#and subsequently ended up getting stuck to the bottom of my glass when I set it on the floor
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Gotta love picking up your glass in the middle of the night to find an entire ass kitten tooth stuck to the bottom.
#.txt#i have kittens and they are teething so this makes sense BUT#its still like 'how did you get there random tooth??'#it probably just came off while both of them were tearing the shit out of that one cat toy#and subsequently ended up getting stuck to the bottom of my glass when I set it on the floor#I did check afterwards just to make sure both kitties were alright though :)
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Centrifugal Force
Kinktober 2020 — sex swing
A/N: I struggled MAJORLY with this one and especially because I started a new job around the same time I got stuck on this so I put it to the side for a while (a while means a week, I worked on this for a week). I do hope it turns out decent hhhh
Pairing: Akaashi Keiji x f!reader
Description: An unconventional gift from his friends opened up a whole new world for the both of you.
Warning: sex swing (does this count as some type of bondage idk tbh), face fucking, vaginal penetration, creampie
Word count: 3026
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It started as a harmless joke.
The news of the former setter’s successful proposal subsequently revived the Fukurodani volleyball club group chat from the state of a few messages here and there during birthdays and holidays to what could rival its bombard of messages at it’s prime. The messages poured in almost immediately as the news went live with a subtle picture of the silhouettes of your bodies embraced together against the glimmering sea, the subtle spark of the diamond on your finger almost unnoticeable under the dark sky.
“We should do something for Akaashi and y/n!” the former captain said in the chat, accompanied with a dozen of emojis that looked like the text came straight out of a spam bot’s chat history.
And so a new group chat was formed, one without the groom-to-be. At some point, they added people from other schools who might be able to make a valid contribution. It ended up being chaos, utter chaos as they probably should have expected. Suggestions were all over the place, some seemingly more reasonable while others might earn them a stern glare from the one member who was missing from the chat. They ended up listing everything out and doing a draw to see what they should do, handing the job of making the randomisation to poor Tsukishima who really, really did not ask for this.
The chat fell into silence for a while, everyone waiting for Tsukishima to show up again bearing the final results.
The speech bubble popped up, only for it to go back down after a short few seconds before it showed up again. Everyone watched as Tsukishima typed and stopped and typed again, until he sent out a screenshot that had everyone freezing in place.
Until everyone started cussing out the one person who suggested that sending a sex swing to a newly engaged couple was a good idea.
-
Akaashi was certain that the delivery came to the wrong address when he got the parcel.
“Hm? But it specifically says it’s for mr Akaashi Keiji?”
Akaashi stared at the very tall, very large box with a lot of concern and an equal amount of guesses as to what it might be in his head. It really had his name on the receipt with no sender, so it was not a mistake on the shipment agent’s part.
He wasn’t sure if he wanted to keep opening the parcel or not when he sliced the seals open to find a card laying on top.
“We hope you will have fun with this but if you don’t, just know that it is Kuroo’s suggestion. Congratulations on the engagement!”
Akaashi felt his head pound at the letters that were scrawled on the piece of paper. He had a bad feeling on what it might be, and it seemed like his predictions were correct when he moved the card away to see the label plastered across the items in the parcel.
Akaashi was not usually a foul-mouthed person, but what the fuck was this supposed to mean?
“Keiji, what is this-” you peered over his shoulder to see what he was crouching over, and stopped in place when you saw what was inside, “why, I didn’t know you’re into this...”
“I did not get this...”
“If I knew you were interested I would have brought it up way earlier-” you paused, your eyes meeting with his widening ones as your hands froze mid-air, “oh.”
He blinked, watching as you slowly flickered your gaze away from him with a sheepish smile. “Oh.”
Akaashi had never really thought much about sex swings, if he had to be very honest. It just didn’t seem practical or all that feasible for apartment living. But that night, when you hooked your legs onto the hooks that dangled off the frame, your face physically burning up with your body being completely exposed under his attentive stare as your legs parted and swayed as your hands gripped tightly onto the handle. The strap sat right below your ass, arching you up and presenting your bare cunt to him as you leaned back against the supportive strap at the back.
“Don’t just stare...” you muttered, feeling very small as he just stood there and raked his eyes all over your frame.
He let out a soft gasp at the way you fell back when he ran his finger up your sex, every heave of your chest and curl of your toe completely within his view as he slowly rubbed his finger against your folds.
You were completely wrecked that night, your voice hoarse after he made you cum again and again on his cock with his hands on the suspensions, slamming you down on him with a brute force that had you seeing stars with each swing of your hips forward. The adrenaline rush he felt when he pulled out of you and watched his cum dripped between your legs onto the floor was unreal, your cunt clenching around nothing as they laid bare for him to see.
He decided on the spot that he was going to keep the swing as he helped you down from the seat, your body slumping onto his arms immediately as your knees bucked the moment you finally touched the floor again.
-
“My, my, look at you...”
Your breath hitched at the voice that rang behind you, a soft whimper escaping your lips when you felt his warm palm pressing onto the small of your back.
Akaashi admired the way your body was held up so perfectly by the suspensions as you laid stomach first on the seat. The support on your torso had you arching your back up, your ass perching mid-air as your legs were strapped onto the two cuffs at the side. He could see the way your folds were fluttering from the position, taking note of how you seemed to be turned on just from being laid out on your fours for next time. Your body spun just slightly as the suspensions twisted under your weight, letting him take a good look of you from each angle as he held onto the straps that led to the handles your hands were gripping onto for dear life.
You whimpered when he slid the metal frame of his glasses off the bridge of his nose with two nimble fingers and he chuckled at the reaction. You could see the glint in his eyes clearly now that the two lenses were gone, goosebumps rising on your skin at the amused smile that accompanied the glimmer in his slanted eyes.
“Beautiful.”
A soft peck on the lips when he kneeled down in front of you set your skin aflame, the barest bit of contact making you ache for more when he pulled back after the light touch. He cooed when you chased his lips after pulling away, his hand running along the suspension belt to trace along your fingers that were latching onto the handle.
“Gonna be good for me?” he hummed at your eager nod in response to his question, the way you arched your ass up further did not go unnoticed by him.
“Good girl,” he muttered under his breath, his hand going down to take his cock in hand as he gave it a languish pump. He let out a content sigh and the sound made your mouth run dry, poking your tongue out to wet your lips as he deliberately distanced himself as his length filled and warmed in his hand.
Your body was pushed back when he fisting your hair in his free hand and yanked your head back. A slight tap at your cheek with his hard tip was the only signal you needed to open your mouth up, holding back the urge to whine when he placed his cock on your tongue that was flat against the base of your jaw. Your drool was pooling up in your mouth as he just held it there, the weight making it hard for you to focus on your breathing as heat spread across your face from the burning shaft against your warm muscle.
An unexpectant thrust had you gagging around his girth, the snap of his hips jerking you away from him before gravity slammed you right back down. The soreness at the back of your throat shot right up to your nose, prickling tears at the corner of your eyes.
He gritted, through clenched teeth, pulling your hair taut against your scalp as he set a vigorous pace, each gag as the tip of your nose brushed past the tuff of hair at his base sending vibrations to the center of his stomach. His hand that was holding on the suspension that held you up clenched around the rope, swinging you back and forth simultaneously with each move of his pelvis, the tightening of your throat had him shoving you down just a little deeper at a sudden lack of control. The handle that was in your hand was the only thing you could hold on for leverage but it did nothing to stop the way your body met him mid-thrust as you swayed helplessly on the swing.
You felt your inner walls clench at the rough treatment, the burn in your throat prickling through the back of your scalp and melting into a numbing shock. In this sate, you were nothing but a few holes for him to use and the sheer control he had over you made your next gag came out as something resembling a whimper.
The sound of his cock gliding against your drooling lips was sloppy in your ear. He grunted when he pulled away all of a sudden, feeling a power rush at how you still hung your jaw slack with your tongue lolled out even as you had nothing to wrap your lips around. Your eyes were glassy from the tears, the silver string of spit that coated the tip of his cock and your bottom lip was nowhere near graceful. You huffed, struggling to regain your breaths temporarily as he held your head still. You whined when he rubbed his tip around the rim of your mouth, the leaking bead of pre-cum and your drool messing you up as the substance threatened to slide down your chin.
He arched your head back, admiring his handiwork as he stared down at you. The sharp gaze as he inspected your opened-mouth and white trails darting all over your chin had you letting out a muffled whine, your tongue still extended and slack against your bottom lip in an attempt to please him.
“Ah...” he let out an approving note from the back of his throat and the gravel lingering his voice made you shiver, “keep that mouth open for me, won’t you?”
You could not utter a word of response, only able to let out a muffled whimper when he took a stride until he was right behind you. Jolts of numbing shock rushed through your body when he trailed the very tip of his index finger along your spine as he moved, the lightest of contact eliciting goosebumps on every inch of your skin. You still felt the phantoming feeling on your back when he lifted his finger with a tread, the edge of his well-trimmed nails barely scraping against your skin.
Your back arched uncontrollably under the tingles and pushing your ass further up, which was met with a pleased caress of his palm against your perched hips.
A firm smack against your flesh had your entire body swinging forward, the force that brushed past your skin when you rocked backwards from the swing had you clenching and moaning through parted lips as the sting settled in. Akaashi took in the way your ass jiggled and especially how your core was glistening with the sheen of your arousal right in front of his eyes. You whimpered when he held you still by your thighs, hilting the swinging of your frame to a stop as he lined his tip at your drooling cunt.
“Hugn-”
Your eyes rolled back when he pushed in inch by inch, his eyes glued onto the sight of your folds sucking his cock in greedily as your spit that coated his length mixed in with the mess that was dripping down from the root of your thighs. He let out a sigh when he sheathed inside of you, the plump curves of your hips pressing right against his pelvis as he hilted balls deep in you. Your shoulders were tensing up as your hands gripped vice at the handle, each huff that slipped off your lips made his blood curl. The soft whimper you let out when he took his hands off your legs was like a mewl, your walls clamping down around him as you were once again at the mercy of nothing holding you up but the seat and cuffs.
One push of his hands on the sling shoved you off his cock only for you to slam down in full force when he rocked you backwards. You let out a broken cry at the sudden stretch, throwing your head back when he pulled out all the way only to plow deep in you as the swing sent you jolting back. You could do nothing but moan and scream as he took advantage of the swing, his fingers curled around the suspensions that linked to what cuffed your legs down with each handling of your body.
Each push and pull was in perfect timing with his thrusts, the swoosh of the seat meeting his bucking hips midway to pulse into you until his hard tip was kissing the spot right below your cervix. He showed no sign of slowing down, grunts and hisses seeping from his gritted teeth as he was wrapped around your warm walls, feeling your insides taking him in like it could not get enough every time he threatened to pull out with a shove of your body forward.
He could not get enough of seeing your shaking frame and the soft flesh of your body jiggling under his force, your skin heating up with each slam of his pelvis against you and his balls slapping against your clit that was already puffy from the sensation. You were sure to feel him in you for days even after he pulled out, his cock drilling in you like he was determined to bruise you up until you were reminded of how he could make you break for him with each buck of your knees even as your feet touch the ground once again.
You were panting with each slap of his skin against yours, the erratic breathing made all the more difficult as you struggle to keep your mouth open as he had asked you to. The violent sway of your body together with each hilt of his cock in you made you feel light headed, as if your world was spinning both literally and figuratively. The waves of your orgasm ripped through your body as a numbing chill, making the tip of your ears heated up until you could not feel it within your burning senses anymore. Akaashi grunted at the feeling of your fluttering folds around his girth, your pulsing walls that hugged him closely from you crashed down making him all the more eager to have his way with you. You let out a weak whine when you felt his fingers digging into your hips, roughly parting the flesh to watch as his cock disappeared in you with each slam. Without his hands controlling the swing, the way your body moved with gravity was much sloppier but so much more forceful as it swung back and forth from nothing but the snapping of his hips.
You whined when he held you close, the sudden stop making your head dipped forward and your body tilting down. The strings of warmth that filled you up with a choked moan from the man behind you had your vision hazy, his cock pulsing in you as he shot his load inside your abused walls in the intimate position. He pressed you against him for a brief moment, drinking in the feeling of your bodies being so rawly connected before finally letting gravity took its charge.
Your jaw was slack as you lazily retracted your tongue, a whimper rolling off your lips at the sudden emptiness when he pulled out of you. Sparks lit up on your skin when he put his thumbs on both sides of your slip, pulling it apart to see your fluttering folds pushing his cum out of you. The sticky substance seeped out of you bit by bit, dripping onto the floor as you laid on the seat limply and too fucked out of your mind to even push yourself up.
“Think you need help getting down?” he asked with a light chuckle, his hand running along your leg in a soothing manner before carefully uncuffing your ankles and rubbing against the marks that were left.
“Please do...” you muttered, leaning into his touch when he got in front of you and leaned your upper body against his chest. You nearly put all your weight on him when he helped you down from the seat, your hands flailing to grip onto something only for him to prop you up with his hand under your arms.
You laughed when he slipped his hand under your knees, using the last bit of energy in you to hop up so he could carry you in his arms.
“We should really let them know that they picked a really good gift...” you mumbled as he carried you to the bathroom.
He paused, before shaking his head, “No, I think it’s better to not give them any more ideas.”
There was no way he was going to let anyone know what you were up to in the bedroom, less he wanted them to never stop bringing it up.
#haikyuu imagines#haikyuu imagine#haikyuu x reader#haikyuu smut#akaashi x reader#akaashi imagines#akaashi imagine#akaashi smut#kinktober 2020
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Dead Girl | B.B
Winter Soldier/Bucky Barnes x reader
Warnings: graphic violence including fist fighting, guns and knives, death, hella sad tbh
Word count: 2.1k
a/n: welcome to a semi part 2 of the fic no one asked for! While this is technically part two to My Girl, this can be read separately. There’s like... one reference to the first one and it’s fine. This fic is based on the song Dead Girl by Baby Snooks! Anyway, like/reblog/leave feedback if you enjoyed!!! Moodboard made my me!
Since you were kids, you, Steve and Bucky were inseparable. You didn't really have the choice with Steve, but, you enjoyed Bucky's presence. Steve watched as your feelings for Bucky progressed, from your first crush, to your first love, to your first kiss. Steve couldn't complain, he loved the idea of his best friend being his brother in law. Until the war broke out, you had talked heavily of marriage with Bucky. He kissed you goodbye the night before he left and you don't know if your heart had ever been more broken.
Maybe Bucky is the reason you followed Steve into the army, or maybe it was because you couldn't bear to let your twin go by himself. Project Rebirth wanted twins for the Super Soldier Serum, and they wanted to see how it affected women. You were the perfect guinea pigs.
After rescuing Bucky to subsequently lose him again when he fell from the train, all you had was Steve. You hadn't felt this sorrow since the death of your parents. Steve clutched onto you as you sobbed, his own tears falling onto the top of your head. "Til' the end of the line," rang in the back of your minds, and you vowed to always be by each other's side.
And that's how they found you, frozen and cold in the dark depths. By each other's side. 70 years is a long time to be frozen, but for you, no one else mattered but Steve. He was all you had left and, as you progressed into this new and advanced world, he was the only person you could truly count on. Even the Avengers, as they called themselves, were a rough group to melt into, to get along with. You tended to your own missions assigned by SHIELD. When it became clear the SHIELD was taken over by HYDRA, you and your twin brother were now fugitives.
You killed me on the inside
You pretty parasite
Ate me alive
From the inside
Everything came to a head that day when you and Steve were running from HYDRA. Natasha had stuck with you to clear out citizens, while Steve had tried to distract the notorious Winter Soldier by misdirecting him. Steve’s efforts proved fruitless. The assassin’s sights seemed to be set on you.
After rolling away and sprinting down the street, you and Nat were trying to clear the avenue of civilians. Bullets flew past you as the Winter Soldier marched in your direction, shooting after you. The two of you met up behind a car and crouched, devising a plan.
"You get as many civilians out of here as you can, I'll hold him off. He won't stop, so keep running," you instructed her. She tried to protest, but you stopped her before she could, "just do it."
You stood as Nat ran. You looked in the direction of the assassin heading toward you, his prey.
Crawling thru my veins
Preying on my pain
You began your stride toward him, running headfirst into battle just like you always did. This ghost of an assassin was relentless, and he seemed to only be after you. It was your duty to protect these people and give the Winter Soldier the fight he wanted. You pulled your handgun from its holster and fired off three shots aimed for the man's chest. You were confident in your aim, but he kept coming, seemingly unaffected by bullets, and for a moment, you second guessed your shots.
He lifted the automatic rifle in your direction and fired off a volley of shots at you. You rolled out of the way, crouching behind a car again. You breathed heavily, squeezing your eyes shut in concentration.
When the firing stopped, you stood again and ran full sprint toward him, lifting your own pistol to fire a shot in his direction again. You fired the shot as a distraction before reaching him and jumping up and spinning, wrapping your legs around his torso and neck in an effort to pin him down. You used your momentum to flip him onto the asphalt, landing crouched on your feet next to his head as his gun skidded across the rough ground. You moved quickly, straddling his chest and pinning his arms beneath your knees. You managed to land two blows to his face before his non-metal arm snaked its way up your waist and made you freeze. The action was so familiar, so ingrained. But there was no possible- you were shoved to the ground before your thoughts could come together in a coherent string of consciousness. The soldier had thrown you off of him as he stood and reached for his weapon. You scrambled to kick it away.
You let out a yell as the assassin stomped your leg under his boot. You snarled and pulled a dagger from its sheath on your waist, slashing at his leg from the ground. He stepped back to dodge your attack, giving you the opportunity to stand up and face your attacker. The Winter Soldier was more than a worthy opponent and you were starting to worry about your chances.
I was weak on the inside
Drowning in my pain
In the scuffle, the soldier's eyepiece flew off, exposing bright blue eyes encircled in black. Oceans you could swim in forever. No, that wasn’t right. He pulled a handgun loose from its holster, aiming squarely for your chest. You stepped to the left and ran behind another car, the shots following closely behind you as glass shattered around you. Your head pounded as you pressed your back to the cool metal of the car. The car jolted behind you as the Winter Soldier jumped on top of it, looking down at you before raising his weapon again to shoot. You twirled and kicked the handgun free from his hand before he could fire. He jumped down and in front of you, swinging a fist in your direction. You raised your arm to cover your face, effectively blocking his blow with your forearms. You pushed at him, giving you some space to dodge and attack. You shook your head and ran forward again, fists balled and dagger in hand as you jumped and raised the dagger, swiping downward to slash across his chest. He reached up and grabbed your wrist, stopping your attack and throwing you into the side of the car behind you. You groaned as you landed on the hard ground, holding your side. You heard his footsteps marching toward you and hoisted yourself up, sending a roundhouse kick to his jaw. He was unable to block your speed this time and he stumbled backward, the force of your kick knocking his face mask off. He stood away from you now, dirty brown hair falling into his face as he caught his breath. He turned to face you and you felt your heart stop.
There, standing three yards in front of you, was the love of your life. Apparently, not dead. Apparently, very much alive. Apparently, very intent on killing you.
“Bucky?” Your voice cracked as you whispered, too much distance between the two of you for him to hear.
Bucky glared at you as he breathed heavily before turning his body in your direction and sprinting at you ferociously. Your eyes widened and you darted out of the way as he raised his fist mid-sprint and plunged it downward, right into the hard asphalt ground where you were just standing.
Without thinking, you called out. “Bucky, it’s me.” A sob escaped your lips as you looked at him.
Ima dead girl,
Ima, ima dead girl
Ima dead girl
“Who the hell is Bucky?” His voice was smooth, just as you had remembered it. It reminded you of the bourbon he kept on the top shelf, the one that created a warm pit in the bottom of your stomach when you drank it with him. A harsh blow landed on your abdomen, sending you flying as you were lost in your thoughts. You landed against the car door, the back of your head snapping through the window. You felt the glass cut your scalp and blood drip down your neck and shoulders. You cried out in pain as you fell forward onto your hands and knees, your breathing labored and heavy. You swallowed harshly as you looked up at him marching toward you.
“Bucky,” your voice pleaded, “Buck, you know who I am, don’t do this,” you cried, still on your knees as if praying to a higher power that wasn’t listening. He reached you and hiis metal hand snatched a fistful of your hair and lifted you up to stand, his eyes not looking away from yours. For a moment, you thought you saw recognition in them, until his other fist landed itself on your stomach sending waves of pain rippling through your body. You realized there was no look in his eyes, only determination to complete his mission. Your breath left your lungs and your vision blurred as you doubled over and he let you fall to the ground. He tilted his head as he looked down at you, almost curiously. You had stopped fighting back and he wasn’t sure why, but it only made his job easier. You scrambled back and away from him, pulling a second dagger out of the holster on your thigh. He raised his eyebrows, almost amused at your futile attempt to defend yourself, until he felt the knife plunge its way into his thigh. You stood a yard away from the man when you threw it. You watched him pull out the dagger and throw it to the side as if it was nothing.
Ima,
Ima,
Ima,
Fuck it
"Fuck it," you thought bitterly as tears and blood streamed down your face. He was too strong. You knew he'd beat you, eventually. He came at you hard and intense, his fists throwing blows nonstop as you dodged and blocked him.
"Bucky!" You shouted, trying to get his attention. You pushed him away and backed up, putting some space between the two of you. Your mind was racing, but you only saw one way out of this. You began to lower your arms, slowly, no longer trying to fight back, only to defend. You looked him in the eyes as he advanced on you. Nothing in them gave the idea that he knew who you were, knew what you once meant to each other. That he once loved you more than anything. He'd never dream of harming you like he had today, and that's how you knew this was hopeless. You felt a trickle of blood run down your neck and onto your clavicle, the same place that Bucky’s lips once grazed and kissed.
How's it feel to see me out here choking, choking?
"Bucky, please, remember." You pleaded, holding your palms out to him. He marched forward, continuing his hunt. You squeezed your eyes shut as he reached you, his metal arm seizing your throat and lifting you off the ground. Your oxygen was cut off immediately as the machine beneath squeezed. He threw you down, making you slide across the rough pavement. You groaned and rolled, coughing and gasping. Before you could stand, he was over you, his feet on either side of your abdomen. He got to his knees and placed his metal fingers around your throat again, choking you.
"Bucky," a tear rolled down your cheek. There was no escaping this. "I forgive you, Bucky." You coughed and tried to continue without air, "I know you'll blame yourself when-," you tried to gasp for more air as your face started to feel hot, "when this all comes back to you, but don't," the tears were unstoppable now as his grip tightened. You clawed desperately at his arm, trying to pry it away.
"Stop talking," he growled. You squeezed your eyes shut and opened them again, your vision starting to pop and blur.
"I forgive you, Bucky," you choked out. You tried to gasp one more time but to no avail. There was no air left, and you couldn't take it anymore. Your hand fell limply from his and your eyes slowly closed, one last exhale leaving your lips. He held his hand there for a few more seconds, ensuring his mission was complete before standing up and marching away, leaving your body on the cement. He had one more mission to complete.
Stripped me of my soul and left me broken, broken
Steve had to be the one to tell Bucky what he did. Years later, when Bucky was finally in his right mind. Steve had to be the one to tell Bucky where the love of his life was, who, beyond all odds, survived the same 70 years that they did, only to be killed by the one person she truly loved. Steve had to be the one to cry to his best friend who murdered you, his twin. Steve, once again, lost one of the only people in the world who meant something to him.
—
Always Taglist: @elijahs-wife @dumble-daddy @soul-revoir @akshi8278 @nikmikaelsonswife @njeancastro316 lmk if you wanna be added to the taglist
#The Winter Soldier#The Winter Soldier imagine#Bucky Barnes#Bucky Barnes fic#the Winter Soldier Fic#angst#fic#my writing#i have been working on this for a solid 3 months pls bc nice#Bucky Barnes angst#im exhausted please ignore any spelling mistakes#I did my last edit while half asleep so#enjoy!!#marvel fic#I’m nervous about this LOL#so I’m going to sleep
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Michael Clifford goes to uni with a mountain of advice on what to expect.
None of it, it seems, turns out to actually be true.
University was supposed to be the best time of his life. Or, that’s what everybody told him, citing all the enlightening courses he would take, the raging parties he would attend, the rampant feeling of indestructible freedom he would exult in.
They failed to mention how he would be waiting in the laundry room at three in the morning because all his clothes were frankly beyond stale-smelling and starting to offend his roommates. They failed to mention that all the dryers would subsequently be filled with like, five loads of pink lacy things during his quick run to the minimart for a midnight snack to tide him over until next morning’s breakfast. They failed to mention how fucking long it takes for like, five loads of pink lacy things to actually run through a drying cycle.
Michael Clifford sits in the basement of his dormitory, a pile of dripping laundry beside him in a plastic basket with one of the handles broken, trying desperately to not fall asleep. It smells like dampness and mold and copious detergent spills.
He runs a hand through his hair and rubs along his neck, checking to see if there’s any excess dye from his escapades earlier with a bottle of purple he'd picked up on a whim last Thursday. There is, of course, and he wipes his palm along his denims.
Except he's forgotten that he's not wearing his black denims because they're all stacked up beside him. He's just wiped a streak of dark purple all down the leg of his last clean pair of pajama bottoms.
"Fuck me," he says, grumbling and rummaging among his laundry things for one of those fucking stain sticks that Calum always bugged him about getting whenever they went to the shops together. His fingers snag it but, as he's trying to extricate it from the tangle of wet, black fabrics, it slips out and rolls under one of the dryers that's still chugging along.
"Oh, fuck me."
He's so exhausted, but Michael knows from past experience that the stain will set if he doesn't treat it soon.
So, he gets down on hands and knees and just as soon as he's gotten his whole arm shoved under the dryer, fingers searching the dusty cement for the stick, and his face pressed up against the glass front of the dryer, there's clattering footsteps coming down the stairs.
"God, you fucking perv!"
What?
It takes him a second to determine that it's him that the shrieking voice is addressing, mostly due to sleep deprivation and the fact that one ear is filled with the tumbling thunder of the machine.
"What?" He didn't say he understood why he was being addressed.
Through his one available eye - the one not stuck up against the glass pane showing all the pink lacy things - he can see a flurry of long limbs flying towards him and instinctively throws himself away from the dryer.
A girl stands before him in a floppy set of sweats, arms crossed and arms furious. “You think it’s cool to drool all over a dryer with my knickers in it, huh? Think you’re smart or something, perv?”
Immediately he puts his hands up defensively. “Oh my god, oh my fucking god, no! I dropped something under the dryer and I was just trying to reach it. Jesus!”
Grumbling under her breath, she whips through the laundry room towards the row of dryers and, in one economical movement that defies the laws of physics, manages to pile all five loads of pink lacy things into a basket, and leaves in a hurricane.
+
When they told him about university, there was a lot more emphasis on the amazing things he would learn and less on the amount of time it would take for him to learn them. A lot more emphasis on renewed perspectives and a lot less on how long it would take sitting at a table in the university library reading things dead people wrote over seventy years ago to actually understand why his perspectives needed renewing in the first place.
They also neglected to mention how much of a maze the university library was and how all of the easily-accessible tables were always taken ridiculously early in the evening.
Michael Clifford sighs as he pushes himself through the gaps between the shelves, turning his body sideways so he can get back to his table as quickly as possible and still have some time to complete his coursework before today turned into tomorrow.
Of course, as he’s making the final turn at an insane angle in a narrow passage that makes it impossible to see around the other side because this is university and why would anything as simple as walking back to his table be easy for chrissakes, he bumps into another body.
Well, bumps really isn’t the right word. Crashes is more accurate. Vaguely, his mind catalogs the sensations as he begins to fall backwards from the collision: long hair whispering along the side of his neck, sharp pain in his chest from the edges of textbooks, the condensation coating the outside of a water bottle soaking into his shirt.
“Shit!” The word explodes from his mouth as he bumpers off the shelves behind him, thankfully not knocking any books off the shelves.
He’s immediately chastised by a harsh whisper.
“Will you keep it down? We’re in a library, genius.”
Snarking back automatically, Michael says, “Oh, really? I thought this was a zoo.”
“Well, it might be,” the girl on the ground replies, giving a pointed look at his hair as she readjusts her glasses.
It’s the pink lacy girl, this time dressed in an entirely different set of baggy sweats, not a speck of pink or lacy anything on her.
Fuck this, fuck his history of religion paper on transcendentalism in 19th century America. What did those dead people know anyway?
“I don’t need to put up with this shit, thanks,” he says as he picks up his books from the floor and heads out the door.
He’s going to go take a nap.
+
When they told him about the textbooks that he would have, they expressed how miraculous they would be, how every page he turned would bombard his brain with information he couldn’t live without now.
They failed to mention how much each of those pages cost. After his trip to the bookstore at the beginning of term, one would have thought that each book was bound in genuine Italian leather and illuminated in gold leaf by an isolated sect of monks who only work once every eight days and take three month-long holidays each year.
Which is why, two days later when he actually goes about writing the essay on transcendentalism in 19th century America because he really doesn’t want to flunk out of uni and have to head back to the Southern hemisphere, he’s having a mild panic attack.
His book is gone, his history text that cost him more than two weeks’ worth of wages at his part-time job, and in its place is a pro-fem book detailing the struggles of minority women after the end of the Civil Rights Movement.
It’s actually quite intriguing, and he finds himself reading through the introduction before he remembers to look in the inside cover for a name.
Michael Clifford finds what he’s looking for in blocky script written with a hunter green gel pen: Tal Harrison.
To his horror, he searches her name in the student directory and finds that she lives in his hall, on his floor. The other end of the hall, granted, which is like over fifteen doors down, but still. On his floor.
His horror mounts as another realization strikes him. If he has her book, then she must have his.
The thought of more confrontation with the pink lacy girl makes him a touch queasy. Not as queasy as shifting the majority of the food-money in his monthly budget over to paying for another copy of this book, though.
Mustering up his nerve, he takes one last look at her room number before shoving his feet into a pair of slippers and grabbing her textbook. He shuffles down the hallway, counting the doorways under his breath.
He needs to know exactly how far away from him she is so he can forevermore maintain that distance at all costs.
Stopping in thirteen doors later, Michael bites nervously at his lip before bringing his hand up to knock at the door. Three knocks, then a pause.
Which stretches out obscenely long.
He knocks again, three more times. Another pause.
Goddamn, he really needs his book back, especially considering he’s fallen into another fit of procrastination and left off the essay until tonight, even though it’s due tomorrow morning at the beginning of lecture.
Michael is just about to knock again when the door to his left opens up and a head pokes out of the frame.
“They’re never in this early, so I would suggest you stop knocking and leave. Some of us are trying to study, y’know.”
It’s the girl. The pink lacy girl. The girl that has his book.
Tal Harrison.
He starts to talk, to try and defend himself and also to ignore the fact that he failed to correctly count to fifteen, when her eyes widen, gaze dropping down to the cover of the textbook he’s still got in his hand.
“Hey,” she says, “You’re the asshole who took my book in the library! And the asshole perving in the laundry room!”
“Excuse me, I’m the asshole trying to return your book right now, thanks. And I was not perving in the laundry, Christ! I was waiting for a dryer to open up because you had filled up every single one with your shit.”
To his surprise, Tal – he figures he better start actually using her proper name now – colors, cheeks pinking up just a few shades lighter than her pink lacy things.
“Sorry,” she murmurs, ducking her head. “I…mis-prioritised. Left the wash until I ran out of everything.”
“Is that even a word?” The question is out before he can catch it, and his face flushes, realizing exactly how rude he probably sounded, especially after she had apologized.
“Nope.” She pops the p, motioning him over to her doorway. “Here, I must have your book then, right? If you have mine, we must have switched them accidentally.”
Her room is nothing like what he had expected. Although, granted, his only expectations – bare walls with a magenta punching bag in the corner – stemmed from aggressive encounters with a girl who wears loose sweats and pink lacy things.
Instead, there’s only a minimal amount of painted brick walls exposed. The rest are covered with whiteboards, which themselves flash in a rainbow of dry-erase markers detailing out complicated-looking diagrams and equations with too many foreign symbols for him to understand.
There is a neat, patterned bedspread in shades of dark blues and purples as well, along with a full bookcase and well-organized desk crammed into the rest of the space in the small single.
“Here,” Tal says, locating and extracting his history book easily from one of the stacked piles at the corner of her desk. “That’s yours, right?”
He takes it from her absentmindedly, eyes still overwhelmed by the formulas on all the whiteboards. Michael honestly thought Luke was the only one crazy enough to be into all that maths shit.
“Physics.” She plays with the pencil behind her ear and readjusts her glasses. “I’m Physics and Gender Studies. Joint degree.”
“That’s…” he starts, but she cuts him off.
“Totally weird, I know, it’s difficult to explain --”
“I was gonna say that it’s really impressive. Like, really impressive.”
She pinks again, looking pleased. “Oh. Oh, thanks. What’s yours? I’m Tal Harrison, by the way.”
