#dusted off some rusty art skills

[ruiyuki]

"C'mon Lacey, just one dance; like when we were kids."

"Oh all right... Don't you step on my toes though."

"Haha, you know who my Gramps is, right? He'd feed me to Druddigon if I did that."

Or alternately:

Lacey rejected every student that asked her to prom, saying the BB E4 would be going "as a group"... only for a 1st year to catch her dancing with Drayton in front of the school's entrance away from the party.

[brassharrier]

Hey everybody! Since I've recently crawled out of my cave of not doing minis stuff for too long, I've realized that a few skills have gotten rusty. Even some of the basic stuff has fallen out of my head at some point. To make the best of a slightly poo situation I've decided to get some of my journey to rediscovery logged online to share with people who may be new to the hobby or just looking for a new perspective on an established process. That's enough rambling for now. Behold! My first FSteaktorial: Basing with Coffee!

Paying for hobby sand can feel kinda silly, but sometimes that super fine gravel can look a bit off. This is extra true if you're working with smaller scale minis like Battletech. One common solution is used coffee grounds. Right of the gate, how coarse or fine the grind is will change the look. Fine grinds will look more like sand or dirt while coarse grinds will look rockier. I'm particular to a fine grind for most applications and I'd suggest it as a good starting point to work from.

Preparing the ground(s):

Prepare and pour your coffee as normal. Once you're done simply dump your coffee grounds into a hard container or surface in as thin of a layer as possible. Usually large food containers or a baking sheet will do. Let it dry for a day or two before putting it in a container for storage or application. I'm partial to empty spice shakers for most fine basing/flocking materials. You can put the coffee grounds away once they're dried without extra treatment. The process of making coffee will pull most of the oils out and the hot water will clean it up for you.

Preparing your adhesive:

Gluing the ground down is super easy. Grab an old brush that's flat and appropriately scaled to your intended model and base. The glue itself is just a watered down PVA. PVA is just your generic craft glue. You've most likely used it as a kid during whatever arts and crafts you've done. You'll want to add a drop or two of water at a time and mix thoroughly until it's a bit thinner than most minis paints out of the bottle.

Applying your adhesive:

Simply take your brush, scoop on some of the thinned glue, and apply it to the base. One thing to note is that glue isn't paint. For our purposes, you'll want a healthy layer. Don't worry, after a day it will dry solid. You don't need to apply perfectly either. The glue will take some time to dry and can be wiped off easily to clean up the edges of the base and model. Be sure to immediately rinse your brush thoroughly in water unless you want one giant bristle.

Applying the coffee/basing:

This is the satisfying part. Grab your shaker, handful of coffee, or application method of choice and give the base a nice healthy layer. Once you can't see the glue, tap off the excess and set it aside to reclaim or put it back in your applicator for use. Don't wipe off the excess just yet. Make sure the model is over a different surface and wipe the excess glue/coffee and wipe your cleaning tool (probably your finger) on a paper towel. This is important to avoid getting glue in your supply of basing material.

Letting the glue dry:

No, really. Let it REALLY dry. It's tempting to want to start putting paint to model, but the glue needs to be completely dry. You don't want to risk both brushing your fresh basing off the model and getting coffee lodged in your bristles.

Enjoy!

You're done with basing for now! Remember to blow off the excess coffee dust. You can add extra detail with rocks and bits, prime, whatever you want at this point. Even with just a quick prime, single base color, and a quick dry brush you'll get great results. Congratulations on your new awesome looking base, saved money, and even a teeny tiny effort of reclaiming waste! It's surprisingly durable as well due to the glue hardening.

[falconesse]

Belatedly updating my bullet journal for April, thought it could use some forsythias. Figured maybe I could try drawing them myself. Perfect? Not even a little, but for dusting off rusty art skills, I'll take it.

[yurabe]

yura has always had a problem taking 'no' for an answer - giving it, not so much. on the eve of officially receiving a rejection notice from her latest audition, there's a bit of a switch that flicks, and yura finds herself (more) than a little offended that she wasn't even given feedback from the audition - despite having relatively no clue how entertainment companies in this country operate outside of what she's been assigned to research for potential stories.

and in classic yura fashion, she changes her mind about auditioning with yejun and hangyeol and joins them, dutifully filling out the form with skilled flourishes and pretty signatures that she's practiced since she could write, and eyeing everyone as potential competition, categorizing them by level of threat as phase two of the auditions for next generation befall them, and they're waiting to be grouped for showcasing.

it's a lot like the auditions she used to attend, the crowding, the slightly anxious atmosphere filled with varying degrees of professionalism and skill, and the mish-mash of perfumes, aftershaves, and colognes alike, leading to an amalgam of disorientation- and unironically, putting yura's headspace right back into the days she considered these things fun.

so when it's her turn to showcase 60 seconds of talent and she notices a distinct lack of female rappers, she's able to pivot somewhat quickly, dropping a few bars from the latest popular kpop boy group (because girls can do it too, and better), with a cocky, confident smile and a hair flip to boot. she may be a little rusty, but where there's rust, there's a shine underneath, and yura is more than wiling to dust off her skills just to prove a point to a company that couldn't have cared less to call her back.

the questions come easily, and they're really not all too unlike what she's experienced before, though in recent years she's been the one asking them instead.

What can you bring to the table that we won’t see in any other contestant?

"good, home-grown, genuine talent." she responds cheekily, with a side glance at hangyeol and yejun, who are probably realizing all over again what a competitive monster yura can be. "i'm not soft, and i come to win, and to achieve what i set my mind to. always."

What was the first thing you thought about when you woke up this morning?

"what shoes to wear," yura answers with ease, as it's the truth. "and whether it would match my jacket." as if to prove her point, yura steps back a few steps, showing off the combination that she settled on, the gentle pops of color in her sneakers a near perfect match to the color of the light jacket she elected to continue wearing throughout this whole process.

Which company would you want to receive an offer from and why?

without missing a beat, she blurts, almost challenging, "delta studio. why? because they didn't cast me once, and i want them to know it was a mistake." yura grins, tilting her head in a way that almost seems devilishly playful, as if she knows it's a rather tongue-in-cheek comment to make, and she does.

and for her special talent, never being one to be outdone and constantly overprepared, yura quickly retrieves her old twirling batons from her backpack, gesturing for her fellow auditioners to scoot back just a bit, because 'i'm about to heat things up," which, in hindsight, is probably more frightening than endearing, as yura chose to light the ends of her batons as she twirled them, effortlessly throwing them with just the right amount of force so that they flew gracefully in the low-ceiling studio room, rather than catching the whole place on fire. it's only a quick few seconds, some artful kicks and twists that she hasnt done in quite a while, but it's just the kind of plucky personality pick that yura knows will make sure she's not easily forgotten or ignored.

[peteyprecious616]

Written in the lines

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x avenger!reader

Summary: Bucky starts to take up a new hobby...drawing. He thinks his drawing is not good enough for you to see. But you think it's beautiful.

Word count: ~2.9k

A/N: I finally wrote a Bucky fic. For how much I talk about him to my friend, I struggle with writing him. I did this for @pellucid-constellations writing challenge! It was actually my first writing challenge ever so I'm really excited to be apart of it! This was also my longest fic i've wrote ever.

Warnings: Just Bucky's sad past really. but don't worry some fluff will come soon enough :)

Let me know how I did! :)

Main Masterlist

He was always the practical one. Steve saw beauty wherever they walked in downtown Brooklyn. The city's streets were covered in piles of trash and dust during the war. He picked out the little intricate details next to them.

Bucky encouraged Steve to go to college. Since he couldn't join the war, he could show strength through his drawings. Sitting in the alleyway after they helped Steve's ma clean up after dinner, he would stare at the city lights. The crowds of people stumbled to the nearest bar to distract themselves from the sorrow that the daily news rang in.

The humble guy drew the livelihood of the city through his scraggly, thin fingers. Bucky would be across the street, sitting outside the speakeasy, waiting for this pal to join him and the girls for a drink.

He usually never did but he could live that experience himself through his artwork.

Back then, Bucky never saw interest in art. He was a straightforward, "getting his hands in the dirt" kind of guy. When Steve dragged him to the art museum, he would read the signs, he would listen to his friend babble on about the details or the perceptions about each painting but thought he was crazy. Steve and Bucky had two different ideas of beauty.

The Winter Soldier lost his perception of beauty when Hydra stole anything that even had a small glimpse of the concept from him.

His combed back hair was ratty and tangled from all-day fighting with Hydra agents. His smooth skin, now marred with ugly, veiny reminders of his controlled life. His body screamed pain and agony whenever anyone saw him. Especially when he had to look at himself in the mirror.

There was nothing beautiful about what happened to him. So why even believe that it even existed?

The spotty memories of his past, good or bad, were now gone. He did not see the point of getting them back. He was a puppet, used to destroy and steal beauty from others. The world was a cruel place that Hydra believed did not deserve happiness.

And that mantra was ingrained in his skull and the scars of his metal arm. Voiced through the agonizing screams that fell from his mouth when Hydra broke him down to nothing. It was a statement.

No one deserves happiness, especially him.

Seventy years of pain and sorrow was established into his heart, frozen over by the snow he fell into when his feet slipped off the train. He was a soldier.

But that sparkle in your eye might have cracked a piece off his heart.

---

Steve kept his dream of drawing till the present day. His skills might have been a little rusty, considering he hasn't practiced since the '40s. It was therapeutic for him. He liked to be in control of everything as the captain of the Avengers. He barked orders and told soldiers their mission because that's what he was told to do.

But when he sat by the window of the compound, his legs curled up under his chin, his sketch pad laid across his thighs, he let his imagination control what he wanted. His mind created appealing stories and pictures that he could just put on a piece of paper. It felt freeing knowing that something as small as drawing, the one thing that grounded him before he was Captain America, he could still do on his own.

But when Bucky was cleared from Hydra, and finally able to join the Avengers compound without retribution, he was lost.

He fought in wars with people and himself, so he never had time to sit down and rest; Steve saw it in Bucky’s movements when he first moved into the compound. He was afraid to sit on the fancy leather couches Stark had in the living room. The couch was too delicate, too soft for Bucky. It felt foreign to him.

He did not deserve nice things.

Steve had to help him out the first few months, showing him how to make coffee. He tried to show him how the TV worked, but he never used it. Steve even showed how Stark’s fancy new shower had so many different options. Bucky did not understand why it needed so many buttons for something to wash the dirt off his skin.

It was impractical.

Steve could not always be around to hold Bucky's hand.

But being able to hold yours was way better.

---

You heard stories of Bucky throughout history. Through the museums that you walked through, through the judgy whispers through the compound, but especially when Steve couldn't keep his mouth shut.

He talked about his best friend a lot, how he was a charmer, how he loved to talk to people, and how open and outgoing he was before the war.

But you knew it would be a difficult transition for him. He wasn’t the same guy he was back then. He would be lost in the new world. So, you wanted to help him in any way you can.

So that’s what you did.

—

He didn’t trust you at first. It would make sense considering Steve was the only person he did trust in the past 100 years. He was skittish and only came out to get food from the fridge, always making sure no one was around before he went to the kitchen.

When you first met him, you didn't even hear the footsteps of the assassin slip by you until he was on top of you.

He always scoped out the hallways before he almost sprinted out of his room. But what he didn’t realize was that you were coming around the corner of the hallway, out of the elevator. It was too late before you felt a whole brick wall fall right on top of you. A gust of air plunged out of your mouth. It was so unexpected. Bucky ALWAYS checked before any of the avengers would come around his room. But today, he was distracted apparently.

“Hey, James. Running late I see?” You giggled as you saw his permanent frowned face turn to you. He was still shocked to see you. His long hair framed your face as he hovered over you. His hands are planted firmly next to your head, trying to keep some weight off of you.

My god, he was built.

“I'm sorry. Didn’t see you there.” He mumbled. Barely audible. Small talk was normal at the beginning of your relationship.

He scrambled up from the ground. His hand leaned out towards you to guide you up from the ground. He pulled you up with ease.

“It's okay. It happens.” A small smile ran over your lips, hoping he would return it. A little grumble came from him. His lips came up from a frown to a straight line.

You smiled a lot. He didn’t do it often, but he tried for you.

—

A couple of months later after you first met, you and Buck created a system.

It was a friendship to you. He wasn’t sure what it was yet.

But he loved it.

He loved the small cup of steaming coffee you would leave by his door before your morning run.

Hearing the soft patter of footsteps, the small shadow covering up the small sliver of the sunrise peeking through the bottom of the door. He was never asleep when you did this, and you knew that.

But you still did it because you always knew what he needed.

Or when you would leave for the day for a mission, he would come back from his deadly long hour workouts with Steve, he would drag himself to the fridge to find something to refuel his bruised, sweaty body.

You would have something in a bowl, wrapped up with the little sticky note sitting on top saying, “for Bucky only ;)”

It made him smile infectiously. He craved those small notes that you wrote just for him.

He wished he could return the favor by leaving you cute notes with smiley faces on them that would make you beam.

But he was never good with words, and you understood that.

You understood his small mumbles were like little “thank yous” and “I appreciate you” because that was how he was.

And you loved that about him because he was trying to show how grateful he was for you.

