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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 4 years

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Hot Blood [2]

Warnings: non-consent sex; oral, intercourse

This is dark! (mob) skinny Steve and explicit. 18+ only.

Synopsis: Steve Rogers is on the rise in the New York underground as you’re trying to keep your own place there.

Note: Here’s the second half. I’m TRYING to slow down a bit because I’ve become a bit manic and scrambled and all over the place so hope you guys don’t mind maybe revisiting some of my stuff while I try to clear my mind.

Thanks to everyone for their patience and feedback. :)

I really hope you enjoy. 💋

<3 Let me know what you think with a like or reblog or reply or an ask! Love ya!

There was a flurry of activity at the tall brick building you pulled up to in Brooklyn. Bucky drove around the back and killed the engine. Steve sent you a look before he climbed out. You grabbed your small bag and got out as Bucky closed the driver’s door.

Steve led you to the back door of the building as Bucky trailed you and pulled out a cigarette. As you entered, the distant banging of hammers and buzz of voices rose from above. You were surprised by the interior as it did not reflect its facade; the aged brick hid the newly laid layer of decadence.

“Mind the noise,” Steve said as he strode across the lobby. “First two floors are finished but they got a dozen more to do.”

You glanced around at the stone statues and gilted frames. A little Versailles in the heart of New York. No doubt prompted by overcompensation and egoism.

“A borough is an empire on its own, I suppose,” You mused as you neared a bust of a naked woman.

“No, but New York is,” He neared and ran his finger along the curve of the stone woman’s hip. “It will be.”

“Big plans…” You stopped yourself from finishing; for a small man.

“Too many plans,” He drew away and looked at his watch.

“Buck,” He called to his henchman who flicked off his cigarette. “Would you use the goddamn tray?”

“Sorry,” Bucky snickered. “Habit.”

“Mmm,” Steve grumbled. “Take her up to a room. Lock it, will ya?”

You glared at him and gripped your bag tighter. He glanced at you as he felt your anger radiating towards him.

“Don’t worry, doll. I’ll have the tailor come by and get you all set.” He smiled. “Considering that hole you were living in, I think you’ll like it here.”

“You can tell your tailor to fuck off.” You snapped.

“Ah,” Steve’s hand flew up and he grabbed your chin. “That’s not very ladylike language.”

“Get off of me,” You smacked his arm but he didn’t flinch.

“There are gonna be rules, got it? First, you’re gonna start acting like a lady and watch your tongue. Then you’re gonna get rid of these,” He let go and pulled on your lapel, “And mind your place, woman.”

You bit down as you brought your hand up. He reeled at the slap which echoed through the lobby and Bucky’s figure loomed in your peripheral. Steve raised his hand to halt his henchman and touched his cheek. He took a breath.

“That’s the only one you get,” He said slowly. “Understand? Cause I’ve been more than patient with you. You still got your piece.”

“Empty,” You intoned.

“Still,” His eyes flashed. “And your head.” He pointed at you. “And a very clear choice here, doll. This can be easy or difficult. Now it seems you prefer the latter but I don’t think we ‘share that sentiment.”

“No, we don’t,” You said.

“Bucky,” He gestured to his man. “Get her out of my sight.”

Bucky grabbed your arm and drew you away as Steve walked across the marble floor. Your shoes slid over the stone and you were forced up the stairs by the bulky henchman. He dragged you to a pair of double doors and wrenched the right one open. He shoved you inside.

The door slammed and you heard the lock slide into place. You cursed and kicked it before you spun to look around the room. It was as big as, if not bigger, than your apartment.

The walls were decorated in a pale blue paper that bore regal curlicues and the polished floor shone even without the light of the glass lamps. The furniture was carefully arranged and no doubt expensive. You dropped your bag on the side table by the door and inched further in. You removed your hat and played with the brim. You needed to learn to shut your mouth.

🌆

It was about an hour before the lock sounded. The door opened inward and you rose from the chair with the French legs. A man with round glasses struggled to drag in a rolling rack of garments. When he was inside at last, the door closed and the lock slid back into place.

He glanced around as he adjusted his spectacles and seemed taken aback by you. He sniffed as he came closer.

“Oh dear,” He said. “Hmm. Uh, hello, Miss, I was sent for a fitting. I’m Stuart.”

You crossed your arms and scowled. He shook his head and turned back. He grabbed a pale green dress from his collection and faced you again.

“This might fit,” He said. “Miss.”

He nodded to the screen on the other side of the broad bed. You looked between him and the painted divider. You didn’t move.

“Mr. Rogers told me you required a wardrobe,” He said aghast, “And I must agree with him.”

“And if I refuse it?” You challenged.

“You’ll have no protest from me, I have been duly paid to come here and offer my services. However, I know my client well and I am certain you can predict his reaction yourself.” He explained. “Whether or not you go along with this, is not my job.”

You huffed and reached to your belt. The man blanched as you removed your holster, gun still secure, and set it on the side table.

“It’s empty,” You assured him. “If it wasn’t, I’d not be here.”

You took the dress from him and disappeared behind the screen. You swore under your breath as you hooked the hanger over the top of the barrier. You removed your jacket and unclasped your suspenders. You slipped your shoes off and balled your socks inside them. You unbuttoned your shirt and tossed it a top your jacket on the small stool about a foot away. You added your trousers to the pile and stood in your underwear.

You grabbed the dress and pulled it over your head. The a-line skirt fell just to your knee and the delicate embroidery along the panels of the bodice stretched from chest to waist. You hadn’t worn a dress in years and it was just as awkward as you recalled. You stepped out from behind the screen and braced your hips in disapproval.

“Fits quite well,” Stuart mused and neared his rack again. “That means… the red, yes, oh, silver, the lace skirt…” He began to take hangers down and toss each piece on the chaise not far away. “Enough to see you through until I can make adjustments.”

You frowned and shook your head as you watched him. He passed you and you watched him gather up your former clothing. You blocked him before he could return to his rack.

“What are you doing with those?” You asked and reached to your waist instinctively.

“Mr. Rogers bid me take them with me.” He said plainly. “My assistant will be by later with undergarments… I just need your measurements before I go.”

You sneered at him as he dumped your clothing on the side table and stirred around in his pockets.

“I can assure you, miss, given your temperament, this is as unenjoyable for you as me.” He neared with his tape measure and you dropped your arms.

“Doubtful.” You grumbled.

🌆

There was an oval mirror in the corner behind the screen. You spent a while looking at yourself in the ridiculous dress before you distracted yourself with hanging the rest in the long closet. Stuart’s assistant, Olly, was shown in an hour after the tailor had left and gave you a collection of negligee and silk underwear. You hid them in the drawers and tried to forget about them.

Steve, for all your spite, was a man who acted quickly and effectively. And, you guessed, impulsively. You doubted you were the first woman to laugh at him but you didn’t wonder much on his wrath. It was his ilk; yours too. The underworld was run on tempers and wounded pride.

You sat in an armchair as you fiddled with the gun, flipping the chamber in and out, listening to the roll. You heard the door handle and stopped. You spun the gun in your hand and pointed the empty barrel at the man who entered. Steve’s brows drew together as he saw you. His lips twitched and he removed his hat. He left it on the side table beside your bag.

“You waiting on me?” He asked coyly.

“If I had a bullet, perhaps I would be more excited for your arrival,” You set the gun on the small round table beside you.

“Go on,” He stood across from you. “Stand up. Let me get a look.”

You stared at him. You didn’t move. His gaze travelled to your legs and he tapped his toe.

“Hurry up, would ya? We’ve got places to be.” He sneered.

“Places to be? Oh?” You still didn’t rise.

“Look, doll,” He lowered his voice as he stepped a bit closer. “I know you think I’m just a skinny little shit but let me tell you, I’m a whole lot more. You stand up so I can get a peek at you or I’ll get you up myself and do more than look.”

Your nostrils flared and you grabbed the gun. You swung it at him and he dodged it. He caught your hand as you stood and tried again. He twisted your wrist and you gritted your teeth as he forced you to release it. He caught it with his other hand and shoved you back.

“You just can’t help yourself,” He growled as he tucked your gun into his trousers. “You’re lucky I have more self-control than you.”

You crossed you arm as he looked you up and down.

“Nice get-up but not for tonight,” He went to the closet and slid it open. “Even so, you’ve been busy.”

You were silent as he pulled out a pale blue dress that shimmered in the light. Thin straps, low cut, skirt flowing to the floor. You cringed as he turned back to you.

“I am not stupid, doll,” He neared and held out the hanger. “You think I’m a joke. You’re one of the most stubborn gals I’ve ever known. I like that.” He waved the dress until you took it. “But I don’t work alone. You wanna step on my toes, I have no issue calling in back-up.”

You glared at him; silent.

“I’ve seen Bucky do terrible things to men; his own size, bigger. I heard of worse from his years in the war. It changed him and when I tell him to do something, he doesn’t think, he does. He doesn’t see a man or woman, trousers or skirt, he sees a job.” Steve warned. “He’s all smiles til I say ‘sic ‘em’.”

“You must watch a lot of pictures, Mr. Cagney,” You sniped.

“Listen, when it comes down to it, you’ll prefer me to him,” He said. “Me to any man in this city. I could let you go,” He pointed at you. “Could, but I’d have to put a price on that pretty little head.”

You frowned and folded the dress over your arm.

“Where are we going?” You asked quietly.

“A party,” He smiled. “To celebrate my recent victory.”

🌆

You hated the gown and the shoes. The way the woman had done your hair. Steve had left you to change and been quickly replaced by an older woman with fake blonde curls. Once a Jean Harlow fan or merely grasping at her fading youth?

She set your hair and grabbed your chin as she powdered your face and lined your eyes. She was pushy and said her name was Muriel. She talked a lot. You could barely keep track of her gossip. She painted your lips a deep shade of red and looked you over. When she finished, she left you as swiftly as she’d come. You ignored the mirror and the stranger in it.

When the door opened once more, you were at the window. You stared down at the sidewalk, pondering the way down. It would be a painful and slow death. So you had to wear heels; was it worth that?

“Doll,” Steve’ voice made you tense and you turned to face him. “You look… wonderful. Like a real woman.” He neared and his eyes lingered on vee of the dress. “Forgive me, you are a real woman.”

You crossed your arms but quickly dropped them as it only served to push your chest higher. Steve held a velvet box. He placed it on the table between the arm chairs and snapped it open. He lifted the silver chain from it and held it up to sparkle. Small diamonds decorated the slender necklace; the centerpiece a large sapphire.

“I’ve never seen a woman look at a jewel with such disdain.” He mused as he neared.

“Only at you, right?” You japed. He almost smiled.

“Sure, doll,” He seemed calmer as he gestured for you to turn.

You let out a breath and did. He carefully looped the necklace around your neck and clasped it. You spun back to him and wobbled in the heels. You kept yourself from tripping and he smiled as he reached to touch the sapphire.

“Gorgeous,” He said. “If not lacking grace.”

You drew away from him and his hand brushed your arm. He grabbed your hand and stopped you. He came up beside you and hooked your arm through his.

“You behave…” He purred. “And I just might take it easy on you.”

🌆

You recognized many men at the party. It didn’t make it any easier. Once, you had faced them with a gun on your hip. With a sense of dignity. You lowered your head as Steve swept you along and he stopped to push your head up with two fingers.

“Be proud. You’re mine.” He whispered as he turned back to his path. “One day, this whole city will be mine. I might just take you with me.”

You didn’t like that. He spoke of you like a possession. But you shut your mouth and focused on not tripping. As you gained your balance, you struggled to stop as Steve pulled on your arm. The man across from you, Harry Carligne, squinted at you as he greeted your escort. As he tried to take you hand, you just stared.

“I know you,” He pulled back and realisation smoothed the wrinkles in his forehead. “Holy…”

“Where’s Carol?” Steve interjected.

“She found out about Lucille,” Harry laughed. “Who you will find flitting around somewhere.” He glanced at you again. “My, my, how did you tame this creature, Rogers?”

“He didn’t,” You said tersely. “Keep your paws off me.”

“Oh ho,” Harry grinned. “You’re definitely braver than me, Rogers.”

“I told you, I like a challenge,” Harry’s smile fell as he caught the edge in Steve’s voice. “Plus, I’ve heard that women with sharp tongues are the best fucks.”

