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after-witch · 3 years

Text

Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Title: Sweet Escape [Yandere Overhaul x Reader]

Synopsis: Escape isn’t easy. Nor is it very long-lasting. When Overhaul’s men drag you back into captivity, you brace yourself and wait for what your captor will do with you.

Word Count: 7,592

Notes: yandere, kidnapped, humiliation, degradation, mentions of eating disorder behavior, improper use of household cleaning products, Overhaul is a mean man 90% of this fic is just Overhaul being an asshole to you

There are going to be bruises on your shoulders. Fingerprint shaped bruises from the men holding you steady, afraid that you'll try to sprint off--maybe afraid that you'll try to spring at their boss, disobedient, unruly possession that you are.

You know that Overhaul won't like it when he eventually sees those black-and-blue fingerprints marring your skin--he might kill them for it, or worse. They're digging in too hard, but you don't warn them to ease up lest they find themselves on the wrong end of Overhaul's hands; they brought you back to this place, after all, and they deserve nothing but your hot, raw contempt.

You could run. You could slip out of their grip, if you put your mind to it. Your clothes are wet and the medical table that you're sitting on is slippery from the rainwater that's dripped out from your soaked clothes. But Chisaki Kai--no, Overhaul, you remind yourself, for the energy he’s exuding now is very much that of a foreboding boss--is standing in front of you, and you'd never make it to the doorway.

"Leave us," Overhaul says, not bothering to move as the men gripping your shoulders release their painful hold and swiftly leave the room. He tears off a sanitizing wipe from the ever-present canister on his desk and wipes down the doorknobs that they touched, before locking the door. An unnecessary precaution, given your nerves, given your state, given your realization that your escape attempt was a massive fluke that would never be allowed to happen again.

You numbly watch as he gathers up supplies from around the makeshift clinic he'd created in the small suite of rooms he allowed you to exist in. The canister of disinfectant. Medical-grade soaps. Sponges. A bucket. Needles, needles, needles... you remember the feel of the syringe you'd stolen in your hand and distract yourself from the fear of what he's going to do to you by retracing the steps of the past day.

You got farther than you thought you would--really, you did. At every stage of your plan, you expected Chisaki to suddenly reveal that he knew every step you'd taken so far. That he'd catalogued every act of false obedience to lure him into relaxing the rules, that he saw you swipe the syringe of tranquilizer from the clinic when he'd left for a moment to grab a fresh pair of clothes for you, that he knew you asked to sit with him at his desk only to sneak a glance at his calendar, so you could sweetly plead for an afternoon in the garden when he would be busy, when he would surely ask a highly trusted subordinate to watch over you.

A highly trusted subordinate who knew all about your weeks of good, sweet behavior and who was none the wiser when you'd jabbed him with the syringe, plunging the medicine, the same kind your captor once used to 'calm you down' when you were having fits, right into the man’s thigh.

You didn't hesitate: you'd dipped your hands into the man's pockets, pulled out his wallet and ran. You barely remember anything until you were in the forest--you vaguely remember using the key card to open the gates surrounding the base, you remember the fear that at any moment you would hear an alarm sound; but from there, everything was a blur as you sped into the forest wearing only the soft day shoes you'd been given to go outside.

You made it through the forest, though not without bumps and cuts and sore feet and a dimly throbbing ankle that was thankfully only turned. You ran until you reached a small town, one you'd never been in before. You buried your first instinct deep, deep, deep: do not contact the authorities. Who knows what connections Overhaul had, especially in a town so close to where he operated? So instead you waltzed into a little corner shop and made a beeline for the bathroom--where you promptly vomited out your breakfast as all of the anxiety and fear and adrenaline caught up with you in an instant.

You remember staring into the bathroom mirror afterwards, your face cold with splashed water. It was then, staring into your pale and anxious face, a face you hadn’t been allowed to see in a mirror for ages, that you felt freedom slamming back into you. You could do what you wanted, now. You were going to get your life back. You could make your own schedule and have your own hobbies back and eat what you wanted and--your stomach had gurgled, as if on cue. You had to get something to eat. But how would you pay?

The wallet you'd pilfered felt heavy in your pocket, and you opened it without a second thought. No cash. But a credit card. It would do, until you were able to get some cash of your own. You wandered back into the shop and even now, you can still feel how struck you were by how cozy, how nice, how different it felt. Just a small general store with big open windows and soft music in the background, and an old woman behind the register who immediately asked you if you needed any help finding this or that.

You smiled--a real smile, how nice that felt--and shook your head and loaded up a basket. A first-aid kit, a large water bottle, a toothbrush and toothpaste... then came the snacks. Candy. Chips. Soda. Things you hadn't tasted in so long. You even grabbed a pointless fashion magazine. The old woman had glanced at the name on the card and you offered a sheepish smile, a fake one that made you feel a pang of guilt for lying to her: "My boyfriend sent me to do the shopping. He's no good at this stuff." She'd smiled and nodded, oh I understand dear, before packing up your order.

You stepped out into the sunshine--you can't pretend like you remember how it feels, right now, shivering from the damp rain on this table--and took a deep breath of fresh air. It smelled crisp and sweet and clean. Not the sterile cleanliness of your captor's clinic, but truly pure--real. There was a slight tinge to the air, and you spotted grey clouds on the horizon. Not an omen, no: just another sign that you were outside, you were in nature, you were free. The smell was the promise of thunder, of electricity, of cool rain.

It also smelled like... well, lunch. Or more precisely, you smelled the vague scents of the little pizza shop a few shops down.

And here is where you made, looking back, your biggest mistake. You should have headed to a bus station. Or called for a taxi. You should have gotten the hell out of there right that second. But your mind flashed back to Overhaul's little calendar, the words printed neatly in the little square for today: he would be away until the evening, which meant you (surely, surely) had a few more hours before he came back and discovered your escape.

He’d ordered no one to bother you and your now-unconscious guard in the garden, so if no one saw you run out, then an alarm certainly wouldn’t raised for a while. You had time, didn't you? Time to grab a meal? You could always get it to go, and you could even ask an employee inside about buses or taxes. Yes, it was fine--you would get a few slices to go and hop on a bus and leave forever. More than that, it was practical. You needed energy, and the junk in your bag--while undoubtedly delicious--wasn't going to be enough to sustain you for long.

The door to the pizza place dinged when you entered, and you almost teared up at the normality of it. It was a buffet style place, with rows of pizzas under yellow-cast lights and rows of red booths and people lifting slices onto their plates with shared tongs. Unusual for a small town, but maybe it was a remnant from a more bustling time, when American-style pizza places were all the rage. For a moment, your thoughts had turned back to your captivity: Overhaul would have never set foot into a place like this--nor would he have let you. Germs, germs, everywhere. And you loved it.

You paid with the card, but there was no need for excuses this time--the young man behind the register didn't even check for a name or signature, much less ask for identification. You asked about a to-go box and he'd shrugged, mumbled out an apology--they didn't do that here. You have to eat inside.

For a moment, the rational part of your mind screamed: get the hell out of here, then! But your stomach growled, and hunger beckoned, and damn if that row of glistening pizza slices didn't make you want to eat. And eat. And… eat. You shoved repressed thoughts deep down, your heart hammering all the while, and took a tentative step towards the buffet. Thunder rumbled as you debated. You could be out of here in... 30 minutes? Enough time to eat--to binge, your mind whispered, you can now--and maybe get it out after? Yes, it would be fine. (It would not. Future you, the one sitting on the table and watching in increasing anxiety as Overhaul finishes up his tasks, wishes she could tell you.)

You should have seen the start of the rain, sudden and relentless, as a bad sign. Instead you ignored it and filled up a large cup with diet soda that spilled a little when you forgot to let go of the button. You ate without thinking, not even really enjoying the taste of the first greasy pizza slices you’d had in ages.

You were on your fifth slice when the restaurant doors dinged, but the sense of small town charm was overrun by the immediate realization that you were caught. You were fucked. The air thickened--were you the only one to notice?--as two men in slim suits entered the restaurant with an air of immediacy. You were spotted in a second, if that. You thought about running.

But then you thought about the bored teenager behind the register and the old man cutting up his wife's pizza slices because she had trouble chewing and the little girl stacking up pepperonis while her mom chatted on the phone and you resigned yourself. You didn’t want anyone else to get hurt…even if it meant giving in. You didn't struggle, couldn't struggle, and let them lead you swiftly outside where the torrent of rain soaked you immediately as they pushed you down the block, where an unmarked car waited. You glanced up helplessly as the cloudy sky and rain streamed down your face before you were unceremoniously pushed into the backseat.

Overhaul was sitting inside, staring at you with an intensity you've never seen before.

Your backpack drops with a thump next to you and you flinch out of your memories.

"Let's see what you bought with that stolen card during your little adventure." His voice is deceptively calm. He must be furious with you, you think. And you can't believe you didn't think about credit fraud alerts before you used the damn card.

The noise of the zipper is thunderous and you scoot yourself back on the exam table, pressing against the wall to put a little more room--even if it's only inches--between you and your captor. He begins to pull everything out of the bag, one by one, and seeing it all lined up makes it clear what type of lecture is coming.

A few bags of chips, a bottle of soda, bars of chocolate, all junk, junk, junk. All food he would never permit you to eat, and certainly not in such quantities.

"Disgusting," he murmurs, before tossing each item into a trash bin kept against the wall, one by one. You cringe at the sound of each bag, each bottle, hitting the bottom of the trash. You didn't even get to taste them. He stares at the trash, eyes narrowed, as if the food itself was worthy of his venom. "Full of unnecessary sugars and fats and oils. Eating so much of this will make you sick. We've talked about this."

You say nothing. You press your lips together. You won't give him the satisfaction of argument. You won't let him pretend like he has any right to lecture you on what you eat, and certainly not what you eat after you've escaped (however briefly) from his clutches.

"At least you didn't have time to ingest them during your ill-planned escape, hm?" He replaces his previous gloves--tainted with the thought of germs on the junk food bags, no doubt--and your stomach flips at the sound of the medical gloves he's snapped on in their place. "Which is more than I can say for the pizza." You never knew someone could say pizza with such a ridiculously nasty tone, but you've learned a lot of things during your captivity.

"You weren't content with this junk hoard," he says, gesturing towards the trash while keeping his eyes firmly on you. "You had to gorge yourself on greasy pizza from a dirty buffet, too? We are going to clean your mouth out, by the way.”

You hate the way he says gorge--you hate the way he says greasy--you hate the anxiety that comes with wondering what he’ll do to ‘clean’ your mouth. You hate him, you hate him, you hate him. The hate makes you answer defensively, despite your earlier resolution to stay quiet. You can't help yourself, in a lot of ways.

"I was hungry," you say, still feeling defiant.

"No one working on their fifth slice of pizza is hungry," he answers, simply. You feel diminished, but not enough to shut you up.

"So? It's not your business what I eat anyway.” A familiar tightness is springing to your throat. You don't want to cry in front of him ever again, so you clip the words out, fighting to retain control.

He presses a fist to his forehead in a sudden, rather surprising show of frustration. "Not my business? Not my business? It's my business to take care of you. Do you have any idea what could have happened to you out there?"

The fullness in your stomach, the cold rain soaking you, the remembrance of the wind and branches lashing at you as you ran hours before, all these freedoms have made you feel bold. Or maybe you're succumbing to the effects of an adrenaline crash and you just can't control your mouth.

"I could have been free. You can’t--you can't just keep me here. You can't just kidnap someone and decide you know what's best for them."

There's a long, steady pause as he stares at you. His expression--what you can see from his eyes--is blank, and you almost wonder if perhaps you've stumped him.

"I can," he says, lightly. Easily.

Fucker.

He sighs, and you get the distinct impression that you’re a nuisance, something to deal with, something he’s having to deal with instead of doing far more important things. "You’re showing a severe lack of appreciation for all the work I do to take care of you."

You don't know how to respond to that. "You kidnapped me.” It’s all you can think of--the bare truth.

He doesn't speak at first. Then he lifts something from the supply tray he's set up--a blue hospital gown, thin and short, and tosses it towards you. You catch it instinctively, feeling the thin, feather-light material in your fingers. He tosses a towel, next, and you hold it against your damp chest. He turns around.

"Change."

You don't want to. You don't want to. But you've never pressed your luck on what would happen if you refused to get dressed before, afraid that he might do it himself, and that fear overrides any thoughts of outright rebellion. For now. You slide off your wet clothes and push them towards the end of the table, then use the towel to dry off your skin. There are scratches and bruises, including a nasty looking one that's already turning green on your ankle. Your feet are swollen from running on the hard forest floor with your thin day shoes.

When you're finished, you clear your throat, and he turns back around. He tosses your wet clothes right into the trash--damn, you liked that shirt--and wipes off the table with a separate towel. You sit, legs dangling off the table, and wish he'd just get the punishment or examination or whatever it is he has planned over with. You can feel the coldness of the table through the medical gown, and its thinness makes you feel even more helpless. Weak. You want to retain that feeling of freedom that you had earlier in the day. Even choosing to return without a fight, choosing to avoid hurting the innocent people in that town, made you feel bold.

He stands in front of you until you force yourself to look up, to get it over with. He's swapped out his mask for a medical one.

"Have I ever hurt you?"

You hate this.

"No," you admit, voice tight. "Not physically," you add spitefully, because fuck him for trying to make himself sound like a decent person because he kidnapped you but didn't happen to hit you.

"Do I take care of you?" His tone is firm, commanding. It leaves no room for silences. Instead, it makes your stomach feel light, makes your heart feel like it wants to race.

"I can do that on my own," you counter.

"Can you?" He says, voice dripping in condescension.

"Yes," you spite, bile rising into your throat. "I can take care of myself."

He reaches back and grabs the little stool he keeps in this room, rolling it up to rest in front of the table and in front of you. He sits down and cups his hands together, resting them on his thigh. He leans forward. An easy gesture. Like he wants to have a conversation. But something about his movements sends out warning signals. Big, glaring, flashing warning lights that scream DANGER.

“You can take care of yourself.” It’s a statement, yet the way he says it is brutally mocking.

“I can,” you insist, your voice cracking just the slightest bit under his gaze.

"So, where would you live?" He watches you intently and it takes a moment for you to realize what he just asked you. He isn't offering you freedom, no. But maybe you can win an argument, just this once, and forcibly stop his delusions that he's "taking care of you."

"Anywhere," you say, but he looks unimpressed. "An apartment," you correct. "Like my old one. Doesn't have to be big." Your heart pangs with nostalgia for your old place, for your independence, for your life.

"Ah." Overhaul brings a gloved finger up to his chin and rests is there, nodding, as if he's seriously considering your words. "And how will you pay for rent at this apartment?"

You can't resist the snarky tone. "A job."

He rests both hands on his thighs. "Tell me, how much did you make at your last job, again? No--tell me, how long did you hold your last job?" You cross your arms defensively around your waist as he continues. "If I recall correctly, you were fired rather quickly from that one... and the one before."

You squeeze your waist, hoping for the tiniest bit of comfort from the gesture. "I... it wasn’t my fault.” You feel like you’re under a magnifying glass. “The first time. And the second, well, I was looking for something better, anyway."

He raises his eyebrows, curious. "Looking where? At the bottom of a bottle?"

Your entire body tenses.

"After all," he continues, voice almost taking on a syrupy sweet tone. "Your fridge was so well-stocked with them. Hmm. Do you think it's responsible to spend so much money on alcohol when you're behind on rent payments?"

"No," you say, voice tighter, "But--"

He doesn't give you a chance to finish. He stands, and you immediately squeeze your arms again. "And how much were you spending on other luxuries? Those clothes you kept carelessly shoved in your closet... they were a name brand, weren't they?"

Your throat is dry and your mouth is dry and you lick your lips. "There were sales," you insist.

"Ohh," he says, his voice lifting in mockery. "And I bet there were sales on the jewelry, the trinkets, the--" his eyes drift upwards, an implication of his disdain, "--figurines."

You lift your chin in defiance. "I'm allowed to buy things that I like."

He begins to pace. Not aimlessly, no, nothing with him is ever aimless. He paces until he stops in front of you, turning to face you for effect.

"What happens if you're late on three rent payments? Remind me of the policy that decrepit building you called an apartment complex had."

You squirm on the table. "I was only behind on two--"

"What happens?" His voice is firm. You can't avoid it.

There's a pause before you murmur, unwillingly. "You get evicted."

"So." He takes another step, and turns back towards you. "Do you think it's responsible to spend money you don't have on luxuries, when you're behind on rent?"

You want to run. Maybe you should have run at him earlier. Getting tossed into a solitary room after attacking him might be better than this interrogation.

"No," you admit. You swallow, dry and thick and a bit painful. "Okay. I'm not great with money. I bought things to make me happy because I was stressed out about---life. It's not that big a deal. I--I didn't get kicked out, anyway."

He sits again, but keeps himself upright, the air of faux casualness replaced with an air of command. "How did you catch up on your rent? Tell me."

You hate him. You stare at him, hoping he'll end this, but he simply stares at you until you blurt out the words. "You paid my landlord. Anonymously." You stare down at the floor, at the drops of water still there from earlier. "I didn't ask you to. I would have figured something out."

"I'm sure."

He stands, and you stare at the wall until you hear him roll the tray of supplies towards the table. Your body trembles of its own accord when he grabs your arm firmly and wraps a blood pressure cuff around the top. You sit in silence as the cuff gets tighter then mercifully deflates.

He tsks at the number, and jots it down on the pad resting on the table. For once, you're not tempted to peek.

"I need to take some blood," he says, and you stick out your arm in automatic, habitual compliance before your brain even realizes it. He grips your wrist firmly while he swipes your arm with an anti-bacterial agent.

"How much do you weigh?" He asks suddenly, voice nonchalant.

You stare at him, incredulous. He's never brought up weight before. He’s always been careful to avoid details about weight, nutrition--calories. The most he would do is point out that you need a well-rounded diet with the right vitamins and nutrients, and ignore your questions about sauces and cooking oils and grams, all attempts to find out something that could give you an ounce of control over what’s going into your body.

"I--I don't know. You don't let me look at the scale when I step on it." He knows this. He knows that he's forbidden you from seeing the number, because he knows about your past, knows your tendency to get obsessive and strict and focus on food and weight and worth.

"Why don't I let you look at the scale?"

Your stomach feels like it's twisting.

"I don't know." The lie is bitter on your tongue.

The casual tone in his voice when he replies is far more biting than any cruel insult. "Yes, you do."

His words are punctuated by the harsh medicinal smell of the next wipe. But you're in no mood to appreciate that he's still choosing to numb your skin despite your earlier transgressions.

The tears you felt building earlier begin to prick at the corner of your eyes. You don't want to cry, you don't want to cry, you don't want to cry.

“Why don’t I let you look at the scale?” He repeats, firmer, more insisting. He winds a band around your arm and taps at your veins.

Your arm looks fatter, like this. You swear it does. You look away to avoid your arm and the needle and his gaze.

“Because, um, I sometimes have problems with food. Or weight. Or whatever.”

“You have an eating disorder,” he tells you, all business as he plunges the needle into your skin; there’s only the ghost of a sting as he begins to slowly draw your blood. But you barely feel it, you can only feel the impact of his words, blunt and hateful.

"You were going to throw up in that germ-infested hovel. Eat until your stomach was distended, then head into a bathroom--which I'm sure the staff hadn't cleaned in ages--and stick your unwashed, greasy fingers down your throat until it all came back up. Am I correct?"

You can't tell if you feel woozy because of the needle or the way that your heart is racing at his words. Throw up. Greasy. Disgusting. You're disgusting.

"Stop it," you say, voice muddled with humiliation and anger.

He pulls the needle out, and quickly presses a bandage to your skin. He keeps a finger there, firm and pressing. He looks up at you, now, as he continues his onslaught.

"And then what? Let me make an educated guess. You were going to get on some filthy bus and open up all the junk you bought earlier? Perhaps," he muses, as he rips off a piece of tape to keep the gauze in place, "you could have asked the bus driver to stop at a public bathroom for a vomit break. And you'd probably make sure that whatever flea-ridden hotel you found along the way had a scale in the bathroom so you could keep track. And another one of your delightful," he practically spits the word out, "cycles would have started, hm?"

"Stop it," you repeat, voice breaking. "I wasn't--I wouldn't have--"

"You were going to," he says simply, interrupting. "Thankfully, we got there in time. Although I'm sure now you will endure a stomach ache after your reckless indulgence. A lesson, perhaps, though not the exact one I would inflict myself."

As if on cue, your stomach rolls and clenches. You’re keenly aware that you’re going to have digestive problems tonight, and the thought of being at his mercy while you’re dealing with them threatens to send you over the edge. Could you get even more disgusting? The thought of how you look right now, stomach no doubt bulging, hair disheveled and damp, covered in ugly bruises and cuts--combined with the fear of spending the night on a toilet sends you over the edge.

You press your knuckles against your mouth and squeeze your eyes shut and try to force the sobs down. Your body begins to tremble, even more so as he lifts your leg. Without warning, he begins to unceremoniously scrub it down with a sponge dipped in disinfectant.

It stings and your eyes feel like they might pop at the sudden pain. You hiss at the feeling of the liquid on your cuts and try to pull away, to no avail. Your legs feel like jelly in his grip.