He wanted to give you the love you deserve because your heart was beautiful and warm, and it melted his cold, frozen over one.

The way he felt the color of red and orange paint his skin when you walked by, the idea of those colors representing warmth, confidence, and love made a difference in him.

He wanted to do something special for you. So he went to the only person he knew he could trust…

Steve Rogers.

—

Steve was always the hopeless romantic; wanting to get married young and have a family of his own.

Bucky didn’t believe in true love, or he used to not believe in it.

But you made it hard not to.

Steve decided he should draw a picture for you. Bucky was confused, which happens a lot with his scattered brain of mush.

He couldn’t draw; Steve knew that. Steve always pestered him back when he was studying art at the college. Bucky would always roll his eyes and say, “why would you draw something when you could tell them. Words are straightforward, not confusing.”

But not one word could come up Bucky’s throat that he could confidently say to you.

You made him a blubbering mess.

“Come on Buck. She would love it anyway because it's from you.” Bucky’s frown never left his face when Steve said that.

He wanted to give you something that was beyond words. Something that you could hang up on your wall and show to everyone because it was something GOOD that he made. He wanted to make you speechless.

Maybe that would stop him from falling whenever he saw you.

You didn’t deserve some stick figure drawing of you to hang up on the shared fridge of the compound.

You deserve something beautiful, just like you.

He denied his friend's idea for a while. But without any other ideas, he decided he should give it a try.

—

Even though Bucky was known to be quick on his feet and never able to be seen in plain sight, he never could hide from you. His shadow was always overshadowing yours.

You knew he was trying to follow you, but for what reason, you couldn’t understand.

When you were in the kitchen, he was sitting in the living room, a notebook in his hands, tongue poking out through his lips in concentration, his notebook facing away from you.

Crumpled up pieces of paper strewn across the carpet, only inches away from the garbage can next to the freshly cleaned ottoman.

And NEVER making eye contact with you, ever.

Your eyebrows stuck in a confused gaze as you wondered what Bucky could be writing. He only wrote cloudy memories from his past, or maybe some song recommendations that you so subtly give him to listen to, even though he didn’t know how headphones or music works in the modern era.

But you gave him his space. You walked to the cozy, wingback chair across from him. Small sips of hot chocolate slipped through your lips as you watched Bucky’s body shake with stress.

“Hey Buck, what's happening?” You nonchalantly ask, hoping he would let you hear some of the stress fly out of him.

His eyes become buggy. He looked up from his concentrated gaze on his notebook to see you moved. When did you get there?

“Uh, hey. Nothing happening here. What's up with you, doll?” His shaky voice was muffled as he drew his notebook closer to his chest. His body sitting up to lean against the back of the couch, the notebook out of sight.

You sighed.

You thought he trusted you. There was something up.

“Buck, are you okay? You seem tense.” The quizzical look you gave him almost gave up his charade.

Any look you gave him would make him drip into a puddled mess of sweat.

“I'm fine. Are you fine?” He laughed awkwardly. He never laughed like that.

He knew he screwed up.

He sighed as he grumbled to himself, ripping the piece of paper in half, throwing it to the ground in defeat.

This was too hard. He knew this would end badly. He just wanted to show you how important you were to him.

He threw the notebook, flailing to the ottoman, pages flown and bent as he frustratedly noticed.

Nothing he touched ever came out beautiful. Why did he think this time would be any different. His hands were made for pain, not to give caring, loving gestures to people.

Even though he didn’t realize what love was, he knew it was similar to what he felt whenever you were around. But he could never give you the same.

You sat the drink down in front of him, you stepped over the pile of papers, unknown to the public eye what could be on them.

“Buck, what's wrong? Why are you throwing these papers on the ground? I can help you with anything. You know all you have to do is ask.”

He knows that. You always let him know that you were there for him, even if you weren’t physically there for him at times.

“I know I just…you deserve better.” He held his head in his hands, his voice mumbled the last part of his sentence. He honestly didn’t want you to hear it. Knowing you would say something he wouldn’t believe.

“What do you mean?” Your hand now gently touched his hunched back, rubbing smooth circles, trying to coax him out of his stiff pose.

Your touch was the only thing that made him shiver. The colors, the red and the orange, the warm loving touch you gave him, let his struggling mind slip from his lips,

“I was trying to draw something.”

You didn’t expect those words to come from his mouth. You knew Steve as the artist of the compound, not knowing Bucky took up a new hobby.

“What were you trying to draw, Buck?”

“You.”

Your hand froze on his back.

He was trying to draw you?

He felt your touch become unrecognizable. Your body becomes like his, almost stiff.

He knew this was a mistake. He shouldn’t have tried it in the first place. He knew he ruined the “thing” that was going on between them.

He didn’t want to lose his friend.

You looked down at the crumpled up pieces of paper. You looked into his eyes, waiting for his approval.

Your fingertips gently unwrapped the folded pieces of paper, wondering what you honestly looked like through Bucky’s eyes.

You saw the wrinkled drawing of you.

Bucky and the Winter Soldier always strived for perfection. But you didn’t realize how serious he was taking this.

You saw an outline of your features. Your lips, still made in graphite but drawn into detail, just like your eyebrows drawn to a perfect replica of your own.

You looked closer to see the drawing, noticing something small written into your face. It wasn’t just lines of pencil. There were small words. Actually only one word; written over and over again.

Beautiful.

Your face was drawn with one single word. The only one Bucky thought was enough for you.

“You deserve the best, doll. I'm sorry it didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to.”

You were still frozen. With what emotion, you weren't sure. Small tears came from your eyes he noticed immediately.

He gently grabbed your face, his calloused thumbs trying to wipe away the mess he created.

Maybe he could draw a different scenario, a story where he didn’t make you cry like this.

“Doll, say something please. I didn’t mean to scare you. I just thought maybe if I did something nice for you. You’d understand how much you mean to me.”

Your eyes finally met his. You started to smile.

You started to giggle as his face turned into shock. Why were you laughing? Were you laughing at his poor excuse of a drawing? Did he do worse than he thought?

You drew his hands from your face, you held them so lightly, rubbing small, soothing circles into his shaking palms.

“You think I'm beautiful, Buck?”

His lips were glued shut. What could he say to that? He couldn’t hide anything from you now.

“Uh..yeah. You’re beautiful, doll.” His lips turned from his usual frown, trying to make the situation better by making a small smile.

James Buchanan Barnes, the known charmer, was embarrassed. He was lost for words.

No new news for the soldier.

He started to blush. Oh god. He couldn’t hold himself up. Now you know the truth. His heart burned with the swarming colors you started to give him. The reds and oranges, the colors he was going to use on his finished drawing of you, were starting to stain him permanently.

You pulled his hands back to your face. Letting his fingers wrap around the back of your head, as you mimicked the gesture. Your fingers tangled through his ratty, long hair.

“Well Bucky, I think you’re beautiful too.”

He knew he couldn’t say anything back to that. But you knew his answer from the small grip to the back of your head he gave you. The blushing eyelashes he gave you. His smile now became a permanent sketch on his face.

His answer was written in between the lines.

[leviathan-dee]

I want every artist out there to just take a deep breath and say this with me: Artblock does not mean I am stagnating.

In fact, a few improvements can come from your break from art. By observing your surroundings taking in the architecture, shape of the trees, the anatomy of a person, colour of the sky, and so on, you absorb said visuals and will implement them in the future. Simply by looking you are learning. Taking long breaks will not break you.

Perhaps you'll be rusty for a few days, struggling to get that one line perfectly symmetrical. But the brain, the arm, and eyes, will all recognise this activity as muscle memory. You will come back stronger, more confident, and with a few new skills to boot.

2019 was a year of vigorous drawing, not only for myself, but also for my Art Foundation college course. I was drowning in work and yet I ate that up like it was nobody's business.

2020 hit, and I drew less and less as the year progressed. I became slower, thought that my skills had somehow declined in quality, and the biggest artblock of my life had dropkicked me in the face. It seemed to seep into 2021, but I never realised how much I needed that break and how much my art had improved. Redrawing an old piece gave me a that much needed confidence boost, and I hope that it would others if they decide to do the same.

So don't beat yourself up for having artblock. Rest, observe, and take some time to yourself. You deserve it.

And once you've rested, cracked your knuckles and wiped off the dust off of your prefered art medium, redraw an old piece of yours. Implement all that you have absorbed, and pat yourself on the back.

[junowritings]

how about before being isekai'ed to NRC mc was a vigilante? like a mix of daredevil and batman or like deadpool and red hood? imagining mc using martial arts or macgyvering unassuming everyday objects into weapons to defeat overblots instead of magic seem cool, the funniest scenario, mc using a wooden spoon, a slipper or even if you watched icarly a butter sock to hit and defeat an opponent would be hilarious

Honestly I love the idea of this scenario! Part of me always kind of wished with the overblots is that the MC would get involved somehow - I know it’d be dangerous, but who doesn’t love going a lil feral at some overblot monsters lmao ------

It’s like something straight out of a comic book. Sure, the same thing could be said about your situation - a self-made vigilante fighting to protect those close to you from idiots who think they’re smart enough to cause anything other than trouble - but getting straight up isekai’ed into another universe full of magic and fairy tale rewrites really takes the cake of weird situations you’ve gotten roped into. Guys in masks? You’ve seen them in abundance back home, so while the ‘extravagant’ nature of the headmaster is weird, it doesn’t really phase you. Being surrounded by a bunch of confused boys with vividly bright hair (and do some of those guys have razor teeth? You really don’t wanna find out if they do) and having a talking cat ranting your ear off about becoming the greatest wizard of all time...that’s around the time you figure out this isn’t just some elaborate kidnapping plot.

Being shacked up in this new world isn’t as bad a deal as you thought it would be, though going from physical fights every other week to just having to worry about classes was...an experience, to say the least, and takes a bit of getting used to in terms of putting your guard down. It isn’t long during your stay at Night Raven college that you start garnering attention too, and not just because of the circumstances surrounding your enrollment. Your way of dealing with things is a lot more physical than many of them used to; when Ace had first come to Ramshackle after being collared by Riddle, instead of asking what it was or what he’d done, you’d instead just sat him down and spent the better part of half an hour picking the lock. Granted, it wasn’t enough to crack Riddle’s magic, but Ace is pretty sure he heard something click open while you fiddled with the keyhole - and that was just a speck of some of your skills. 

The physical prowess and litheness that comes from your ‘profession’ were valuable assets back in your homeworld, and while you’re not there anymore you’re still able to make use of them in this world, or you try to, at least. It makes for a hell of an entertaining sight during Ashton’s classes - you’ve just about knocked everyone in your class on their ass at least once (both intentionally and unintentionally). It’s been useful getting to lessons too, though you’ve spooked more than a few of your fellow classmates when they’ve caught you scaling the side of the building to skip the stairs and make it to class on time. You’ll never forget the shriek Ace let out when you dove through the window, skidded across the floor, and slid seamlessly into your seat right before the professor came through the door. Things like that have earned you more than a few skeptical looks, but it’s also led to more than a few people coming up to you to ask how you do it.

Just because you’re in a school setting doesn’t mean you slack off on your training. If anything, it means you have to train all the more to make sure you’re not growing rusty - you’re not about to get left in the dust just because all of these guys have wands and this ‘unique magic’ business at their disposal. That being said the lack of a fighting partner makes things difficult; when you first get settled into Ramshackle you find plenty of furniture beyond repair that you’ve been able to use, and with everything being such a cluttered mess it makes for the perfect obstacle course as you fight to clean it all up. But you’re missing your training buddies, and as much as Grim gets on your case about you being his subordinate, you’re not about to get expelled for fighting your magical feline housemate...not just yet, anyway. You do look around for some sparring partners though, and you find some pretty damn good ones in the process. Deuce is one of the first, being quite the fighter in the past, but given that it’s a skill he hasn’t actively trained it doesn’t take long for you to - quite literally - sweep his feet out from under him. Jack’s fairy competent too thanks to all of the muscle, so sparring with those two at once has given you something to bond over after school. As you got to know more students, you found a pretty good training buddy in Rook - you guess being a hunter has its perks, and isn’t that far off from being a vigilante, but it gives you one hell of a lesson to avoid getting on his bad side.

They’ve seen you make impromptu weapons out of things before - you just about took Floyd’s head off with a spatula when he’d rushed through the door unannounced, and Grim keeps finding the ends of the kitchen’s wooden utensils sharpened to a point when he sneaks down for late night snacks. You’re guessing old habits die hard, and it's tricky business completely stopping some of your more bizarre daily tasks. 

Looks like those same skills come in handy when the overblots happen however! It’s not as though anyone gives you a crash course on magic overuse and overblotting, so when you see Riddle transform and watch that huge, tank of a thing start forming up behind him you have what you’d like to call, a reasonable reaction. The boys are preparing to fight their overblotted friend when a tea cake stand comes sailing overhead and nails the being behind Riddle directly in the face - or pot, you guess. 

The thing is at least physical, which means you can hit it, and your friends are too preoccupied with Riddle to stop you from barging into the fray with just about every impromptu weapon you can get your hands on. Plates, cups, shoes, amongst other things shower the air as you close the distance, and at one point you end up hoisting up one of the garden chairs and swinging it up at the jar head until you have enough momentum to let go. The sound of shattering glass has you letting out a triumphant holler as you backtrack to avoid the spew of ink that spatters across the floor, cracks fanning out across the inkpot‘s surface as its hands fly up to its broken ‘face’ and it howls as though appalled by your audacity.