Now he’s the embarrassed one. “History, just history. And I’m Michael, Michael Clifford.”
+
Someone is being killed down the hall. If there’s any way to judge by the noises, Michael would suppose that whatever the method of homicide is, it’s not a clean one.
There’s another piercing scream that cuts through the guitar solo blasted through his ears.
They didn’t mention anything about mass murder in when they told him about living at uni.
Okay, hell, they really didn’t tell him anything actually applicable to life at a university in general, so he’s just going to stop mentioning it at this point.
Five more seconds of shrieking later, and he gets up in a huff, pulling on a jumper over top his boxer shorts and puts on his slippers again. Trekking out into the hall only amplifies the noise as it bounces down the narrow passage and back up.
After some investigation, Michael finds that the sounds take him to the door to the women’s washroom.
Fuck.
One lengthy internal debate later, he tamps down the urge to walk away and turn the volume back up on his headphones. The screaming has intermingled with sobbing now, so he grits his teeth and slowly pushes the door open.
In hindsight, knocking first may have been a good idea.
The door to one of the shower stalls has become inexplicably unlocked and now sways inwards. The contents of a shower caddy are dumped across the floor, shampoo bottles and those weird poofy things that his mom keeps in their bath strewn and rolling around on the slick tile.
Tal is in there, water turned off with the world’s tiniest towel preventing him from getting an eyeful, body quivering and legs knocking.
She’s staring, petrified at the drain in the center of the shower, shallowly breathing.
He clears his throat. “Um, Tal?”
Head snapping up, her eyes widen. “Michael, thank God. Help me, um, please?”
She gestures down to the drain, motioning to the thing he previously thought was just a clump of hair in stuck in the metal grate.
“Holy hell.”
There’s a big-ass spider down there, sitting on top of the drain. He stares at the big-ass spider. The big-ass spider stares back at him and twitches its legs threateningly.
Tal shifts nervously. “Michael?”
He and the big-ass spider exchange glances once more. The eight beady eyes only serve to harden his resolve. “Okay, you’re gonna have to jump over here. I’m not getting any closer to that.”
“Jump?”
“Yeah,” he says, motioning to the little bench where the plastic shower caddy once sat. “Just, like, step up there and jump across to me and I’ll catch you. No worries.”
She wavers, indecision showing as her eyebrows furrow. “But what if I slip?”
“I’ll catch you.” He sounds much more confident than he actually is. He hasn’t worked out in a few weeks, and he’s pretty sure that chicken-boy Luke could bench more than him at this point.
But, when she does jump, she does slip. Everything slows down to half time, and he can only watch, arms outstretched to catch her, horrified as she throws her hands out to break her fall. The world’s tiniest towel drops to the ground just as she crosses the last bit of the gap between them and lunges into his chest.
Boobs. Boobs pressed against him.
Michael takes a long, hard look at the ceiling tile and contemplates his grandmother’s undergarment choices and the last time he found Calum in their room dancing suggestively around to the newest emasculating pop song.
He tries to ignore the sensation of her wet hair dripping on his collarbone as she shakes, repeating over and over, “Oh my God, oh my God, I touched it with my foot, I touched it, oh my God.”
“Tal,” he starts after she’s beginning to calm down. “Tal, um, I’m going to let go of you now and close my eyes so you can get your towel, okay.”
“Okay.”
She’s not brave enough to get anything else besides her room key and robe, and, honestly, Michael’s not either. So, they end up in his room, her in his borrowed shirt and sleep trousers – the one with the purple stripe down the leg because he didn’t end up getting to it in time after all – perched on the edge of his desk chair while he sits on his bed and makes them a cup of fortifying coffee.
They end up talking until three in the morning, even though they’ve both got early lectures the next day.
+
Okay, he lied. They did tell him one thing about uni that seems to be marginally true.
There is, often as not, a greater chance of finding really good mates at university. Some of those friendships might happen after traumatic incidents because, hey, sometimes, near-death experiences with spiders in bathrooms really bring people together.
Some of those people might be certain particular girls. Those particular girls might live on his floor.
Those particular girls might be named Tal Harrison and smell nice and are the optimum combination of really fucking smart and really fucking cute.
Michael Clifford might have a little bit of a crush.
Tal ends up routinely saving him a spot at her reserved table in the library when he wakes up late from his afternoon nap. In return, he supplies the coffee and the occasional apple that he manages to steal from Calum’s hoard of assorted fruit.
“Hey,” she says, grinning. “Make yourself at home.”
Silently, he presents the traditional offering of coffee and fruit and they settle down to their work, her on more physics coursework and him on a mountain of history readings he needed to complete by yesterday.
He can’t keep quiet for long though, as he’s distracted by the question that’s been burning on his mind for weeks. It finally bursts out.
“Why were you so mean to me when we first met?”
She twirls a piece of hair around her finger as she continues to copy down notes from her book. “Well, you were in a compromising position. You were kind of a dick. And kind of cute. So, I got flustered.”
Michael blinks. Cute?
“Also, you really did look like you were perving on my knicks so I was totally justified there.”
“You’re cute.”
Oh God, he said that out loud.
She pulls her head up to look at him for a long moment, before her eyes crinkle up in a smile. “Thanks, Mikey.”
So, when he takes her hand later as he finishes his reading and she works through the rest of her notes, it isn’t weird at all.
This is the one thing he’s going to write home about.
#5sosff#5sos fanfic#michael clifford#fic: glass in the park#updates#i'm finally posting some of my other 5sosff stuff to my tumblr!!#in case anyone is still wanting to read this
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D4 FFXV Drabble - One Shot
Featuring Gladio and Ignis. in which Ignis has a bad day at the office, punctuated by an attempt on his life by the office vending machine.
The mechanical whir of the machine broke his momentary stupor. Sighing heavily, Ignis gazed through the scratched glass panel of the vending machine, waiting for his selection to drop. It was a pathetic excuse for dinner, he knew it, but there wasn’t much else he could do. His meetings for the day had gone long, and he’d gotten behind. The only way to catch up was to work late.
Staying at the office was a trick he’d learned early on, it prevented any excuses on his part for not doing his job. The second he’d set foot in his apartment all chances of work would be lost. The need for rest would take over and he’d be screwed the next day.
Gladio and Noct would scold him for this type of behavior but he needed to make sure things were done properly. In other words, he had to do it himself. When the machine stopped making noise Ignis looked down in the collection slot and frowned. The dark plastic pit that should have held his processed food package was empty.
Daring to take a peek inside the machine where his item had been housed, showed it was stuck. Wedged firmly between its neighbors in the machine, it wasn’t going anywhere. The first thought that crossed his mind was to kick the machine. Some form of self-preservation kicked in and prevented his foot from moving. After staring for far too long, another idea came to him. Find more money and buy something else. Losing a couple bucks to the vending machine wasn’t the end of the eos.
However, after he’d torn his desk apart and fully emptied his wallet it became clear he had no more cash. This vending machine was too old to accept credit cards so he was out of luck. He did consider the notion that a different machine on another floor in the citadel might take credit. The idea of leaving to go buy terrible food was a worry. He might simply keep walking, and end up at his car in the garage, if he left the floor. Groaning out loud he pushed himself up from his desk and went to analyze the situation again.
Another indeterminate amount of time passed as he glared at the offending machine. Finally he decided on a plan. His arm was long; he might be able to reach the item if he stuck his hand in through the bottom. The fact that the machine was outdated worked to his advantage in this scheme. The door wasn’t tamper proof.
Sustenance was literally within reach, all he had to do was stretch another inch. The last inch proved the most difficult. Something about bones and tissue not stretching, despite willing them to do so, meant Ignis could only scrape the packaging with his fingernail. Yelling in frustration he forced his arm into the tiny space ignoring the pain it caused.
The movement was enough to dislodge the item and it fell gracelessly into the bin. Releasing a giddy laugh at his success, Ignis balled his fist up in a victory stance. Unfortunately he moved his arm too quickly, and subsequently smacked the metal rack that held the food in the machine. What happened next was truly terrible. Ignis didn’t know vending machines could enact revenge.
The spiraled coil of metal that held the food in place had moved during his small celebration, and hooked itself on the band of his wrist watch. Panicking slightly as it pulled his arm Ignis tried to pull back but he was stuck fast. Apparently, this machine was not happy at having been tampered with.
The discomfort he’d felt before was now amplified and he wasn’t sure what to do. Maybe he could unlatch his watch and get free. The angle he’d gotten stuck meant his other free arm was again, just out of reach. Astrals, he was going to be stuck here the whole damn night. People would come in the next day, and find him passed out. He’d probably lose his arm in the resulting rescue mission.
This wasn’t acceptable, he needed help. Shoving his pride aside at having been played by a damn vending machine, Ignis worked to fish his phone out of his pocket. The pain was getting worse and if he didn’t hurry he’d have to call the crownsguard office to send someone. That was his last resort, he other options before things got that dire.
Pulling up the last number dialed he hit send and waited. The line rang and rang but Ignis prayed he’d would pick up. Right as he was about to give up, the line connected. Gladio’s out of breath voice greeted him a second later. Thank the six, the man must have been training late, that meant he was on the grounds.
“Gl-gladio,” Ignis hissed through his pain. “Please tell me you are still at work.”
“Iggy, what’s wrong, you sound off.”
Unsure if he should describe his misfortune over the phone, Ignis opted for a brief summary instead. “I’ve had an accident in the break room on my floor, I need h--,”
Gladio didn’t even let him finish, “I’m on my way right now, are you bleeding?”
“No,” he gasped, “I’m – six, this is embarrassing,” Ignis lamented.
“Stay calm, I’m on my way. I might lose you on the elevator ride but I’m coming okay.”
“Thanks,” Ignis managed as he sat on the floor and waited. Gladio, bless the man, talked to him the whole time. The shield covered as many mundane topics as he could in the short five minute trip over to Ignis’ office. It was enough of a distraction that Ignis could block out the pain, and the disturbing fact that his arm was starting to go numb.
Gladio’s suspicions about losing the connection while in the elevator were true, and Ignis was forced to breathe deeply in an effort to calm his nerves. When the elevator just outside the break room, dinged, signaling his arrival. Ignis nearly cried for joy. Leaning his now, sweat covered brow, against the glass Ignis called out to Gladio. “I’m in here!”
Gladio’s panic stricken face appeared a second later. “What the hell happened?” He asked as he took in the sight before him.
“The machine is trying to kill me,” Ignis spit out. “My watch band--,” he wavered as a new wave of painful sensations flared in his arm.
Gladio had rushed over and was already sitting on the floor next to him. “Shit, uh, I’ll get you free, give me a second.” He announced while shoving his muscled, tattooed arm in through the bottom. Gladio thankfully was at the right angle to reach his abused appendage. The shield made quick work of undoing his watch band. The second he could feel his arm move freely, Ignis ripped it out of the machine. Hissing in pain he cradled his arm to his chest.
Maybe he’d pulled a muscle with this ridiculous stunt, he wasn’t sure yet. The faint, but familiar pull of magic, in the back of his mind, drew Ignis’ gaze over to Gladio. “What are you doing?” he asked in shock.
“You’re hurt, and I’m not taking no for an answer.” Gladio huffed as he took Ignis’ good hand, and forcefully crushed a potion bottle in it.
Relief from the pain was instant. He wanted to chide Gladio for wasting a potion on him, but his mind was currently too distracted to let him. A hand on his shoulder made Ignis snap out of his daze. “Huh? Were you talking to me?” he asked weakly. Gladio’s expression was a mix of concern and anger when Ignis looked up. Oh dear, had he interrupted something important? Perhaps he should have called someone else instead. “Sorry for troubling you so late, I didn’t mean to ruin y--.”
“Nope, not gonna work,” Gladio interrupted. “Nothing to be sorry about, you are always welcome to call me for help. Seeing you in pain like that was hard,” he sighed. “Promise me you’ll always ask me for help when you need it?”
Caught off guard by the sincerity of the comment, Ignis took a few seconds to gather his thoughts. “Yes, of course I’ll always call you. Sorry I’m tired and this hasn’t helped my cause.”
“You look exhausted Iggy, why are you still at work?”
“I had things to finish up,” he offered.
“I’m sure none of the things are an emergency, right?”
Pursing his lips, Ignis glared at Gladio. Leave it to the man to pick apart his reason for being at the office late. “I still should finish up before I head home.”
“Sure, if you say so. Let’s go back to your office and you can tell me what the hell happened.”
Humming in agreement Ignis worked to get up off cold linoleum floor. Once he was upright the room began spinning. Gladio was by his side once again, with a strong arm around his waist. “Oh dear,” Ignis muttered more out of irritation than anything else.
“When was the last time you ate?” Gladio asked with a raised eyebrow.
Laughing nervously Ignis tried to turn around and reach for the discarded item in the vending machine. “That was supposed to be dinner,” he joked, though the mood wasn’t quite right for it.
“Please don’t fight me on this,” Gladio begged. “I know you’re not a stupid person Iggy, but you are done for the day, okay.”
“Really?” he tried, “no more?” Deep down Ignis knew Gladio was right but he still had so much work to do. “How will I catch up tomorrow?” he asked dejectedly.
“That is a whole other issue that needs addressing. Why don’t we go back to your office and pack things up for the night and go home.”
Nodding in defeat Ignis let Gladio lead him back down the hall. He felt slightly better and things had stopped spinning, but Gladio still had an arm around his waist. Only when they’d reached his office did the shield relinquish his hold. Carefully gathering his items while Gladio patiently waited, gave Ignis time to think of all the work he really was doing. Maybe Noct and Gladio were right, perhaps he needed to take it easy.
When they were ready to leave Gladio once again pulled him close and they walked out of the building together. Before he could break the somewhat comfortable silence that had developed, Gladio spoke up.
“No arguments, this is what’s gonna happen,” Gladio huffed. “First, I’m driving you home. Second, we’re ordering delivery so you don’t have to cook. Third, you’re taking the day off tomorrow; call it a mental health day.”
Ignis could feel Gladio’s body stiffen once he’d finished talking. Clearly the man thought Ignis was going to fight him on what he’d said. However, all of what had been listed sounded perfect. Not driving, eating something warm that didn’t come from a metal and plastic box, and taking some time to recoup lost energy was a wonderful idea.
“You don’t mind driving me?” he checked with a small smile.
“Huh?” Gladio’s eyes were wide in disbelief as he processed what Ignis had said. “Seriously, you’re not gonna fight me on this?”
“No, you’re right. I know you and Noct are always berating me for working too hard. It appears I need some help with that endeavor,” Ignis admitted sheepishly.
“So I can drive you, and order you food, and you’ll stay home tomorrow?” Gladio checked with an ear splitting grin.
Ignis nodded and offered Gladio a smile of his own. He wasn’t prepared for what happened next. Gladio actually whooped in the parking garage, and gathered up him in a bone crushing hug.
“You won’t regret this Iggy, I’m gonna text Noct later and we’ll figure out a way to help you with your work load. You’re doing the job of like three other people right now and you don’t need to, it’s not fair.”
“Yes, I’ve been made aware,” Ignis chuckled wryly.
“Come on, times a wasting,” Gladio enthused as he herded Ignis over to the passenger side. “Do you mind if I shower at your place while we wait for food to be delivered.”
“Not at all, though you might have to wake me up when it arrives.”
“Easy, I can so do that.” Gladio announced.
The ride back to his apartment was quiet and calming. The remainder of the evening was spent falling asleep on the couch in between activities. Dinner was amazing, and so much better than the protein bar he’d been trying to excavate from the vending machine. Gladio ended up staying the whole night. Something about Ignis attempting to work meant he had to keep an eye on him. For the first time he didn’t mind the attention. His friends were trying to help and there was nothing wrong with that. Besides, he owed Gladio the full story of how the vending machine tried to eat his arm.
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King of Hearts - LJN. 01.
detective!jeno
word count: 3.8k
part of a series?: yes, this is the 1st installment
warnings: kidnapping, mentions of murder, usage of weapons commonly attributed to law enforcement
notes: everyone’s aged up, obviously (setting their birth years back by a solid amount), detective!00/01/02 and captain!mark, captain’s secretary!reader, pay attention to timestamps. draws pretty heavily from brooklyn 99 but is a lot less funny and a lot more angsty
tell me if i should continue this with a part 2!
[Wednesday, September 25, 2019 at 10:22 P.M.]
“An abandoned warehouse,” Jaemin murmurs disdainfully, adjusting his bulletproof vest. He pulls his gun from its holster, checking the safety before relaxing into his hold. “When did criminals get so cliché?”
“That is so not important right now,” Renjun hisses in response, shooting a quick, worried glance at Jeno, who’s standing as still as a statue some yards away, features balanced between being angry, afraid, and determined. “You should go check on him, dude.” He turns back to Jaemin, gesturing towards their friend with a slight tilt of his head. Jaemin rolls his eyes, though not before nodding in agreement. Before he can even think about approaching his best friend, though, Jeno moves to walk up to the side entrance they’re all gathered around.
Everyone waits for him to speak with bated breath. They all notice the King of Hearts stuck to the top of the door, though nobody mentions it.
“I can shoulder through,” Jeno finally whispers after appraising the state of the rotting, wooden door they’re faced with. “Renjun on my right, Hyuck can take left. Jaemin, with me - we’ll go straight to the hostage. Chenle, with Renjun. Jisung, go with Hyuck. All of you - if anything happens, radio back to me and then call Mark. The other squad is already inside on the other end, so we’ll probably end up meeting them somewhere in the middle.”
“What about calling for back-up?” Jisung asks, ignoring the air of finality that comes with Jeno’s words. The elder chews on his lower lip for a moment.
“The less people there are involved in this, the better.” He decides, and Jisung and Chenle share a glance before nodding an affirmation of their understanding. With this, everyone gets in position, their vests properly strapped on, guns in hand, and their sense of duty at ready.
“On 3,” Jeno whispers, looking around at his team once more to steady himself. “One… two…” Jeno solidifies his stance, leaning towards the door. Everyone else inches closer, shoulders tightening and eyes filling with resolve. “Three.” Jeno says after what feels like aeons, and, in what feels eerily as if its in slow motion to everyone else, subsequently breaks the door clean off its hinges with all of the power in his body.
The six of them file in, and Donghyuck and Renjun split off as they’re supposed to, taking their partners with them. Jaemin comes up behind Jeno, shooting his friend a - hopefully - reassuring smile before they start to make their way straight through the maze of boxes that awaits them.
There’s nothing - no creaks, no footsteps, no hushed whispers - as the two of them walk through towards the center. The moonlight filters in through the small windows at the top of the building, illuminating the warehouse well enough to avoid using flashlights. Jeno and Jaemin remain careful, taking in everything and filing small things they notice away in the back of their minds for later. It isn’t until they reach the clearing in what they believe to be the middle of the whole warehouse that anything substantial really happens.
“Might’ve been a bad tip,” Jaemin finally sighs, lowering his gun ever-so-slightly. Jeno says nothing, his face stony. “I’m sorry, man, but (Name) isn’t here -”
“Jeno?”
Both officers whirl around, Jaemin cocking his gun on instinct. When he sees that it’s you, he lowers it, straightening up onto his feet and furrowing his brows as he does.
“(Name)?” Jeno speaks, your name falling, breathy, off of his lips. You look entirely different from how you’d been just days ago - your eyes look empty, and there’s fear replacing your usual teasing manner.
“You shouldn’t be here, Jeno, it’s dangerous -” When you speak again your words are rushed, your weariness and terror evident in your inflection. Your voice rises in pitch and volume before being interrupted by Jeno.
“I’m a cop -”
“Guys -” Jaemin cuts in, though he barely gets out a word before being stopped himself.
“I see you’ve found your precious witness,” A voice interrupts the detective, and Jeno pulls you into his hold on instinct. He ignores how you’re shaking, knowing that if he dwells on it he’ll be too angry to do his job. The three of you turn around - albeit slowly - and find yourselves face-to-face with a figure in all black, mask and all.
They pull a deck of cards from what seems to be out of thin air and sits down, patting the floor next to it. Jeno and Jaemin, pulling themselves out of their dumbfoundedness, both pull out their guns, pointing it at the silhouette.
The figure laughs.
“See this right here?” They ask, drawing forth what seems to be a small remote. “You make any move to shoot, I’ll press the button. It has a ten second count-down, and then the bomb in this building will explode. It’s in one of the boxes in this place - I doubt you’ll find it, no matter how hard you look. Instead, how about you all sit.” They gesture for all of you to sit down again, taking the cards out of their box as they do so. You sit down, and Jeno, his eyes trained on you, follows. Jaemin does so as well, his gaze never leaving the criminal before the three of you.
The masked figure laughs, the kind of laugh that feels like nails dragging across a chalkboard. Jeno pulls you closer, and you find yourself clutching at the fabric of his pants to root yourself. The figure begins shuffling the cards, and the three of you wait anxiously for your kidnapper to speak.
You all know what will be said, but their words strike fear through your hearts anyways.
“How about… we all play a game together?”
[Friday, September 6, 2019 at 5:16 A.M.]
“You know how I said that the night shift sucks?” Mark asks, receiving a chorus of stifled yawns and “Amen”s in response. The grin he sends back reflects nothing of his subordinates’ feelings.
“I was wrong.” His smile stretches even wider as he hops off of the desk at the front of the briefing room, throwing a case file down onto the space he’d previously occupied. “We have a serial killer on our hands.”
“Wait, for real?” Donghyuck perks up immediately, all traces of exhaustion magically gone from his face. Even Jisung looks slightly more awake after their Captain’s declaration, and that’s truly saying something.
“Right? But, wait!” Mark exclaims as if he’s a commentator from an as-seen-on-TV ad, spreading his hands out. “There’s more.”
Nobody says anything at this, though pretty much everyone noticeably leans forward. Mark leans towards them too, building suspense, before turning around and turning the TV on. A smattering of different years shows up on-screen, seven dates from between 1994 and 2019.
Everyone waits. The Captain glances at his team expectantly, excitement glimmering almost maniacally in his sleep-deprived eyes.
“Mark,” You finally break the pregnant pause, figuring that it’s you doing your due diligence as secretary to the Captain. “You have a call incoming at 6 from HQ. It’s best to just get into it.”
“Right,” Mark nods, wincing at your reminder. There’s nothing he loves more than some good suspense, and nothing he hates more than imminent tongue-lashings from his higher-ups. “Anyways, guys, these are the years that this specific killer has struck. It’s a 25 year old case!”
A low whistle follows immediately, courtesy of Jaemin. Chenle raises one eyebrow while Jisung raises the other.
“Totally unsolved?” Jeno questions from the back, and Mark nods.
“Yeah - but there’s still more to come. Just wait until you see their modus operandi.” The Captain clicks through to the next slide, revealing a picture of a blood-stained carpet. A leg of what must be a coffee table is barely noticeable in one corner of the image, and a pale hand clutching a shattered wine glass fills a quarter of the frame. The true focus, however, lies on what’s dead center in the photograph - a white King of Hearts playing card, tinged red with blood at its edges.
Nobody notices the color draining from your face, and not one person sees the way you step back and clutch the table behind you to steady yourself. You let out a small, shaky breath before doing your best to compose yourself. Meanwhile, Mark has moved on with the briefing.
“- all have gunshot wounds to the chest, everything suggests from a point blank range. Different gun every time, but that’s likely just to throw us off. No finger-prints anywhere, no working security cameras for half of the murders. If there were any, they were all redirected somehow throughout the duration of each crime - all we have is this short clip of someone dressed in all black entering from the 2002 house.”
Your breath hitches yet again, and, this time, you fathom your oncoming panic attack. Setting your clipboard and files down onto the tables you’re leaning against, you wait until Mark’s back is turned and everyone else is talking amongst themselves to slip out of the briefing room. If anyone notices, they’ll chalk it off to a bathroom break or something of the sort - you’re sure of this. They might be detectives, but they generally don’t find things they aren’t searching for.
Armed with this knowledge, you make it out of the room smoothly, managing to rush into the nearest bathroom before your panic sets in. As you’d expected, only one person notices your departure.
Jeno sees your hands shaking and registers the way you’re chewing on your bottom lip. It’s something you do when you’re worried, or nervous, or afraid, or all of the above. You’ve done it without knowing about it for years, now. He does his best not to stare at you as you rush out, though he can’t keep his own perturbation hidden nearly as well as he wishes he could.
“Eyes on the board, lover boy,” Jaemin leans in, whispering almost conspiratorially in his partner’s ear. “You can stare at (Name) all you want later. It’s murder time now.”
Jeno furrows his brows at his best friend’s wording, but shoots him a sheepish smile anyways. He shakes off the unease that’s settled on his shoulders, though he makes a note of seeing how you’re doing before you both get off shift.
[Friday, September 6, 2019 at 7:04 A.M.]
“(Name)!” You turn around to see your boyfriend barrelling towards you outside your precinct’s office, and you can’t help the smile that overtakes your features upon seeing him. Before you can respond, he catches up to you, lacing your fingers in his.
“We should get breakfast,” Jeno says, and he sounds so excited about the prospect that you feel even worse than before when you shake your head in disagreement, pulling him closer as you do. Both of you ignore how your smile falls quicker than it ever has before.
“I think I should just get back to my apartment, Jen,” His nickname falls from your lips easily as you sigh a response, mustering as bright a grin as you can when you look up at him. “Today sucked the soul out of me.”
“The night shift sucks ass,” He agrees, not questioning you. Jeno’s always been understanding, even if he isn’t aware of it. He withdraws his hand from your grip, opting instead to wrap his arm around your waist and pull you into his side. “I hope we’ll get back to our regular scheduling soon.”
You snort at this.
“Not fucking likely, babe. Chief Lee walked in on Mark mimicking his dance from this year’s Captains’ Fourth of July party, remember? Lee also heard Doyoung say, and I quote, ‘it’s like that one video of that little green alien dancing to, like, super funky background music except the alien actually had talent’.”
Jeno lets out a loud, snorting laugh - the kind that makes his eyes draw themselves into crescent moons and his nose scrunch up in happiness. If you had to pick one sound to hear for the rest of your life, it would be this - Jeno’s genuine laugh, the one he reserves for you and others who love him. You take note of how he hasn’t asked you about how you’d left the briefing earlier, finding yourself hoping that he hadn’t noticed at all.
He hasn’t questioned you about it, so you assume he hadn’t. One bullet dodged there, at least. You’ve never been good at keeping your hardships away from your boyfriend - he insists on shouldering your burdens on top of his. You don’t let yourself dwell on this, shoving the serial killer case on hand out of your mind from the time being, no matter how difficult you find it. Rather, for the rest of the walk down to the subway, you focus on talking and laughing with Jeno.
Once you both reach your platform - he’d insisted on walking you to it right after buying you a coffee from an on-the-way Starbucks - you give Jeno a quick, chaste kiss before turning towards the train that’s pulling in. Before he leaves to find his own platform, he leans close to peck your cheek. Right before he steps back, and right as the doors to your train open, he moves his lips to dwell by your ear.
“When you’re ready to tell me what’s bothering you, I’m here. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!”
You whirl around to respond, eyes wider than you’d like them to be. Jeno, however, is already halfway up the staircase. He shoots you a bright smile before motioning you backwards as if to tell you to get on your train. Then, as quickly as he’d managed to walk away from you, he’s gone, too far aboveground for you to see him.
The doors close right behind you, and the metal pole you hold on to for stability as the train jolts back to life feels colder than usual.
Maybe Jeno’s observation is a force to be reckoned with.
[Saturday, September 7, 2019 at 8:02 P.M.]
“We could’ve just stayed in, you know.” You tease, your words soft and lilting against Jeno’s muttered swears. The man in question dabs haphazardly at his lap with a napkin, and you cover your mouth with your hands while you chuckle so as not to agitate him even more. He manages to get most of the sauce off of his slacks, though it does leave an oddly shaped stain - as you turn your head, you realize that it almost looks like Australia.
You tell him so.
“You suck,” Your boyfriend throws back at you, brows furrowed. He isn’t angry - the softness in his eyes gives this away. Rather than respond, you raise your wine glass in a toast and Jeno, though with confusion scrawled across his face, raises his in return.
“To slacks with sauce and nights with…” You pause, and Jeno raises a perfectly arched eyebrow. A thought strikes you, and you have to bite down on your lower lip to keep from laughing. “...with Nono.”
Before he can react, you knock your glass lightly against Jeno’s, leaning back in your chair before downing half of the wine you have. Your boyfriend, on the other hand, sets his glass down, dumbfounded, before placing his face in his hands and groaning.
“That’s literally the dumbest nickname - you’ve been hanging out with Jaemin too much, haven’t you?”
“I wouldn’t say too much,” You grin, leaning close to set your own glass down. Wrapping your hands around his wrists, you pull them gently away from his face. You’re pleased to see a soft blush spreading across his otherwise sharp features - not everyone can fluster a bigshot detective, after all. You almost feel as if you have a super power.
“Yeah?” Jeno asks, his voice less inquisitive than it is teasing, playful. He leans in, too, and as his blush dies down yours only grows. “What do you two talk about?”
The corners of your mouth twitch upwards at this - Jeno, unknowingly, has thrown the ball back in your court. All you have to do now is hit an ace.
“Nothing too interesting, you know,” You say, voice equally light. One of your fingers finds the rim of your glass, idly tracing it as you speak. “Just about the fifth grade adventures of Nana and Nono.”
Jeno groans again, pushing his chair back enough to rest his forehead against the table. Across from him, you burst into quiet laughter before taking another sip of wine. Ragging on Jeno is your favorite pastime, and you’re sure he knows it.
“I’ll kick Jaemin’s -” A siren blasting from outside interrupts Jeno, and, before he can continue, two more - now, three more - join it. Before either of you can react, your boyfriend gets a text. He reads it quickly, his jaw tightening as he skims the message.
“Jeno?” You find it in yourself to ask, receiving a heavy sigh in return. He sets his phone down and stands up to pull out his wallet, taking his Visa credit card from it before reaching his hand out to give it to you. You take it, letting it dangle between two fingers.
“Dinner’s on me, darling,” He musters a small smile before leaning in to press his lips to your forehead. “Give it back to me tomorrow, or something.”
Jeno’s gone before you can badger him further, the only proof of him having been there at all resting between your index and middle fingers and on one of his pant legs. You find that you aren’t in the mood to finish eating your meal, opting instead to wave over the closest server you can so you can get the bill, all while ignoring the pitying glances from everyone at surrounding tables.
Once the check comes out, you slide Jeno’s card into your wallet, pulling out your own to pay with.
The wincing sympathy in the air around you amplifies. You continue to ignore it.
[Monday, September 9, 2019 at 11:03 P.M.]
A short but resounding thud in front of you draws your attention away from poring over Mark’s schedule. You look up to see Jeno, armed with a steaming cup of coffee in each hand and a sheepish smile. He’d put your order down on your desk, resulting in the sound you’d just heard, but hadn’t taken his hand off of it.
You don’t take it from him - instead, you pull your wallet out of your purse, rifling through it quickly before finding Jeno’s credit card and putting your hand out towards him. Jeno doesn’t take it. Rather, he lets go of your cup, pulling out his own wallet with his now-free hand and giving it to you so you can do the honors.
“Didn’t seem to get charged for dinner,” He mentions casually as he shoves his wallet back into the back pocket of his work slacks. You nod, confirming his unasked question before turning back to your computer. For some reason, your eyes can’t focus as they had been before. You minimize Mark’s schedule, leaving you staring at your background - a picture of Jeno you’d snuck during your first date together. He’s staring out the window of a cafe in it, white sweater sleeves pulled up around his hands that are, in turn, cradling a cup of coffee. The smallest, but most genuine, of smiles graces his lips, and his cheekbones are highlighted by the light filtering in beside him. He looks angelic and too good to be true in it.
Maybe he is.
“You can’t seriously be mad at me,” He tries again, and you look up at him again. Warmth lingers in his demeanor, but an annoyance is starting to overpower it. You find yourself ticked off, too, and roll your eyes rather than deigning to talk to him.
“(Name).”
“Do you need an appointment with the Captain?”
“I was just doing my job, darling -”
“I’m not mad at you for stranding me, Jen,” You finally speak, your eyes finally meeting his. He blinks as he registers the hurt in yours, his shoulders relaxing slightly as he does. “I just -” You begin, before sighing and shaking your head. You aren’t sure how to word your feelings.
“Sweetheart?”
“You left without telling me why, and then you didn’t text me back until almost 24 hours later. I was on edge, wondering if anything had happened to you, and you didn’t even think to check in with me! And when you did, it wasn’t about why you’d left or what had happened, it was to ask me about if I’d seen some random movie trailer!” You take a deep breath, doing your best not to raise your voice in your workplace. Swallowing to calm your dry throat, you start again, whispering this time. “I was worried sick, and you didn’t even think about my feelings long enough to register that.”
“You could’ve texted first -”
“I did! You never responded.”