“That hurts,” you whine.

“It can’t be helped,” he tells you, holding your leg firmly as he scrubs the sore bottom of your feet. Any sensitivity you had there is overruled by the soreness and pain from running, from the stinging aches that remain in your cuts. “I have to clean every cut or you may get an infection.”

He sets your leg down and lifts up the other, and you cringe before he even begins to move. You can’t help but whimper as he scrubs your leg, and the helpless stings of pain only increase when he moves on to your arms.

“Please,” you say, feeling low, nearly flattened. “I can’t… I can’t take this.”

He pauses, and the seemingly genuine concern in his eyes (it’s not, you remind yourself, it’s not--you think of the shop and the pizza place and the old man cutting his wife’s food, that was concern, that was care) has you feeling sorry for yourself.

“The stinging will go away in a few minutes. You chose to run away, you can certainly deal with this minor consequence.” He retains his grip on your upper arm and he swipes the sponge across your shoulders, briefly pushing the fabric aside as he does so. He pauses when he sees the blooming fingerprints on your shoulders, but says nothing. You wonder if those men will survive the night.

There’s a a cut, thin and long, dragging from your collarbone down across your chest. He dips unceremoniously below the gown, touching you in a spot he normally avoids. The feeling of him so close, touching you--not quite on your chest, but close enough--only intensifies your humiliation. You whimper again and try to pull away, but his grip offers no room to move.

“I can’t--” You don’t finish. Your throat is so tight and you hate it, you hate that you can never talk about anything with him, never argue with him without clamming up with tears and a thick throat.

You bring your hands up to your hair, tugging on it until it prickles. Your breath starts to come in short bursts, your chest having as you pull on your hair and will yourself to be anywhere but here. For a flashing moment, you wish you’d never tried to escape. If you didn’t, you’d be getting ready for bed right now. Things would be--not okay. Never okay. But you wouldn’t be here, on this table, cold and stinging and in pain and utterly despondent from having your failures shoved in your face. But then you remember that if he’d never kidnapped you, you wouldn’t have had to try to escape in the first place, and the wish fades.

He remains silent, and instead simply keeps a steady, firm grip on your upper arm until your breath slows, until you can control yourself. Your skin feels at once numb and prickling in anxiety and adrenaline and emotions coursing through you.

Overhaul gives your arm a squeeze that is, perhaps, meant to be reassuring. “Are you suitably recovered?

You nod. Your stomach feels sour. You want to ask if you’re done, if you can just go sleep or get sent (you dread the idea) to solitary confinement or whatever it is he has planned in the wake of your escape. Anything would be better than this room and this soft, thin gown and his bright blue surgical gloves and your failure hanging in the air.

He extends his arm out and you pause for a moment before you grasp it, holding tight as you get off the table and stand on wobbly legs. You’re loathe to touch him, but you’re even more loathe to fall flat on your face on the hard floor.

He speaks before you get a chance to ask if you can change out of the medical gown.

“Now, we’ll go to the bathroom.”

Your knees suddenly feel like they might drop out from under you. “The bathroom?”

He nods, and pulls himself away from your weak grip as he begins walking towards the door. You follow without thinking, pausing when he stops to slide his medical gloves into the trash before slipping on another pair.

“We’re not finished here,” he tells you, and you swear his voice is almost giddy as he turns his head to meet your questioning face. “I told you earlier, we’re going to clean your mouth out.”

He can’t mean--

You take a step back, and your knee buckles. He’s quick--he catches you before you fall, but doesn’t let go. His pulls you upright and pulls you along. Your legs have no choice to walk--walk or be dragged--and you struggle for words as he leads you out of the clinic. Before you know it, you’re back in your room (familiar, warm, the same as it ways this morning) and led swiftly into the attached bathroom.

He pulls you in far enough that he’s able to shut the door behind him, trapping you inside. As if you wouldn’t be trapped by his mere presence. For a moment you wonder if he was bluffing, trying to scare you into submission, but by the time you take another breath he’s running the sink water and tearing into a new box of bar soap.

Your voice catches as you finally speak up. “You--you can’t be serious.”

“What makes you think I’m not serious?” He doesn’t even face you as he speaks. Instead, he turns on the tap and fills a paper cup with water before setting it on the sink’s edge. Next comes the bar of white soap, which grows slick underneath the water. He turns off the tap and lets the excess water drip off, before turning to you, soap bar in hand.

“Open your mouth.”

Your lips press together automatically, and you shake your head. No, no, and no. This isn’t happening.

He sighs, and again the feeling that you’re annoying him creeps under your skin. Why does it bother you that you’re annoying him? It shouldn’t bother you at all, but somehow you feel a pang of regret at how much has changed in less than 24 hours.

“If you don’t open your mouth willingly, I will open it for you.” He takes a step closer, but your legs feel heavy now, rooted to the spot. It isn’t like there’s anywhere you could run, anyway. “I don’t want to do that,” he continues, voice slightly softened. “Cooperate and open your mouth.”

What choice do you have? You could protest, you could argue, you could leap into the bathtub and make him fight for what he wants. You could keep your mouth shut tight and force him to find a solution. But he is stronger than you, in more ways than one, and he would get his way in the end.

So you make the only choice available to you. Your entire mouth shakes and seems to fight against you as you slowly open your lips in compliance. You feel stupid, standing here with your mouth hanging open.

You can’t reflect on the feeling for long, as he wastes no time in shoving the bar inside your open lips. You can’t help but whimper at the intrusion, but he doesn’t let up and begins methodically scrubbing at your tongue. At first, there’s no taste--then the built-up slick of clinical soap makes itself known, and you take advantage of the soap slipping out of your lips to press them together again, denying him entry.

“Open,” he orders, soft and firm.

And you do, heaving your shoulders in an unreleased whimper. What else can you do but listen? He continues to scrub, this time moving the bar into the side of your mouth to scrub at your teeth. The clammy, greasy feeling of soap coating your teeth makes you curl your wide open lips downward. You must look ridiculous, in all respects, lips gaping in an unpleasant frown as your captor mercilessly soaps the inside of your mouth.

“Do you not like the taste?” His eyes glance over at your frown, and the mockery in his tone is more than blatant.

“Uhh-uhh,” you mumble, open-mouthed, shaking your head. The position you’re in--Overhaul scrubbing into your mouth, your shaking body, the dim feeling of your bruises and cuts from earlier--makes you feel so painfully exposed. So painfully helpless.

He hums and rests the soap against your tongue. Before you can attempt to move your tongue, lessen the feeling of the taste of the soap against it, he gives you a command.

“Bite down.”

Your teeth sink into the soft bar, keeping it in place, and your whimpers grow stronger at the humiliating order you’ve just obeyed. Could you sink any lower?

You watch him through tear-brimmed eyes as he moves to stand in front of you. You know what’s coming before he even speaks and when he does, it’s no surprise.

“Have I ever hurt you?”

Back to this, again.

You shake your head, mumble around the soap: “No.”

“Are you capable of being on your own?”

You hesitate, and he merely jumps to another question, one far more pointed.

“Have you held a single job for longer than a year?”

You want to protest, but any attempt at complicated speech is marred by the soap--the weight of it, the taste, and your need to keep it steady in your mouth.

“No,” you admit, hating the feel of the bar as your lips press against it with the effort of speech.

“Would you have been evicted if I didn’t pay off your debts?”

“Yes.” Tears sting at your eyes. You want to wipe them away but you’re afraid you’ll get soap in them, somehow.

“Are you responsible enough with money to hold a job, maintain an apartment, and buy yourself the necessities for life without someone else stepping in?”

The soap somehow tastes even more bitter. “No, I can’t.” Your tongue pushes up against the soap at this, and you resolve to keep it to one-word answers only.

“If we didn’t intercept your little outing, would you have attempted to throw up at that restaurant today?”

You shake your head, but it’s a lie, and you know it’s a lie--and he knows it’s a lie. So you nod, weakly. “Mm-hmm.”

“Have I been feeding you healthy meals? Have I been ensuring that you don’t engage in disgusting self-destructive behaviors?”

He has, but that’s not--your mind wants to argue, but you’re so tired and sick and your stomach hurts and the taste of the soap is too much. So you nod, instead.

He nods in response, and you pray that he’ll take the soap out and end this. Instead, he lifts your chin with a single finger, making you keep eye contact as he speaks.

“Do I take care of you?”

“Yes,” you cry out, your words garbled around the wet soap bar. He releases your chin and it’s these words, this final question, that make you break entirely. Your shoulders ache from bruises as you cry, hunching over slightly and watching as some drool-laden soap droplets fall on the floor. “Yes, yes, yes,” you repeat, mechanically, crying around the bitter soap that’s digging into your front teeth.

Satisfied, he takes hold of the bar and waits for you to release it, then tosses it with ease into the trash. You blubber and spit, only succeeding in releasing a trail of soapy drool down your chin. Your tears are hot and stinging as they roll down your cheeks. You open your mouth, you try to say something, but all that comes out is soft cries punctuated by your attempts to spit out the soapy film.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, bringing a gloved hand up to your cheek and wiping at the tears. “My poor thing. You can’t even speak. You can’t even articulate yourself. How could you ever hope to make it on your own?” His words are soft and cruel and you merely cry harder, humiliated and helpless.

Your throat is sore. Your stomach hurts. You want your warm nightgown on. You want to be in bed. You wish your stomach didn’t hurt so much from eating junk. You wish you weren’t covered in cuts and bruises. You wish you’d just enjoyed the garden and went back inside. You wish you’d never done this at all. You’re so stupid. You’re so stupid.

And you finally say so, all of it, blubbering, bits of soapy drool dribbling out of your mouth as you cry and admit your faults out loud.

After your wrought-out apology dissolves into meaningless whimpers, Overhaul finally grabs the glass of water he set on the edge of the sink, and you gratefully swish the lukewarm liquid with earnest. You lean over the sink and spit, body trembling, then fill the cup again and repeat the gesture again and again to get rid of every bit of white soap stuck in your mouth. Even as you spit, you realize that the taste isn’t going to be completely gone anytime soon--it’s stuck in your mouth like a bad memory.

You jerk when his hands are suddenly on your back, rubber gloves sliding up and down the thin medical gown covering your cold, helpless body. But he merely keeps rubbing, gentle and soothing, while you swish and spit, and cry and cry.

His hands leave your back only to grab a washcloth from the built-in shelves across from the toilet. You watch as he wets the cloth and you stand silently, allowing him to wipe up the drool and soap from your chin, your neck, even a bit on your chest where it dribble-dropped downward.

When you’re all cleaned up, he fills up a cup with mouth wash and silently hands it to you. You gratefully swish it for as long as possible before spitting it into the sink. The soap taste is still there, but lessened somewhat by the overpowering mint of the mouthwash. He gestures to your toothbrush and you pick it up, and begin mechanically brushing your teeth, stopping when the 2-minute timer flashes on the bottom. You instinctively grab your floss without having to be told and make quick work of that, too.

He opens the door to the bathroom, but gestures for you to wait. You do, standing numbly, wishing that he let you have a mirror so you could see your own state. But he doesn’t, and you can’t, and so you wait until he returns with a bundle in his arms.

It’s your pajamas. A soft, pink nightgown--he didn’t pick the soft blue one, tonight, and you’re grateful to avoid any reminders of the medical gown you have on--with matching socks and underwear. You nod and accept the bundle meekly. He turns around and you make quick work of the medical gown, tossing it in the trash yourself before you get dressed for bed.

“M’done,” you mumble, though you quickly realize speaking makes the lingering soap taste stronger. You follow him silently out of the bathroom and into your bedroom, which is just as you left it that morning. The only thing different is you. Subdued, humiliated, helpless.

Overhaul pulls the cover on your bed and you sit down, numb and chastened. You pull your legs up and tuck them under the soft comforter. You’re forcing yourself into the routine you’ve been following for the past few weeks, but the secret thrill you once had of obeying with ulterior movies is no longer there. It’s been replaced by a heavy stillness, the knowledge that you failed in more ways than one. The occasional roll of your stomach reminds you that the night may not be over, bedtime routine be damned.

But you ignore it for now, and you lean your head back on your pillow as he pulls the comforter towards your shoulders, tucking you in. Rather than leave immediately, he sits next to you on the bed, looking down at you with an obsessive, possessive expression in his eyes.

You force down an instinctive flinch when he suddenly begins to stroke the top of your forehead, moving up to pet your hair softly. His gloves are gone. While not completely new, it’s rare--rare enough that the feeling of his bare fingers is still an unusual sensation.

You close your eyes. It usually makes him leave faster. Your heart begins to pound as you hear him stand, as you sense him leaning in, as you feel the ghost of his breath against your face.

“Sweet dreams. We’ll start fresh in the morning.”

What a silly thing to say, you think. Your dreams are never sweet anymore.

#yandere overhaul #yandere chisaki kai #yandere #yandere x reader #overhaul x reader #afterwitch writes #uhh I added 2000 words in between last night and now

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aquaquadrant · 3 years

Text

the little things

Kenji’s mouth is dry. “Ben…?” he croaks out.

Ben swallows. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice. “It’s you.”

~*~

Ben’s been reunited with the other campers, and seems to have come out the other end of his experience stronger than ever before. But as he slowly finds his place back within the group, a bigger picture starts to emerge, piece by piece.

Rated T for: mental illness, mild language, panic attacks, PTSD, anxiety, insomnia, eating disorder (not in a traditional sense, but definitely not a healthy relationship with food)

A/N: Hey Camp Cretaceous fandom, y’all mind if I uhhhh write six-thousand words about Ben’s trauma?? Basically, Netflix kept recommending the show to me so I watched the first ep out of curiosity and then ended up binging the whole thing in like two days, and now here I am.

(Dear sweet, patient, regular readers of mine: I’m so sorry my main fic’s been delayed but I promise it’s getting updated next week, I just had to get some feelings out about Sad Dino Boy)

Hope you enjoy, please reblog and leave a comment if you do! - Aqua

Click here to read on A03 (with more complete tags)

~*~

the little things

~*~

Ben Pincus has returned from the dead, and he’s never been better.

The other campers are amazed. What he’s been through must have been horrible. He thought he was the only one left, that there was no one to help him and no hope of rescue because he was presumed dead. It would’ve been enough to drive anyone into despair, or off of the deep end.

But Ben shows no signs of this.

They didn’t find him holed up somewhere, near starvation and waiting to die, like one might’ve expected. They didn’t find him at all, really. He found them, and by coming to their rescue, no less. And when he did, he wasn’t a trembling mess, he wasn’t a half-mad ball of paranoia, and he wasn’t a hollow-eyed skeleton fueled solely by desperation.

He’s an all new and improved Ben, the best version of himself.

He hasn’t just survived, he’s flourished. He’s brave, he’s confident, he’s capable. He gives his opinions freely and without second-guessing himself, suggesting things the old Ben would’ve recoiled at. He fits seamlessly into the team like he never left. He faces problems head-on with determination and grit and not a trace of fear.

The turnaround is unbelievable. But even more important is that while he’s a new and improved Ben, he’s retained all the best parts of his old self.

Ben is easy smiles and meticulous organization of a leather waist bag and doting affection for a four-ton armored lizard. He’s sensitive and soft-spoken and accepts hugs from his friends gratefully. He still can’t quite pull off coolness, with a voice that sounds as gangly as his limbs look and an awkwardness he hasn’t grown out of.

And it’s perhaps because of this that no one thinks to look closer. This image is an easy thing to accept because it’s what they all want to believe, that Ben is okay- in fact, better than okay. But the truth is not always big and obvious upon first glance.

It’s the little things, as they soon find out.

~*~

That first evening after Ben’s return, after Mitch and Tiff and everything else, they don’t eat dinner.

They all ate their fill at the campsite and, after a month of scarcity, it was more than enough to sate their appetites. It’s Darius who thinks to ask Ben if he’s hungry, remembering that the boy hadn’t had the chance to eat with them. They have a good stockpile of food at the moment and he figures Ben must’ve been struggling.

But Ben shakes his head with an easy smile, and says, “Nah, I ate earlier.”

Darius leaves it at that, because there’s still so much catching up to do. They show Ben around their clubhouse, make plans for where to build a bunk for him (he insists he’d be just fine sleeping on the ground next to Bumpy, but they all veto that immediately). They talk well into the night about the day’s crazy events, filling each other in on their own sides of the story, and everything that’s happened since Ben got separated.

There are some more tears, some more hugs. But ultimately, the mood in the clubhouse is ecstatic. They never thought Ben had survived the fall so to have him back is better than a dream come true, it’s a miracle.

Darius thought he knew what it was to experience a miracle when they first saw that bonfire smoke on the horizon. But if he had to chose between the miracle of them finally leaving the island or the miracle of getting Ben back, it’s not even a competition.

Eventually the exhaustion catches up with everyone, and they turn in for the night. Bumpy parks herself underneath the clubhouse, her presence incredibly reassuring. Ben ends up sharing Kenji’s bunk because it’s bigger than Darius’s even when occupied by two, and the older teen had insisted in a very faux-casual way, to which Ben had rolled his eyes but nonetheless seemed touched by the gesture.

Darius takes the first night watch shift and gets to see all his friends sleeping peacefully. And even though Tiff sailed away with their only means for escaping, he feels a lot more hopeful than he has in a long time.

~*~

It’s canned peaches for breakfast.

A far cry from yesterday’s buffet. But no one’s complaining because the meticulous rationing of their food, courtesy of Darius, means they’re all starving by meal time and couldn’t care less what it tastes like. Darius is in the process of separating the food out into bowls, half a can for each of them, when he realizes Ben has yet to take a seat. He’s lingering at the edge of the room, watching.

“Hey,” Darius calls, “you coming or what?”

Ben shakes his head. “Thanks, but I already got my own breakfast.”

Before Darius can respond, Brooklynn shoots Ben a look. “What? Where?” she demands. “You holding out on us, jungle boy?”

Darius shoots her a look, but Ben just gives an easy smile and unzips the leather pouch that’s reclaimed its spot around his waist. He withdraws a small handful of bright red berries, no bigger than blueberries. It’s not even a fraction of the half-can of peaches the rest of them are settling for, and Darius sees his own unease reflected in the others’ eyes.

Brooklynn glances away. “Oh. Um, sorry. You don’t… you can have some of ours, you know?”

“I’m good.” Ben tosses a couple berries into his mouth. “You guys go ahead, I’m gonna go check on Bumpy.”

“O- oh, okay…” Sammy murmurs, watching Ben go with uncertain eyes. “If you’re sure…”

They’re silent for a moment.

Kenji inhales quietly through his teeth. “So… that’s weird, right?”

Yaz leans forward in her seat. “What do you think, Darius?” she asks lowly.

Darius bites his lip. Even though dinosaurs are his specific topic of interest, he’s gained a lot of second-hand knowledge about general biology and psychology. After all, he has to understand the processes behind behavior in order to identify patterns and deviations.

And right now, he has to admit that Ben is displaying a very concerning behavior.

“I’ll talk to him,” Darius decides.

There’s a collective sigh of relief around the table, and the others start eating. It takes Darius longer than usual to finish his serving.

~*~

“So, uh, bottom line is… you don’t need to feel bad about eating our food. You’re as much a part of this group as anyone else, and we’re happy to share.”

After a couple tense days, Darius is finally talking to Ben about the food situation. Or rather, talking at him. Because Ben’s not looking at Darius- his eyes are tracking the small spider that’s crawling along the railing next to them. Normally, Darius would take it as a sign of boredom and inattentiveness. But there’s an intensity in Ben’s eye that’s a little unsettling-

Quick as a flash, Ben shoots out an arm. He crushes the spider under his thumb and swipes it into his mouth. And then, untroubled as can be, he returns his focus to Darius as if nothing had happened.

Darius has overheard Kenji teasing Ben about eating bugs, and Ben has admitted as much in the stories of his time alone. Berries and grubs were what he lived on. Darius, for one, can’t imagine being hungry and desperate enough to snatch a bug off the ground and eat it.

But it’s even harder to imagine having access to real food, good food, and still choosing to eat bugs.

“Don’t worry so much,” Ben says lightly, patting Darius on the shoulder as he turns to go. “I can take care of myself.”

That does it. “You can’t keep living off berries and grubs!” Darius finally snaps.

Ben whirls around. “Says who?”

“Basic human biology!” Darius retorts.

Ben glares at him, but there’s something shaky behind it. “Darius, I told you it’s fine,” he says evenly, though he doesn’t fully meet Darius’s gaze. “Don’t make a big deal out of it. Please? If I’m hungry, I’ll eat.”

Darius hesitates. “You promise?”

Ben breaks into an easy smile. “I promise.”

Darius sighs. It’ll have to be good enough, for now.

“Okay.”

~*~

Darius knows he isn’t the only one still concerned by Ben’s lack of appetite.

Right from the start, Ben was the scrawniest one among them, and it’s only gotten worse. But surely he’ll have to eat at some point, right? Basic survival instincts will win out over whatever stubborn mindset is holding him back. Plus, it’s clear that he’s got enough energy to run and climb and stuff with no problem.

Maybe it’s not as serious as Darius thinks. Maybe Ben just needs time.

~*~

Ben doesn’t know what’s wrong with him.

He just- he can’t take their food! Why don’t they get that?