Whether that actually has a hand in finishing the fight or not, it isn’t long after that the overblot incident passes and Riddle collapses; however, that’s not before you get a couple more hits in, just about bringing the overblot to its knees by the time it finally dissipates for good. Once the Heartslabyul dorm leader is back on his feet and led away to rest and recover somewhere less demolished, that’s when the attention is focused back on you. 

There’s more than a few comments about you getting involved in the fight when you have no magic - some comments are admonishing, telling you to be more careful and to not be so reckless; others however are more than a little intrigued by the turnout. Ace just about knocks you over when he claps his hands onto your shoulders and demands to know how the hell you learned to move like that, and Grim is more than a little puffed up bragging about how of course his lackey would be so useful. It catches you off guard - you’re so used to just doing this in your day-to-day life that having someone admonish or praise you is...nice, in a way. It reminds you of when you first took up the vigilante mantle, and you find yourself brimming with excitement at the thought. If they think what you did then was neat, just wait till you tell them about all of your escapades in your home world! You’ve got enough to keep em hooked for days.

[jangofctts]

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

Rated: Explicit

Word Count: 4.9k wooF

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

Chapter (1), (2)

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

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

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

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

At this point you’d take either.  

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

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

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

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

And yet… 

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Still nervous?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“The second you try anything funny—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trophies—

“Don’t touch those.”

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

“Isn’t that what you asked for?” 

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

Oh well. 

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

And the seat spins. Score. 

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you need something, Rabbit?” 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“On me or my cock?” 

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

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

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

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

“Your choice, Rabbit.” 

Not helpful, you think.  

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“It’s not supposed to be.” 

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

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

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

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

He promised himself that this would never happen. 

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

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

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

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

Cold, methodical, a legend.   

And you…

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

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

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

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

He’ll give you that. 

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

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

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

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

“I know how blasters work.”

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

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

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

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

The outfit is garish. 

Too white.

Too clean. 

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

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

Orson Krennic. 

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

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

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

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

“Dead.”

[the-slysir]

Lean On This

Spittin' out these lines though I'm a bit rusty, brushing off the dust, smells a bit musty. 

Don't have to believe me, or even fucking trust me, a vocal exercise to break a shell that is crusty.  

I'm a golden boy, so you can call me Oscar. 

Just a normal guy, 

but also a philosopher. 

Squirming in your chair, 

cause I make you feel awkward. 

I opt for solutions to our everyday problems, cause being an adult, isn't always so awesome. 

If these lyrics don't hit, 

then I will probably toss em. 

Ignorant, shifty figures sipping liquid for spoons. 

Mumbling like some dummies, fucking moronic buffoons. 

To them, I'm a giant, spewing lines like a spider.

I’m a beast, I'm a demon, I'm a martial arts fighter.

I will feast on their brains like some grease from a diner. 

I will fleece, all these sheep, disguised as some wolves.

I will weave, they will bleat, now I've got their wool.

I'm not a fool, thinking I should be like everyone else.

I make up for in spirit, what I lack in wealth.

Too many jokers playing poker, 

don't even know how to bluff.

Go and poke 'em, they are soft, 

they are nothing but fluff. 

They are broken, unfocused, and I've had enough. 

Bring back the skill, it's time for new stuff. 

I'm divine, they are swine, and I'm not taking their guff. 

They'll despise and criticize, say I'm being too gruff. 

Got their heads up their ass, while I'm munchin’ on muff. 

I'm a sledgehammer to all of these melons. Idiots, jesters, and wannabe felons. 

A composed, composer, with the composure of a 'dozer.

Crushing all these phonies, I'll decide when it's over. 

Don't need the green, to breathe fire like a toaster. 

I desire to retire, this mire of posers. 

Think they're mean, just some snide little boasters. 

They've inspired my ire, now it's time for some closure.

[coffee-biscuit-aesthetic]

my favorite threats/insults

I will equant you with my favorite pair of rusty scissors

You look the way cheese smells

You’re not even worthy of being the skin rug that I would use to wipe off my Doc Martins

You’re not even worthy of even being turned into dog food

I will pistol whip your grandpa

I will churn your spinal fluid to butter

I will turn your teeth into wind chimes

I will fold you like a fucking lawn chair

You smell like Reddit

You look like the type of person to wipe with a sock when you run out of toilet paper

Your nipples are the size of dinner plates

If this guy has a threesome I hope his girl moans louder when the other guy is fucking her

You pre-sucked candy Cain from last Christmas

You look like the type of person to knock on an elevator door and expect someone to open it

I don’t listen to people who look like their taste in music would be played at a department store

You look like someone who would cheat on their s/o

You look like a twice divorced mom with a liberal arts degree who’s trying to get their oldest child to call them once a month

I wish I could go to your funeral knowing that I could have changed that outcome

I hope you reach out to me so I can ignore you

Your neck is so long that if you drank milk it would expire before it hit your stomach

I’m sure you smell like hotdog water

You’re about as attractive as a sea sick dog

You look like you eat kitty litter

Sorry I don’t talk to people with eczema, see you later alligator

Please tell me you and your s/o use condoms

God I wish your parents used a condom

You’re as useful as a Walmart greeter

Were your parents siblings or just cousins?

Im heading up to the store to buy you some critical thinking skills

Please put your Dick down the sink and turn on the garbage disposal

You’re the outlier pulling down the Average IQ statistics

You’re contributing to the reasons as to why God has left us

You look like you eat mayonnaise straight out of the jar

I will cunt punt you to the moon

Please tell me you don’t plan on having kids

I will cough in your mouth

I hope you find your parents on the front page of PornHub and so you can’t look them in the eyes, and you can’t tell them why you’re uncomfortable being around them

I hope your only OnlyFans subscriber is your uncle

Douche-canoe

You have the personality of the color beige

If you were a spice you’d be flour

I hope whatever you’re going through sucks

You have an IQ of room temperature

Okay caterpillar fingers

I don’t even want to call whatever sad sack of flesh you are a human being

I hope you never find true happiness out of whatever you choose for your future career

I pray for your downfall

I hope Mother Nature gets her way with you

I want to bash your head into a wall so hard that I break both the wall and your skull

You look like you’d think that seasoning salt is spicy

I will bite your fingers off like baby carrots

Your blood will be my lotion

I hope you have to see your children getting lowered in their graves

Dust for brains

Salt rock licking moron

I hope you get brain damage and that you have to eat out of a tube for the rest of your life

Dick cheese

You look like you’d smell like raw ground beef

I wish I get the liberty to dunk your head into a Wendy’s fryer

Whorelette

Whoreling

Bitchlet

I hope tonight you get into a super comfy position, and right as you start to relish in how comfortable you are, you have to pee

You’re the cum shot your mom should have swallowed

The only thing that wants to suck your dick is your vacuum cleaner

You ignorant slut

Fruit fucker

Please go stare into the sun

i will crucify you

you half shaven pube

prometheus did not get his liver eaten out for all of eternity in hell just for you to say some dumb ass shit like that

i will turn your penis into a penwas

better start calling you a calendar bc your days are numbered

why is seconds hand embarrassment from what someone said so much worse than first hand embarrassment?

don’t you have a virginity to lose?

the amount of money i would pay to see you get hit by a bus right now

i’m not saying that i hate you, i’m just saying that i’d like to hit you with a car

i bet you were only ever bottle fed

God modeled your brain after a dried up piece of chewed gum

i hope your dog gets into your chocolate and throws up on your rug

feel free to add on to this list! <3

[disembodiedapparition]

Limerence

Frank groaned in frustration; he needed a cigarette, like right now, but after a quick glance around the pigsty which he affectionately called his room, Frank reckoned he wouldn't be getting one anytime soon. Not that he was addicted or anything — of course not.

He just... wanted one, yeah.

I mean, Frank could totally quit anytime he wanted, it's just that he didn't want to, not yet at least. He was painfully aware of the consequences of his, um, habit, but he didn't really care. If he lived, he lived. If he died, he died. He'd probably kill himself before the drug betrayed his lungs like that anyway, if we're being honest. The ephemeral bliss was worth it.

Finding anything in his room lately had become nothing less than searching for a needle in a haystack, maybe even harder, Frank thought as he agitatedly glared at the offending piles of dirty laundry and cigarette butts (among others) that littered his bedroom floor.

Despite the mess, Frank set out on mission impossible, desperate for his daily fix of nicotine, his head throbbing as the craving intensified. Goddamn it, why were minors banned from buying their own cigarettes? Frank was finding it increasingly difficult to cope with the limited supply of one pack a week that his friend Bob provided him with in return for Bob's completed English homework sheets - especially considering the fact that Frank pretty much lost everything that wasn't physically attached to him on a keyring, or something.

He huffed, glaring at the vermillion and black artwork he'd pinned up on his wall — not by him, of course. He could barely surpass a 5-year-old's art skills — but by his extremely talented boyfriend, Gerard Way; a college dropout/artist/Frank's number one smoking buddy. Frank's mom didn't really approve of Gee's "negative influence" over her only son, but hey, Frank was almost 18 and technically he could do whatever he wanted.

Right? Frank wasn't stupid, he knew what he was doing.

Speaking of the devil; a distinct thud resonated through his room, a sound he'd come to associate with Gerard - seriously, the kid was incapable of using a doorbell or something, he was always flinging rocks at Frank's poor bedroom window. But then again, Gerard usually showed up at Frank's around two in the morning, and he was sure his mother wouldn't be all that pleased when she blearily opened their honeywood front door to find some punk kid smoking a cigarette waiting for her at that ungodly hour.

Another thud echoed through his room, causing Frank to roll his eyes, and mutter an incomprehensible 'I'm coming!' under his breath. He cracked the rusty window open a notch, to see his favorite 22-year-old, clad in black from head to toe (Frank wasn't even surprised anymore) and his messy black head of hair sprawled across his forehead like he'd just ran a marathon through the jungle or some shit.

"Gerard?" he called, though he could clearly see his face thanks to the dim streetlights stationed at regular points on the street. I mean, what else was he supposed to say?

"Yeah, Frank, it's me. Let me in, it's fucking cold out here," Gerard replied, theatrically shivering as if he'd been standing in the middle of the Antarctic, when in reality Frank was certain the temperature was just around basic autumn weather, but whatever.

"It's two in the fucking morning," he said, but opened his window anyway. Gerard climbed the conveniently placed apple tree in the Ieros' backyard, and rolled his grimy body into Frank's room. He smelled of coffee and... well, freshness, if that made sense, at least in comparison to Frank's stuffy bedroom air (the windows were shut because, though it was fall, it still was pretty chilly). Petrichor was the word, if Frank remembered correctly - Gerard had told him once that it meant the scent of the earth just after it rained, that was the same thing, wasn't it?

Gerard dusted himself off, and tiny flakes of fallen autumn leaves crackled off his lint covered sweatshirt and onto the carpet — great, that would be hell to clean up later - but Frank didn't mind much, because at least Gerard was here, right? The newcomer grinned at Frank, as a breath of smoke from a cigarette that Frank hadn't even noticed puffed out from Gerard's pink lips. Which didn't really help with Frank's attempts to survive without one, considering the fact that his inhalation of the substance subsided his migraine significantly, as if his body were physically encouraging him to just fucking smoke already.

"Gee, please tell me you'll let me have a smoke, I haven't had one all day and I'm just — ugh."

Gerard giggled at Frank's flustered request, and pulled out a pack of Marlboro Red and an edgy looking Nirvana lighter before handing it to Frank, who just breathed out in relief.

"Thank you, I love you, fuck," he exclaimed, desperately igniting one of the poison sticks and bringing it to his lips, and sighing as he let the caliginous vapor flow from his mouth.

"You look beatific," Gerard mellifluously laughed, and Frank laughed too, though he didn't know what the fuck Gerard meant by that — perks of dating a guy who majored in English for 3 years, I guess.

He gazed into Gerard's pelagic eyes, appearing lagoon green in the dim light; another thing he loved about Gerard was how his irises seemed to magically change colors depending on the amount of light flashing into them. I mean, totally rad! Added to the whole vampire-esque vibe Gerard gave off, what with his incredibly pale skin tone and blood-red lips, and even changing eye colors - Frank was dating a superhuman, I swear.

Frank's eyes were just a plain dull brown, unfortunately. He honestly didn't know what Gerard saw in him. Not that he was complaining, it's just that Gerard could literally get any homosexual guy in the tiny town of Edison to go out with him, and why he chose Frank of all people puzzled him. He really was nothing special, anyway.

Gerard smiled at the seventeen-year-old, his tiny teeth visible as he made the facial gesture.

"So, Frankie, what do you want to do today?" he energetically asked, making Frank snort - Gerard was literally an owl, personified, because like, it was two in the morning! And he was acting like it was the start of a brand new sunny day, and that they were a couple of adventurers ready to explore the wilderness or something (or maybe the nicotine was just getting to him, yeah, that was probably it).

"I don't know, I'm just hungry," Frank admitted, and Gerard's face lit up.