“I never got a text from you,” Confusion spreads across Jeno’s features as he pulls his phone out to show you. You take it nimbly from his hand, scrolling quickly through his conversation with you to confirm that he hadn’t, in fact, gotten any texts from you until he had texted you.
“I didn’t tell you why I’d left because it was classified at the time, but I didn’t want to leave you hanging for too long,” Jeno explains further, but you only barely listen to him, focusing instead on finding your conversation in your own phone. Your boyfriend, recognizing this, speaks no further as he takes his phone back and slips it into one of his pockets. He watches you, intrigue barely concealed within his features.
Suddenly, your face pales, and you let your phone drop face-up onto the counter in front of you. Jeno’s eyes widen as he reaches across to grab one of your trembling hands, his worry greater than his confusion.
“(Name)?”
“It - he -” You manage to speak out before giving a shaky sigh and pausing to swallow the bile that has risen in your throat. “I- I need to tell you something.” You finally gasp out, pointing towards your phone. Jeno glances at it before letting out a noise of shock, his fingers tightening around your own.
Panic burns in his veins as his mind works overtime to work out the meaning of what he’s witnessing . Rather than seeing your texts as he’d hoped, Jeno finds a black screen staring back up at him. There is just one thing adorning it.
Dead center is a King of Hearts playing card, the words ‘found you.’ in blood red letters underneath it. It is mocking you, telling you that you are out of time.
It is telling you that you have lost.
#jeno#jeno scenario#jeno scenarios#jeno angst#jeno fluff#lee jeno#jeno imagine#jeno imagines#nct#nct dream#nct scenario#nct scenarios#nct dream scenario#nct dream scenarios#nct dream angst#nct dream fluff#jeno lee#jeno x reader#jeno lee x reader#nct dream x reader#nct x reader
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Summer National Holidays Collection
A collection of unrelated stories meant to evoke images of North American national holidays in the first week of July! That would be Canada Day for me, and Independence Day for those just south of me. This certainly could be applied to most summer celebrations though.
Each story will have a large, blue title; this will hopefully help people pick out the one(s) they want or don't want to read.
Sight for Small Eyes
A tiny woman just wants to see the fireworks!
Content warning: giant/tiny, giantess, female tiny, overall just a fluff piece (I put this first so the more sensitive readers don't have to scroll through the rest)
Slightly over 600 words.
Picnic
A lunch date takes an interesting turn when the tiny takes a dive into a big drink.
Content warning: soft vore, willing male prey, willing female pred, giant pred, tiny prey, drinkplay, mouth play
Just shy of 1k words.
Barbecue
An exclusive cookout includes tinies as toppings.
Content warning: hard vore, digestion, unwilling prey, giant pred, tiny prey, foodplay, implied multiple prey
About 600 words.
Going out with a bang
Two nagas resolve a tense intimate moment with a big snack before going to see fireworks.
Content warning: soft vore, romantic context, kissing, willing but resistant prey, pushy pred, both male nagas, size difference (1/2 size prey), digestion implied, reformation mentioned, big belly, vore in public
Roughly 1k words.
Sight for Small Eyes
In the dying light, she scrambled through the crowd, expertly dodging gigantic feet. Most of the giants around her knew to watch for tinies, but not all of them could be totally vigilant at all times. She caught glimpses of others like her through the forest of legs. She paid them no mind; she was determined to get a perfect viewing spot for the fireworks. Somewhere ahead were the bleachers designated for her kind, set aside so they could see the main event of the day. Though the show was to be high in the sky, the sheer number of massive people blocked out almost all of it. She had to get to the front of the crowd before it started.
The wayward toe of a sandal knocked her off her feet. She flew a short distance through the air before landing with a thud in the short cropped grass. Far above her a surprised voice boomed, and she saw a face look around. Unfortunately, they didn't see her in the twilight, so they moved on without so much as an apology. Once she caught her breath she scrambled to her feet. She hurried along desperately, determined to get a seat in time.
A shrill scream rose above the voices of the crowd, followed by a terrific boom. She caught the sight of green sparks through the heads high above her. She was going to miss it! The crowd had fallen relatively quiet and the feet were mostly still as ahead ran between them. Where was the end to this? It seemed eternal!
She panted and slowed to a walk to catch her breath. Intermittent explosions made her jump. She bit her lip, eyes squinting to hold back tears. "Why couldn't I make it in time?!" She cried out.
Someone spoke, odd after everyone had fallen so quiet for the fireworks show. She ignored it and pressed on. From above, a giant hand came down and closed around her. She screeched and kicked wildly, always annoyed when giants tried to manhandle her.
"Easy there," they whispered loud enough to break through her frustration. As she stilled, they opened their hand, holding it palm up. She was face to face with a pretty giantess who was smiling softly. Her voice stayed low as she spoke, a consideration many giants neglected, "I think you'll be able to see from my shoulder. That is, if you don't mind. I'm really sorry about grabbing you, but I really wanted to help."
Her eyes darted down, and she bit her lip. The tiny lady smiled at the sweetness of it all. She raised her voice a little, "Thank you! I'd like that very much!"
The giants nodded and slowly moved her hand to her shoulder, letting the smaller person climb across to their shoulder. Her tiny feet nimbly carried her to beside the massive neck, and she sat down, the collar of her shirt keeping her up against the bigger lady's neck. It was warm compared to the cool summer night air; certainly better than any bleacher.
She watched in delight as sparks trailed up through the air before the firecracker burst, thundering noise tearing out along with the brightly coloured sparks. She giggled in delight; this was the best seat in the whole world. Deep, hearty laughter joined her high cheerful noise. She blushed, realizing the giantess could hear her.
Thankfully, she said nothing and the tiny woman was spared further embarrassment. They both fell into silence, only the occasional gasp of amazement escaping as they watched the brilliant display. Thanks to a stranger's kindness, she got to witness it all.
Picnic
She swung the basket cheerfully, making sure to make smooth movements so she didn't destroy the contents. There. Up on the hill was the perfect spot. It was within the shade of a large green tree and the grass was short but lush. She set down her basket and pulled a red checked blanket from it.
A small head poked from the breast pocket of her button-up shirt at the sound of the blanket unfurling. He looked around with a grin, declaring, "Perfect!"
She chuckled and shook her head, "I'm glad you approve little guy."
He shot a glare in her direction. She sat down, and he scrambled from his secure spot. He tumbled down her torso with shrieking laughter, bouncing off her leg before hitting the blanket.
"Be careful," she cautioned as she unpacked the basket. He didn't respond, instead choosing to scramble up the woven exterior of the basket and perch on the edge.
Once it was empty, she closed it and he sat happily on the lid. They both surveyed the delicious spread. "Where do we begin?" He called, excitement ringing in his voice.
Her tongue swiped across her lips slowly as she considered. Settling on the sandwiches, she broke a chunk off and handed it to her little companion, then set to work on the larger portion. He was grateful and silent as he too began to eat.
Together they worked through sandwiches, cheese and sausage, and a slice of pie. To wash it all down was sparkling fruit punch. There was only about half her glass left when he whined, "Hey, hold that down for me!"
"But you have some right there," she narrowed her eyes and tightened her lips, but complied with his silly request. He grabbed the rim, then stood and rolled right in!
She gasped and tried to pull away, but she didn't want to spill so the cup ended upright and away from the basket. She held it up to eye level and watched him tread to keep himself afloat in the fizzy drink. He was grinning like a madman. The suspicious squint once again settled onto her features, but now a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. Two could play at that game.
She swirled the cup gently, sending the little man into a dizzying spin. She lifted it to her lips and took a delicate sip, letting him bump against her lips before righting the cup.
He was briefly overtaken by the rushing fluid around him. He came up sputtering. She couldn't tell if his cheeks were red from humiliation, lack of air, or the juice itself, but the rosy hue was charming. He gave her a wicked glare, and she stuck her tongue out at him with a wink.
He splashed at her, the droplets hitting the clear plastic. She giggled as he shouted, "Well do it if you're gonna do it!"
"Alright," she whispered and put the cup to her lips. On the bottom edge of her vision she could see his eyes widen and a smile split his face. She closed her eyed and opened her mouth wide, upending the cup into it.
He got a stellar view of her mouth in the brief moments he had as he fell in. Twin rows of perfect, white teeth lay before a red-stained tongue that waggled expectantly. In the very back was her uvula dangling above the dark void of space that began her throat. He hit her tongue, the soft warmth a pleasant change from the chilled liquid he had been in moments ago.
She shut her mouth, plunging him into complete darkness. Her tongue flexed beneath him and he was swept up by a wave of fluid. The juice flowed forward, knocking him against the backs of her teeth gently before flowing back. Her tongue arched, cutting him off from the drink as she swallowed.
Her tongue relaxed into the bottom of her mouth and he lay at the tip. He turned and crawled across the soft expanse blindly. He enjoyed the flexible bumps that shifted beneath his hands and knees, and accepted the slick coating that made him occasionally lose his balance.
She let him get to the middle before she raised her tongue and pinned him gently to the roof of her mouth to give him a long, soft lick. His clothes were soaked, making him seem sweet, much to her delight. He squirmed at the lick, and struggled to avoid the subsequent ones as well. His tiny body wriggled against her muscular, saliva-slicked tongue.
"Mmmmm," she hummed happily as she pushed him around her mouth. The sound vibrated all around him, shaking him down to his core.
As quickly as he entered her mouth, he was repositioned and swallowed. The muscles constricted around him, squeezing him downward. She touched her throat lightly, two fingers lightly tracing his path. There was only the slightest bulge for her to follow, then it disappeared behind her ribcage.
She burped lightly, mostly from the fizzy drink certainly. He only barely heard it as he splashed down into her stomach. It was a noisy, busy place. Thankfully the enzymes were more intent on breaking down her picnic lunch than him, so he was safe. He listened to the monstrous growls and rumbles as her stomach worked around him. He sat up against the almost wrinkled stomach wall, soaking in the heat and enjoying the small movements as it pushed at him mindlessly.
He looked up, though he knew it was an empty gesture, and called out, "Thanks for lunch babe!"
She grinned and patted her full belly, "No problem dear. Let me know when the acid starts getting nippy and I'll let you out."
"Of course!" Came the muffled reply. She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. The sun had moved far enough now that the blanket was half in the sunlight. She laid down and soaked in the delightfully warm rays.
Barbecue
The party was bustling. Everywhere you looked there were people: lounging against trees while chatting, reclining in lawn chairs, and picking up food at the long, buffet style table. A single person manned the grill, flipping sizzling patties and rolling sausages to ensure an even cook. The scents were mouth watering as they were carried along the light summer breeze. Intermittent clouds gave pleasant respite from the late afternoon sun. Beyond that, there was a wide variety of chilled drinks to help keep you cool.
The food itself was the main attraction; not many parties allowed the delicacies served here. There were the usual barbeque staples of course, the grilled meats, the chips, the starchy salads, and the condiments, but there was a special bowl off to the side. It was filled with tinies, each one bound by a pickle or slice of meat, held together with a toothpick behind their back. Few of them bothered to struggle, but there was always a small panic when someone approached.
All you had to do was grab a toothpick, set the bundle on your sandwich or plate, then slide the pick out, leaving them trapped until you ate them. It wasn't as sturdy, but it rarely needed to hold for long.
One person slid a pickle wrapped tiny onto their sausage, squishing them between the edges of the bun. They shrieked and tried to kick, but it meant nothing but slight humour to the hungry giant.
They took a big bite, teeth scraping the top of the tiny's head as they sliced through the food. Micro wails sounded in sheer terror and the aloof giant chuckled as they chewed and swallowed their mouthful. They narrowed their eyes and tilted their meal around as they inspected the tiny treat. Wide, terrified eyes darted to and fro and the small body wriggled from within the pickle.
They grinned widely, then opened their mouth wide. Saliva hung in strands between the two sets of teeth, and their tongue poked out slightly as they took another big bite, this one completely engulfing the tiny garnishing their sausage. Their tongue stripped the pickle away first, mulching it quickly between massive molars with loud crunches.
Now relatively free, the tiny scrambled to escape, though it was a vain attempted. The giant tongue shifted beneath them, pushing the food and body alike to the side to be chewed. The teeth pulverized the sausage and bun, but only pressed firmly around the tiny. Each movement of the jaw crushed their ribs painfully, but not harmfully, simply driving the air from their lungs. Gasping for air was all but impossible between the humidity, heat, saliva, and half-chewed food.
The tongue came back for the exhausted, bruised tiny, dragging them with the food towards the back of the giants mouth. They gulped the whole mess down with ease, chuckling as they felt the tiny weakly struggle within the mush inside their throat.
Their stomach growled at the unusual movement inside of it. They weren't used to live prey. Still, it was all the same to the stomach itself. Its muscular walls flexed and churned the fresh food with the slurry of previous mouthful and acid. No one could hear the tiny screams as they were overtaken by the giant stomach, joining the rest of the food.
The giant finished off their sausage with a third mouthful, satisfied for now. It was certainly worth coming to this party for the rare treat. Perhaps they would have a couple more on their own just for fun. There was always room for more in their belly!
Going Out with a Bang
He squirmed to get comfortable against the tree, blushing and looking up at the formidable man holding him there. Their scaled tails intertwined as the larger naga held the smaller man's chin up with two fingers. He flicked his barely forked tongue and gazed hungrily into his prey's eyes.
He looked back, heart racing and breath coming and going quickly from his lungs. He swallowed hard, then mumbled, "Come on, what's your pl-"
A firm kiss cut him off, and he returned it immediately. It lasted several luxuriously long moments. He couldn't help but follow slightly when the other pulled away, but the two fingers on his chin pushed him back as their owner spoke, "You know very well, this isn't the first time silly."
He laughed, making the small naga blush and look away before whining, "But what if someone sees us? This isn't exactly private."
The large naga pressed closer to his trapped little prey, then looked around. There were people milling about, but no one was paying them any mind in particular. He grinned down at him and reached up with his free hand, using both to hold his head firmly. He opened his mouth wide, jaw clicking loudly. At the sound, the little naga's eyes widened. He struggled, but it was no use with his tail twisted up and his body pinned between the tree and the muscular body of his predator. The jaws slid over his face and around his head, hot breath washing over him. He squealed and his shoulders wiggled, but powerful hands grabbed his arms and immobilized him. He whined, though his voice was muffled as his head was forced down his throat, "Come on love, why you gotta do this today."
The complaint was punctuated by a whimper as he slid deeper into the hungry naga. He panted as he shoved his snack in further, swallowing hard but letting his arms do most of the work as he slowly doubled over. Soon, only the slender tail was visible. He grabbed it and pulled it from around himself with a grunt. Seemed the little guy was making him work for it today. He groaned softly as he felt his belly stretch, finally having him down far enough to begin to curl inside his stomach.
He put a hand against the tree truck, gulping between heavy breaths. With a self-satisfied smile he slurped up the very tip of the tail. His belly was round and heavy, and he supported himself with his arm as he caught his breath.
He gasped then moaned softly as he felt his prey shift inside him. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled words that vibrated his stomach lining, "Well are you happy now? You big meanie! I was hoping to see the show tonight too. I thought we were just gonna snuggle up on the grass and… and…"
He trailed off, the heat of his face obvious even from inside his body. The stuffed naga pushed off from the tree, sitting back on his coiled tail and rubbing the sides of his rounded, bulging belly with both hands. He spoke softly, knowing how much more clear his voice would be to the prey filling him, "But our messing around earlier made me miss supper and with you smelly sooooo good, I just couldn't resist."
He flicked his tongue out and closed his eyes, continuing to massage his stretched belly which gurgled and growled happily. Again he felt the incredible sensation of the twisted naga inside him move. Then, something firm rubbed against the stomach wall. His tail squirmed with pleasure at the strong nuzzles. He bit his lip and hissed heavily, "Goodness, save some for later, I still need to get to a place to watch the show."
After a moment, the small voice asked, "You're really still going? Like this? With me all- all-"
"Yes," he smirked, chuckling softly as he pushed one hand in firm circles across the front of his bulging belly. "Everyone will be so jealous, wondering what I ate to make me so full," he giggled at the indignant gasp from within, then continued, "I'll tell everyone who asks exactly who's in there and just how pleased I am to have you all to myself. Better hope they don't catch you away from me once you've reformed later tonight."
He felt a small, weak punch to the inside of his gut, and grunted, smug grin never leaving his face. With a groan he pushed himself upright and slithered off to find a place on the lawn to watch the fireworks.
All settled in, he was once again able to give his massive belly some rubs. The smaller naga had been awfully quiet, probably too flustered to speak. Even now, he could feel the heat of a humiliated blush. He murmured softly about all the people around, describing the faces of those bold enough to gawk at him and his meal. Occasionally his prey squirmed, sending waves of pleasure and shivers of delight through his long body.
As the first firework went off in the ever darkening sky, he was certain his prey was beginning to feel the effects of his stomach acid. It was like a limb had fallen asleep, but all over, according to him; no more than an aggressive tingling over his entire body.
His hands held his belly firmly, enjoying the weight and smoothness of his stretched stomach. He had stopped rubbing, allowing his captured meal to enjoy the thundering bangs of fireworks, even if he couldn't see the dazzling display of colours that accompanied it. Yes, this was certainly a wonderful way to celebrate. Perhaps it would become a tradition of theirs. Such musings wandered his mind as he relaxed and enjoyed.
~~~~~~~~~~~~
I hope you enjoyed one or more of these stories! Please ask me to tag, theres so much going on in these I probably wont get them all. Also, I still do story requests! Feel free to shoot me a message if you would like something like these done for you.
#giant/tiny#soft vore#g/t#willing prey#hard vore#male pred#digestion#extreme cuddles#fatal vore#mouthplay#my writing#pred#pred/prey#size difference#unwilling prey#female pred#tongue#naga#male prey#celebration#summer#fourth of july#canada day#canadian#fireworks#picnic#bbq#barbecue#public vore
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Lena, Number Eight [Part 3 of ?]
The moment Lena steps out onto the sidewalk, her hands start to shake in her pockets. Her stomach threatens to revolt, and her attempts to breathe through it don’t go unnoticed.
"Lena? Lena, hey!” Kara trots down the shallow steps to join her on the street, iron gate creaking shut behind her. Her hand touches Lena’s elbow briefly before drawing back. Lena hates the hesitation, worried it’s fear or disgust, but she’s also grateful. Her skin crawls beneath her clothes, prickling in a way it hasn’t for years. “Hey..."
“I’m okay,” Lena grinds out. She forces a smile. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
Kara meets her smile with a soft grin of her own. “Yeah, that-- was definitely something.”
The words sound awkward, but calm. It slowly spreads to Lena enough to dissolve the lump in her throat, but her muscles remain taut, clenching against bone and sinew, clamping her in place. Trapped. It’s all she ever was-- stuck.
She looks at Kara, and her friend visibly melts at the tears in her eyes. It’s clear she has questions-- she must have so many. But she packs them away so that the next words out of her mouth are as mundane as possible.
"Let's get some lunch."
Kara gets lunch. Lena gets coffee.
Neither of them touch their prize, except for Lena to curl her hands around her mug to leech the warmth from it.
Kara tries not to pry, but Lena slowly opens up. About the circumstances of her birth-- and those of the others-- and their subsequent acquisition by Hargreeves. She tells Kara how Hargreeves sent her away, and how Lionel had been decent to her until he died.
Beyond that, she doesn't offer any details. Not about how she went from being from one family's science experiment to another's. Not about how when Lionel died, Lillian studied her even more thoroughly than Reginald had. Not how the precision and control she'd displayed at the house was the result of countless hours spent training and honing her gifts, until her nose bled and her skull felt like a red hot poker had been shoved in her eye or through the top of her head or the join of her neck.
She says nothing of the six months she'd spent in a medically induced twilight sleep, neither sleeping nor waking, in an attempt to enhance her precognition. Nothing about the months she’d spent rebuilding the muscle she’d lost in her semi-vegetative state.
What she does tell Kara is that she doesn't use her powers anymore.
"The DEO can't know, Kara. No one can know."
Kara swallows. The hero in her reaches out for a kindred spirit, despite her better sense. "But Lena… with abilities like yours, you could help so many people--"
"I'm not that person, Kara. I'm sorry, but I'm not." Lena stares into her coffee, mourning the tepid feel of the ceramic under her palms. “I know it must seem so wondrous, but-- it isn't. It's brought me nothing but misery."
She turns her mug in her hands, scraping the bottom against the table.
"Being in National City... building a life with you in it-- That's the real wonder, Kara."
The air hangs thick and heavy between them. Lena looks up to find Kara’s jaw twitching with the urge to speak, but in the end her friend simply sighs. With that tiny breath of sound, Kara seems to release her expectations, and the need to try and fix it.
“Thank you for sharing this with me,” she says finally. “All of it. I know it can’t be easy. And I’m sorry if I pressured you to revisit a time and place you didn’t want to.”
Shaking her head, Lena can finally smile honestly. The weight on her shoulders lifts, little by little. “No, I’m glad you did. If I hadn’t, I think at some point, I might have wondered what could have been. Now I know.”
For a long moment, Kara’s focus turns inwards. Lena watches as her best friend seems to come to a decision. Her chin lifts, and she meets Lena’s gaze with an exculpatory grimace just shy of a true grin.
“It might be a little anti-climactic after everything,” she starts, tilting her head in that way she does when she’s nervous and can’t deflect attention away from herself, “but in the spirit of reciprocity, I also have a secret.”
Lena’s chest seizes suddenly, her heart jack-hammering at the prospect of another confession. A private one. One that could either burn her secret fantasies to the ground-- or set them aflame.
Slowly, Kara reaches up and slowly removes her glasses. Then she removes the elastic from her hair, letting her locks hang loose around her shoulders. Those two changes alter the planes of her face, almost morphing them into features equally familiar.
“I’m Supergirl,” she says in a low voice.
When the small cafe bubbles with Lena's laughter, Kara knows it was the right thing to say.
When Lena’s coffee goes cold, she doesn’t bother to replace it. They make their way to a nearby park and slowly walk the vacant paths. The city’s gloom still hasn’t lifted, but Kara’s hand in hers fills Lena with warmth.
"Are you ready to go home?" Kara asks. By now Lena can breathe again, and she takes her time considering her response.
She’s wanted to go home since the moment they got off the plane. She’s never liked Metropolis, with its gray buildings and gray skies and gray faces. Being here reminds her of the cold, excruciating days of her childhood, and puts the joy of her life in National City in stark contrast.
To her own surprise, Lena hesitates. "Not yet,” she says softly. “There's one more thing I need to do."
She leads them to an older neighborhood, where tall buildings house long, narrow apartments. Kara agrees to wait outside, leaving Lena to make the long walk up to Vanya's apartment alone.
When she knocks, she knows Vanya will answer.
She's not prepared for the shadow of a woman who opens the door.
"Vanya," she says, covering her surprise with an awkward smile. "Hi, I'm not sure if you remember me, but I’m--"
"Lena," Vanya supplies. She blinks, eyebrows shrugging as she seems to curl in on herself. "I know who you are."
"I'm sorry to barge in on you, but..." Lena reaches for the right words. "You weren’t at the house earlier, and I wanted to offer my condolences..." She lets her voice trail away to nothing as Vanya’s features darken in a mixture of grief and resentment towards a father who was never quite a father.
“Or the appropriate equivalent.”
At that, Vanya lets her in with a tiny smile of appreciation. They settle on the couch, and sit in awkward silence until Lena spies the violin sitting on the chair by the window.
"I heard you play, a few years back" Lena confesses. "With the chamber orchestra. You were good."
Vanya’s hesitant smile turns queasy. "Oh, uh... that probably wasn't me you were hearing then. I was only fifth chair."
"It was you." Lena holds her gaze, brooking no argument. She softens her features with another smile. "I read your book too."
Flat, detached eyes slide away from Lena.
"I imagine most of the family feedback hasn't been positive, but difficult honesty is something I've always appreciated. I also appreciate you leaving me out of it."
At that, Vanya shares a commiserating shrug. "You'd gotten out," she explains. "Didn't feel right dragging you back into it."
As they continue to speak, Lena probes carefully. Vanya's choice of narration, from the perspective of an outsider... feeling powerless against a family who ostracized her...
"I have to say, I was a little surprised to read it. I knew you weren't included on any of the publicized missions, but... I don't know. I guess I'm surprised it got so bad."
Vanya looks away, tucking her palms between her knees. "Being the only non-powered kid in a family of superheroes gives new meaning to black sheep, huh."
Alarm bells clamor at the back of Lena's mind. She struggles to make the connection, searching for the joke in her words, but finds none.
"You know,” Vanya continues, her voice tight in her throat, “after you left, I wanted so badly to be adopted too. Dad would have been out another disappointment, and I'd get a family like yours."
Lena stiffens, but keeps quiet. Vanya doesn’t need to know that the Luthors weren’t anything to be proud of. But Vanya grimaces a moment later, well aware of the headlines that had swamped national news for months on end following Lex’s arrest.
"Of course, that didn't really hold up, I guess. I'm sorry."
Lena shrugs her forgiveness with a tight smile. The reminder doesn’t sting so much, coming from someone who understands the struggle of family neither chosen nor born into. Vanya sighs. “But at the time, thinking you were happy and free was like a fairytale. And if one person without powers could get a happy ending, why not two?”
Vanya echoes her shrug. “Guess not.
"I had no idea it had gotten so bad," Lena gently maneuvers. "What changed?"
But Vanya can only shrug helplessly. "Nothing. That was the problem. When no powers ever manifested, there just... wasn't any room for me."
Lena blinks, searching for the joke, but doesn't find one.
"You know, after you left... I used to dream Dad would let me be adopted to too. I figured, if one person without powers could get out, why not two."
Lena hesitates. "Vanya... I don't know why Hargreeves told you all that I lost my powers, but... I didn't." She sees Vanya's disappointment and feels it all the way down to her bones.
“Oh.”
"I'm so sorry."
"No, it's not your fault. It's good you still have them, right? Losing them after having them... that would have been-- At least I never had any. Can't miss what you never had, right?"
Again, it’s said without a single ounce of irony. Lena’s disquiet heightens, but when she opens her mouth to respond, the chime of the clock interrupts. The hour is later than she anticipated; if she waits much longer, it’ll be too late to fly, and Lena isn’t willing to spend the night in Metropolis.
“I’m sorry, I have to get going,” Lena sighs. “Here…”
Reaching into her pocket, Lena pulls out a business card. She scribbles her cell number on the back, and hands it to Vanya, who takes it with fingers that stutter on the cardstock as though numb.
“This is my personal line,” Lena tells her. “You can call me, if you ever need anything. Even if it’s just to talk. I’d… like to get to know you.”
Vanya stares at it, as though she can’t quite fathom its function. "Why?” she asks, blinking. “I mean, why me?"
Lena reaches out and touches her knee. "Because you were honest when the world would have rather swallowed a lie. And because I know how hard it can be, to feel like you're completely alone. You don't have to be."
“Oh,” comes the soft response. After a moment, Vanya nods, lips trembling. "Okay, yeah. I think I will."
"I look forward to it." Lena smiles. "I should get going."
"Right, yeah." Vanya follows her to the door. Just as Lena is about to step out, Vanya speaks out. "I remember you."
"Sorry?"
"Before, you weren’t sure I’d remember you. But I do." Vanya swallows thickly. "I remember that you were kind."
Lena gazes at her, unsure how to respond even when Vanya’s eyes began to glint with moisture.
"None of the others have ever seen me play. They only read my book so they could hate me after. And none-- none of them even called when Dad died."
Vanya swallows, ducking her chin to avoid Lena’s gaze. "You were always the kind one."
Lena hesitates, then gives in to the urge to wrap Vanya in a hug. Vanya hugs her back readily.
"I'm sorry your new family sucked," Vanya mutters against Lena's coat. "You deserved better."
"So did you, Vanya.” Her words hit Vanya with a jolt, before she squeezes Lena tighter. "You deserved so much better."
When Lena emerges from the building, Kara is waiting right where she'd said she'd be. She doesn’t say anything, and only slows enough for Kara to fall into step next to her. They walk for almost thirty minutes before Lena has the sense to hail a cab to the airport.
Only when they’re in the air does Kara break the silence. “Do you really feel it was worth it? Coming back?”
Lena shrugs. "There’s value in knowledge. Even if it’s just knowing that some things never change.”
“Like what?”
“Like… Number One still thinks he’s hot shit. And Diego is consistently an inch away from a homicide charge.”
“And Vanya?”
“And Vanya… is completely normal."
Kara knows her too well. She studies Lena, and discerns the uneasiness that ripples beneath her words. "What's the trouble with that?"
Lena looks Kara dead in the eye. "Vanya has never been ordinary."
Continued in Part 4
#i wrote dis#lena number eight#part 3#supercorp#lena luthor#kara danvers#supergirl#umbrella academy au#the plot thickens#this was never supposed to be a plot#i was literally spitballing#and now its a thing#oh well#enjoy#happy weekend
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Mine to Make: Chapter 17
With Albus gone to face Delphi alone, the others are once again scrambling to find him. Last time he came back alive, but will it be the same this time?
Beta’d by @abradystrix.
N.B. This fic is complete on AO3, so binge read away there if you want! Here on tumblr I’ll be posting a chapter every day until it’s all done.
Read it on AO3
*
XVII
Pitch
It’s the beginning of March and the first of the spring sun is just starting to break through the heavy snow clouds of February. Not that Harry has had much chance to experience this for himself – he’s been stuck at his desk at the Ministry, or doing nighttime investigations and sleeping through the days. March is his least favourite month, and he’s determined to see as little of it as possible.
“Good morning, Mr Potter,” chirps his secretary, Emmeline, as she walks into the office backwards, a stack of files piled precariously in her arms.
Harry sighs. “Those look like fun.”
Emmeline grimaces at him and puts the files down on the desk, on top of the small stack of files he hasn’t quite yet sorted from last month. “These are the cases up for review, sir. I’ve also got a couple of notes. Ginny wanted me to remind you that you’re supposed to be having dinner with Lily tonight, while she’s in London, so you have to leave on time. And this one is from Mr Howard. There’s been some suspicious activity in Godric’s Hollow. He reckons someone ought to take a look.”
Harry stops sorting through the files and looks up at her. “Suspicious activity?”
She nods and checks the note in her hand. “He says some of the sensors showed a human presence at the house, but when they looked into it all they could see was a bird. It’s happened a couple of times now, always the same thing, and last time the gate was opened.”
Harry nods, half listening but suddenly distracted by the file that’s currently at the top of the pile of paperwork. It’s easily the most well-read of the lot. The stiff cardboard of the folder has gone soft, and is curled and damaged at the corners. Harry knows that file and he doesn’t understand why it’s here among a load of forgotten and unprogressed cases.
“Emmeline,” he says softly, picking up the file and showing it to her. “Why is this here?”
She doesn’t even look at the file, she just swallows and locks her hands together in front of her, launching into what Harry recognises as a well-rehearsed speech.
“Sir, as you know it’s department protocol to review unresolved cases after five years and every subsequent year thereafter, to determine the significance of the progress being made and whether there should be any um... any reallocation of resources...” She trails off and bows her head, looking rather miserable. “It’s been five years, sir, and I discussed it with my supervisor but... but we couldn’t make an exception.” She looks like she’s bracing herself for some sort of outburst, anger or intense grief, or something. Harry wonders if perhaps he should be feeling any of those things, but he’s not. Right now he’s just numb. He can’t feel anything at all, apart from the soft, worn cardboard under his fingers as he toys with the edge of the folder.
It takes him a second to be able to regain his power of speech, and when he does he nods. “Right. Of course. I understand.”
Five years. How has it been five years already?
“I’m sorry, sir,” she says again, but he shakes his head.
“It’s okay.” It’s not okay. “You were saying something about Godric’s Hollow? Can I see the note?”
Emmeline hesitates, then she hands it over. “Here, sir.”
“Great,” Harry says as he takes it, injecting as much enthusiasm as he can into his voice. “I’ll head up and have a look this afternoon. And I’ll take a look at these...” he glances at the files, and shuffles Albus’s one straight to the bottom of the pile, “another day.”
“Don’t forget about dinner with Lily,” Emmeline says.
Harry nods and gets to his feet, swinging his travelling cloak on. He wants to get as far away from that file as possible. Maybe he’ll even see some daylight in the process. “Dinner with Lily. Got it.”
In a straight choice between paperwork and visiting Godric’s Hollow, usually Harry would take the paperwork. It’s still a difficult place to be at the best of times, and this isn’t really the best of times. But if it’s a choice between investigating something weird away from the office or being stuck at his desk trying to make a rational decision about whether to stop investigating his son’s disappearance, he’ll take the something weird.
It may be a sunny morning but it’s not warm. There’s a sharp wind blowing across the fields, and he gathers his travelling cloak tight around himself as he makes his way up the street towards the ruined house. It’s silhouetted against the bright sky, and he shields his eyes as he approaches, peering up at it.