And it’s not because he’s stubborn, it’s not- no matter what Darius thinks. There’s nothing wrong with letting others help you (as long as you don’t let it make you soft, of course). After all, he relies on Bumpy. He just… when he looks at the food, and imagines eating it, he just knows it’ll sit in his stomach. Like a rock, weighing him down.

Plus, plus, if he gets used to eating like that, it’ll just- it’ll be harder to cope once it runs out. He’s already gotten used to roughing it and it was hard enough the first time, he can’t let himself slip back into complacency. And- and really, how long do they think it’s going to last? They’ve searched all the previously inhabited areas of the island and there’s no more food for them to scavenge.

Do they think they’ll be rescued before it runs out? No one is coming to save them. They know it as much as Ben does- they wouldn’t be bothering with rafts if they didn’t. Do they think they’ll escape, then? Sure, because their current attempts have been going so well.

No, they just aren’t thinking long term. Ben is.

There’s nothing wrong with that.

~*~

It’s the sixth day in a row where Ben eats nothing but berries.

He wants to search around some more, see if there’s anything more substantial. That would require him to leave Bumpy, though. And he can’t leave Bumpy. But the hunger is excruciating. It gnaws at him every waking moment, keeps him up at night. He’s never felt such hunger in his life, not even close. He can’t keep going like this, can he?

But there’s nothing else.

Except… something’s crawling up his arm. Something small, and leggy. Ben turns his head, squinting to focus his eyes in the dark. It’s some kind of beetle, with a shiny shell that catches stray shafts of moonlight poking through the roof of his lean-to.

Ben stares at it for a moment. Then, before he can think, he snatches it up and pops it into his mouth. He barely registers any taste, mostly just the crunchy texture. And even though it wasn’t any bigger than a quarter, after he swallows, he feels… fuller. Even if it’s purely imagined, it’s a comfort.

Berries and grubs. It’ll have to be enough.

There’s nothing else.

~*~

Ben continues to decline their offers of food.

~*~

A few weeks after the reunion, Kenji is starting to get antsy.

As the self-designated ‘pro-fun police’ (a clever play on ‘no-fun police,’ if Kenji does say so himself), he’s made it his responsibility to make sure none of his friends just keel over and die from stress one day. That means it’s his job- no, his duty- to lighten the mood with copious amounts of joking, goofing off, and, of course, pranking.

Jumping out to scare his friends while they’re trapped on a dino-infested island might, on paper, sound like a bad idea. But it keeps everyone on their toes, and the relief of realizing they aren’t facing a dino attack, just Kenji pulling a prank, helps keep any real anger at bay. It’s typically an exasperated annoyance, which Kenji will gladly take. His main targets are Brooklynn and Darius, because he can’t fathom doing that to Sammy, and Yaz is- while perhaps in the most need of lightening up- super freaking scary.

But now that Ben’s back, Kenji knows what he has to do.

Before, back when they were just campers and not survivors, Ben was easily the most frightened of them. The kid was scared of dirt. And his over-the-top hysterics always managed to, somehow, put everyone else at ease. Because if Ben was scared of something, that didn’t really mean anything. Again; scared of dirt.

(Now, if Yaz is scared of something, that’s a different story).

Since Ben’s, uh… departure, they’ve been sorely lacking that energy in the group. Kenji would wager he’s not the only one who misses it. He used to have so much fun riling Ben up with just a couple words (none of the others are so easily baited). And whenever Ben would freak out and instantly cling to him, like some kind of scrawny spider monkey, it made Kenji feel… capable, in a way.

Like, if Ben was trusting Kenji to protect him, maybe he wasn’t so useless after all (which was becoming an all too frequent feeling as the others continued to adapt and grow, leaving Kenji struggling to keep up).

Problem is, Ben’s really hard to scare now.

It’s not always obvious, like when he’s bragging about taking down Toro or itching to blow things up. Sometimes it’s the little things. Whenever they’re out in a group, foraging or gathering supplies, and there’s a sound in the distance that makes them all freeze, Ben’s frozen in readiness, not fear. He looks more like Yaz, tense and waiting with his fists up and eyes narrowed.

Sometimes, when they aren’t occupied by any particular task or imminent threat, and have the chance to enjoy some downtime, Ben drifts off to the side and just… watches, all tense, silent, and anxious. He’ll watch the tree line, or Bumpy on the ground below, or even just the rest of them as they go about their business. Kenji is sure he’s not the only one who’s noticed but none of them bring it up.

It’s… unsettling, seeing Ben like this. Kenji figured he just needed a couple weeks to fall back into the rhythm of the group, to see that he didn’t have to be this loner Rambo type of guy anymore. But even though he talks with them easy enough, seems to enjoy their company, and has a good handle on teamwork, it’s like there’s a part of him that can’t fully shake that mentality.

At least, not without help.

~*~

Kenji’s plan is- in his humble opinion- pretty dang brilliant.

He waits for a time when it’s just him and Ben in the main level of the clubhouse (Yaz is running laps around their perimeter, Darius is in his bunk writing in his nerd book, Brooklynn and Sammy are upstairs going over inventory) and then announces he’s going for a shower. His daily showers are common knowledge at this point, so Ben just nods in acknowledgement and goes back to leaning against the railing, watching Bumpy graze down below in that tense-silent-anxious way of his.

Kenji sets up the shower and lets it run (he’ll go down to the river later and get more water to make up for the waste, because even though he tries to avoid manual labor whenever possible, it’s totally worth it in this case). And then, being more careful and silent than he’s ever been (except maybe in cases where he’s being hunted by dinos), he slowly creeps up behind Ben before leaping forward with a shriek, grabbing him by the shoulders.

Ben doesn’t just jump and scream. He jumps, screams, then spins around and swings a fist into Kenji’s jaw in one smooth motion.

Kenji’s laughing even as he staggers back, his jaw stinging (because at the end of the day, even though Ben’s kind of a badass now, he’s still Ben and his arms are pretty much chicken wings so there’s no real harm done, just a bruise at most). Plus that’s a valid reaction, considering everything, and he can’t say he didn’t deserve it.

“Oh man, I totally got you!” Kenji says anyways, to rub it in. “You should see your… face...”

And Kenji trails off because now he’s seeing Ben’s face.

What Kenji expected is this:

Once Ben realized it was just him pulling a prank, he would get mad. In that totally non-threatening dorky Ben way, where he scrunches his nose and puffs out his cheeks, his little fists clenched at his side like an irate toddler. Maybe he’d stomp off but it’d be worth it because being mad is better than being tense-silent-anxious and it’d give him the chance to be annoyed with Kenji. And maybe Ben being annoyed with Kenji would help everything feel a little more normal, a little more like before.

What Kenji gets is this:

Once Ben realizes it was just him pulling a prank, he doesn’t get mad. He starts shaking. Violently, uncontrollably. Like he’s suddenly come down with hypothermia despite being in a tropical jungle, staring at Kenji all the while and not saying a word. His chest rises and falls rapidly in little panicky breaths and the kind of fear in his eyes isn’t the kind that’s funny. It’s glassy-eyed with shrunken pupils that dart around Kenji’s face, frightened and searching, as if he isn’t fully seeing it.

Kenji’s mouth is dry. “Ben…?” he croaks out.

Ben swallows. “Oh,” he says, in a very small voice. “It’s you.”

Kenji hasn’t heard Ben’s voice sound that small since before, and it doesn’t feel like a victory.

By now, of course, the others have noticed the commotion and it doesn’t take more than a second for them to piece together what happened. Yaz rounds on Kenji with a furious snarl and whisper-screams a lecture about how stupid and irresponsible he is. Darius is immediately trying to mediate the situation while Sammy frantically asks Ben if he’s okay, to which he doesn’t respond. Brooklynn steps in, citing an unboxing video about dealing with shock, and when she goes to put a hand on Ben’s shoulder, he lets her.

And now Kenji realizes where he miscalculated. Ben never showed discomfort with physical contact before because he’d never been surprised by it before (because Ben has gotten scary good at being alert, always keeping an eye and an ear out on his surroundings even in the middle of a conversation). And when it came to his friends, it wasn’t unexpected for Sammy to rush in with a hug or Darius to pat his shoulder or Brooklynn to playfully knock elbows.

But Kenji snuck up on him, so Ben’s first thought wasn’t that it was a friend. It was that he was going to have to run for his life, like he has countless times since being stranded on this island.

Kenji apologizes over and over again as Darius gently leads him away by the elbow and Brooklynn talks to Ben in low tones while Sammy squeezes his hand and Yaz takes up a lookout position because they can’t afford for all of them to be distracted even though she occasionally cuts a glare at Kenji out of the corner of her eye so it’s really debatable how vigilant she’s actually being.

Throughout it all, Ben doesn’t get mad, but he doesn’t stop shaking.

~*~

Darius explains it, later.

“The sudden fear reaction signaled a bunch of adrenaline to be released into his bloodstream, to give him the energy needed for running. And then, when he didn’t, there was nowhere for that energy to go. It’s like, even though his mind knew there wasn’t any danger, his body wasn’t convinced.” Then, a sympathetic look. “You didn’t know, man.”

Kenji only nods. But knowing doesn’t make it better because even though Ben’s stopped shaking he doesn’t turn his back on Kenji anymore and somehow that’s a million times worse than if he’d gotten mad.

~*~

There are claws wrapped around Ben’s shoulders and shrieks in his ears.

Wind whips his face and his stomach lurches as he’s carried through the air, weightless, at the mercy of the Pteranodon. He’s never felt so small and utterly helpless before, not once in his life. Even his screams aren’t big enough to carry, snatched away by the wind and deafened by the roars of the terror-birds fighting over the right to tear him limb from limb.

And then he’s falling and has other things to worry about.

~*~

Ben stops sharing Kenji’s bunk.

~*~

In a rare moment of downtime, Yasmina is curled up with Darius’s field guide, adding a few more illustrations, when she feels Ben staring at her.

It’s not the first time she’s felt him staring at her. It is the first time, however, that she decides to stare back.

She means it to be playful, at first. She meets his eyes, one brow quirked as if to say, ‘What, is there something on my face?’ But instead of glancing away in sheepish embarrassment or jolting out of a daze, Ben just stares back. There’s no emotion in his expression at all except intense focus.

The faint smile drops from Yasmina’s face as she stares back in surprise. Then, with ever-growing confusion and a fair amount of alarm, she realizes that Ben’s shoulders are rising, tense and hunched like he’s trying to make himself look bigger.

Like an animal.

Yasmina knows what it is to stare down a wild animal. She’s felt predatory eyes on her before and either bolted or turned to face the challenge. And that’s what it is, for some of the dinos- a challenge. Sometimes they’re testing your mettle, and standing your ground is enough to make them back off.

Ben must’ve learned that, too. And for whatever reason, he’s slipping into that behavior now.

It’s a ridiculous thought. This is Ben, her friend. Her very scrawny friend who can’t weigh more than ninety pounds soaking wet, and prefers a diet of berries and grubs. And yet, here he is, staring her down like she’s a particularly bold pack of Compies that’s decided to threaten him.

Yasmina gives a slow, deliberate blink. “Ben?” she calls. “What’s up?”

Just like that, the spell is broken. Ben gives a violent start, blinking and shaking his head. Yasmina sees confusion flash across his face, and then realization. And now the embarrassment comes, but it’s darkened by something like horror.

Without a word, Ben turns and darts away, scrambling down the ladder to the alcove underneath the house where Bumpy’s napping.

Yasmina lets him go, too baffled and unsettled to form words.

~*~

Eventually, Yasmina tells Darius about it.

His expression is troubled as she runs through the incident. But in the end, there’s nothing more he can tell her than what she’s already worked out on her own. It’s just another side effect of the mindset Ben has adopted throughout his isolation. Those habits were what he relied on to survive, and it’ll take time for him to realize he doesn’t have to constantly be on edge now that he’s got a team to look out for him.

Though privately, Yasmina wonders if maybe the rest of them should take a page out of Ben’s book. Seems like he’s got a better handle on survival than they do.

(And then she thinks how Sammy would react, if Yasmina started acting like a wary animal around her, and she realizes Ben’s methods come with a price.)

~*~

After Ben runs the Compies off for the first time, staring becomes a defense tactic.

It’s not always the Compies, who are slowly but surely learning not to mess with him. Sometimes it’s the Parasaurolophus in the river, or the lone Pteranodon perched in a tree, or the group of Edmontosauruses grazing on the hilltop. As soon as he feels their eyes on him, he knows his best chance is to stare back, to show that he’s willing to put up a fight, that chasing him wouldn’t be worth it.

Obviously, there are some dinosaurs that doesn’t work on. But if Ben can drastically cut down the amount of time spent running for his life by standing his ground, then he’ll take it.

All he has to do is not back down.

~*~

Ben avoids Yasmina for the next few days.

~*~

Brooklynn wakes up in the middle of the night with an unshakeable feeling that something is wrong.

Her bad feeling is confirmed when she gets a look at the moon. Based on its position in the sky, she should’ve been woken up by Ben to take her night watch shift at least an hour ago. This practice, established by Darius months ago who insisted they should always have at least one person awake, has already become routine within the group. Brooklynn couldn’t sleep fully through the night if she tried.

Ben’s only just recently become a part of the routine. Immediately after his return, Darius thought it best just to let Ben settle in and get as much rest as he could, now that he had the security to do so, and everyone agreed. Ben had insisted he didn’t mind, but Darius stood firm, so it’s only been within the last few days that Ben took part.

But this is the first time he hasn’t woken Brooklynn up and her heart is in her throat as she rushes to the lookout point-

Only to find Ben sitting right where he’s supposed to be, looking out over their compound as a small candle burns next to him.

As soon as Brooklynn’s relief passes, it’s replaced with anger. “What are you doing?” she whispers furiously.

Ben, not at all surprised by her presence, gives her a sidelong look. “What does it look like I’m doing?”

“You were supposed to wake me up, so I could do night watch.” Brooklynn struggles to keep her voice low, so as not to alert the others. “What gives?”

Ben shrugs. “I knew I wasn’t gonna sleep tonight, so I figured I’d just take the whole watch myself.”

“That’s not how this works,” Brooklynn hisses, crossing her arms. “Even if you can’t fall asleep- and I’ve totally been there- you have to lay down and close your eyes and rest. You need to rest.”

Ben breaks into an easy smile, but Brooklynn can see the annoyed creases at his eyes. “Hey, it’s fine. I can-”

“Take care of yourself, I know,” Brooklynn interrupts, hating how frustrated she sounds but unable to help it. “But you don’t have to. We’re a team. We can take care of you too, alright?”

Ben stares at her for a moment. “I know that,” he says, sounding uncertain.

Brooklynn softens. When she reaches out to put a hand on his shoulder, he lets her. “Then… why?”

“I don’t know,” Ben admits. The muscles beneath Brooklynn’s hand are so tense, it feels like they’re going to snap. “I don’t know.”

They finish the night watch together.

~*~

Brooklynn almost hates to bring it up to Darius.

Dude’s stressing almost nonstop about everything, all the time. And it really isn’t fair for him to be responsible for the rest of them, including Ben. But Darius is the only one who seems to have the… what’s it called, emotional intelligence, she supposes, to weigh in on the situation.

(Sammy is a close second, but her brand of caring is a little more touchy-feely, and this doesn’t seem like the right time for that.)

Darius is immediately worried, pointing out that Ben might accidentally fall asleep on watch if he keeps this up (something Brooklynn hadn’t even thought about). He promises to talk to Ben about it, and that’s that.

Brooklynn is only slightly relieved because she knows if Darius had a real fix for the problem, he would’ve said so. And if Darius doesn’t have a fix for it, maybe there isn’t one.

~*~

Those first several nights, Ben doesn’t sleep at all.

And it’s not for lack of trying. But how can he sleep, when it’s pitch black and the jungle is full of unfamiliar sounds and he’s got no one but a baby Ankylosaurus by his side? He soon finds it’s even worse without Bumpy, though, because at least he trusted that Bumpy would wake up if there was any danger, as her senses are more powerful than his.

On his own, there’s no one to wake him up. So he has to stay up, and settle for catching short scattered naps throughout the day (if he can find a tree to hide up in).

It’s hard, but he’d rather be tired than dead.

~*~

Ben is taken off night watch, but still ends up awake more often than not.

~*~

Pyromaniac is a word no one ever expected to become synonymous with Ben, and yet here they are.

It’s one of the first things he always suggests as an answer to a problem; blow something up. Darius has a million reasons for them not to do that; they could get hurt, they could start a wildfire and burn the jungle down, they could attract unwanted attention from predators.

But that doesn’t stop Ben from cataloguing everything on the island that can be used as an explosive, memorizing their locations or creating hidden stashes. It doesn’t stop him from using the candles that came with the scavenged emergency kits. He’ll light them for no reason, just to watch the small flame flicker back and forth.

(Someday, months later, they’ll encounter a horrific hybrid dinosaur that is drawn to flames, and they’ll all think about how unsettling it is that Ben shares this trait, but none of them will say it.)

~*~

It’s been one week since Bumpy left, and Ben is starting a fire.

Just a small one. It rained all day and he’s soaked to the bone, which normally wouldn’t be a huge problem considering the jungle climate. But now that it’s nighttime, there’s a chill in the air and he can’t afford to get sick. It’s risky, because at night he knows the light could draw attention to him, but his teeth are starting to chatter so there’s no helping it.

When a Stegosaurus stumbles upon him, baying low and angry at finding another creature in its territory, it’s the fire that makes it balk. Rumbling displeasure, it retreats back into the dark jungle. Ben quickly adds torches to his arsenal, using the rest of his shirt as tinder.

Fire is safety.

~*~

Ben lights his candles in silence.

~*~

“You can’t just run off like that,” Kenji says, deadly serious.

Ben scoffs. “I think you’re forgetting who defeated Toro,” he says with an easy smile.

“You’re not invincible, Ben!” Kenji snaps. The anger churning inside him is deceptively hollow, like it’s masking something else. “And I can’t lose you again.”

Ben isn’t smiling anymore. “You won’t,” he mutters, pushing past Kenji. “I can take care of myself, now. I don’t need you to play the hero and protect me.”

Kenji wants to protest that’s not what this is about, and that’s never been what this is about, but Ben is already gone.

~*~

Ben still lives off berries and grubs.

~*~

“… and so I was thinking, berries have seeds in them, right? So if we plant some, we’ll have our own berry bushes at the clubhouse. It’ll cut down our foraging time in the mornings for sure, and-”

“Uh, who are you talking to, Ben?”

Ben blinks at Yasmina’s voice, the girl having only just entered the room.

“Um, Bumpy?” he says, as if this should be obvious.

Yasmina glances out at the compound, where Bumpy is fast asleep and well out of earshot.

“… right.”

~*~

Ben can’t sleep, even when he’s actually trying.

~*~

“Alright,” Darius says, “so we need to get the T-Rex out of Main Street so we can do another sweep for supplies. Any ideas?”

Ben’s hand goes up.

“For the hundredth time, Ben, we aren’t going to feed the T-Rex to the Mosasaurus.”

Ben’s hand goes down.

~*~

Ben feels more at home with Bumpy than the other campers.

~*~

“You know we didn’t mean to leave you, right? We would’ve come back for you if we’d known…”

~*~

Ben never talks about getting off the island.

~*~

“You have to tell us where you’re going, Ben, you can’t just disappear-”

~*~

Ben keeps slipping away.

~*~

“Blowing stuff up isn’t the answer to everything!”

~*~

Ben keeps saying he’s okay.

~*~

“We’re a team, we have to work together-”

~*~

Ben keeps smiling.

~*~

“Don’t you trust us to protect you?”

~*~

Ben doesn’t know.

~*~

Sammy finds Ben sitting on the roof of the clubhouse one day.

Her footsteps are loud and obvious as she approaches him. No chance of sneaking up. She knows he’s noticed her, from the subtle shift in his body. He doesn’t acknowledge her, though, continuing to stare off over the jungle and into the horizon, his skinny legs slotted through the railing and dangling over the edge.

The sun’s about to set, a few stars already twinkling in the purple edges of the sky. Sammy can remember another night, months ago, where Ben wasn’t here but everyone else was and they spotted bonfire smoke in the distance. She remembers the way her heart raced, the overwhelming joy and relief flooding through her. And yet, there had been undeniable heartache, because the realization that they’d made it out only meant it was more unfair that Ben hadn’t.

Sammy breaks the silence after a few moments.

“Are you okay?”

Ben doesn’t look at her, but she can see the easy smile that slants across his face, dying sunlight reflected in his eyes.

“Yeah.”

Sammy sees the lie for what it is. None of them are okay. No one who’s been through what they have would be. But there’s a certain danger that comes with not being willing to admit it, and an even greater danger that comes with not being able to see it.

“Y’know, it’d be fine if you weren’t.”

Ben doesn’t answer.

Sammy sits with him until the sky turns dark.

~*~

It’s the way he struggles to eat anything he hasn’t obtained by himself.

It’s the way he sometimes goes off on his own without telling anyone.

It’s the way he talks to himself when he thinks no one else is around.

It’s the way he takes any concern for his safety as a personal attack.

It’s the way he leaps at the chance to blow something up.

It’s the way he can stare silently for hours.

It’s the way he smiles a little too easily.