"The boardwalk! Frank, tonight's even the firework display — it'll be great," Gerard exclaimed, ebullience literally radiating from him, and the idea filled Frank with delirium; he'd never really been to the boardwalk of New Jersey before, his mom had told him it was dangerous and therefore out of bounds. The thought of going anyway was exhilarating, to be honest, so he nodded vigorously, thrilled to be going out on an actual date with his boyfriend.

Gerard cracked his boyfriend's abused window open, cringing as it slowly creaked into the atmosphere, before quietly sneaking out the same way he'd gotten in, so stealthily that Frank was certain that any passerbys would've mistaken him for some kind of petty burglar trying to steal from some teenage kid who lived in the attic of his house.

Frank tried his best to mimic his furtiveness, not that it was plausible that anyone would try to stop them as such, but just because it felt fucking cool. Yeah, they were that extra.

The raven-haired boy shuffled to his black Cadillac (which was all patched up, nearly falling apart to tell the truth) and strung his seatbelt across his chest as it chafed with the fabric of his black Iron Maiden t-shirt. Frank got in next to him, and holy shit, he loved every scent relating to Gerard ever, and his car was no exception - especially considering it radiated a smell you'd associate with buttered toast, or pancakes, and it was the safest smell honestly. Frank felt at home with him, and so happy, nothing even compared to the enthrallment he felt with his boyfriend. Which was kind of pathetic, I suppose, if you consider those self-help speakers who always tell you to 'never let your happiness be dependent on others!', but who cared?

Ah, the art of self-destruction.

He could literally see the exhausted car quivering as Gerard tried to null it into starting up, which may or may not have involved kicking and a few depreciating syllables, but the secondhand vehicle eventually succumbed to Gerard's harassment and the roar of a badly maintained engine resonated through the air, accompanied by a 'fucking finally!' from its driver.

———————————————————————

Frank immediately knew they had arrived at the carnivalesque seashore area, though his eyes were shut tight from the harsh blows of the cold wind; the redolent aromas of popcorn stands, caramel apples, and pizza engulfed his senses, and the chatter of the hundred or so individuals who'd been reckless enough to show up at this hour met his ears. A soft rhapsody floated through the air in uneven waves through a pair of worn speakers, David Bowie, Frank figured. He'd been around Gerard Way for far too long to be unable to recognize one of the singer's songs even from a mile away.

"We're here!" Gerard stated the obvious, smiling like a child. Frank could definitely see how much Gee loved the boardwalk; he'd even dropped his "cool dude" facade and replaced it with the air of a little kid in a toy store, and Frank would definitely be lying if he said it wasn't like, the most adorable thing ever.

They got out of the ancient ebony car, Gerard not even bothering to lock it; if anyone tried to steal it, they'd cause such a ruckus and take so much time to even get the engine running that they'd barely get out of the parking spot before Gerard would show up, yelling obscenities. Penumbras shadowed Gee's features almost surreptitiously, thanks to the shifty luminance of the electric lamps diffusing into the night sky.

They wandered around the various food stalls, stopping at a liquor store, selling interestingly named margaritas and shots, obviously intriguing Gerard.

"Oh my god, Frank, look, they have a kiwi margarita!" the older boy commented, pointing at a neon green brew of alcohol with effervescence bubbling out of it in a teenager's hand. Frank scrunched his nose.

"That looks radioactive," he remarked, widening his eyes, and the latter just rolled his eyes.

"You are so uncultured," he declared, sticking his nose up slightly in the air. "I'll let you know that that beverage is actually forty dollars, definitely a top-notch drink."

"And unaffordable," Frank retorted, empowered with the knowledge that Gee would probably have enough cash to down like, two shots of that, at the very most, and then he'd meet with a very uncomfortable financial situation. He giggled as his boyfriend flipped him off in response.

An iridescent glowing sign flashed the words 'Pencey's Ice Cream' in big, bold, capital letters, immediately attracting the attention of the younger of the duo. Gerard followed the platinum streaked boy's gaze to the sign, rolling his eyes.

"Ice cream?" he sarcastically proposed, and Frank retaliated by punching him in the arm; not that it hurt, Frank was too tiny to cause much damage to the older boy, but just for the sake of it.

Together they strolled into the parlor, which totally gave off a 90's vibe, which Gerard seemed to like — judging by the way he glanced around in fascination at the vermillion and pearl striped borders, and the mint green and cotton candy pink machinery propped against the walls.

A smiling teen greeted them as the door chime jingled, and Frank noted that her name was Jenna, from her rather smudged name tag.

"Hi, what would you guys like today?" she greeted, as the dark-haired boy smiled at Frank.

"What would you like, princess?" Gerard pressed, evoking a fierce blush.

"Uhmmm, coffee walnut," he stated. "No, cookie dough! And um, chocolate sprinkles, and, uhhh... caramel syrup," he concluded, Gerard trying to contain his laughter.

"You're gonna get fat!" he groaned, however Frank just shrugged and watched eagerly as Jenna compiled his rather complicated ice cream order.

"Fat and happy." he retaliated, sticking his tongue out, while Gerard amusedly snorted at his kindergartener-like behavior. Jenna smiled at them, and let them know that they were undoubtedly the cutest couple she'd ever seen, which definitely did not make Frank blush. No way.

Gerard ordered some kind of fancy-sounding cherry jubilee thing, since Gerard was the most extra guy he'd ever met — classy or go home, right? That was probably Gerard's motto in life, considering the theatrics Frank had to put up with every day. Not that he really minded, though.

They held their ineffably good desserts in hand as they made their way to the wooden planks that loosely hung over the ocean water, sitting down. Their dangling legs were centimeters away from getting drenched in the cold icy seawater, and their faces were constantly being sprayed with splashes of salty, burning droplets of the ocean — yet Frank was okay with it. Honestly, Frank was up for anything as long as he had Gerard next to him; they could fucking skydive into the depths of hell, for all he cared. Or maybe that was too dramatic, he thought, before realizing that if it had been humanly possible Gerard would've done it ages ago.

The fiery pits of hell seemed edgy enough for Gerard's taste.

Gerard turned to Frank, a hesitant smile on his face. His lips opened to say something, before he was interrupted by a heart-stopping explosion that filled the air, startling Frank and causing him to jerk his head up in the direction the explosion seemed to come from.

Sparks of envious greens and deep blues flew through the charcoal sky, leaving smoky gray trails as they cascaded into the ocean. Glowing splinters of reds, oranges, purples and yellows followed next, patterning themselves into symmetrical patterns of light. Their iridescent colors illuminated Gerard's face, Frank noticed as he watched a firework explode in the reflection in his boyfriend's fascinated orbs.

Gerard must have been able to feel Frank's gaze, because moments later, he turned to the tattooed boy, his lips giving way to a smile, painted rather endearingly in the pulsating lights.

"They aren't nearly as resplendent as you are," he whispered, and Frank rolled his eyes, internally of course. Gerard loved using words Frank had never heard before in his life, but for now he decided to assume it meant something nice and ignore it.

He connected his cold lips with Gee's warm, welcoming ones, his heartbeat quickening when the latter's arm wrapped around his small waist, pulling him closer. He still tasted like nicotine and alcohol of some kind, he could feel the bitter taste engulfing his mouth, but it evaporated — everything evaporated — when Gee broke contact and whispered breathily in Frank's left ear.

"I'm in love with you."

[ruiyuki]

Dusted off some rusty ass art skills from 2009 to draw mine and @vixenofthemist 's OCs...

They went to Disneyland.

[ask-de-writer]

LOST TIME (part 1 of 3) A fantasy of Flocking Bay.

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Return to Flocking Bay

LOST TIME

by

De Writer (Glen Ten-Eyck)

5556 words

© 2020 by Glen Ten-Eyck

written 2003

All rights reserved.

Reproduction  in any form, physical, electronic or digital is prohibited without the  express written consent of the author or proper copyright holder.

//////////////

Copyright fair use rules for Tumblr users

Users  of Tumblr.com are specifically granted the following rights. They may reblog the story. They may use the characters or original characters in  my settings for fan fiction, fan art works, cosplay, or fan musical   compositions. I will allow those who do commission art works to charge   for their images.

All sorts of Fan Activity, fiction, art, cosplay, music or anything else is ACTIVELY encouraged!

///////////////////////

It stands out even in the dark ... It shouldn’t. It’s just a house. A damned old house. Not even that old really, not for New England. It’s a two story salt-box style with an observation deck under a cupola at the peak. It is probably just the setting. Rusty old iron fence, gnarled elderly trees, unkempt lawn not quite out of control, windows that the neighborhood kids haven’t broken. It should be a witch’s house but it isn’t. It is mine. I just closed on it yesterday.

The kids are going to have a field day this time. I don’t like the daylight... been on night shift as far back as I can remember. That’s a longish way back. But I’m not a witch, nor vampire. Nothing exotic that I know of. I’m just one of those people (you probably know one or two) who don’t show their age. If you envy me, think again. YOU try to explain to a traffic cop why your ID has you pegged for seventy+ and you don’t look over twenty. I carry a copy of my fingerprint record from the military, because they can check that.

Funny part of it is, I really don’t have the slightest idea how old I am. Traumatic amnesia the doctors called it, during the war. The head wound was minor, they said.

That is a matter of opinion. It robbed me of my past, my name, my identity, my loves and hates but left my skills intact. I was an empty shell. I am still trying to find my past.

The name that I use comes from more or less modern myth. Vandervekken. The Flying Dutchman. Wandering Dutchman would be more accurate. He sails the seas off the Cape of Good Hope until Judgment Day. He can’t find his home either. I bought the house because it is the first place that I have seen in over fifty years where I want to stay. You explain it.

The rusty gate opened silently, thanks to the bit of oil that I put on the hinges. Going up the uneven walk, between the looming trees is an experience. The door lock is old-fashioned but still works smoothly. Covered furniture could have made ghosts to haunt the place, if I were superstitious or given to being easily frightened.

As I said, I like the night. I even enjoy things with a bit of a spooky atmosphere. I also like antiques and handcrafted things which is why, if I ever find out who did it, I will cheerfully throttle whatever philistine covered the finely inlaid hardwood parquetry floors with battleship gray paint.

Stripping and refinishing those floors was on my priority job list. Actually, I shouldn’t beef too much. Pointing out the problem got me a price reduction of nearly $2000 on an already underpriced house with all of its furniture as part of the deal. Estates can be wonderful when you are on a tight budget. Too bad that someone else had to die to create my good fortune.

As I pulled the dust covers from the furniture, I saw that my good fortune was been complete. It was all sturdy, hand-carved hardwood with Chinese silk brocade upholstery. The furniture alone was worth what I had paid for the house and contents. The tops of even the smallest hall tables were inlaid with rich veneers, ivory and mother of pearl. You couldn’t buy furniture like this any more. Besides the cost, the ivory in the inlays is no longer legal to obtain. I could get as much from the sale of just one or two pieces as I could from a year of writing if I could bring myself to part with any of this treasure. It just feels like the house would not be complete without it.

Whoever it was that had died and left this for me to have has whatever blessings it is in my power to bestow. The only wonder is that this place stayed on the market long enough for me to find it. Usually, deals like this get snapped up by the real-estate brokers before people like me ever see them.

When I got to the kitchen, I received another little jolt. I knew that it was fairly up to date, but some thoughtful soul had stocked the fridge and set out a bit of a snack for me. Just cookies and a glass for the milk, which was staying cold in the cooler. Thoughtful. I wondered who did it.

While munching on the cookies, I opened a few windows to air the place out a bit. Going out to my car, I saw that the flags of the walk needed leveling because of the weeds that grew up between them. I drove around to the alley behind the place, opened the garage and parked Lilitu, my classic pre-war Packard touring car. She looked right at home in there. Few, even of modern garages were big enough for her. I ferried my few personal goods up to the house. On my last trip, I saw a couple of wide-eyed kids looking over the back fence.

“Told ya, told ya so!” one of them chanted. “There’s somebody sneakin’ inta the ol’ Vekin place!”

“I wouldn’t call it sneaking, to move into your own place,” I answered as civilly as I could manage. “I just bought it. Why do you call it the Vekin place?”

“If ya ain’t sneakin’, why ya goin’ in the back way? An’ after dark, too?” she shot back. I could now see that they were a girl and a boy. She was obviously in charge.

“I like nights. I’m a writer, so I can keep any hours I like. Why is it the Vekin place?” I asked again.

“Dun’no - Crazy guy named Vekin used to live there,” she contradicted herself.

“Lot of folks tried to buy the place since then,” the boy piped in.

“But nobody ever stays,” the girl finished for him firmly.

“So, this is the neighborhood’s haunted house?” I inquired jovially.

“No,” was as far as the boy got.

“Its down the street, on t’other side,” she cut in.

“I looked at that one,” I said thoughtfully. “The old Victorian. Somebody’s broken out all the windows. Not like here. If the Vekin house is so bad, why hasn’t some kid chucked rocks at it?”

“‘Cause we’re not THAT crazy!” exclaimed The boy, getting out a whole thought. The girl gave him a push, and they ran off into the night.