Your eyes rounded and you gaped at Steve in disgust. You tried to pull away from him and he snaked his arm around you and pulled you closer.

“Besides, I’m sure the mouth is good for more than just talk.” Steve chuckled. Harry joined in loudly and you snarled at both of them.

“I’m thirsty,” You insisted as you tried to wriggle away.

Steve’s arm stayed firm and he waved with his other hand. A server appeared with a tray and Steve took a champagne glass from the lot. He handed it to you.

“Drink up, doll,” He said and returned his attention to the other man. “Now, Harry, we got some clean up to do in Queens…”

🌆

The night was long. You didn’t miss the whispers of the men or the women attached to them. It also didn’t escape you that you looked like one of those women now. Some were wives, some were mistresses, and some were paid by the hour. You weren’t quite sure where you fell yet.

And Bucky hovered ever in your peripheral. He was Steve’s watchdog. Those Steve talked to were also aware of the other man. They were nervous. He had a reputation you had yet to see proven. You could live without the evidence.

You were relieved to be away from the party guests but less than to be once more beside Steve in the back of the ivory roadster. He was close, his fingers tapped on his knee as he was quiet. Bucky drove, yawning here and there. You were tired yourself but antsy due to the man next to you.

You flinched as Steve’s hand fluttered over onto your leg. He felt the fabric of your dress and leaned closer.

“A few slips,” He said. “But you did well, doll.”

“I thoroughly despised it,” You grumbled.

“But you looked good,” He cooed. “I like this dress… makes me think about what’s underneath.”

“You’re a dog.” You snapped.

He chuckled and his hand slid further and crawled along the crease where your thighs met. You pressed your legs together but he didn’t push. He merely traced a line around your hip and his fingers danced along your arm. He grabbed the back of your neck and pulled you to him. He kissed you and you slapped his chest. He winced but didn’t stop.

You shoved him but it only seemed to drive his fervour. He squeezed the back of your neck as he poked his tongue past your lips. The car came to a stop and he finally drew away. He glanced out the window but as he turned back to you, you slapped him.

“Animal.” You hissed.

He touched his cheek and his blue eyes glinted in the dim. He let out a heavy breath and tore his hand away.

“Get her,” He barked at Bucky. “Drag her, if need be.”

Steve got out of the car as the other door opened and you found yourself being ripped out by the henchman. As you found your footing, Steve came to face you.

“We’re gonna go back to the room, doll,” He said curtly. “And this can stay between the two of us or I can have my man hold you down. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind the show.”

You glanced over at Bucky. His expression was dull and his grip firm. He shrugged. He tugged you forward as Steve spun and led the way to the tall building. Inside, it didn’t seem so extravagant anymore and your steps echoed on the stairs. The hand on your arm was like a shackle.

The same door, the same room, you were ushered inside and Bucky let go hesitantly. The two men watched you, waiting. You didn’t move and Steve nodded to his henchman.

“Stay close,” Steve said quietly.

Bucky nodded and showed himself out. Steve faced you and brought his hands up to grasp your arms.

“I don’t wanna call him back,” He said. “Do you?”

You shook your head as a chill crept up your spine. You hadn’t felt this way in a very long time. You were afraid. You told yourself it wasn’t the thin man before you, it was the one outside, but deep down, you knew it was both.

“Alright, take the dress off.” He said. “Just the dress.”

You unhooked the back and slid the straps down your arms. Steve walked circles around you. You looked to him as you braced yourself. He loosened his tie as you let the gown fall to your waist. You shimmied out and exposed the creamy lace-trimmed panties and bra beneath.

“Sit. On the bed.” He ordered.

You stepped out of the dress and slowly crossed to the bed. You turned and sat on the end. He neared as he pulled his tie from around his neck. He put it over your eyes and you grabbed his wrist. He shook you off and secured it around your head so you were blind.

“Don’t even think about taking it off,” He warned. You dropped your hand and he stroked your cheek as he backed away.

You listened and shivered in your scant clothing. The underwear, the garters, the sheer stockings, and the strappy heels. You sensed him before you again. He ran his hands over your shoulders and down your arms. He brushed them back up your sides and groped you through your bra.

“Take this off,” His hand dropped and he pulled at the lacy trim at your hip. “And these.”

You stood in the pitch black of the blindfold and carefully undid your bra. You paused and you felt a tug on the front. You swept it away and hooked your thumbs in the top of the panties. He hummed and you rolled them down until they fell to your ankles. You untangled your feet and felt him step closer.

“Turn around. Get on the bed.” He commanded. “On your knees.”

You turned slowly. You stopped yourself from touching the bed.

“No.” You said. “No.”

“If I have to call him in, I won’t stop him from joining.” He rasped.

You bent and felt around. You managed to find your way up, lifting your knees carefully onto the mattress. He slapped your ass and you flinched.

“Further.” You crawled towards the middle. “Just like that.”

You waited there for a time, still on your knees. You felt the bed shift. His hand was suddenly on yours and he pulled it towards him. He pressed your fingers to hot flesh and wrapped your hand around his cock. You were surprised by his girth and as he slid your hand up than down, his length was no less impressive. He squeezed your hand tight.

“Not laughing now, huh?” He taunted.

You stopped and he nudged your hand. You just sat there with your hand around him, unwilling to move. Unwilling to accept this.

“Fine,” He slapped your hand away. “I’ll just use your mouth.”

He moved quickly and grabbed the back of your head. He yanked you forward and you fell onto your hands. He pushed down until you were on your elbows and the head of his cock prodded your lips. He rubbed it back and forth.

“Doll, I won’t tell you one more time.” He snarled. “Bucky’s right outside that door. I’ve seen him break men’s jaws as if it was nothing. What do you think he’d do if I told him to open your mouth for you?”

You gulped and shuddered. Your parted your lips reluctantly and he pushed inside. He grasped the back of your head and held you there as he hit the back of your throat. He urged himself deeper and you slapped his naked thigh. His fingers tangled in the tails of the tie.

You couldn’t help the noise which slipped from you as he pushed himself deeper. You held back a gag and squeezed his slender leg. You shook as he stilled you a lingered in your throat. He wiggled his hips cloyingly.

“Never would’ve known you had such a nice ass in those suits,” He slid back and slammed back in. You choked on him and he repeated the motion. “But that dress… perfect complement.”

You kicked your feet as he thrust steadily. He didn’t seem to notice the constriction of your throat around him as you struggled to hold back the wave of nausea. Or the way you struggled to breath around him. There was only his airy moans and sickly sound of his cock as it glided in and out of your mouth.

He finally pulled out and you struggled not to keel over. You wiped the spit from your lips and he grabbed your hand. He placed it on the mattress and held it there.

“Don’t move,” He said.

You were awe-struck by his pushiness. By the authority that radiated from him. He climbed off the bed and you reached to the tie as the sweat gathered along its edges. You were surprised by a pinch.

“I said don’t move,” He came around behind you and smacked your ass. “You keep those hands on the bed.”

You slapped your hand back down as he climbed up and his legs pushed between yours. Your stockings rubbed against his skin and he ran his hands up and down your back and around your hips then along your thighs. He tickled you and you felt his cock as it poked at you.

“You think you were funny yesterday?” He kneaded your ass as he leaned against you, his smooth length pressed against your cunt. “You really know how to use that pretty little mouth.”

You were, for once, speechless. It was one thing to deal with a man on his level, but to be bent over before him, was another.

“Where’s that voice now, doll?” He drew back and dragged his tip along your folds. “I wanna hear you.”

He pushed along your entrance, the head of his cock dipped in just a little before he pulled out. He rubbed himself along your cunt again and repeated the act several times. When he shoved himself further in, you squeaked and clapped your hand over your mouth. Another pinched on the tender flesh of your thigh.

“You moved,” He growled and impaled you entirely. Your walls were snug around him. “I know listening isn’t your strong suit but we’ll work on that.”

He eased out of you and paused. You let out a breath and he slammed back in. You flinched and grunted through your teeth. Your fingers curled in the thick duvet and he did it again. He thrust into you, each crash of his hips jolted you.

His hands brushed over your back and he grabbed your shoulders so that you arched. He rutted into you without restraint. He panted as you quivered against him. You moaned suddenly and clamped your lips shut. He chuckled and sped up.

“Is that it, doll?” He taunted. “Is that the spot?”

He bent over you and snaked his arm around your front. He pressed his fingers to your clit and dragged his lips along your shoulder. He bit down as he started to draw circles around your bud. You gulped as the ripples spread through you. You whined and finally let loose a sharp cry.

“You’re close, I can’t feel it,” He said and slammed into even harder. “And I know you can feel me.”

You’d lost control. You couldn’t let up and he wouldn’t. You moaned louder and louder, almost snarling for more as your flesh clapped loudly. The bed rocked beneath you and you dropped your head forward as you came. Your walls pulsed around him and you pushed back so you could take him deeper.

His hand never stopped, even as your arms shook and threatened to collapse in your rapture. You were stunned by your second orgasm and the third. Your arms folded and you were on your face as he grasped your hips and guided them firmly against him.

He sank as far as he could and swore. He pulled out quickly and you felt his harried strokes as he pressed his tip to your ass. His hot cum spilled over you and dripped down your thigh. He slowed and sighed as he grazed your throbbing pussy with his fingers.

He backed up off the bed but you didn’t move. You couldn’t. You listened to his soft footsteps and felt leather against your ass. He caressed you with the belt and pulled back.

“You moved again, doll,” He rasped as he brought the belt back down and you exclaimed. “You don’t like the easy way, do you?”

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ugly-crying-over-bucky-barnes · 4 years

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Dawn in Your Eyes Part 13

Summary: Alfie has little to no idea why Caroline ever gave him the time of day. The blind woman seemed far too sensible to even speak to him. But soon he finds himself falling helplessly in love.

Part 13: It had to happen sooner or later.

Julia had been watching her niece all morning. Something was different. True, the two hadn’t been spending as much time together, not even close to the amount of time they used to spend together when Caroline was still under her care.

Now she was a married woman with her own career within Julia’s business. The older woman couldn’t help but think about how proud her sister would be. If only she could see her daughter flourishing so much. Monica was always distraught about how her little girl would never be able to live a full life with her disability. Of course, Julia could be dismayed about Caroline’s choice of husband. Still, she knew Monica would be so proud. Also, Alfie did nothing but dote on his new wife. He spoiled her far more than Julia ever did, which she wasn’t sure was possible.

Despite the lavish lifestyle, Caroline still worked hard helping Richard and Elizabeth with their charity work. That’s why she was in the offices in Camden instead of being in Kensington. She and Julia needed to go over the proposed numbers for the year.

“Caroline.”

“Hm?”

“Stand up, would you?”

A bit confused, Caroline put a hand on the desk and stood up. “What?”

“Turn to the side.”

“Which side?”

“Doesn’t matter.”

Caroline had no clue what her aunt was getting at but turned to the right.

Julia got up and moved closer to make sure she wasn’t just seeing things. She touched her niece’s abdomen to make sure she wasn’t crazy. “Oy,” She slapped a hand to her forehead in disbelief.

“What?” The young woman suddenly became very self-conscious, maybe she’d forgotten to do up a button or her headscarf was coming undone.

“You’re pregnant.”

The shock hit Caroline so hard she let out a hysterical bubble of laughter. “No, no. That’s…” Well, it was possible. She and Alfie weren’t shy around each other. It just felt natural and dammit Alfie made it fun. He never failed to put a smile on her face and often times would make her giggle. Without her sight, Alfie knew she relied a good deal on touch. That’s why he made sure to memorize every little quirk about his wife. A quick nip to her collarbone or tickling her toes made her squirm and laugh.

Now it appeared that their rambunctious behaviors had led to something much less light-hearted. Despite talking about it many times before, it still hit Caroline harder than she expected.

Feeling ten pounds heavier, she slowly sank back into her chair. “Oh…” Things that had just seemed like little nuisances were starting to fall into place. She hadn’t bled regularly, her clothes were feeling a bit snug, and she’d become more sensitive to smells.

Julia had to sit with the news for a moment. She grabbed the edge of the nearest desk and put a hand on her hip. Lifting her chin, she stared at the ceiling and muttered a few Yiddish prayers under her breath. Mostly along the lines of God giving her strength.