~*~

It’s not jumping at every unexpected movement, or screaming awake from night terrors, or flinching away from the slightest touch. It’s not loud meltdowns or hysterical sobbing or uncontrollable fits of rage.

(Even though those will come, someday, when the island is just a memory.)

It’s the little things, that- once you notice them- keep piling up.

And suddenly, they don’t seem so little anymore.

~*~

#jurassic world camp cretaceous #camp cretaceous #jwcc #jwcc fanfic #my writing

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veliseraptor · 3 years

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Hey just wondering, do you have any draft or work in process or any plan for your next Loki fic? If so can you give us a little sneak peek. Or if you don’t, do you think you’ll write more about him in the future? I know you probably get this a lot and I’m sorry if it’s annoying or if it sounds rude or anything. I’m just wondering and also I’ve been binge reading your stories about him and got addicted so there’s that. But seriously I’m sorry if my message comes off as rude or annoying, that’s not my intention. Anyway hope you’re having an amazing day

I genuinely hate to sound like a broken record, anon, since you are being very polite about this! Which I very much appreciate! But the answer remains more or less the same: I don’t know. I have (counts) 38 different Loki-related WIPs in various stages of completion sitting on my hard drive. I haven’t been working on them actively lately because, to the dismay I’m sure of many of my followers, another fandom has devoured me whole. I’m really enjoying the experience, but it has left me with relatively little brainspace for things that aren’t that thing (or, I guess, other danmei novels and adaptations thereof?? idk okay).

At some point I would like to finish at least some of those stories, because I do not like leaving things unfinished. But I just don’t know when - or if! - I will. It just depends on if I get that emotional investment back. At the moment it doesn’t seem like that’s going to happen imminently, but who knows. And maybe I’ll go back and reread what I have written of some of these, go “where’s the rest, op” and feel encouraged to write more.

All that being said - since you were so nice about this, I will give you a (3000 word) excerpt from one of the WIPs - Dead Superheroes Walking, which is the one about the characters who died/were dusted in Infinity War on a road trip through the Soul Stone.

---

“Anyone for a game of twenty questions?” Sam asked, after they’d been walking for maybe ten minutes.

“Really?” Bucky said. “Twenty questions?”

“I don’t think ‘I Spy’ would work too well. Not a lot of interesting landmarks. Or hadn’t you noticed that the landscape keeps repeating?”

“I am Groot,” said Groot.

“And I have no idea what that means,” Sam said.

Sam was right, Wanda realized. The landscape was repeating. It wasn’t obvious, at first, but there was only one tree, over and over; only one rock placed near to it. The sky was a flat and even orange.

A faint shiver ran down Wanda’s spine. Bucky stopped, though, visibly disconcerted.

“What the hell is this place,” he said.

“Does it matter?” Sam asked. “We’re not exactly going anywhere else. All right, I’ve got it. Twenty questions, yes or no answers only.”

“I am Groot?” said Groot. Sam eyed him.

“I’m not going to take that off the count,” he said.

“Is it alive?” T’Challa asked.

“Yep,” Sam said.

“Guess that rules us out,” Bucky said. Sam snorted, and T’Challa cracked a small smile. Wanda stared down at a small, triangular rock in front of her feet.

“All right,” Bucky said. “Is it an animal?”

“Yes. Two questions down. Wanda?”

She bent down and picked up the rock. It left red dust on her fingers, and when she pressed her fingers together it crumbled like chalk. She half expected the dust to vanish, but the red stain on her fingertips stayed.

“Wanda?” Sam said, more gently.

“Sorry,” she said. “Is it a person?”

“Nope,” Sam said. “That’s three.”

She wiped her hand off on her clothes. This place wasn’t right - she could feel it in her bones, deep down where her magic ought to be. But nothing had been right in the last few days. Very few things in Wanda’s life had been right. Why should her death be any different?

It only seemed unfair that the others should be here, too.

They sky did not change, but they stopped walking eventually - less because any of them were actually tired than because it seemed like they should. Or maybe because they were tired of walking and wanted some change, even if there was very little change to be had. The road went on. The landscape didn’t alter.

And no one else appeared.

“It can’t just be us,” Sam said. “Other people died. Where are they?”

Nobody had an answer for him, unless the tree’s “I am Groot” was an answer none of them could understand. Wanda thought it might be something to do with the fact that they’d all died when Thanos had snapped his fingers, but she stayed quiet, staring off at the horizon and only half listening to Bucky and Sam going back and forth at each other.

“I see something,” T’Challa said abruptly. They all turned and followed the line of his arm.

“I can’t see anything,” Sam said.

“Give it a sec,” Bucky said. “He’s probably got a hundred extra yards visibility on me. Maybe 150 on you–”

“I am Groot,” Groot said. Wanda strained her eyes, some part of her wishing - hoping–

“Is that a dog?” Sam said.

A moment later Wanda saw it too, and slumped. It did look like a dog padding towards them - or at least, it certainly wasn’t a person.

“That’s not a dog,” T’Challa said.

“Fox, I think,” Bucky said. “What the fuck is a fox doing here?”

“I don’t think it’s a fox, either,” T’Challa said. He shifted, like he was thinking about getting into a fighting stance. Wanda stepped forward, reaching for her powers, but nothing was there.

What would be the point, anyway? You can only die once.

The fox - and it was a fox, Wanda could see that now, though black instead of red - slowed as it began to draw closer. It sat down, still a ways away, and cocked its head, looking at them.

“This is weird,” Sam said. T’Challa was still frowning.

“What is it?” Bucky asked him. T’Challa shook his head.

“I’m not certain.”

The fox stood, stretched, and changed, unfolding into a person. Wanda sucked in a breath, staring at the man now walking toward them: dark-haired, pale, lean and taller than Bucky or T’Challa. A vague sense of familiarity nagged at her, but she couldn’t say from where.

The man stopped, still several paces from them, and cocked his head just as the fox had. “Well,” he said, a faint rasp in his voice. “This is new.”

Wanda stared at him, trying to remember where she recognized him from. “New?”

“Yes,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else. But then, this time is different.”

“Wait,” Sam said abruptly. “Shit. Are you-”

“Mm,” he said, still looking at Wanda. T’Challa’s eyes were narrowed, too, and Sam’s. Bucky looked blankly at them both.

“What?”

“It’s always nice to be recognized,” the stranger said dryly.

“Loki,” Sam said. “That’s fucking Loki. Right?” Wanda’s eyes widened, but he - Loki - just shrugged one shoulder.

“So I am. Or was. I’m not certain of the appropriate tense.” His gaze swept across them, indifferent, disinterested.

“You’re dead, too,” Wanda said. Loki glanced at her, eyes focusing briefly before they slid back into dullness. No, exhaustion.

“Or something,” he said.

“‘Or something?’” Sam said. Loki’s eyes flicked in his direction.

“This doesn’t feel like death,” he said, “but I remember the feeling of my neck breaking in Thanos’s hand fairly clearly, so…” Wanda flinched, and she thought she saw Sam’s eye twitch. She remembered Thor coming roaring down from the sky, thunder and lightning in his voice, and understood. She looked down.

“What do you mean that this doesn’t feel like death,” T’Challa said into the silence.

“I know a little of what death tastes like,” Loki said after a moment. “This isn’t it.”

“What does that mean,” Bucky said, looking agitated and uncertain.

“I am Groot,” said Groot, and Loki glanced at him, something briefly flashing across his expression before it was gone. Pain, Wanda thought.

“Not entirely accurate,” he said, “but not entirely inaccurate, either.” There was a brief pause.

“You can understand him?” Bucky said. Loki shrugged again. “What did he say?”

“It’s irrelevant.” Loki’s eyes moved back to Wanda. “I suppose it’s too much to hope that you were simply the high cost of victory?” Wanda looked down, somehow feeling ashamed of her failure. Loki let out a quiet huff. “Pity.”

Bucky, oddly, snorted.

“Thanos gained all of the Infinity Stones,” T’Challa said. “Then…” He trailed off. “I am not entirely certain what happened then.”

Loki made a sort of hm noise, glancing at T’Challa sidelong. “So you didn’t die in battle,” he said.

“If so, I do not remember it,” T’Challa said.

“I am Groot,” Groot said to Loki, whose head swiveled violently toward him, eyes sharpening.

“Gamora,” he said, and there was a wealth of hatred and fear in that word. “You are a companion of hers?”

“I am Groot,” Groot said emphatically, and Loki blinked, then pressed his lips together and exhaled in a short burst.

“I suppose it doesn’t matter now.”

“Can you maybe translate what he’s saying,” Bucky said irritably. “Since all the rest of us can hear is the same three words over and over.”

“He says that Gamora claimed Thanos meant to use the completed Gauntlet to halve all life in the universe,” Loki said. “If you know that he achieved his goal, then presumably you were part of the unlucky half. Though that does not explain why you are here. Or else does not explain why I am.”

“And who’s Gamora,” Sam said, with such exaggerated patience that it demonstrated anything but.

“An old acquaintance,” Loki said. He sounded distracted.

“I am Groot,” Groot said, and this time Wanda could hear the near pride in his voice. Loki didn’t respond. He was scanning their number again, Wanda realized, more closely.

She bit her lip, then raised her voice and said, “Thor’s alive.” His gaze snapped to her, and she made herself hold it though her instinct was to look down. “At least, he was when I...he drove an axe into Thanos’s chest. It didn’t work, it was too late, but…” She trailed off.

Loki glanced down, his eyes half closing, and Wanda thought she caught a brief flicker at the corner of his mouth, not quite a smile, and a barely audible, “ah, Thor.” Then his eyes were back on hers and he said simply, “thank you for informing me,” with a lack of feeling that made Wanda frown.

“You haven’t asked who any of us are,” Bucky said.

“So I have not,” Loki said. “I am not certain it is precisely relevant.”

“Excuse you,” Sam said. Loki glanced at him, that tired indifference returning.

“I approached because I was curious. I wasn’t intending to stay, nor would I think you were inclined to encourage it.”

T’Challa was studying Loki with curious intensity. “Were you going somewhere?”

“No,” Loki said, and then paused and adjusted, “perhaps.”

“I am Groot?” Groot said, and Loki’s lips pressed briefly together.

“It means perhaps. And don’t be crude.”

“I’m with him,” Sam said. “What does perhaps mean?” Loki looked briefly annoyed, and Sam said, “come on. We’re all dead here. Or - not. Which still begs the question as far as I’m concerned of what we are.”

Loki’s eyes went back to her, and Wanda shifted. “What?” She asked. “Why do you keep looking at me?”

“You haven’t noticed anything strange, then?” He asked. “Felt anything?”

Too many things, Wanda thought, but she didn’t think that was what he meant, and now they were all looking at her. Wanda hesitated.

“I don’t have my powers,” she said slowly. Loki made a derisive noise.

“Of course you don’t,” he said. “Do you need them to sense what’s around you? Midgardian magicians. Norns.”

Wanda glared at him, but took a breath and tried to turn inward, like she was going to use her power. It still wasn’t there, but this time, without distractions…

She jerked and saw a satisfied glint in Loki’s eyes, just for an instant. “There,” he said.

“Wanda, what is it?” Sam asked, looking suspiciously at Loki.

“I don’t know,” she said. “But it feels like…” She searched for the right words. “Like a heartbeat,” she said finally, even if that wasn’t quite right.

Bucky’s expression was a mixture of horror and alarm. “A heartbeat?”

“So that’s what it feels like to you,” Loki said thoughtfully. He seemed more engaged now than he had been at first, and somehow even though it shouldn’t matter that felt like a good thing. Maybe because nothing else was.

“It’s not actually,” Wanda said quickly. “That’s just sort of what it feels like - to me, anyway. It’s...different for you?”

Loki shrugged. T’Challa shifted.

“I know what she means,” he said. “Though I wouldn’t have described it like that. But there is...something.”

“Interesting,” Loki said, glancing at T’Challa and looking him over with slightly more interest. “To answer your implied question, I would call it a...resonance.”

“A resonance with what,” Sam asked.

“If I knew that, I wouldn’t be bothering to talk to you,” Loki said. “But partly it is that which makes me think this is something other than simple death.”

“What is there other than ‘simple death,’” Bucky said tightly.

“That is the question, isn’t it,” Loki said. “Maybe nothing. Maybe I am wrong. But if I am not…”

“If you’re not, what,” Bucky said, even tighter.

“Then it begs the question of why, doesn’t it?” Loki rolled his neck in a slow circle, and Wanda could have sworn she heard something crack. “At least, such was my thought. But maybe it is just desperation.”

He didn’t sound desperate. He didn’t sound much of anything.

“Why not stay with us,” Wanda said abruptly. Everyone else turned to stare at her, Loki included, and she straightened, turning toward her friends. “I mean it,” she said. “Why not? We’re all here together. And if he’s right and there’s a why, a reason...wouldn’t it suggest that’s true for all of us, including him?” She paused, and added, “and besides - what can he do to us, anyway?”

Loki barked a laugh. “That is a fair point,” he murmured.

“How do we know this isn’t some kind of trick?” T’Challa asked, his eyes narrowed.

“You don’t,” Loki said. “But I will say that you vastly overestimate my interest in you. Well, the majority of you. And your witch has a point: what is it you think I will do?”

“I don’t know,” T’Challa said. “That’s what worries me.”

“And ‘our witch’ has a name,” Sam said a little sourly.

Loki shrugged. “As you will. It makes little difference to me.” He moved around them and started to walk away.

“I am Groot,” Groot muttered, and strode after him, long tree-legs catching up in a few strides. “I am Groot?” He said to Loki, who checked himself and looked at him, his face tightening.

“Was, yes,” he said. “Why?”

“I am Groot,” Groot said definitively, and Loki shook his head.

“Call back your child,” he said, with a sharp gesture at Groot.

“Child?” Sam said, eyebrows shooting up.

“He’s an adolescent Flora Colossus,” Loki said, as though it were obvious. “And he is not following me. I don’t care who you were friends with.”

Thor, Wanda thought. Groot didn’t know any of them, but he’d known Thor, at least a little, and Loki was Thor’s brother, and Groot was, apparently, a teenager, among strangers who couldn’t understand him, who had just died.

Wanda’s chest ached. “If he wants to,” she said, “I don’t see why he shouldn’t.”

“I’m not interested in playing nursemaid–”

“I am Groot,” Groot said, and Loki gave him a hard look.

“No, you are not,” he said. “I’ve met grown Flora Colossi and you aren’t it. You’re barely more than a sapling. Maybe - what, four years old?”

“You know what,” Bucky said, “I’m with Wanda, actually. And the, uh...Groot. This place is weird. I think we should stick together, and it seems like he knows more about this place than any of the rest of us do.” His eyes settled on Loki. “And it’s not like we have a whole lot to lose, right now.”

Sam gave Bucky a long, skeptical look and then glanced at T’Challa, who shrugged.

“You assume I am interested in putting up with the lot of you,” Loki said flatly. He looked tense, Wanda thought. Like he was expecting some kind of trap. Wanda tried to summon a smile.

“You said you came over because you were curious,” she said. “And if you’re right, and there is some reason we’re all here...isn’t that something else to be curious about?”

“I am Groot,” said Groot, and Loki glanced at him, jaw twitching.

“I’m dead, you twig,” he said. “If not now, then probably soon. And if I did need protecting, you wouldn’t be much help.”

Bucky snorted, poorly muffled. Wanda bit her lip so she didn’t smile. Groot’s expression was hard for her to read, but it looked to her eyes like a glare.

Loki exhaled loudly and looked away. “Fine,” he said. “If you are inclined...I suppose there’s no harm in traveling adjacently.”

“Traveling where?” Sam asked. “You make it sound like you have an actual destination.”

“I have a...feeling,” Loki said, though something about the brief pause before he spoke made Wanda think there was something he wasn’t saying. The question was if it was important or not. “No more than that.”

“Well,” T’Challa said after a few moments of hesitation, “that is more than I have, at the moment. And so far as I know we weren’t going anywhere in particular, so…”

“I guess that settles it,” Wanda said. Loki eyed her like he suspected her of having some ulterior motive. She decided to pretend not to notice. “So which way are we going?”

#anonymous #conversating #fic excerpt #i know this is an unsatisfying answer! i know it!#i just don't have a better one #this does remind me i should write up an actual faq at some point maybe

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octoberobserver · 4 years

Note

Prompt: reddie lost in a corn maze together :D

OMG thanks @tinyarmedtrex! What a brilliant prompt for Halloween (and my birthday lol) month :D It really kept my mind off awful wisdom-tooth pain! ♡ READ ON AO3

‘You make me so corny’ - Reddie fic

“Ruh roh.”

“‘Ruh roh?’ Don’t ‘ruh roh,’ Richie, you’re not fucking Scooby Doo.”

“I hate to be a bad news bear—”

“It’s bearer of bad news.”

“We’re lost.”

Eddie Kaspbrak blinked, head tilted up at his best friend, roommate and tentatively-as-of-yet-undefined third thing, Richie Tozier who continued to look around them as if he were a sea captain flirting with the horizon.

“We are not lost, asshole,” Eddie rolled his eyes, throwing his hands in the air, “this thing is made for kids.”

Richie slowly turned, smirk crossing his face.

“I swear to god, if you even think about making a Children of the Corn joke—”

“Would you say we’re in an ‘adult nightmare’ right about now, Eds, or…?”

Eddie shoved him, “You've been an ‘adult nightmare’ since 1976.”

Richie held up a hand to his chest as if wounded, “Excuse me, Spaghedward, that is just not accurate.”

He waited a beat, taking several steps in front of Eddie (who was determinedly charging ahead) and began to walk backwards, spreading his arms out, a shit-eating grin on his face.

“I’ve been your adult dream since 2016.”

The innuendo was not lost on either of them, but Eddie refused to take the bait, instead rolling his eyes and deftly ignoring the heat pooling in his stomach because they were in the middle of a fucking kids’ corn maze and apparently lost. It was hardly the time to evaluate just how accurate Richie’s little rhyme was.

“You have actually,” he agreed airily, taking several steps forward and forcing Richie back in the direction Eddie chose, his legs stumbling a little, lanky and uncoordinated as usual, “you’ve been in every adult dream I’ve had since 2016, Rich.”

He watched smugly as Richie’s jaw slackened, eyes a little more wide behind his signature specs.

“Yeah,” Eddie continued, enjoying the thrill of trashing the Trashmouth, “there’s the one where you forget to file your taxes and end up in jail like Wesley Snipes,” he began counting on his fingers, “there’s the one where you think it’s a good idea to try and renovate your own pool and end up stuck down in the empty one like Mac and Charlie from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia…”

Richie grinned good-naturedly at the reference, probably pleased with himself for enforcing their IASIP binge-watch, giving a ‘it could happen’ half-shrug.

“And,” Eddie paused for dramatic effect because it was Halloween and he was stuck in a fucking corn maze with the world’s oldest child, “there’s the one where you forget that only you have a terrible sense of direction and I…”

He trailed off, reaching out and grabbing Richie’s wrist to steer him right instead of left.

“...don’t.”

Richie blinked as they found themselves near the entrance of the maze, seemingly the last out, the silhouettes of children and parents making their way to the parking lot as dusk fell overhead.

“Impressive Eds,” Richie beamed, opening his hand and jiggling his wrist until Eddie's fingers bumped against his, pulling them gently to a stop. “We’ll be reunited with the creepy white-haired children any second now.”

Slowly, he closed his larger hand around Eddie’s and gave it a tight squeeze.

Eddie watched their hands for a beat before glancing up and catching Richie’s eye.

“That’s Village of the Damned, not Children of the Corn, idiot.”

Richie chuckled.

“Since when did you become a horror-story expert?”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“Since I lived in one. Twice.”

Richie hummed in agreement, eyes catching on Eddie’s cheek that housed one of the two scars that served as reminders of such horrors, before stepping a little closer.

“Hey,” he murmured, voice lowering slightly as he leaned into him, winding his free arm around Eddie’s shoulders, “remember that time we got stuck in Mikey’s cornfield and had to wait for the Losers to find us with flashlights ‘cause it got so dark?”

Eddie did remember that. Vividly. Now that he was allowed to. He remembered how cold it had been, how he had violently shivered in only his T-shirt and shorts and how Richie had wound an arm around his shoulders much like he was right now and immediately stopped his shaking.

He could never tell if it was Richie’s warmth or proximity to him that had managed to put a halt to his impending freak-out. Probably both.

“Yeah,” he tilted his head up to meet his eye, squeezing his hand, “you kept quoting Children of the Corn back then too. It wasn’t funny that time either.”

Richie’s laugh vibrated through his chest so that Eddie felt it in his shoulder.

Now he was suppressing a shiver for a whole different reason.

“Riiiight,” Richie smirked, leaning in even closer, his breath bouncing off Eddie’s cheek, “I kept saying—”

“Yelling—”

“Praise God, praise the Lord!” The two of them yelled in unison.

Up ahead, several parents turned at the sound, causing them to break into laughter.

“Shit, I can’t believe we’re gonna get banned from a Halloween pop-up shop,” Eddie groused as he gripped Richie’s hip with his free hand, squeezing in a way that was supposed to be admonishing but judging by Richie’s face, was anything but.

“Well, if we’re getting kicked out anyway,” Richie wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, “can I fulfil lil 14-year-old Richie’s dreams and do what I wanted to do in the field back then?”