There’s nothing out of the ordinary that he can see immediately. The gate is closed as always. The street is quiet. There’s no sign of any disturbance to the tangle of plants growing across and around the front door. It looks like everything is perfectly ordinary.
He wanders up to the gate and leans against the wall. There’s still a bit of unmelted snow in the shade by the base, pristine apart from a set of footprints that must have come from a small bird. They said there’d been a bird around, but they also said they’d detected a human...
Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back off his face. It’s then that he spots it, out of the corner of his eye. In the dust on the path, right on a line with the bird claw prints, is a human footprint. Medium sized, with the sort of solidity that Harry would associate with having been made by a boot.
He frowns and moves closer along the wall, leaning over to peer at the pattern. As far as he knows no one ever goes inside the garden. Why would there be a footprint there?
When he sets a hand on the gate it creaks slowly open, and he hesitates. It would be sensible to take a closer look, but there’s something about going inside that feels forbidden. Which is stupid. This is his former home. If anyone is allowed inside then it’s him... Throwing caution to the wind, he nudges the gate further open and steps inside.
There’s a spell to hide footprints, and he uses that now. The last thing he wants is to mar the other tracks that have been left. He carefully skirts the footprint on the ground, peering down at it as he passes, and starts scouring the dusty path for more similar footprints.
There aren’t any to be found. The rest of the path is unmarked, apart from a couple more claw marks from a bird that must have hopped down here while looking for worms. Everything looks undisturbed and as it should. No one has tried to force entry into the house. It doesn’t look any more damaged than it always has done. There’s nothing to see.
He turns away to go back to the road, but when he does he finds finds his path blocked. Not by a person or even an animal, but by a bird. A black bird.
It’s a bit like a crow, but larger, and its gaze is very sharp and intelligent. There’s something unnerving about the way it’s looking at him, like it’s studying him.
“Shoo,” he says, waving a hand at it, but it doesn’t move. It just sits there, wings folded, gazing unblinkingly up at him through beady black eyes.
“I don’t have any food,” Harry says. “If you want that there are plenty of worms.”
It‘s taken him a second, but now he realises he recognises the bird. It’s an Augurey. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen one outside Care of Magical Creatures classes before.
“What do you want?” He asks, and it lets out a piercing cry. The cry is so sorrowful, cutting right to his heart. It sounds like a sob. It reminds him the cry of a Phoenix, but instead of the noise warming him up, it makes him feel very cold and uneasy inside.
He shivers and flaps at the bird again.
“Come on. Move. Go and get some worms.”
The bird still doesn’t move, and as its cry resonates through Harry he feels something very unsettling. His forehead prickles, in a way it hasn’t done in a very long time. It prickles, and then, without warning, a spike of pain slices through his head and he lets out a yelp.
The cry frightens the bird, which takes flight, wings beating loudly as it spirals up into the blue sky. Harry blinks the pain away and stares up at it, confused and a little bit afraid.
He looks around at the house and grounds, but there’s no one and nothing to see. No more birds, no people. He’s alone, and it suddenly dawns on him that he feels as though he’s being watched. Coming here was, as it always seems to be, a very bad idea.
He marches back down the path, shuts the gate behind him, and resolves to ask one of the Aurors to stake it out for a few days. With that decision made he considers whether to go back to the office, but the mountain of paperwork with Albus’s file at the bottom looms large in his head.
No. He’ll go home and get ready for dinner with Lily. That’s the most sensible thing to do. It’s the only way to stop today being an unmitigated disaster.
He rubs his forehead, turns his back on the house, and sets off for his Apparition point, feeling that March can’t end soon enough, and it’s only just begun.
“Albus is gone,” Scorpius says, clattering into his dad’s office out of breath and zinging with frantic energy.
Draco looks up from the auction paper he’s reading and turns to look at Scorpius over the top of his reading glasses. “Albus is gone? How do you know? Have you been to his place already this morning?”
Scorpius shakes his head. “No. He was in bed with me when I went to sleep and by the time I woke up he was gone. I think he’s gone to fight Delphi alone.”
His dad pauses for a moment, and Scorpius expects him to make some comment about the fact that Albus has been sleeping with Scorpius under his roof, but he doesn’t. Instead he removes his reading glasses and looks Scorpius in the eye. “Have you checked the kitchen? You know Albus enjoys his morning coffee.”
Scorpius swallows and shakes his head. “N-no. I haven’t. I just assumed...”
Draco gets to his feet. “Check the kitchen. He might also have gone out into the grounds. I’ll go and talk to the gates. If he’s left they’ll know.”
“I could go to the gates instead,” Scorpius says, bouncing anxiously from foot to foot. “It’s chilly outside, and-“
“And you were discharged from hospital yesterday morning,” Draco says sternly. “You’re supposed to be resting. I’ll check the gates, you check the kitchen.”
“Fine,” Scorpius mutters. He turns and hurries down to the kitchen, heart racing in his chest. He knows even before he opens the door that Albus won’t be there, but part of him still hopes...
The kitchen is deserted. Draco’s newspaper is neatly folded in the middle of the table, there are two mugs on the draining board left from the pre-bed cocoa they’d had last night, all the chairs are tucked away just as they’d left them, and the window is letting in a gentle morning breeze. It’s just the way the kitchen is every morning. But this isn’t every morning. This morning Albus is gone, and if Delphi has any say in it, he might not come back.
Scorpius sinks into one of the chairs by the table and sits there, fidgeting anxiously and staring at the door. Why is his dad taking so long? The gates aren’t that far away surely... He should have gone too, then he wouldn’t have to wait. Sitting here in the warm kitchen and worrying is doing far worse for his head than a brisk walk in the cool morning air would have done.
Upstairs he hears the front door slam and he jumps to his feet and starts sprinting up to the hall. He runs straight into his dad who catches him and steadies him.
“What did I say about resting?”
Scorpius shakes his head in a breathless tide of anxiety. “That’s not important. What did the gates say?”
Draco’s expression goes hard as steel. “He left by the front gates an hour and a half ago. I’d assume he Apparated somewhere.”
“Then we need to go,” Scorpius says, trying to rush past his dad and make a break for the entrance hall. “We’re wasting time. Come on.”
Draco blocks him with a hand on his shoulder. “No. We are going nowhere. We’ll contact Harry, and the Aurors will do their jobs.”
“Because they did such a phenomenal job of finding him last ti-“ He breaks off mid-sarcastic sentence with a whimper of pain as a memory spikes through his head.
He buries his face in his hands and digs his fingers into his forehead as he sees Harry standing behind the desk in his office. His face is livid with rage, and even though it’s like the sound has been turned right down on the memory, like a silent, moving photograph, Scorpius knows what he’s saying.
“You should have tried harder, Scorpius. You’re his best friend, you’re the last person he saw. If you’d done better maybe you could have convinced him to stay.”
Scorpius had bowed his head and taken it, but inside he’d been screaming. ‘It’s not my fault that you can’t find him. He didn’t want to stay, and that wasn’t because of me. If he doesn’t want to be found then he won’t be.’
“Scorpius.” Draco’s sharp, worried voice swims across the distance to Scorpius, who suddenly becomes aware that he’s not in Harry’s office anymore. He’s on the stairs in his own house, clinging to his dad as tears run down his face and his head aches.
“Dad,” he whispers.
“Sit down.”
Scorpius nods and sinks onto the stairs. He’s shaking all over, and it’s all he can do to bury his face in his knees and try to stop himself crying. His head really does hurt a lot.
“Another memory?” Draco asks.
“Yes,” Scorpius whispers in a small, unsteady voice.
“What was it?” His dad asks, kneeling on the step below and squeezing his shoulder.
Scorpius wipes his eyes. “Doesn’t matter.”
“It certainly looks like it matters.”
Scorpius shakes his head. “I need to see Harry. Please, Dad. It’s really important.”
His dad gives him a long, hard look, his lips a thin, forbidding line that Scorpius is certain is about to turn into a no. After several seconds though, Draco nods. “Alright. Fine. Better we do this together than you run off on your own. But I should be taking you to St Mungo’s.”
“I know,” Scorpius says. “When we’ve found Albus I promise I’ll go and lie down in a nice dark room and rest for as long as you want.”
“First,” Draco says grimly, “we all have to survive that long.”
Albus has only felt this nervous about going to the training ground once before in his life. The very first time he came here he’d been petrified of what he’d find inside. He’d turned up with his broom and his kit bag, and Delphi had met him at the gate. That day had gone so much better than he’d expected, but he suspects that this morning will be a very different prospect.
It’s still a bit chilly, but Albus’s hand is sweating as he clutches his broom. The kitbag is cutting into his injured shoulder, and it’s taking all he’s got to keep from wincing because he can’t show what he’s done. Chances are that Delphi already knows that he’s turned against her, but on the slim chance that she hasn’t, he can’t give her any clues. After what she did to Scorpius, he knows it’s life or death.
He nudges the gate open and slips inside, kicking it closed behind him. There aren’t many people around, and those that are there stop what they’re doing and stare at him.
“Sev,” Jamal calls as he skims down towards Albus. “Long time no see. We thought you were never coming back.”
Albus forces a smile. “Just taking a week off. Is Delphi around? I heard she was looking for me.”
Jamal’s expression goes black. “You don’t want to see her, she’s been in a temper all week. But yes, I think she was looking for you. She should be around later.”
Albus sighs. “Great. I suppose I’ll wait for her then.” He dumps his bag on the floor and rolls his stinging shoulder.
“Is that an injury?” Jamal asks, eyeing him. “Might we have a chance against you for once?”
“Oh.” Albus stops rolling his shoulder. “A little bit I guess. Sometimes the burns make my arm hurt. They’re worse today, but nothing for anyone to get excited about.” He lays his broom out in the air, keen to get flying so he doesn’t have to talk anymore. “See you up there.”
He mounts up, kicks off from the ground, and soars skywards. Normally as soon as he gets in the air all his troubles float away, but this isn’t a normal day. Today he can hardly fly straight because he keeps glancing at the gate, braced for the moment when Delphi will appear and everything will change. Today everything is weighing him down with such force that it’s a miracle he can get off the ground at all. Today, for probably the first time since he arrived here seven years ago, he’s afraid of falling.
By the time Delphi walks through the gate, he’s worked himself up into such a state of anxiety that it’s almost a relief to see her. She’s so small, but that silver and blue hair would stand out anywhere. Her expression is like thunder this morning. She doesn’t glance up as she marches to her office, and Albus assumes she’s not expecting to see him. He decides that if she hasn’t noticed him then he’s going to have to go to her.
He hesitates for a second, steeling himself, then he floats back to the ground, aware of every eye on him. Normally he’d leave his broom propped against the clubhouse wall, but today he needs the moral support, so he takes it with him. He glances back as he crosses to the door, and spots Jamal giving him a thumbs up from the air. Albus responds with a shaky smile, then he breathes in, exhales slowly, and goes inside to find Delphi.
A door down the corridor bangs shut as he enters, and he immediately sets off towards it. It’s not hard to follow her in here because the space is so small. At one point the clubhouse was probably just one room, maybe used as a bar or a storeroom, but now it’s been divided up into a pair of changing rooms and a couple of offices. The league has easily outgrown the clubhouse now, but there’s never been a hint of it being extended or renovated. If Albus were in charge it’s one of the first things he would do.
Albus makes his way down the narrow corridor, which reeks of sweat and Fiendfyre smoke, until he gets to the offices. The one on the left of the corridor is deserted, so Albus quietly pushes open the door on the right, and there she is. She’s got her back to him and her head is bowed as she reads something laid out on the desk.
Albus had forgotten how her presence feels. It’s like electricity. She’s one of those people who you know is in a room even if you haven’t seen her. She crackles with an enticing energy. Maybe that was why it was so easy for him to fall for her. Maybe he didn’t have a choice.
Her wand is resting on the desk, and her fingers are loose on the handle, twisting it round and round. That’s how he knows that she knows he’s there. Her shoulders are tight, and he can feel her waiting for him to make the first move. He knows it has to be a good one. She could probably kill him without a second’s hesitation if she wanted to.
“Delphi,” Albus whispers, deciding to start with her name because he doesn’t know what else to say. He just hopes he sounds contrite and not afraid.
“I thought I told you we were done?” She doesn’t look up at him, but her tone is like ice.
He swallows and bows his head. “I-I heard you were looking for me.”
“Three days ago,” she says, turning the page of the newspaper she’s reading.
“I was busy,” Albus says, before realising that he was meant to use that opening to grovel, not to make more excuses.
“With Scorpius.” Delphi finally lifts her head and turns to look at him. Her eyes are impenetrably black.
Albus avoids her gaze and shakes his head. “No. I mean yes. Yes I was. But I also remembered what you said. About... about not wanting to see me anymore. I didn’t know what to do.”
There’s so much truth in all this that Albus doesn’t really feel like he’s lying at all. The only thing he’s concealing is the depth of his anger with her.
“And do you know what to do now?” Delphi asks, still spinning her wand between her fingers. “Did you have plenty of time to reflect with your precious Scorpius?”
Albus nods. “Yes, thank you. I did. I thought about things, and now... Well, now I’m here. I hope that tells you something about my decision.”
She scrutinises him for a moment, and he looks at her but carefully avoids her eyes as he does.
He can tell, right there and then, that she knows what’s going on inside his head. What’s really going on. And he can tell that she knows that he knows. But for some reason that’s not nearly as terrifying a thought as it should be. At least he knows where he stands, and if she’s willing to play along then he’s safe, at least temporarily.
“Who told you I was looking for you?” Delphi asks, turning back to her newspaper and folding it shut.
“Gareth,” he says, taking a step closer. “If he hadn’t told me I’d never have known.”
“Well I’m glad my message got through.” She slides the newspaper out of the way and hops up onto the table, feet swinging beneath her. “I wanted to talk to you about some plans.”
Albus frowns, caught off guard. “Plans? You never tell me your plans.”
“I know,” she says brightly, shuffling to the side and patting the desk to her right. “And I thought it was about time I started.”
Apprehensive, Albus goes across to her. He doesn’t sit on the table, but stays standing opposite her. They’re playing a game, he knows that, but only she knows the rules, and he doesn’t trust her enough to properly play along.
“Go on,” he says, folding his arms. “What are your plans?”
She beams at him, eyes glittering, and he recognises that smile. He’s seen it countless times over the years. It’s the smile she gets when she’s thought of something she knows he’s going to love. The sight of that smile makes his insides swoop, because even though he knows everything is over, that smile has always meant hope and happiness, and he can’t quite quell the tide of excitement rushing through him.
“I’ve been thinking about America,” she says.
“America?” He asks. He hadn’t been expecting that.
“Yes,” She chirps. “America. Like the country.”
He can’t help but smile, and he leans against the table, relaxing into the easy patter that they’ve always had between them. “America isn’t a country, Delphi. It’s a lot of countries.”
She rolls her eyes. “You sound like that boy. I meant the United States, obviously. Look.” She raises a hand and swipes it through the air, and from nowhere, moving pictures dance across the room.
There’s a ginormous bowl of a stadium, packed with people, far bigger than any Quidditch stadium Albus has ever seen, and tiny figures on broomsticks race and weave back and forth through a blazing course of fire.
“It’s not illegal over there,” she says. “There would be no more running, no more hiding. You could be a star. A real star. The riches, the fame, the glory. Your father isn’t as well known over there either. You could be yourself. Completely yourself. Albus Severus Potter, the star broom racer.”
Albus stares at the images in awe. There’s a relay team, a group of four racers, holding a cup aloft, surrounded by thousands of people all chanting their names. There’s a racer who dives so fast they’re almost a blur, like a streaking comet. Albus can’t help but wonder if he could dive that fast, or that low to the ground. Could he beat that? Could he be as brave? As fearless?
No. The answer hits him. No he couldn’t. Because it’s not just him anymore. He’s got his family to think about, and Scorpius. Racing isn’t his life. He doesn’t want it to be. And going to America would mean walking away from everything he’s worked so hard to build.
He turns his back on Delphi and walks across the room, shattering the images she’s projecting. “I can’t,” he says.
She folds her arms. “You can’t?”
He shakes his head. “No. I-I can’t go to America. I don’t want to race anymore. I’m done.”
“You’re done?” She echoes, in a far more mild tone than she would if this were more than a game.
He nods and turns back to her. “Yes. Done. Just like you said. No more racing. No more... no more us. I want it to be over.”
For a moment Delphi sits there, gaze hawklike, sharp and cruel as she stares at him. Finally she gets to her feet and walks towards him. “Alright then. But first I want an answer. What’s that on your shoulder?”
Instinctively Albus reaches back for his aching shoulder. He doesn’t touch it, but when he rests his hand just above the injury he realises that the neck of his t-shirt isn’t quite covering the bandage. Whatever game they were playing, he’s just lost.
“I don’t know,” he lies. “I mean... the burns have been spreading a bit, so-“
“You don’t cover a Fiendfyre burn with a bandage,” she says, eyes flashing dangerously. “You’re a liar, Albus Severus Potter.” And then she’s right next to him, and as she grips his shoulder she makes sure to dig her fingers right into the wound on his shoulder blade.
He lets out a scream of pain and his knees buckle. He collapses to the ground, and only once he’s kneeling there does she let go, laughing.
“Not as smart as you like to think, or as brave.” She crouches down behind him and plucks his shirt away from his shoulder. “What have you done here?”
He drags in a breath past his gritted teeth and lifts his head. “The wings. I got rid of them. Because I didn’t want you anywhere near me ever again.”
She plucks the bandage away from his skin. “Oh. It’s bleeding. You’ve done a beautiful job on that, haven’t you?”
“Thanks,” he mutters, glaring at her.
She smooths his t-shirt back into place and leaves her hand on his shoulder, putting enough pressure on to make it intensely uncomfortable, but not enough for him to react. “I knew we’d drifted,” she murmurs, “but I never thought you’d go this far. Oh, Albus.” She runs a finger down his cheek and he twists his head away. She laughs and slaps him hard across the face instead, so he falls to the floor, dazed.
“Now you’re here,” she says brightly, getting to her feet and looking down at him, “I need something from you.”
“I’m not giving you anything,” he spits, lifting his head off the floor and trying to scramble upright.
“Hear me out before you decide not to help.” She paces the length of the room, twirling her wand in the air so it’s in constant view. It looks as menacing as she clearly means it to. “I want you to tell your dear father that you’re in trouble.”
“No.” Albus struggles to sit up. “I won’t. I won’t help you.”
“You don’t want someone to come and help you?” Delphi asks, spinning to face him.
Albus shakes his head. “I’d rather you just killed me.”
Delphi sighs. “I thought you might say that. You’re going to regret it.”
Albus lifts his chin and fixes her with the most defiant glare he can muster. “Do your worst.”
A slow smile spreads across her face as she levels her wand at him. “I will.” She raises a hand and swipes it through the air once again. Where before the image of the racing in America had appeared, now there’s an unsteady image of Malfoy Manor.
“Your boyfriend is in there,” she says conversationally. “I’ve got people watching him. If you don’t do as you’re told...” She trails off with a shrug, and Albus stares up at her.
“What are you going to do to him?”
“Nothing.” She crouches down and rests the tip of her wand just under his chin. “As long as you tell your father where you are.”
Albus weighs it up in his head. If she wants Harry then he can’t call for help. He simply can’t do it. She can kill him before she touches his dad. And if she kills Scorpius then she no longer has any leverage over him. So he doesn’t have to obey. Not yet. He can stall until his dad realises he’s missing and comes up with a plan.
“No,” he says, looking her right in the eye. “I won’t.”
She blinks at him. “You won’t?”
Albus holds his ground and shakes his head. “No.”
“Very well then.” She raises a hand and the image of Malfoy Manor dissolves, leaving the room empty, the air blank, with no connection to the outside world. “I suppose you’ve given me some work to do then. But first,” she grips hold of his arm, fingers biting into the burned, prickling skin and drags him roughly to his feet with enough strength that he doesn’t have any choice but to get up. “I’m going to take you somewhere nice and quiet, where you can have a little think about what you’ve just done to the boy you supposedly love so much.” And she twists sideways, wrenching him with her, and Disapparates.
“What do you mean, he’s disappeared?” Harry asks, glaring at Draco.
Draco draws in a very patient breath and raises his eyes to the sky. “I mean, he’s gone. He left the Manor this morning while we were asleep. Isn’t that correct, Scorpius?”
Scorpius is standing in the corner of Harry’s office, trying to stay out of the firing line. His head is hurting too much for an argument, and Harry is like a Dr Filibuster Firework on a rainy day – liable to explode at any second.
He hugs himself and nods. “Right. I woke up and he was gone.”
Harry’s temper fizzes. “Why didn’t you wake up when he left?”
“I suppose I was tired,” Scorpius says, trying to keep a bite of anger out of his voice. “I’m-“
“He’s supposed to be resting,” his dad cuts in. “Of course he didn’t wake up. He’s sick. He needs sleep.”
Harry nods. “So for the second time in your life you let Albus just leave, and now we have no idea where he is, if he’s alive, or how to get him back. For the second time.”
“He would have left if I’d been awake or not!” Scorpius says, clenching his fists, heat rising inside him. “He’s Albus. If he wants to walk out on you he’ll do it, even if he loves you. That’s what he does.”
“That’s what he does to you,” Harry snaps back.
Anger blazes inside Scorpius and the pain in his head flares into a white hot spike. He feels sick and dizzy and he wants to hex Harry, but he knows that what he needs is to go and find some fresh air. Getting sent to Azkaban because he can’t control himself is going to help no one.
“I’m going for a walk,” he says. “My head hurts.”
Draco nods, and as Scorpius leaves he realises that his dad has his wand drawn, as does Harry. Apparently his dad has no qualms about being sent to Azkaban. He doesn’t know if that’s comforting or not.
The halls of the Ministry are about as quiet as they ever are on a weekday morning. Most people are at their desks, but a handful of people wander the corridors, bustling from place to place or dragging their feet to prolong the time spent out of the office. Artificial light streams through the fake windows set into the underground walls, mimicking the blue sky and bright sunshine that must be blazing down on the street overhead. Scorpius wishes it were less bright, because the light isn’t helping with his headache.
He reaches the lift at the end of the hall and gets in, leaning his back against the wall and bowing his head. It’s just him and a flock of Ministry memos, which swirl around him, rustling with an air of self-importance. He swats a couple away when they get too close and jabs at the button for the Atrium.
The lift zooms upwards, and no one stops it on the ascent. At the Atrium level, the metal grille opens and Scorpius gets out, the cloud of memos zooming away above his head.
It’s much cooler up here, and far more spacious. The Law Enforcement floor is always stuffy and uncomfortable; the department expands at such a rate that there are never quite enough desks and always far too many people, and because the Aurors’ training gym is on the same floor, the whole department smells faintly of sweat. It’s that sort of thing that makes Scorpius long for the cold, cavernous rooms and musty, ancient smell of the Department of Mysteries far below.
He sets off across the Atrium, enjoying the gentle coolness of the air on his face, and he’s careful to skirt close by the fountain in the middle of the room, which showers him with a fine spray of water.
As he crosses to the fireplace that will take him up to the street above, he realises that leaving his dad and Harry alone together probably wasn’t the best idea in the world. If he comes back down in a minute and finds them both alive and whole it’ll be a minor miracle. But he can’t help but feel a little bit that Harry deserves it. He should know Albus better by now, especially after everything. He should know that this is different. This isn’t Albus running away, this is Albus being stupid and noble and every bit a Potter. There’s no way Harry can honestly say he wouldn’t have done exactly the same thing if he’d been in Albus’s position.
Scorpius shakes his head and steps into the nearest fireplace. The dancing emerald flames, a pleasant and welcome warmth for most of the year, are uncomfortable and prickly in the heat, and it’s a relief to finally start spinning upwards. He squeezes his eyes shut and tucks his elbow in, until finally, with a gurgling sound, he comes to a halt standing in the bowl of a toilet.
He hops out, nudges the door open, and glances around. The coast is clear. No other Ministry workers are coming or going at this time and the Muggles all think this place is out of order. He’s careful slipping out onto the street, but really it’s an easy and smooth exit from work.
The sun bakes the quiet, dusty street. Scorpius sticks in the shade, and is immensely grateful for the gentle breeze ruffling past. His head has started to ache less, and he pauses to lean against the brick wall of one of the buildings on either side.
He closes his eyes and rests his head against the brickwork. It’s only taken a second with a clearer head to realise that he needs to go back and actually talk to Harry. They need to plan and come up with a list of places to look for Albus. It shouldn’t be that hard – Albus will either have gone to The Scythe to confront Delphi there or he’ll be at the training ground. This isn’t like last time. They can act. They can help. They’re not in the dark now.
Scorpius massages his temples and steels himself to head back down into the hot interior of the Ministry. The last thing he needs is to walk into the middle of a duel between his dad and Harry. He might have to be ready to break that up...
With a sigh he pushes off the building and opens his eyes. It’s then that he sees the person standing on the corner of the street, wand drawn, looking at him. Scorpius fumbles for his own wand, but he’s too slow. Before he’s even found the handle the Stunning Spell has hit him and the world has gone black.
“When are you going to stop?” Draco asks, tone dangerously frosty.
Harry clenches his fingers tighter around his wand and doesn’t lower it an inch. He also doesn’t say a word.
“When are you going to stop,” Draco repeats, “blaming my son for Albus’s skittishness? It’s not our fault that he’s his father’s son through and through.”
“What does that mean?” Harry growls.
“It means that no matter what anyone says he won’t see sense. It means he’s reckless, Potter, a law unto himself. If Scorpius can’t stop him then no one can. That should be obvious by now.”
Harry glares at him. “It sounds like you’re blaming me. Which might have been fair in the past but not this time. This time I’ve done nothing wrong.”
Draco rolls his eyes. “I’m not saying you have. The only thing you’ve done this time is to blame Scorpius, again, for something he can’t possibly control – Albus’s character.”
“Scorpius had a chance to stop him!” Harry gestures to the door. “Scorpius was there. Albus trusts him, loves him. He might have listened. And anyway, Scorpius spends more time with him than anyone else. He should have realised this was going to happen!”
“It was obvious this was going to happen,” Draco scoffs. “To everyone except you, because you still don’t know your son.”
A flash of red light streaks across the room, and Draco reacts without thinking.
“Protego!”
Harry’s spell ricochets up and hits the ceiling light, which shatters, plunging them both into darkness.
“Rictusempra.” Draco aims the Tickling Charm at the spot where Harry was, but as the silver jet shoots across the room and blasts a chunk out of the wall, it’s clear that Harry has ducked well out of the way, and he’s already aiming his next spell.
He doesn’t say anything, just flicks his wand, and Draco crouches down, using the desk to block the spell this time. All the paper on the desk explodes upwards into the air as the spell hits, sending a shower of papers cascading around them, and when Draco sends his next spell it sets fire to a couple of the papers as it streaks across the room.
Harry flicks his wand and extinguishes the flames effortlessly, so the charred papers drop as a cloud of ash to the floor. “I’d rather you didn’t set fire to my office, thanks.”
Draco grins. “I thought you didn’t like paperwork?”
“I don’t, but that doesn’t mean I want you to burn it.”
“You were the one who tried to Hex me,” Draco points out, waving his wand to return all the papers to their haphazard piles on the desk. “There, your papers are all better. Do you think we could possibly have a civilised conversation now?”
Harry lowers his wand. “Possibly.”
Draco hesitates for a moment, then lowers his as well. “Good.” He waits until Harry has pocketed his wand before he tucks his into his robes and folds his arms. “I think we should stop fighting about why anyone left anywhere and concentrate on finding your son. Can we agree on that at least.”
“We can,” Harry mutters. He pushes his glasses up his nose and glances around. “Should we call Scorpius back? I’m sure he’ll want to help.”
Draco nods, draws his wand again, thinks of Scorpius giddy with joy about something – probably Albus – and summons his Patronus. The silver shape prowls through the air, and sits on Harry’s desk, its tail wrapped round it, staring unblinkingly at Draco.
“I need you to go and fetch Scorpius,” Draco says. “Tell him we’ve stopped fighting and we’re ready to find Albus.”
The Patronus uncurls its tail, turns a circle on the desk, then stops and stares at Draco. It doesn’t disappear like it should, it just stands there, unmoving, then it switches its tail back and forth and seems to shake its head.
“Did you hear-“
The Patronus sits down on the desk and starts licking its paws. Exasperated, Draco looks at Harry.
“It’s not listening.”
“Maybe you’re not being authoritative enough,” Harry says, and Draco glowers as he spots the hint of a smile on Harry’s lips.
“This isn’t a laughing matter. And it’s my Patronus. It’s supposed to do what I want.”
“Why don’t I have a go.” Harry draws his wand, and Draco folds his arms and watches as the stag appears in the middle of the room, enormous and dazzling.
“We need to find Scorpius,” Harry tells it. “Can you tell him to come back down here now?”
The stag pauses for a moment, then takes a step back, lowering its head and flicking its ears. It shows no signs of disappearing, and Harry lowers his wand, frowning.
“Maybe you need to be a bit more authoritative, Potter,” Draco suggests in a mocking voice.
Harry ignores him and scratches his head. “I don’t understand. The only reason they wouldn’t deliver a message is if Scorpius is...”
“Unconscious,” Draco finishes.
Harry nods. “Or dead.”
“But,” Draco cuts in, “he only left the room three minutes ago, so he can’t be either of those things.”
“It’s the Ministry. He should be safe. He works here. I suppose unless he went outside, or...” He looks at the stag again. “You’re completely sure you can’t reach him?”
The stag paws the ground, then tosses its magnificent head, and Harry sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “Alright then. How about this.” He gives his wand a sharp upward flick, and immediately the office is full of a myriad of lights and traces and images, hundreds of them, a confusing jumble of information that Draco can’t imagine being able to make sense of. Harry seems to know what he’s doing though, because he strides among them, inspecting some of them and ignoring others.
“What is this?” Draco asks, looking at an image of an empty street hanging by his left elbow, beside a streak of gold that keeps flashing back and forth across a patch of air about ten centimetres across.
“Security,” Harry says. “Sensors, detectors, all sorts. I can find out if anyone left, see which entrances they used, and try and spot Scorpius. It shouldn’t be too hard. It’s the middle of the day so not many people will be coming and going.”
Draco looks around at the mess of signals and images. “Where do we start?”
Harry points to one image over by the door. “The Atrium. Look, there’s a trace at the staff entrance.” He gestures to a blip on one of the dozens of surveillance charts, then directs his wand at the image of the Atrium and gives it a flick. The image enlarges, and a second later Draco finds himself watching as Scorpius walks across the Atrium to one of the fireplaces and goes zooming out of sight.
“He must have gone up for fresh air.” Draco glances at Harry. “Do you have a view of the street?”
“Of course.” Another wave of Harry’s wand and they’re looking at a moving image of the street. Scorpius leaves the out-of-order toilet, the door swinging shut behind him. He goes and leans against one wall, burying his face in his hands. It takes Draco a second after that to notice the masked person standing on the street corner, watching him.
“Look,” he whispers, pointing to him, and Harry nods grimly.
“I know.”
For a few seconds after that they stand in silence, then Scorpius looks up and starts walking back inside and at the same time the figure acts. The Stunning Spell happens so fast that it seems to come from nowhere. One second Scorpius is fine, next second he’s crumpled to the ground and the person rushes over, takes hold of his arm, and Disapparates.
“When I find Delphi,” Draco murmurs, “I’m going to kill her.”
Harry tightens his grip on his wand and nods. “I might join you.”
He dismisses the surveillance spells with a quick gesture and goes back behind his desk.
Draco walks up to the desk and leans both hands on it, looking at Harry. “How do we find out where Scorpius is now? And can we assume that Albus will be there too?”
“We can’t necessarily assume that,” Harry says. “There might be a reason for keeping them apart. But I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“Excellent,” Draco mutters, turning in an agitated circle. “So what do we do?”
Harry hesitates. Draco can see the flicker of doubt in his eyes, and the calculating flash that briefly mars his gaze. It’s instantly clear that he knows exactly how they’ll find Scorpius but that he doesn’t want to say it for some stupid reason.
Draco levels his wand at Harry. “Say it, Potter. What do we do?”
Harry swallows. “I can find out where Scorpius is. But you might not...” He sighs and ruffles his hair. “Don’t Hex me, but we put a trace on Scorpius.”
Draco stares at Harry in shock for a moment, then he curls his fingers tighter round the handle of his wand and gives Harry the hardest, coldest look he can muster. “If you really don’t want me to Hex you, you’d better have a fantastic reason for that.”
“After what happened,” Harry says, sinking into the chair behind his desk. “After what happened to Scorpius at The Scythe, I thought it would be useful to be able to track him. If he was using defensive spells he might be in trouble. We could see where he was Apparating to whenever he did that. It wasn’t mistrust, it was for his protection, because he was never going to agree to stop investigating and nothing else worked.”