Julia’s moment was interrupted by Caroline who had begun to cry. “Everything was going al-alright and now look what I’ve done.” She sniffled with her face in her hands.

“Zeeskeit, don’t cry. Hush now.” Julia knelt down to embrace her niece. “Why the tears?”

“Don’t lie to me, tante, you know I can’t be a good mother.” Caroline resisted her aunt trying to comfort her. "That's just ridiculous to assume, everyone knows it wouldn't work out."

“Why would I lie to you, hey?”

“Because everyone does. Everyone wants to pity me and console me like a child. They pretend I can be normal when they treat me like I’m som-some second-class person that they need to coddle.

“I don’t treat you that way and neither does Alfie.”

“Not you two. Other people…” Caroline wiped her eyes and shook her head.

“Who?” Julia tipped her niece’s chin up when she didn’t respond. “Who, Caroline?”

Her lower lip quivered as the memory of Passover returned to her. The exact words of those awful women were still branded into her brain. No matter what Alfie said, she couldn’t wipe them away. “It doesn’t matter.”

“It does matter. No one talks ill about you.” Julia insisted.

Caroline sighed. “I don’t know who it was. They were talking about me. Saying how I would never be a good mother or wife. They assumed that you had paid Alfie to marry me because no one else would.”

Julia scoffed. “Those momzers.” She gritted her teeth because she had an idea of who the two women were that her niece was talking about. There were rumors going around that Julia heard but tried to keep Caroline in the dark about them. “You don’t listen to a word they say, fershtay? They know nothing about you or what you’re capable of. You exceed my expectations every day and for that, I am blessed. And now you and Alfie are blessed with such a wonderful gift. Do not let anyone take that away from you.”

Caroline hiccupped. “It’s a curse. Now Alfie has to worry about a newborn when he already has so much else to worry about!” She cried. "He's busy enough now-now I just. Oh it's all going to fall apart!"

“Don’t ever call your child a curse.” Julia scolded. “That baby is a gift from Him and you ought not question His plan for you.”

She lowered her head in shame. “I’m scared.” She admitted in a sheepish voice.

Julia sighed and carefully tucked a stray piece of Caroline’s hair back in place under her scarf. “That is nothing to be ashamed of. It’s a new challenge. But I trust that you will rise to it, just as you do to every challenge you’ve faced in your life. You’re a strong woman who has overcome so much. HaShem has rewarded you.”

Caroline closed her eyes. She wasn’t worried about what God had planned for her. “What if Alfie is upset?”

“Why would he be?”

She just shrugged. Perhaps it was unsubstantiated. Alfie had done nothing but accepted the idea of having children. He assured Caroline that it would be a good thing in their life, not something to avoid. But she couldn’t get over her own doubts that she projected them onto Alfie.

“If he has a problem with it then he can come to me about it,” Julia grumbled. Caroline couldn’t help but laugh softly. “There’s that lovely smile. Now wipe your tears and I’ll walk you over to the bakery.”

“For what?”

“To tell your husband the good news.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Julia let Caroline go into the office alone. She stayed out with Ollie to chat about how his wife and children were doing. Nervously, Caroline knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

The hardened lines in Alfie’s face dissolved the second he saw Caroline enter his office. “Were hoping you were gonna stop by. Julia let you go a little early or are you taking a break?” He asked and stood up to greet her.

“A break, I suppose. I have some news.” She told him after he gave her a quick kiss.

“News, eh?” He pulled up a chair for her and ruffled Pilot’s ears affectionately.

Caroline sat and tried to gather the courage to get the words out. “Julia said…well, I think…we both did.” She exhaled in defeat. “Oh for the love of-I-don’t know how to tell you.”

“Tell me what, love?” Alfie leaned against his desk, reaching for her hand. “You know you can tell me anything, ain’t gonna judge you.”

She swallowed and squeezed his hand for a little bravery. “I uh-I think I’m pregnant.”

Her voice was so soft but Alfie heard the word well enough. Baffled, he let out a low whistle of disbelief. “Pregnant, aye? That’s…well, that’s to be expected.” He chuckled nervously and ran a hand over his beard. Truth be told it was some sort of an enigma that his wife hadn’t ended up pregnant much earlier in their marriage.

“I know but it’s still.” Caroline’s voice caught in her throat. “Oh, it’s just so much, Alfie, I don’t know what to do.”

“What do you mean, love? Ain’t nothing for you to do ‘cept carry our child. Not saying that’ll be easy. Can’t imagine toting ‘round a babe in my gut for months on end.”

“But-”

“Caroline, we discussed this. I know you want me to be angry and to tell you that you’ll never be a good mother. But I ain’t ever gonna say it ‘cause it ain’t true. I won’t lie to you. Any child would be lucky to have you as a mother.” He insisted. Don’t matter what the rest of the world thinks. We’ll do it our own way and we’ll make it work. You trust me?”

Tears were welling up in Caroline’s eyes again. “Yes.”

“Then trust that I trust you.” He kissed her knuckles. “Be excited. We’ll have our own family soon ‘nough and that makes me unbelievably happy. Can't even describe it to ya.”

She gave a weak, tearful laugh. “I am happy, I’m just so scared.” Her voice shook.

“I am too.” He chuckled and stood her up so he could embrace her tightly. “If you didn’t know, I ain’t ever been a father before.” He kissed her cheek. “But we’ll figure it out together.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It took some getting used to, but Caroline accepted the fact that she was pregnant and in a short period of time she would be giving birth. Many times a day she placed her hand on her stomach to feel the slight swell of her abdomen. Almost as if to make sure the baby was still there or to try to feel any movement. However, Julia told her that it was far too early to feel any movement.

Caroline had to come to terms that she didn’t know much about pregnancy or childbirth. Usually, if any of the women in her life discussed the topic, she tuned the conversation out. Perhaps out of spite or avoidance. She always assumed that she would never be a mother because no man would ever want to marry her.

Now that she was expecting, it seemed pressing to know all the little tidbits to look forward to.

Elizabeth was elated when she heard the news. She said she’d make immediate plans for someone to decorate the nursery with everything the baby would need. She also discussed possible names with Caroline, listing off some of the Solomons relatives that had beautiful Jewish names. It was a bit overwhelming but Elizabeth’s reaction made Caroline feel a little more excited.

In fact, everyone who heard the news wished the couple an enthusiastic ‘Mazel Tov’. Yet, Caroline was wary of who knew. Alfie wanted to tell anyone they came in contact with. Getting ahead of himself, he was just thrilled to be a proud father. His wife was more cautious. Not for her safety, but because she didn’t want people gossiping behind her back.

How could they be so reckless to have a child?

How could Caroline ever think she could be a proper mother?

What if the baby came out blind as well?

All, frankly, ridiculous things but Caroline couldn’t shake them. After Passover, she put her guard up when it came to people she didn’t know well. She just assumed they were talking about her when she left the room.

~~~~~~~~~~~~

Still, she had enough time to herself to enjoy the early stages of her pregnancy. Not the morning sickness, mind you, but just the simple period of waiting. Often times, when she was alone, she’d talk idly to the child. Just like she mindlessly talked to Pilot when it was just the two of them together.

Sometimes she listed out the names that she was considering just so she could hear how they sounded out loud.

That’s what she was doing one unseasonably warm April night. She was upstairs in their home in Camden. The window was open with the curtains swishing back and forth in the warm breeze. The street outside was quiet, only a few people passing by and a car every so often.

Caroline was alone in the flat with Pilot and Apollo. She had sent their maid home, as Alfie was due to be home at any moment. She was sitting on the edge of the bed, a hand over her baby bump. Apollo was curled up on the bed. He’d grown so much in a year but still thought he was a tiny puppy, hardly aware of his long legs. Pilot was sat at Caroline’s feet, his chin resting on her knee.

“Hanna Solomons. Elizabeth said that was Alfie’s mother’s cousin’s name. Or no…was it her sister? Well, that would make it Alfie’s aunt’s name. Now, Elizabeth said her mother’s name was Livna. Livna Solomons. I suppose that’s pretty. Although you could be a boy.” Caroline smiled. “I think Alfie would love to have a boy. Of course, he would love you no matter what.” She chuckled but stopped when she heard a noise from downstairs.

Even Pilot and Apollo perked up. It sounded like footsteps so Caroline called out.

“Alfie? Is that you?”

There was no response. Maybe he hadn’t heard her. Caroline stood up, nudging Pilot to the side and making her way to open the bedroom door.

“Alfie? You home?”

When she didn’t get a response the second time, a hint of dread dropped into her stomach. With the door open, she could definitely tell the noises were footsteps and they were making their way upstairs. “A-Alfie?” She shrunk backward and reached to close the door. Something wasn’t right.

The footsteps reached the landing and began to run at her. It clearly wasn’t her husband as there were multiple people coming after her. So she screamed and hurried to close the door shut. But someone wedged their foot inside to keep it from closing. They shoved forward, knocking Caroline back and forcing the door open.

Pilot jumped up, barking and growling. The massive Newfoundland launched himself at the intruder, teeth bared. Although not technically a trained attack dog, Julia had made sure she gifted her niece with a protective companion just in case.

A man swore and staggered backward when Pilot sunk his teeth into his arm. “Get it off!”

“Just fucking shoot the thing!” Another man snapped.

“No!” Caroline shrieked.

“Shut ‘er up!”

Rough hands grabbed Caroline by the hair, dragging her to her feet. She heard a dull thump and Pilot yipped out in pain.

“Leave him alone, please!” She cried and tried to get to her beloved dog.

“I said, shut ‘er up!” The second man ordered again.

A cloth was placed over Caroline’s mouth to muffle her screams while the butt end of a rifle knocked her on the back of the head, causing her to go limp.

~~~~~~~

Yiddish/Hebrew:

Zeeskeit: Sweetheart Momzers: Untrustworthy bastards Fershtay: Understand? HaShem: Hebrew name for God, "The name"

Permanent Tag: @papa-geralt-of-cirilla @giftofdreams

Tag list: @zazasblogxx @thinkingsofamadwoman @deaflikehawkeye @bellarkebxtch

Masterlist

#alfie solomons #alfie solomonsxoc #alfie solomons x oc #alfie solomons imagine #peaky blinders #peaky blinder imagine #peaky fookin blinders #peaky blinders fanfiction #fanfiction #ofc #oc #blind character #jewish character #cyril solomons

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raywritesthings · 5 years

Text

Granted

My Writing Fandom: Arrow Characters: Laurel Lance, Oliver Queen, Felicity Smoak Pairing: Laurel Lance/Oliver Queen Summary: “It was about faith, really. Trust. No one ever wanted to know who their soulmate was, if they’d been right. Not until the last possible moment.” // A person loses their ability to see color after their soulmate tells them they love them for the last time. Notes: Angst and Tragedy, Canonical Character Death, mentioned Ol*city *Can also be read on my AO3*

She lost color two years ago.

It came on her gradually, in the midst of her spiral. By the time Oliver was walking away from her down a hallway, the words, “I have loved you for half of my life,” echoing around in her head, it was complete. And what was there to do but swallow down the fear and loneliness and rage — how dare he do this to her? how dare he bleed the color from her life so young? — and walk away herself. What else was there to be done?

It was about faith, really. Trust. No one ever wanted to know who their soulmate was, if they’d been right. Not until the last possible moment. Her mother’s favorite film, Technicolor, told the fairytale: a couple fell in love in their youth, built a life together, struggled through, and then on their deathbed in old age each confessed their love for the last time before falling peacefully into eternal sleep. The film faded from color to gray, before finally to black as the orchestra swelled and The End was projected onto the screen in curvy letters. That’s what everyone wanted.

Who would want to know the truth only to know their soulmate would never say the words to them ever again? Better the uncertainty.

But somehow, the world did not end despite hers being in shades of black, white, and gray. Maybe out of spite Laurel pulled herself out of addiction, got help, threw herself into her relationships with family and friends. And yes, that included him. Even if she was to never know that kind of love again, she could find some kind of equilibrium.

In times of strife, it was still Oliver who was there, as himself or the Arrow. Sometimes he would even say things that made her hold her breath — “It’s because I care about you.” — but there was no point to hoping. No point to wondering if those flashes of color were real or just desperately imagined. The last time was always meant to be the last time.