Eddie narrowed his eyes.

“Is it rated PG?”

Richie tilted his head in thought.

“PG13 at most.”

Eddie heaved a faux-sigh, “Then go ahead. Fulfil whatever little—”

Richie cut him off with a gentle kiss, his arm tightening ever-so-slightly around his shoulders as he pulled them closer together, tracing his tongue feather-light across Eddie’s lip.

Eddie opened his mouth, deepening the kiss, an electric thrill surging through his body, the feel of Richie’s mouth against his still exhilarating after over a month since their first one, shared on a quiet night in September, pressed against their fridge, the taste of ice cream still on their lips.

Richie gave the tiniest of moans, more of a hum that he will one hundred percent deny later as Eddie reached up to grip the back of his neck, pulling him further down for one last nip of the lips before breaking the kiss.

“God Eds,” Richie gasped, resting their foreheads together, “you make me so corny.”

And just like that, the spell was broken.

Eddie shoved a cackling Richie away from him, charging towards the entrance without a backward glance, calling over his shoulder.

“You’re un-fucking-real Tozier, you know that?”

“Yeah,” Richie called back, scrambling to keep up, their car coming into view in the distance, “you made that point already, Eds. I’m your dream.”

Eddie didn’t dignify that with a response. No matter how right it was. Instead, later that night, he took his revenge out on the pumpkin they had bought for carving.

He always was good at capturing Trashmouth’s essence. And Richie’s glasses were almost too easy to carve into the fruit with the box cutter he got from Home Depot.

MORE REDDIE FICS HERE

#reddie #richie tozier #eddie kaspbrak #halloween #writing prompts #tinyarmedtrex #my fanfiction

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be-ready-when-i-say-go · 4 years

Text

Boys and Girls

Inspired by Boys and Girls by Alabama Shakes. A little sweet birthday blurb/mini fic.

I am taking commissions by the way!

Calum likes to take it easy on his birthday. And she’s got a sweet little plan.

___________

I’m rescuing you from the bars tonight. 11 pm sharp.

Calum relays the message to Ashton, the man in charge of climbing-into-birthday-hours festivities. Calum’s birthday celebrations usually only went for a day. He liked having some time to be at peace during the day on his actual birthday. The idea of pre-graming his birthday the night before and then having a nice dinner the day of was ideal to appease the friend group that never fully needed a reason to go out onto the town.

Ashton nods though at Calum’s request. “You know the party will be rolling on for a while if you ever care to rejoin us.”

“I’m aware,” Calum returns as his phone shakes again with a message from her. Wear something cozy too.

This is the sort of deal people get when they’re getting kidnapped you know, he replies with a grin on his face.

Trust me, this is not the warning a kidnapper gives.

Any clue on what’s going down?

No. No clues.

That’s the last time Calum’s phone shakes from her. He assumes it might be work and doesn’t bombard her with any more messages. Though he does think it’s unfair, he doesn’t want to fully ruin whatever surprise she has planned. Both of them have been friends ever since Calum spilled his drink in the cafe that she worked. She wheeled the mop out with a laugh as Calum apologized profusely.

“Accidents happen. Let me get you a refill.” She covered the spill, or at least the majority of it, up with the dingy yellow bucket, before going back behind the counter and washing her hands. The machines kicked back to life. She personally walked the drink over to him.

“I swear I’m not this much of a klutz most days,” Calum sighed.

“Well, I am. So let me tell you, it’s not the end of the world. Drink your coffee. The caffeine will get those motor skills right again.”

Calum was thankful that at this time of the day the cafe wasn’t busy or else the morning crowd running to get their caffeine before their days started would not have been pleased with his accident. After that, Calum returned to the cafe more regularly. She had memorized his order so that on sight she had the card reader ready as she ran down the specifics. They chatted during her breaks sometimes. They grabbed lunch at the little Mexican restaurant across the street during her lunch break.

She was always planning something, Calum had learned. When he mentioned Duke, on more than one occasion, she asked about his birthday and what kind of toys and treats he liked. The questions had not prepared him for when she knocked on his door about mid-morning three weeks later with a huge basket in her hands. It was filled with toys, treats, and a couple other necessities like doggy bags and training pads. It didn’t stop her from mailing him flowers on Valentine’s Day with a note that read, Love sucks. But you don’t. So here are some flowers. Calum still uses that notecard a bookmark in all the random novels and collections of poetry that he reads.

****************

The bars are packed; the streets are buzzing with people and heels clicking and loud laughter. It’s to be expected on a Friday night in a city is constantly on. Calum keeps a close eye on the time. He doesn’t dare want to miss his rendezvous time. He promised to share his location at 10:00 and again at 10:30 so she could figure how far into the city his friends had carried him. It’s early now, just barely ticking past 9 pm. They agreed to take the night slow so that everyone could actually remember ringing in the birthday and so Calum wouldn’t be sloppy when she came to get him.

The first sip of alcohol burns a little--it’s not great. Calum screws his face up and wants to ask who the hell ordered the first round. But a mixed drink is slipped into his hands soon after. The nearly sour taste is gone under the slight fizz of his new concoction. They're ushered upstairs to VIP, hands stamped as they go. From above, Calum can see the mass of bodies on the floor below. He watches them, swaying collective in the first haze of alcohol slowly dulling his senses.

The lights strobe, flashing reds, yellows, and purples across his face. Calum doesn’t really pay attention, attempting to suck in the smell of sweat and old alcohol. He lets the buzzing of the speakers blasting music crawl into his ear, peel back his eardrum and nestle into his brain. He takes another sip, feeling the warmth radiating from his chest. Laughter erupts from behind him and he turns to rejoin civilization, the collection of his friends settling onto couches.

Calum nurses the drink until they decide to leave. He checks his phone again to see the time. 10 pm. They wonder for just a block before landing another bar. This one smaller, more intimate. When the whole group settles into a booth, Calum pulls up her thread. He slides right under the message bar and taps on the small Google Maps icon. It takes a moment before his GPS locates the address and he taps for it to send.

She responds with the thumbs-up emoji before another one lights up his screen. I’m actually not too far from there. Let me know if you guys wander to the strip club.

Calum can almost hear the sarcastic lilt, the little giggle she’d give if this were in person. There would be a seriousness to her face though. She’d laugh but her tone always told on her. Always said that she wasn’t truly joking. I won’t. Unless you’re working tonight, which means I have to, of course, support you.

I do not have the body for a stripper. But thanks for the vote of confidence you goober.

A can clinks on the table and Calum looks up. He recognizes that can anywhere and grins. “Thanks.”

It’s here, when the group shimmies themselves out onto the dancefloor, that Calum knows they won’t be heading anywhere else. He calls for a quick breather and leans against the booth and finds his phone. I think we’re here for the rest of the night. It’s 10:48 when he sends the text and pockets his phone again. He spies Luke attempting to pass along the wave but no one bites and he laughs into his can.

One of their photographers and good friend walks over. “You waiting for someone or enjoying your birthday?”

“Both,” Calum returns, still grinning. He can feel his cheeks splitting a little with the slightly tipsy laughter that shakes him. Ashton’s attempts at teaching his dance are going poorly, but the older man refuses to give up.

“Easy there big fella,” Calum bellows when another friend almost goes face-first into the floor. Calum helps him steady. “Dancing is not for you.”

They laugh in return. “Maybe not. No.”

Calum feels the shake in his pocket of his phone. He gives his goodbyes, though most of them don’t hear or don’t really acknowledge his parting. It’s 11:00 pm sharp when he steps outside and reads her text. Outside. He spies her, leaning against the front of her car. And he knows it’s her thanks to the banana colored leather jacket. She’s worn it almost every day it seemed that he’s known her.

It was different for sure and it was starting to show it’s length of wear. But she wore it all the same and didn’t care. He checked the size once, plans brewing to maybe replace it with something similar or get another one. He spied one that was burgundy that he thought she might like. He wasn’t sure, but the cropped jacket had all the chains it could handle and he knew she like the zipper and chains.

When he gets closer, she runs over and wraps her arms around his middle. “Hey,” he whispers, encasing her waist with his arms.

“Hey,” she grins. They remain close, swaying a bit with the hug, for a few minutes. She pulls back first. Her smile is bright in the neon lights of the bar. “It’s a bit of a drive. But I brought snacks!”

Calum nods. “Snacks are good.” They walk to her car, though it’s not that far with his arm around her shoulders and her arm around his waist. “What’s in store for me?”

“Just you wait and see.”

Calum can see Duke when he cracks open the door, curled up in her backseat. “How’d you get into my house?”

“You gave me a spare key you idiot. He’s a sleepy boy, so keep your voice down.” Calum is careful as he picks up Duke before settling into the passenger seat. The windows are cracked and when she finally gets up onto the interstate, Calum lets the breeze whip across his face, one hand gently petting at Duke’s head.

Her radio plays quietly, much better compared to the rattle of the clubs where he couldn’t hear his own voice talking. The moonlight is bright on the clear night and even though the lights are polluting the sky, Calum makes a point to follow the moon as they zoom south on 110. As they pass buildings, Calum notes which windows are bright and which ones are dark. He wonders what’s happening there. If someone is gearing up for a late-night binge or if they are getting ready for the day ahead of them. What does it feel like to have a job where the clock starts dead in the night and ends when the morning sun has skirted around the horizon? The same could be said for his job, for his line of living but it’s different. He gets a break and snaps back to reality here and there.

“Thanks for letting me kidnap you,” she says, as they get stuck behind just a small bit of traffic.

“You told me that wasn’t a warning that kidnappers gave.”

“It is. But I never said I wasn’t a kidnapped. Besides you’re a grown man, is it still kidnapping? What’s the version for adults being snatched up?”

“I’m not The Google,” Calum retorts before pulling out his phone. For a brief moment he wonders if he should actually Google this question. The search history would not look good if something were to happen. But he knows nothing will.

“According to The Google,” Calum starts, “‘A kidnapping does not have to include a child. To kidnap is to take someone illegally by force, whether they be adult or child.’ So, to answer your question, yes, it is.”

“The Google has spoken.”

Putting his phone into the empty cup holder, Calum reaches for the dial on her stereo. “Birthday rights?” he asks before touching the dial.

“You know you’re the only one that control the radio even if I’m driving. I’d murder anyone else.”

“I’d be careful about that kind of stuff. Duke is sensitive about that.”

“It’s not like I said I’d murder you. And if I did, I would steal Duke and run away.”

Calum squawks his laughter, wanting to hit her leg gently but reframing because of her driving. “That’s wrong on so many levels.”

“Duke would be the only one that would know. He’d rat me out. And normally, I’d say kill all the witness but I can’t in this situation.”

Calum just watches her in disbelief. The lights of the highway pass over her skin in patches. “God bless the person that snatches you up,” he murmurs. She looks at him, a bit of a glare and her lower lip rolls out. But then she laughs before turning her attention back to the road. “Where are those snacks?” he asks.

She throws her thumb over her shoulder and Calum twists, to find a reusable bag full of snacks. He grabs the bag of cheez-its on top and pops open the mostly air-filled bag. The cheese dust falls a little and Calum makes sure to lean a little over Duke’s sleeping figure. The first bag goes faster than Calum cares to admit and when he goes back for another bag, she laughs. “How drunk are you?”

“I had a shot and two drinks!” he defends, popping open the second bag too. “So bite me.”

It’s when they find the shore and Calum catches the crashing of the waves that he starts to worry. No beach can be open at 11:53 at night. But as they near and he peers the sign, stating they’re 24 hours, he swallows back down the protest. The whole boardwalk is alive though. He can see the lights reflecting off the water and the line of neon lights. People are walking in and out of the dive bars and pups. “You know we could’ve gone to Santa Monica for the beach?” he returns.

“Oh, c’mon that was a nice drive.”

He nods, taking her hand for a brief moment. They always have nice drives. Just feeling the wind and talking about everything under the sun. His eyes dance across the scenery. Duke’s aroused awake but Calum holds him close. She goes around to the trunk and it’s only the sound of it slamming close that gains his attention. She’s got a basket in one hand and the tote on her shoulder. “I can help.”

She shakes her head before trailing ahead of him. They pause for a moment to work off shoes before delving into the sand. Calum takes a deep breath of the seawater, the way it’s lapping at the shoreline. She places a blanket down not too far into their trek and Calum continues on, pausing to set Duke down for just a moment. Calum works up the legs of his jeans. The movement causes Duke to wake and watch. His paws hit the sand faster than she can catch him and Calum notices the clinking of tags before he hits the water.

“I don’t think she’s prepared for wet dog smell for an hour, bub.”

Calum steps until the water hits his ankles and stops. The water is definitely cold. It makes him clench his jaw a little. But he likes the shock. Takes a bit of the heat off from the alcohol. He’s almost 24, almost inching towards more milestones in his life. He wonders what 24 will bring him--if it’ll be nice in love and bigger in success. Does he even need to worry about success?

How come 24 really doesn’t feel any differently than 23 or 22? Age was catching up, he noticed. His body not breaking down food like before, the random aches in his knees sometimes. Though he blamed too many punk jumps from the early days. Maybe just felt differently when he didn’t feel like he was racing against a clock or someone else’s expectations. His life was going well and that’s all he could really ask for. He still had his health, he could still spoil his mother and his sister like he wanted as a thanks to them. He could even spoil his old man and his friends.

Yeah, his relationship with time had changed. He wasn’t running for anything and didn’t have to anymore. Things would come in due time. All he had to do was just be there for the opportunities when they came knocking.

“Happy birthday!” she cheers. “Officially 12:01, January 25th.”

Calum turns to find her, not too far behind him with a cupcake in hand. “You didn’t tell me there were cupcakes.”

“There are always cupcakes!” She is not a singer. By no stretch would she ever consider the profession, but her voice is lovely as she sings Happy Birthday to Calum, standing in freezing water and the candle flickering in the breeze off the water. He worries that the flame will go out but her hand cups against the air and it remains lit.

Calum’s gentle as he blows out the candle, eyes still closed from his wish. She pulls the candle free and shoves the icing into his nose. Calum huffs, attempting to lick it off. He’s thwarted by his own tongue and trying to keep Duke away from it too. Her giggles echo against the waves. He can’t even be mad. They hike back to the blanket and she hands him a napkin to clean his nose.

He swipes the icing off and dollops it onto her nose. The cupcake is still moist as he takes a bite of it. “I know it’s not a lot. But I know home means a lot to you.”

Calum’s quick to scarf down the rest of the cupcake. The drinks have him still just a hair fuzzy and he’s sure the sugar’s only going to serve him into a headache, but for the moment he can indulge himself into the sweet treat. She holds out the small gray velvet box.

“I’m just glad it’s not a giant basket of stuff like you did for Duke. Transporting that into my house drunk would be a stuff time.”

She snorts. “Which is why I’m sober. I’ll keep that in mind for next year.”

Calum looks at her, fingers still poised around the gray box. Next year. A funny phrase to think about when the hallmark of his physical body has already hit. “We’re gonna be friends so long they’re going to write stories about us.”

Her nod is curt. “Open the fucking present. I can’t wait for you to cry like a baby.”

He balks, eyes widening. “I would never do such a thing.” Her pursed lips and quirked eyebrow state otherwise. “Okay, maybe just a little.”

The box is a little stiff to open and when his eyes land on the gold ring with two silver ferns etched into his, his heart races. His eyes sting a little. “Really?” He hates that she was right but the first teardrops and his lower lip wobbles a little. “For me?”

“I don’t know any other Māori men that would want a silver fern ring, so yeah for you.”

Calum doesn’t even slip it on. He just reaches out and brings her into his chest. “I love it. I love you. Thank you.”

“Love you too, Cal.” There’s just a moment’s silence before she pokes his side. “I told you you’d blubber.”

“Shut up. Let me have this moment. It’s my birthday, asshole.” She giggles into his chest but remains silent on the snarky remarks.

Calum watches the ring catches the light as they return to the highway. The gold is bright and flashes. He hasn’t stopped staring at it and though he hasn’t gotten back into wearing rings too much, he knows from this moment on, he’s going to be wearing this one every day. The ferns disappear just a little when he tilts it away from him but when he brings the flat face back into his view he sees their etchings.

Ashton’s messages are unanswered on the drive back home because Calum can’t bring himself to look at anything other than a ring and the girl sitting next to him. God, he’s lucky to have her in his life. They haven’t known each other that long, in comparison to the decade he’s spent with the guys. But the two years have been full of stupid inside jokes, like adding ‘the’ in front of Google and a constant string of text that consists of ‘you suck but you’re stuck with me. so I still love you’ and pictures of dogs she sees at work.

It’s just past one in the morning when she pulls into Calum’s driveway. He insists on her staying the night since it’s so late and she has to be up early. There’s no real protesting, even as he shoves her into the bathroom to shower. “What about a deal?” she asks, watching him turn the water on.

“No deal. Just stay here. It’s too late for you to be driving.”

“You can drive,” she grins.

“I’ve been drinking so I will be driving nothing. Now, strip and shower. I won’t be hearing any further arguments on the case.”

“We’ve watched too many law shows,” she counters, leaning into the door.

“Or maybe not enough,” Calum counters, kissing her forehead. He turns from the door, pulling at the sleeves of his jacket.

“If I ever did start striping, would you actually come to the club to see me?”

Calum nods, a hum falling over his lips. She’s hidden by the door but her head peaks out over it. “I surely would. Once you got a solo dance, I’d spent a thousand on you in a heartbeat.”

“You flatter me, Hood.”

“What else are friends for?”

The door creaks closed and he’s a little slow to take off his clothes. Soon the shoes, jeans, and shirt fall into a pile onto the floor. He has half a mind to kick them over to his laundry basket but he falls into his bed. She’ll do it and fuss the entire too at him. To his shock, when she returns, she falls into bed next to him.

“I feel bad that I have to work on your birthday,” she admits.

“You’ll be there for the dinner though, right?”

“Of course!”

“Then it’s all good, sweetheart.” She curls up under his sheets, Duke pressed into her chest. “Happy birthday,” she repeats, eyes falling closed.

“You’re the best, ya know?” Calum returns. He’s sure she has succumbed to sleep and he’ll follow her soon into unconsciousness but he toughs it out a moment or two longer after her. “Glad you’re my best friend.”

He watches her chest fall evenly under the sheets. She’s asleep, he concludes when she gives no rebutall, so he clicks off the bedside lamp. “Ashton’s going to be pissed if he hears I took his place.” Her cheeks squished into the pillow makes her voice muffled as she speaks.

Calum’s laughter shakes his chest. He finds one of the smaller pillows from behind his head and throws it blindly in the direction of her side of the bed. “Oof,” she huffs at the impact.

“Tell him and I have to kill you.”

“Okay, secret’s safe with me.” More silence ensues. Calum feels himself sinking into the mattress. It’s not hard thanks to the alcohol making his limbs heavy. “For now.”

“Oh my god, if you do not shut up.”

“What are you going to do? Hit me with another pillow.” Calum gives no verbal rebuttal but finds the last pillow at his disposal and whacking her with it. “Ouch!” she hisses. “I’m not fixing you breakfast tomorrow then. Take that.”

“You mean later this morning.”

Calum gets a pillow to the chest and it partially clips his chin in response. “Hey!”

“Good night, Hood.”

“Good night, sweetheart.” The bed dips and then there’s nothing else. He just sinks, and sinks, and sinks.

Tagging: @glitterlukey @5-secondsofcolor @irwinkitten @pinkbubbles-and-bigtroubles

#calum hood #calum hood fanfic #calum hood fic #calum hood blurb #calum hood fluff #calum hood x reader #reader insert #5sos #5 seconds of summer #ashton irwin #luke hemmings #michael clifford #song rec #song blurb #h writes

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vitnebbs · 4 years

Note

Hello miss writer. I wish to receive an advice from you. I want to start writing an undertake fic, but there are a few obstacles that stop me from completing a chapter. Firstly, english is my second language so i always have this fear of grammatical mistakes plaguing in my mind whenever I start writing. Secondly, i have a plot in my head but not sure where to begin writing. Thirdly, I want to develop a good sense of humor, such as puns. How to do that?

Oh-huhu~! So formal.

Firstly, apologies sir/madam for answering your question so late. I do hope you see this post and it does aid in helping you create your story.

Now, for your first question concerning grammatical errors, using Grammarly would definitely help. It catches any misspellings/grammar mistakes. Its usefulness expands to professional writings as well. As for English being your second language, I’d post on Ao3 or whichever social media you use, to ask someone with a nice grasp on the English language to be your editor. That way, any confused wording can be fixed before the chapter is posted.

Plots, however... are a bit tricky.

In my opinion, it depends on the setting or what is going on in the background to figure out where to start. Take MCBTRD for example:

The story starts with an everyday life setting then slowly the conflict moves in from the shadows. Monster Mob-Families are spreading throughout Surface County, one making roots in a city untouched by monster influence. Specism take place with the appearance and soon ownership from such Mobsters.

{Throughout the story, bits of this summary are given more details over time.}

There are different steps you can take to beginning a story and introducing your characters.

It all depends on how you story will be laid out; setting, conflict, relationships.

Ask yourself if the main character needs to meet/ get to know the side characters or if they are already friends first before starting on the adventure. What importance does each character have to the story?

