fresh. Pure. Free of the smell of death and free of gunpowder and spraying blood. Just where on Earth were y-

oh.

Oh. 

You looked up, finally, and found yourself in a courtyard. On all sides was a wall, sections of it made of brick, others of stone, and the rest of wrought iron fence, bolted hard into the ground; and across the way, piercing the sky, was a manor. Or what looked like a manor. No - what was definitely a manor. Dark, illuminated slightly by the deep blue of the atmosphere and the torches that littered the ground in neat paths, splitting off into cobblestone sections. You swallowed. It was gorgeous. Untouched. A world that seemed to run on and on while the rest of the globe went to shit. 

How fucking lucky were you? 

“Come! I must say twice?!” Anna called, giving you an exasperated beckon as she started disappearing behind the dark stone brick of the main entrance. 

Sparing a quick glance behind you, you found a fortified gate and short stone walls - reinforced and built upon with barbed wire, wood, and sheets of metal. It must have opened up for the truck when you were still asleep, but was very much firmly shut and impenetrable once closed. You wanted to explore it more, wanted to study the mechanism and the layout and come to understand just how they managed to get the place so protected, but you didn’t want to leave Anna waiting. And a low rumble of thunder, far but rolling quick, told you that rain was eager to make her appearance - and you did not want to get caught in that. 

After adjusting your bag and patting the knife in your belt for reassurance, you set off after the Russian stranger. 

—

“So I am Anna, this you know already,” she pointed to herself, tapped her chest twice, then rolled her hand over to gesture to the clearing ahead. 

It was beautiful, outlined against a dark wood. Rocky paths led to a big circle in the middle, and the ruins of stone benches and statues littered the camp. You could definitely see what it used to be - a beautiful place for the elite to sit, to bask, to enjoy the nice air and the wind. But the end of the world had gotten to it, not with the bearings of total destruction, but with the promise of change. A big spruce shelter had been built to the far left, reinforced with four beams and no walls - clearly just meant to keep the rain at bay while they worked outside. Beneath it, there were wooden benches and designated spots for farming equipment, guns, and even a water purifying system from the looks of it. If you assumed that sleeping quarters and showers existed in the castle, then they seemed to be in the best shape anyone could be in.

Even the people, who were busy going about their evening and tending to their duties, while you watched by Anna’s side and felt your excitement grow.

“Phasma was woman driving. Not so kind,” she tsked, giving you a knowing look, and you found yourself unable to ask about the strange name. You figured she wouldn’t have known the answer anyway. Then her hand moved, stealing your attention. “That is Jane,” she pointed to a pale woman sitting on one of the large stone benches. 

Her back was turned, but you could see the severity of her expression in the reflection of a hand mirror. She was handsome, free of makeup, with jet-black hair. The strands fell from between her fingertips, spilling like water, as she threaded them into a braid around her head. Her movements were slow, methodic, and you watched, sort of hypnotized, as the long sleeves of her hooded dress stretched across her slim back. Tight along her arms and resting over the black pants covering her thighs, leading down to knee-high leather boots. Fit for an apocalypse, but somehow still chic. You watched her hands for a moment more, and turned slightly to her right when Anna gestured to the woman beside her. 

“Miranda. Good girl, but way too skinskie,” she nodded to herself while crossing her arms. 

The stranger in question–Miranda–was holding up an antique hand mirror for Jane to look into while doing her hair. They seemed to be the same height, though Miranda’s build was lankier and toned. The sleeves of her white top had to have been torn off, leaving freckled shoulders free to the air, and around one wrist was a black watch. It nearly matched the same leather as her belt, which held an attached holster and a sleeve for a walkie-talkie. Its antenna stood out against the baby blue of her uniform pants; tight by the hips but baggier toward the ankles, tucked into dark laced boots. Her hair was styled into a fair blonde bob, probably recently cut by the sight of such clean edges. It looked unbearably soft kissing the back of her neck.

“She was policewoman. Strong.” Anna commented, gazing at her from your spot by the castle wall. 

You nodded absentmindedly, looking over the two strangers and the chess board that sat between them on the bench. Jane had black and Miranda white. The latter seemed to be focusing quite hard on the game, holding a pawn loosely in one hand, as the dark-haired beauty tsked and adjusted the hand mirror that slowly slipped to the side. You watched Miranda jump and offer what you assumed was a sheepish apology, as she tried to multitask. Her small smile was pink and soft, warm and welcoming. A friend, perhaps. 

“Very…domestic,” came your soft murmur, sparked by the surprise of such a peaceful camp. In the past group, everyone was too busy trying to sleep, find food, or talk themselves through panic attacks. Maintaining sanity with comfort was not a priority. 

“Da. Comfortable,” your companion nodded. “Jan is there, washing.” And you turned, yet again, to find a figure standing in front of a clothesline. 

The combat boots made her seem tall, though they were a bit out of place—not really matching the long white sleeved shirt and full red skirt combo. Immaculate and clean, you noticed, though that was to be expected from a woman trying her hardest to get blood out of a white blouse. Her hands were covered by blue rubber gloves, with one clutched around a sponge and the other around the neck of a bottle of white wine vinegar. On the ground by her feet was a large pale jug of hydrogen peroxide and a bucket of what you assumed was water. And the blouse in front of her, held up by wooden clothespins, rippled from the breeze. It seemed to get colder and windier the longer the night went on, probably bringing the rain with it at some point. With any luck, it would clear up the light splotches of pink that covered most of the shirt’s chest up to the collar, but ‘Jan’ didn’t seem too patient and satisfied with that. She got back to her scrubbing a moment later, the strict waves of her blonde hair bumping gently against her neck. 

“Jan is very chic. You go to her for fashion advice, no?” Anna tilted her head at you, dragging dark blue eyes over your face. The lawn lamps stabbed into the grass lit everything up with a sweet warm glow, bringing out the flames in her expression as she peered at you curiously. Very handsome, in her own sharp-featured sort of way. You couldn’t help the snort that bubbled up. 

“Respectfully, I think fashion is the least of my concerns right now, Anna.” 

“Hm. Maybe,” she hummed, shrugged, and gave you a once-over that set your heart racing before turning her attention back to the group. 

“Brienne!” You jumped, flinching away as Anna’s loud voice carried into your ear. In the distance, a hulking figure shifted and unfolded, moving to look up at the call. They were sitting on a big pile of cut logs, holding a stone cylindrical sharpener in one hand and a… sword… in the other. Anna waved, talking to you gently as you both watched the figure’s expression change into one of suspicion. She was handsome. Pale, with the lightest blonde lashes and brows, and eyes that sparkled even from that distance. They squinted, drawing frown lines across her face, as she straightened up in her spot. You tried desperately not to stare at her figure, but it was impossible. The deep blue ribbed shirt clung to her torso like a second skin, wrapping tightly around strong biceps and broad shoulders. It was tucked into muddy green cargo pants, offsetting the brightness of the steel that covered the toes of her dark boots. You tilted your head and watched as she glanced between you and Anna before she finally decided to shoot the woman a firm nod. Anna’s lips quirked up into a smile. “She was once soldier. Good woman - she will protect you if you’re in trouble. Saved me many many times.” Her blonde curls swished as she nodded to herself. 

That was good to know, you reasoned. Everyone seemed quite strong. Tall, too. And pale. The camp was gorgeous, the people seemed mundane enough, and the company was… well. Your eyes drifted over to Anna’s side profile, a silhouette of soft dips and curves, and you couldn’t hide the attraction you felt even if you tried.

“Larissa, you know too. She is leader, xорошо?” You didn’t really know what ‘harasho’ meant, but the light intonation of her voice had you saying ‘Yeah’ anyway. 

Then an arm was winding itself around yours, jostling the bag on your shoulder and the gun slung around Anna’s body. It rested against her back, hitting her thighs, and you were suddenly powerless to the way she steered you further down the gravel path. Toward the right, there was a makeshift driveway; a patch of land ripped up from the grass and replaced with gravel, soil, and rocks. The black truck made an appearance again, probably having been driven up from around the back, and you watched with curious eyes as Phasma busied herself with a few bags and boxes from the trunk. Jesus, she was fit… tall and lethal. A small grunt left her lips when she hauled two boxes up into her arms, never faltering or pausing. Damn. You found yourself getting lost in the sight of her legs in those cargo pants, filling them out, until Anna clicked her tongue. 