She stopped trying to remember what green or red or blue looked like, which of the grays they were. When Ted asked her which color she wanted to wear at the gym, her answer was a firm, “Black. Definitely black.” It was the one color she could rely on anymore.

She never told Oliver. Tempted as she was sometimes. Would it shock him? Would he even care? Sometimes she wondered if he’d already experienced it the same as she had, just one of a thousand hurts he kept shut up inside of himself.

Just once, she thought maybe she glimpsed the moment it happened. Thea had come to her with the truth of Sara’s death and Oliver’s knowledge of it. She approached him, tried to see if he’d admit to it himself, and his lie blinded her with an anger that nearly made her think she could see red.

“You know it’s hard to remember a time when I was actually in love with you.”

The words left her before she could stop them, and his face — but she turned away, just as he had only a year ago. She calmed eventually, as she always did, and there was no mention or indication from Oliver. Nothing that made her think he’d realized the despairing truth.

Did she really have it in her to say the words again? Even if she knew in the deepest reaches of her heart that they were still true, she couldn’t think of a way they might ever come out.

Not when he appeared to betray them to the League — “Oliver, we believed in you!” — not when he left with Felicity — a smile at his goodbye speech, little spoken between them at all — not when she and Thea set off to retrieve him — “We’re hoping you can’t change who you are in your bones.” — not even when he journeyed to rescue Sara from the other realm with her — “How can I say no to the man that helped me save my sister’s soul?”

Perhaps that the meaning underneath the words was there at all was enough. Perhaps love was more than four letters. Perhaps he would never know.

But a night months later found her in the hospital, weariness in her bones and yet clarity to her mind. She told the team she loved them, and all but Oliver echoed it. He couldn’t, after all.

The others began to file out while he remained. Forever lingering near if not with her. And it would be that way forever, unless she let him go now.

It was time.

—-

If there was one solace, it was that he still had color.

Through the years on the island and the horrors he endured, through the deaths he caused and learned to stop counting, through everything that had damaged him beyond repair, he’d never lost it. That had to mean there was something to keep striving for, wasn’t there?

With each failure of a relationship, he made it past the heartbreak with his sight the same as ever. Eventually, he knew the gamble would not pay off, his luck would have to run out. He would find and then drive away his own soulmate. But it hadn’t happened yet.

Not even when Felicity gave him back the ring. Not even when she packed his things and watched him leave their home. Not even when she denied the vows she had recited at their sham of a wedding to ensnare Cupid had meant anything to her at all.

Maybe there was still hope for him, for them. Hope that he would continue to hear I love you for years to come, that he wasn’t so much of a monster. That his soulmate could still love him, that had to mean he was doing at least one thing right.

Oliver was braced for those words, for the last time he would hear them. He thought he was prepared for it at any time.

Which was why when they did come, he felt it like a punch straight to his heart.

He didn’t know why he couldn’t say it back as he stood there by the foot of Laurel’s bed watching her and the team. “We love you.” They were simple words, true words, yet they bubbled up and caught in his throat so that he just nodded and felt his lips half form around the first syllable. Love was a complicated word for him and Laurel, after all.

Oliver stayed behind instead. Actions had always been his arena more than words. He would watch over Laurel all night to make sure she was safe and happy and knew how he felt, the deep bond and affection that all the years and hurts had yet to destroy.

When she asked him to fetch something out of her belt, he thought nothing of it. Until he saw what it was.

The photo rested between his thumb and forefinger as his eyes burned. When he asked, Laurel was at last free with her explanation, honest in a way that the two of them rarely were. It was enough to make his heart drop. But he couldn’t stop her; he owed her that much.

“I know how passionately you love, and how much it hurts once that love goes away,” she had said to him as she comforted him through his failed engagement. She had known. She had known all this time, and what had he done—

“And I know that I’m not the love of your life, Ollie. But you will always be the love of mine.”

It was a gradual fade. It seemed to leak in around the corners of his eyes at first, zeroing in until Laurel was the only bright spot in his vision. The blonde of her hair, the faint pink to her lips, her green gaze watching him with compassion until that too went.

Oliver choked on a sob. His legs buckled and he sat hard on the edge of her hospital bed, his hand landing on her knee. His mouth opened, her name on his lips, but she shushed him and reached, her fingers just barely brushing his. “You don’t have to say it,” she told him, words barely above a whisper. “It’s okay.”

He stayed there until he couldn’t, until the seizures began, and the doctors pushed him out towards the door.

He knew even as he stood there muttering prayers under his breath — “Come on, Laurel. Come on.” — and holding Thea with one arm — her hair was a deep gray now, and they all looked so old — that it was no use. Laurel would have never told him until the end, until the last possible moment. She would have wanted him to have the colors.

They pronounced her dead at 11:59, but Oliver’s world had already darkened several minutes prior.

He was in a daze over the next days. Funeral preparations, an impostor in her suit, John’s guilt and rage, it all felt both too much and far too in the background to be real. Nothing felt real except the gray of her tombstone. That, he knew he could see in perfect clarity, if not the flowers that rested below it.

He couldn’t tell what kind they were without the colors to aid him. Something he had taken for granted before. He’d taken so much for granted, and just as his sight was limited now he felt it a wonder he hadn’t been blind before. He had not been lucky; he had been selfish, scared to risk his heart and his feelings on the woman who had always been in his life no matter how hard it must have been for her.

Felicity’s car was still waiting when he at last got up and left the grave. He got in on the other side, glad she remained staring out the window. It was hard to look at her.

“You know what you have to do?” She asked him. “You have to kill that son of a bitch.”

Oliver’s eyes closed. He wanted to. Oh, how badly he wanted to. But in the end, he knew it would never be what Laurel had wanted. Not for him.

“Darhk will face justice,” he promised.

Felicity sensed the denial of her request, her head turning sharply. “Oliver, I’m telling you it’s okay.”

She was giving her approval, something only until recently he would have done anything to have. Yet though many claimed they had found happiness without their soulmate, though there were self-help books and TLC shows about Loving Without Color, he knew it wasn’t enough. Not for him. He was all-or-nothing, as Laurel had once so accurately described. God, she’d known him better than himself.

“It’s no use, Felicity,” he said. “I lost the colors.”

Her eyes widened for one long moment, and then her expression closed off. “I see.”

She faced forward in her seat, and it was a clear dismissal. Oliver opened his door and got out, watching as the car pulled away. He then turned and walked back to Laurel’s grave. It would be night before he managed to tear himself away and make the solitary trek back to the base.

He had been so determined to be alone through most of his life. Now that he knew for certain that he would be for the rest of it, his earlier resolve did little to comfort.

They should have had more time.

#lauriver #laurel x oliver #laurel lance #oliver queen #arrow #felicity smoak #green arrow #black canary #angst #my writing

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bri206 · 6 years

Text

Soulmates Part 7

So words can not express how sorry I am for not updating. Life has been crazy and I had some crazy writer's block, but I must say that I am very happy with this update. So enjoy & let me know what you think!

As the days counted down, so did Oliver and Felicity’s patience. No word had come through from Sara, and two weeks turned into 10, then 9 days. Time was running out.

Everybody seemed to notice Oliver’s absence, his girlfriend, his parents, and his best friend. And when they did see him, he was different in their eyes, happier and carefree. Moira had noticed that he hadn’t come home drunk when he did bother to come home.

While his mother didn’t know what the cause of this difference in her son was, his father sure did. Which is why he had a plan to end this fling he was having with the blonde. A father son trip. In Robert’s eyes, time and distance was the key to ending a fling.

It was 8 days before the Gambit that things drastically started to fall apart for him, and the first thing was the most subtle. His father had asked to meet him in his study. Reluctantly leaving Felicity for the first time in days, he went to the mansion and softly knocked on his father’s office.

“Come in.”

“Father, you wanted to see me.”

Not looking up from a paper he is reading, Robert simply says “Take a seat.”

Hesitantly, Oliver takes a seat across from his father.

“Father-”

Robert’s pointer finger stops him in his tracks. When he finishes the sentence he was reading, he puts down the paper, and slowly looks up at his son.

“Oliver, do you know why I called you in here?”

“No.”

“I have called you because I haven’t seen you in the last couple days.”

“I’ve been… busy.”

“I imagine.”

Sighing at the judgmental tone.

“If I’m here so you can lecture me about my-” Oliver quickly shuts his mouth. “What do you want?”

Tempted to have Oliver finish his sentence, Robert opens his mouth, but then quickly changes his mind. What ever he was about to say is probably better left unsaid.

“Oliver, I asked you in here, because I would like to give you an opportunity.”

“And what would that be?”

“You and I take a trip on the Gambit.”

At the request, Oliver’s breath catches and he goes still.

“What did you just say?”

Knowing this moment was coming, it didn’t mean it would get any easier, when his father did finally utter the words. But something was very different when his father asked him the first time. The first time, they were happy, him and his father had a really good conversation reminiscing about the past, when he causally brought up the business trip, and how much he would love it, if Oliver joined him. But now there was no happiness, in fact if he wasn’t mistaken, it sounded a whole lot like spite.

“I have a business trip, and I want you to come.”

“Why?”

“Well for several reasons, you need to learn and be in the action of the business world. But the main one is to get away from that blonde.”

“Dad-”

“No Oliver, she is only going to ruin your future.”

“No she won’t” he says standing up defensively.

“Oh Oliver, when did you become so naïve? So blind?”

“Father, I am not naïve. And I am NOT blind. And my relationship with Felicity is none of your business.”

And with that, he turns to leave, not wanting to hear anymore of this nonsense from his father.

“Oliver you are going on the trip, we leave in 8 days. So you better get packing.”

Without looking back, Oliver storms out of the room and slams the door behind him.

“This can not be happening” he mutters. ‘This is not how it’s supposed to go.’

After telling Felicity about the conversation, she was speechless. The next thing that changed everything was when Tommy wanted to meet for a drink. What seemed harmless, turned out being a major mistake on his part.

When Oliver arrived at the club, he and Tommy used to frequent, he saw his friend sitting at the bar.

“Hey” he says sitting down.

“Hey. Hey bartender, get my friend over here a tequila.”

After getting the drink, Oliver looks at his friend who was already a couple drinks ahead of him, grab a shot of tequila of his own, and saluted him. Drowning it back, Tommy flinches, and so does he, this younger body is not used to this hard liquor.

“So what’s going on Tommy?”

“I could ask you the same thing.”

“What do you mean?”

“Ollie, you’ve disappeared. I’ve gone from seeing you everyday, to what, once a week?”

“Ok, yeah I’ve been a little busy lately, but what’s the big deal?”

“The big deal is, Ollie you’re not supposed to go MIA on me.”

“Ok. I’m sorry.”

After a moment of silence, Tommy suddenly turning very serious, Tommy gives him a look.

“You really don’t love Laurel do you?”

That question completely throws him off guard.

“Why would you ask me that? Tommy, you know I love Laurel.” he says unconvincingly even to his own his ears.

“Really? Because if that were true you wouldn’t have been with that girl” his best friend says seriously.

Not wanting to have this conversation in the crowded club, he grabs his friends arm and leads him out of the club and to the alley. When the door is closed, Oliver decides to do something he knows he will absolutely regret later, but he needs to tell his friend the one thing he has longed to tell him over the last seven years.

“I’m in love Tommy. I love her.”

Tommy knows that they’re not talking about Laurel.

“How do you know?”

“I just do. But Tommy this stays between you and me, Laurel or anyone else can never know about this.”

Tommy doesn’t answer at first, causing Oliver to rethink everything he just said.

“Just do me one favor” Tommy says in one of the most serious tone’s he’s ever heard his friend use, “just don’t lead her on.”

Before Oliver can respond, his phone goes off.

It was Laurel.

‘I need you NOW’

“Um, I have to go.” Turning to leave, he stops and turns back to his friend. “Tommy….”

“You’re secret’s safe with me.”

Nodding his head, he leaves.

Arriving back at the mansion, Oliver heads up to his room as a hunch. And sure enough Laurel was pacing with her arms crossed, and her lips formed in a deep frown.

Hearing the door open, she turns towards him and scowls at him.