I got up about noon, after the most restful night’s sleep that I’d had since the War. After my breakfast and a quiet tour of the place from attic to basement, I went out. My goal was the local newspaper. THE FLOCKING BAY VOICE was sprawled across the plate glass window in Old English style letters of gold leaf and black. Smaller letters proclaimed Est. 1841. I pushed open the door. My nose was assaulted by the multiple odors of printer’s ink, paper and grease. The VOICE occupied one large room. An elderly web press crouched at the back of the space, behind several rolls of newsprint. Cubicles made offices in the middle of the room. An old oak counter that had once seen duty as a bar had several signs suspended over it on thin chains. They read ‘submissions’, ‘advertisements’, ‘subscriptions’, ‘billing’.

There was a bell on the counter. Some wag had put a sign on it, “Please ring bell, it won’t help but it will give you something to do.” I gave myself something to do, energetically, a few times.

A trim little blond lady answered the bell’s summons. She wore a green eyeshade and a pin on her sweater announced, ‘Lois Martin - cook, bottle washer & EDITOR in CHIEF.’ “What can I do for you, today?” she asked.

“I came to see what I can find out about the Vekin place,” I answered, trying not to stare at her.

“Just a moment, I’ll get the file out of the morgue. I was going to get it anyway. Somebody went and bought the place again.”

“Wait a minute,” I protested. “Someone buys a house and that makes news in Flocking Bay? This town must be even quieter than it looks.”

“Oh,” she retorted, “it can get downright interesting around here when the old Vekin place sells. You’ll see.” She disappeared among the cubicles and I heard her feet clattering down a flight of stairs. I heard a file drawer creak and slide, then slam shut. It wasn’t long before she reappeared, a rather fat file clutched in her hand.

“If you’d like, we can have lunch over at Mike’s Soda Shop,” she proposed. “He makes decent submarine sandwiches and real ice-cream sodas.”

“Well ... ” I pretended to hesitate, “I haven’t been invited out by a beautiful blond in a long time, so, yes.”

“I hope that I haven’t just made a fool of myself,” she remarked, laying aside the eyeshade. “You are Mr. Vandervekken aren’t you? The man who just bought the place?”

“Too true,” I said.

“Then I’ll make it an interview and deduct it from my taxes,” she smiled.

“You make enough to pay taxes?” I asked, looking back as we crossed the street.

“I have hidden assets. The paper is a tax shelter.” She opened the door of Mike’s and ushered me in.

As I was seating her, I just couldn’t help blurting out, “Your assets seem to be pretty obvious.”

She grinned, “Go ahead and stare. I don’t mind. If I did, I wouldn’t wear a snug sweater and put my pin just here.” She pointed, then added, “Looking at it will keep you off your guard while I ask my questions.”

“OK, Ms. Martin, but let me look at the file first. You can order for me. You know the food here,” I said, reaching for the file.

“Lois,” she replied, “call me Lois, everyone else does.” Then she hollered to the man behind the counter, “Oh, Mike! Two butterscotch sodas and a big turkey sub! Divide it in half!”

“How did you know that I liked butterscotch?” I asked. “It’s not that common a preference these days.”

“I just had a hunch, that’s all. You looked like another butterscotch type person.”

I was leafing through the file on the rather beat-up table while we waited. I couldn’t resist snorting with amusement at the name of the house’s builder. Capt. Von Der Vekin. The house had been built in 1894 by the Capt. and his elusive son, Charles. Nobody had ever seen Charles until he came into town, on April 1st, 1900, to report his father’s demise and burial on the property. He ordered a headstone hewn of the local limestone. Charles had returned from WW I with honors and lived quietly, claiming to be a writer, though nobody ever saw any of his work in print. When asked, all that he would say was ‘Pseudonyms are great for privacy’. He was not so lucky when he volunteered to assist the French resistance in 1939. He never came home.

Next==>

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Return to Flocking Bay

[hjh-ceilo-monster]

Hybrid Verse : Bunkermate (JHS)

Y/N Pov.

And again,me myself and I alone.

'Who tell the police that I was here, damnit!'

I curse with myself while walking around like an idiot.Before you start throwing me a lot of questions,I'll tell you a story.

Once upon a time,there was an orphan girl escape from the foster house.She needed to find a 'home' every year.Now she end up on the street again because someone tell the police about her,the end.

I walk down the street and my feet start screaming at me.I don't know where should I live from now.Walking under the sun that hot as hell shine on your head is tough.However, no time to waste.I continue my journey until reach an old bridge.

"Wow fantastic,now I don't need to find a new home for another three years." I settle down my bag and start to explore the area. It's nice actually.There is a river under it and the water is crystal clear.I can see fish and creatures swimming.Both sides of the bridge are forest.I can get as much food as I want.

Night begins and I start to search for food before it's getting too dark.Wandering around the area,from side to the other into it's completely dark.

"At least I get a fish and some berries."

I hum along the way back to the bridge.I see there is the room or two under the bridge.I walk down the old stairs.It makes some creek but it fine.When I reach the bottom,there is a bit of light beaming from somewhere.I follow them till I see the rusty door.

"Lucky me, there's the room for me."

I enter the room.Cehcking my surrounding,it’s so dusty.I try to find something in my backpack and find a mini broom.I clean all the dust off before my allergies spark.

“It’s nice.” I admire the room.‘This is mine.’I repeat it in my head.No one gonna find me here and I’m gonna live here with peace.Although it’s far from the city,I’ll be fine with this.

“Stupid polices.” 

Next day

“Umm,why so heavy?” I roll around my bed.Filling a thing weigh down on my body,wait? A thing? I quickly open my eyes and see a red panda sleep soundly one my body.

“Awe lil baby,how comes you’re here?” 

I look at him,I suppose,which cling on me like I’m a tree.I know I’m flat(if you know what I mean) but,now something appreciate me at least.I push him gently until he lays on the matress.I decide to find something to eat.

“I think I need a camp fire.” I gather the wood and start the fire.Hunting time begin and I explore the area.I’m good with living in the wood since my old orphan neared a wood when I was young.

*scratch scratch*

“Hmmm?” I look down and see the little guy wake up.Scratching gently and cling on my leg,I carry him to big log near the fire.

“Hello,little guy.Wanna eat?” He looks at the grill fish on the stick.Why do I feel like he shake his head? He then disappears which make me confuse.

I eat my grill fish and other things from the backpack.The little buddy pop up out nowhere while carry some fruits in his small embrace.He come close to me and start eating his fruit.Then some of it he put into my lap.

“Do you want me to eat this?” 

*a lil paw pat again on my lap*

“Gosh you’re cute.”

Author POV.

That’s the first time that Y/N get to know her little buddy,red panda.She never know that red panda is something beyond what she called wild creature...

“Sir,our subject 180294 is missing.” A lady in the lab coat inform her leader.

“Go get him,he’s our secret subject that shouldn’t be out of here.”

The lab team start tracking the location of their  experiment subject.The security of the laboratory double up the number of guards.

“Lil buddy,where are you?” Y/N call the red panda that disappear to nowhere again.They’ve been living with each other for more than a month now.She notices a lot of things about him.He seems to act like a human more than an animal.

Sometimes act grumpy but, mostly sunshine.Prefer fruits more than meats,sleep less than usual red panda and is a ‘hyper’ creature.However,she didn’t really care and take care of him like he’s one of her friend.Treating animal like human might sound weird but,that’s what she’s been doing.

Everything between them seem fine.Once Y/N even told him that it’s them against the world until one day,he’s gone from her.

4 years later :  Jhope POV.

Hi,you might all wonder where am I from.That’s not important since you already guess who I am from the photo above.Now there,let’s introduce myself.

I’m Jung hoseok,Jhope.Used to be red panda but,successfully develop as hybrid human from the lab.The lab wasn’t a nice place in my memory.Thanks to my ‘mom’ who is my creator.She helped me to escape.I’m now a choreographer of HopeOnTheStreet Studio.

“Sir,there’ll be your new assistant in a minute.”

“Clair I don’t know why you quit.Not because of me right?”

“I have a problem with my family sir,no need to worry.”

“Don’t forget,you’re still welcome here alright.”I look at her who is packing her stuff and ready to leave my studio.She’s one of the best assistant.

“Don’t be sad sir,you’ll meet her in a minute.She’s nice,I could tell.”

“I hope she isn’t like the one before you.That time was really like hell to me.”

“I can assure you sir.This girl loves kids.Beside,I’ll be with you today as a final day so cheer up.” I collect my sadness and cheer up for her.She’s more like my noona than an assistant.When our conversation finish,someone enter the studio. My gaze follow at the door that auto slide open.

‘It isn’t her,right?’ The girl walks toward us.She isn’t ‘her’,is she? The question runs in my head and make me feel light head.Her face is exactly like her,her smile too and her scent,god I don’t know what to do right now.

“Sir...Jhope...are you here?” 

“Y..yes noona,I’m here.”

“Hi,I’m Y/N.Thank you for accept me,I’ll work my best.” I chuckle when she gives me a 90 degrees bow that nearly makes herself fall.

“Nice to meet you and work well.”

I dismiss her with Clair.Clair start walking with the girl around my studio.I go the opposite direction and enter one of the studio room.Well,need to get work done before students start class with me in half and hour.

A week later : Author POV.

For entire week,it’s tough for Jhope.He keeps thinking about Y/N and how familiar he feel around her.Y/N thinks different about it.She thinks that he didn’t like her and a bit upset.

She tried her best to work as the assistant for him but it’s hard when she has negative thoughts in her head.Jhope acts seem to affect her a lot but,the question is why?

“We’ll have our studio anniversary in 3 weeks so be ready,now dismiss.”

Jhope tell the students about the news,they all cheer up and quiet excited about the event.First of,there’ll be a theme party every year.Second of all,they’ll see Jhope perform for the ceremony.He’s the hottest and most talent teacher in students’ opinion.There’ll also be other teachers in the studio as well as the artists that he might bring as a ‘surprise’.

“Y/N,is there any class left today?”

“Uh no sir.You only have 3 classes today sir.” Jhope nod.Y/N scroll through the pc screen to check again.

“Go out with me.” All of sudden,he speaks.‘What does he means by that’ Y/N ask the question inside her head.Her eyes widen with the words he says.

“Uhh sir I think it isn-”

“No I mean hang out with me.Well you see I want to talk about the anniversary as well as the dress code and other plans we had in today’s meeting.”

Y/N POV.

‘This is akward.’ I’m now sitting in his car.His eyes focus toward the road.I look outside and the radio of the car is playing.I thought he didn’t like me but here I am in his car.

“You like red panda?” The question pop up out of the blue.

“Yeah,it’s remind me of my buddy.”

I feel sad all of sudden.I miss him and it’s been 4 years that he’s gone.I still see his smiley face when I eat the fruit in my fridge,hug my pillow to sleep like he used to hug me and walk in the park everyday.Everything still remind me of my lil buddy.

“You’re crying.I’m sorry,I shouldn’t bring that up.I just saw the photo in your phone the other day.”

“It’s fine.I really mis him.Me,him,us against the world.”

Jhope then stay in silence.I don’t know if I say something wrong.He looks puzzle but say nothing in return.We both arrive at the mall.Our schedule start from there until it reach night time.

2 weeks pass,everyone in the studio has been working hard for the anniversary day so far.Students will practice night till dawn.Sometime Jhope and teachers need to stay in the studio for a night or two.

For me,the work get overwhelm.I need to mke sure everyone get to practice,the classes’ schedules didn’t cross path.The other assistants also help me a lot with that.

What’s really weird is Jhope behaviour change.He smiles at me every day,greet me when he has a time and hang out of me more often.Some studentsd even tease me and ask whether I’m his girlfriend.

The event day finally arrive.The theme is nice.There are a lot of guests come to the event which surprisingly something I didn’t expect.I’m standing and greeting people like I’m at the studio.When the VIP guests enter,the cheer from students start to go wild.

Author POV.

“Our first performance from the house,please welcome mr.Jung.” The sound from hand claps surround the ball room.Jhope is standing there in the dark, waiting for the spot light to shine on him.

The song play and his body start working through it.He uses his body to create an art and people can’t take their eyes from him.His solo stage is so powerful and it shines.

The others go wild when another famous dancer/choreographer like Park Jimin enter the stage.Both of them combining their skills and perform such a great show.Making the students even more nervous.

The event is running on without a problem.There are a few introduction for each course before the students perform.Nothing seems to be odd and everyone enjoy the show.

“Follow me” Jhope whisper and drag Y/N along with him.She didn’t know what’s going on.They fade from the crowd and no one even notice those two.

“Here sit”

“Okay” Y/N only whisper as a reply.She didn’t know what she has done that make him upset or angry.The husky voice from him awhile ago doesn’t look like something good for her.

“I just want to tke a fresh air.I’m nervous you know,perform like that on stage.”

“But you’re great.”

“You think so?” He turns his hyper mode on which she happened to discover them after that day.

They chit chat outside the room.Y/N gets less nervous and finally can talk normally with him.He open up about his life so does she.That’s when the main point get into the convo.

“If I say I were that red panda,would you believe me?” Jhope clear his head a bit.You notice on his head there’re ears with orange-red color.You caress them gently in your hand.Feeling like the first time you touched them.

“No.....nope.” At first she is so confident but her voice fade away.The eyes that peircing toward her,searching for her soul right now were similar to her buddy. Her little buddy that she miss every day.