“Lucifer is strange, but ultimately harmless. Do not worry, they are not naked under the robe.” 

Lucifer? Naked under the what? 

You were going to take a quick glance around, to find whatever the hell Anna was talking about, but there was no need. Some feet in front of you, lounging on a red and gold velvet chase, was a lithe figure. They were almost glowing in the reflection of the walkway lamps, with the deep crimson of a flowing silk robe offsetting the smooth pale planes of soft skin. One elbow was propped up on the arm of the chair, and you traced the folds of flowing sleeves up to a slim forearm, wrist, and a delicate hand. Slender fingers were curled under the curve of a pale cheek, and you felt your heartbeat speed up at the sight of soft features and  crystal eyes. And their hair, curled so perfectly into handsome shining ringlets of spun golden-web… goodness, they were… 

“Luxurious,” you murmured, tilting your head as you watched the stranger chat with Larissa. She was standing over them, in front of the chase, and even at that height, you had a feeling that the one laying down was somehow a little bit taller. “Is Lucifer their real name?” 

“Da,” Anna nodded, “little strange, no?” 

“Yeah,” you gave her an odd look. “Strange as fuck.” 

“Don’t get comfortable,” a voice growled from behind you, making you slip away from Anna’s hold and turn around. Phasma was walking past, holding a big bag under each arm. Her muscle was impressive, but dear god she was an asshole. You had to sort out that situation as quick as possible.

“Hey what’s your problem, man?” You spread your hands out at your sides before letting them slap against your thighs. “You picked me up, and while I’m grateful for that, I am, you didn’t have to-”

“Exactly,” she bit out as she whirled around and marched right back to you. Her breath was cool, washing lightly over your face, and she stood so close that your foreheads nearly touched. From that angle, looking up, you could reach out and trace the jagged line of her scar. It was quite attractive actually, even if her eyes narrowed as she watched you look at her. They were cold. Not an ounce of care.

“Don’t. Get. Comfortable.” Her lips twitched, carrying a silent threat.

“Okay,” Larissa’s voice, sing-songy and weary, cut into the conversation. “Why don’t we all take a moment to calm down, hm?” Her smile was blinding as she turned to you. One gloved hand hovered above Phasma’s right shoulder, but was instantly shrugged off the second it made contact. Her sneer didn’t fade even when she stepped back, eyes still flaming with anger. Larissa cleared her throat. “Y/n, you’re new here. Why don’t you and I have a little chat?” 

Her expression, although kind, hid a sharpness that you didn’t think was wise to fuck around with. If Larissa was the leader, according to Anna, then it was her you had to charm. You didn’t really know why she was the top dog, especially because some of the other group members seemed more… abrasive… but clearly something about her was good enough to be the one in charge. And pissing her off, messing around with her people, was a one-way ticket to possibly turning into those fuckers lurking in the woods. So you didn’t really have a choice - and you didn’t really want one. No matter what, you’d stay. You’d be of some help. You’d stay on the soft grass, smelling the clean air. You’d become best friends with Larissa, the group would learn to like you, and you’d try not to combust when any of them looked your way.

Easier said than done though, of course. Especially when Larissa’s smile knocked down all of your reservations at once, in one big swing, and coaxed an obedient nod from your body. 

“Okay. Yes. Sure.” 

“Perfect,” Larissa’s grin, somehow, grew even wider. 

“It’s getting late,” were Phasma’s parting words before she turned away and headed off toward two big wooden double doors. 

You watched her strut without much thought, and found yourself on the other end of a staring Larissa. Her eyes were utterly striking in the evening light, and the outline of her face… a sight to be seen for a person as weary as you. 

“So… is your group considered women only?” You murmured, peering up at her through your eyelashes. 

Red lips twitched. 

“Not intentionally. Though we have had the discussion before,” she contemplated her next words carefully, looking all over your face before resuming, “and we think it’s best if it’s just women. And Lucifer.” 

“And Lucifer?” You still can’t get over that being their real name. Probably just picked out in a moment of edginess when they were a teen. Lucifer did sound cool, sort of bully-worthy. Like they were emo kid once upon a time.

“Lucifer is what many would refer to as non-binary. Not a man and not a woman. I hope that won’t be a problem?” Something flashed behind her eyes. Not a threat, but a warning. You couldn’t help but smile.

“Not at all. They and I are… one and the same,” you shrugged and adjusted the bag on your shoulder. 

“How lucky I must be…,” someone purred from over your shoulder.

You tensed up, surprised by the closeness, and felt yourself grow a little weak at the tone. Like spiced honey, their voice was intense and smooth. You wanted to lap it up. 

“Ah right on time for a proper introduction,” Larissa, ever the most efficient woman from what you could tell so far, found herself a golden opportunity. One hand shot out and gestured over to you, then to the person slinking around to your right. “Y/n this is Lucifer, one of the strongest members of our group. Lucifer and I make most of the big decisions, with the necessary input from everyone else. And Lucifer,” Larissa’s grin relaxed into a smile, “this is Y/n. Depending on our discussion of the rules, they may become a familiar face, so I suggest you play nice.” 

You found that you couldn’t look to the side without short-circuiting. There was something.. something… about their aura that had you wanting to shy away and cower. It wasn’t the explosive intensity of Phasma or the consuming strangeness of Anna, or even the gentle but strong hand of Larissa… but instead a subtle sort of consumption. Utterly intriguing and fascinating - like they were put on the Earth to confuse humans. You didn’t even look at them and you could feel that. Didn’t even know them and you could feel that. Standing so close. So much body heat. 

“It’s a pleasure,” they murmured, turning to you fully. 

You swallowed, braced yourself, and looked up to your right. 

Sweet holy Jesus. They were even more handsome up close. Just absolutely soft and glorious. And carrying the faint scent of… firewood? You cleared your throat. 

“Um yeah- likewise. Hi.” 

A flash of black, followed by measured footsteps in the grass, had all three of you shifting to see Jane walking past. Miranda was not too far behind, taking her time to cross the yard. 

“Dinner is being prepared. Show face in the next 20 minutes or go to bed hungry.” Jane didn’t even spare you a glance before she disappeared behind the same doors Phasma had gone through. 

“Thank you, Jane,” Larissa managed to call just before they closed behind her with a dull bang. 

“Three moves…,” Miranda was muttering, holding the box for the chess set in one hand. “She beat me in three moves.” 

“Oh it’s not hard. I would’ve beaten you in two,” another voice entered the fray, polite but amused. Jan, you recognized, as she sidled up between you and Larissa with a small smile on her deep red lips. 

Miranda scoffed and turned to look at Anna, only to find that she was gone. One glance behind you revealed that she’d wandered over to Brienne, probably prompting her to go inside for dinner. You hummed, hiding the amusement of friendly banter. It had been so long since you felt even the smallest sense of normalcy. If they were so comfortable with each other, then it must have been a bit since they were all alone out in the world. You’d probably ask Larissa about that later - once everything was said and done. 

“I would’ve beaten you in one,” Lucifer smirked as they pulled away and went walking inside. Had they been barefoot the entire time? 

“That’s not even possible!” Miranda yelled, but the door was already shut. “...Is it?” She turned to Larissa, then to you, then back to Larissa. 

“I don’t think so, Miranda,” Larissa smiled before looking at you. “Any chance you’re good at chess?” 

Dear lord, having two sets of beautiful blue eyes on you was nerve-wracking, but you ignored the flush building up on your cheeks and nodded. 

“Um yeah- it’s possible to beat someone in two moves. But it’s only black, I think.” You gave Miranda an apologetic smile and a shrug as she pouted. 

“You will beat her next time Miranda,” Anna returned with Brienne in her wake. The sword she was sharpening earlier was still in her hands. “She cannot win forever.” 

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Brienne cut in, her voice strong and deep. Her mouth was pulled into a light frown, and you noticed the scar that cut through the upper lip on the right. From the time before, you suspected. Otherwise she’d be turned. “She beat me and Phasma one after the other.” 

Miranda sighed, tsking beneath her breath. 