“Where. Have. You. Been?” she asks in a menacing whisper.

“Laurel, I can explain…” he says holding up his hands in surrender, trying to get her to calm down.

“Don’t Laurel me. You have been ignoring me, you’ve been God knows where. And Ollie, I am so mad at you.”

“Laurel”

“I don’t understand, I mean Ollie, I love you and you love me. At least I think you love me. Do you love me?”

“Laurel” he says sighing. “Of course I love you…”

“Then why are you ignoring me? I mean I thought our conversation the other day about me being a lawyer was good. You cared.”

“I do care, and I meant what I said, you should pursue your dream of being a lawyer because you’re going a damn good one.”

“Really? You really think that?”

“I know that.”

Sighing she lets all of her tension go and comes towards him.

“Oh Ollie” she says looping her arms around his neck.

Patting her back awkwardly, he takes her in his arms in a friendly way, because despite how messed up the situation is, he really does miss Laurel.

When she pulls back, he eyes are shining.

“I just had the greatest idea, you should come with me.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I mean your parents are paying for any school you go to, why can’t you come with me?”

“Laurel…”

“What? It’s not the most absurd idea ever, besides we’ve been dating for the last 3 years, don’t you think it’s about time we moved in together?”

The thought of moving in with Laurel, leaves him uncomfortable. The first time he had this conversation, it was equal amounts of uncomfortable, but at that time it was because he knew once he moved in with her he would be officially tied down to her. But now it was because he couldn’t possibly think of living with anyone but Felicity. If anything proved that, it was the fact that he practically moved in with Felicity within the first week of their first relationship.

But what did he do now? He couldn’t tell her that he didn’t want to move in with her because that would ruin everything; that would be the end of their relationship. But at the same time he wanted to be honest with her, something he never did when he was younger. He always told Felicity and William, honesty was the key to everything, and that was one of the main reasons why their family was so close and happy, because they were honest with one another.

“Ollie? Where’d you go?”

“What” he asks shaking himself from the thoughts? “Oh, sorry, just thinking.”

“About?”

Taking a deep breath, he makes his decision.

“Laurel… I can’t go with you.”

“What? Why not?”

“Because I don’t deserve you. Laurel, you deserve someone who is going to treat you right and love you unconditionally. I mean I do love you, just not the way that you need.”

“Ollie” she says heartbroken.

Taking her shoulders in his hand, he makes her look at him.

“Laurel, I’m setting you free, because you deserve to live your life the way you want.”

“But I want you.”

“No. No you want my life, you want the big house, the big family, the money, the power.”

“And you don’t?”

“No. I mean yes, I want the family, but I could care less about everything else. I don’t need power or money for that matter, all I need is an undying love and loyalty. Because at the end of the day, that is all that matters.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m a man that has been shown what love truly is and that is worth fighting for. My hope for you is that you find that kind of love, because you deserve it.”

Kissing her forehead, one final time, he turns and leaves.

Leaving her flabbergasted.

“Hey” she says looking up from her book she is reading while cuddled up under a blanket on the couch.

“Hey” he says leaning against the door he just closed.

“You’re home late, although it’s not really late for us, because right about now you would still be hitting the streets.”

Pushing against the door, he slowly walks over to her and captures her lips mid-sentence.

“What was that for?”

“I love you.”

“What happened?”

Kneeling down he meets her eyes. “I screwed up, again.”

“What did you tell Tommy?”

“That I was in love with you and that I wasn’t sorry.”

“Oliver…”

“And that wasn’t all, I also broke up with Laurel.”

Letting out an unexpected laugh Felicity, grabs his hands.

“And to think you couldn’t have messed up anymore.”

His head rests over their intertwined hands. “You’re not helping.”

“Hey, it’s gonna be ok, because I have faith that when Sara comes, she will fix all of this.”

“She’s really taking her sweet time.”

Meeting his eyes she gives him an agreeing smile.

“I just couldn’t help it, seeing them after so many years, it just…”

“I get it. They were two of the most important people of your life.”

“Over the last seven years, there has been so much I have wanted to say.”

“And you did.”

“Yeah I did.” Meeting her eyes again, he says “you know the one thing I have been dying to tell Tommy after so many years, is about you. I truly believe that he would have loved you.”

“And I know I would have loved him.”

“And as for Laurel, I think my biggest regret was leading her on for so long, I mean it only caused her pain in the end. I think that’s why I said what I did.”

“You know Oliver, one of the reasons I love so much is because of your strength, and not physical. Not that I don’t love your humongous biceps and to die for abs…”

“Felicity” he gently says smirking.

“But I’ve always admired how you can take any situation and make the best of it. How you’ve leaned and lost so much, and instead of holding that against everyone, you use it to remind you that life is precious. Oliver you’ve come so far since you came back from that island and you’ve grown into this amazingly selfless man. The man I love.”

Laying a kiss on her palm, he doesn’t lose eye contact with her.

After a moment of reveling in their love, Oliver kisses her palm again.

“Don’t you have things you wish you would’ve said?”

“Well I mean yeah, but…”

“But?”

“I can’t”

“Why not? I mean I already screwed everything up.”

“I mean would I like to find Cooper and slap him for everything he has done to me or find my dad and tell him how much he hurt me? Yes. But I can’t because all of that shaped me to be the person I am today, and I kind of like her. And there’s a rumor going around that someone loves me.”

“I do. Come on, I mean we’re still here. What do you regret the most?”

“Well, I guess there is one thing.”

“Well?”

Sighing Felicity says, “Me and my mom weren’t in a good place in this time. I moved straight from Boston to here and she wasn’t happy. It wasn’t that I got the job, but because I didn’t go home. And I wouldn’t for years. I guess if I could do anything it would be to tell her that I’m sorry and that I love her.”

“Well like you said the night’s still young.”

He hands her a pin and paper carelessly laying on the table, in her hand.

“I’m gonna go take a shower” he says laying a kiss on her forehead.

Looking down at the blank page, she starts to write.

Dear Mom,

I know it’s been a while, a long while and I’m sorry for that. I just want to let you know that I love you and I am so thankful for everything you’ve done for me, because without you, I wouldn’t be here. I love you mom and I hope that you can forgive me for not coming home.

Love, Felicity

Unknowing to her, Oliver sends the letter the next morning.

@candykizzes24 @wherethereissmoak @ao3feed-oliverfelicity @almondblossomme @dreamalongwithamy @smkkbert @miriam1779 @jcc04220 @emisfritish @smoakqueenalways @leuska @lovelycssefan @it-was-a-red-heeler @omglovechrissie @smoakqueenalways

#Olicity #oliver queen/felicity smoak #olicity fanfic #olicity fanfiction #time travel #soulmates #Felicity Smoak #oliver & felicity #oliver queen

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theboookwitch · 5 years

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Review: The Brilliant Death

It’s been a hectic, exhausting, and emotional two weeks, but I was able to finally find time to finish The Brilliant Death (with a little help from Oliver). It’s always such a relief to start reading and immediately find a little bit of solace in a well-crafted fictional universe. This book brought the exact literary escape that I needed.

Ollie is the best reading buddy. Okay, onto my book thoughts! I genuinely loved it. It gave me medieval Italy with a dash of mafia. As an Italian-American who was basically raised on The Godfather - I was thrilled.

Also, I’ve been reading books in the YA world for 20 years. Can I just say how absolutely refreshing it is to have such a plethora of diverse characters these days? Non-binary MC and love interest?! Yes, please! The commentary on gender and sexual identity is really well done, and I’m so happy that it’s there for kids who might need it.

Another thing I loved is the way magic is presented, and how it manifests differently in different strega. I want more strega lore, and I want to meet more strega characters so badly. I’d almost move this as a multi-POV, bc I definitely want to get into Cielo’s head. I am so glad that this is going to be a series because I am very much looking forward to getting more familiar with these characters and this universe.

Okay, so for some of the critiques. Honestly, I don’t have many, but I do think that some of the plot was lost for some of the more romantic scenes. I feel like the ending happened so quickly. One minute, Teo is being confronted by the Capo and swept up in undying familial loyalty. Next thing you know, Teo is leaving her family behind in spite of an impending war and the guaranteed wrath of the Capo and the other families...AND Beniamo. I guess it just felt so rushed towards the end. I also feel like we didn’t get nearly as much from the Strega sisters as I wanted. They were probably my favorite side characters, and I feel like we only got a shadow of what they could’ve been. And both of them were kind of killed off pretty quickly as well. Lastly, I felt like Papa di Sangro’s excuse for Teo not leading was kind of a cop out. He said it wasn’t how the families had ever done things, but the heads of the families were all dead, and their sons knew that Teo had been acting as head of the family. And they already knew of their/her powers. And Lorenzo had even mentioned how women rule where he is from, so I just felt like that was kind of a weak excuse on Niccolo’s part, and easily accepted on Teo’s part.

Other than that, I am a massive fan of this book. I can’t wait for the rest of the series, because it’s so wonderful.

#the brilliant death #ya fantasy #ya lit #amreading #amreadingYA #tbr #tbrpile #2019 books #currently reading #book review #bookworm #booklover #book pics #bookstagram #bibliophile #library books #american eskimo #puppy #dogs and books

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roccoreceipts-blog · 6 years

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CALLOUT FOR MARS / BARON / ROCCO / MIMI / PIPPI / MARIA WHO CURRENTLY OWNS @VINYLBITCHIN + @HANDFUCKIING + @FLESHPRAY + @SHESCHISM + BUNKERKEPT . CONTENT WARNING FOR ABUSE, PEDOPHILIA, RAPE, RACEFAKING, ETC.   

a quick introduction though i'm kinda uncomfortable, im 17 i run a few blogs on this hellsite and i have some concerns for people's safety. this isn't a petty post either, is genuinely fearful for myself and others she's abused in the past and will continue to do so and it's about time we all came out about this because it's gone on way too long and i blame myself more than anything for holding back. i just felt unsafe and i do more so now but it's worth other people's safety. and everybody knows i'm definitely not one to do something like this and i've had such a hard time coming out about this from guilt. i want to make this short and to the point. i don't wanna take up too much time because we could go off for hours about all of her drastic lies like how she supposedly got hypothermia in 45 degree weather or how she lied about being in a s.chool s.hooting ( one , two , three ) ironically she had sent me a fanfiction of the c.olumbine s.hooters in the past and guilt tripped me the moment i said it wasn't right. or the time she told me she was taken hostage which i might have stayed believing if it weren't for the fact she was roleplaying with a character from that movie on her @lleeta blog not too long ago ( one , two , three ) but anyway.

im never gonna be able to recover completely but i want to reach out and warn people. me and others have gone through her explicit / obsessive / rape roleplays but i can fucking guarantee no matter how many times i was ( or the others ) guilt tripped into saying YES despite how uncomfortable i was but couldn't tell her , she does still do them from what i know. she tends to warp characters ( other muns put in these scenarios have told me the same thing bc she did it to multiple people ) to make them far more obsessive / creepy then they are even meant to be. i'll start out by saying ive known rocco since the end of 2015 or so and we instantly became friends. we quickly made our ocs out to be affiliated, though they were SUPPOSED to be father and daughter (and often i would let her portray an oc i of mine who is supposed to be a love interest), she would always propose obsessive rape plots, and even an explicit plot of a forced marriage au between the father and daughter muses which was clear she wanted to lead to smut (warning for a graphic detail i can't get out of my fucking head was her saying she could imagine hannah / the daughter on her knees being forced to unbuckle his belt but said it as if it were almost ? something she got ? in a way , excited over ??) of course i don't have many screenshots of these things especially because i was isolated by her for about a year at the time , trusted her , and no matter how sick or anxious ive felt getting her messages i didn't really know i had the choice to come out about it , especially considering how hostile she would be when i had friends or even my ex .