“Does that mean we can find him now?” Draco asks, deciding to reserve judgement until he knows how useful this invasion into his son’s privacy is going to be.
“Well,” Harry says, scratching his head. “We have to wait for him to do magic.”
“Brilliant,” Draco snaps. “When he’s just been captured and inevitably Disarmed.”
Harry shrugs. “It spots natural magic too, you know, magic caused by emotion. And say he tried to resist a spell without his wand, say he did Occlumency or tried to throw off an Imperius curse, we’d see that as well. I’d say that’s most likely.”
“If he’s capable of resistance still,” Draco mutters darkly. He turns around and paces across the room. “So we’re waiting and hoping. Brilliant, Potter. I can clearly see how you saved the world so many times when that is your grand strategy.”
“Well I’d love to hear your better solution.”
Draco shrugs. “Start at Albus’s training ground and go from there? At least we’ll be doing something.”
“Fine,” Harry says, plucking his jacket from the back of his chair as he gets to his feet. “The training ground it is. And maybe after that we can drop by some of the places we know she’s frequented recently.”
“You’re a paragon of strategic brilliance,” Draco says. “Let’s go.”
Albus is in a broom cupboard. It’s too dark to see, but he can smell the warm, dark scent of varnish, and he can feel the bristles of twigs against his arms, which is comforting even though his own broom has been taken from him when he arrived, along with his wand.
Delphi has dragged his hands behind his back and bound them with a spell that burns and blisters his skin every time he moves an inch. As a consequence he’s now sitting very still and trying to work out how to get out of this place.
The strange thing is that despite being captive, and despite Delphi doing something unknown and unspeakable to Scorpius, he doesn’t feel scared. He’s always felt at home hiding in a broom cupboard. It’s a familiar environment, his safe place, and nothing can touch him here. Not just that, but the intense darkness means there’s nothing to do but sit and think, and thinking means that he can plan.
He already knows that Delphi is going to come back for him at some point. She needs him, she’s barely hurt him so far, and she’ll want to show off whatever it is she’s done to Scorpius. Not just that but she’s left him in a broom cupboard, which is full of potential weapons – not just the brooms themselves but tubs of powder, varnish, twig clippers, files, all sorts. He just has to find some in the darkness and get ready for her.
It’s not easy when he’s trying not to move too much, but he starts feeling around the floor. He keeps his wrists pressed carefully together, so he doesn’t get burned by the spell binding them, and pats at the ground. There’s a lot of dust and grit down there, nothing much in the way of tools, and he wriggles backwards, reaching as far as his shoulders will let him until his fingers skim over the sharp twigs of broom tails. A broom isn’t exactly subtle or easy to handle with both hands tied behind his back, so he keeps shifting around and searching the ground for something else.
Thankfully, Delphi hasn’t bound his legs, so he manages to stumble to his feet. He’s been sitting so long that they’ve gone all tingly and numb, and he loses his footing and falls against the wall. The impact jars his body, makes the fiery cuffs sear into his wrists, and sends brooms clattering to the ground. Instantly he freezes, eyes squeezed tight shut against the pain and waiting for any sign that someone outside might have heard. After a couple of minutes of stillness and silence he decides that he’s probably safe, and he starts trying to scour the shelves for anything he can find.
There are one or two broom servicing kits; he feels the leather bound cases and his heart leaps. With some careful manoeuvring and painful twisting of his arms, he manages to get one of the kits open, and he’s rewarded with the cool metal of tweezers, clippers, a small knife, and a couple of sharp edged files. Heart leaping with excitement, Albus picks up the clippers, knife, and files, and sinks back onto the ground, this time with his knees under him.
It takes a lot more wriggling to get the clippers and files into one sock, his jeans pocket, and the inside lining of his jacket. The knife he keeps concealed in his hand, fingers clenched round it, and he sets about waiting for Delphi to come back.
It feels like forever before the door clicks, and Albus has been on edge the whole time, knowing he has only seconds to act when the moment comes. He throws himself to his feet and rushes at Delphi exactly as she opens the door. Knife in hand, he swings round blindly, hoping that he hits something. Unfortunately her reflexes are quick, far quicker than Albus had expected, and in an instant she’s grabbed Albus’s wrist and twisted it so he’s forced to drop the knife. It clatters uselessly to the floor and she grins at him.
“Nice try, Sev. You really are resourceful. But sadly predictable.”
He twists his body round and spits at her, aiming for her face, but he misses, and she laughs and does something to the bindings on his wrists that makes them burn with excruciating, sharp heat. He yells in pain and sinks to his knees, gasping.
Delphi bends down and presses her lips to his ear, whispering to him. “I’d recommend behaving. Do you think that sounds like a good suggestion?”
He nods and hangs his head, and she shoves him away so he sprawls onto the ground. She stands over him, pointing her wand.
“Accio weapons.”
The clippers and files all go flying from Albus’s clothing and into her hand, and he grits his teeth, frustrated but not surprised.
“There we go,” Delphi sing songs. “That’s better. You might consider behaving if you don’t have those. I’d hate for you to be tempted to do something stupid. Now, get up.” She jerks her wand upwards and Albus is dragged irresistibly to his feet, wrists on fire. As soon as he’s upright, Delphi grabs him by the arm and starts marching him down the corridor.
“Where are we going?” He asks.
“To see your boyfriend,” she replies, tone bright and bubbly, as if she’s simply announcing that they’re all going to have coffee together.
Albus’s stomach clenches. Scorpius is here. That’s not good. If Scorpius is here then he’s probably already hurt...
“What have you done to him?” He asks, glaring at Delphi. “Have you hurt him?”
“Not yet. Stop asking questions.” She directs her wand at him, and next second he realises that he can’t make a sound. He clenches his mouth shut and glares at the floor, hating every second of this.
She walks him down the corridor. It’s a corridor like the one in every stadium, running the full perimeter of the pitch below ground, but Albus knows exactly which one this is.
The walls are hung with fading purple and gold drapes. Everything must once have been opulent and sparkling down here, but time has made the tiled floor go scuffed and rutted, the hangings moth-eaten, and the paint on the doors chipped and damaged. Once upon a time this stadium hosted the biggest Quidditch match in the history of the World Cup, but now it’s only used for the odd match, and whenever the league breaks in for races. It’s sad in a way, and this particular stadium has always had a special place in Albus’s heart.
“He’s in here,” Delphi says, dragging Albus in through one of the doors leading off from the corridor.
The room they enter is a big, dusty storeroom. There’s nothing in there apart from a couple of dusty crates of Butterbeer tucked away in a corner, and, slumped against a pillar...
“Scorpius,” Albus mouths, staring at him. He looks unharmed at least, but he’s definitely unconscious, and who knows what spell damage is going on inside.
Delphi waves her wand and Albus’s wrists burn as he collapses to his knees, not taking his eyes off Scorpius for a second.
“Rennervate.” Delphi directs her wand at Scorpius, who coughs and sags forward. “Fulgari.” His wrists snap together in front of him and he lifts his head and blinks at Delphi for a moment before spotting Albus.
“Albus! You’re here. You’re alive.”
“Yes,” Albus tries to say, but he’s still silenced. Instead he nods.
“What’s going on? Why are we here? She hasn’t hurt you, has she?”
Albus shakes his head to say that he’s fine, but he can’t answer any of the other questions. Delphi seems to realise this because she frowns and waves her wand at him.
“Tell him why he’s here, Sev. Go on. Tell him exactly why he’s here.”
Albus swallows. “She... she wants my dad here for something. She wants me to call for help. But I said I wouldn’t and... and then she said if that was the case then she’d bring you into it. I’m sorry, Scorpius. I’m so sorry. But I just knew that...” He cuts himself off, because as much as he wants to say that he knows how her mind works, that Scorpius will be okay, he doesn’t know that for sure, and what if he won’t be? What if he’s going to die because Albus wouldn’t do what he was told. “I really am sorry,” Albus whispers.
Scorpius shakes his head. “It’s okay. I understand.” He glares defiantly up at Delphi. “I’m here now. What are you waiting for?”
“Good question. Crucio.”
Scorpius screams and contorts, face a picture of agony. Albus shouts too, struggling to get up, wanting to run at Delphi and knock her wand out of her hand, wanting to stop her from making Scorpius scream like that. But the second he gets up she waves a hand at him, knocking him back onto the ground, and an instant after that Scorpius has stopped screaming and she’s raised her wand and is laughing.
“Changed your mind yet, Sev?”
He looks at Scorpius, who’s trying to push himself off the floor using his elbows, face screwed up in pain. Scorpius lifts his head and meets Albus’s eyes, burning with fierce determination. He gives the tiniest nod and Albus swallows and looks back at Delphi.
“I can’t,” Albus murmurs.
“What was that?” Delphi asks, grinning. “You can’t?”
He shakes his head and looks down at the floor. “No.”
“Oh dear.” Delphi’s grin widens and she spins around, pointing her wand at Scorpius once more, but still looking right at Albus. “Crucio.”
Scorpius’s body twists and contorts as Delphi’s spell hits him. The scream that tears from him pierces straight through Albus, sharp as a knife. Albus doesn’t know what to do. He wants to throw himself in front of the spell and take the pain himself. He wants to run at Delphi and stop her somehow, hurt her. He wants to be able to do something, anything, to change this, but he can’t. The course of his life from the time he was 11 years old has led him to this point and now he can’t escape. This is pain of his own making, a disaster of his own making, and he’s lost to it.
“Stop,” he yells, struggling onto his knees. “Please!”
Delphi doesn’t even seem to hear him. She’s looked away now, a cruel expression on her face, tightening her grip on her wand and not stopping the spell, which stretches on and on and on. Scorpius is still screaming, but he’s shaking all over now, twitching and trembling, slowly losing control, and this needs to stop.
Albus manages to get to his feet and he runs at Delphi because it’s the only way he can think to force her to stop hurting Scorpius. She can’t curse him and hold Albus off at once, and there’s no way she’ll let Albus touch her.
He’s right. The second she spots him running at her she drops the curse and swipes her wand at him, blasting him back so hard that he hits the wall and crumples to the ground, dazed.
There’s a moment after that when Albus is lying on his side, stars dancing in his vision, and Scorpius is collapsed motionless on the other side of Delphi. She stands triumphant between them, hair a wild mess, breathing hard but smiling through it. She looks like she’s having the time of her life, and Albus feels sick.
“There’s a really easy way to get me to stop, Sev,” she says, tilting her head to one side and smiling at him. “You know what you have to do.”
Behind her, Scorpius stirs. He lifts his head weakly and looks right at Albus. The movement is almost imperceptible but Albus sees him shake his head before he sinks back onto the ground and lies there, looking wrecked and exhausted.
How much longer can Scorpius keep taking pain like that? It’s too much. But if he hands his dad to Delphi then maybe something even worse will happen. There’s no right answer here. He can’t hand Delphi the keys to the world, but he can’t let her keep hurting Scorpius either.
He curls up in a ball and closes his eyes. The world needs to go away. This all needs to stop. Maybe he can wake up and he’ll be back in bed beside Scorpius at the Manor and all this will be a bad dream. But of course it’s not. He’s still surrounded by dusty air and darkness and the cold of this empty storeroom. At this rate he might never get to sleep beside Scorpius ever again.
“No answer?” Delphi asks, glee in her voice.
Albus swallows and tries to work out what to say, but it’s like she’s put the Silencing Charm back on him. His voice is gone and he can’t find any words.
“Scorpius, I don’t think he loves you,” she says. “If he loved you he would help you, wouldn’t he? He’d stop the pain. But he doesn’t really care. No one cares about you and you’ve known it all along.”
Albus lifts his head and sees that she’s now right in front of Scorpius, crouching down and cupping his chin in her hand. She’s looking him right in the eye, and he’s staring helplessly back at her. It’s obvious that he’s too weak and exhausted to try and pull free, so he’s stuck looking into her eyes, and Albus knows exactly what she’s going to do next.
“Let’s explore that, shall we?” She asks softly. “Let’s find out when exactly you realised that Albus Potter has never cared for you and never will.”
Scorpius goes stiff as she invades his mind. He doesn’t seem to have much resistance left, and Albus can tell he’s unable to fight. He wishes he could help, that he could lend Scorpius some of his strength; some of the desperate defiance welling up inside him. But all he can do is sit and helplessly watch as Delphi mounts her attack.
Albus knows exactly how it feels. He knows what it’s like to have her whispering inside his head, perusing his memories at will, tearing a trail of destruction through all his innermost thoughts. It hurts, and fighting back makes it hurt even more. It’s humiliating, a violation of the most private parts of his soul. And now she’s doing that to Scorpius. Even worse, she’s doing it to Scorpius whose memories are already causing him intense pain.
If the torture hadn’t caused Scorpius irreparable damage already, this will. Albus can tell just by looking at him that he’s already losing himself under Delphi’s assault. She’s gripping his chin hard and his head is tilted back, mouth open. His eyes are rolled back in his head and his limbs are twitching. His breathing seems impossibly shallow, and Albus is sure that if Delphi wasn’t holding him up he’d have collapsed already.
As Albus watches, a trickle of blood runs from Scorpius’s nose, and Albus’s insides go cold. He can’t watch her kill him. He can’t. Even if it destroys everything, he needs Scorpius. This has to stop.
“I’ll do it,” he calls, voice shaking. “Please, stop. I-I’ll call my dad. Just stop hurting him. Please.”
There’s a moment in which he thinks Delphi doesn’t hear him, that she’s too lost in Scorpius’s brain to be aware of the outside world. But then she lets go of Scorpius and reels back, breathing like she’s just run a sprint. Scorpius crumples onto the floor, pale and unmoving, and she turns to Albus and nods, eyes dark and glittering.
“Very good. That’s the right answer.”
Albus hangs his head and doesn’t say anything. He feels sick, and he wants nothing more than to run to Scorpius’s side and make sure he’s okay. But he can’t move. He’s trapped, just like he has been right from the first moment he accepted Delphi into his life.
“Will you heal him?” Albus asks, nodding at Scorpius. “Since I’m helping you? Will you make sure he doesn’t-“ He breaks off, as his throat gets clogged with tears.
“I might think about it,” Delphi says, glancing over her shoulder at Scorpius. “He might be more useful alive. We’ll see. Now stop worrying about him. I believe you just agreed to do something.”
They march down the corridor, up a narrow set of stairs, and through a heavy wooden door into another corridor carpeted in plush purple. Albus doesn’t speak – he doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to – and his mind is full of the image of Scorpius lying unconscious and abandoned in the middle of the storeroom. He’s so oblivious to where they’re going that when Delphi turns sharply through a door he almost walks into the wall next to it.
“Pay attention,” she snaps, grabbing hold of him and throwing him through the door into the room ahead.
It must be some sort of bar or reception room. Perhaps this is where the rich and famous guests were entertained before Quidditch matches here. There’s a chandelier overhead that must once have glittered but is now rather dusty. The mirrors on every wall are grimy and stained. The bar is empty, just a solitary bottle of champagne left behind on a shelf. But Albus knows why they’re here; there’s a fireplace in one corner, and Delphi strides across and lights it with a wave of her wand.
“You’re going to call him,” she says. “You’re going to tell him where you are and that you need help. Tell him you just got away from me, but that I’ll be here soon and that you’re scared I’m going to kill you.” She pulls a small pouch from her pocket and holds it out to him. “Go on.”
Albus steps forward, legs shaking, and looks down at the pouch. “How am I supposed to take any when my hands are tied?”
Delphi tuts. She seizes hold of him by the shoulder, fingers digging into his wound again, and unbinds his hands from behind his back, then she drags them in front of him and restores the fiery spell. “Better?”
“Much,” Albus mutters, taking a pinch of powder and stepping across to the fireplace. For a moment he considers stepping into the fire in an attempt to Floo away from this place and escape, but then his wrists burn and he realises that probably isn’t even possible when he’s bound like this. He has no option but to behave.
He kneels in front of the fire and sprinkles the Floo Powder into the flames, then he draws in a breath and leans forward, feeling the pleasant warmth wash across his face.
“Harry Potter’s office,” he says, careful not to inhale any ash. A second later his head is spinning its dizzying journey to London, and an instant after that he finds himself looking at his dad’s deserted office.
There’s no one inside, and no signs that anyone might be coming back anytime soon. Albus’s heart leaps hopefully at that – maybe his dad has already realised they’re in trouble and is on his way to help – but he gets the feeling that Delphi won’t be satisfied if he tells her he couldn’t talk to his dad because he wasn’t there. He has to at least try.
“Hello?” He calls. “Dad? Anyone?”
Ringing silence. This is stupid. But now he’s started calling for help, he doesn’t want to stop. Maybe someone will hear, maybe someone will help, maybe if someone comes he can warn them to be careful. Maybe he’ll find someone who can save him and Scorpius.
“Please,” he screams. “I need help. Please.” The last word comes out as a broken sob and a tear splashes down among the flames and instantly turns to steam.
No one is coming. He’ll have to go back to Delphi and tell her there was no one there, that he couldn’t talk to anyone. She’ll be angry. She’ll hurt Scorpius. She might even kill him.
“Can anyone hear me?” He tries again, desperate, voice breaking.
He’s unheard, of course he is. Why would this time be any different to any other time in his life? There’s never anyone there to hear him calling when he needs help, that’s how he got into this mess. And apparently it’s how he’ll have to get out of it too. Alone. Causing yet more damage to the person he loves more than anything else in the world.
He tries to gulp in a breath between his tears but all he gets is a mouthful of ash, and he chokes, coughing and spluttering. His eyes water, and instead of being able to leave the fireplace, he’s stuck there for a second as he struggles for breath. It’s that second that saves him.
“Hello?” Someone calls from across the room.
Albus coughs in response, and he hears running footsteps on the floorboards. As he blinks the tears from his eyes he sees a woman in a smart Muggle suit who he recognises as Emmeline, his dad’s secretary, kneeling in front of the fire, peering at him.
“You’re-“
“Where’s my dad?” He asks urgently. “I need to tell him something.”
“He’s not here,” she says. “He left a little while ago with Draco Malfoy. Are you alright? Can I pass on a message?”
Albus nods. “Yes. Yes! Tell him we need help. She’s going to kill Scorpius unless he comes. We’re... we’re at the Quidditch World Cup stadium. The one from when he was at school. He needs to come quickly. Please.”
Emmeline blinks at him in surprise, then her expression changes to sharp, businesslike understanding. “Yes. Of course. I’ll tell him. Do you need Aurors immediately?”
Albus swallows. “I-I think my dad should arrive first. Alone. It’s important.” He looks right at her and tries to communicate without words that he’s not alone, that there’s someone with him, coercing him, and that everyone needs to be very careful. He’s not sure if she gets the message, but she nods.
“I understand. You be safe. Don’t do anything your dad would do. I’ll send him as soon as I can contact him.”
Albus gives her a shaky smile. “Thank you. I-I have to go now.” Then he withdraws his head from the fire and sprawls onto the hearth, head spinning.
“Is he coming?” Delphi asks before Albus has even got his bearings.
Albus manages to nod and push himself upright. “Yes. He wasn’t there, he’s already looking for me, but I told someone else to tell him we’re here. She’ll do it. He’ll come.”
Delphi beams. “Good boy. Well then, I think we’re done for now. Once your father gets here we’ll be well on the way.”
“Well on the way to what?” Albus asks, even though he knows it’s a futile question.
“That’s my secret to keep,” Delphi says sweetly.
Albus grits his teeth and glares at her, at her sickly smile, the cruel spike of her wand, the glimmer in her eyes. She’s loving every second of this, and it makes him seethe with rage because he should have known. He should have realised. He should have walked away or stopped her.
She crouches down in front of him and strokes her wand down the side of his face. He turns away, squeezing his eyes shut, and she laughs softly and lifts his chin.
“Do you hate me, Albus Potter?”
He doesn’t answer. She doesn’t deserve the satisfaction. But apparently no answer is enough because she laughs again, dark and soft.
“I thought so,” she murmurs. “Good boy. So obliging.” And then she cups his cheek and kisses him on the corner of his mouth, like she sometimes would when they were still playing at being friends. Albus’s skin crawls and he tries to pull away, but she grips his jaw and holds him so he can’t move. Instead he lifts his hands, wrists burning, and shoves her hard in the chest, so she goes sprawling across the floor.
She lands with a thump and stares at him for a second, then she laughs, high and cold, cutting through him like ice. The laugh only lasts for a couple of seconds and that’s the most chilling thing about it. One moment her head is thrown back and she’s cackling, the next she’s snapped back to a cold cruel glare and there’s no trace of amusement either real or faked.
“Well if you don’t want to play, I’ll go and see if your boy is any more entertaining.”
And before he can open his mouth to protest, she slashes her wand through the air and everything goes black.
Scorpius’s whole body feels heavy and painful. His head aches, and he can barely find the energy to move. When he rolls over every fibre of his being screams at him to stop. If he just lies still the pain will fade. He needs the pain to fade. If it doesn’t, he’s not sure he can keep on existing.
He drifts in and out of consciousness. All he really knows is the pain and that he’s alone. There’s no one to help him. He’s surrounded by darkness, and with his whole body on fire he wonders if this might be the edge of death.
Then, somewhere in the darkness, a stream of golden light appears, so bright that it hurts his eyes and inflames the agony in his head. He whimpers and tries to hide his face, squeezing his eyes tight shut, but the next second the whole world is ablaze and his head is being dragged up the hair.
“Sit up,” Delphi commands, and he can’t obey, he doesn’t have it in him, but he does his best. “Useless little worm,” she snaps, manhandling him into position. “I’ve just been having a little chat with your boyfriend,” she hisses in his ear.
Scorpius struggles to wrench himself away from her, using all the strength he’s got left. He doesn’t get very far. “What have you done to him?”
“Oh,” She flutters a hand. “This and that. He decided he didn’t really want to play, so I decided to get rid of him and come and have some fun with you instead.”
Scorpius struggles one last time but she keeps her grip tight on his arm. “I’m not doing anything for you,” he growls. “You’ll have to torture me. You’ll have to kill me. I won’t do it.”
She tuts. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I suppose we’ll have to do this another way.”
Scorpius screws up his whole body in anticipation of the torture. He knows it’s coming, and he knows he can survive it. She won’t beat him. He’s stronger than her.
But the torture never comes. Instead he feels the tip of her wand press into the back of his neck, at the base of his skull. The next second, he’s floating in blissful numbness, his brain entirely shut off, and all the pain has faded away.
“Get up,” says a soft, familiar voice in the back of his mind, and he does, surprised how easy it is. Where has all the pain gone?
“Hop on the spot three times.”
It’s a ludicrous request, but why not? It would be a good way to test out exactly how free of pain he is. He does it, and is delighted that it doesn’t hurt a bit, and normally his balance isn’t nearly so good. Whatever she’s done to him is nice. Really nice. Helpful, even.
He relaxes, unsure why he was so scared for so long. This is such a peaceful, easy existence and there’s nothing to be afraid of. All he needs to do is stand here and wait for instruction.
A quiet part of his brain pipes up then. If this is so safe why were we fighting? If she’s so nice why were we so scared? And where is Albus?
Maybe Albus is in this warm, pleasant state of obedience too, he thinks. That would be okay. That would be good. Sometimes Albus worries too much. Sometimes he’s too reckless. He’d be so much safer if someone were taking care of him in this way. Albus will be fine.
But what if-
Sshh.
He gently squashes the dissenting inner voice and waits to be told what to do next. It doesn’t take long. The instruction whispers through his mind just a moment later.
“Guard the stadium. Let only Harry Potter inside. Kill anyone else who tries to get in.”
The secret inner part of him trembles. Kill? He can’t kill. And he’s not a guard. He can’t duel anyone. He can’t stop anyone. This is suicide. This is madness. He should refuse to do it.
But it’s so much easier to just give in. His limbs are already moving, smooth and strong. He’s snapped to attention and that seems to satisfy his commander, because she presses a wand into his hand, and then he‘s marching through the corridors even though he doesn’t really know where he’s going. The idea of resisting the inevitable obedience is impossible.
This is wrong. He should be fighting back. He should stop. But the voice inside him is just a voice, and the thing that’s compelling him to act is a strong, solid force. Shouting at a brick wall doesn’t make it crumble, and so he marches along to take up station in front of the gate, where he waits in the glow of a strange emerald light for Harry Potter to arrive
It seems to only take the blink of an eye. Suddenly he hears someone crashing through the trees up ahead, running footsteps and snatched breaths.
“Can you see the Mark? I think we’re close. Just through... here.”
“Are you sure we’re not lost again, Potter? If we end up walking through another thorn bush then in Merlin’s name, I’ll-“
“No, look.”
A pair of figures emerge from the forest, and Scorpius knows that only one of them is Harry Potter, which means the other one – the uninvited one – will die.
“Scorpius?” It’s Harry speaking, and he’s nudged the man next to him. “He’s alive. Draco, look, it’s-“
“I’ve got eyes, Potter,” Draco snaps. He leaves Harry’s side and marches up to Scorpius. “Are you okay?” He asks, voice softening. “Where’s Albus?”
Scorpius raises his wand and points it at Draco’s chest. “If you try and get past me I’ll kill you.”
Draco blinks. “What?”
Scorpius nods. “You heard. Back away from the gate. I won’t warn you again.”
Draco has the sense to raise his hands in defeat and turn away back to Harry, where they start a conversation that’s clearly audible despite their lowered voices.
“What’s wrong with him?”
Harry glances past Draco and towards Scorpius. “I think she’s put him under the Imperius Curse.”
“The Imperius-“ Draco’s voice rises hysterically, but Harry puts a hand on his arm.
“I know.”
“If she’s using the Imperius Curse then what else might she have-“
“I know, Draco. I know.”
It’s Draco’s turn to glance in Scorpius’s direction now. “Well how do we lift it?”
“With difficulty,” Harry mutters. “Normally it would take a Stunning Spell so you can get them to St Mungo’s for a course of reversal spells... Or you’d get the person who put it on them to release it.”
“I can hear you, you know,” Scorpius says, surprising himself with how cool he is despite the knowledge that they’re planning how to fight him. There’s no panic. He knows he can take them if he has to. When he’s this warm and relaxed and sure of his instructions he can do anything.
Draco draws his wand. “Go and find Albus,” he says, giving Harry a nod.
“But-“
“He’s my son, Potter. I’ll be fine.”
“But-“
“Is that all you can say?” Draco asks, exasperated. “Go on! I’ll save my son, you save yours, and then we’ll all take Delphi down together. Deal?”
Harry draws in a breath and glances up at the sky above the stadium, face bathed briefly in emerald. He nods. “Deal.” He pulls his wand from his pocket and eyes the door behind Scorpius for a moment before setting off running at the exact same moment as Draco begins to advance.
As Scorpius looks into the depths of his dad’s piercing grey eyes and ignores Harry running past him, the little voice pipes up inside him once again.
You shouldn’t fight him. This is a bad idea. He’s not the enemy.
The thought isn’t strong enough to stop his actions. He directs his wand at Draco’s heart.
“I thought I warned you.”
“You did,” Draco says, “and I decided to ignore you. Perhaps I’ve been spending too much time with Potter and I’ve got reckless, but I know you’re in there, Scorpius, and I’m going to get you back.”
Scorpius attacks before the voice inside him can even think of resisting. Draco shields just as fast, and Scorpius begins to batter him with spell after spell.
It’s deliciously easy, stretching his muscles like this. It’s been a while since he last duelled anyone, and he’s certainly never done it without remorse. There are spells flowing out of him that he knew he was capable of but has never used before. Not Unforgiveable – not yet – but brutal and strong and complex.
There’s a reason you’ve never cast these before, his brain argues. You should stop before you do something you can’t take back. Stop. Think.
But he’s strong. He’s strong and capable, and worse than that he’s an intruder. I was told not to let anyone in.
He’s also your dad.
Scorpius falters for an instant, and Draco takes his opportunity.
“Expelliarmus.”
Scorpius sees it coming and reacts. He shields, blocking the spell with an inch to spare.
No. I can’t. I have orders.
So disobey them. She’s evil. She’s cursed you. Don’t give in now. You’re stronger than this. Fight back.
Scorpius realises that he’s stopped slinging spells. He’s rooted to the spot, wand clutched in his hand, shield surrounding him, staring at his dad. His dad who is here to help. His dad who is here to save him and Albus.
He’s on your side.
Of course he is, Scorpius thinks. He’s my dad.
And then the pain hits. It tears through his body, his limbs and head screaming in agony, and he collapses to his knees and buries his face in his hands. He’s shaking all over. His entire existence is excruciating.
“Scorpius.” Draco rushes to his side. “Scorpius, are you okay?”
The unstoppable force invading Scorpius commands him to sit up, curse his dad while he’s vulnerable, don’t waste this opportunity. But Scorpius discovers then the extent to which that force is stoppable.
Finish him, the voice whispers.
No, he thinks through a haze of pain. I don’t want to. He’s my dad and he’s here to help me.
Let the pain stop. Give in. You can be free.
With all his effort he lifts his head, unclenches his fingers, and lets the wand roll out of his hand onto the ground. There are worse things than pain.
“Dad,” he whispers. “A-are you okay? Are you hurt?” He sees that his dad’s cheek is swollen like it’s been stung, and there’s blood dripping from a gash above his eye. “You are. You’re bleeding, I-“
“It’s nothing.” Draco brushes him off and takes hold of his arm, steadying him while he inches into a sitting position. “You look awful. You look hurt. What’s she done to you?”
Scorpius shakes his head. “Not important. Here.” He doesn’t really trust himself to pick his wand up again but he does it anyway, and he directs a spell at his dad’s face. He’s so weak and shaky that it washes over his dad with very little effect, but the bleeding stops and the swelling reduces a tiny bit at least.
“You’re really not okay,” Draco murmurs, taking hold of Scorpius’s hand which is trembling where he’s gripping his wand. “If she used the Imperius Curse does that mean that she also...” He trails off, and Scorpius avoids his eyes.
There’s not an inch of his body that’s not still wracked with pain. He always expected that the effects of torture would be temporary, but now he knows that they’ll stay with him for a long time. There’s a tremor in his hand that he doesn’t think will go away soon, and he feels unbalanced, unsteady. Every muscle in his body is uncomfortable and achy from how they were contorted and manipulated by Delphi’s curse. Maybe there’s no point in trying to hide what’s happened from his dad, but he doesn’t want to cause his dad the pain that that knowledge would bring. He’s suffered enough for both of them.
“We should get you to St Mungo’s,” Draco says softly, taking hold of Scorpius’s arms and examining every inch of him. “Do you have any injuries at all? Any blood, any-“
“I’m fine,” Scorpius says, and it’s true at least in the sense of minor injuries. “I don’t want to go to hospital. We need to help Albus and Harry.” He looks up and around, and that’s when he sees it, the huge, sparkling emerald skull hanging above the stadium. He’s only read about it before, but that’s enough to send his insides cold. “We- we really need to help Albus.”
Scorpius grits his teeth and starts struggling to his feet, determined to prove to his dad that of course he can walk. He only gets halfway up before he falls, panting, his legs weak as jelly.
“Don’t,” his dad says. “You can’t walk. Harry’s gone to help. It’ll be okay.”
“But what if it’s not?” Scorpius looks at his dad. “I’m not leaving. Not with that thing up there. I need to know-“ He takes a deep breath. “I need to know that everything’s okay. Can we stay and wait for them at least? I don’t want to leave without Albus.”
Draco hesitates. “We don’t know what’s happening in there. It could all be going wrong. You can’t fight when you’re like this. It would be stupid to stay this close to danger.”
Scorpius shakes his head. “I can fight. I fought you. It’ll hurt but I can do it. And anyway, it’s not going to go wrong. I trust Harry.”
Draco eyes him. “You’re not giving in, are you?”
“Nope,” Scorpius says, turning his back on the Dark Mark hanging in the sky because it could mean nothing. He chooses to believe that it means nothing. “If we just sit here and rest for a bit I’ll be fine, Dad. St Mungo’s can wait until after we’ve saved the world. Anyway, we’ll be much more successful at persuading Albus to go if I need to go too. It’ll be a good thing in the long run.”
“Well,” Draco says, rolling his wand over in his hand. “Since we’re just going to sit here for a bit, is there anything I can do to help with your pain?”
That’s the moment when it hits Scorpius that his dad really is here. That he’s not alone. That somehow things might be okay, and if they’re not then they’ve got through terrible things before and they’ll do it again. His eyes flood with tears and he flings himself at his dad and hugs him.
Draco reacts with a brief moment of surprise, then he puts his arms around Scorpius and holds him tight, pressing a kiss into his hair.
“Thank you for coming to rescue us,” Scorpius murmurs, voice cracking. “I know Harry would have come on his own. You didn’t have to be here.”
“Yes I did,” Draco says firmly. “Potter needed accompanying by someone sensible.”
“And that’s you, is it?” Scorpius asks, with a slightly soggy laugh.