“Then there’s no hope…” Goodness, she looked like a sad puppy.

“Why not?” It slipped out of your mouth before you could grab it. 

And of course, all of the attention then dragged itself over to you. Five sets of sea-blue eyes, all gorgeous in the glow of the evening lamps, traced lines over your tired body. In comparison to them, you looked a sight. Obviously having been picked up from the side of the road, unclean and awkward, somewhat detached from society. In your bag? Not enough clothing and not enough supplies. In your belt, peeking out from beneath your shirt? A knife, dirty and growing dull. And in your eyes? Lurking sadness and horror - the same which probably lived in the women that were observing you. 

Larissa, thank goodness, finally broke the lull of silence. 

“Brienne and Phasma were in the military,” she said gently.

“Oh. That makes sense.” And it did - Jane must have been an intellectual force if she beat people that used to be in the military before the world ended. Though that made you wonder… “What branch?” You turned to Brienne, not really surprised that you had to look up to meet her eyes. It seemed you’d been adopted into a camp of skyscrapers. Though the sharpness of her eyes had you swallowing. “I mean- if you don’t mind me asking.” 

She seemed to consider it, sizing you up, before saying, rather shortly, “SAS. Then Delta Force.” 

You couldn’t hide the way your eyes widened. 

“Oh.” 

“Oh, indeed,” Larissa hummed. “But I think now would be a good time to head in, wouldn’t you say?” She spared her smile for everyone, meeting the gaze of each woman, before finally looking at you and raising her eyebrow. 

It wasn’t really up to you, so you just shrugged and waited for Anna to say ‘Da, da, xорошо’ before heading in. Brienne followed after her, then Miranda, who was studying the back of the chess box, and Larissa, who started taking off her gloves. Jan, meanwhile, stayed where she was and kept her eyes on you. They were curious and deep, never-ending, and lined with mascara and eyeliner. Mascara and eyeliner that… well it suited her, but goodness it was certainly intense. Dark and shadowed, but beautiful nevertheless. You couldn’t look away. 

“Jan Stevens,” she breathed and gave you her hand, elegant and admittedly quite charming. Her nails were painted a deep cherry red. Utterly flawless.

At the sight of it, you weren’t entirely sure what to do. Your palms were still dirty, and sort of calloused, and you didn’t want to… ruin her. So you hesitated, stared at it, looked back up at her, and found her kind smile to be unwavering. 

“Go on,” Jan finally whispered, giving her hand a pointed look, and you fell prey in an instant. 

Quickly, you shot out to gently cup her hand into your own, and gave it a gentle shake. You felt strangely compelled to bring it up to your lips, but you weren’t sure that meeting a stranger in an apocalypse really called for such formalities. Even though you yearned to feel her skin beneath your mouth. It wasn’t proper; though you did think that Jan’s expression fell just a little bit. Like she was excited. Like she wanted you to kiss her hand. 

“Y/n. It’s nice to meet you.” 

“Likewise,” she purred, looking you up and down, before turning toward the door. “Come quickly now. If we’re late, Jane will send us off to bed without dinner. And we wouldn’t want that.” 

It probably would have been wise to consider and contemplate the fact that you were in a stranger’s camp, with a stranger’s group… but the saucy little wink that Jan threw over her shoulder sent a deep blush crawling up your cheeks. And just like that, without fail, you were one of the flesh-eaters… caught in the pretty paws of eight different beasts. 

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Please let me know if my characterization is okay and if you'd like to see more. Be safe, darlings. - Rip x

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

Far too many names to tag. Find it as you come.

‧˚₊꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒷꒦︶︶︶︶︶꒦꒷‧₊˚⊹

[jadewolf22]

Traitors, You and I

Phasma x Fem!Reader

Warnings: None that I could think of. Let me know if there’s something I need to add! (not proofread!!)

Summary: Things haven’t gone well for you since you, Rose, and Finn snuck aboard The Supremacy, but as the chaos unfolds around you, you find someone you’d long presumed dead.

A/n: There are multiple references to Phasma’s past which I learned from the book about her by Delilah S. Dawson (def. recommend giving it a read if you haven’t!)

A/n: I know I'm super behind on a bunch of fics but I had to get this one out of my system before I could go back to my other WIP's!!

Word Count: 1,706

The smoke and ash in the air was suffocating, the fire heating your blood to the point where it felt like it was boiling in your veins. You still weren’t entirely sure what had happened, all you knew was that one second you’d been moments away from execution and the next you were running through fire for your life. You’d lost track of Finn and Rose in the chaos and you hadn’t seen BB8 since you were captured. As far as you knew, you were on your own. A blaster fired somewhere nearby and you dropped to your knees, not even bothering to look if the shot was aimed your way. You coughed through the smoke, crawling along the ground as you tried to find a way off the blazing ship. 

Finally, you saw it; an intact shuttle about fifty feet away. You leapt to your feet and started running, stopping in your tracks when—from somewhere to your left—you heard Rose shout, “Finn!” and several blaster shots. You turned to find Finn facing off against the silver stormtrooper from before, fighting for his life against the hulking figure. You watched the fight, frozen in place. There was something about the stormtrooper that felt familiar to you. Maybe it was their stature, which reminded you far too closely of someone you once knew, or perhaps it was the way they fought, brutal, sadistic, and yet calculated, which again reminded you of a person from your past. The feeling was almost magnetic, as if trying to pull you to the trooper. You watched, almost in a daze, as Finn took a beating against the silver brute, breaking from your trance when Finn managed to return a blow, sparks—quite literally—flying as his riot baton struck their helmet. The stormtrooper’s head snapped to the side, half of their helmet gone. They looked right at you and you froze, your heart hammering in your chest. From the gap in the helmet a single icy-blue eye met yours, an eye you knew all too well. A part of you couldn’t believe what you were seeing. She was dead. She had to be. Yet, you knew her eyes better than anyone and, here they were, staring back at you. 

You saw Finn raise the baton again and, in a split second, you made a choice. You ran towards the fighters, releasing your blaster from its holster as you shouted, “Finn, no!” 

You raised the blaster and fired, one shot hitting his hip, the second his shoulder. Behind you, you heard Rose cry, “Y/n, what are you doing?!” and fired blindly behind you, ensuring no one could stop you from reaching her. 

“Phasma!” you shouted, reaching the trooper and grabbing hold of her wrist, “Come on! We have to go!”

“Release me, scum!” she snarled, trying to pull away, but you held her wrist in a death grip.

“Phasma, please! We have to leave!” you shouted over the roaring flames, tugging her towards the shuttle, “Come on! I’m not losing you again!”

She stopped trying to pull away, looking down at you with a confused shadow in her eye. Yet, after a moment, her gaze shifted from one of confusion to one of disbelief. She whispered your name, as if trying to convince herself that it truly was you standing before her. You nodded, tears gathering in your eyes from a mixture of the smoke and your own disbelief as you pulled her towards the shuttle, the two of you running through the flames like bats out of hell. You hadn’t even taken the time to process what you had just done, knowing there would be time for that later.

The two of you boarded the shuttle and you sat down in the co-pilot's seat, choking out, “Please tell me you know how to fly one of these things.” as you tried to expel the smoke from your lungs. Phasma glared at you through the gap in her helmet as she sat down in the pilot's chair, “Right, sorry. Stupid statement.”

Without so much as a word to you, Phasma began to work the controls, her movements a blur as the engines roared to life and the shuttle took off. You barely had time to glance at the rebel transports before the shuttle launched into lightspeed, leaving the Rebels and the First Order behind you. 

You released a shaky breath you weren’t even aware you’d been holding in, burying your face in your hands as the realisation of your actions crashed over you. You’d betrayed the Resistance. Your friends, Leia, everything you’d come to know. You might have just killed Finn and Rose… And yet, as you glanced over at Phasma, you couldn’t help but think that it had been worth it. Phasma had been your partner back on Parnassos, and you’d spent the last 16 years thinking she was gone. Now, having her there, sitting next to you, it felt surreal. You could have sworn you were dreaming were it not for the stinging burns on your arms and the ash that coated your mouth and throat. You bit down on your finger, wanting to say something but unsure of what you could say. 