( one , two , three , four , five ) we were actually dating at this time, which was a relationship i was basically forced / guilt tripped in after saying no countless times. she would often numb me down when i would say no to things, whether it was her asking to be in a relationship with me or even roleplay, in which at one point i've counted 20+ screenshots of her constantly begging even though i had just declined. at this time is when i was isolated so i don't the have exact proof because again, i didn't know about the abuse going on in front of my face and i didn't known what to do about it. she would constantly guilt trip me over these things and i felt very vulnerable though i do tend to play things off when i'm uncomfortable.

now i'll move on to some more recent -ish shit or at least things i haven't completely blocked out from my memory since that's most of what i have. we've been friends on and off because she had eventually set me off, our first fight being me angry that she couldn't handle when i declined her roleplays. so it's been a long cycle of me blocking her from discomfort, only for her to constantly make or log into old blogs to try and contact me to manipulate me into friendship again. and it worked. too many times. after all of that, she began to test boundaries which is something she usually does. this included throwing attitude for no reason ( i remember a time i was supposed to be making her icons and couldn't at the time and her response was "it's not that fucking hard" // she's even sent me a screenshot herself before of her in a groupchat where one of the participants had said something and told them "literally nobody cares" and expected me to comfort her after that ) + saying things she knows is wrong + stealing or making blatant rip offs of my original character ( one , two , of course there are far more instances like the time she ran @viirginblood but that's not the point of this post so i'm skipping over that ) + bringing up my past relationships / sometimes family or financial issues + constantly bringing up the fact we got in fights i was trying to move past or try to make me feel bad if i didn't reply right away ( one , two , three , four , five / she also acted very controlling to me any time i wouldn't answer so i would be forced to give an explaination and she would pretend it wasn't just her being "worried" ) + manipulating her into following her / bossing me into doing things she wanted ( one , two ). even some new information came to light that i was completely oblivious to; obviously any time i had a friend or a significant other she had no problem portraying blatant jealousy, i was also informed she was acting possessive of me even when i wasn't around, when i was actually NOT TALKING TO HER AT ALL ( one , two ) . which really freaked me the fuck out.

she would also constantly TRY to spite me when we weren't friends. she's admitted it. she's also admitted in a group call, that i still have contact with one of the participants, that she stalked me when we stopped talking and got her friends to "keep tabs on me" i was also informed of her stalking another minor not too long ago and going back to the spite stealing, it wasn't just one oc, it was concept ideas, urls, even going as far to LITERALLY flat out steal the oc i let her portray ( the one she obsessively wrote out rape roleplays with ) , lied by saying it was a "misunderstanding".

shes also is a rapist and pedophile apologist ! she roleplayed dolores of l.olita and a few people including myself can recall her literally posting / asking for a humbert to roleplay with. i don't know a lot about the film / book itself but i DO know humbert is the pedophile who abused dolores. here's some screenshots of her not only apologizing his actions burn theowing a pity party over it, claiming shen had a right to roleplay dolores getting, what i imagine must have been sexually abused ( one , two , three ).

her relationship with her ex, ( for those of you who don't know ollie you can probably easily find some information on him as a fill in on what he's done / warning for rape ) , she helped him catfish / fake his identity to hide what he did, shows hostility toward the rape victim and shows behavior of a rapist apologist again + talked some nasty transphobic shit about me , not to mention again , i'm underage so that's weird that it's focused on my body especially considering she's 18 here, not to mention she's not still obsessing over me when we aren't talking ( one , two ) + on her @roccospeaks blog she had a while back , she deleted the posts but i'm sure plenty of people saw that she and others were claiming that ollie was FAKING A TRANS IDENTITY ( and this isn't a kiss ass moment to him, i'm just pointing this out: this was after she made those transphobic remarks about me so i highly doubt she can blame her transphobia on being "drunk" here ) because he was wearing makeup and had a feminine appearance . i'm pretty sure the post is still floating about somewhere so if you can find it, it's all there . she continued to focus on me despite we weren't talking, blamed me for being the source of her suicidal tendencies that she's had since i've known her, ironically though she's also told me i'm the reason she says alive in the past — and something she thinks blocking her for comfort is a manipulation tactic or game to her ?? / that and here's some of her guilt tripping all because i soft blocked her ( one , two , three )

i had also recently ended a relationship with an ex of mine , which wasn't ANY of her business but she constantly brought her up plenty of times. as shown above, she's was insisting that my vague posts about ending my relationship were about her no matter what i said ( one , two , three ) + doing so either herself or i suspect getting ollie or his friends to send me anons about MY relationship because i didn't tell anybody else about it, but she sure as hell did ! all while putting blame on me ( one , two )

here are some messages i have of someone informing me she was actually racefaking ! and the funny thing about this is she's white. or at least from what i know? i know she has indeed sent me a link to a post before of a black mun venting about white people or smth like that which was NONE of my fucking business esp considering i wasn't following this person and she told me after sending me the link to the post "i thought i could trust them" where she tried tin get me to comfort her ?? this is also interesting, here she is talking about a minor, THREATENING THAT SAME MINOR, not to mention dissing sex workers and putting an input on reverse racism.

heres more of her obsessive / controlling behaviors over not letting people follow / interact with me out of sheer spite and not wanting them to be able to know what she has done ( one , two , three , four , five , six , though there's many more i lost ) here's more evidence of her interest in writing problematic issues / warning for rape ( one , two ) i have many more screenshots of her situations with ollie but chose not to post them; however if you would like to see them you can ask me, it's just her encouraging him to hack me plus some gaslighting aftermath shen sent me on mun personal when things didn't go her way.

she has also lied about her age to smut multiple times in the past , claimed to be of age here and on multiple blogs. she was at least sixteen at the time. also mentions shes underage here but then says she could LEGALLY portray sexual assault ?? and here's her saying she WILL have depictions of pedophilia on her blog. keep in mind we've known each other for a long time, though it was on and off; she knows very well i'm not 18. if told her before countless times AND it's all over my rules. BUT YET, she's persistent on sending me explicit content KNOWING IM A MINOR / ADMITTING SHE IS 18 after i had vagued about my discomfort ( one , two , three )

as i mentioned above she was always presenting nasty plots to me; i can't stress the fact that it DID make me uncomfortable whether i decided to play it off or not, but later on, when she was indeed of age, presented to me an old, incestous plot and then had the audacity to put the blame on ME, whenever i strictly recall her wanting to ship them / make the more brothers in the first place. my character had already had a brother, her oc she actually made back in 2016 was a spiral off of this canon character. so even afternoon she blamed me for it, we established that i said no, she still chose to focus on his childhood with romance. ( one , two , three , four )

again, im not the only person she's has abused like this. and compared to the things she put ALL OF US through, these have to be some of the lightest fucking examples. but i do hope it is enough to keep others safe or be a warning. i also haven't mentioned anybody for their safety, but if you think you would be willing to share your story you can add on or whatever to get it out their. i really hope you can take my word for or it as well, because it wasn't very hard for me to put myself out here but i think i did the right thing for others.

and last but not least, if she's seeing this, here's a big fat "fuck you" from all us, what you put us through, and blamed us for.

#callout*#pedophilia*#rape*#this is gonna be my last post i don't wanna come back

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geneshaven · 6 years

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Safe

PART 7

Just before Oliver and John were about to engage Watson and the ten agents she brought with her, Felicity’s voice spoke over the comms.

“Guys…don’t move. I’ve got Thea and Roy coming to you.”

Agent Watson was staring intently at Oliver, wondering if he was stupid enough to try an attack. But the man and his vigilante partner only stood still in front of her. An uneasy feeling gripped her. In spite of all the evidence (and the confession from one of his team members) she had on Oliver Queen, Watson really did not know just how much he was capable of. Even with ten assault rifles trained on him, she was anticipating some sort of desperate act on his part. She was fully prepared to take him out if he did; never mind the certainty of her evidence and the life sentence his conviction would bring.

“Oliver,” Felicity’s voice came from his earpiece again. “I’m detecting a digital signal coming from one of the back rooms. It looks like some kind of countdown. I think maybe Anatoly left behind an explosive surprise. He must have activated it when you and John dropped in on him.”

Oliver continued to remain frozen and silent, but his instinct was to seek out the bomb Anatoly left. He had a thousand questions for Felicity, but if he started talking to her, Watson would figure their comms out pretty quickly and Oliver would lose his only tactical advantage. Even though Watson was about to take him and John into custody, Oliver still felt his priority was to save lives. Anatoly was a different and more immediate case---he tried to assassinate his wife and son over a grudge born out of an insane Bratva code of honor and brotherhood thing. The man would not quit his vendetta until his purpose (seeing Oliver and those he loved dead) was complete. With Watson, she appeared to have a similar agenda. But unlike Anatoly, she was still an authority Oliver recognized. The woman was not as covert as Lyla and Argus---in fact Oliver wasn’t sure if the FBI Agent even knew that Argus existed. But both women believed their principles and goals were the same---to protect the sanctity of the USA and its citizens.

“Mr. Queen,” Watson spoke to him again. “I really hope for your sake you’re not thinking of some sort of foolish action. As you can see, there is a lot of firepower surrounding you. I doubt someone with your…uh…skills, can avoid it.”

“Agent Watson,” Oliver finally said out loud. “Whether you believe it or not, we are both on the same side. Forget that you’ve been infiltrating my team with blackmail and intimidation; I have the same goal as you do---justice.”

“Mr. Queen, what you’re doing is not justice---it’s illegal.”

“You may think you’ve won here,” Oliver told her. “But if all of us don’t leave this house pretty soon, there won’t be any winners... just a lot of body parts.”

“What are you talking about,” Watson asked him?

“He’s talking about a bomb,” John answered her. “You know; the kind that goes BOOM. Anatoly left one behind and it’s counting down in one of the back rooms.”

A half smile of contempt and one of doubt surfaced on Watson’s otherwise dour face. She looked like she had just figured out a secret and was not comfortable with it. “So I guess that Ms. Smoak has joined us. Some sort of comm link? Mr. Diggle, are you and Mr. Queen trying to stall so she can find some kind of safe exit for you? You are not getting away this time.”

Oliver put his hands up in a placating gesture. The FBI agents surrounding them tightened their grips on the weapons they were aiming. “This is not a trick, Agent Watson.” He touched his finger to his ear. “Ms. Smoak,” he said with a private smile. “Have you calculated the countdown yet?”

Felicity didn’t hesitate. “Yes…Mr. Queen. You have 90 seconds before BOOM. I don’t know how big the bomb is, but knowing Anatoly, I’m guessing it’s large enough to leave a hole in the world.”

“Agent Watson,” Oliver relayed to her. “You need to make a decision. We have about 60 seconds before the bomb goes off.”

Watson was the one frozen this time. But she was not going to let Queen slip away again. Yet, if he was telling the truth…

Suddenly, two flash grenades flew into the room and went off, bringing temporary blindness to everybody.

Oliver and John finally moved, turning away from Watson and her agents. With no sight, they used total recall and envisioned the layout of the safe house. They got their bearings and headed towards the front door.

Random gunfire erupted from Watson’s agents as they blindly fired their weapons into the empty space where Oliver and John had been standing.

“Oliver,” Felicity frantically said to him. “Keep moving. Thea and Roy are waiting to help you out. They’re just a few more feet ahead. Go…”

“Ollie…” Thea’s voice called out. Oliver could not see her, but he turned his senses toward the sound of it. After a couple seconds of groping, Thea grabbed her brother’s arm while Roy took John’s.

Gunfire was still spraying behind them. “My god you guys…” Felicity cried out in their ears. “Move…move…move. Time’s up.”

And then the four of them were out the door and moving further away from Anatoly’s last hurrah. Ten seconds later, the safe house exploded and lifted them up, launching them out onto Adams Street. Debris rained down on them, hitting the street in a deadly downpour. They covered themselves as best they could, but burning fragments of the house still got through to them.

Then it was quiet, as if someone had turned off chaos. Oliver opened his eyes and saw a blurry image where the safe house used to be.

Thea suddenly screamed. “Roy,” she wailed.

Oliver turned to her and forgot to breathe. As his distorted vision from the flash grenade began to clear, he saw Roy sprawled out a couple feet away from Thea. Blood was trickling out of his mouth. Oliver took a closer look, now that he could fully see.

What he saw was two bullet holes in Roy’s chest.