Draco nudges him gently in the arm and ruffles his hair. “I don’t think you should mock the person who’s about to heal you.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Scorpius holds his hands up in apology, still laughing, and Draco rolls his eyes and sets about finding the right spell to dull the pain.
When the laughter fades, Scorpius glances over his shoulder at the stadium and the green skull glittering high above it.
“I really hope they’ll be alright,” he murmurs.
Draco looks up, expression grim. “I hope so too.”
The stadium isn’t what it was last time Harry was here. The gilt has faded, the dust has settled, and without the buzz of a crowd, it feels like just another Quidditch stadium. He barely sees it as he runs through the corridors and tunnels, trying to work out where to go. His heart pounds in his chest and all he can think of is the emerald gleam of the Mark hanging high above, and what it might mean.
“Albus!” He calls as he runs. “Albus, are you here?”
It’s futile, Delphi wants him here so whether he’s dead or alive, Albus will be somewhere easy to find, but Harry is desperate to hold onto the hope that the Mark isn’t there because of his son. Anyone could be dead. Delphi’s evil. She probably kills regularly. But the part of Harry that houses his Auror instinct, that knows the dark arts better than anyone else, says that she would know how he would react to that Mark. It’s there because of Albus, which means it’s there because of him, and that’s terrifying. Has she killed his son just to lure him in?
He finds the tunnel leading out onto the pitch halfway round his lap of the stadium and goes sprinting up it. Once he’d dreamed of walking onto this pitch as a player, but all his dreams are gone now, extinguished by the desperate need to save lives.
The stadium is dark, cast into shadow by the towering stands all around it. There’s no bright illumination today. The advertising boards that once displayed messages about Mrs Skower’s All Purpose Magical Mess Remover and flying carpets that were the ‘Perfect Family Vehicle’ are dim. The light emanating from the stands has gone out, and even the lines on the pitch which would normally gleam brightly to be seen in all conditions have been dulled by time and lack of care. Only the goalposts at either end of the pitch have retained their lustre. They radiate a soft golden glow that bathes the unkempt, overgrown pitch in a sea of light. And right in the middle of the ocean is a black island – a figure slumped right in the centre of the pitch.
“Albus,” Harry breathes, and he starts to run.
As he sprints across the grass he startles a flock of pigeons that have been pecking at the pitch. They take flight in a squabbling, fluttering mass, but he ignores them. Everything has deserted him now: distraction, fear, worry. All that’s left is the drive to get to Albus as fast as he can and make sure that he’s alive.
When he gets close enough to Albus, he throws himself down on the grass and skids the last handful of inches to his son’s side, then he shakes Albus’s shoulder to try and rouse him.
“Come on Albus. Wake up. Rennervate.”
Albus doesn’t stir, so Harry rolls him over and leans down to try and hear his breathing. It’s soft but it’s there, and when Harry checks his pulse he can feel the faint but steady beat of his heart, pumping life through his body.
Some of Harry’s anxiety melts away. It’s okay. Albus is alive. The Dark Mark was just there to frighten him, to make him search harder and approach with less caution. Which he’s certainly done.
He shields Albus with his body and looked around at the stadium, which looms in darkness around them. Beyond the golden light of the goal hoops there’s just a faint emerald glow and darkness. There could be anything out there, anyone, and Delphi still hasn’t made her appearance.
“Albus,” Harry says, shaking him again. “We need to go. We need to get out of here.”
There’s no response. Albus’s limbs are floppy and lifeless, a dead weight in Harry’s arms.
“I’m going to lift you,” Harry says. “We can’t Apparate out of here so I’ll carry you back to the entrance and we can go before anyone comes.”
With that he heaves Albus up into his arms and starts to struggle to his feet. He’s just made it onto his knees when he hears a voice from somewhere up in the stadium, distant but carrying powerfully through the space.
“Harry Potter. I’ve waited a long time to meet you.”
#Harry Potter and the Cursed Child#Cursed Child fic#Cursed Child#Scorbus fic#Scorbus#Albus Severus Potter#Scorpius Malfoy#Delphini Diggory#Harry Potter#Draco Malfoy#HPCC fic#Keep The Secrets#My writing#Mine to Make#Mayhem to the nth degree
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Son of the Don
ITS HEERREEEEE~!
I’m so excited! Are you excited?? So anyone who doesn’t know this is the start of my next new ambitious fic series. I got the idea for it to be a part of Stingue week but only the first chapter will be. After that I’ll upload weekly, probably every Saturday, and I’ll be honest, I have no idea how long this will be but I’m predicting at least ten more chapters probably more.
Long story without my rambling: Sting’s a detective in the 1930′s. Rogue’s the son of a mafia Don. There will be lots of angst~ Enjoy :_)
Oh this is also on AO3 now! This chap caps out at about 4k words!
Part(s): [1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8]
Series: To Love or to Lose is a Yukinerva aspect of this universe
Pairing(s): Stingue, eventual yukinerva and orfus, possible gajevy or nalu
Setting: New York City by Long Island 1935.
Summary: With a rise in murder cases, poverty, drunken brawls, and thievery Sting Eucliffe is watching his city go up in flames. The Great War killed everyone else he knew. The stock market crash destroyed any hope America had left. In such difficult times Sting struggles to fight off the past and to find a hope that’ll keep him going.
After ten years in a foreign country Rogue Cheney finds himself at the bottom of the world’s pit of despair. Yet he can’t seem to find the emotion to care. Even if he could it would serve the future Don of the Cheney Clan no good. His father has a business to run. And he has a lot to learn.
September 2, 1935
The long drag from the cigarette tastes foul in his mouth for the first time in his life. The ashes flare up brightly then recede just as quickly into a charcoal colored stub on the end of the stick. Sting Eucliffe held the smoke in for a few moments, letting the putrid taste sit on his tongue.
It’s fine, he tells himself. He deserves this, he knows. The cigarette is just a pale imitation for the world that tried to kill him every day. Society was the flame and Sting was the tobacco. He was always being chased, always being lit on fire for other’s amusement. And the certain other he thought of was permanently stuck in the back of his mind, disintegrating every last happy memory he’d had. Just like the embers chase away the mint tasting menthol with every inhale.
He blew the smoke out through his nose at first and then, when he couldn’t stand the taste any longer, he opened his mouth to release it all at once. He watched it billow into a hazy fog that quickly covered up the dull gray of the ceiling tiles. The smoke was clouding over everything until, even with the golden light of evening coming through the slanted blinds, Sting thought that his entire office was turning gray.
He was just about to take another drag when there came a knock on the door. He sighed as he sat back, the squeak that followed sounded like chills up his chair’s spine. “Come in,” he moaned to the closed glass door.
In a moment his silver haired secretary peeked inside. Her round cheeks were as rosy as always, and it shocked Sting, the contrast such a fair haired young creature had in this dull office. “Detective?” she called.
Sting sat forward, pushing the butt of his cigarette into his ashtray. Trying for a smile he said, “Yukino, don’t be shy now. What can I do for you?”
Yukino slipped her way between the door and stood before him fully. “Chief has been asking for you. Says he’s got another tough case that he needs you for.” Yukino paused and Sting casually cast a glance outside his office. The blinds were always down but he kept them slanted slightly so he could see basic movement within the precinct.
Sure enough, there was Chief Jiemma standing impatiently by Yukino’s reception desk, tapping his foot and glaring at everyone. Sting also noticed how suddenly every officer in the station was dutifully doing their work, noses to their files or telephones so they wouldn’t have to look at the Chief. He didn’t like to be looked at.
Sting blew air out of his nose. “Yikes, he doesn’t look happy,” he remarked.
Yukino clasped her hands neatly in front of her long pressed skirt. “I would be wary. The departments been breathing down his neck because of the rising unsolved murders.”
Sting rubbed the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes. “Don’t remind me,” he said then he stood up. “Alright, I’ll be there in a moment.”
Yukino nodded and shyly slipped out of his office to tell Jiemma he would be present soon. Sting, meanwhile, ran a hand through his slicked back blonde hair. The day was wearing thin, and so was his appearance. Soon his hair would start sticking up in random spots, this gel was the only way he could keep it controlled.
But it wasn’t time to think about that right now. If Jiemma was being hounded from HR that likely meant he was going to hound Sting too. It wasn’t like Sting was already up to his knees in unsolved, no lead murder cases. He was starting to believe crime in this city was going to consume them all. Not to mention the whispers he’d heard that gangs had been forming in the dregs of back alley residence areas. This city is going to shit... Sting thought as he walked around his office desk and out into the tense silence of the precinct.
He kept his back straight as he approached, already fingering another cigarette from his shirt pocket. “Chief?” Sting said lighting up the cigarette as he approached.
Jiemma grumbled and crossed his arms, looking down at Sting from his impossible height and bushy face of hair. “Ass in gear, Eucliffe, we got another murder case. Fifteen year old girl this time. That brings this precinct ten cases behind and HR is going to start making cuts if you can’t do your job right.” His voice was deep, gruff like it always was when he’d been drinking too much.
Sting simply nodded and didn’t meet his gaze, looking instead to the cigarette between his fingers as he flicked away the excess ashes. “What are the details of the case? I’ll look over them all tonight.”
Jiemma huffed and frowned. “No, not tonight, now -” He shoved a thin folder into Sting’s chest and made to walk away, forcing Sting to follow him as he went. “I don’t want any excuses this time, Detective. There’s a reason all these unsolved murders are piling up and I want to see results from you.”
Jiemma stomped around each desk, his expression just as heavy as his footsteps, towards his own office. Each officer either found an excuse to suddenly get up from their chairs before Jiemma passed, or a reason to duck under their desk, leaving Jiemma’s footpath empty. Sting followed obediently, like a trained cat, not making any noise.
“You think they’re all connected, Chief?”
With one hand on the metal of his office door handle Jiemma whipped around, “Of course they’re connected, boy!” he roared and Sting stopped a few extra paces back. “Ten murder cases in three weeks and whispers of a new gang in D4 and you think it’s a coincidence?”
Sting nodded his head and kept his face stoic. “It is suspicious, sir.”
“Right,” Jiemma said standing in the doorway to talk loudly at Sting. “So figure it out, Eucliffe. I want results!”
Without another word Jiemma stepped inside and slammed the door in Sting’s face. He was left standing, cigarette burning uselessly where it hung from his lips. He fingered the edges of the thin file of papers nervously for a moment then turned around.
Every eye in the precinct was on him. Officers stopped in their tracks to stare widely at the show. Sting rolled his eyes and made sure everyone saw. Putting the file under his arm and grabbing the cigarette between his fingers he said, “Alright, back off scamps. Nothing new happened here. Just get back to work before he kills us all for slacking off.”
Instantly life returned to the station as if nothing had happened. Sting began to walk back to his office. It was almost a rarity now when Chief showed up here. He guessed that was the reason for everyone’s curiosity. Sting didn’t know where Jiemma was always running off to, and he didn’t really have the courage to ask.
The last time someone asked Jiemma a personal question it was his daughter and she didn’t leave the station without some nasty bruises. No one really questioned the chief after that. They all just stuck to their jobs, because what he did didn’t matter as long as they got paid.
Sting hated that atmosphere. It should matter to them. He had never been able to get close to the chief’s daughter, not that he wanted to, but Minerva Orland had always seemed to be hiding something. He had a feeling that Jiemma was the reason for that, even if most of the time she acted like she enjoyed the torture Jiemma would inflict on them. Sting had a gut feeling she was just acting out of self-preservation.
Not unlike the rest of them, Sting observed. In all his years on the force he had found that that’s really all life is. Just a world of self-serving bastards trying once more in pitiful desperation to survive until tomorrow.
He slapped the file on his desk and moved to the cabinets lined up on his wall so he could look at the others all together. Ten cases. Ten murders. And only one lead across all of them that was currently skipping town.
Sting hated to admit it but cases were never this empty. Not in a city as big as New York, not with telegraphs and telephones making communication-and subsequently gossip-easier to hear. The more he struggled with this the more he thought that evidence was purposefully being hidden or stolen from the police. Someone wanted very much to cover up their tracks.
The chief’s words rang in his ears once more, Ten murder cases in three weeks and whispers of a new gang forming down in D4 and you think it’s a coincidence? Sting swallowed hard. If New York was breeding new gangs, dangerous ones that killed for sport or perhaps something worse, he would have an entirely different case on his hand. One that could kill him at any turn if he slipped up.
Sting walked from his desk over to the table by his cabinets, and poured a glass of whiskey. He took a slow sip and let the burn ease its way down his throat. If this did end up killing him what would be the harm in a few more liquid deaths before he got there.
Rogue Cheney hated slackers. He had no sympathy for the stupid sluggers who gave excuse after excuse without result. So the idea of standing here, ready to kick down the door of the shithole his weasel of a soldier stuffed himself in now was repulsing to say the least.
He had told Damien over and over again to not fuck up. To clean up every scrap of evidence. Hell, Rogue had even made it easy and gotten one of their associates to go into the precinct and wipe any evidence the police did manage to find. But still Damien was here, running for his life, because despite all of their careful planning and protocols in place a missing person’s report had been put out along with a BOLO for arrest with Damien’s face on it.
After thirty minutes of listening silently at the front door he had heard enough to know that his weasel was still inside, talking in hushed tones to someone who sounded like his wife. Rogue turned around, the silk material of his dress clothes swishing delicately as he did. With one look at his soldiers- his soldatos -behind him, they were charging inside the rundown shack they called a complex.
Rogue watched each soldato stomp inside. He listened calmly to the screams that followed. Every man had his weapon drawn as he stepped across the threshold. Rogue waited until the first shrieks of shock had died down, and he knew that his targets had been wrangled together, before he stepped in.
Rogue held his head high, taking his hat off as he entered. He held the hat where his heart should have been. With a fierce gaze he looked over the room. The weasel was clutching onto his wife and child. Coward. Rogue thought. A wiry frame of a man too weak to protect his own. His long face paled as Rogue strutted forward and all of a sudden his mouth was unhinging wildly but no sound made it out.
Rogue’s shined shoes clicked on the pine flooring as it creaked under his weight. He opened his arms and gave Damien a grin. “Damien,” he spoke drawing out his words in a thick Italian accent. He had practiced it just to remind Damien of where Rogue and his family came from. Things may be different in America but Damien had to remember that Italians like him and his father don’t play by their rules. America is weak, but Rogue wouldn’t be.
He was only two steps away when Damien let go of his wife, who then hugged her seven year old son closer to her. He was on his knees now, pleading, getting dirt all over the expensive suit Rogue’s father had given him.
Rogue sneered, managing to look happy whilst doing so. “Skipping town, Evans?”
“ Capo,” Damien pleaded putting both his hands together. “ Capo, please. Mercy-” Damien tried to shuffle forward on his knees but Rogue slyly slipped a pistol out of his pocket and leveled it at Damien’s head. There was barely a split second for Damien to realize he was staring down the barrel of a gun before the bullet split its way through his skull.
Damien’s wife screamed as his body fell to the floor, all blood splatter and leaky wounds. Much to Rogue’s surprise the little boy barely even flinched. He just stared at his father’s dead body, all dark eyes almost black in the dingy room, while his mother shook him and went into hysterics.
Rogue looked at the boy for a while. When the kid didn’t meet his eyes he bent down, knees hanging over the blood puddle. “Come ti chiami?” Rogue asked and kept staring. Finally the boy looked up and Rogue noticed a single tear was falling down his left cheek.
He looked confused and the more he stared the more his eyebrows creased. “What’s your name, son?” When the boy didn’t answer Rogue continued with a nasally “Huh, don’t you got one?” Rogue jerked the barrel of the pistol in his direction to get his attention.
Suddenly the boy straightened. His mother by now had collapsed on the floor and was whispering Damien’s name over and over again, like a mantra, as she crawled slowly to his body. “F-Frosch?” the boy stuttered. He swallowed thickly, a bead of sweat falling down his temple from his head of chalky brown hair.
Rogue chuckled. “Say it clearly, piccolo. Be proud of who you are.”
Frosch nodded slightly, his pupils now shakily darting between each of Rogue’s eyes. He was now pointedly avoiding the corpse of his father. “Frosch,” he said loud and clear.
Rogue smirked. “That’s a good, boy. You know you could turn into something-” Rogue talked with the gun in his hand, gesturing casually to Damien’s body. “-not like this failure. And listen I’ve already killed a lot today, and I could take you too, but kids- eehh-” Rogue made a face and waved his hands searching for the words. “Let’s just say we Italians have a strong moral code for some things. So, Frosch, if you behave and follow orders, you may be able to stay with us from now on.”
Frosch’s eyes seemed to level out at the size of dinner plates. His expression lost its confusion and gained something that Rogue knew all too well. Blankness. Emptiness. And judging by the deadset in Frosch’s eyes Rogue would say it was coupled with the inability to feel anything when he knew he should be in a similar state as his weeping mother.
Still he didn’t spare her another glance as she lay on her husband’s chest, trying to wipe the blood off his forehead in vain. “And what if I don’t want to?” Frosch asked.
Rogue gave a noncommittal shrug and pointed once more with his gun to the corpse of Frosch’s father. Frosch looked at his father again, but it was almost like the first time and his eyes widened all over again. In a split second he pieced it all together. His head snapped back up to Rogue who had extended a hand.
Without looking back Frosch took it and followed Rogue as he stood up to bring Frosch out of the house. The boy tried to look back a few times, especially when his mother began calling his name. She nearly reached him with her hands to pull him back.
But Rogue didn’t need to say anything before she was restrained, he placed one hand on Frosch’s shoulder to keep him from turning around. Walking out of the shack her ghastly shrieks followed as the soldatos closed in, all guns and stern bodies blocking view of her only offspring. The last thing they heard was a high pitched screech cut off at its apex, leaving the now silent air bone chilling in the tail end of summer.
“Yer a fucking idiot, Ryos.”
Rogue fought the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Stop calling me that,” Rogue said in a flat tone.
The man standing in front of him, his brother, took another look over at the boy Rogue had picked up. Since arriving back at the Cheney house, Frosch had been rather quiet, though Rogue couldn’t be sure if that was normal for the boy. Now he was sitting patiently, thighs on his palms and staring at his kicking feet in the large grand foyer of the Cheney mansion. Rogue briefly wondered why the boy hadn’t broken down by now. He doubted Frosch was used to the mafias tactics; but the implication given by his reaction to all this suggested otherwise, and that put a knot in Rogue’s stomach.
In his experience, the family didn’t deal in children. Not since his elder brother had nearly been killed for being the child of a hidden affair. But Rogue also knew that the family held its own code of honors, one which involved no killing of children. For now that meant he would have to take Frosch under his wing, get the boy situated in a housing agreement with someone willing, and hopefully- hopefully-the boy wouldn’t be too much trouble.
Gajeel scoffed, he put his scarred hands in the pockets of his baggy slacks. “Kid looks like a wimp.”
“Mind your business, fratello,” Rogue warned.
“You know the boss doesn’t deal in kids,” Gajeel barked at him. “What makes you think you can keep him?” Rogue opened his mouth but before he could say anything Gajeel added. “And don’t call me, fratello.”
Rogue curled his lips. “Your mother is my mother; that makes us fratelli. But I’m not here to debate blood with you, where’s the boss?”
Gajeel groaned and turned from Rogue to light up a cigar. “Fuck if I know. He’s your kin, I was just leaving.”
Gajeel made as if to walk away but Rogue grabbed his elbow and gripped it hard. “Why are you here, anyway?” Rogue asked.
Gajeel ripped his arm out of Rogue’s grasp, his teeth grinding a little too much on the butt of his cigar. “Relax, I was looking for the boss too but he ain’t here.”
Rogue sneered. His elder half-brother only came around for the boss if he wanted something. And after all the stunts Gajeel had pulled with his drinking, drugs, and fucking around he’d been cut off from any legitimate claims to the Cheney’s estate or expenses, even after Rogue's father had been so kind as to allow him an illegitimate chance at it. Rogue despised the idea of Gajeel coming back and asking for something now. After all that’s happened Gajeel can’t possibly expect the boss to do anything for the son of an affair that wasn’t even his own.
“All of the power offered to you in this house and you still seek the boss’s money just to chase the dregs of society…” Rogue commented harshly but Gajeel didn’t grace him with a response. He offered no more words and his reaching hand fell back to his side. Gajeel gave him a hairy eyeball before shrugging off the touch and stomping out of the main foyer.
Rogue watched his body disappear behind the closed door. His attention was broken finally when Frosch’s high pitched voice called to him.
“Do I have to leave now?”
Rogue turned to the boy, eyebrows furrowed. “What?” he asked some of the venom from his talk with Gajeel still present in his tone.
Frosch shrugged. “Last time they couldn’t find the man to take care of me I had to leave.”
Rogue walked lightly up to Frosch. “What do you mean the ‘last time’?” he asked.
Frosch stared up at him with big dark eyes, if the light held them long enough Rogue could tell they were brown but here in the dim foyer before nightfall they looked as black as his pupils. “Back at the orphanage. I went to my first family but they never found the head of the house so I had to leave.”
“Your first family?” Rogue quirked an eyebrow. Frosch just nodded matter of factly. So this boy is used to seeing rotten things? Rogue thought. He frowned slightly and said, “Nevermind, I don’t care. Just go upstairs. Last door on the right is my room you can have it until we figure out where you’ll go.”
Frosch followed his order without hesitation. His small steps echoed in the grand room as he practically ran up the stairs. Rogue let out a heavy breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. He turned his attention instead to the problem at hand.
Where was his father? He couldn’t very much bring a new child into the family without permission first, especially one as young as Frosch. And he knew his father’s loathsome attitude towards anyone younger than twenty-five. Most of the time Rogue was even sure his father hated him, his only son, simply for not growing up fast enough.
On a whim Rogue found his feet had brought him into the kitchen where servants were preparing the family’s dinner. Porchetta. His father’s favorite. Though it was hard to tell, wherever the boss was, that a dinner would bring him home tonight.
“Adelina?” Rogue called to the brown haired servant preparing the ingredients and ordering around the other cooks. “Tell me when the boss will be home, ah?” he paused then added, “And make sure the boy in my room is taken care of.”
Adelina nodded vigorously then turned back to her work as one servant dumped steaming water in the wrong pot. She stopped short, finally processing what Rogue had said. “Boy? What boy?”
But Rogue had already left the kitchen. He was suddenly in a state of fathomless boredom. His time was no longer occupied and for the rest of the night he was free. Unless the family suddenly needed him for something. But he doubted they would.
Rogue made his way back to the foyer, grabbed his hat and left the house with a swift wind under his feet. Summer was just ending and New York brought a cool autumn breeze to an otherwise dead cityscape. The Cheney mansion was a bit of a walk away from downtown but Rogue had nothing better to do. He swallowed the idle thoughts that plagued his mind like pond scum floating delicately on top of murky water. He was just bored, nothing more.
Yet still as Rogue continued down the long driveway and turned the corner at the front gates he found himself fighting one persistent thought. One thought that rang true in the small corners of his mind. A small truth that scuttled from the safety of the shadows for to come into the light was to be destroyed. Rogue was a monster, because he wasn’t sure he had ever felt anything at all.
Where Rogue found his feet taking him was further into town than he had planned. Halfway through the walk he stopped thinking and just floated. His soles carried him down the cracked pavement of the outskirts into the smooth cement of the old city. Without a purpose or a direction. He was drifting away from the world but his feet kept walking.
By the time his awareness floated back to him he realized he was walking close to Wall Street. His distaste for the more uppity business types didn’t sit well with him or anyone from his family. And the feeling was mutual. Legality was often ignored within the mafia family of New York. And Rogue knew of quite a few politicians and businessmen that would love to do away with the kind of filth they were so sure a mafia was.
He turned on his heel before he got too far. Turning around Rogue saw the night winding down and street lamps turning on. At this time of night the party goers were just starting to wander the streets. Flapper girls and young men barely out of their parents roofs took to the bars and restaurants.
Rogue despised the idea of interacting with anyone; but sometimes a crowded bar was the best place to be alone. No one cared what you did, what you drank or who you talked to. So he walked into the busiest bar he could see in sight.
The interior was dark, somehow darker than the night outside. It was still lit pleasantly every few feet with golden fluorescents that provided a calming atmosphere. Stirring so differently from the atmospheric light were the people in the bar. Some, who looked like they’d been there a long time, were already drunk and swaying on their seats. There was a jazz band on a stage to the right, and a throng of people dancing in their flowing dress outfits.
Rogue took a seat as far on the end of the bar as he could. He quickly ordered a shot of gin and a bourbon. The gin went down smoothly, too smoothly. The bourbon however took it’s time to burn as it slid down his esophagus. He had barely taken the rim of the cup from his mouth before another shot was slammed down in front of him.
Rogue looked over in distaste. A very smiley blonde was standing, one elbow on the counter and a twinkle in his blue eyes that mimicked the light of the bar. Rogue frowned at him. But the boy just kept on smiling.
Finally he leaned in closer, and said rather loudly to be heard over the din of the crowd, “Name’s Sting. You look like you need a drink.”
Italian:
Cappo - boss
Come ti chiami? - Whats your name?
Piccolo - little one, term of endearment
Soldato - soldier
Fratello/fratelli - brother/brothers
#fairy tail#stingue#stingue week#fairy tail fanfiction#my fanfic#sotd#please like or reblog is you enjoyed it :D
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Lots of writing! | Writing Update #1
Hey People of Earth!
I have many a things to update. mwahaha
The first of which is this bad boy!
FISHBOWL was a one shot-ish thing I worked on in mid August because I didn't want to write the scene I had to write, but also didn't want to write outside of my universe. Soooo, of *course* your girl wrote herself some more fanfiction because? I mean? Why not!
It’s not unheard of on this blog that I ship (and then, subsequently cannoned) my boyz Lonan and Harrison. I’d written the first chunk of this story on mobile, just in a note, because I’d gotten an idea for some dialogue. (I had the whole story written besides the beginning and end.) The struggle was figuring out how to start the story. I toyed with a couple ideas, writing a million different first sentences. Frustrated that I wasn’t feeling any of ‘em, I shelved the project for the night and went to bed.
The next day, I came back to FISHBOWL, and I looked over the random first sentences I’d jotted down. One caught my eye, and so aha, I found my sentence. (I struggle with writing openings, so once the first sentence is nailed down, I usually am able to get a good flow rather quickly). I wrote the entire thing in one sitting, and while it’s disjointed and weird, I had a lot of fun.
EXCERPTS:
The story itself is basically plot-less since it was only meant to entertain myself, but I think I wrote some cool stuff, and explored a setting (Lonan’s room) with a lot more diligence than I have before.
This excerpt’s first line inspired me to write the rest of this story (lol my only motivation). It’s not even a favourite line, it just helped me wrap my head around the language a bit/gave me the idea to have a fishbowl-lens look on the story.
The bottle is crystal edged. Half drained. A kaleidoscope through his eye.
He passes it over with ease. Harrison can’t tell if he’s done it because he’s drunk, or because he doesn’t want questions.
“My mom likes this shit,” Harrison says, fingering the bottle, like he’s holding a memory and not jade-tinted glass. Careful, so he won’t shatter it. It’s almost like he’s a child again.
I also lluuuurve this next paragraph, just because loppy IS SUCH A NICE WORD. loppyloppyloppy. I just like the personality of the objects in Lonan’s bedroom (because he’s got none). Like his poor depressed lonely fishbowl, poor slothy aloe, poor upset betta.
Harrison watches the fishbowl on the nightstand. He should change the water. It’s aglae’d and forgotten, almost, like the loppy potted aloe on his desk. The blue betta hardly slashes through the water. Ris reaches over and unscrews the pot of pet store bloodworms, sprinkles in a pinch of the pellets. The fish cuts around its browning bamboo stake, and vacuums two into its mouth. Its fins wiggle like ink drops.
This is the last paragraph of FISHBOWL, and I mean, I like her tho?
The betta fish glugs through the water in a flowery whoosh. Bottom feeds the last of the bloodworms. The takeout containers are empty, and rolled onto their backs. Stained rusted orange with dried chili. The aloe plant is still curved instead of straight. Harrison makes a note to water it in the morning. The digital clock bleeds 6:22 in neon cherry light. When it bounces off Lonan’s eyes, they look purple.
So that’s it for FISHBOWL! I had a lot of fun writing this lol. Maybe too much. I must be stopped.
CHICKEN NOODLE is chapter 14 of REWIRED, and to be frank, it was a bit of a pain to write. I’d churned it out after writing a really intense scene previously, and couldn’t really feel into the flow of the words as easily as I’d done before. The first scene took a chunk of time to write, because I wasn’t sure where I was taking it. After finally nailing a concept, I did complete it, and I’m rather happy with how that section of the chapter turned out.
However, lol, scene two is a mess?? In my opinion at least, I did read this chapter to @sarahkelsiwrites last night, and she rather enjoyed it! Because it was SUCHHH a mess, and I had no motivation to write it, I, toward the beginning of the month, adapted the scene to screen.
Stripping back the scene really allowed me to figure out how I wanted it to end (which was exciting!). Obviously, it isn’t a very good screenplay, but it was exciting to have a different take on the scene/focus on a new form to learn instead of self deprecating!
The following excerpt is from the beginning-ish of the chapter and sets up the concept:
Maybe this is how it feels. To be a child, or a fetus, or a cell, or a human, stuck in the womb of a mother. Sloshing in amniotic fluid. Doing little fetal summer saults. Eating what she eats. Drinking what she drinks. That last serving of apple crumble. The remnant touches of cognac stuck to her lips. A dog and a bone, a human and its lung, a plant and its gardener, a mother and her child. Can’t live without her, even when you want to. Bitter dependency.
my favourite parts of this are ‘fetal summersaults’ and ‘human and its lung’ like ooooh. I’m like not 100 on it but I don’t mind it!
PEACH is chapter 15 of REWIRED, and oh boy is she a CHAPTER. I drafted this one as well as 16 over three days (they’re both super short), and I’m shook??
Chapter 14 ends with Reeve saying some *very* horrible things about another character (Emily), and her relationship with our boy Harrison. Because of this, she’s finally decided to check out Emily for herself, and see if she’s really as horrible as Reeve (who’s assumed her to be a Lolita figure), has anticipated.
Here’s an excerpt:
Emily and I sit on her pull out. My mother would haphazardly call it tacky—blue gingham, red quilt—but I almost like it. With its coffee stains, and holes that vomit polyester. Second-hand charm. Maybe Harrison toted it off some suburb’s curb for her.
So this is the final chapter I’ll be updating you guys on (because it’s the most recent one that I’ve written lol).
LOLITA, LOLITA, takes place in short succession after PEACH, and deals with a familiar theme--romanticizing/glorifying a female figure (sorta similarly to Lolita, which contributed to--of course--the title). This chapter is sort of the tail end of the ‘whimsical’ adventure Reeve has had entering Emily’s world, and has a lotttt of French inspiration.
Emily, as a character, does study the French language/culture a bit, and Reeve really clings to this particular detail. I think in a lot of ways, she does this because this is a detail she previously ridiculed (in the line: The kind of girl who learns French in her spare time and smokes essential oils, from chapter 10).
Here’s the first one (I think it’s kind of clunky honestly but I like the idea so when I revisit, hopefully with some editing I can clean it up):
We split a brownie over a glass of Pinot Noir. She says it’s a French thing, and I imagine the bottle emptying on the veranda of a politician’s off coast villa. My lipstick stains the rim of the glass in a ruby porthole. It tastes like fruity hand sanitizer to me.
I also really like the next one, particularly the end. Like with before, I think it’s kinda clunky but I ain’t all that mad:
She’s pulled her hair into a bun. The gold ridge of a bobby pin peaks out from behind a twist. Hiding between the white of her scalp. My nails have dried, now, and she’s gifted me her peach lip gloss, which I wear gracefully on my lips like it isn’t second-hand, but a lavish salve made in Europe. Tested on the eyelids of a fetid rabbit. Warm and licked at on the mouth of a rich young woman. An off brand perfume clings to her throat. The plastic breath of amber and ylang-ylang. I’ve tried to mimic her up-do, but my hair falls, even when I pump it with hairspray. Je suis amoureuse. I should tell her. I am in love.
^^ the perfume in question in my head is like a bootleg version of Chanel No. 5, hence some of the perfume’s classic notes!
The second half of this update deals with Reeve *attempting* to talk to her brother (@Lonan @Lonan). They’ve now migrated to his room, which she notes, is vastly different to Emily’s.
The first excerpt is a line I find kind of funny because a) food b) relatable c) lol Lonan’s ideas for gifts tho d) SAME e) grapefruits ?? f) it’s kind of adorable
He’s brought me half a grapefruit and a spoon. A surrender, or a lost attempt at a gift. The flesh wet, and pink.
like tbhhh grapefruits as presents sounds litttt
The next is actually sort of stolen from FISHBOWL, ha. FISHBOWL takes place in Lonan’s room, so I *very much* stole all the description from there and shoved it into this chapter. oops lol.