It was Phasma who broke the silence, taking off her broken helmet and turning to you. She was exactly as you’d remembered; platinum-blonde hair cropped at her jaw, icy-blue eyes, powerful features and a scar in the upper corner of her lip. 

“I thought you were dead.” she stated, her voice silky and monotone; just as you remembered.

“So did I…”

“How did you survive? Bredol Hux destroyed the Scyre. How did you get off the planet?”

“After Keldo and the others went after you—when nearly a month had gone by and no one came back—I left the Scyre… I spent months just wandering before I found one of the old stations… it had a working escape pod and I used it… wound up on D'Qar… General Organa took me in… What the hell happened to you?”

“I… It’s complicated…”

“I have time.” you shrugged. You’d waited 16 years for an answer, you weren’t about to wait another second. “How the hell did you end up a captain in the First Order?”

Phasma sighed, running a hand through her hair before launching into the story of who she’d come to be with the First Order; how she’d betrayed Siv and the others, how Brendol had made her a captain right out of training. And you sat there and listened to all of it, to every detail. A part of you understood why she’d done it; she was always strategic, doing whatever she thought necessary to stay alive. Yet, you couldn’t shake the thought of her massacring thousands of innocent people, following orders like a damn robot. Phasma had never been one to take orders from anyone, you couldn’t picture her acting like the First Order’s lapdog and yet, she had…

When she’d finished Phasma looked at you, trying to discern your reaction, waiting for some kind of a response. But you sat there, face blank, as you processed everything. You loved Phasma, that had never changed and never would, but you knew you’d never be able to forget the lives she’d taken, the blood that would forever stain her. 

“Say something.” she demanded, your silence growing too much for her.

“What is there to say?” you asked, your voice too monotone for her liking, “We both did what we thought was best to survive…”

“You;ll never be able to let it go, will you? The fact that I’ve killed for—?”

“I’ve killed for the Resistance too.” you cut her off, your expression softening to one of understanding, “You’re not the only one with blood on your hands. It’s just… difficult to process it all… the fact that you were willing to follow orders that meant killing thousands of innocents—”

“As if the Resistance has never hurt—!”

“I’m not saying the Resistance was perfect!” you snapped, “It had its flaws, but it didn’t go out of its way to kill people…”

Silence enveloped the two of you again, your words hanging heavily between you. You had hoped to postpone this conversation, yet it was almost better to get it out of the way now. It didn’t sit quite right with you, blaming her for doing what she had to to survive. You were certain, had the roles been reversed, that you would have done the same and that, if you had, it would be her scolding you, not the other way around.

“Where are we going?” you asked after a time, hoping to change the conversation. There would be plenty of time to talk about this more later.

“Home.” Phasma said simply as she stood up, beginning to remove the rest of her armour.

“Home?” you’d hardly thought of Parnassos since you’d left, wanting to put that vile place in your past.

“It’s the last place anyone would think to look for us—assuming they don’t think we’re dead. I doubt the Resistance would bother looking for you there to begin with, as far as the First Order’s concerned, the planet was destroyed.”

“Is it even worth going back?” you questioned, “If the rest of the planet’s like the Scyre, we’re—”

“It’s not… I’ve seen it myself… There’s still green on the other half of the planet. We just happened to live on the wrong side of it.”

A part of you didn’t believe her, but she had no reason to lie. So you stayed quiet and let her take the lead, knowing it didn’t really matter where you went, so long as you were safe and so long as you had her. Everything else came second to ensuring that you never left Phasma. Those first few years after you’d thought she’d died were torturous, and you dreaded ever having to feel that again. She had been your heart—your whole world. Having her back felt like finding a piece of yourself again and, this time, you weren’t going to let her go. Wherever she went, you would follow. You would run together, traitors and enemies on both sides of the war, and you would survive, as you always had.

[weemssapphic]

Good evening, my internet-lawfully wedded wife. I would like to request that Hanahaki Phasma story please? 🥺🥺🥺

Hello 💖 Thanks for the request, lovely 🥺 I finally had an idea for how to write this and I am very happy with how it turned out - and nervous as I've never written for Phasma before. I hope you like it, regardless of the angst 🥺 Thank you to @dianneking for beta-ing and helping me with the title, it means a lot 🫶🏼

Forget-me-not

Captain Phasma x f!reader

Summary: Of all the people you could’ve fallen in love with, it had to be Captain Phasma. Could your love for her be your death sentence?

Words: ~3.1k | ao3 link in title

Content/warnings: Hanahaki disease trope, angst, no happy ending, mentions of blood + death, character death, briefly nsfw (light smut - minors DNI)

Icy blue eyes stare deeply into your own, pale pink lips are curled up into a devilish, seductive smirk. Phasma’s face is flushed and her pupils are dilated as she watches you come undone above her, bucking your hips against her and coating her abdomen in your arousal as you chase your high.

You’ve had sex with Phasma a handful of times now, which is strange in and of itself. You’ve heard plenty of stories about her since starting with the First Order – stories of one-night stands, lovers being used, abused, and discarded – threatened into silence, fired, even disappearing.

It would be dangerous to assume that you’re special – that you somehow mean more to Phasma than the other women she’s slept with. No one means anything to Phasma, that is one thing she has made abundantly clear. Phasma is the only person who means anything to Phasma. Everyone else is disposable, a means to an end – in this case, the end being her own sexual pleasure.

But then why has she let you into her bed time and time again? At first, she was demanding and dominating, relentless; taking, taking, taking. You cried during your first time with her – you were so overstimulated, yet she wouldn’t let up, and she punished you any time you tried to touch her. After that, you feared you’d be discarded like the rest – but then it happened again. And again. And then, one night, Phasma even allowed you to touch her. Watching the Captain Phasma reach the height of her pleasure on your fingers was something akin to a religious experience – you were ready to worship the woman, to give your soul over to her after hearing her moan and feeling her body shudder against your own. She’d taken her helmet off for the first time that night as well – you were immediately struck by her beauty. The planes of her face had a softness to them that had thrown you off-guard, her eyes – blue, oh so blue, oceans you could drown in – felt hypnotizing as they pierced your own. She’d been reluctant at first, but somehow – somehow – you’d managed to convince her – it must get quite hot and uncomfortable under that helmet after all. After the threat of torture methods that you hadn’t even heard of, ensuring you would never so much as think of telling a soul about seeing the great Captain without her helmet, she’d revealed her face to you.

And now, looking down at that charismatic, captivating smirk through the lustful haze of your fourth orgasm, you know you’ve gone and made the most fatal error you could possibly make.

You’ve fallen in love with Captain Phasma.

~~~

And what a fatal error, indeed.

After your latest rendezvous in Phasma’s quarters, you see her next at training the following morning. The bright fluorescent lights bounce off the chrome of her armor, flawlessly polished – though your mind is rather stuck on what lies underneath. Silken blonde locks, slicked back to emphasize her cheekbones, the curve of her jaw. Long, muscular arms and large, slender hands; rock-hard abs and legs that seem to go on for miles, with thick thighs that you can’t help but picture wrapping around your head. After seeing the fearsome Captain outside of her armor, you fear you can never unsee it – and you’ll always be left wanting, yearning for more.

Perhaps there would be a way to convince her that you’re worth more than a quick fuck – you can’t stop thinking about those strong arms wrapping around your waist in your post-coital haze, fingertips tenderly caressing your bare flesh as soft lips press chaste kisses all over your face. You would look into her eyes – which would fill with affection – and tell her you love her, and she would say it back with a smile on her face.

Cough.

You’re caught by surprise at the sound that bubbles forth from your chest, tickling your throat.

“FN-196, is something the matter?”

Phasma’s voice is cool and collected – dangerous. You shouldn’t have made a peep – but you can’t help it. Another cough tickles the back of your throat and forces its way out – you try to stifle it but that just makes the coughing fit worse.

“N-no-“ cough “I’m sorry-” cough “It w-wo-“ cough “It won’t happen again, Captain.”

You clear your throat awkwardly and straighten your back as Phasma stalks towards you, stopping right in front of you. She’s inches away from your face, though she’s tall enough that you’d have to crane your head back just a bit to look up at her. You don’t – you think she might kill you if you do, so you look straight ahead at your reflection in her armor.

She looks down at you for a moment, her head tilted ever so slightly – you wish you knew what she was thinking. Does she really hold any shred of affection for you, does she favor you at all? Or is she plotting the quickest way to dispose of you?

“One more sound and I’ll have you scrubbing TIE fighters all weekend.”

Merciful.

You nod curtly. “Yes, Captain.” You don’t dare say anything else.