Don’t plan too much ahead, just summarize what part they will play and then go into detail as you write and expand the world and its functions within your story.

As for the puns...

I personally google a word I want puns for and mix up what I see online. Just type in Google/Bing/Yahoo (etc): {“insert subject/word here” puns} and voila, you have tons of pun-filled websites to look into and mix up to your will.

[You don’t have to mix them if you don’t want to, it’s just a preference of mine.]

As for comedy in general...

I can’t tell you the defining factor used to make people laugh. It all reigns on what you hear/learn around you. Comedy is like art. You can’t copy a style completely. You have to use your own pizzazz to make it fresh, new, and... well, your own style.

I know that puns for the lazy skells is all similar, but making their shenanigans and jokes how you see fit is what makes them different. This is from your imagination. Take note around you and write what you think fits into your interpretation of the characters. If something in your mind makes you laugh, it will most likely make others laugh out loud as well.

Take a leap of faith and write whatever comes to mind. You can stay in your comfort zone for the time being, but every now and again traverse outside the borders of said zone and expand your horizons. You may find different genres work well as part of your writing arsenal toward your story and its plot.

Hope this advice helps~!

Thank you so much for reading and asking my opinion on this. I look forward to seeing your writing in the future. Send me a link please. I would love to read your work~!

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torestoreamends · 5 years

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Mine to Make: Chapter 6

After a disastrous end to their date, Albus and Scorpius go home together. Scorpius spends the night, Albus makes a promise that he fully intends to keep, and in the morning there’s Draco and Harry to reckon with...

(This is an M rated chapter, for reasons that should be obvious from the above description.)

Beta’d by @abradystrix.

N.B. This fic is complete on AO3, so binge ready away if you want! Here on tumblr I’ll be posting a chapter every day until it’s done.

Read it on AO3

VI Burn

Scorpius nervously nudges the office door open with his shoulder and pauses on the threshold. The room is deserted, and Scorpius isn’t sure whether he’s allowed to go inside. There’s no one stopping him, but the last thing he needs is to get arrested for trespassing, or kicked out of the Ministry for his lack of propriety. He doesn’t want to get on Harry’s bad side. However, the owl that had arrived for his dad earlier that morning, summoning him to Harry’s office for an urgent meeting, had said to wait in the room.

He slips inside, closing the door behind him, and stands in front of the desk, hands clasped together. From his position he can see all the mess on Harry’s desk: a stack of confidential files that look like they’re untouched, a big map of Britain that’s colour coordinated by search team, photos of wanted witches and wizards leering across from the filing cabinet, next to one single photo of a pale, miserable looking Albus. Scorpius turns his back on it and takes a deep breath to try and steady himself. He’s anxious enough without that sort of emotion added to the mix, and he still doesn’t know why he’s here. Harry could be about to arrest him for Albus’s murder for all he knows.

The door clicks behind him and he jumps violently and spins around to see Harry entering the room looking dishevelled. A couple of strands of his hair are standing right on end, and the rest is windswept and messy. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, but one is coming unravelled and has slipped down to his forearm, showing that his cuffs are unbuttoned. His tie is askew, and his glasses have a big droplet of something that looks like coffee on them. Harry removes them and starts cleaning them on a handkerchief.

“Scorpius,” he says, sounding far more surprised to see him than someone who’d asked to meet him here ought to. “Is it that time already?” He glances at his watch. “Yes, it is. Sorry, I was in a vampire meeting.”

Scorpius licks his lips. His mouth has gone all dry and he doesn’t know if he can speak right now, but he has to try and at least make polite conversation. “What’s a vampire meeting?” He asks, because it’s the first question that pops into his head.

Harry shakes his head and shoves his now slightly cleaner glasses back onto his face. “Just a regular catchup with Hermione and their community leaders. They’re trying to demand access to blood banks again, which is all very well, but free access is just...” He grumbles under his breath as he rakes his fingers through his hair and moves behind the desk where he slumps into his seat. “Anyway, enough about that. You’re here.”

“I-I would appear to be,” Scorpius says, glancing around the office. “Um... why am I here? You’re not going to arrest me or something are you?”

Harry frowns at him. “Why would I arrest you? You haven’t done anything illegal, have you?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No, of course not. But everyone thinks I have, and I thought that maybe... you might think I had too...” He trails off, looking down at his hands.

“Oh,” Harry says. He leans forward and shuffled some papers around on his desk, moving them into neater piles. “No, I don’t think you’ve done anything illegal. I, um. I actually called you here because I’d like to offer you a job. I suppose your dad didn’t pass that part on...”

Scorpius stares at Harry in pure, stunned amazement. “You... you want me to be an Auror? But I-“ Realisation dawns on him and his heart sinks. “No, you want me to look for Albus, don’t you? I don’t know where he is, Harry. I promise. I don’t know anything you don’t already-“

“No.” Harry holds a hand up to stop him. “No, I don’t want either of those things. No. It really is just the job.” He searches through the files on his desk and pulls out a thin, worn one of an indiscriminate, slightly dirty beige colour, which he flips open. “We’ve just had an opening down in MIND, the Minor Illegal Nuisances Department, an entry level position, and, well. Your dad mentioned to me that you were looking for a job... I thought it might suit.” He looks down at the file and pulls out a sheet of parchment. “I can’t lie, it’s not the most exciting job in the department, but the pay is decent, it’s a foot in the door, and there are opportunities for promotion. You know. Hogwarts graduate level stuff.” He looks up at Scorpius and gives a half hopeful, half desperate grin as he holds the parchment out to him.

Scorpius steps forward and reaches out for it, still reeling from the shock of Harry Potter summoning him to the Ministry to offer him a job. In person.

He takes hold of the parchment and reads it over, his trembling hands making it difficult to read the words. It details the job – legal training given, some casework, office admin, a good first step for a career in law or politics, opportunities for promotion, at least three Es at N.E.W.T. required. It’s not a dream job, it’s not even an ideal job, but it is a job, and if there are opportunities for moving up through the Ministry then it’s a start. It only has to be temporary, Scorpius reminds himself, until he proves his worth and starts to build his career. It’s the best he’s going to get.

“I’ll take it,” he says, holding out the parchment to Harry. “Thank you. I accept. O-or does it not work like that? Do I still need to apply? Interview? Whatever you want.”

Harry gets to his feet and shakes his head. “No, none of that. I know you, I know you’re competent, and we haven’t had the most extensive pool of... No, it’s yours if you want it.”

Scorpius nods. “I do. Definitely.”

Harry beams at him and claps his hands together. “Great! Well. Welcome to the Ministry of Magic.”

“Is this really the only chocolate you have?” Scorpius asks. He’s got his head stuck in one of Albus’s cupboards and is rummaging through it, while Albus sits on the kitchen table behind him, wrapped in a blanket, watching.

“I’m an athlete,” Albus says. “I don’t normally eat chocolate.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I’m appalled.” He spots a large bar of Honeydukes regular milk chocolate that looks decent enough even if it’s not very exciting, and he hands it over to Albus. “Here, eat this.”

“All of it?” Albus asks, eyeing it.

Scorpius nods and gives him a hard look. “All of it. It’s remedial. And you really need it.”

Albus must hear the concerned softening of his tone, because he sighs and unwraps the chocolate then takes a big, demonstrative bite to show Scorpius he’s behaving. Meanwhile Scorpius finds a chocolate and marshmallow bar that’s by far the most interesting thing in the cupboard and starts eating that. The effect is instantaneous and glorious.

Warmth spreads through his whole body, he stops shivering altogether, and his mind starts to clear. He’d been so focused on making sure Albus was alright that he hadn’t noticed how miserable he’d been feeling. It was like even after the Dementors had gone, their fog kept looming over him, making the whole world feel murkier. But now that fog is clearing, the sun is coming out, and he can sense hope on the horizon.

“Oh,” Albus murmurs behind him, and Scorpius glances round at him. “That really does feel better. That feels amazing. Maybe I need to get more chocolate...”

“If you plan on keeping me around then I highly recommend it,” Scorpius says. He peels the rest of the wrapping off his chocolate bar and eats the rest of it in one bite, closing his eyes and leaning against the worktop as the tips of his fingers and toes thaw out and a smile spreads across his face.

“I do,” Albus says, snapping off a couple more squares of his chocolate and tossing them into his mouth. “So if you have any recommendations or requests let me know.”

Scorpius throws his wrapper in the bin and beams at Albus. “I’ll make you a list.”

“I have no doubt you will.” Albus takes one more square of chocolate, then holds the rest out to Scorpius. “Do you want this? I can’t eat anymore.”

“You only had a couple of squares,” Scorpius says. “You really should eat it all, Albus. It’ll help.”

Albus sighs and snaps off one more row from the chocolate bar, then he leaves it on the kitchen table and hops down. “I think I’m going to go and get changed. I’m still all wet. You should too. You must be freezing.”

“I don’t have anything to change into,” Scorpius says, picking at his sodden trousers. “These are ruined.”

“We can dry them,” Albus suggests. “It won’t take long. And in the meantime you can borrow some of my pyjamas.”

Scorpius looks at him and realises that he can’t imagine being apart from him now. After everything that’s happened this evening, he doesn’t want to go home, even though he really should. There’s nothing he wants more than to curl up in a warm, dry pair of Albus’s pyjamas and stay the night, knowing that Albus is sleeping somewhere safe nearby.

“I- Okay.” He twists his hands together. “Do you reckon I could take a shower? Would that be okay?”

Albus shrugs. “Sure, go for it. The bathroom’s on the second floor. There’s a cupboard on the landing with towels and things. If you throw your clothes outside the door I’ll dry them for you – I promise I‘ll do my best not to accidentally set fire to them – and I’ll leave some pyjamas.”

“Is you setting fire to my clothes something that’s likely to happen?” Scorpius asks, shooting him a little smile.

“Stranger things have happened when I try to do magic. If you don’t trust me you can do it yourself, but... You look exhausted. And you basically battled those things single-handedly.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “Not single-handedly. You helped. And you look exhausted too. We both need a good night’s sleep.”

“Definitely,” Albus agrees.

If Scorpius thought the chocolate helped dispel the all-consuming cold of the Dementors, the shower is even better. Chocolate can heal the soul, but it doesn’t unfreeze extremities; you need hot water for that.

The water beats down on Scorpius’s head, turning his skin red because it’s so hot, but he doesn’t turn it down. Being drenched in near-scalding water is comforting, and once he’s used to it he knows that if he turned the water down he’d be too cold.

He bows his head and rubs his fingers together, drawing in a deep breath. When he closes his eyes he can see once again the dark towpath and towering hooded figures. He can see a scaly hand clenched around Albus’s wrist. He can hear rattling breath in his ears, and for a second he can’t breathe.

In a panic he stumbles out from under the water and opens his eyes, needing to see the bathroom and know that it’s safe. He scrubs the water away and stares wildly around. He’s alone in the brightly lit room, surrounded by clean white and jet black tiles. The mirror is too fogged up from steam for him to see anything in it, but there are no shadows in here, nowhere to hide, so he knows he’s not missing anything.

He rests a hand against the slippery tiles and takes several long, slow breaths before he ducks back under the jet of water and starts washing his hair as fast as he can. More than anything right now, he wants to go and check that Albus is okay. That’s what he needs. And that’s why he can’t possibly go home tonight. That distance from Albus is unthinkable right now. Scorpius knows himself, he knows how his fears percolate into his dreams. When Dementors invade his sleep tonight, he’s going to need to be able to see for himself that Albus is okay.

He rinses his hair through, blinks the last of the soap suds from his eyes, then switches off the water. Even on a hot night like this one, he still shivers as he steps out onto the cool tiles on the floor. The window is open and a sharp evening breeze blows through the room. Goosebumps rise on Scorpius’s arms and he shivers and wraps a towel round himself.

Albus should have left pyjamas outside for him now. The idea of wrapping himself up in a warm, dry pair of pyjamas is idyllic, so he crosses to the door and pokes his head out onto the landing. There’s an empty space outside of the door where his wet clothes used to be, but there are no pyjamas out there. The hallway is utterly deserted and the house is still.

“Albus?” Scorpius calls. There’s no response and no movement. “Albus?” He repeats a little louder, but there’s still nothing.

Scorpius wraps the towel more securely around himself and sets off down the hall, since there’s no other option. His feet sink into the soft piles of Albus’s carpet, and the chill night air prickles his skin. His heart thumps hard in his chest, with fear because Albus is far too quiet, but also with the anxious thrill of wandering half naked around Albus’s house. It’s not as if Albus has never seen him getting changed or getting out of the shower before – they shared a dorm for years at school – but that was a very long time ago, and things are different now. Things are very different.

But that’s all secondary right now, secondary to the fact that on this night of all nights Albus has gone very quiet, and the house feels deserted. After everything that’s happened this evening it makes Scorpius feel jumpy and nervous. He needs to find Albus and make sure he’s okay, then he can think about everything else he’s feeling.

The door to Albus’s room is ajar when Scorpius reaches it. There’s a lamp glowing inside, casting a flickering pool of golden candlelight across the slither of room that Scorpius can see, and the window is open. The curtain billows in the breeze. Everything is still.

Scorpius nudges the door further open with his toe. “Albus?” He slips into the room and sees that Albus is there. He’s sitting on the edge of the bed, wearing nothing but a pair of boxers, shivering and staring down at his hands. He seems utterly oblivious to the fact that Scorpius is standing in the doorway.

“Albus,” Scorpius murmurs, closing the door softly behind him and rounding the end of the bed to sit beside Albus. He reaches out a hand and lays it on Albus’s back. “A-are you okay?”

Albus startles at the sudden contact. He jumps and flinches away, his head flying up. There’s a wildness in his eyes when he looks at Scorpius, and for a second Scorpius thinks that Albus might not recognise him, but then Albus blinks and exhales.

“It’s you. It’s-“ He runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry, I was thinking, I- Shit, I didn’t get you any clothes, or-“

“It’s fine,” Scorpius says, running a hand down his arm. “I promise. Are you okay? You looked a bit...”

Albus exhales and nods. “I think I’m fine.”

“You think?” Scorpius asks, squeezing his hand.

Albus stares down at his knees. “The Dementors got in my head,” he mutters. “A little bit. I-I can’t stop thinking; remembering... I want to stop.” He buries his face in his hands, and Scorpius rubs a hand down his back.

“You should have eaten more of the chocolate,” he says. “Do you want me to go and-“

“No, don’t go.” Albus lifts his head and catches hold of Scorpius’s hand again, lacing their fingers together. “Stay here and... I don’t know. Distract me. Somehow.”

Scorpius smiles. “That’s a dangerous request.”

Albus squeezes his hand. “Better than the alternative.”

Scorpius kisses the back of his hand and looks at him – really looks at him – for the first time since he walked into the room. Albus has changed so much over the years, that much is obvious, but seeing him exposed like this only highlights the changes. His body has filled out; he looks like an athlete, all lean muscle, compact power, not an ounce of excess anywhere on him. The harsh crop of his hair shows off the sharpness of his jaw, which leads to a strong neck, broad shoulders, and then down to...

“Since when have you had tattoos?” Scorpius asks, skimming a hand down Albus’s arm and staring. “You didn’t tell me about these.”

“It didn’t really come up,” Albus says, glancing down. “Are they a problem? Don’t tell me the tattoos are a dealbreaker. Running away, breaking your heart, nearly getting you killed by Dementors, all fine. Tattoos, no.”

Scorpius smiles. “Not a dealbreaker, don’t worry. They’re beautiful. What do they mean?”

“The wings on my shoulder,” Albus says, pointing to his left shoulder blade, “they’re sort of a Delphi thing. They’re a representation of a saying – the future is mine to make. The spirals don’t mean much. They’re just there to cover up... You know. Stuff.”

Scorpius traces a finger along one of the spirals, and as he does he feels how pockmarked Albus’s skin is, soft in places, rutted in others, and when Scorpius peers closer he sees that Albus’s arm is scarred beneath the intricate tattoos. And now that he’s seen them, he realises they’re everywhere. The damaged skin runs from his left shoulder, down past his elbow, and finally stops around his forearm, where the tattoo spirals into a tail and disappears. There’s more scarring on the right arm too, only to the middle of Albus’s upper arm, but it’s still there, and it still looks bad.

“Stuff,” Scorpius breathes. “Albus, this is worse than stuff. This is really- how did this happen?”

“It’s not exactly uncommon to get injured in my line of work,” Albus says, twisting his arm away. “And you sound like my mum.”

“Sorry,” Scorpius murmurs. “But really, Albus... How did these ones happen?”

Albus looks at him and sighs. “The one on my right arm was actually the first injury I got. Sometimes we use fireballs to make the races more interesting, and I didn’t dodge quickly enough. It looks bad but it doesn’t cause me too many problems. The other one...” He closes a hand round the top of his left arm and rests his chin on his shoulder. “Someone pushed me going round a corner. I still don’t remember who it was, it was a big mass start elimination race so it was carnage. Anyway, I... I lost control of my broom and span straight into the Fiendfyre cage. Delphi tells me I fell about fifty feet out of the air with my shoulder on fire, but I passed out, and I’ve never managed to remember any of what happened. All I know is that I woke up a week later in agony and we’ve slowly been working on it since. That was two and a half years ago.”

“Can I-“ Scorpius reaches out and brushes the tips of his fingers down Albus’s left arm, trying to feel all the history there, everything he’s been through. This is just another of the things he’s missed. “It doesn’t hurt when I touch it, does it?”

Albus shakes his head and watches the progress of Scorpius’s fingers. “No. It feels quite nice actually. Soothing. I, um... I don’t normally let people touch them. But I think you count as a special case.”

Scorpius smiles and strokes the length of the spiralling tattoo that hides the scars. “Sometimes it pays to be a special case.”

Albus draws in a long, shuddering breath, and nods. “Sometimes it does.” He brushes his fingertips along Scorpius’s jaw. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Be my guest.”

The kiss is deeper and more intense than Scorpius had been ready for. It feels like Albus is trying to taste every inch of his lips and tongue, but that makes sense, because Scorpius is trying to touch every inch of Albus’s arm. Soft, loving strokes of fingers and tongue meld together in Scorpius’s brain, until he doesn’t know where he ends and Albus begins, and he has to pull back to regain his coherency.

“Okay,” he says, letting go of Albus’s arm and touching the bare skin of his side instead. “Okay, you never have to ask if you can kiss me ever again, because of course you can. Always. As long as you kiss like that.”

Albus smiles and rests his forehead on Scorpius’s shoulder. “Noted.” He traces his hand round the top of Scorpius’s towel. “I never got you your pyjamas, did I?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No. But I don’t think I care right now. I like this.” He gestures between the two of them.

“I like this too,” Albus says. He runs the palm of his hand over Scorpius’s ribs and stomach, and Scorpius inhales sharply, an instinctive reaction to the touch. “I like this a lot.”

“I don’t want to be wearing this,” Scorpius says, tugging at the towel round his waist. “Do I?”

Albus’s smile grows wider, and his eyes sparkle. “I don’t know, maybe you don’t. You’d have to tell me that. Personally, I know I don’t want to be wearing these.” He plucks at the elastic on his boxers, so it snaps against his hip.

The idea of being entirely naked with this beautiful, older, athletic version of Albus – a version of Albus who fought Dementors with him earlier and said sorry and talked about love – makes Scorpius’s stomach swoop. It sounds like bliss, and now it’s something that Scorpius has in his power to make happen he finds that he’ll do anything for it.

“You definitely don’t need those,” Scorpius says, and his voice already sounds scratchy and raw with want. He fumbles with the knot on his towel and casts it aside, not caring where it ends up; he just wants it gone. He can deal with tidying up later.

Albus swallows and stares at him, and there’s something about that gaze, the hungry way Albus is drinking him in, that makes Scorpius feel momentarily very self-conscious and then utterly untouchable. Albus wants him. He can see that. Albus Severus Potter, star broom racer, runaway, who could have anyone in the world, wants him, failure, disappointment, and general disaster Scorpius Malfoy. Elation surges through Scorpius’s body, and he can’t stand another second not touching Albus.

He surges across the space between them, cups Albus’s face in both his hands, and kisses him hard. He’s up on his knees, so Albus has to stretch and crane to reach him, but Albus doesn’t seem to care. There’s an unrelenting desperation to those kisses. Albus runs his fingers through Scorpius’s hair and pulls him closer, the pressure mounting every second. It doesn’t seem as though Albus can get close enough to Scorpius, like he won’t be satisfied until they become one being, skin too much of a barrier to bear, and Scorpius can fully understand that feeling.

“The pants,” Scorpius gasps during one of the seconds they’re apart. “Get them off. Now. Please.” He has no idea how he got to the point where he can beg for Albus to be naked, but that’s where he is now, and Albus complies. He wriggles his way out of the boxers, his hard cock springing free, and he kicks them out of the way so he can get back to the business of running his hands over every inch of Scorpius’s body.

Scorpius presses his forehead against Albus’s and grips his shoulders. Their bodies are just far enough apart that he can look down and take in the sight of Albus’s gloriously naked body, just inches from his own. He can see every ripple of muscle, every bead of sweat, every bruise and burn and scar. It’s all laid out for him in perfect detail, and Scorpius can’t believe his luck. If this is how the world is making up for all the hardship and misery he’s battled through in the last few years then everything is forgiven, because this has been so worth the wait.