His room feels smaller, somehow. I think he’s moved the bed. Or it might be the new coat of paint. The addition of small things, like houseplants, candles, miniature replicas of American landmarks. A wilted aloe plant. A fish bowl. The blue betta inking the water in bored compliance. I think to ask him if he’s made the space more claustrophobic on purpose, but don’t at the last second. Lonan’s never been one to collect clutter.
And lastly! Not my favourite but eh:
I say, “I like what you’ve done with the place,” even though I don’t. “What kind of plant is that? This one?” I get up from my spot on the floor next to him. Touch at the pot next to the watering can. Finger the waxy leaves. Anthurium, peace lily, ficus? Probably a ficus. “I think Mom would like these. You should take a picture to show her later.”
I like the tone of this scene a lot because it’s so dissociative. Almost underwater. It’s kind of a very thin version of my usual style, but I think it works for what I was going for for sure (I hope lol).
So that’s about it for this update! I know it was a lil different, but I hope you guys enjoyed regardless! As always, thanks for reading! :)
--Rachel
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I headed for the apartment. Not far from the University.
Rose would be recuperating, hopefully, while grabbing and researching the various books pertaining to diabolic bargains. My job would be figuring out how to draw up a quick, effective circle, using the tools I had at hand. I’d also need a way to protect myself.
If Rose isn’t there it would bode very badly for Blake. I do wonder where the hell she went.
No way was I letting this radiation get worse.
Thinking about tattoos gave me other ideas.
I debated the ideas until I’d reached the apartment. I let myself in, and made my way up to my place.
With the walls being somewhat thin, I didn’t want to shout, so I did a patrol, walking around the perimeter, my eyes on the various mirrors.
No. She wasn’t here.
Okay, that wasn’t a huge shock. What were the rules? She could only be around me or be in the Hillsglade House.
I checked the time. The idea was to be there ‘tonight’. Our deadline was midnight.
We still had to take the bound being to Conquest.
Rose and I had hours to get ready. Hours to hammer out a good contract. But too much of it was up in the air.
I fished in my pockets for the subway tickets I’d bought, placing them on the dining room table.
I’d been on the subway at eight fifty, I’d arrived at nine forty. Thirty minute walk factored in…
Roughly an hour and a half, once I added additional walk time or other distractions.
Get this show on the road Blake.
What was the latest I could possibly leave? How long would the negotiation over the contract and the following ritual take? How long would it take to get to Conquest afterward, with Pauz in tow, without having him declare the deadline past?
I ran through the numbers in my head as I pulled off my sweatshirt and t-shirt.
I got bleach from under the kitchen sink.
Zero idea if this would work, but I was operating without books. Rose was the one with the reading material, and she was AWOL.
I laid out the shirt flat, smoothed out the wrinkles, and set to work. A droplet of bleach on the underside of a glass, a nail, and gentle scratching of the fabric.
The bleach marked lighter lines in the fabric. Lighter lines were joined by other lines, carefully measured, geometric patterns, shapes…
Bleach is a great idea! Opposite of stagnation and dirty things.
Pauz was an imp of things foul and feral. A being of wanton chaos, of overturned order. He was weak enough that he could be subdued by ‘like’ elements – fur, blood, and shit, in his case. It was why the rabbit circle had worked. But Rose had told me, essentially, that the preferred way to go was to fight with opposing qualities.
Bleach, I hoped, or the aftermath of bleach, was ideally a material that opposed him. Man made to contrast the focus on the natural, purifying, to contrast the focus on rot, foulness and stagnation.
I stuck with triangles bounded by circles, to lay out the design across the shirt.
Exactly.
It took time, but that was okay. Time meant Rose could get back to me, find me and give me the lowdown. If she wrote up a contract to bind Pauz, I’d have to copy it over, which was more time.
When did I start worrying? Seven thirty seemed like a safe time to leave, but how long did I have to take to copy the contract?
I didn’t really want to think about what happened if Rose didn’t show up.
I was starting to regret not figuring out more about the mirror world, or Rose’s interaction with it.
He just doesn’t have the time to research everything he needs to. That is why he really needs Rose. Jesus he isn’t gonna last without Rose at all.
I finished etching lines in the shirt, bullshitting something that looked like a magic circle, then started on a pair of black slacks. The clock ticked on. An early lunch with Tiffany and a short walk back had put the clock at twelve thirty as I’d made my way back.
I watched the clock hit two as I put the slacks down, the inside of the pants etched with an even denser image. The coarser, thicker surface gave me more freedom, and I was getting a hang of the task.
I had no idea if it mattered or if it did any good. I’d imagined that the framing of it and the way that the lines and triangles pointed towards the openings at the bottom of each leg would make it stronger, but now I wondered if it would only serve as a weak point.
When building a bridge, was it better to simply use the strongest elements available, or did one try to anticipate the stresses, accommodate the terrain?
No. I was overthinking it. Besides, it was done.
My hands hurt. My knuckles were white and standing up against the skin where I’d been holding my hand in the same position, clutching the nail.
I clenched my fist, and felt the joints pop. Still shirtless, chilled where the cool air had touched the sweat on my back, I headed for the bathroom, cranking the shower to ‘hot’.
Still no Rose huh. She could at least check up on him...
While it heated up, I grabbed my one dress shirt from the closet and hung it up by the shower. Humidity, steam, heat.
Hot water didn’t really kill germs. Water hot enough to kill bacteria would generally be scalding. But hot water could be symbolic, and as long as I was pulling countermeasures out of my ass for the upcoming confrontation with Pauz, I was going to treat myself to a second hot shower for the day. Wash away the filth and radiation.
Maybe.
A hot shower helps mentally, if nothing else.
When I was done the shower, I shaved for a second time. I took my time grooming, trimming my nails and body hair, brushing my teeth, flossing, then taking far too long trying to tame my generally uncooperative hair. The mop.
For long moments, I debated just shaving it off.
I reconsidered.
My enemy was all about challenging the natural order. I embraced the trappings of civilization. I used the file on the back of the nail clippers to fix up the rough edges of my nails as I paced nervously to the back of the apartment, then returned to the kitchen.
Grooming was baseline.
But the rest of the trappings of civilization would have to wait. In boxer-briefs only, I headed for the toolbox.
Here comes Blake’s new look.
Acrylic paint, watercolor?
No. I didn’t trust the effects of the paint, didn’t trust that I wouldn’t have an allergic reaction.
I gathered up every pen in my place. The clock on The Shitty Little Stove, as I’d come to unfondly regard it, told me it was three.
Some sort of markings or makeup esque thing? Makeup would do well I think actually. Go get some concealer and eyeliner.
Keep it simple.
The pens in a pile, I drew a series of lines beside the still-angry wound on my hand, working around the chains of the locket. One line for each pen. I very carefully laid the pens down in order.
I waited a minute, taking the time to sketch out what I wanted to do. My figures were horrible, but I only needed a basic sketch.
No time for anything complex…
Have to work in physical limitations…
Wetting my thumb-tip with my tongue, I ran it along each of the lines.
I picked out the winning pen. The one that had dried most effectively, streaking the least. Bold black lines.
Compass, protractor, some finangling to get the pen into the compass, and a pink nub of eraser ripped off a pencil
I drew a circle around my heart, off-center in my chest, using the eraser-nub with the compass so the little needle wouldn’t prick me.
Liver, pancreas, bellybutton…
Lines joined it, helped by a set-square, and each line was subsequently joined by an impression of cold metal against skin.
Three twenty in the afternoon.
Still no Rose.
She’d shattered two windows.
One frozen pond had taken the strength out of her.
Two windows, though… one after the other…
Basic circles but better than nothing.
Ah yes, Rose has done something like shattering windows before. Thank you for the reminder. Geeeez. You could have just shattered one, you show off.
I hadn’t seen anything suggesting she was still there. And if she’d destroyed the windows, she’d destroyed the very reflection that was allowing her to be there. The way she’d described shattering the pond’s ice, she’d been shunted to another location. Forced to the nearest safe ground.
So… why hadn’t she found her way back to me?
The nearest reflection was in enemy territory, and she is trapped?
A triangle, carefully measured, not with right angles, but still very carefully drawn. The lines didn’t match up, forcing me to make the ensuing line thicker and avoid it being broken up.
The line across the small of my back was harder, slower. I cheated, leaning against the dining room table until I’d left an impression in my skin, then using the set-square to keep it straight. Spent far too long trying to get the ruler in place again when the line wasn’t a hundred percent there, after I moved it.
The diagram called for a triangle across my back, pointing up at the nape of my neck. I debated if I’d have time…
Then, seeing the residual ink on the set-square, I gutted the pen and soaked the edge of the metal ‘L’. Very carefully, I pressed it against my back, rolling it back and forth to get it into the grooves and recesses. I checked the end result, then did it again.
Four o’clock.
Legs, arms, hands, feet, including the soles. Faster due to their location, but my speed at figuring out the process was balanced by the awkwardness of some of the angles, and the fact that I needed the use of the very limbs I was working on.
Rose hadn’t appeared to demand to know what the fuck I was doing to myself.
She hadn’t shown up, shrieked at seeing me in my underwear, drawing on myself.
I was now well past the point where I was worried.
You might have to do this alone Blake. Good luck, you’re gonna need a hell of a lot of it.
Clothing…
I donned the t-shirt, smoothed out the wrinkles on the button-up shirt, and buttoned it up over the t-shirt.
No horrible burning. Good.
I put on the hatchet-holster, then pulled the slacks on. I’d placed open spaces at the knees, so I wouldn’t rub away the image or transfer too much bleach on my skin, but I still worried about the other areas where it might rub.
Not exactly top notch, but it felt like a step in the right direction.
Tie, yes. I picked a red one.
Going out for another date Blake? Date with a demon?
But this is a good presentation to fight a demon of chaos and wildness and rot.
I wished I had the goblin flute and the paper goblins, but they hadn’t been mine to keep.
I had to be selective in terms of what I brought, this time. Only so many pockets. I chose the basics. Pens, cord, the hook-screws.
Five o’clock. Five o’clock and I would take action.
I cooked some pork chops, brussel sprouts, and grilled up thick slices of sweet potato, more to keep myself busy than anything else. Healthy body, covering all of the bases, to counteract the demon that upset the natural balance of things.
Four twenty. I’d hoped it would take longer.
I fidgeted, then decided to bite the bullet.
The drawer in my bedroom whisked open. I collected the book. The only one I had.
Black Lamb’s Blood.
Fuck.
You were gonna have to read it anyway.
This is fine! Probably. Probably not...
I opened it, and I started reading, book open in my hands while I paced.
Halfway through the introduction, I stopped to go to the fridge and rescue another cupcake from the plastic container within.
I resumed reading, finishing the introduction.
I didn’t read the rest of the book. I skimmed, looking, hoping for charts, for something concrete.
But it wasn’t a magical tome. Not really. There were no rituals within. No charts, nor ingredients or diagrams. No proper terminology for bullshitting contracts in an hour.
Not what I needed, even in the slightest.
I needed Rose. I needed her help to establish a game plan.
Then what the hell is in it??????
I watched the last few minutes tick forward on the analogue clock of The Shitty Little Stove.
It ticked past five o’clock. I watched until five oh one.
“Rose Thorburn,” I intoned. “I summon you.”
Nothing, not even a flicker.
That disquieted me.
A vestige was fragile.
Not sure that would have worked anyway.
But yea this is scary. I really do not think she is gone for good though. Maybe for the rest of the arc?
Rose had already been abused, hauled into a strange Conquest dimension, chained…
I fidgeted briefly, messing with the chain on my locket-hand.
“Rose Thorburn, by the tie that binds you to me and vice versa, I call you.”
Nothing.
“Rose Thorburn, you are me and I am you, one step apart, I call you.”
I’d had more luck with Leonard, my drunk ghost in a bottle.
“Rose Thorburn, by all your frustration with me, by the oaths I have sworn to you and the oaths you have sworn to me, I bid you to return to my side.
“Rose Thorburn…”
I didn’t know how to finish.
“God damn it, Rose, I need your help. Don’t leave me hanging.”
I picked up the tome, started reading it again, then put it down. Ten minutes later, nervous, I picked it up again.
I debated calling the lawyers for help.
Had they expected this? Had they helped it happen?
Try google?
I know nothing will be on google. But he could bs something maybe from like. Quotes from other texts. Come on Blake you are super resourceful you can do this.
It would be so fitting if they were somehow in league with Conquest, if they were orchestrating this entire thing to put me on this road.
I had to obey Conquest or he’d murder me and Rose.
Obeying Conquest put me on this road, forced me into a situation where I had to beg for help, accept the deal. Working for another diabolist.
Where would that path take me?
But if I didn’t take the offer of help? Where did I wind up?
Dead, probably.
Would the diabolists step in to save me? They wanted me on board. They were going to lengths.
I pulled on my gloves with care, the ink and locket in mind, alongside the cuts and gouge that hadn’t yet healed.
The coat was next. Not quite a suit, but the coat was meant to be worn with a suit, and it looked good. Suitlike, only it hung longer. Only closer inspection would see the absence of the suit jacket underneath, or the t-shirt beneath the dress shirt.
I smoothed down some of the curls of blond hair that were escaping their prison of hair styling glue, knowing they wouldn’t stay down. I moved my mouth around, stretching my skin to make sure I didn’t have any patches of hair where I’d missed shaving. Never mind that I’d shaved twice today.
Don’t panic now Blake, you’ve done well so far. And damn he is going all out. Next hes gonna pull out a top hat.
If I was going to armor myself in my own self and identity, I’d damn well stick to my preference of being clean shaven. I’d spent too many weeks with wispy teenaged beard growth while I’d been on the streets. I was going to be the best Blake Thorburn I could imagine. The sort of Blake who could look good in an almost-suit, but still pull off his button-up shirt and start working on framing a new art installation, or do prop work for the theater, or something. I’d armor myself in my personal ideal, hold it up to give myself courage in a situation where I had very, very little.
The inked out magic diagrams across my skin couldn’t hurt either, as armor went.
Probably couldn’t hurt.
So much he doesn’t know. Poor Blake.
I adjusted my tie.
I was procrastinating. It was seven. I had no idea what the evening had in store for me, now.
Rose had removed herself from the picture, Conquest was fucking with me by using that chain to remove her from my company, or something else entirely.
I filled my nicer backpack with essential supplies – the tome, the papers, some of the working pens, and other basic tools that it didn’t hurt to keep, slung it over one shoulder, and left.
You;re not gonna draft something now???? Okayyyy....
No dogs barked at me while I made my way to the subway. I heard crows caw, but I couldn’t say if they were taunting me or just being ordinary crows.
On the subway itself, no fights broke out. No disasters happened as a result of the radiation. There was only the crowd, the late rush of people who had been working until dinnertime.
I hesitated as long as I could, waiting for the telltale Blake in Rose’s voice.
When the doors started to slide shut, I hurried through them.
I walked down suburb streets until I started seeing the telltale signs of Pauz’s influence. Crows, and watching animals. Every house had curtains drawn, every light on, otherwise.
The Dowghty house was the only one that had no lights at all. Flocks of crows took off as I approached, but they didn’t attack me.
I reached into the backpack for the yellow lined paper and the tome, drew out a pen, and then tossed it aside before stepping onto the driveway.
Very cinematic prose here. The lack of conflict is ominous within a story that has so much of it.
I’d say final boss time, but this is just a miniboss.
The door opened as I knocked. The inside was as cold as the outside.
Filthier, oddly more wilderness.
Stray branches, dirt, trekked in mud and snow, frozen in tracks. Dung and offal, bones.
The smell was enough to make me want to gag. Cloying, animal, dominating the senses until it felt like throwing up would be a relief, cleaner and less gross than enduring this.
I used the back of the tome as a surface to rest the paper on, making my way through the house. Store-bought meat and the packaging for meat littered the floor in adjacent rooms. Cats and rodents hissed and growled as I passed too close to their food.
He was in the room opposite the front door, at the far end of the house.
A broken old man, clearly malnourished to the point that he should be in a hospital. His reactions were delayed as a cat hopped up into his lap to nibble at something that really didn’t look like it belonged on a dinner plate. Not cooked, barely taken care of. His arms were pocked with injuries where animals had nibbled on him and he’d been too slow to react. Some looked infected.
He smelled like he’d shit himself, sitting there.
A table laid out for a banquet, except the banquet had gone to rot. The guests remained, lurking at the edges of the room, on and under furniture, staring.
Pauz perched on the back of the chair, just behind Dowghty’s shoulder.
“It looks like it’ll be just me today,” I said.
“I know,” Pauz responded, confirming suspicions I hadn’t even allowed myself to voice.
What the hell did Pauz do to Rose? :(
I am excited to see how this will turn out. Also this poor fuckin dude omg.
See you next weekend, or maybe earlier.
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The Red Doors Write - Pride -Texts From Last Night
*Antoni was my favorite coworker. Why he had decided to slum when he took a job at Castaways I would NEVER know. He totally had the swagger for posh, hipster, shi-shi bars in the city, but instead he ended up at the place that was a lot more rough around the edges, of course what it lacked in swank, it made up for in character. The place had charm and the patrons were exceptional. He tried to tell me it was me that sold him. I attempted to play coy, but I just didn’t do coy and I was immediately friend-smitten. Besides his adoration for me, there were several reasons Antoni was my work ride-or-die. One, he was in culinary school. HELLO. I was his favorite taste tester, most likely because I scarfed down anything that was non-ramen and raved about the flavor profiles, ingredients and how he was a kitchen God. I was not born with the ability to poker face, and subsequently he was amused by my quirky and over-the-top reactions. But the wonderment he brought to my mouth was not where his awesomeness ended. For our second match, he, like me, was exceedingly bisexual. Not only that, we had both leaned same-sex oriented in our comparable history but had recently come to realize we weren’t meant for a singular Skittle color. Nope, we had been deprived of tasting the rainbow. Tragedy had been narrowly avoided.
It was fate. Destiny. Coworker magic.
Antoni was sooooooooooo my people. We quickly fell into the scandal of rating our patrons on a scale from would-do-sober to not-even-shitfaced. We were the best bartenders at Castaways and Johnny knew it, which is why he had been so easily swayed to let us schedule all our shifts together for Pride month, including the cherry Friday and Saturday nights. To our delight, he handed off the responsibility of decorating to us, and we delivered. In place of life preservers were Unicorn floaties, and I had ingeniously used rainbow ribbon purchased at the dollar store to pinstripe the walls. Antoni had swapped out some of the blue lightbulbs for all the colors of the rainbow and added a bowl of temporary Pride themed tattoos in coconut shells at the entry.
I was too sad the end of the month was looming, because Pride could not be topped. Sexy, beautiful people celebrating love in all its forms and feeling free and proud to do so. It was never short on kinky fuckery either. The vibrations were ninety-nine percent high, with only the occasional disruption to the mood.
Many-a-rule were overlooked during Pride, basically it was like a party we got paid to work at. Johnny said as long as we used our noggins, we could enjoy ourselves and he’d set his eyes towards the sea. Yes, he liked to be cute like that, relating everything back to the theme of his bar. Antoni and I made a rule, no more than one drink or shot an hour. If someone was begging, we had a dummy bottle of water we’d fake a pour with. One drink an hour still allowed for a little buzz but there would be no shit-faced-drunk-and-therefore-amorous Elliot showing ass. Antoni and I did offer ourselves up shamelessly for body shots on request…and he got just as many as me, not surprising, he was smoking hot. Some of our frequenters preferred we take the shots off each other, and we always worked it. I needed rent and he was paying his own way through school. It was worth the exhibition, and it’s not like we hated it, even if we’d never go there.
It was the last Saturday of Pride and Castaways was packed. The night was zooming by and it was already close to ten. We were well prepared for the craziness that we suspected would ensue. This was it and not a soul would waste it.
There was one guy throwing the mojo off, though. He stuck out like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time but didn’t know how to excuse himself from the table. I couldn’t help but notice Antoni was giving him a lot of his ear, like his entire ear, and didn’t seem irritated in the least. I had to investigate. I slid a couple of vodka tonics in the direction of two boys and gave Antoni the head jerk so we could meet up in the middle of the bar. He didn’t leave me waiting, what a gent.*
Alright, spill. What’s with the broody dude camping in front of you?
*”First…One tequila.” That was nearly a sober rating! I gave a little side-eye down the bar. Okay, he was easy on the eyes, just slightly too… sad-daddy looking. My eyebrows lifted as I silently begged for the sordid details.
Antoni slung a towel over his shoulder and turned to wash some glasses at the sink. “His name is Benjamin. It seems Benji has some hardcore bottom curiosity and wants to get him some before the clock strikes pumpkin to commemorate Pride. Specific, I know. And… potential complications.” Just then we both got flagged for some orders. RUDE. “Update at eleven.”
I laughed at him despite the reluctant split and we were kept apart for what seemed like an hour. Not that it was all torture… There was tongue around my navel action courtesy of a hot little thing with pierced nipples, and blowjobs, so many blowjobs. The shot…not the act. The patron that bought a third round absolutely insisted Antoni and I both partake. He leaned in to lick some whipped cream off my neck which was more about whispering in my ear. “Okay, I agreed to give him what he wants.”*
That’s it? *I slugged him in the arm.* That is not the TEA.
*I could see he was hiding something so he got the serious-Elliot-eyes and he coughed it up. “He’s married, but the missus knows. SHE KNOWS.” That was the serious-Antoni-voice that said he knew it was messy but also, fuck it.*
I better be the first to hear from you post disaster, dude.
*He smirked, full on, unabashed smirking as he walked backwards. It was a dirty weapon he wielded like a master. He could totally charm panties off with that thing, and also pound some virgin ass, or so it appeared. As the night progressed, people got louder, threw more money at us, downed an obscene amount of alcohol, and sang off key. Benji was still in the same spot, and if he’d gotten up to piss, I missed it. As if I hadn’t endured enough suspense, Antoni gave me the puppy-dog-eyes and asked for me to close on my own. I agreed on the condition that he feed me delicious things. The deal was closed on a little handshake trend we’d picked up.
“I’ll text you.” He winked and then he was out of there with sad-daddy Benji. Luckily for me Johnny showed up twenty minutes later and hooked a thumb towards the door.
“Get out of here, Indigo. Place looks good enough and I’ll lock up.”
A Lyft ride, short walk and shower later, I was in bed and crashed hard.*
========================================================================
*I woke to my phone buzzing off the nightstand what seemed like a blink later, but I could see the sunshine peeking under my door, alerting me it was in fact, daylight.
I grabbed my phone off of the floor and saw the text alert from my precious Antoni, and holy crap! It was almost eleven!
I thumbed over the numbers to enter my password and opened right to his text.
“Double high-fived his wife and her sister on the way out. If I’m not the best mistress ever tell me how.” I cracked up, and I really needed the salacious details pronto. I texted back. “Spill.”
I impatiently waited as little dots teased on the screen, while silently appreciating his full sentence texting style. “TOO scandalous and detailed for text, meet me at Menotti’s and I’ll spring for your sprinkled donut.” Drool. I tapped out what felt like a very enthusiastic reply, as it bounced out of my brain and onto the screen. “Sold. I will be there in fifteen but keep your expectations of me on the lower end.” I hit send with a laugh and popped out of bed to get dressed and out the door.*
========================================================================
*I arrived right on time and spotted Antoni at a table outside, my donut and black coffee waiting in front of the empty spot. I leaned down and dropped a kiss to his cheek, before I sat.*
Aren’t you going to eat?
*He waved me off. “No. Already stuffed.” He shot me a look that said “don’t even” and I shut myself up with a bite of donut. “Also, you look flawless. Stop it.” Then he got right down to it.
“So last night, I somehow ended up the priest to Benji’s confessions. He spilled it out in every detail. But the best part didn’t happen at the bar. Anyway, since Benji’s wife couldn’t really fulfill what he was looking for, her sister had suggested she let him get it somewhere else. Find a willing guy to satisfy the urges.
Girl, we got to his place and he was eager. In a blur he was down on his knees slobbing my knob like he’d been born for the job, and then without delay splayed himself for the taking. We are talking face down, ass up, cheeks spread in invitation. NO SHAME.”
I choked on my sip of coffee that I of course chose to take right at the moment the cheeks and spreading part of the story happened.*
But how did you end up high fiving his wife and his sister? I don’t get it!
*”Impatient! I’m getting to that! Shhh. So, after a little prep work a la sous chef, I gave him every inch I had to give. The more merciless I was, the harder he got. Heavens, he was tight. There were moans, there were obscenities, there were...giggles at the door.” My eyebrows flew up.
“Right? So, anyway, he was too busy enjoying my cock to notice my glance over the shoulder where we had not one, but two ladies in the audience of our intimate show. I winked at them, yes, I did. I also had no shame. And then I really gave it to him, winding my hips in dramatic rotation before slamming into him hard and making him wail like a banshee. It was glorious. The smacking, the taking of virgin butthole, the way he proclaimed I satisfied him beyond wildest imagination. I came four times before his ass passed out.”*
Oh my GOD! You ho!
*We both laughed before he kept on, because apparently he wasn’t done.”So I woke up, right? And he’s still crashed so I roam down to the kitchen. I was starved but also, I just wanted to tack on a little exclamation point to the wild night and put my culinary skills to work.
Who do I find? The wife’s sister! She was one of the little voyeurs. Her name was Angie. Turns out Angie gave the idea to her sister, Katie, about Benji getting banged because, get this, Ang has a thing for male-male romance novels. She regaled me with stories of her favorite fictional pairings while I whipped up some eggs benedict and breakfast potatoes for the house. We congratulated each other on likely saving a marriage.
Benji and Katie made their appearance together. His cheeks still looked flushed, but the breakfast spread dispensed with any lingering awkwardness. We got along famously, and it was stupid comfortable. After a breakfast where Benji was notably shifting and maybe still a tiny bit shell-shocked, it was time for me to say my goodbyes. Benji got a reassuring squeeze but the ladies were waiting by the door. I told them I was glad they enjoyed the show and the high fives happened. You were my first text as soon as I hit the Lyft.”
I was cackling. It could not be helped and the man was due a toast. I lifted my coffee cup and he held up his chai.*
To a Pride well done.
*I signature winked and he smirked. “And a Benji.”*
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OK, I’ll admit it, this can be a bizarre submit for me. The thing is, I understand I’m overlaying a topic that just about each photographer already is aware of:
If you need better wildlife pictures, get to eye degree or even decrease.
The truth is, getting eye-to-eye with my topic(s) is one thing I’ve been doing for a couple of many years now and is certainly one of three methods I might classify as having a “game changing” impact on my wildlife images. (The opposite two are making certain crucial focus is on the attention and watching your background. We’ll in all probability do an article or two down the street, however all three of these have been in my back pocket for decades.)
The thing about eye-level wildlife images is that it starts off as an instinctive approach to shoot for many lens jockeys. Actually, for those who take a brand new photographer with a 70-300mm lens on an entry degree digital camera, you’ll regularly find them hunkering right down to get a lower perspective.
Ghost Crab, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F5.6, ISO 1250
Nevertheless, over time and seemingly as the gear gets costlier, this appears to fall by the wayside. And I’m unsure why.
The factor is, though everybody knows they need to get right down to eye degree with their topics, the overwhelming majority of shooters avoid the ground like it’s manufactured from scorching lava or something (come on, you played that recreation as a kid too).
Without fail, it looks like each time I find yourself capturing a wildlife subject with a gaggle of people, I’m about the one one getting low and/or trying to get to eye degree – the remainder of the gang simply stands there, lenses pointing down at angles that may intimidate even probably the most ardent curler coaster fanatic.
Heck, I keep in mind photographing a coyote in Yellowstone last yr near the roadway. I jumped out with my 500PF and received as near eye-level as the state of affairs allowed. A van pulls up and a “photographer” pops out of the sunroof, massive glass in hand, and shoots from a peak of a minimum of eight ft with the coyote right subsequent to the car! I assume if you’d like a shot of the coyote’s back, that works, but I feel the image under makes a a lot nicer portrait.
Coyote Portrait, Nikon D850, 500PF 1/800th, F/5.6, ISO 6400. I all the time favor a shot like this to at least one wanting down at her back.
I can solely conclude the rationale for all this “shooting down on the subject” I see within the area have to be that whereas everybody “knows” getting to eye degree or getting low can improve an image, they don’t absolutely recognize the unimaginable influence it could have.
In addition, I think that the larger, heavier gear – and tripods that always go together with it – play an element, since getting low with the large stuff isn’t as straightforward or fun as that previous 70-300 was. The unhappy thing is, most photographs are a lot better off captured with smaller, lighter gear and a decrease/eye-level perspective than they’re with high-end gear at the mistaken peak.
OK, I know that appears a bit harsh, however once I stated eye-level images was a game-changer for my portfolio I wasn’t exaggerating – this one simple method actually did catapult my work to the subsequent degree – and I’ve stuck with it (each time attainable) ever since. Once individuals absolutely embrace it, they too find themselves avoiding downward sloping lenses the best way my cat avoids the pet service when it’s time for a go to to the vet.
I can’t inform you the number of occasions I’ve handed on a “great subject” if I’ve no selection however to shoot down on it. Why? I know I gained’t use a picture shot at a steep, downward angle. Eye-level capturing is like an addicting drug for photographers – when you begin doing it, you possibly can’t return.
To get an concept of the distinction, take a look at the pictures under, one from a standing perspective and one from an eye-level view. Sure, it’s the same fowl in the same spot taken moments apart. (No it’s not “art” but serves as a very good instance.)
An off-the-cuff glance by means of my wildlife gallery will reveal that in the vast majority of instances I’m capturing at eye degree or perhaps a bit decrease. The one time I deliberately shoot down on a topic is once I’m utilizing it for artistic impact, comparable to you see with the little Bryce Canyon chipmunk under.
Golden-mantled floor squirrel in Bryce Canyon, Nikon D3X, 70-200 (200mm), 1/60th, F/5.6, ISO 400. Proving there’s all the time exceptions to any rule!
Advantages To Capturing Eye-Level
So, why does capturing at eye degree work so nicely? Easy – it puts your viewer into the scene and into the animal’s world in a much more intimate approach than the standard “standing and shooting down” stance does. Quite than feeling like a human wanting down on and “dominating” the animal, your viewer feels extra like a kindred soul, experiencing the world the same approach the critter does.
It’s truly shocking how typically the distinction between a “no shot scenario” and a “great shot scenario” comes right down to a distinction in tripod peak!
Burrowing Owls, Nikon D850, 600F/4 + 1.4TC, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 4000. The attention degree perspective in this shot makes you are feeling more like a part of their world than a downward-looking spectator.
Another facet of capturing eye-level that I completely love is that it typically provides your pictures an fascinating, uncommon perspective. In my experience, one of the easiest methods to get a unique-looking shot is to shoot it low when everyone else is capturing the same thing standing up.
Willet in the splash zone, Nikon D850, 600mm F/4, 1/4000th, F/four, ISO 2500. I like the distinctive perspective this image offers for both the fowl and the wave.
A further, kind of “hidden” advantage of a decrease perspective is that it typically permits the foreground and background to compress and “pile up” extra in the picture than a better stance does. This impact can lead to a greater sense of subject isolation, comparable to what you see right here with the prairie dog. From a standing place, this picture would have had fairly a bit more grass in focus in entrance of and behind the little guy.
Custer Prairie Canine, Nikon D850, 500PF, 1/640th, F/5.6, ISO 800. Observe how the low angle helps “pile up” the foreground and background, growing subject isolation in this state of affairs.
Lastly, I find an eye-level perspective can provide a larger sense of “intimidation” when coping with a more formidable animal. Once you’re at eye degree or decrease with a predatory or probably harmful creature and it’s wanting proper into the lens, it offers the viewer with a truer sense of just how powerful or threatening that animal is.
As a suggestion keep in mind that the decrease you’re, the more dominant the subject feels, the upper you’re, the more dominant the viewer tends to really feel.
Black-tailed tree-boa, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/400th, F/9, ISO 1400. The attention-to-eye perspective makes him feel more menacing (though, he actually wasn’t – he was just curious).
Ideas For Getting Low
OK, so you’re convinced, but you additionally know there are situations when getting low isn’t as sensible as I make it sound. In some instances, there are environmental or bodily limitations stopping you from attaining the height you want (like in the event you’re on a hill and the animal is decrease, or if you need to shoot from a car with a view to avoid turning into lunch). And naturally there are times the body doesn’t need to cooperate both – a new good friend I met in Florida put it this manner, “Getting down is easy, but sometimes getting back up, well, that’s the hard part!”
So, let’s go over some ideas for getting that low-angle look.