“It can’t be..you..Hobi?” 

“I’m your hobi.I’m really your buddy.”

“How?When?” He tell everything to her.Everything out of his mouth isn’t something that should be possible but here she is.Sitting with him and believing in every word he says.

“Finally you’re here.” She cries and hugs him tight.He tighten the hug to make sure she’s relly with him.

“Sorry to interrupt but we need to take him.”

Then the guys wearing suits and all grab Jhope from her.You reach for him but no use.She try to fight with them.One of the guy in lab coat suddenly pointing a gun toward her.

“No what are you doing?”

“Going with us and she’ll be fine.You are our subject after all.”

Jhope loose his faith at the minute and go with them.Fortunately someone rescue on time.Jimin with his girlfriend come to the scene,searching for them to be back inside the event,see what’s happening.

His girlfriend didn’t hesiate to call the police.Jimin knows these people so he run and help Jhope and Y/N.The scene become a mess but no one hurt.4 of them keep everything to themselves with the police that arrive on time.

“Hyung are you alright?” Jimin ask while help him to stand up from ground.

“I’m fine.How bout your girl,she’s running here?”

“We both fine.���

Y/N get to know both of them.4 of them having a chat between each other.Jimin is really concern about what happen and decide to tell the others that you both go back early.He cover everything for you guys. 

Years pass and everything fall back into there places.The incident that night is a secret betwen 4 of you.She get to know what happened before with Jhope and why Jimin also know about it.They both were subjects in lab before.Jimin got out because they thought he was dead and someone save Jhope.

You get to see his mother,the creator.She has already retired from her job and living alone in the house near the wood.Going to that place also bring both of them back to the bunker they used to live.His mother’s house was in the next town near the bunker.

“I still remember the first day that I met you.”

“And I still remember the girl that all of sudden wander into my bunker.”

“Your bunker? It’s mine.”

“No it’s mine.” They’re bickering with each other.Every moment pop up in their minds which bring the smiles on their face.It was a nice memory that they won’t forget.

“Nevermind anything mine is yours.” Jhope claim.

“And why is that?”

“Because you’re my bunkermate.” Jhope hug her tight in his arm.Warmth and love flows in the air.He sniff your scent in and kiss your neck.

“Is this a proposal?” Y/N ask.

“Maybe?”

“Then I’ll accept it.”

“Remember what you tell me?”

“It’s us against the world.” They say in unison.

“Love you my bunkermate.” Y/N kiss him and he bring her closer.

Who knows that a girl wander around places will finally end with a red fluffy ball of sunshine like him.

Aye yo ladies and gentlemen,how y’all doing.I try to finish off this series but well gaint wall has already built in my head.I’ll try harder next time.Thank you for reading and see you next story.Yeet!

[starrystellars]

even the spiders dance | one-shot

a/n: hello!! i decided to write something for my baby natasha since no one ever really looks back at her and whatever she has been thru. i felt like i needed to study her a little bit more and do justice for her since mcu is unable to fucking do so. i didnt proof-read bc english aint my first language so there's no point anyway hhhh i’ll might make a part two but i’ll see how well this is received. anyways!! hopefully yall like this and drop a like and comment if u please

synopsis: natasha tries to get rid of her traumatic past by making something sad into something beautiful. she ends up falling in love with a hip hop dance teacher instead. | fem! reader

warnings: mentions of past trauma (ptsd), overly cheesy writing

word count: 4,7100

New York’s hazy morning breeze was a welcomed refresher against Natasha’s pale skin, slowly peeling off the worries of the past couple of nights. The early morning sun was almost blinding to a naked eye, especially after a long night spent indoors with the lights off, loud bird chirping ticking her off more than usual. Spring was physically knocking on the city’s doorsteps, but unlike every other person in the Big Apple, the redhead didn’t seem to be ready to give up on the winter’s presence just yet. To someone who was raised in the middle of a cold Russia, warmth was something that felt incredibly unfamiliar, and even after years living in a bustling city, she really never felt at home with the sun tickling the tip of her pointy nose.

Natasha had always been a pretty private person, and even after moving into the tower with the rest of the Avengers, she hadn’t seemed to give up on her habits. As someone who was raised to become a fearless killer, she couldn’t just slip up and let her guard down, even when she did consider the people around her to be more or less a family. Kind smiles and banter with the people she lived with was indeed like a soothing balm over her past traumas, but healing was a marathon, not a spurt, which she knew better than one could think of. The assassin was somewhat in peace with her journey, but those past days she had been getting the short end of the stick; dwelling in screeching nightmares that left her sheets sticky, and occasional moments of anxiety that seemed to attack her out of blue. She, like most of her teammates, was haunted by the things she had seen, but other than the people around her, Natasha was the best at hiding it. Red Room training was brutal, but it was something that was almost impossible to shake off. If you learn something by birth, you don’t know any better — at least that’s what she tried to tell herself over and over again, to justify the fact that she couldn’t just let other people in. Even with her unavailability of trusting others, she had slowly tried to take part of the team, even when they were baby steps. After releasing SHIELD’s intel online, she had found herself hanging out more with the people she shared her living quarters with. Wilson and Rogers were one of the people she was tied to the most, leading up to her going all the way to her sparring with those hunky boys every once in a while. For her, training had always been a private moment of the day, but Natasha couldn’t help but to notice how she had grown to love early morning jogs around the closest park to the Avengers tower with the bunch. They made her feel whole and in peace with herself, even when it was almost impossible to keep up with the serum-infused Captain, who left Sam and her bite dust every single time.

"Romanoff, you good?" The Falcon was trying to catch his breath, after both of them had finished up those ten laps around the greenery. Steve, who looked like he didn't even break a sweat during training, perked up his head upon hearing the pair, cocking eyebrows questioningly. The redhead wasn't sure how the Sam had noticed her changed behavior, but at the end of the day, they spent a good amount of time with each other. "Yeah, just a little rusty, I guess," a little smirk grew on her lips, as she shook her head ever so slightly, while trying to calm down the rapid breathing that was caught in her throat. A highly skilled spy or not, even she had hard times catching up after running like a headless chicken. "Black Widow? Rusty? Unheard of," Sam laughed while showing off a perfect row of pearly white teeth, leaning forward to place his hands on those thick thighs of his, still pretty much out of breath. It was a funny sight to see the taller man drenched in sweat, grey sweatshirt looking like it had just came out of the wash, as he tried his best not to fall on the ground thanks to his shaking legs. "It's true. I haven't seen you like this since the day you spilled all of your secrets to the world," Steve finally spoke up, as he took a couple of steps forward towards the two. His laid back attitude was a refreshing look, since the super soldier was known for being pretty uptight at times. "What's wrong?" Natasha let out a deep sigh, placing hands on her hips, as she looked at both of the men in front of her with blank eyes. Over the years, she had learned how to disguise emotions pretty well, and this time it was no exception. For her, there was nothing more scarier than let others know how she really felt like, and being cornered like that wasn't ideal. Her walls were high and mighty, however, they were on a shaky ground. "Let's just say that avenging has been a pain in the ass lately," Natasha gave an empty smirk at both of them, not even trying bothering to explain. If the two would be smart, they'd leave her alone. "If that's the case, why don't you just do something else for change? Like, I don't know, learn how to cook or something?" The Falcon finally stretched to his full height, shrugging his shoulders, after letting out the words flow into the thin air. "You think I don't know how to cook? How cute of you, Wilson," Natasha flashed a sassy smile towards the soldier, who didn't seem to be bothered by the cocky attitude. Their banter had always been like that, acting out as a competition who could jab at the other one the hardest, and it seemed to work better than well. "I'm not just a pretty face." "Sam has a point. Maybe there is something that you like to do?" Steve butted into the conversation, getting both of their attentions quite fast. "The world has been actually quite a decent place for a change; perhaps you can take a day or two off. Just saying." Natasha was about to let out a snarky comment towards the Captain, who definitely didn't seem to take a day off, but decided to keep her mouth shut for once in her life. There was a moment where she was seriously considering to mention how her life revolved around work, just to keep them off her back, but something she had tried to keep away from her, struck her like a lightning. Maybe there was something that could help her, after all. **** The music was booming behind closed doors, multiple different sounds overlapping with each other, creating a wave of mess that was hard to listen. A faint sound of an overly positive voice was bouncing off the walls, making all the ears ring in the near mile radius, and Natasha couldn't help but to cringe as she got closer to the wooden front desk of a sleek entrance hall. All the noise in the room was overpowering, and the redhead was highly considering turning around on her heels, and walking away. Yes, she had listened to the only people she was close with, only to realise, that maybe it wasn't such a good idea after all. The morning Sam had gave her the idea, it had sounded like a good plan, but at that point, she wasn't so sure anymore.