@it-was-a-red-heeler @memcjo @dmichellewrites @hope-for-olicity @flowerandsunshine @louiseblue1 @inevermindyou @bandanab310 @cruzrogue @almondblossomme

#Team Arrow #The FBI #a showdown

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paulhudd · 4 years

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Spindlefreck Book Two: Pt.Five: Hooray for Hollywood

[Story so far: Malky and Brooster have been hired by veteran Irish comedian and international movie star, Oliver Laphen (or Ollie Laffin, as he was known in his 1930s hey-day) to investigate the activities of an alleged ‘poltergeist’ at Pagham House, his stately home in Kildare (Malky was reluctant, but Zindy was insistent: the money is needed to pay for the refurbishing of Odin’s Inn). Once they get there, Broo quickly discovers that there is nothing to see -- literally -- the house and its grounds are devoid of atmosphere: no ghosts, no echoes of the past -- no wildlife! In other words, it existed in a spiritual vacuum. Then there’s the arrival of Laphen’s grandson, Kris, visiting from America; he has a dark aura about him that renders Broo’s extrasensory powers inoperable and saps his strength, but most disturbing of all, his psychic link with Malky is broken; there’s nothing he can do until they leave. Laphen turns out to be an elderly, misanthropic inebriate, and as they sit down to dinner, he tries to provoke his visiting grandson with a spiteful harangue designed to embarrass and humiliate; but Kris, a young, laid-back Californian, doesn’t take the bait and laughs-off every slur...]

Slouched, sloshed, sloppy and louche, Laphen reclined in his throne-like, red-velvet-lined, high-backed dining-chair with (what Malky assumed was) the Laphen coat of arms embroidered on the velvet-headrest (two rampant pigs wearing little bowler hats supporting a four-leaf shamrock emblazoned with the the motto Laphen All the Way to the Bank). Still unshaven, he had nonetheless been scrubbed-up (probably by Herbie), his receding hair backcombed, slicked-down and darkened with oil. Typically, he was dressed to distress -- a turquoise smoking-jacket two sizes too big, canary-yellow Bermuda shorts, knee-length green-&-white striped rugby socks and a pair of well-worn purple flip-flops; it was an ensemble that lent credence to his reputation as the worst dressed man in Hollywood. Wine-glass in one hand, bulbous cheroot in the other, the pale light from an ornate candelabra casting a shadow across his face making his trademark dimpled-grin look positively demonic, he held court like an odious goblin king, drinking himself stupid and mercilessly goading his young grandson, while Herbie, eating at the other end of the table, stared straight ahead and pretended he wasn't listening. Up until now, Laphen’s intended target seemed utterly immune to every jibe. Kris ate heartily and slowly, deflecting the brickbats without losing it and sticking his fork in his grandfather’s eye; a course of action, in Malky’s opinion, that would be entirely permissible in the circumstances.

“... then you were in that pop group, what was it called, Satan’s Pooves?” Laphen sneered, looking for something to crack Kris’ resolve.

“Ha-ha-ha-hah, Lucifer’s Hooves,” Kris corrected him, tittering, turning to Malky and explaining with unshakable chirpiness, “it was a garage-band I formed in high school,” he joked, “we never got outta the garage!”

“Then there was the time you tried to start your own magazine...?” said Laphen, trying desperately to touch a nerve.

“It was a hobby! I was 10!” Kris snorted.

Laphen got all Noel Coward with a little bit of Gielgud thrown in for good measure, “What I’m getting at is this, Kristof: you’re not a renaissance man, you’re an interminable amateur -- a dilettante, a poseur – you flit from one thing to another, looking for something to get you noticed– and when it doesn’t work you move on to the next thing. You don’t care what medium you exploit to achieve your goal: celebrity. That’s Art for Fame’s Sake. That’s profane.” He sat back and continued in his usual, sarcastic tone, “This is where you and I differ, boy. I got famous cos I have Talent. When I do something I give it my all – no matter what piece of shit they put me in - I shine cos I’m true to meself and my craft. That’s how I knew I would always succeed in everything I did: because I have the unshakeable self-belief that only God-given Talent provides. That’s why I can’t take you or your silly movie seriously. It’s just the latest in a long line of look-at-me projects designed to propel you into the limelight. Pass the parmesan mill, would you...”

Kris passed the mill and snorted with laughter, explaining, “That’s what those teenage years are for, gramps, trial and error and making career choices. I’m going to be director. I’ve already made a successful documentary for a for a Film School assignment. In fact it won an award -- an award presented to me by Clint Eastwood who said I was an ‘outstanding young talent with a very bright future’... More pasta...?”

Malky looked up from his bolognese and grinned through a mouthful of meatballs. You tell him, boy.

Then, after a few seconds’ pause came the poisonous riposte aimed squarely below the belt: “Your mother made a documentary too, didn’t she? What was it called, now...? Oh yes, Annie Bell Does Bel Air! I’m pretty sure it was a documentary, it looked real enough...?”

Ouch. Malky’s grin vanished. He’d heard about Kris’ mother’s fall from grace and it was quite an unsavoury story. What a bastard! Quare Geg my arse. If I was 8-years-old sitting in the pictures laughing my head off and you told me I’d be sitting at the great man’s table 40-odd years later hating him with every fibre of my being, I’d’ve said you were mad. And yet, here I am, trying to decide what kind of murder would cause him the most pain...

This thought failed to reach Broo’s brain. He lay in a darkened corner –- as far away as he could get from the grandson -- ate his liver and kidneys and did his best to ignore the noise pollution at the other end of the room. The grandson had insisted on candlelight: “this house wasn't built with electricity in mind, dudes!” and the magnolian-gloom of the candelabras undulated with each ripple of the flames, making the chandeliers glisten like stars in the darkness high above the table, giving everything a dream-like quality. But aside from the boy’s debilitating aura and the all-too-human tension created by Laphen’s incessant needling, there was no real atmosphere here. They’d seen most of the house by now, and it was the same no matter where they went: nothing. Every noise was explicable; every shadow accounted for; the ambiance static and uncommonly hollow.

“Everythin’ all right, Mr Calvert?” asked Herbie, rousing Malky from his daydream.

“This is the best bolognese sauce I’ve ever tasted!” said Malky, with a what-the-hell-am-I-doing here look.

“Fanks very much, Mr Calvert. It’s jas somefink I rassle-ap in an ‘urry,” said the big man, shaking his head, with a what-can-you-do-it’s-always-like-this-shrug of his shoulders. Clad in a sober charcoal two-piece suit and regimental tie, Herbie maintained a dignified silence despite of the slew of bile coming from the top of the table. Occasionally though, Malky glimpsed little cracks in the façade; he’d roll his eyes skyward or shake his head slightly when something particularly hurtful was said, but by-and-large, he was inscrutable. Poor sod. Malky was well aware that Laphen’s jibes were meant for the old retainer as much as the boy: every time Ollie takes a shot at Kris, it’s Herbie who takes the bullet.

Laphen’s tirade went on, “... Is it any wonder your mother turned out to be such a dead loss when she wuz reared by a woman the tabloids dubbed ‘The Worst Mother in Hollywood’?! Stupid bloody Danish cow. No, sorry, that’s an insult to cattle –- they nurture their calves -- they don’t let them play beside unsupervised swimming pools. Shoes, now. She knows about shoes. Beyond that, she has the IQ of a dog turd.”

Kris came straight back and trilled, “Grandma? Grandma is so-oo happy these days. She’s busy with her charities, she’s in love with a younger man who thinks the world of her and, you-know-what?” he turned and winked at Herbie, “he never beats-on-her, or locks her in her room, or throws her clothes out of the window...”

“I wish I’d thrown her out of the window,” grumbled Laphen.

“Didn't you throw No.3 out of a window?”

“That was No.4. And it wasn't a window, it was a moving car.”

“I stand corrected.”

“Funnily enough, so does she.”

Malky yawned noisily. Herbie continued to stare into the middle distance.

“... So, your mother is still sober is she?” Laphen asked, feigning concern.

“Oh yes, you’ll be simply thrilled to learn your darling little Annelise is straight ‘n sober and of sound mind – she’s been running a woman’s shelter in the Valley for a couple of years now. We’re all very proud of her. She told me to pass on her regards...” he looked up as if trying to remember, “No, wait - her exact words were: ‘tell that vile old goat to hurry-up and die!’”

Malky had to stifle a laugh.

Laphen bristled, “Aye, well, you can tell that cheeky bitch she won’t get a brown penny from me when I do pop me clogs! I disinherited her when she was done for hooerin’! Anyway, sober or not – at heart she’ll always be a ditzy f**k up who bounces from one crisis to another with her knickers round her ankles!”

Herbie put down his cutlery, dabbed the corners of his mouth, cleared his throat and made sure they knew he was ready to step in. Malky gazed longingly at the decanter of brandy on the table, and for the first time in three years, entertained thoughts of jumping off the wagon and jumping into a refreshing pool of blissful oblivion... until Broo, intuitively aware of what Malky was thinking, let out a little growl to say knock it off!

Kris watched the old man pour another glass and asked in an earnest tone, “How many bottles have you had today, gramps?”

“F**k off,” grunted Laphen. “I’m very rich, very successful, I’ve worked very hard all my life and I’ve earned the right to do whatever-the-f**k-I-like.”

“Even if it kills you?” Kris replied; then after a split-second’s thought, he retracted, “Waitaminnit - open another bottle! Go on - drink up! I’ll get another case from the cellar!”

Laphen sipped his drink, sucked on his cheroot and snickered defiantly.

Suddenly, Kris turned to his right and asked in a haughty voice laced with suspicion, “Forgive me for asking, Mr Calvert, but what exactly is it you do?”

Broo snorted, Oh, this’ll be good. What do you do, Malcolm?

Malky didn’t have time to reply – Laphen was in like a shot, “I told you! He’s a plumber! He’s here to mend the boiler, OK?! Leave him alone.”

Kris winked at Malky, turned back to Laphen and said, “... and since when does the Mighty Oliver Laphen invite humble tradesmen - and their dogs - to join him for dinner? I mean, you make your lawyers eat in the kitchen with the staff -- so what gives?!” He turned back to Malky and spoke in his normal, friendly voice, “I don’t wish to cause offence to you or your dog, Mr Calvert, but when it comes to the hoi polloi -- and their pets -- my grandfather isn't known for his hospitality...?”

Again, before Malky could reply, Laphen sat forward, snapped his fingers repeatedly and took back the conversation, “Hey! Hey! Hey! Nevermind him -- tell me, boy -- who’s this backer ye’ve got? Who’s the eejit daft enough to invest their cash in yer silly wee horror picture?” He smiled smugly and winked at Malky as if to say – wait til you hear this!

Again, Malky was about to say something when Kris took the words right out of his mouth, “Oh, stop acting like a total asshole, Ollie, you’re not funny.” And yet, despite this spirited response, Malky noticed the boy flinch when the movie was mentioned. And so had Laphen. He laughed, threw back his head, blew a smoke-ring into the air and let it drift above his head like a wispy-white halo, “Asshole or not, I didn’t get to sit in the big chair without bein’ thorough. So c’mon now, who’s your Generous Benefactor?”

Putting his elbows on the table and hunching his shoulders, Kris sipped his water, looked down at his empty plate and said “I’ll tell you when you’re sober.”

Alas, the old man was intent; he sat forward in his seat, put his elbows on the table, rested his chin on his hands and enquired in faux-earnest voice, “Och, c’mon laddie, If you want to film here you’ll have to tell me sometime.” He turned and informed his faithful retainer, “See Herbie, he wants my permission to bring a feckin film-crew through here! He wants me to let a bunch of arse-scratchin’ techies to tramp on my polished floors in their hobnail boots, stub their fags out on my Persian rugs and knock lumps outta my Queen Anne furniture with their equipment –- not to mention drivin’ their trucks and trailers all over my award-winning lawns!!”

Herbie continued to stare ahead.

Kris, sounding a wee bit stressed, assured him, “The crew will be very discreet and I will take personal responsibility for any...”

“So, who’s the backer?”

Kris looked him in the eye, “Are you going to let us to film here?”

“We’ll see. Depends who I’m dealing with,” said Laphen, taking a long drag on his cigar, looking very pleased with himself that he had Kris on the back foot. “So tell me, who is it?”

After a long pause and a drink of water, Kris answered in a weak voice, “Guy Gosling...”

“Guy Gosling?! The silly twat who pissed himself on live TV?!” Laphen cried, banging both fists on the table and bouncing on his cushion like a tickled imp, “You’re f**king shittin’ me!”