~~~

After your little coughing fit, you briefly worry that you’ve caught a cold. You seem to be in the clear, however – you don’t cough again after that, not for a few days.

But then it happens again, as you’re walking past Phasma in the corridor. One moment you’re fine, the next you look up and see her walking towards you. You come to a halt and step aside to allow her to pass, a sign of respect. She affords you the smallest of nods – an acknowledgement that makes you swoon – and that’s when it happens. You cough, more violently this time, as though your lungs have run out of air and are shriveling up as a result.

Phasma stops in her tracks and turns towards you, staring. Waiting for the coughing to stop. It does, eventually, and you feel your cheeks burn. You know she can’t see it underneath your helmet, but you’re certain she can sense your embarrassment in the way your shoulders droop and your hands begin to fidget as you stutter out an apology.

“Are you ill?”

“N-no, Captain, I don’t think so.” You shuffle from foot to foot – you can feel another coughing fit coming on, and you really don’t want Phasma to be around for that. “Just a tickle, must’ve breathed in some dust.” Right. Through your helmet. As if Phasma would believe that.

She hums, giving you a once over. You squirm.

“Good.”

She turns and starts to walk away. “Come to my quarters tomorrow night.”

Your heart flutters as you watch her round the corner, disappearing from view.

Cough.

~~~

“Mmh, oh- f-fuck,” you mewl, as Phasma’s hips slam into yours at a brutal pace, her dildo disappearing inside of you as she thrusts the entire length into your cunt. A bead of sweat collects at her temple, rolling slowly down her flushed cheek. Her hair sticks to her forehead, falling into her eyes – hungry eyes that devour you as she ravishes you. Her lips are parted to let out quiet grunts, her abs ripple with exertion and her biceps flex as she holds herself above you.

Your eyes roll back in your head as the dildo reaches deep inside of you – your breath quickens and you feel a guttural moan tear from your throat as your orgasm hits you, your walls clenching around Phasma’s cock. She’s relentless – she doesn’t let up, fucking you through your orgasm and even after, as you sink into the mattress and try desperately to regulate your breathing.

Phasma reaches her own peak and tumbles over it, and it’s a glorious sight. Her jaw goes slack and her eyelids fall shut, a broken moan slips past her lips. Her entire body trembles a bit and her hips stutter in their movements. The fact that she can get off by watching you cum is incredibly arousing to you, and it makes you feel special.

She removes the harness and the dildo and tosses it on the floor beside the bed, before lying down next to you – not to cuddle, no, never to cuddle – just to rest for a moment and recover from her orgasm. You turn your head to glance over at her. Her eyes are shut, allowing you to admire her openly. She’s breathing heavily, her cheeks are red, her forehead is sweaty. She looks heavenly, divine even.

You wish she would let you wrap your arms around her waist and pull her close. You wish she would let you feel her lips against your own. You wish she would let you card your fingers through her hair and caress her jaw and tell her how much you love her, and you wish she would say it back. You wish-

Cough.

Oh no. Not again.

Phasma’s eyes shoot open and she looks over at you, raising an eyebrow. You avoid her gaze as your lungs constrict and you cough again, and again. Something tickles your throat – it’s as if something is stuck there. You cough harder – it has to come out. Covering your mouth, you cough again, and feel something soft hit your palm.

A small, blue flower petal. Your eyes widen in horror as you stare at the petal in your hand.

No. No, no, no, no. It can’t be. It can’t-

“What is that?” Phasma asks. Her brows are knit together and she cranes her neck to try and get a look.

“N-nothing” cough “it’s nothing.”

But Phasma isn’t one for playing games. Long, slender fingers curl around your wrist, vice-like in their strength – a snake devouring its prey, and she forces you to show her what you’ve coughed up.

Her upper lip twitches.

A billion micro-expressions cross her face, too quickly for you to place any one of them. When she looks you in the eyes a moment later, her face is devoid of any expression at all.

“It’s time you leave. Don’t be late for training tomorrow.”

You don’t need to be told twice – the hard edge to her voice scares you, so you clamber out of her bed and dress as quickly and as quietly as you can, your cheeks burning as you feel Phasma watching your every move. You hurry to leave, leaving the flower petal nestled among the sheets.

Phasma stares at it as you leave. She knows what it means. She’s no fool – she’s seen the way you look at her, how eager you are to please her – both in work and in sex.

An intense, burning rage fills Phasma - her insides suddenly feel like molten lava, her heart pounds viciously. If you die, Phasma will lose one of her best stormtroopers - and one of her best lovers. And you will die, if it's Phasma you’re in love with.

It’s not that she doesn’t want to love you back. There’s a reason she’s let you warm her bed for so long, after all. You’re skilled with your tongue, certainly, and you look so enticing when you’re being fucked into oblivion. But there’s something else – something Phasma doesn’t quite understand, something she’s never felt before. It’s not love, at least she doesn’t think it is – it’s nothing like how other people describe love, a feeling that Phasma doesn’t ever recall feeling.

But it’s something, and it’s been so long since Phasma has felt anything. Around you, in those brief moments after sex just before she kicks you out of her bed, she feels just a little lighter. Her usual anger is subdued, a dying ember where there’s usually a roaring flame.

It’s not enough, though. She knows this. She knows you know this – you must know this.

You’re a fool – a damned fool – Phasma thinks. Only an idiot would fall in love with her.

~~~

As is to be expected, your illness gets worse. You begin to disrupt training with your coughing – Phasma finds this annoying as is, but what she finds even more annoying is the unfamiliar sense of guilt that gnaws at her stomach, knowing she’s the cause of your… distress.

She dismisses you from training – the others will get suspicious, and your performance is lacking anyway. It’s best if you stay in your quarters.

She goes to check on you one day, in the middle of the night. Briefly, she wonders if she should have come at a more reasonable hour, but then she hears the coughing through your door and she knows you haven’t been able to fall asleep yet anyway.

You answer the door, your eyes bleary and your face pale. There’s blood trickling down your chin and a few small, crushed flower petals cling to the sweaty fabric of your nightgown. And yet, you smile at her. She tilts her head – why are you smiling? You’re a fool – a damned fool.

“It’s progressed then?” she asks. The modulator in her helmet keeps her voice level, and for that she is grateful.

Your eyes fill with sadness but your smile – soft, gentle – never wavers. You nod and open your mouth to speak, but you’re interrupted by another coughing fit, and bloody flower petals spill out of your mouth and onto Phasma’s boots.

Phasma looks down at the stained chrome, then back up at you.

“I-I’m” cough “sorry” wheeze “I-I’ll c-clean it-“

“Leave it.”

Your eyes widen and your cheeks redden, but you don’t dare argue.

Phasma turns her head to the right, then to the left. The corridor is empty. She takes a step towards you, into your quarters, until she’s nearly flush against you. Lifting her hands to her head, she removes her helmet, and cool blue eyes pierce your own. Your smile is back now, and she doesn’t understand – in fact, it makes her a little uncomfortable. A smile like that has rarely been directed at her (even if there is blood dribbling down your chin and your eyes are slightly unfocused) – it takes all her willpower to maintain eye contact.

“You shouldn’t have fallen in love with me.” Her tone is lacking noticeably in bite, though neither of you acknowledge this fact.

“I know.”

Cough.

“You’ll die.”

“I know.”

Wheeze.

Phasma’s lip twitches and her eyes dart between your own. Your smile is steady and true, even as your eyes fill with tears.

Phasma knows what she should say – what anyone else in her position would say. ‘I’m sorry’. Except she can’t say it, because she isn’t. Is she? She’s unsure – she’s never actually felt sorry for anything, not even for betraying her own family. Why should some random woman, a subordinate of hers at that, change that?

She remains silent. She nods curtly. You stifle another cough as you nod back, blinking slowly – it appears as though, somehow, you understand. As though you know that Phasma even bothering to show up in your quarters at all before your body leaves this galaxy is nothing short of a goddamn miracle.