Dancing. Red Room was known for its brutal training programme that was dedicated to shape young minds to become trainwrecks. It was all about discipline and rules, brutal force and violence, but somehow it felt like a distant home for her. Ignoring all the grim details, it was a place where she grew up to become her, even when the rest of the world would see her as a monster. One of the main programmes was dancing, which was no surprise; it was highly believed in Russia, that this form of art was one of the top levels of strong individualism, since the training was more than physically damaging. Red Room or not, most of the girls in normal dancing schools were emotionally fucked up and dropped out after a couple of years. Natasha had witnessed some of that treatment around her childhood, but nothing could ever top the way she was brought up. Regardless, she found peace in dancing. Before she had joined the Avengers team, it was the only way for her to let out some steam, alongside of fighting, to take away all the stress that was pending up deep inside of her. She loved the way her body would effortlessly find its way to form a perfect attitude terriére, or how the music would flow through her body like it was taking over every cell of her firm form. There was no pain nor suffering, just a calm mindset and happiness within. However, she wasn't sure was singing up to a dancing school actually worth it. Yes, she could've easily used the Avengers gym to train her 'rusty' moves. She was also completely aware of the fact that she indeed could've asked Tony to make her a completely space, just for the matter, but somehow she needed to feel normal. Even when she had deep scars running down her soul, especially ones that were attached to the act of art, she couldn't help but to crave normal human functions, even when pretty much the whole world knew she was nothing more than trouble. Being around other people was also a good way for her to separate her old dance training from her future; she truly hoped to get rid of all the flashbacks that were bothering her daily. The cold walls of the Avengers tower barely resembled the peeling wallpaper and the poking foundations of the place she used to call home, but the empty atmosphere was enough to send her on the edge during the darkest of hours. If she could just move on amongst everyone else, she could probably get her privacy back. "Hi, how can I help ya, miss?" The cheery voice of a service desk person was purely artificial, and Natasha wanted to scoff at the smile that was almost as tight as the girl's ponytail. However, she forced a mirroring smile on her painted lips, fingers automatically reaching for the strap of her gym bag as a habit. "I called in a couple of days before for the dance studio rental; it was supposed to be at three today. The name is Natasha," the redhead followed closely as the service person went through a thick calendar that looked like it was about to fall apart any second, thanks to all the added post-it notes and clips. It didn't take a too long for her to find the booking amongst all the mess, and Natasha was soon met with another blinding smile. "Oh, yeah! For an hour, right? Just go to the end of that hallway. Your room is number eight and the room door should be unlocked," the woman said, before continuing. "If you need any help with the audio equipment, just come here and I'll be happy to assist you!" Without saying anything further, Natasha turned around to face the corridor that service lady had pointed at, heading down the brightly lit hallway with a curious look on her face. She tried her best to map out the building, just in case of an emergency. It had became a habit for her, and no wonder, taking mind her profession. Better to be safe than sound, right? The short corridor was filled with room after another, each one having a small window to peek in, and the woman couldn't help but to curiously take a look inside of each and every one of them, while she kept her steady pace forward. It wasn't a long trip behind the door that had a big "8" painted on it, and Natasha automatically rested her hand on the handle, as her green eyes found their way to look inside of the window that was radiating with yellow light. Someone was in there. Natasha pulled out her phone with a confused look painted on her features, as she checked the clock on the bright screen. It was already past the time she was supposed to be there, and she couldn't help but to double check the number on the door -- not that it was hard to miss, anyway. Fixing her gaze back up, she tried to see anyone inside. The window was small, and it pretty much covered most of the area, so it was almost impossible to see more than just a small strip of the room. So far, no one had entered her field of vision, so she wasn't sure was it a good idea to just burst in there if someone was still finishing up their workout. Natasha herself hated to be surprised like that, and she surely wasn't going to do that to another person, at least not in a situation where that kind of an element wasn't needed. She was about to give up and go back to the reception, before something, or more likely, someone, entered her view. The urban music, that was barely audible through the door, matched her sharp and clear moves, and the flow of her body was almost intoxicating to look at. How the person carried herself exuded confidence, and there was not a single flaw in her performance. The girl on the other side of the door was skilled, and Natasha couldn't help but to feel extremely fascinated. It was a new feeling; something that she hadn't been thinking about so much before, but she couldn't help but to dwell in it. The whole situation was so weird to her, and she wasn't sure how to act. On top of her confused feelings, the redhead had no interest in the hip hop culture, not even when Sam tried his hardest to get her hyped to some old classics, but seeing the girl dance to the beat of the music that she couldn't really figure out, she regretted her past actions and kicked herself mentally. Her hand was hovering over the handle, like she wasn't sure what to do. Of course, she could've went in and mentioned how the time other girl's time was up; it would've been a completely normal thing. She had been fighting against criminals of different kinds, so acting up wasn't completely out of character for her. However somehow, entering the room seemed like a bigger task than hunting down the whole HYDRA -- but something was supposed to be done. Yes, she was an agent, but goddamn, hanging out in a corridor just staring at an unknown person was way too much, even for her. That's why she had to make a decision to push the handle down and enter the room. There was an instant welcome of heavy urban music, which made Natasha's ears ring. The heavy air, that was caused by a lot of movement was almost choking, but the redhead didn't seem to mind. Her twinkling green eyes were fixed to the person, whose back was towards the door, unaware of the situation that was unraveling behind her thanks to the loud music. She was clearly packing her stuff into a black duffle bag, almost identical to Natasha's own, and the infamous Black Widow couldn't help but to let a slight smirk rise on her lips. Suddenly the whole room went silent, as the unfamiliar person stretched to her full height, and finally turned around to face Natasha. "Shit!" You let a loud yell escape between your lips to the sight of an unfamiliar figure at the door. The jumpscare made you almost drop everything that you were holding in your hands, including the phone you had just pulled out to check the notifications. The woman at the door could do nothing else than smirk at you, and to be honest, it would've been an understatement to say that you were embarrassed. "Sorry about that," the husky voice of the newcomer sent shivers down your spine, and you really weren't sure should you be afraid or not. There was something eerily familiar with the figure and the outline of that woman's face, but you just couldn't point out who she was. "The door was unlocked, and I thought it was good to let you know the time's up." You were hyper-aware that you were late; you kind of always were. It was a bad habit, and not something you were really proud of - especially since you had classes to teach and you really didn't want to take the minutes away from your students. Time flies when you're focused, and that truly was the case that day too. On top of that, no one really tended to rent that part of the studio anyway, so you were pretty much safe being tardy for a couple of minutes. "It's okay, it's my fault anyways," you let out a huff, and even when you felt a slight heat rising on your cheeks, little did you know how that small gesture almost melted the person that was standing on the other side of the room. If there was a word for Natasha's feelings, it would've been whipped. "I probably should start carrying a watch or something," you added, shrugging your shoulders as you took a step closer to the woman, whose delicate features made you easily swoon. There was a certain cold look on her pale face, but you could see clearly how soft her gaze was, and you swore there was more to her than just the front she put. "Are you new here? I haven't seen you before, and I pretty much know everyone who hangs around the studio," there was a slight giggle that escaped between your lips, as you studied the woman, whose expression clearly didn't even flinch. You got lost in those big, emerald green, eyes that seemed to be alert in a way, but you insisted to yourself that it was a good idea to poke the sleeping bear bit more. "None of my students sneak around to scare me, so I thought I should ask." "Yeah, I've started to rent this studio for now," Natasha wasn't sure how much to reveal to the girl, but since the other person sounded eager enough, it was her time to open up a bit. For her, it almost felt like a breath of fresh air to chat normally, without having to stay on her toes, but it did take a toll on her in a way. Old habits stuck hard, and past Natasha wasn't about chatting and being fun. She meant business, but she desperately wanted to let her go, and maybe meeting new people was a good way to at least try. There was no way a stranger could be dangerous to her, especially in a place like this. Especially a girl like her. "My skills are a little rusty, so I thought about getting my game back on. It's been a while I've put on my pointe shoes," a slight smile rose on her painted lips, as she cocked her head to the side, ever so slightly. The assassin couldn't help but to keep her eyes fixed directly to the girl, taking in her beautiful features that kept on mesmerizing her. Just right before, she had been fierce and strong, but the version that was standing right in front of her at that moment was even more breathtaking. "Wait, you're a ballet dancer?" The girl questioned, raising her eyebrows so high they could've easily creeped up to her hairline. That got a giggle out of Natasha, who couldn't help but to find the gesture adorable. "I guess I am," she answered to the girl, who took a couple of quick steps, right to her face, toes close, barely touching Natasha's. The redhead almost flinched by default, ready for an attack, but she kept her cool better than expected. "You need to teach me! Most of the people in here only know modern or hip hop, and I'm so happy to find someone who is good on the classical side!" You couldn't help but to squeal, smiling so bright that you were afraid you'd look crazy in front of her. Somehow, the woman nodded collectively, a smirk on her full lips, and you felt like you had made a friend after all. "Or if you'd like, just drop by my class someday! I know, I know, hip hop dancing is mainstream and everyone does it, but if you're interested, there's always space for a one more person," the girl looked more than happy to share the invitation with Natasha, and the redhead couldn't do anything else than adore her pure intent. It had been such a long time since the assassin had witnessed anyone be so lighthearted and gleeful, that she had to wonder was it all just a good dream. Maybe she was still in her bed, dreaming about a future she couldn't have, but after considering pinching herself, she got to understand it was truly a reality for her. "I'd love to," the words escaped between Natasha's lips before she was able to catch them, and before she could even regret what she had done, the sparkling eyes of the girl caught her off guard. It was almost like a magical moment, them looking at each other, and Natasha couldn't shake off the warmth in her chest that was gradually growing and spreading across her body. Finally, after years, she felt like warmth was home. "That's glad to hear! I'll be here every day in the class next door, so pop in whenever you want to. I better get running now, so I hope to see you someday!" You felt awful having to part with your newly found relationship, but you were running late once again, and couldn't risk getting kicked out of the dancing school. It was bittersweet, but there was a hope growing inside of you that you'd meet her again. **** It took a five-day wait to meet up with the woman you had seen in your usual training hall. Yes, you clearly counted, and wished every single day that she would pop into your class to even say a simple 'hey'. Maybe it was too much from you, to act like you had actually bonded with the woman in a short span of a couple of minutes, but something inside of you told that you'd most likely would see her again. Everytime the class door would open, your eyes would shoot up to see if she would strut inside, wearing those gorgeous black training clothes she was wearing the last time you saw her, but that never happened- until one beautiful Wednesday day. She was standing in the middle of the empty training studio, hands loosely resting on her hips, green eyes searching the room like it was the eighth wonder of the world. Soft sunrays that were peeking through the light curtains bounced on her skin, making it seem like she was glowing like an angel. She was not facing you, but you could study her side profile like one would do in a museum, mapping out the details of her features. The all-black attire complimented her shape perfectly, and you couldn't help but to catch yourself staring at her with a big smile on your lips. "This room is so much better than the one that I'm using," there was a soft smirk lingering on her lips as you took a step closer, as you lowered the duffel bag on your shoulder to the ground. The redhead took a peek at you over her shoulder, finally facing you fully. There was a moment of silence, as you both just looked at each other, but to your surprise, it was comfortable and understanding. Just like it was meant to be. "Thanks. I mean, bad for you, but it's nice to hear that," you started blabbering, but the blessing laugh that was let out by the other woman was so intoxicating, that you forgot how awkward you must have looked like. "So you finally decided to pop in to learn some moves?" "No, unfortunately I have a job to do. I just thought that I should drop by to give you these headphones that I found from the corner of the room after you left last Friday," the woman said sheepishly, and you couldn't help but to feel a little disappointed. You truly had too high hopes for seeing her again, especially in your own class, but you managed to let a smile crown your lips. The woman took a step closer to you, pulling out neatly wrapped headphones from her black gym jacket, holding them out towards you. "I kind of figured they're yours. If not, then enjoy a free pair," the redhead grinned, tilting her head in an adorable manner. You grabbed them from her small hands, brushing over the soft skin, trying your hardest not to seem like a creep. She just gently smiled at you, piercing green eyes soft as ever, and you swore you could have melted right then and there under her gaze. The slight moment in between the both of you was soon to be broken by the heavy door opening right behind you. Both of you turned to look at the person who entered, who was one of your best students, whose face clearly flashed to deep red as she laid her gaze on both of you. She was seemingly confused, pacing back and forth at the door, before leaving without saying a word. The redhead gave out a slight chuckle, as she turned to look at you the last time. "I guess it's my time to go. Duty calls," those spoken words were soft, almost like a whisper in your ears, and you wanted to savor them until the end. The woman took a couple of steps closer to the door, smoothly passing you by as she went on with her saying. "Your students are starting to come in anyways." "Will I see you again?" Maybe the words you spoke out were desperate at best, and maybe you shouldn't have said them at the end of the day. However, you saw the mysterious woman hovering her hand over the handle of the door, like thinking about something, and you could feel the heartbeat in your chest grow rapidly. A moment of silence, before there was another line let out in the heavy air of the room. "Maybe." The one word was more than enough to give you hope for the upcoming. It was like a bright light that kept on giving you energy on a dark day. Maybe you were being a little way too melodramatic, but you just knew, she was going to turn your life upside down; no matter good or bad. There was no promise made, no nothing, but you felt like that one word itself was a silent way of saying how she would come around- and you were ready to give her all the time she needed. With silent smiles, you finally parted ways, and as the redhead merely had escaped the room, couple of your students bursted into your class. The whole situation was so chaotic; people talking over each other, no one making any sense whatsoever. A confused look was present on your face, as you tried to make everyone calm down and get some sense out of the people that had entered the room. It took a good while to get the people simmer down, as you turned to look at one of your students with a gaze that was more weirded out than ever. "What is going on?" A huff escaped between your lips, as you shook your head to the chaos that had already passed on. You could clearly see the teenagers in front of you looking at each other with big, almost plate-like eyes, just like they wouldn't believe what you had just said. "What?" The pressuring voice that you let out truly got their attention, and finally one of them turned to face you fully, with admiration in her voice. "Was that the Black Widow?" Oh shit.

[keelywolfe]

FIC: Outside Influences ch.1

Summary: Leaving after a late night cooking lesson, Edge stumbled across something unexpected. 

Tags:  Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Off-Screen Attempted Sexual Assault, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Aftermath of Violence, Pre-Spicyhoney, Blood and Injury, Injury Recovery

Notes: Ah, why does my writer’s brain do this to me.

I tagged this with a bunch of warnings but I’ll reiterate here. Off-screen attempted sexual assault is spoken about, nothing graphic is included in the story at all. There’s some blood and injury, not terribly so, but worth warning about. And hurt/comfort, awkward as it is.

If the warnings haven’t scared you off, come on in.

Read it on AO3

or

Read it here!

~~*~~

It was much later than Edge would have normally left after a cooking lesson with Blue, but his companion in the culinary arts had seemed a bit desolate. It went without saying that the issue was his brother’s absence. Rus hadn’t been home all night. Out at Muffet’s, Blue said, with prim yet indulgent disapproval. No doubt he would wander in well past midnight to sleep off his drunkenness and be late to his job the next morning, but if Blue was willing to tolerate his brother’s irresponsible nature, it wasn’t any of Edge’s concern. Still, staying a little longer to chat in the warmth of Blue’s well-maintained home was no hardship and only made it more difficult to head back out into the snow before his own brother worried. Red tolerated the cooking lessons with amusement and appreciation of new dishes, but there would certainly be more than a few pointed words if Red ever had to make the effort to fetch him. He started down the path toward the basement. Something odd caught his attention and Edge paused. Out in the deeper drifts, he could see a pattern of dark stains on the snow. It was none of his concern, but curiosity got the best of him. He waded through the drifts, pulling off a glove as he crouched and touched it lightly. His fingertips came away smeared a deep crimson, deeper than his own magic. Not the blood of a fleshy creature but marrow. There were passing few Monsters in any Universe it could belong to. Hackles raised, Edge followed the path of both footsteps and marrow. The crimson droplets were easier to follow, a staggered trail leading back to the Underswap brothers’ garage. The doorknob held smeary fingerprints, already dried dull against the shiny metal. Edge took a moment to brace himself. He could guess at what he was going to find within. Underfell was nothing if not a brutally effective teacher.

But there was no question that he was better equipped to see it than Blue, and if there was nothing behind this door but a pile of dust, it would be better he saw it first. Carefully, Edge opened the door. Magic was thrumming in him, braced for anything, any possible attack.

There was nothing. The overhead lights were on, glaring down on the room. Two steps in, Edge paused. Around the corner, almost hidden within the cage Blue had lovingly created to hold a captured Human, was a figure curled up in a corner. A familiar hoodie was pulled up over their head, but the smears of marrow liberally decorating it were certainly new. Edge let out a slow breath. If it were too bad, he would already be dust. Very slowly, Edge approached him. He kept his steps deliberate, trying to warn of his presence. There was no sign that he was successful, not a twitch or movement and a lack of dusting aside, it was worrying. “Rus?” Edge said, low. Despite his efforts, Rus startled violently. There was an aborted flicker of a shortcut, a blur of space/time that fizzled and left Rus where he was. To Edge’s jaundiced gaze, it seemed he didn’t have enough magic to complete it. His skull was mostly obscured in the depths of his hood, but Edge could see the dimness of his eye lights, flared wide in panic. “Shh, it’s only me,” Edge tried. “It’s all right, you’re safe.” Soothing was not a skill familiar to him, shaping the words felt awkward. He couldn’t say if it was what he said or if Rus simply recognized his voice, but blind panic faded. Instead, Rus cringed away from him, drawing his knees up to his chest and burying his face in them. “go away.” Muffled into the fabric. “You know that I can’t. What happened?” Edge asked, as gently as he could manage.