Drop Your Peak
The first and most blatant strategy to get low is to regulate your personal peak so you’re at or under eye degree with the animal. Take into account that this doesn’t all the time mean crawling around on your stomach both – there are many occasions you’ll be able to set your tripod on your personal standing eye-level and stare into the subject’s peepers. Some examples that come to mind embrace photographing elk, moose, bigger deer, an animal in a tree, most flying birds, a standing bear, Bigfoot – these sorts of situations. For the image under, I was standing behind the tripod and I’m completely proud of the peak.
Roseate Spoonbill in flight, Nikon D7200, Nikon 600mm, 1/2000th, F/6.3, ISO 720.
In fact, there are occasions you’ll need to get lower. I’m often adjusting my tripod peak so I can obtain an at-or-slightly-below eye degree shot with my smaller topics. Typically, this puts the tripod at a cushty peak for kneeling, different occasions I’ve all of the legs spread out with the tripod base firmly planted in the mud (my head awkwardly tipped to the aspect peering by means of the viewfinder – I gotta keep in mind to deliver that right-angle viewer).
In reality, for the shot under I set the tripod apart and set the D850 immediately on the bottom, utilizing Reside View and the tilt-screen to focus. (Trace – using Stay View + the tilt display with a slower shifting subject is a good way to shoot low comfortably.)
Plover, Nikon D850, 300mm PF + 1.4TC, 1/4000th, F/5.6, ISO 960 (yeah, too much shutter velocity). For this shot, I had the D850 proper on the ground, but I really like the look!
By the best way, in case you’re planning on getting low, my suggestion is to think about pants that may hold your knees dry and even seize a set of knee pads (or a small square of froth also can work nicely and is extra snug when climbing). Having slightly knee protection is particularly useful when the ground is filled with tiny, sharp little pebbles or shells.
By the best way, I’ve discovered through the years that kneeling works far better than making an attempt to squat. Positive, squatting may give your legs a nice exercise because the minutes move by, but that is diametrically against my “no pain, no pain” exercise philosophy.
Use The Terrain
The other trick is to use the terrain to your benefit – and this will help in case you have a troublesome time physically coaxing your body up and down.
For instance, once I’m capturing from a car, I try to place myself downslope from the animal I’m photographing each time attainable. (Or I bribe the driving force to do so).
For instance, I captured this polar bear picture from a deck on the again of a polar rover that was in all probability ten ft off the ground (no less than). Nevertheless, the driving force positioned the car in a dip that was at a lower peak than the bear, so the shot seems far more eye-level than it otherwise would have been.
Polar Bear, Nikon D4, Nikon 500mm F/four + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F/6.7, ISO 900. Strategic car placement helped keep the look of an eye-level shot.
Leveraging terrain also applies once you’re on foot – I typically use the topography of the world to position myself decrease than the animal so I’m capturing at both eye-level or upward. This elk photograph was captured using that actual method from a standing place.
Posing Elk, Nikon D5, 500PF, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 500. For this shot, I used the terrain to place myself so I had a slightly decrease than eye perspective. And to maintain from getting run down!
Finally, I find that animals in timber often lend themselves to a cushty standing position. I captured the picture under whereas I stood leisurely behind the digital camera.
Peeking Squirrel Monkey, Nikon D5, 600mm, 1/1250, F/4, ISO 3600. For this shot, the monkey was high sufficient that I used to be capable of get an eye-level shot by merely standing behind the tripod.
Keep Back And Use Lengthy Glass
The other trick – and you should use it along side the primary two ideas – is to stay again and use longer glass. I know, seems odd, but stick to me right here.
The further you’re from your topic, the much less extreme the angle is between your peak and their peak. One of the simplest ways to elucidate it is with this diagram:
I leverage this little bit of geometry on a regular basis once I can’t quite get to eye degree. I used to be lately in Africa and, although we might simply get right subsequent to most of the animals, we instructed the driving force to remain again farther. So, regardless that we couldn’t get to floor degree within the car, the increased distance to our subject made it appear that we have been eye-to-eye with our targets. Had we been proper next to the subject, we’d have been pressured to shoot at a a lot steeper downward angle and the pictures would have suffered consequently.
Nevertheless, this isn’t an excuse to strap on an extended lens, keep back, and shoot out of your regular standing peak either. Though it’s a workaround and may also help, you continue to can’t beat physically altering the attitude by getting lower. I exploit this “distance” method together with first getting as near eye-level as I can on my finish.
Don’t Go Crazy Either
Lastly, I need to point out that something – together with this guideline – could be taken too far.
First, there could also be occasions that, for artistic causes, you need to shoot down in your topic. (Keep in mind the bottom squirrel from the start of the article?)
You’ll additionally encounter occasions when a low tripod locations an excessive amount of grass or vegetation between your digital camera position and the topic. In those instances, I’ll elect to go somewhat above eye-level and seize an image the place I can truly see the subject.
In addition, you’ll have to cope with the sky more steadily once you start capturing lower-angle photographs. In some instances, that is simply fantastic (like a reasonably blue or partly cloudy sky), but in others it’s a non-starter (i.e. plain white or gray sky). So, maintain an eye fixed out as you drop peak and ensure you like what you see within the background. In some instances, a distracting sky within the background hurts the picture greater than a lower perspective helps it.
Then there are photographs in timber – at occasions capturing up at too steep of an angle is simply as dangerous as capturing down. I really like a nice shot of a chook in a tree, however not if it’s a stomach shot! (Give it some thought – would you want somebody to take your portrait from that angle?)
In fact, different occasions capturing straight up can produce a enjoyable shot like the one under. So, keep in mind that all the things on this article is meant to serve as a suggestion, there are all the time occasions you’ll need to break the rule for artistic impact.
White-Faced Monkey Peering By means of Bamboo, Nikon D5, Nikon 600mm, 1/1600th, F/4, ISO 900. This was almost straight up from our boat!
In the long run, you must stability getting an eye-level or low perspective shot with both the surroundings and your artistic objectives. Like several photographic guideline, use it when it works but keep in mind the digital camera police aren’t going to tug you off in chains and whip you with digital camera straps for those who don’t all the time shoot low.
Give It A Attempt
So, I hope when you’re not already in the behavior of getting eye-to-eye together with your topics you’ll give this some actual consideration. Like I say, this was critically a game-changer for me, and I want to challenge you to attempt it in your next few outings. I feel you’ll enjoy the outcomes
~Steve
PS – In the event you enjoyed this publish, I feel you’ll REALLY like my e-books, Secrets and techniques To Publicity And Metering For Nikon, Secrets To Beautiful Wildlife Images, and Secrets and techniques To The Nikon Autofocus System – as well as my new Noise Discount video workshop. They’re full of tons of of ideas, methods and knowledge identical to this. Verify ’em out – click on right here (hey, it’s free to look).
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OK, I’ll admit it, this can be a bizarre submit for me. The thing is, I understand I’m overlaying a topic that just about each photographer already is aware of:
If you need better wildlife pictures, get to eye degree or even decrease.
The truth is, getting eye-to-eye with my topic(s) is one thing I’ve been doing for a couple of many years now and is certainly one of three methods I might classify as having a “game changing” impact on my wildlife images. (The opposite two are making certain crucial focus is on the attention and watching your background. We’ll in all probability do an article or two down the street, however all three of these have been in my back pocket for decades.)
The thing about eye-level wildlife images is that it starts off as an instinctive approach to shoot for many lens jockeys. Actually, for those who take a brand new photographer with a 70-300mm lens on an entry degree digital camera, you’ll regularly find them hunkering right down to get a lower perspective.
Ghost Crab, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F5.6, ISO 1250
Nevertheless, over time and seemingly as the gear gets costlier, this appears to fall by the wayside. And I’m unsure why.
The factor is, though everybody knows they need to get right down to eye degree with their topics, the overwhelming majority of shooters avoid the ground like it’s manufactured from scorching lava or something (come on, you played that recreation as a kid too).
Without fail, it looks like each time I find yourself capturing a wildlife subject with a gaggle of people, I’m about the one one getting low and/or trying to get to eye degree – the remainder of the gang simply stands there, lenses pointing down at angles that may intimidate even probably the most ardent curler coaster fanatic.
Heck, I keep in mind photographing a coyote in Yellowstone last yr near the roadway. I jumped out with my 500PF and received as near eye-level as the state of affairs allowed. A van pulls up and a “photographer” pops out of the sunroof, massive glass in hand, and shoots from a peak of a minimum of eight ft with the coyote right subsequent to the car! I assume if you’d like a shot of the coyote’s back, that works, but I feel the image under makes a a lot nicer portrait.
Coyote Portrait, Nikon D850, 500PF 1/800th, F/5.6, ISO 6400. I all the time favor a shot like this to at least one wanting down at her back.
I can solely conclude the rationale for all this “shooting down on the subject” I see within the area have to be that whereas everybody “knows” getting to eye degree or getting low can improve an image, they don’t absolutely recognize the unimaginable influence it could have.
In addition, I think that the larger, heavier gear – and tripods that always go together with it – play an element, since getting low with the large stuff isn’t as straightforward or fun as that previous 70-300 was. The unhappy thing is, most photographs are a lot better off captured with smaller, lighter gear and a decrease/eye-level perspective than they’re with high-end gear at the mistaken peak.
OK, I know that appears a bit harsh, however once I stated eye-level images was a game-changer for my portfolio I wasn’t exaggerating – this one simple method actually did catapult my work to the subsequent degree – and I’ve stuck with it (each time attainable) ever since. Once individuals absolutely embrace it, they too find themselves avoiding downward sloping lenses the best way my cat avoids the pet service when it’s time for a go to to the vet.
I can’t inform you the number of occasions I’ve handed on a “great subject” if I’ve no selection however to shoot down on it. Why? I know I gained’t use a picture shot at a steep, downward angle. Eye-level capturing is like an addicting drug for photographers – when you begin doing it, you possibly can’t return.
To get an concept of the distinction, take a look at the pictures under, one from a standing perspective and one from an eye-level view. Sure, it’s the same fowl in the same spot taken moments apart. (No it’s not “art” but serves as a very good instance.)
An off-the-cuff glance by means of my wildlife gallery will reveal that in the vast majority of instances I’m capturing at eye degree or perhaps a bit decrease. The one time I deliberately shoot down on a topic is once I’m utilizing it for artistic impact, comparable to you see with the little Bryce Canyon chipmunk under.
Golden-mantled floor squirrel in Bryce Canyon, Nikon D3X, 70-200 (200mm), 1/60th, F/5.6, ISO 400. Proving there’s all the time exceptions to any rule!
Advantages To Capturing Eye-Level
So, why does capturing at eye degree work so nicely? Easy – it puts your viewer into the scene and into the animal’s world in a much more intimate approach than the standard “standing and shooting down” stance does. Quite than feeling like a human wanting down on and “dominating” the animal, your viewer feels extra like a kindred soul, experiencing the world the same approach the critter does.
It’s truly shocking how typically the distinction between a “no shot scenario” and a “great shot scenario” comes right down to a distinction in tripod peak!
Burrowing Owls, Nikon D850, 600F/4 + 1.4TC, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 4000. The attention degree perspective in this shot makes you are feeling more like a part of their world than a downward-looking spectator.
Another facet of capturing eye-level that I completely love is that it typically provides your pictures an fascinating, uncommon perspective. In my experience, one of the easiest methods to get a unique-looking shot is to shoot it low when everyone else is capturing the same thing standing up.
Willet in the splash zone, Nikon D850, 600mm F/4, 1/4000th, F/four, ISO 2500. I like the distinctive perspective this image offers for both the fowl and the wave.
A further, kind of “hidden” advantage of a decrease perspective is that it typically permits the foreground and background to compress and “pile up” extra in the picture than a better stance does. This impact can lead to a greater sense of subject isolation, comparable to what you see right here with the prairie dog. From a standing place, this picture would have had fairly a bit more grass in focus in entrance of and behind the little guy.
Custer Prairie Canine, Nikon D850, 500PF, 1/640th, F/5.6, ISO 800. Observe how the low angle helps “pile up” the foreground and background, growing subject isolation in this state of affairs.
Lastly, I find an eye-level perspective can provide a larger sense of “intimidation” when coping with a more formidable animal. Once you’re at eye degree or decrease with a predatory or probably harmful creature and it’s wanting proper into the lens, it offers the viewer with a truer sense of just how powerful or threatening that animal is.
As a suggestion keep in mind that the decrease you’re, the more dominant the subject feels, the upper you’re, the more dominant the viewer tends to really feel.
Black-tailed tree-boa, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/400th, F/9, ISO 1400. The attention-to-eye perspective makes him feel more menacing (though, he actually wasn’t – he was just curious).
Ideas For Getting Low
OK, so you’re convinced, but you additionally know there are situations when getting low isn’t as sensible as I make it sound. In some instances, there are environmental or bodily limitations stopping you from attaining the height you want (like in the event you’re on a hill and the animal is decrease, or if you need to shoot from a car with a view to avoid turning into lunch). And naturally there are times the body doesn’t need to cooperate both – a new good friend I met in Florida put it this manner, “Getting down is easy, but sometimes getting back up, well, that’s the hard part!”
So, let’s go over some ideas for getting that low-angle look.
Drop Your Peak
The first and most blatant strategy to get low is to regulate your personal peak so you’re at or under eye degree with the animal. Take into account that this doesn’t all the time mean crawling around on your stomach both – there are many occasions you’ll be able to set your tripod on your personal standing eye-level and stare into the subject’s peepers. Some examples that come to mind embrace photographing elk, moose, bigger deer, an animal in a tree, most flying birds, a standing bear, Bigfoot – these sorts of situations. For the image under, I was standing behind the tripod and I’m completely proud of the peak.
Roseate Spoonbill in flight, Nikon D7200, Nikon 600mm, 1/2000th, F/6.3, ISO 720.
In fact, there are occasions you’ll need to get lower. I’m often adjusting my tripod peak so I can obtain an at-or-slightly-below eye degree shot with my smaller topics. Typically, this puts the tripod at a cushty peak for kneeling, different occasions I’ve all of the legs spread out with the tripod base firmly planted in the mud (my head awkwardly tipped to the aspect peering by means of the viewfinder – I gotta keep in mind to deliver that right-angle viewer).
In reality, for the shot under I set the tripod apart and set the D850 immediately on the bottom, utilizing Reside View and the tilt-screen to focus. (Trace – using Stay View + the tilt display with a slower shifting subject is a good way to shoot low comfortably.)
Plover, Nikon D850, 300mm PF + 1.4TC, 1/4000th, F/5.6, ISO 960 (yeah, too much shutter velocity). For this shot, I had the D850 proper on the ground, but I really like the look!
By the best way, in case you’re planning on getting low, my suggestion is to think about pants that may hold your knees dry and even seize a set of knee pads (or a small square of froth also can work nicely and is extra snug when climbing). Having slightly knee protection is particularly useful when the ground is filled with tiny, sharp little pebbles or shells.
By the best way, I’ve discovered through the years that kneeling works far better than making an attempt to squat. Positive, squatting may give your legs a nice exercise because the minutes move by, but that is diametrically against my “no pain, no pain” exercise philosophy.
Use The Terrain
The other trick is to use the terrain to your benefit – and this will help in case you have a troublesome time physically coaxing your body up and down.
For instance, once I’m capturing from a car, I try to place myself downslope from the animal I’m photographing each time attainable. (Or I bribe the driving force to do so).
For instance, I captured this polar bear picture from a deck on the again of a polar rover that was in all probability ten ft off the ground (no less than). Nevertheless, the driving force positioned the car in a dip that was at a lower peak than the bear, so the shot seems far more eye-level than it otherwise would have been.
Polar Bear, Nikon D4, Nikon 500mm F/four + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F/6.7, ISO 900. Strategic car placement helped keep the look of an eye-level shot.
Leveraging terrain also applies once you’re on foot – I typically use the topography of the world to position myself decrease than the animal so I’m capturing at both eye-level or upward. This elk photograph was captured using that actual method from a standing place.
Posing Elk, Nikon D5, 500PF, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 500. For this shot, I used the terrain to place myself so I had a slightly decrease than eye perspective. And to maintain from getting run down!
Finally, I find that animals in timber often lend themselves to a cushty standing position. I captured the picture under whereas I stood leisurely behind the digital camera.
Peeking Squirrel Monkey, Nikon D5, 600mm, 1/1250, F/4, ISO 3600. For this shot, the monkey was high sufficient that I used to be capable of get an eye-level shot by merely standing behind the tripod.
Keep Back And Use Lengthy Glass
The other trick – and you should use it along side the primary two ideas – is to stay again and use longer glass. I know, seems odd, but stick to me right here.
The further you’re from your topic, the much less extreme the angle is between your peak and their peak. One of the simplest ways to elucidate it is with this diagram:
I leverage this little bit of geometry on a regular basis once I can’t quite get to eye degree. I used to be lately in Africa and, although we might simply get right subsequent to most of the animals, we instructed the driving force to remain again farther. So, regardless that we couldn’t get to floor degree within the car, the increased distance to our subject made it appear that we have been eye-to-eye with our targets. Had we been proper next to the subject, we’d have been pressured to shoot at a a lot steeper downward angle and the pictures would have suffered consequently.
Nevertheless, this isn’t an excuse to strap on an extended lens, keep back, and shoot out of your regular standing peak either. Though it’s a workaround and may also help, you continue to can’t beat physically altering the attitude by getting lower. I exploit this “distance” method together with first getting as near eye-level as I can on my finish.
Don’t Go Crazy Either
Lastly, I need to point out that something – together with this guideline – could be taken too far.
First, there could also be occasions that, for artistic causes, you need to shoot down in your topic. (Keep in mind the bottom squirrel from the start of the article?)
You’ll additionally encounter occasions when a low tripod locations an excessive amount of grass or vegetation between your digital camera position and the topic. In those instances, I’ll elect to go somewhat above eye-level and seize an image the place I can truly see the subject.
In addition, you’ll have to cope with the sky more steadily once you start capturing lower-angle photographs. In some instances, that is simply fantastic (like a reasonably blue or partly cloudy sky), but in others it’s a non-starter (i.e. plain white or gray sky). So, maintain an eye fixed out as you drop peak and ensure you like what you see within the background. In some instances, a distracting sky within the background hurts the picture greater than a lower perspective helps it.
Then there are photographs in timber – at occasions capturing up at too steep of an angle is simply as dangerous as capturing down. I really like a nice shot of a chook in a tree, however not if it’s a stomach shot! (Give it some thought – would you want somebody to take your portrait from that angle?)
In fact, different occasions capturing straight up can produce a enjoyable shot like the one under. So, keep in mind that all the things on this article is meant to serve as a suggestion, there are all the time occasions you’ll need to break the rule for artistic impact.
White-Faced Monkey Peering By means of Bamboo, Nikon D5, Nikon 600mm, 1/1600th, F/4, ISO 900. This was almost straight up from our boat!
In the long run, you must stability getting an eye-level or low perspective shot with both the surroundings and your artistic objectives. Like several photographic guideline, use it when it works but keep in mind the digital camera police aren’t going to tug you off in chains and whip you with digital camera straps for those who don’t all the time shoot low.
Give It A Attempt
So, I hope when you’re not already in the behavior of getting eye-to-eye together with your topics you’ll give this some actual consideration. Like I say, this was critically a game-changer for me, and I want to challenge you to attempt it in your next few outings. I feel you’ll enjoy the outcomes
~Steve
PS – In the event you enjoyed this publish, I feel you’ll REALLY like my e-books, Secrets and techniques To Publicity And Metering For Nikon, Secrets To Beautiful Wildlife Images, and Secrets and techniques To The Nikon Autofocus System – as well as my new Noise Discount video workshop. They’re full of tons of of ideas, methods and knowledge identical to this. Verify ’em out – click on right here (hey, it’s free to look).
Please tell others about this publish:
The post Game Changer – Shootin’ Eye Level appeared first on Android Blog.
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Text
OK, I’ll admit it, this can be a bizarre submit for me. The thing is, I understand I’m overlaying a topic that just about each photographer already is aware of:
If you need better wildlife pictures, get to eye degree or even decrease.
The truth is, getting eye-to-eye with my topic(s) is one thing I’ve been doing for a couple of many years now and is certainly one of three methods I might classify as having a “game changing” impact on my wildlife images. (The opposite two are making certain crucial focus is on the attention and watching your background. We’ll in all probability do an article or two down the street, however all three of these have been in my back pocket for decades.)
The thing about eye-level wildlife images is that it starts off as an instinctive approach to shoot for many lens jockeys. Actually, for those who take a brand new photographer with a 70-300mm lens on an entry degree digital camera, you’ll regularly find them hunkering right down to get a lower perspective.
Ghost Crab, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F5.6, ISO 1250
Nevertheless, over time and seemingly as the gear gets costlier, this appears to fall by the wayside. And I’m unsure why.
The factor is, though everybody knows they need to get right down to eye degree with their topics, the overwhelming majority of shooters avoid the ground like it’s manufactured from scorching lava or something (come on, you played that recreation as a kid too).
Without fail, it looks like each time I find yourself capturing a wildlife subject with a gaggle of people, I’m about the one one getting low and/or trying to get to eye degree – the remainder of the gang simply stands there, lenses pointing down at angles that may intimidate even probably the most ardent curler coaster fanatic.
Heck, I keep in mind photographing a coyote in Yellowstone last yr near the roadway. I jumped out with my 500PF and received as near eye-level as the state of affairs allowed. A van pulls up and a “photographer” pops out of the sunroof, massive glass in hand, and shoots from a peak of a minimum of eight ft with the coyote right subsequent to the car! I assume if you’d like a shot of the coyote’s back, that works, but I feel the image under makes a a lot nicer portrait.
Coyote Portrait, Nikon D850, 500PF 1/800th, F/5.6, ISO 6400. I all the time favor a shot like this to at least one wanting down at her back.
I can solely conclude the rationale for all this “shooting down on the subject” I see within the area have to be that whereas everybody “knows” getting to eye degree or getting low can improve an image, they don’t absolutely recognize the unimaginable influence it could have.
In addition, I think that the larger, heavier gear – and tripods that always go together with it – play an element, since getting low with the large stuff isn’t as straightforward or fun as that previous 70-300 was. The unhappy thing is, most photographs are a lot better off captured with smaller, lighter gear and a decrease/eye-level perspective than they’re with high-end gear at the mistaken peak.
OK, I know that appears a bit harsh, however once I stated eye-level images was a game-changer for my portfolio I wasn’t exaggerating – this one simple method actually did catapult my work to the subsequent degree – and I’ve stuck with it (each time attainable) ever since. Once individuals absolutely embrace it, they too find themselves avoiding downward sloping lenses the best way my cat avoids the pet service when it’s time for a go to to the vet.
I can’t inform you the number of occasions I’ve handed on a “great subject” if I’ve no selection however to shoot down on it. Why? I know I gained’t use a picture shot at a steep, downward angle. Eye-level capturing is like an addicting drug for photographers – when you begin doing it, you possibly can’t return.
To get an concept of the distinction, take a look at the pictures under, one from a standing perspective and one from an eye-level view. Sure, it’s the same fowl in the same spot taken moments apart. (No it’s not “art” but serves as a very good instance.)
An off-the-cuff glance by means of my wildlife gallery will reveal that in the vast majority of instances I’m capturing at eye degree or perhaps a bit decrease. The one time I deliberately shoot down on a topic is once I’m utilizing it for artistic impact, comparable to you see with the little Bryce Canyon chipmunk under.
Golden-mantled floor squirrel in Bryce Canyon, Nikon D3X, 70-200 (200mm), 1/60th, F/5.6, ISO 400. Proving there’s all the time exceptions to any rule!
Advantages To Capturing Eye-Level
So, why does capturing at eye degree work so nicely? Easy – it puts your viewer into the scene and into the animal’s world in a much more intimate approach than the standard “standing and shooting down” stance does. Quite than feeling like a human wanting down on and “dominating” the animal, your viewer feels extra like a kindred soul, experiencing the world the same approach the critter does.
It’s truly shocking how typically the distinction between a “no shot scenario” and a “great shot scenario” comes right down to a distinction in tripod peak!
Burrowing Owls, Nikon D850, 600F/4 + 1.4TC, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 4000. The attention degree perspective in this shot makes you are feeling more like a part of their world than a downward-looking spectator.
Another facet of capturing eye-level that I completely love is that it typically provides your pictures an fascinating, uncommon perspective. In my experience, one of the easiest methods to get a unique-looking shot is to shoot it low when everyone else is capturing the same thing standing up.
Willet in the splash zone, Nikon D850, 600mm F/4, 1/4000th, F/four, ISO 2500. I like the distinctive perspective this image offers for both the fowl and the wave.
A further, kind of “hidden” advantage of a decrease perspective is that it typically permits the foreground and background to compress and “pile up” extra in the picture than a better stance does. This impact can lead to a greater sense of subject isolation, comparable to what you see right here with the prairie dog. From a standing place, this picture would have had fairly a bit more grass in focus in entrance of and behind the little guy.
Custer Prairie Canine, Nikon D850, 500PF, 1/640th, F/5.6, ISO 800. Observe how the low angle helps “pile up” the foreground and background, growing subject isolation in this state of affairs.
Lastly, I find an eye-level perspective can provide a larger sense of “intimidation” when coping with a more formidable animal. Once you’re at eye degree or decrease with a predatory or probably harmful creature and it’s wanting proper into the lens, it offers the viewer with a truer sense of just how powerful or threatening that animal is.
As a suggestion keep in mind that the decrease you’re, the more dominant the subject feels, the upper you’re, the more dominant the viewer tends to really feel.
Black-tailed tree-boa, Nikon D500, 300PF + 1.4TC, 1/400th, F/9, ISO 1400. The attention-to-eye perspective makes him feel more menacing (though, he actually wasn’t – he was just curious).
Ideas For Getting Low
OK, so you’re convinced, but you additionally know there are situations when getting low isn’t as sensible as I make it sound. In some instances, there are environmental or bodily limitations stopping you from attaining the height you want (like in the event you’re on a hill and the animal is decrease, or if you need to shoot from a car with a view to avoid turning into lunch). And naturally there are times the body doesn’t need to cooperate both – a new good friend I met in Florida put it this manner, “Getting down is easy, but sometimes getting back up, well, that’s the hard part!”
So, let’s go over some ideas for getting that low-angle look.
Drop Your Peak
The first and most blatant strategy to get low is to regulate your personal peak so you’re at or under eye degree with the animal. Take into account that this doesn’t all the time mean crawling around on your stomach both – there are many occasions you’ll be able to set your tripod on your personal standing eye-level and stare into the subject’s peepers. Some examples that come to mind embrace photographing elk, moose, bigger deer, an animal in a tree, most flying birds, a standing bear, Bigfoot – these sorts of situations. For the image under, I was standing behind the tripod and I’m completely proud of the peak.
Roseate Spoonbill in flight, Nikon D7200, Nikon 600mm, 1/2000th, F/6.3, ISO 720.
In fact, there are occasions you’ll need to get lower. I’m often adjusting my tripod peak so I can obtain an at-or-slightly-below eye degree shot with my smaller topics. Typically, this puts the tripod at a cushty peak for kneeling, different occasions I’ve all of the legs spread out with the tripod base firmly planted in the mud (my head awkwardly tipped to the aspect peering by means of the viewfinder – I gotta keep in mind to deliver that right-angle viewer).
In reality, for the shot under I set the tripod apart and set the D850 immediately on the bottom, utilizing Reside View and the tilt-screen to focus. (Trace – using Stay View + the tilt display with a slower shifting subject is a good way to shoot low comfortably.)
Plover, Nikon D850, 300mm PF + 1.4TC, 1/4000th, F/5.6, ISO 960 (yeah, too much shutter velocity). For this shot, I had the D850 proper on the ground, but I really like the look!
By the best way, in case you’re planning on getting low, my suggestion is to think about pants that may hold your knees dry and even seize a set of knee pads (or a small square of froth also can work nicely and is extra snug when climbing). Having slightly knee protection is particularly useful when the ground is filled with tiny, sharp little pebbles or shells.
By the best way, I’ve discovered through the years that kneeling works far better than making an attempt to squat. Positive, squatting may give your legs a nice exercise because the minutes move by, but that is diametrically against my “no pain, no pain” exercise philosophy.
Use The Terrain
The other trick is to use the terrain to your benefit – and this will help in case you have a troublesome time physically coaxing your body up and down.
For instance, once I’m capturing from a car, I try to place myself downslope from the animal I’m photographing each time attainable. (Or I bribe the driving force to do so).
For instance, I captured this polar bear picture from a deck on the again of a polar rover that was in all probability ten ft off the ground (no less than). Nevertheless, the driving force positioned the car in a dip that was at a lower peak than the bear, so the shot seems far more eye-level than it otherwise would have been.
Polar Bear, Nikon D4, Nikon 500mm F/four + 1.4TC, 1/1000th, F/6.7, ISO 900. Strategic car placement helped keep the look of an eye-level shot.
Leveraging terrain also applies once you’re on foot – I typically use the topography of the world to position myself decrease than the animal so I’m capturing at both eye-level or upward. This elk photograph was captured using that actual method from a standing place.
Posing Elk, Nikon D5, 500PF, 1/500th, F/5.6, ISO 500. For this shot, I used the terrain to place myself so I had a slightly decrease than eye perspective. And to maintain from getting run down!
Finally, I find that animals in timber often lend themselves to a cushty standing position. I captured the picture under whereas I stood leisurely behind the digital camera.
Peeking Squirrel Monkey, Nikon D5, 600mm, 1/1250, F/4, ISO 3600. For this shot, the monkey was high sufficient that I used to be capable of get an eye-level shot by merely standing behind the tripod.
Keep Back And Use Lengthy Glass
The other trick – and you should use it along side the primary two ideas – is to stay again and use longer glass. I know, seems odd, but stick to me right here.
The further you’re from your topic, the much less extreme the angle is between your peak and their peak. One of the simplest ways to elucidate it is with this diagram:
I leverage this little bit of geometry on a regular basis once I can’t quite get to eye degree. I used to be lately in Africa and, although we might simply get right subsequent to most of the animals, we instructed the driving force to remain again farther. So, regardless that we couldn’t get to floor degree within the car, the increased distance to our subject made it appear that we have been eye-to-eye with our targets. Had we been proper next to the subject, we’d have been pressured to shoot at a a lot steeper downward angle and the pictures would have suffered consequently.
Nevertheless, this isn’t an excuse to strap on an extended lens, keep back, and shoot out of your regular standing peak either. Though it’s a workaround and may also help, you continue to can’t beat physically altering the attitude by getting lower. I exploit this “distance” method together with first getting as near eye-level as I can on my finish.
Don’t Go Crazy Either
Lastly, I need to point out that something – together with this guideline – could be taken too far.
First, there could also be occasions that, for artistic causes, you need to shoot down in your topic. (Keep in mind the bottom squirrel from the start of the article?)
You’ll additionally encounter occasions when a low tripod locations an excessive amount of grass or vegetation between your digital camera position and the topic. In those instances, I’ll elect to go somewhat above eye-level and seize an image the place I can truly see the subject.
In addition, you’ll have to cope with the sky more steadily once you start capturing lower-angle photographs. In some instances, that is simply fantastic (like a reasonably blue or partly cloudy sky), but in others it’s a non-starter (i.e. plain white or gray sky). So, maintain an eye fixed out as you drop peak and ensure you like what you see within the background. In some instances, a distracting sky within the background hurts the picture greater than a lower perspective helps it.
Then there are photographs in timber – at occasions capturing up at too steep of an angle is simply as dangerous as capturing down. I really like a nice shot of a chook in a tree, however not if it’s a stomach shot! (Give it some thought – would you want somebody to take your portrait from that angle?)
In fact, different occasions capturing straight up can produce a enjoyable shot like the one under. So, keep in mind that all the things on this article is meant to serve as a suggestion, there are all the time occasions you’ll need to break the rule for artistic impact.
White-Faced Monkey Peering By means of Bamboo, Nikon D5, Nikon 600mm, 1/1600th, F/4, ISO 900. This was almost straight up from our boat!
In the long run, you must stability getting an eye-level or low perspective shot with both the surroundings and your artistic objectives. Like several photographic guideline, use it when it works but keep in mind the digital camera police aren’t going to tug you off in chains and whip you with digital camera straps for those who don’t all the time shoot low.
Give It A Attempt
So, I hope when you’re not already in the behavior of getting eye-to-eye together with your topics you’ll give this some actual consideration. Like I say, this was critically a game-changer for me, and I want to challenge you to attempt it in your next few outings. I feel you’ll enjoy the outcomes
~Steve
PS – In the event you enjoyed this publish, I feel you’ll REALLY like my e-books, Secrets and techniques To Publicity And Metering For Nikon, Secrets To Beautiful Wildlife Images, and Secrets and techniques To The Nikon Autofocus System – as well as my new Noise Discount video workshop. They’re full of tons of of ideas, methods and knowledge identical to this. Verify ’em out – click on right here (hey, it’s free to look).
Please tell others about this publish:
The post Game Changer – Shootin’ Eye Level appeared first on Android Blog.
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