“You d-don’t h-have” cough “to love me b-back. Just d-don’t” cough “for-forget me.”

You chuckle. Phasma doesn’t think it’s funny. She blinks, puts her helmet back on.

“Goodnight, FN-196.”

She doesn’t spare you another glance as she leaves.

~~~

Early one morning, Phasma is called to your quarters – as your superior, if something has happened, she needs to be informed.

And Phasma immediately knows what’s happened. Underneath her helmet, her eyes scan your body – limp, pale, covered in blood and flower petals. Even worse off than the last time she saw you. Usually, such a gory sight stirs up a sort of crazed bloodlust deep within Phasma’s soul, a gleeful sort of giddiness. Only now, when it’s you covered in blood and sweat, unmoving, she feels no such thing.

Her lips curl into a frown – wrong way, wrong way, she should be smiling! She shouldn’t be upset!

Sometimes, when one is confronted with death, they regret. They think of all the things they wished they’d said, they wish for one more moment with the person they care for.

Phasma doesn’t regret. She knows she couldn’t have told you how she feels about you anyway. How does she feel about you? Perhaps, she could have told you that when she’s with you, she feels for the first time. But would that have been enough to save you? No, probably not. And perhaps it’s better this way. It would have gotten messy – Phasma doesn’t mix work and relationships (only casual sex, only ever casual sex, only with people who are disposable). She’s not even sure she was built for a relationship – in fact, she’s certain she wasn’t.

So, no, Phasma doesn’t wish for one more moment with you in which she would profess her undying love (is she capable of such a thing?) and see the bright smile on your face when you realize your affection is returned. But her heart does ache a little – just a little twinge, really, in a very foreign sort of way – and, when she thinks of never feeling your silken skin under her fingertips again, her stomach twists.

The stormtrooper tilts his head. “What should I do with her, Captain?”

Phasma’s gaze never leaves your body, even as she’s addressed directly. What should one do with you? The thought of doing anything at all makes her heart clench.

But she can’t show weakness.

She can’t.

She swallows thickly. Discreetly.

Blinks twice.

Then her face hardens. The stormtrooper can’t see it underneath her helmet anyway, but it’s part of her mask. She has to play the part if she’s going to keep the respect of her troops. Self-preservation has always been vital to her, after all.

“Take her away.”

The stormtrooper shrugs and slings your body over his shoulder, before carrying you out of the room – carelessly, like a doll. Phasma grits her teeth – you should be treated like a precious thing, carried bridal style and showered with kiss- no. What is she thinking? You’re nothing but a corpse now, it hardly matters how your body is treated. Except, for some reason, it matters a lot to Phasma, though she cannot let on to that.

She waits.

She waits until the door closes and the footsteps of the stormtrooper’s boots against the cold metal floor fade.

Her gaze falls to the floor where, amongst a few droplets of blood, a single, tiny, blue forget-me-not petal rests.

A single tear drips down her cheek, catching on the inside of her helmet.

x

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[amphibiahawks321]

Can you do Captain Phasma (Star Wars) X Male! Reader trying to break her stoic nature

M!Reader : Come one phasma, Just one tiny quick kiss!

Phasma : Sighs as much as I can endure and is used to your eagerness love we're still on duty....

[Y/N quickly holds phasma's hand making her a bit shock, which makes Y/N smiles]

Phasma : You seriously won't give up do you?

M!Reader : Noooope, breaking your stoic nature would make you a little you know.... Relaxed?

Phasma : I'm a captain love.... Holding my hand won't be enough to even break it....

M!Reader : Is that so?

Phasma : I know so....

[Y/N quickly kiss phasma's mask]

Phasma : .....

Phasma : we're still on duty, you're lucky the others didn't see you do that....

M!Reader : how about if I bite on your armoured finger~?

Phasma : ......I know you wouldn't do such things–

[Y/N slowly making her hand upwards]

Phasma : .....

[Phasma leans his head closer to Y/N's ear and whispers]

Phasma : if you bite my finger I promise you i'll rip your damn armor suit off....

M!Reader : .....

M!Reader blushing : Should I feel intimidated or turned on....

Phasma : in your case both....

[cissyenthusiast010155]

Infiltrate My Life ~Captain Phasma xFem Trainee!Reader

May the fourth be with you all!! I just needed an excuse to write another Fic for Phasma lol. Smutty Fic for Star Wars Day 😘🏳️‍🌈🖤

Mommy…Master List

Requests & Prompt-List

Warnings: NSFW, 18+!!, implied masturbation, smut, thigh riding, spanking, spanking kink, mommy kink, implied pain kink…?, implied future smut, etc.

Enjoy (;

You barely dodged a yet another swing, that Phasma sent your way.

You two had been sparring for hours by now.

You looked at the clock and it read 11:30pm…

You were a panting mess.

While the Captain was still energized and swinging at you.

You had been assigned to her as your training mentor, and unlike a lot of the other senior imperial staff, she took it seriously.

Physical Training every morning at 4:30.

Dieted Breakfast at 8.

Stealth Training at 9:30.

Dieted Lunch at 12:30pm.

Weapons Training at 2:30.

Gear Analysis & Training at 4.

Dieted Dinner at 5:30.

Sparring Session at 8.

She worked you around the clock, and still managed to get all of her other duties done with nothing short of perfection.

~~~

When you had first met Phasma, you were immediately intimidated and a little scared.

And when they paired her as your mentor, you were at odds.

You had been picked up to be a covert operative, and the First Order had given you an Imperial Trooper Captain as your mentor…

But as soon as the Captain laid out her expectations, you quickly realized how serious and skilled she was.

She could without a doubt train an assassin.

~~~

Phasma threw another punch, but this one you didn’t dodge in time…

Her fist collided with your face, causing you to stumble back and fall on your ass.

You groaned in frustration.

You would never beat this woman…

“Again.” Phasma ordered.

You huffed, rubbing your nose slightly and then realizing your nose was bleeding…

Oh well…

you thought as you got back up, your breathing labored and your body sore and aching.

Again and again Phasma struck you down, until she had decided it was enough for today.

“You can go. I expect you here at 4:30am sharp.” Phasma commanded, before leaving you on the floor of the sparring ring.

You groaned again in frustration, smacking your hand against the mat in anger but quickly recoiling in pain.

You winced at your bruised hand, as images of Phasma pinning you down flashed in your head.

You sighed, feeling your core tense and heated as it usually was after your more intense sparring sessions.

You just couldn’t help it…

Sparring Sessions we’re the only time that Phasma ever took off her entire armor.

Or at least the only time in which you were ever present…

Every time she shoved you to the ground, brushed against your shoulder, pinned you to the floor, or just touches you in any way, sparks of electricity were sent or your core.

You knew this was dangerous…

This was not the business for developing feelings.

But you couldn’t stop what you felt.

So you suppressed it.

Unfortunately for you, that meant your mind only brought it up more…

So every night, once Phasma had ended your session, you were finally able to relieve the painful ache in between your legs before going to bed.

~~~

The next morning you dragged yourself out of bed and into your training clothes.

You were tired and your mind was still fuzzy.

Today was leg day, so your mourning training would be in the weight room.

No one was awake at this hour, let alone lifting weights, so you walked the corridors in silence, which made you only more tired.

You entered the weight room with a yawn to find Phasma in her sparring wear still, leaning against a wall with a wicked smirk on her face.

You closed the door.

“Your late.” She sneered.

“Sorry… What will it be this time?” You mumbled.

Whenever you were late, Phasma would punish you with intense physical regimes…

“Something new…” Phasma taunted with that devilish smirk.

“Ok…” you said, not understanding what was going on with her.

“You know, I have to do security camera checks every few months. I did one last night.” She purred.

This was a new tone…

“Oh?”

She didn’t usually make small talk…

“Yes… And I saw something interesting…” her eyes twinkled with a new, dark substance.

Your stomache dropped.

She knew.

She had to know.

You hummed in response, not being able to form any words as your mind was spiraling.

“So today, we will be trying out a new punishment…” Phasma tauntingly purred.

You gulped.

Her tone sent shivers down your spine and sparks to your core.

“Yes Ma’am.” you whispered.