“You’re not kissing me,” Albus murmurs, opening his eyes and looking at Scorpius. “Please kiss me.”

“I want to fuck you,” Scorpius says.

For a moment he can’t quite tell if the words actually came out of his mouth or if he just thought them. Sometimes the truth has a habit of staying locked away inside him, and at other times he can’t keep his mouth shut. Even though this is a truth that he desperately wants Albus to know, there’s another part of him that’s screaming at him to stop, to not say such stupid things out loud, that it’s too early to say things like that. But then Albus’s fingers tighten on his wrists, and he’s nodding, and his gaze is darker and more desperate than ever.

“Yes,” Albus agrees. “That. Yes. I want that. I-I want you to- I want you.”

“Yes?” Scorpius asks, running his hands over Albus’s hips. He has to double check. When his brain is running this fast, and his whole body is alive with this bizarre simultaneous wash of numbness and heightened sensation, he has to make sure that he’s definitely heard what he thinks he’s heard.

“Fuck, Scorpius. Yes.” Albus kisses him again, hot and hard, open-mouthed and messy. He runs his fingernails lightly over Scorpius’s skin, a scraping sensation that makes every inch of Scorpius tingle and quake. Then Scorpius feels Albus’s fingertips brushing his balls, and next second Albus’s hand is wrapped in a firm fist around his cock, and his brain short circuits.

“O-oh, Albus. Oh. M-Merlin. Albus. Albus.” He clings to Albus for dear life, gripping his arms, trying to remember how to breathe and think and speak, but it’s impossible because now Albus is stroking him, and the only thing in the world is Albus, fingers, cock.

He rocks his hips towards Albus’s hand instinctively, wanting more, even though he doesn’t know if he’s capable of feeling more than he already is. Albus’s ass is firm when he slides his hands down and grips it, and Albus gives a soft sigh of contentment.

“Do you really want to fuck me?” He asks, and his voice sounds hoarse.

Scorpius presses his fingers into skin and muscle, brushing his fingertips into Albus’s crack, and he nods. “Y-yeah, I do. I really... really do.”

Albus pauses in his stroking and relaxes his grip. For the first time, Scorpius realises that for all his confidence and skill, he’s shaking.

“I’ve never let anyone...”

“I don’t have to,” Scorpius says, moving his hands away, to Albus’s lower back instead.

Albus shakes his head and looks at Scorpius, and his eyes aren’t full of need anymore. They’re still desperate, but the overriding expression now is soft and a little bit vulnerable. “No, I, um... I-I wanted you to- That’s why I never... I hoped, dreamed that one day you might... And here you are, and you want to-“ Albus licks his lips, making them slick and bringing out their bruised colour. “I want you to fuck me, Scorpius. That’s what I want.”

Scorpius strokes his fingers down the curve of Albus’s back, exploring the join where back becomes ass, where vertebrae give way to muscle, where convex and concave meet. “I’ve never done this either,” he admits. “I’ve never really done anything. You’ll have to tell me how to do this.”

Albus kisses him very softly, and Scorpius wraps his arms round him, holding him tight.

“I’ll show you,” Albus murmurs.

Scorpius buries his face in Albus’s shoulder for a moment, breathing in his scent and enjoying the softness of the hollow above his clavicle, then he lifts his head and nods. “Go on.”

Albus starts talking him through the process. Scorpius can’t help but think how much of a strange opposite it is for them. Usually Scorpius is the teacher, the one who knows exactly what he’s doing and is explaining it to Albus, but now it’s Albus who’s the confident one. He knows the right spells, the right techniques. He’s patient, and thorough, and Scorpius finds that it’s soothing to obey his every instruction. His senses feel a little less on fire, which he’s grateful for, because he gets the feeling that if he’d gone into this as het up as he was then it wouldn’t have lasted long.

“I think I’m ready for another finger,” Albus murmurs. His eyes are closed, and his body is taut. Scorpius carefully presses a third finger in beside the other two and Albus clenches tight around him. Albus exhales in a long hiss, and slowly his body relaxes around Scorpius as he adjusts. “Okay,” he whispers. “Good. You can- Oh, Scorpius.” As Scorpius spreads his fingers slightly and moves them, Albus’s body rocks too, pressing himself further towards Scorpius. Albus always wants more, Scorpius has already discovered. Even if it aches, even if it stings and burns and stretches, he wants it, as much of it as he can get.

Scorpius trails his fingers the length of Albus’s cock and watches as Albus arches, face screwing up with pleasure. His mouth falls open, and he drops his head back, enjoying every bit of sensation, and Scorpius enjoys it with him. Even watching Albus is bliss enough in itself.

Finally, after several more slow, luxurious minutes of adjustment, Albus opens his eyes and looks up at Scorpius. “I think I’m ready for you. Go slow, but... I don’t want to wait anymore. I want you.”

“Are you sure?” Scorpius asks.

Albus nods. “Positive.” He reaches out and catches hold of Scorpius’s free hand, which is slick with lube and pre-come. Their fingers slide to interlock, and Albus gives his hand a squeeze.

Slowly, gently, Scorpius pulls his fingers out of Albus, watching Albus’s eyelids flutter as he does. When they’re out there’s a strange moment while Albus adjusts himself on the bed and spreads his legs wider when, for the first time in several long and delicious minutes, Scorpius isn’t inside Albus. He feels almost bereft of him, of the heat and tightness, of the squeeze and throb of muscles, of every tiny shift being escalated into an earthquake. He misses the intimacy of connection between them, but then he looks down at Albus and reminds himself that that’s about to be elevated a hundred fold.

“I’m ready,” Albus says with a nod, and Scorpius begins to position himself.

Being inside Albus, he quickly discovers, is almost too much to bear. There’s a moment when he feels Albus clench around him and he almost comes on the spot.

They take it as slowly as they can, fingers intertwined the whole time, murmuring to each other, sometimes laughing, sometimes concentrating too much to do anything other than close their eyes and breathe. But finally Scorpius is buried deep in Albus, Albus’s face has begun to relax after the initial pain, and they both open their eyes and look at each other.

“We’ll never be closer than this,” Scorpius says, giving Albus a little smile.

“Sap,” Albus replies, rolling his eyes, but he smiles too, and strokes his fingers over Scorpius’s cheek. “Come here and kiss me.”

Scorpius leans down and kisses him, soft and slow, and Albus moans with delight. It’s such a delicious sound, long and low, and Scorpius sucks on his lip, wanting it to keep going, wanting to learn how to make it keep going, and that makes Albus gasp. A shuddering intake of breath that runs through his whole body and vibrates through into Scorpius’s.

“Oh, Albus,” he murmurs. “I love you. I-I...”

Albus rocks his hips upwards. “Scorpius,” he breathes. “Come on. I want to- I need you.”

“Yes,” Scorpius replies, because he needs Albus too. He’s always needed him. And now they’re as close as they can ever get he needs him more than ever. He needs to show Albus all his love and devotion and want, so that maybe Albus will understand how much Scorpius needs him and he’ll never want to leave again.

Albus wraps his legs round Scorpius’s waist as they move together. The change of angle makes him throw his head back, mouth falling open, and he digs his heels into Scorpius’s back. Scorpius supports him by the hips, holding him up, holding him steady. They fall into a rhythm, push and pull, in and out, like the tide lapping on the shore, like the moon waxing and waning, like a minute hand sweeping round to meet the hour.

Even though they will never get back the years they spent apart, Scorpius can’t help but feel like every stroke is a small recovery, every roll of his hips heals something from the past, every time he gasps or Albus whispers his name they express some of what they should have been telling each other all along. Scorpius doesn’t feel like he’s just fucking Albus, he feels like he’s anchoring him, and the way Albus grips him ever more tightly, pulling him closer and closer, clutching at him with sheer desperation tells him that this is how Albus wants to feel. He wants to know that he’s welcome to stay, and he is. He’s so welcome, in Scorpius’s life, in his heart, in his bed.

“I’m staying,” Albus says. “I’m staying, Scorpius. I’m staying, I’m staying, I’m staying.” It’s like a mantra, spilling out of him in an incessant babble, and Scorpius doesn’t know how to reply so he simply closes one hand tight around Albus’s cock and strokes him, not expertly by any means: the timing is all off and he has to keep stopping and starting because the most important thing is slamming himself repeatedly into Albus, harder and harder, deeper and deeper, meeting Albus’s demands for more and more and more.

He can feel himself coiling up inside, the pressure mounting, and he needs a release, he‘s desperate for it. He opens his eyes and looks down at Albus, whose eyes are also wide open, staring at nothing, but aflame with ecstasy as he keeps saying over and over again, at higher pitch and ever louder “I’m staying, I’m staying, I’m staying”. And as he looks into Albus’s eyes he realises that the brown is melting out of them. The potion he uses to change their colour is wearing off, and they’re turning back to emerald again. Scorpius’s favourite colour. The colour of Slytherin, of home, of Albus.

“A-Albus,” he gasps, “your eyes, they-“

And maybe Albus hears him, or maybe he doesn’t, but he lifts his head a fraction of an inch and looks deep into Scorpius’s eyes. “I’m staying.”

There’s nothing in Scorpius’s world beyond emerald fire and the burning heat of Albus’s body clenching around him, and he comes, every fibre of his being releasing in one sudden, visceral rush of light and life and joy.

He clings to Albus to avoid being lost in a sea of utter bliss. There’s nothing else he can do but hold on and never let go. He can feel Albus’s body contracting and releasing around him, and hot, thick spurts of come splattering on his stomach and chest, but that’s just another element in this sudden, overwhelming wave of everything.

When he finally begins to comprehend once again who he is and where he is, he realises that he’s collapsed on top of Albus in a heap. He also realises that Albus is still squeezing around his painfully sensitive cock. With a groan he pulls out and rolls over onto his back, sprawling in an exhausted heap as he stares up at the bedroom ceiling and slowly realises that he’s just had the most phenomenal sex with Albus Severus Potter.

“Scorpius,” Albus groans next to him.

“Albus,” Scorpius says, patting around for his hand.

“Don’t go.”

Scorpius finds his hand, which is sticky with come and sweat and lube, and squeezes it tight. “I love you,” he says.

Albus draws in a long, slow breath, then exhales and brushes his thumb over the back of his hand. “I love you too,” he replies.

Albus can’t remember the last time he felt this content. His whole body aches, but in the same satisfying way that it does after a really good training session. His limbs are heavy and lethargic, and whenever he glances sideways he sees the beautiful sight of Scorpius lying beside him, all long, bare limbs, slim, bony and angular, blond hair a messy halo around his head, lips bruised from kissing, his chest rising and falling with every slow, contented breath, eyelids flickering open and closed. He looks utterly wrecked, but in the best possible way.

“Are you okay?” Albus whispers, reaching over and brushing a strand of hair off his face.

“You’ve worn me out,” Scorpius mumbles. “I’m too old for this.”

Albus snorts. “You mean you’re not ready to go again already? I’m disappointed.”

Scorpius groans. “I’m ready to go to sleep, Albus.”

Albus leans down and brushes a kiss on his cheek, then another, then one on his jaw, and one last one on his bruised lips. Scorpius gives a soft whimper and his lips part. He lifts a hand and strokes it down Albus’s cheek, and Albus grazes his tongue over Scorpius’s lower lip. It’s a soft, languorous kiss that lingers between them. Even when they aren’t touching anymore they remain just a fraction of an inch apart, eyes closed, mouths open, savouring the taste and touch.

“I meant it,” Albus murmurs finally, opening his eyes. He discovers that Scorpius is already gazing at him, and when their eyes meet, Scorpius, brushes his fingers round the corners of Albus’s eyes.

“Please don’t Transfigure them again,” Scorpius whispers. “They’re so perfect as they are.”

Albus blinks in surprise, sidetracked by the sudden interjection. “My eyes? But they’re so much like my-“

“They’re yours,” Scorpius interrupts. “Every bit of them. They burn. They have your fire, your energy, your spark. I know they’re the same colour as... But they’re you. Your look. Your- your soul.”

Albus bows his head. “I-I’ll think about it,” he whispers. “I will. Um, but what I was trying to say. I-I meant it when I said I’m staying. It’s only been a few days, but I already feel happier and more at home than I have in a long time. I don’t want to lose this. So I promise you, Scorpius, I promise you that I’m staying, with my parents, with you as long as you’ll have me. No more running away. This is it now.”

“I know,” Scorpius says, running a gentle hand down Albus’s left arm and making him shiver. “I think the message was clearly received.” He smiles, and Albus’s cheeks heat up.

“Right. Of course. I-I suppose I wasn’t exactly subtle.”

Scorpius kisses his gently on the cheek. “I don’t think sex is the time for subtlety anyway. It’s quite... visceral, isn’t it?”

Albus grins. “A little bit. So how was it? Your first time?”

Scorpius rolls his eyes. “I can’t believe you’re asking me that question. You’re just fishing for compliments, aren’t you?” He tickles Albus’s side, and Albus squirms and sits up.

“I would never do such a thing.”

“Oh yeah right.” Scorpius sits up and pokes him in the chest. “You ruined me, Albus Potter, and you know it, so stop pretending otherwise.”

He stumbles to his feet, and Albus leans back on his hands, watching him and grinning. The sight of a still gloriously naked Scorpius wandering round his bedroom is a dream, and Albus fully intends to enjoy it.

“I’m going to shower,” Scorpius says. “Want to come?” He holds a hand out to Albus who takes it and gets gingerly to his feet.

“Go slow,” he says. “I’m a little bit sore.”

Scorpius kisses the back of his hand. “I can only apologise.”

“You have nothing to apologise for,” Albus replies. “Absolutely nothing. You just gave me the best sex of my life.”

Scorpius blinks at him. “Did I? But I didn’t know what I was doing.”

Albus smirks. “It must be natural talent then. Come on, I’m in pain, you’ll need to help me wash.”

It’s so warm and comfortable being curled up in bed with Scorpius. Scorpius isn’t exactly the most restful sleeper, he tosses and turns and flails his limbs, but he’s Scorpius, and when he finally does drift off it’s with his arms wound tight round Albus’s waist and his face buried in the crook of Albus’s neck. After that it doesn’t take Albus long to drift off too.

As he sleeps he dreams. His mind is full of Scorpius, Scorpius’s mouth and hands and cock. His body burns with the pleasure of Scorpius inside him, moving and pressing, a relentless pulse of more more more. He clings to Scorpius as tight as he can, but it doesn’t seem to be tight enough, because suddenly he realises that Scorpius has turned to smoke and vanished, and he’s clutching at nothing.

The burning in his body is no longer pleasure, it’s ice cold. Every part of him is freezing. He can hear rattling breaths in his ear, and a scaly hand grips his wrist. Putrid, rotting scent floods his nostrils and the world goes dark and foggy. He doesn’t know who he is or where he is, he only knows the awful past.

Someone is shouting at him, his dad is shouting at him, yelling in his face, telling him he’s a disappointment, that he doesn’t fit, that if he hates his life this much then maybe he shouldn’t bother coming home.

Albus can’t breathe. He’s running, flying, aching. He can’t tell if it’s misery causing this pain or if he’s really hurt. Every fibre of his being screams at him and he can’t move. In the darkness he goes rigid as pain consumes him. He can’t move forward or backwards. He’s trapped, and no one, not even Delphi will find him here because he’s nowhere. He’s nothing.

By some miracle he discovers that he can still move his head. He lifts his chin and stares up, realising that there are stars overhead. The sky burns red with fire and floodlights, but there are silver stars and a thin sliver of the moon. And if he can see the sky then maybe he’s not nowhere. Maybe he’s somewhere. Maybe he can be found, maybe-

Fire erupts out of nowhere. He finds that he’s spiralling out of control all of a sudden, spinning, tumbling, and then pain explodes through his whole body. The burning isn’t pleasure or ice, it’s fire. Real fire. Fiendfyre. It licks across his skin, biting, consuming, stinging. The faces of beasts leer at him as they eat through clothes and flesh and muscle.

His stomach drops and he realises he’s falling. He doesn’t know which way is up. He doesn’t know where the ground is, how far it is from him. He’s dropping into nothingness, and his body is going up in smoke and flame and ash as he falls. A scream tears from his throat as he hits the ground and wakes.

He expects the pain to stop when the dream does. It’s so dark that for a second he’s not sure if he is awake. He’s still screaming, clutching at his shoulder which still feels like it’s on fire, and he’s writhing around, but there’s a soft bed beneath him instead of grass, and no night sky, and he’s not alone.

Bright white light blazes through the darkness, and Scorpius is there, stroking his hair.

“Albus,” he says, voice shaking with concern and urgency. “Albus, what’s wrong? You were screaming. Is it a nightmare? Are you hurt? Are you-“

“Sh-shoulder,” Albus gasps, rolling onto his back and screwing himself up as tight as he can, digging his fingernails into his arm to try and relieve the current agony with a different kind of pain, self-inflicted, one he can contain. His skin is red hot under his palm, and he realises that he hasn’t put anything on the burn since he saw his mum almost two days ago. He’s neglected it because it felt okay, and now he’s paying the price.

“I-I need the burn stuff. The salve, potion, thing, whatever it is.”

Scorpius swallows. “That’s not very descriptive, Albus. What am I looking for?”

“It’s a little bottle,” Albus shouts, panic and pain boiling over into anger. It hasn’t been this bad in a long time. The pain is excruciating, overwhelming. If it gets any worse he doesn’t know how he’ll cope, and it is getting worse. “Bathroom,” he says, trying to control himself, trying to breathe. “Bathroom cupboard. Little brown bottle. Scorpius, please. I-I need... I can’t do this much longer. I-“ He rolls over onto his front and buries his face into his pillow, letting out another scream because it’s the only way to relieve the agony coursing through him.

“Alright,” Scorpius says. “Alright. I-“ He swallows. “I’ll be back in a second. Hold on sweetheart. Hold on.” A whisper of a kiss drops into Albus’s hair, and Albus squeezes his eyes tight shut as tears start to leak down his face.

He can hold on. He can. He has to. Scorpius will only be a second.

The moments drag on. The pain blossoms and swells, like a fire catching hold and spreading in a forest. Albus is dry tinder on a summer day, flammable, nothing but fuel for the hungry flames. There’s nothing he can do to stop it. There’s no fighting this. There’s only beating it back, keeping it at bay to prevent it burning him to the ground.

“Albus!”

There are running footsteps in the distance and the door bangs open. Albus drags himself upright and lifts his head.

Scorpius is rushing around the bed, the little brown glass bottle clutched in his hand. He looks pale and terrified, and he hovers, uncertain, like he doesn’t know whether to hand Albus the bottle or try and help.

“Here,” Albus says through gritted teeth. He holds his hand out and Scorpius gives him the bottle.

“Is there anything else I can-“

Albus shakes his head. He fumbles with the cap of the bottle and tosses it aside, pouring as much of the salve as he can onto his hand and starting to lather it onto his arm.

The effect is instantaneous relief. It feels as though he’s doused a fire with water. He can almost hear the hiss as the cream touches his skin, and the pain extinguishes to steam, hot embers, and ash. He snatches in desperate breaths and feverishly spreads the salve over every inch of his skin that he can reach, not caring about rubbing it in yet, just needing it to be on him, touching him, relieving him.

Finally, when his whole arm is coated he curls forward, hunching over, and braces his hands on his knees as he catches his breath.

“What was that?” Scorpius asks. He sounds shaken, and he’s staring at Albus with fear in his eyes, hovering his hands by Albus’s shoulder like he wants to touch him but is afraid he’ll cause more pain. “You started thrashing around in your sleep, and I thought you were having a nightmare, but then... Then you started screaming.”

Albus glances up at him. “Sometimes... Sometimes this happens. My arm- When I forget to take care of it, when it’s feeling alright... This isn’t rare.”

Scorpius swallows. “Albus, I may not be a Healer, but I know that this isn’t meant to happen.”

Albus bows his head. “No. I know.”

There’s silence for a long moment, a sort of suspended stillness as Scorpius looks at Albus and processes everything, and Albus wishes he didn’t come with the sort of baggage that would scare off any sensible person, that should scare off Scorpius.

“What do you do with your arm now?” Scorpius asks finally. “Do you leave the salve like that, or-“

“I have to rub it in for it to work properly,” Albus says. “It’ll take a while. When I put it on it helps straight away, but it only takes the edge off the pain. It doesn’t have any lasting effect.”

Scorpius nods. “Can I?” He asks, gesturing to Albus’s arm.

Albus frowns at him. He still doesn’t feel fully with it. Exhaustion, pain, and the fear after the dream are clogging his brain. He doesn’t understand the question. “Can you what?”

“Help,” Scorpius says. “With the arm. Can I-?” He wriggles his fingers, and Albus comprehends what he’s asking.

“Oh, you don’t have to. It’ll take a while, and you should be sleeping.”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No, I want to. If you’re okay with it.”

Albus considers. He doesn’t let anyone help him with this, not even Delphi, and she was the one who saved his life when he was injured. It’s not something he should need help with. This is his stupid injury, and he always dealt with it privately. Letting someone help him take care of himself feels like such a strange concept. But this is Scorpius. He wants Scorpius to help, desperately. He wants Scorpius in every bit of his life, even these awful, excruciating, secret parts. So maybe he needs to stop thinking, stop shielding himself, and just let Scorpius in.