The scenario was a familiar one if not in this place; a snarling, bloodied ally, still too agitated to accept assistance. The Dogs in Underfell often bore the brunt of XP hunters and the LV-maddened Monsters who hid in the depths of the Snowdin woods. It had taken a great deal of effort and patience to earn their trust, years, and now it was inviolate, as much as any trust in Underfell could be.

There wasn’t time for that now, so he would have to make do. Checking him was automatic; he would have done the same if he found anyone this way. Rus’s HP was down a few decimals, not dangerously so. Rus only cringed harder, trying to flinch from the inescapable force of the Check. He lifted his skull from his knees and Edge was not the expert at reading faces that his brother was, but that expression was one he knew. That was the face of someone who was about to run, and he would only hurt himself worse trying it. Very carefully, Edge moved so he was in front of the door. If nothing else, it would let him catch Rus before he could escape. "Let me help you." “don’ need help,” Slurred and stubborn, and Edge tamped down viciously on his inner irritation. Yes, Rus could be an annoyance, but he was hurt and scared, hardly in his right mind. It would the height of cruelty to blame him for his reactions. “Your magic is low,” Edge told him. He kept his tone low, almost coaxing. “You need food.” To his surprise, panic lit again in his eye lights, and Rus shifted closer to the wall, cringing. “no, i can’t, my bro, he can’t, please!” Edge hesitated. Blue would likely never forgive him for keeping this from him. That was a unspoken rule between all the ‘verses; no matter the state of their relationship, interference with brothers was strictly verboten.

A flash of memory, a whimpering Dog, bloody scrapes across their muzzle, more smeared on their fur, and that fear was the same.

That decided him.

“All right, easy,” Edge soothed. “We don’t need to see your brother. Come back to Underfell with me.” Rus only looked at him distrustfully, “your bro is there.” “Yes, but Red knows how to keep his mouth shut.” Every thought was plainly visible on Rus’s battered face. All his normal barriers were shattered, his lazy indifference stolen from him, and Edge could read every emotion; fear, worry, yearning. “You can trust me.” It was a calculated risk; Edge had no idea if Rus trusted him or not. Since they’d met there was little between them but insults and glares of distaste. But the unspoken answer was a relief. After a painfully long pause, Rus untangled himself from his curled-up ball. He flinched when Edge reached for him and he stopped, outstretched hands falling.

Carefully, he asked, “Can I touch you?” A low, shaky exhale. “yeah, okay.” As gently as he could, Edge helped Rus to his feet. He let go when Rus tried to jerk free, instead keeping his hand positioned neutrally at Rus’s elbow, ready to catch him if his legs proved unstable. But Rus managed to limp outside. Even his sneakers were dappled with marrow, Edge saw, the trailing laces washed to faded pink by the snow.

The normally welcoming light from the windows seemed more like watchful eyes and Edge breathed easier when they made it to the side of the house, out of sight.

It didn’t take long for Rus’s determination to lag, and soon enough he grudgingly allowing Edge to lead them to the back of the house, down the stairs to the machine. It was slow going; from the Swap ‘verse to Underfell, then up the stairs from their basement. Edge helped Rus patiently along, silently cataloguing what he could. Rus was limping and favoring his right side, cracked ribs, perhaps? He could see smears of marrow on his face, trailing from his nasal aperture. Most of the marrow on his clothes was probably from that, hardly life-threatening but he knew from experience that a direct blow could cause a nasty bleed. There was a fine collection of bruises, but the little he could see of Rus’s skull gave no indication of breaks. Anything else was hidden beneath his clothes and would take persuasion to reveal, Edge was certain. They shuffled along, snow dampening his boots. Rus’s sneakers were soggy with it. “didn’ know where to go,” Rus mumbled. “not home, not ‘nough juice to go anywh’ else.” “Who did this?" Edge asked, quietly. The question was stark in the cold night air. He didn’t expect an honest answer and didn’t get one. Rus only offered a rusty laugh that broke off on a groan. “yeah, no, don' think so. know where that goes. you don' like me, but that don’ mean yer gonna let anyone hurt me. even the worst of us is one of yers an’ you ain’t getting dust on yer hands on my account.” There didn’t seem to be much of an answer he could give to that. But he couldn’t help but wonder at the unfamiliar Hotland accent to his words, similar to Red. Underswap had a few secrets, it seemed, and hid them well.

They stopped just before the stairs on the porch, Rus looking at them with muddy dismay. Only three, but after the two sets in the basements, there was no doubt Rus was reaching his limits. “Let me help you,” Edge said quietly. Rus gave a jerky nod, choking off a whimper as Edge lifted him into his arms, carrying him only to the top step before setting him back down. He made sure Rus caught his balance before letting go. The door swung open before Edge could begin on the row of locks lining the door jamb. Red stood outlined in the light of the living room, his eye lights cutting through the darkness, “’bout time you got home, boss…what the fuck?!” “Move,” Edge said curtly. For a wonder, Red obeyed instantly, holding open the door to allow Edge to guide Rus inside. At the sofa, Rus suddenly resist, almost panicked, until Edge allowed him to sit on the floor instead. Edge sat with him, flicking a glance at his brother, who vanished without a sound. He was back moments later, deftly carrying a bowl of hot water and several clean clothes. By the time Red returned, Rus was curled into himself again, his stained hands clenched fiercely in his lap. “Would you like to get cleaned up?” Edge asked. He waited patiently until Rus gave him a short nod, then lightly touched the back of Rus’s hand. Slowly, he unclenched it, allowing Edge to take it in both of his own. He studied that hand with narrowed sockets. It was filthy with marrow and one of his phalanges was out of joint, bent at an awkward angle. It was tempting to simply yank it into place without warning to keep Rus from tensing and making it worse, but that would likely break their fragile trust. Physical pain was probably better than emotional at this point. “I’m going to fix your finger,” Edge told him quietly. “I’ll try to make it quick.”

As expected, his hand tensed in Edge’s grip, but surprisingly, it relaxed again swiftly. Rus gave a short nod and Edge did not allow himself to overthink it. He took hold of the bent digit and pulled hard. “ah!” Rus whimpered as the joint snapped back into place. But he didn’t flinch as Edge carefully bandaged it with the supplies his brother silently handed him. "I’m sorry,” Edge said quietly. He focused on wrapping that wounded digit. “I can't heal. This may be sore for a few days.” "don’ worry, i can,” Rus laughed, not the deep, sardonic laugh that Edge knew from him, but a thin, coughing rasp. “would've already healed all this if i hadn't run outta juice.” He seemed to realize his mistake instantly and looked away. Edge's jaw tightened. That meant he'd already healed a lot of damage; he'd been hurt even worse than this. Edge said nothing, only worked carefully to clean the dried marrow out of the joints of his hands. When the water was dirtied, Red took it away and brought back fresh. Three bowls of water later, and Rus was nodding off, jerking back awake every time his chin brushed his sternum as he leaned against the side of the sofa he’d refused to sit on. His sockets flickered open as Edge washed his face, taking care not to push back his hood. Another quick Check showed his HP was holding steady, so whatever was beneath it would have to wait until tomorrow. Next to him, Red was silent, but even that spoke volumes. He was breathing in short, quick puffs through his nasal cavity, the red of his eyes burning hot. Edge set a hand briefly on his back in silent warning. Red shook him off, glaring, and Edge met his anger impassively. Now was not the time. Red spun on his heel, stalking to the kitchen. By the time Edge was finished cleaning what he could, Red returned with a tray of steaming cups. Perfectly reasonable, Rus needed to consume something to help restore his magic, but Edge knew better than to trust his brother’s altruism. “here. brought ya some tea,” Red didn’t have to crouch to offer Rus a cup, “an’ there’s plenty of honey in it, so don’t say i never do anything for ya. it’ll help ya sleep.” “prolly don’t need help,” Rus slurred out. He pushed back his hood a little with one fumbling hand, revealing a streak of marrow Edge missed, and he took a cup in his newly cleaned hands, downing half of it in one swallow. He didn’t seem to notice that Red didn’t offer Edge a similar cup and Edge was forced to swallow back his irritation with his brother.

But he didn’t stop Rus from finishing it. Help him sleep? Certainly, but Edge suspected the steeped leaves offered other properties with thick, sweet honey hiding the slightly bitter taste. If it was what he was thinking, it wouldn’t hurt him, but it would make Rus a touch more willing to answer a question or two, answers that they needed. Rus finished the cup with a sigh; already his eye lights were bleary, widening to nearly fill his sockets. Carefully, Edge took the cup from his lax fingers before it fell to the floor.

“so, what happened?” Red asked, lightly. “ya can tell us, can’t ya?”

Rus stirred, blinking owlishly, and he looked from Edge to Red as if he wasn’t quite sure who they were. When he finally spoke, that Hotland accent overshadowed his normal lazy drawl completely. “nuthin’,” Rus mumbled. “some peoples jes don’ like the word no.” It was interesting, Edge thought distantly, how LV could make the soul feel both burning cold and blazing heat, his fury flicking erratically between the two. Rus’s sockets sank closed, and there was marrow on his face, on his clothes, and someone had done this to him, hurt him badly for daring to turn them away.

He only noticed his fingertips were digging through his sleeves and into his arms when he felt a droplet of his own marrow, smearing wetly. “yeah, that sounds like a problem, sure,” Red said easily. He gave Edge a warning look, one that clearly told him to keep his mouth shut, then asked, “anything else we need to take care of? maybe ya want a shower, yeah?”

His fury was blinding at the thought, redness tinting his vision but Rus shook his head, “nah, ain’t like that. didn’ get that far,” Rus’s sockets slit opened, pale eye lights peeking out, “know what yer thinking, shoulda done better. shoulda.” His voice broke a little but Rus pushed through it, “an’ couldna go to my bro, not like this. he knows everyone, they love ‘im.” “Your brother loves you,” Edge retorted, ignoring Red’s hiss, “Do you think your brother would want to associate with anyone who would treat you like this?” The laughter obviously pained Rus, coughed out as he shook his head, “he wouldna understan’. thinks alllll people are good. an he knows i sleep around.” The very idea that simply because Rus indulged in casual sex would mean his brother would —what? Think he deserved this treatment?— was such a foul antithesis to what Edge thought he knew of Underswap that he was momentarily speechless. That any ‘verse wouldn’t be appalled by such treatment; even in Underfell rapists were severely punished.

Finally, Edge ground out, “That doesn’t give anyone the right to force you and I’m sure he’d agree.” “yeah, sure,” Rus sighed out. Curled up, he seemed smaller, fragile. Another time, another place, Edge would have been irritated at his doubt in Blue. But his dull certainty that his brother wouldn’t understand was something else.

The tea had done its job as well as it could and now the secondary effect was kicking in. Rus slumped in the corner formed by the wall and the sofa, snoring faintly. Crouched next to him, Edge sank back to sit on the floor, forcibly unclenching his hands that had unconsciously formed fists again. His sharpened fingertips had broken through the leather at the tips and through to his bony palms, tiny beads of redness welling.

Underswap was supposed to be safe, a flipped mirror to Underfell, a place where he did not need to spend any of his endless worrying on the occupants, on sweet, cheery Blue, delighting in his ‘training’…on Rus, who was always so antagonistic, ready to fire back insults and sarcasm at Edge despite the limitations of his HP. Lazy, perhaps, but comfortably confident in his ‘verse.

A worthy opponent.

He shouldn’t be this, shouldn’t be frightened and fragile, too afraid to go to his own home, afraid of upsetting his brother. He shouldn’t.

But Rus was more correct than he knew; once they’d shared food and hearth together, he was theirs, theirs to protect, and the urge to shake Rus awake and demand the names of who had done this was incredible. The heat of his anger was tainted with the fierce urge to buckle a collar on Rus, warn anyone away from hurting him on penalty of his wrath, so he never again had to seem so fragile, so lost—

…but Edge would no sooner force a collar on him than he would anything else.

“Sans,” Edge said, low. His brother stiffened, his eye lights darting around. Whatever his thoughts on this, they were surely no less than his own. But Red made a show of sighing, allowing a tangled mess of anger and frustration in that one breath. “yeah, boss, i know, gotta stay out of it—” As if Edge would ever believe that. “Find out whatever you can.”

Red stilled and the coldness in his wicked grin made Edge suppress a shiver. “you got it, bro.”

He was gone between one blink and the next, and when he returned, well, information was Red’s area. His was strategy, he had plans to make and at this moment, he wasn’t concerning himself with propriety. Collared or not, no one was hurting one of his without consequence. A soft whimper pulled him from darker thoughts. Rus’s face was twisted in his sleep; whatever dreams that came were haunting him.

Edge pulled the quilt from the back of his sofa, a gift from Blue, and very carefully tucked it around Rus. He sat back down next to him, not so close that a flailing leg or fist might accidentally strike. Rus snugged into the blanket automatically, but those soft, fearful whimpers didn’t stop. “You’re all right, you’re safe,” Edge murmured to him. Useless words, lies, but by all the fallen angels, Edge was going to make them true.

~~*~~

Read Chapter 2