“Oh no, that won’t do… What was it you called me last night and the many nights before that…?” She wickedly toyed with you.

She’s seen the other ones as well…

You were so Fucked.

“I asked you a question, trainee.” Phasma jeered.

“Mommy…” you whispered, eyes glued to the floor and an intense blush scoring your face.

But this wasn’t satisfactory for Phasma.

“Look me in the eyes when you tell me what you call me when your hand in inbetween your legs and your screaming my name in pleasure.” Phasma lustfully commanded, her eyes now completely dark with lust.

You whimpered and looked into her hungry, lustful eyes, “Mommy…”

Phasma hummed and proceeded to straddle a weight lifting bench.

“Bend over Mommy’s lap.” She ordered.

“I… what..?” You breathlessly stuttered.

Phasma darkly chuckled, “Make Mommy repeat herself again and your punishment will be far worse…”

You audibly gulped, making Phasma grin at the effect she had on you.

You immediately went over to her and practically collapsed over her lap, your wobbly knees giving in.

Phasma then pulled down your pants along with your knickers and spread your legs so that your ass was raised her for her.

“Count. If you stop, forget, or miscount, Mommy starts over. Understand?” She jeered.

“Yes mommy…” you whimpered, wiggling your ass slightly in anticipation.

“Already so needy aren’t you, slut?” Phasma tauntingly purred.

But before you could say anything—

Smack!

Phasma had smacked her hand against your ass, hard…

You yelped and jolted forward a bit, “Fuck! One…”

“One what?” She sneered.

“One Mommy…!” You immediately replied, hoping she still counted that.

Her hum of approval told you that it counted.

Whack!

“Two Mommy!!” you yelped, your ass turning a blush pink color.

Crack!

“Threeeeeee fuck Mommy…!” You groaned.

“Such a slut…” Phasma chuckled.

Thwack!

“Four Mommy please…!” You mewled, your ass approaching tomato redness.

“Begging will get you nowhere, not when your being punished…”

Snap!

“F…FIVE Mommy!!” you cried out, the sting becoming harsher.

“I can already see your glistening slickness, slut… Is that all for mommy?” Phasma taunted.

Smack!

“Six Mommy yes yes all for you…!!” you cried, tears starting to well up and trickle down your face.

Phasma hummed in delight.

Whack!

“Sev—Seven! Mommy please Im… I’m sorry please!!” You stuttered in a cry, burring your face in her lap to muffle your sinful sounds.

But Phasma was quick to pull your head back up.

“No no slut… I get to here you…” she wickedly purred.

Crack!

“Eight FUCK Mommy!!” you cried, your voice going shrill.

Wetness was dripping down your inner thighs at this point.

Thwack!

“GOD please Nine Mommy…!!” you screamed.

“God won’t help you now…” Phasma chuckled, “Last one if your good, slut…”

“I’ll be good so good please mommy please!!” You plead.

Smack!

“TEN MOMMY!!” you cried out.

Phasma then started to rub your red, raw ass lightly, causing you to let out a breath of relief.

She then lowered her lips to the shell of your ear and whispered,

“If you ever touch yourself without my permission again, I’ll bend you over my lap and spank you in the dining hall in front of everyone…”

You gulped.

“Yes mommy…” you choked out, your voice strained.

You squirmed in her lap, suddenly feeling extremely desperate and in need of relief.

Phasma darkly chuckled at your efforts, and she easily picked you up to straddle her thigh.

Instinctually, you bucked your hips against the blondes toned thigh.

But she stopped your administrations.

“Tell me what you want, slut…” she purred in your ear.

“Wanna Ride your thigh and cum on it… please mommy…?” You whimpered, desperate for some friction.

“Alright, slut… ride my thigh…” she permitted.

But you didn’t ride her thigh, no…

You rutted against her thigh.

Fast, sloppy jerkings of your hips as you desperately fucked yourself on her thigh…

You fell apart in minutes.

Your body spasming and collapsing on top of Phasma.

“Thank you mommy…” you mumbled.

Phasma chuckled and rolled her eyes, “If you ever call me that when it’s outside this scenario, I will kill you myself slowly and painfully.”

[rhea-gwen-1989]

Yes Captain part 2 NSFW

Captain Phasma x fem reader

Previous / Next / Series

Summary: - you try to make your way back to your room but are struggling. You bump into your friend again who asks about your session. Phasma goes back to her room and pleasures herself.

Warnings: masturbation, fake cock, vibrator, squirting

Requests open

Guys I’m so sorry! I didn’t realise I had only posted half the story. I write my stories in a separate document and then copy and past it here! So here it’s is again with the whole story!

———————————

After Phasma left you in the shower block you had no idea what to do. What even just happened? You were trying to process everything that just happened in the last hour and a half and nothing was adding up. Why did Phasma even want to fuck you? Did she like you the same way you liked her? Either way you didn’t want whatever this was between the two of you to stop.

You managed to waddle out of the shower but your legs felt like jelly so immediately you collapsed onto the bench in the middle of the changing room. Jesus christ what has this woman done to you? You slowly got dressed, drying yourself, before grabbing your stuff to head back to your room.

You sat down on the bench once you were fully dressed and wondered how long you would be sitting there before you felt comfortable to move again. After 10 minutes you decided to finally try to stand up and head back to your room. As you stood you felt your legs start to wobble so you quickly grabbed the bench again. Once you felt the strength return to your body you started the walk back to your quarters.

You slowly made your way there trying your best to walk as normal as possible but that was proving much harder than it looked. As you were making your way back you happened to bump into your friend that you had spoken to earlier before training started. “Sooo how was it?” he asked you. You froze in place. Did he know what happened? “Ummm what do you mean ‘how was it’?” you questioned trying your best not to look guilty.

“You're training you idiot. Well it can’t have been that bad if you didn’t even know what I was going on about. How did you manage to get Captain in a better mood anyway? I couldn’t get anything out of her when I did my training and she definitely showed how pissed off she was” he chuckled slightly trying to get the information out of you.

“Oh training, yeah it was alright. She was definitely in some kind of mood but she seemed alright with me. Might have been because I just got on with what she asked of me” you laughed slightly because deep down you knew what the real truth was. “Well I just hope that she is in a better mood tomorrow because I can’t be dealing with it again for a second day of training” he sighed. “Yeah, hopefully. Well anyway I’m gonna get going, I’m pretty tired and need to get some rest” you said trying your best to wrap up the conversation.

“No worries y/n, you do always seem to be on the later training sessions. Well I will see you around” he said walking off in the opposite direction as you waddled back to your room. Once you were there you turned on your light before walking into the room. You decide to get straight to bed because you were going to need all the energy you had for tomorrow.

While you were trying to recover from what Phasma had done to you she was happily doing her own things to herself. She had been too focused on making you cum that she forget to cum as well and now here she is left feeling horny as fuck and you’re not here to resolve that issue.

As soon as she walked through the doors of her quarters the door locked and she immediately stripped off all her clothes. She was far too hot and these clothes weren’t helping. She could feel the throbbing between her legs get worse and worse and all she could think about was making herself cum to the thought of you over and over again.

She made her way to her bedroom opening up her bedside drawer to reveal a selection of toys that she could use on herself. There laid neatly was a black and red dildo, a vibrator and a bottle of lube. The naughty things she was thinking about at that moment were insane. If people were able to read minds she wouldn’t want anyone reading her’s.

Phasma grabbed everything she wanted out of her drawer, chucking it onto the bed ready for her to use. She then crawled onto the bed letting herself spread out in the centre of it. She let her hand travel down her body as she traced patterns with the tips of her fingers making her body shiver under her own touch. She let her hand travel down to the ache in her core, sliding a finger between her wet folds.

Phamsa moaned at her own touch as she felt her fingers run through her folds, collecting the wetness on the tips of her fingers. Slowly she pushed two fingers deep into her dripping core with her long slender fingers. She moaned at the sudden fullness before slowly starting to increase her movements. As she increased the pace in which she pumped her fingers she slowly started to circle her clit with her other hand.

She started to buck her hips into her own hand as she felt herself getting closer and closer to cumming. She was so close as she felt her legs try to close around her hands. She was so sensitive and was struggling to keep her legs open. How desperate she was to have you here so you could force her legs to stay open. She could feel herself getting closer as her legs started to shake at the pleasure she was creating.