“Okay,” he says before he can stop himself. “Go on.”

“You’re sure?” Scorpius asks.

Albus nods. “Certain.”

Scorpius leans over and presses a soft kiss on his cheek, then he sits on his heels and starts massaging the salve into Albus’s skin.

Scorpius’s touch now is just as firm but gentle as it had been when he was opening Albus up for sex earlier. Whether he’s confident in what he’s doing or not, he feels like he knows what he’s doing. There’s a quiet surety to his touch that’s intensely comforting. Albus trusts him implicitly, and he lets his eyes flutter closed as Scorpius works away at him.

“You really should go to St Mungo’s with this,” Scorpius says after several long minutes of silence. “You should get someone to look at it. They might have a more permanent solution than this.”

Albus opens his eyes and looks at Scorpius. “I can’t go to St Mungo’s. Sev doesn’t exist.”

“Albus Severus Potter exists,” Scorpius says, not looking up from where he’s carefully rubbing the salve into Albus’s bicep. “And you should have a future without all this pain.”

“But I’m on the run,” Albus murmurs. “I can’t go to St Mungo’s when I’m...”

Scorpius gaze flickers up to briefly meet his. “I thought you were staying?”

“I-I am,” Albus says. “I am. Of course I am. But I can’t-“ He takes a deep breath and clenches his fists. “My dad... I don’t know if I’m ready. I’m staying, but I don’t know if he... If I go to St Mungo’s they’ll call him, and...” He swallows and stares down at his knees. “I’m scared, Scorpius. I’m really scared.”

“What do you have to be scared of? You’re Sev, the most fearless and fearsome broom racer around.”

Scorpius is working on a new bit of skin now. He starts rubbing the cream round in little circles, and Albus watches, mesmerised by the delicate movements of Scorpius’s fingers.

“I’m not really Sev,” Albus says softly. “He’s who I want people to think I am, but... I’m still Albus. I’m still the kid who ran away because he didn’t know how to talk to his dad or pass his exams. Just because I’m older, doesn’t mean... Time doesn’t actually heal many things. It makes some things worse. Like the idea of seeing my dad again... That terrifies me. It’s like this big wall that I know I’ll have to get over one day, but every time I think about trying to clear it I can’t breathe. I start panicking.”

“I think you could do it,” Scorpius murmurs. “I believe you can. If you want to you’ll find a way.” He looks up at Albus and gives him a reassuring smile. “I can help. Your mum can help too. And once you’ve done that you’ll be free. Really and truly back. And you’ll be able to get some help for your shoulder.”

“You make it sound so easy.” Albus sighs and stares down at his hands.

“I know it’s not, though,” Scorpius says, now rubbing his fingertips in long strokes down Albus’s bicep. “The concept is simple, but the execution...”

“The execution feels impossible.”

Scorpius nods, and they lapse back into silence.

Albus can feel the salve really starting to work. Not only is the pain almost completely gone now, but his arm no longer feels uncomfortably hot. The biting, prickling sensation that gnaws at his muscles has faded. He’s no longer afraid of the burns spreading and consuming him, because Scorpius has this under control. And actually, on reflection, having someone else to do this for him is really nice. Trying to apply the salve one handed is tricky, and Albus can never get the right angles and apply the right pressure, but what Scorpius is doing is perfect. Now Albus has let Scorpius do this once, he suspects he’ll never be able to go back.

“How’s that now?” Scorpius asks almost half an hour later, as he finishes rubbing the last bit of salve into Albus’s forearm.

Albus opens his eyes and nods. He flexes his arm and inspects it. The scars are all pale and calm, no angry, aggravated red anywhere. This is as good as it ever gets. “Much better,” he murmurs, then yawns and covers his mouth with his hand. “M-much... Sorry. Much better.”

Scorpius smiles and nudges him. “I think you need to go to sleep.”

Albus pulls a face. “No, I’m fine, I’m just-“ He yawns again and Scorpius laughs.

“Sleep, sweetheart. I’ll wash my hands and be back in a second.” Scorpius presses a fleeting kiss to his temple and gets to his feet, collecting the bottle of salve and its cap and heading off towards the bathroom.

Albus lies on his side and rubs his left arm, checking that every inch of skin feels cool and normal, spreading out the last dregs of the salve. His eyes flicker closed, and he blinks them open, determined to stay awake for Scorpius, but he must drift, because next thing he knows the bed is sinking and an arm winds round his waist.

Albus rolls over to face Scorpius, hugging him tight and burying his face in his shoulder. “Scorpius,” he whispers. “Love you.”

Scorpius sighs and squeezes him tighter. “Love you too. Sweet dreams beautiful.”

And then, all of a sudden, it’s morning. Bright sunlight floods the bedroom and Albus groans and blinks, rubbing his eyes. It takes him a second to work out what’s woken him, but then he realises that it’s Scorpius.

Scorpius has scrambled out of bed and is now stumbling round the room, swearing as he tries to pull his clothes on. “Shit shit shit shit shit. I’m late, I’m late, I’m-“

“Scorpius?” Albus asks, sitting up. “Are you okay?”

Scorpius glances up at him and shakes his head. “No. I forgot I have a meeting at work this morning. An important one. I don’t have my robes, I don’t have my notes. I need to go.”

Albus slides out from under the sheets. “Have you managed to find everything?” He asks. “Do you need help?”

“I-I think I’ve got-“ Scorpius stops dead, staring at him. “Okay, you need to stop being so naked and handsome. This isn’t helping me get to work.”

Albus smirks and plucks one of the blankets from the bed, wrapping it round his waist. “Better?”

“Not much. You’re still all-“ Scorpius gestures to his torso. “Merlin I need to stay over on a night when I have nothing to do the next day. I could still be in bed with you.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay whenever you like,” Albus says, finding a t-shirt and pulling it on. “Tonight if you want. Tomorrow? Every night.”

Scorpius smiles. “My dad will never- Shit, my dad. I never told him I was staying with you. I forgot... This is a disaster.” He runs his hands through his hair and stares wildly around himself, panicking.

Albus goes over and touches his hip. “Scorpius, what do you need?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “No idea. I-I think I’ve got everything, I...”

“If you don’t I can send it to you,” Albus says. “Or bring it in person, or you can pick it up.” He winds his arms round Scorpius’s waist and looks him in the eye. “You’re okay. You’ll be fine. Your meeting will be great.”

Scorpius exhales in a slow, steady stream, and looks at him. “I hope so. I really do.”

“Go and shine,” Albus tells him.

Scorpius nods. “Thank you,” he says. “For last night, for everything. I’ll see you soon. I love you.” He kisses Albus briefly, then pulls back.

Albus smiles broadly back at him. “Thank you,” he replies. He catches Scorpius for one last kiss, then lets him go, and Scorpius disappears out into the morning, leaving Albus alone but entirely content.

Scorpius clatters up the Manor stairs and hurls himself headlong down the corridor towards his room. He needs robes, different shoes, and his satchel with all his notes. He doesn’t have time to hang around, and all he can hope is that his dad is asleep, because this is not the moment for an interrogation. Unfortunately, as he sprints past his dad’s room, the door opens and Draco bursts out into the hall, blocking his path. His dad looks a mess. There are dark shadows under his eyes. His hair is hanging loose around his shoulders, limp and tangled. He’s dressed in his robes, but from the creased state of them, Scorpius assumes they’re the same ones he was wearing yesterday.

“Scorpius Malfoy. Where in Merlin’s name have you been?”

“Dad,” Scorpius says, grinding to a halt in the middle of the hallway. He holds his hands up. “I know I didn’t call, and I’m so sorry – a lot of things happened and I got distracted – but I’m really late for work. Please can you save the interrogation for later? Please?”

His dad puts his hands on his hips, blocking the corridor. “And why are you late for work? Where have you been all night? I was-“ The severity of his dad’s stance collapses, and he steps towards Scorpius, lowering his voice. “I was worried sick. I was scared you might have been attacked, injured, that you might even be-“ He shakes his head and clenches his hands into fists.

Scorpius can see that he’s barely holding himself together. He’s shaking as he lifts a hand up to the wall to steady himself. As hard as he tries to hide his emotions, Scorpius can still see how his eyes are shining, bright as two new sickles, how he keeps swallowing to choke down tears, how he’s trying not to look at Scorpius right now.

“Dad,” Scorpius whispers. He goes over to his dad and puts a hand on his arm, then he decides that’s not enough and hugs him instead. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

His dad grips him tight and strokes his fingers through his hair. “You’re here now. You’re safe, you’re- You are safe, aren’t you? You’re not hurt?” He pulls back and examines Scorpius, and Scorpius shakes his head.

“Not hurt, I promise.” He does a little twirl in front of his dad, waving his arms. “See? All four limbs attached and functional. I’m good. I’m- I’m really good actually.”

His dad gives him a long look. “Where have you been all night then?”

“Well,” Scorpius says slowly. “I had a date with Albus, which-“

“You spent the night with Albus?” Draco asks, reeling back a step and examining Scorpius intently. “That’s where you’ve been? Did you sleep with him?”

Scorpius’s cheeks burn and he can’t help but smile, but he holds a hand up to stop his dad talking. “Hang on. Let me explain.”

“You slept with Albus Potter, the boy who abandoned you and broke your heart.”

Scorpius puts a finger to his lips. “Dad? Sshh.”

His dad folds his arms and gives him a hard look. “It can only get worse with explanation.”

“I know,” Scorpius says. “But not the worse you’re expecting.” He takes his dad’s moment of surprise and worry to go ploughing on. “I had a date with Albus, a wonderful date. He took me for dinner on this weird little canal boat that actually turned out to be the most gorgeous restaurant barge, and it- Anyway. I digress. So we left the restaurant and we were walking home, and a pair of um, Dementors sort of attacked us a little bit on the towpath-“

“Dementors?” His dad’s eyes have gone wide, but thankfully he seems too stunned to say anything else.

Scorpius nods. “Yes. But I- Well, I cast a Patronus to scare them off, and then Albus wasn’t in a very good way, so I took him home and we both had some chocolate, and... after that I sort of lost track of time and got a bit distracted.”

“You cast a Patronus?” His dad asks.

Scorpius looks at him. “Yes. Yes, I did. A-a corporeal one. I’ve never done it before, but... you know.”

“So you had a nice date with a boy, saved his life in a Dementor attack, then went home and had sex with him?”

Scorpius opens his mouth, closes it again, then shrugs. “I don’t think I’d have put it precisely like that, but I suppose you’ve covered all the essentials. And now I really really have to go to work.” He starts walking, and this time his dad doesn’t block him. He trails along behind and leans in the doorway to Scorpius’s room while Scorpius pulls his robes on and starts looking for his satchel.

“Were you really attacked by Dementors?” Draco asks.

“You don’t believe me,” Scorpius says, throwing cushions and clothes off the floor and onto the bed in the hope of finding his bag underneath.

“You’re not a liar,” his dad says. “But there haven’t been any Dementor attacks in years. There haven’t even been any sightings. Why... why now? Why you? You and Albus?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “I’d love to speculate but I have no idea. All I know is that they were there and they wanted to kiss us.”

His dad makes a strangled little noise and when Scorpius turns round his sees that he’s gripping the door frame, fingertips white.

“You should report this. Tell Potter. You need to tell Potter, Scorpius.”

Scorpius pauses in his search. “But... Albus. He can’t know about-“

“You were attacked by a pair of Dementors. That’s Potter’s area and he should investigate. Find a way to report it without mentioning Albus if you need to, but do report it. There’s been rumblings of dark activity recently, and this is another incident to add to a growing list. It needs mentioning.”

Scorpius stares at his dad. “What do you mean, rumblings? How do you know more than I do and I work at the Ministry?”

His dad shakes his head. “It’s nothing serious, just movements, shifts in behaviour. Things feel strange. And if Potter doesn’t know yet then he needs to get his head out of his ass and start doing his job.”

Scorpius nods and starts crawling under his bed, feeling around for the bag. “Alright, I’ll tell him. I promise.”

“Good. And here.” His dad draws his wand and waves it. “Accio Scorpius’s satchel.”

Scorpius ducks out from under the bed and sits up. As he does the satchel comes flying across and smacks him directly in the face en route to his dad. He grabs it and rubs his nose and forehead, which sting from the impact. “Thanks, Dad.”

“You’re welcome,” his dad says, tucking his wand away. “Now get to work. And when you come home I think we need to have a talk about your...” he makes a vague gesture, “fraternisations. I want to know you’re being safe. Albus has been missing for six years, who knows where he’s been, what he’s got up to. I need to know that you know how to look after yourself.”

Scorpius’s face feels like it’s on fire. “You are not giving me the talk, Dad. It was bad enough last time. I know what I’m doing, okay? I know how to protect myself.”

“Do you?” His dad asks.

Scorpius nods. “I promise, Dad, I do.”

Draco studies him for a moment. “Fine. Well you can tell me about the date at least. And the Patronus.”

Scorpius smiles and brushes past him out into the hall, where he starts running for the fireplace. “Fine. Whatever makes you happy.”

“Give Potter hell from me,” his dad calls after him.

“I always do!”

“I’m so sorry I’m late,” Scorpius gasps as he rushes into Harry’s office. “It’s been one of those mornings, and- I’m sorry.”

Harry glances up from the file he’s reading. “Good morning, Scorpius.”

“Um, good morning, sir.” He stands to attention in the doorway, ready to be told off.

Harry shakes his head and tosses his file onto the pile of detritus on his desk. “Don’t look so scared. Come in properly.” He removes his feet from the desk and sits up. “Your boss had to go and do some paperwork, so it’s just you and me this morning.”

“Okay. Well, I have an update.” He shrugs his satchel off his shoulder and crosses to the desk, resting the bag on one of the empty chairs while he rummages through it for his notes. “I’ve been investigating the league, trying to work out the best way of shutting it down, as you know, and I’ve found-“

“Albus,” Harry says softly.

Scorpius lifts his head and stares at him. “What?”

“You found Albus,” Harry repeats. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Ginny told me. She said he’d been to visit her, and that the two of you are...”

Scorpius freezes, not sure what to do or say, but finally he takes a breath and looks back down at his bag. “He didn’t want me to tell you,” he whispers. “He’s scared. I said I wouldn’t-“ He glances at Harry, a new fear flooding through him. “Are you going to fire me?”

Harry picks his quill up from its stand and twirls it between his fingers. “No,” he says. “No, I’m not.” He gestures to the seat opposite him. “Sit down. Forget about the league, you can catch up with your boss about that later.”

“But there are things I wanted to-“

“Albus is more important,” Harry says. “I need to know how he is. I need to know where he is. I need to know if I can see him.”

Scorpius sighs and sits down, but he slides the notes out of his bag as he does. There are things he wants to raise, things about the league and Dementors. Albus is important but he isn’t everything, even now.

“I don’t think he’s ready to see you,” Scorpius says.

“What does that mean?” Harry asks, voice terse and strained.

“It means he’s afraid,” Scorpius says. “Really afraid. Of seeing you again. I think he’s built it up in his head so much that he can’t see how to go about doing it. He thinks of you and he panics.”

“But I’m his dad,” Harry says, adjusting his glasses. “I don’t understand why he wouldn’t-“

“Don’t you?” Scorpius asks, cutting him off. “The two of you fought for years before he ran away. He wants to see you, I know he does, but I think he’s afraid that you’ll both just start yelling at each other again. He doesn’t want that. He wants you, just you, without any of the baggage.”

Harry grips the edge of the table and nods. “Okay. Okay, I- Alright.” He draws in a breath. “Well in that case I need you to help convince him that I won’t, you know, just start yelling at him.”

“Won’t you?” Scorpius asks. “Start yelling at him straight away?” He doesn’t know why he’s being so bold all of a sudden, why he’s even questioning this. Maybe it’s loyalty to Albus. Maybe it’s slowly gaining an understanding of what Albus went through that caused him to run away. Scorpius doesn’t know if he can convince Albus of anything to do with Harry, because at the moment he’s not convinced it would be a brilliant idea himself.

Harry gets to his feet and starts pacing up and down behind his desk. “I just want to know he’s okay,” he says. “I want to see for myself. Everyone‘s seen him now apart from me. I miss him. I want him back.”

“Not everyone’s seen him,” Scorpius points out. “Lily and James haven’t, and I know he’s desperate to see them.”

Harry waves a hand. “Close enough. Scorpius... Please will you help me? I know he’ll listen to you.”

Scorpius hesitates, thinking. “How about this,” he says finally. “I’ll tell him that you know he’s back, and that you want to see him. That’s the best I can do. I can’t make him come and see you. He... He listens to me, but definitely not that much. He really is scared, Harry. I can help with a lot of things by, you know, by talking to him; showing him I care about him, but I don’t know if I can help him overcome that. I’m sorry.”

Harry shakes his head and runs a hand through his hair. “No, no. I know. All you can do is try.” He spins round on his heel and claps his hands together. “Um, anyway. You said you had updates. What updates did you have?”

Scorpius opens his notes up. “Right, yes. Well I’ve been examining the makeup of the league, trying to work out weak points where we could cut off funding, that sort of thing, and I haven’t found much, but there are a few names connected with everything that set off alarm bells.” He flips through the pages of his notebook and stops at one that’s a big diagram of names, with arrows connecting them all together. “There are people associated with the league who were friends or associates of former Death Eaters, just a couple of people here and there. It seems odd. I know it’s an illegal form of racing, but they’re all people who have a good standing in society now. I’m sure they could make money elsewhere if they wanted to. And the strangest thing is that, even though we know they’re all people who know each other and move in similar circles, I can’t find anything obvious that connects them. I don’t understand why they would all be involved, separately, in this league. It pays decently and I’ve been told by contacts that it’s exciting to watch, but legal broom racing still pays far better. It doesn’t make sense.”

Harry sits down in his chair and examines Scorpius across the table. “You started this case on Monday, didn’t you?”

Scorpius nods. “Yes, does that matter?”

“It’s Friday. Just five days, and you’ve found all this already?” Harry reaches across and flicks through the pages of Scorpius’s notebook. “It’s impressive.”

Scorpius feels his cheeks burn, and he ducks his head. “It’s my job. I like to work hard.”

“I know,” Harry says, “but still. What do you think the next step is?”

“There are financial accounts,” Scorpius says, flicking through to the next page. “I haven’t had chance to go through them all yet, it’d need a trip to Gringotts I think, and then several days to look at everything, but that might be the next lead. I need to work out what’s missing here. If there’s something financial going on, some arrangement between everyone, that might weave it all together and it might give us a way of pulling the plug.”

Harry smiles. “Good work. Can you handle Gringotts yourself?”

Scorpius nods emphatically. “Of course I can.”

Harry’s smile widens to a grin. “Good. Keep digging then, and let me know what else you find.” He gets to his feet, and Scorpius knows he’s being dismissed, but he’s not done yet. He’s really not done.

“Harry,” Scorpius says, getting to his feet. “There’s something else you need to know.”

“About the case?” Harry asks.

Scorpius shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Go on then.” Harry pauses with his hand on the doorknob, looking at Scorpius expectantly.

Scorpius folds his notebook up and tucks it away, then he crosses the room towards Harry. “Last night... I-I went out for dinner, with- With a friend. And when we were on the way home we were attacked, by a pair of Dementors. I managed to repel them. I cast a Patronus and they left us alone. But I thought... I thought you should know.”

Harry blinks at him. “Dementors?” He asks sceptically.

Scorpius nods. “Two of them. They, um. They tried to kiss us.”

Harry turns right round to face him, frowning. “Why would there have been Dementors in- wherever you were?”

“Near Bristol,” Scorpius supplies. “I don’t know. That’s why I thought I should tell you.” He picks his satchel up and loops the handle over his shoulder. “I talked to my dad about it, and he said there have been rumblings of dark activity going on. Maybe it’s part of that?”

Harry’s frown deepens. “Rumblings... I know about some movements: giants, trolls, the werewolves causing a bit of trouble again, but I wouldn’t call them rumblings. Did he say anything else?”

Scorpius shakes his head. “He said you should already know.”

Harry runs a hand through his hair, which sticks up at the front, flyaway and harassed. “I’ll investigate then. Thank you. I’ll see what I can find.”

“Okay,” Scorpius says.

Harry turns towards the door then pauses and glances back. “Who was your friend?” He asks.

“What?”

Harry gestures to him. “Your friend, the person you were with, when the Dementors attacked. They’d be another witness. It might be useful to talk to them.”

Scorpius swallows. “Oh.” He bows his head. “It was... It was Albus, actually.”

“Albus got attacked by-“ Harry rakes his hands through his hair again and keeps them there for a second. When he pulls them away his hair is sticking up all over the place. Scorpius has never seen it so messy.

“Okay,” Harry says finally. “Okay. I’ll find out what happened. I’ll fix it. I’ll-“ He nods, adjusts his cuffs, and looks at Scorpius. “If, when, you see Albus again... Tell him to be safe?”

“I will,” Scorpius says softly.

#Harry Potter and the Cursed Child #Cursed Child #Cursed Child fic #Scorbus fic #Scorbus #Scorpius Malfoy #Albus Severus Potter #Harry Potter #Draco Malfoy #HPCC fic #Keep The Secrets #Mayhem to the nth degree #My writing #Mine to Make

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