“Yes! Right there y/n! Don’t stop! Make daddy cum” she moaned as she finally tipped herself over the edge as she continued to scream your name. She slowly started to decrease her pace in which she was fucking herself before slowly removing her fingers from her cunt. Her fingers instantly went to her mouth so she could suck the cum off her own fingers as she imagined it was you instead of her.

She laid there spread out on the bed as she enjoyed her post orgasm bliss but as she laid there she felt the same sensation coming straight back. Fuck sake she thought to herself. She just made herself cum and her body still wanted more. She looked at the two toys she had in front of her and decided to use the vibrator on her throbbing clit.

She always managed to get an intense orgasm out of her vibrator so decided that it was the right choice. She spread her legs once again as she turned the vibrator on the lowest setting. She placed the toy on her clit and immediately felt her toes curl. She was still so sensitive from the first orgasm.

Once she had adjusted the strength of the vibrator she slowly started to increase the speed of the vibrations which caused her to start moaning at the sudden powerful sensation that was focused purely on her clit. She laid back and enjoyed the feeling of the vibrating and pulsating that she could feel of her clit.

As she laid there in pure ecstasy she imagined you being there with her holding the vibrator to her core, teasing her with the pleasure she was receiving, demanding you to stop being a tease and actually letting her cum from the pleasure. Yes Phasma was dominant in bed but she has never been opposed to being slightly submissive as long as she still has the power.

She felt herself getting closer and closer, her legs once again starting to shake again as she felt the wave of her orgasm take over once again. “Fuck! Yes right there y/n! Make daddy cum! You’re such a good girl” she screamed as the orgasm took over her body. She immediately took the vibrator away from her clit as soon as she came down from her high, laying spread out on the bed once again.

As she came down from her high she felt like she was all done for the evening leaving her body satisfied but boy was she still wrong. “Fuck this shit” she groaned as she grabbed the dildo and coated it with lube. She lined it up to her entrance before slowly pushing the cock into her moaning at the sudden fullness she felt.

“Fuck” she groaned as she slowly started to increase the speed in which she fucked herself. This felt so good she thought to herself as she continued to fuck herself imaging you with a strap-on doing it to her instead. This felt so wrong but yet it felt so right. This is where she wanted to spend the rest of her life. In total bliss being pleasured by you.

Oh what it would be like if you were actually there fucking her instead of her having to fuck herself. She continued to pump the toy in and out of her getting closer once again. She started to clench around the toy and as she came on the toy she ended up squirting and making a mess everywhere.

Fuck she had never made herself squirt let alone to the thought of anyone. She cleaned herself up and changed the sheets before laying back on the bed. With her body finally feeling satisfied she curled up in bed and drifted off to sleep. You were going to be the death of her.

[cappulia]

Gwendoline Christie

flirts, cute (ig), confused, they are in love. but they don't know.

GIF NOT MINE

[Just flirt. They are in love, especially reader. God. i love Gwen. Gwendoline and her Bf have an open relationship and are ok with having other relationships, but love each other *in this fic*. ENGLISH IS NOT MY FIRST LANGUAGE]

Gwendoline Christie x Famous!Reader?

-

These days, everything just feels like a loop. Invitations, invitations and more invitations for parties, fashion shows and work. You felt full of it. You wake up and have to go straight to some meeting, you wake up and have to go somewhere, just to stare at people talking, you wake up...and you have people peppering you with questions and asking you to step on them. Not that you hate your fans, but you're just tired. You need some time. You are overloaded.

Sitting at one of the tables, not far from the stage, watching another fashion show that you were invited to and had to attend, because your husband is obsessed with money and knows that the source of all this is you. You let out a sigh, hoping this will be over soon. With the way you are barely able to concentrate on the show in front of you right now, you know this day is going to be unbearably long.

After trying and failing miserably to pay attention to the presenter on the stage, you decide to give up. You've given yourself a good forty minutes of trying, but your interest in what’s going on is non-existent and you're more than convinced that if you need whatever he's presenting, chances are it's already in the package you got.

What you still don't know is how you're going to spend the rest of your time. Not wanting to be too disrespectful by using your cell phone mid-presentation, you grab your not-so-big bag and pull out a blank piece of paper and a pen just to do some random doodling. Aimless. But sadly, drawing eyes or hands are no longer on your to-do list. But even so, you continue to draw, your eyes almost closing from sleep. A few minutes go by and you're just getting even more bored. Somehow while drawing you can’t shake the feeling of someone watching you. This is starting to make you uncomfortable. With a spunk of curiosity you lift your head to look around, trying not to be too obvious for everyone to notice. You can the other tables in the room, trying to discover the source of the sensation. When you finally achieve what you've been unknowingly looking for, you feel your breath hitch at the sight. All you find is a woman watching you like you’re a piece of art.

And in your opinion, this woman could be a painting that came to life. As you stare at the woman, you can tell that she could be the most beautiful woman in the world. Her medium blonde hair with curls like a tangle of beauty. An invitation to affection, the strands making small curves, like a smile. Unlike you,who’s pretty much just awkward, the rest of her is something like everything that could be described as something indescribable, the picture of professionalism. The delicate white skin that you would love to touch with your kindness, the lips of blood that boil not for heat but for love, the crystalline eyes, so deep that they carry more stories than a book can tell. It's the color of someone who carries something more than windows of the soul on her face; it's brute strength, beautiful and affectionate. That pulls your eyes to hers The irises of her eyes being the true art-stained space. Eyes you find hard to look away from.

Still sitting and looking at the woman, you can tell she noticed the red in your cheeks, shoulders and collarbone. Just like her, after being caught looking. But she doesn't look away, being unflinching with her eye contact. Her focus makes you even more flushed and confused, which makes you feel that the look isn't for you. After scanning the room thoroughly for the second time. You're sure the looks is for you, and it makes you cringe a little. Meeting her eyes again, you see that she smiles a little wider as she sees that you finally understand that she is looking at you.

But the universe might not want you to have a distraction or something. The man on stage calls your name, grabbing your attention. He’s talking about the models and the shows. Congratulations to you, since You helped with this. But now, really? The man continues, trying to keep your attention.

Try as you might, you can't break free of the woman's gaze. Smiling gently at the man, the rest of the adults and your husband standing around, you can't help, but steal some looks in the woman's direction. It's like you're stuck like this. And sometimes you can catch her looking and it's emotional, leaving warm little goofy smiles when you catch her looking. It's more exciting to know that she's interested in you and the game you've played with her. When everyone was up for the treats you got out of your chair so fast, you almost fell. You noticed the woman laughing and you're not sure how, but you somehow heard it. You just want her with now, because the sound was the most divine thing you ever heard.

"Are you well?"

Your husband asked, a small tone of false concern in his voice. You just wave chim away. Not much dialogue, just looking for the woman in the crowd. Your interest in her just grows, you want to go to her. But you’re failing. So you decide to go ask your close friends about this woman. Whispering to the not so short woman to your left you ask: *f/n = friend name*

"f/n do you know who this woman is?"

"Which one?"

"That one. Medium blonde hair, red lips, tall and pink dress."

You gesture vaguely in the direction of the mystery woman, not wanting to be too obvious.

"Oh, her. Her name is Gwendoline Christie, an actress who works with Tim Burton."

"Oh okay. Thanks."

"Why the question? Don't say something is going on."

Your friend whispers questioningly, with a rather interesting face and a sly smile. You just shrug your shoulders and curse under your breath. Going back to looking at the woman, she looks like she is not noticing you, she's talking to a man with glasses. They look really close. You blink with a frown on your face but try not to care too much and just walk over to the treats. Flirting certainly made the time pass faster than expected, but it also does something else. It made your heart beat faster in anticipation. What you have no idea. And hope to feel that, again. Take a moment to consider her thoughtfully, looking unobviously in your direction, for which you are more than grateful. 

—

inspiration from: Know Your Name. An fanfic in AO3 with Larissa x Reader.

Hope u liked this <3

I think i am going to make a part two 💀

(person who helped edited for a better english, bc Idk nothing: @lils-cards love u)

—

- baby gwen have my heart rn

GIF NOT MINE