The boy’s voice cracked as he yelled back, “See – I knew how you’d react! You’re such a predictable old shit, Ollie!”

“He’s using’ you to revive his career! No wonder he agreed to it -- nobody with any sense will touch him!”

Kris was losing it now, his freckled cheeks aflame, “You don’t know what you’re talking about - he’s still got a lotta respect in Hollywood!”

It didn’t matter what he said, Laphen was on a roll, “Let me see now...” he sat back, tilted his head and made a show of caressing his brow, as if trawling his memory for the appropriate anecdote. “Aye - that’s right, I made a movie with him 7 or 8 years ago. Some god-awful-big-budget-science-fiction-bollox where I played an intergalactic priest who gives him the Last Rites in the final scene. I was just there to add a bit of gravitas – 3 million for half-a-day’s work, I think it was...?” he looked to Herbie for confirmation.

Still staring into space, Herbie perfunctorily supplied the information, “A million a day for free days. And a cut of the box-office. And a car. Can’t ‘member which one. Maserati, I fink.”

“Hear that? 3 million and a classic sports-car to add to my collection, all for 3 days work,” Laphen turned to Malky, “it was only supposed to be one day but it became 3 when Gosling kept us all hanging around while he meticulously explored all the various ways he might kick-the-bucket! He was ditherin’-on about death-throes and whether or not he should close his eyes... By day three I just wanted throttle him: ‘DIE YOU F**ER!! DIE!!’ Cuz he’s one of those Method Actors, ain't he? I hate Method Actors.” He turned to Kris, “especially Method Actors who get famous overnight and keep you waiting on-set for hours -- then -- when they finally haul their skinny arses outta their trailer, they proceed to tell the director how to do his job!” Laphen paused then resumed in a more sober tone, “Well, what goes around comes around. He ain't got a friend in the industry now, no matter what you’ve heard.”

“He’s learned from his mistakes!” yelled Kris, desperately, “He’s committed to the project! It’s been 2 years since the pissing incident! He deserves a second chance!”

“He wants a comeback vehicle!” Laphen cried.

“The publicity will be good for us – it’ll create a buzz!”

“Aye - like flies round shite!” Laphen cracked. “Lissen, the knives are out for ‘im! The press will stitch-ye-up whether the movie is good or not! You shoulda went with a total unknown ye stupid wee shite, at least ye would've had half-a-chance!”

Herbie was watching them intently now. Broo shrank back when he saw the aura around the boy surge and almost obscure him when he screamed “F**K YOU!” and banged his fist on the table.

It only made Laphen cackle louder.

At last, Herbie cleared his throat loudly and said, “Gentlemen, please.” That seemed to do the trick. They relented, backed down and grumbled into their drinks. There was a minute of silence until Kris once again turned his attention to their guest. Nodding toward Brooster sitting in the corner, he enquired, “Does your dog usually accompany you when you mend a boiler, Mr Calvert?”

Again, before Malky could answer, Laphen’s shit-eating grin disappeared, “I told you to leave him alone!” he snapped, “it’s none of yer business!”

“Did I miss a meeting?” Kris asked Herbie, “a plumber with a three-legged dog? Doesn't this seem kinda weird to you...?”

That’s it. Malky slammed down his cutlery, stood up and gave out, “Right! I’ve had enough o’ this shite – we’re outta here!”

Herbie reached out, “Wait Mr Calvert, please...”

But Malky was resolute, “Sorry Herbie, but this isn't on! When I agreed to come here I didn’t expect to have to listen quietly while this pissed-up oul’ fart abuses his grandkid!” He took the cheque from his back pocket and slapped it down on the table, “Ye can keep yer money, Mr Laphen! Enjoy what’s left of your life!”

“Sit down, Mr Calvert!” yelled Laphen.

Malky expressed himself by presenting his middle finger as he walked to the door, “C’mon Broo. We’re leavin’.”

“I’ll double your fee!” Laphen shouted, pointing at the cheque on the table.

Malky stopped and sniggered derisively, “You can’t buy me! This isn't worth the aggravation!” Shite. I hope Zindy’ll understand...

Befuddled, Kris’ head swivelled from side-to-side as he looked from one to the other, “Whaddya mean: ’You’ll double his fee’? What’s going on here? Plumbers are a dime a dozen... What is he, some kinda super-plumber...?”

“I AM NOTA F**KING PLUMBER!” yelled Malky, shaking his fists.

Suddenly, Brooster barked loudly: QUIET!!

The fracas abruptly ceased. The men turned to see the old dog growling in the corner, eyes glistening like sparkling orbs in the shadows.

“What’s the m-matter with ‘im?” Laphen stammered in a shaky voice, as he looked up into the darkness. “Does h-he s-see s-somethin’...?”

Malky put a finger to his lips, “Shhh! He hears somethin’.”

“What the hell is going on here, people?!” shouted Kris.

“Shut up and lissen!” Laphen hissed.

Ears pricked, eyes wide, paying no attention to the rest of the room, Broo hobbled around in a circle looking upward, straining to hear. The voices were confused and shrill, like children arguing... only this time they weren’t in his head; the sounds were audible, not telepathic.

“Hear that?!” whispered Malky.

Herbie heard it too, “It sounds like kids... kids shrieking...?”

Kris cocked an ear for a moment, then murmured, “Hey... yeah!”

Laphen stared at the ceiling, “It-it’s comin’ from the room above... The t-Trophy Room...” he croaked, the rim of his glass clicking against his dentures.

Herbie took out his walkie-talkie and summoned security.

...

... at that very moment (18:50 EST), approximately 3400 miles away, at a gas station on the outskirts of Harrisburg, Pennsylvania: What is that smell? Emil’s eyes were stinging and streaming.

A youthful voice called-out, “Sir! Hey - whoa! Excuse me – sir – c’mon, man, what’re you doin’?”

Then, in a moment of clarity, his senses emerged from the murky darkness of his trance. He froze. Where am I? His head remained steady as his eyes swivelled left and right. It was daylight. He looked around: pumps, bags of charcoal, bundles of sticks, Pepsi machine..? A gas station?! A teenage clerk in an Exxon overall was approaching on his left, waving his hands emphatically, “Hey, hey, hey, man -- stop squeezin’ the trigger, man, puh-lease - you’re creating a super-crazy-dangerous situation here, dude...”

“Wha --” Emil’s eyes looked down.

Christ, you gotta be f**king kidding me...

He was still dressed in his bedtime attire; still going through the motions at the behest of an interior puppeteer – but, more terrifyingly – the Volvo’s tank was so full the gasoline was splashing-out over his sandals, forming a large puddle around his feet. The clerk made a grab for the pump gun, “Sir – gimme that, puh-leeeese!”

Emil felt the thing within him surge and take control again -- his hand relaxed and relinquished the grip on the trigger as his outer-voice said, “Sorry. Needed to fill ‘er up, kid... Got lost in my thoughts for a minute...”

The young clerk (now at his wit’s end) tiptoed over the puddle of petrol, took the gun back on the pump and whinged, “You gotta be more careful, mister! I’ll have to wash-it-all-down now! Jeez-us H... this is, like, totally bogus, dude! I mean it’s f**king Sunday -– it’s supposed to be the day of rest...”

Just then -- Emil felt the power ebb again – for some reason the puppeteer’s grip slackened -- he concentrated with every fibre of his being -- his hands shot up, grabbed the boy by the collar and pinned him to the side of the car, his real voice yelling haltingly into the boy’s face: “WHERE... AM... I?!”

Now scared out of his wits, the hapless clerk couldn't supply a coherent reply, “Hey man, easy -- ch-chill...don’t lose it, yeah?!”

Emil tightened his grip and almost screamed in the boys face, “Listen, kid – report me! Call the cops! I’m sick! I’m dangerous! They need to stop me before I go too far...!”

Alas, the words were no sooner out of his mouth when the fleeting bout of sentience ebbed and that goddawful taste filled his mouth. His hands let go of the clerk’s collar, stood back, dusted him down and said in a calm, clear voice, “Just kidding.” He reached into his dressing-gown pocket and took out his buckskin wallet, “Do you take American Express...?”

...

Meanwhile, back in Pagham House: There was a crackling sound: “*What’s your position Herb, over.*”

Herbie whispered into the walkie-talkie, “... we’re on the landing in the west wing - the intruder-stroke-intruders are in the Trophy Room; repeat, intruder-stroke-intruders are in the 1st floor Trophy Room, over.”

“*Copy. On our way. Over.*”

But Herbie didn’t want to wait. He slowly opened the door and turned on the lights. There were a series of rapid flashes as the ‘Trophy Room’ was lit to reveal yet another museum exhibit, this time devoted to the numerous awards, honorary doctorates and keys to the city Laphen had accrued over the years. The man himself crept across the threshold brandishing a baseball bat, “If there’s somebody there – I swear I’ll feckin kill ye! I’ll take yer feckin’ head off, I will! C’mon out!” Herbie took him by the shoulders and told him to keep back.

The squeaky voices continued to gabble and shriek; due to the room’s natural echo, it was hard to tell where they were coming from. Malky was intrigued, but unafraid; judging by the old dog’s subdued reaction, he knew that it was nothing to worry about. Behind them, Kris continued to express his confusion, “Somebody please tell me what’s going on...?”

Brooster left them standing at the door and made for a large glass case containing various silver statuettes in the far corner. He barked twice. Herbie and Malky approached to find what turned out to be an upturned fire-bucket; the screeches were coming from inside.“What the hell...?” said Herbie. He bent down and lifted the bucket – the voices instantly got louder. Malky looked over the big chauffeur’s shoulder and saw a cassette recorder lying face-down on the floor. “It’s a bloody tape!” Herbie exclaimed, angrily, “We've been ‘ad!”

Laphen, still shaking with fear, still brandishing the baseball bat, joined them and gaped at the offending object, “What the...” Herbie picked it up and pressed the stop button. The room fell deathly silent for a few seconds, and then the old man gasped, “Who would...” He stopped when he heard laughter behind him. They turned to see Kris, back against the doorjamb, clutching his sides in a fit of the giggles, “You should see your face, Gramps!”

Laphen was agape, “You... you set this up...?”

“... You were so spooked!!” sniggered Kris.

They heard boots on the stairs; Herbie heaved a loud, world-weary-sigh and raised the walkie-talkie to his lips, “Stand-down, stand-down, false alarm, repeat, false alarm! Over.” The communication was punctuated by a collective groan of disappointment from the hall.

Kris was wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, “I GOTCHA! Ah gotcha you goo-ood!”

The Quare Geg failed to see the funny side: “Y’ wee BASTARD!!” Laphen lashed out at Kris, swung the bat and missed – Herbie grabbed the waistband of his shorts, pulled him backward -- then, just like a slapstick gag from one of his movies -- Ollie spun like a dervish on the stretched elastic, his little-bare-legs kicking-out until one of his flip-flops flew off and toppled an ornate vase -- the baseball bat hitting a display case and shattering the glass. “Lemme at him! I’LL F**KING’ KILL ‘IM! JUST YOU W --”

He suddenly seized up, the bat fell from his hands and clattered on the parquet; he fell back into Herbie’s arms, his eyes popping out of his head, the air escaping his lungs like a slowly deflating balloon.

Kris chuckled, “Awww, c’mon gramps, you can do way better than that...”

Malky went to help; Herbie’s face was a picture of helpless-consternation, “’E can’t breeve! I think ‘e might be ‘avin’ an ‘eart-attack!!” They took him to an antique chaise-lounge beside a huge Native American totem pole on the other side of the room. “He’s hyperventilating! Get a paper bag!” cried Malky.

“He’s faking, dudes!” said Kris, exasperated, no longer laughing.

Without saying anything, Herbie pushed him out of the way and ran out of the room. Kris shouted after him, “He’s faking, Uncle Herb?!! He’s acting!”

Unconcerned, Broo sauntered over to the corner and had a lie down. Oh, a minute ago you were all for strangling him – now you want to save his life. Human beings, I don’t know...

Malky used the first-aid he learned during his time in the police, “Easy, Ollie, take it easy... take deep, deep breaths and fill your lungs, hold for a count of 5, then exhale slowly through yer nose...” Laphen’s eyes were wet and fearful, he was shaking like a leaf, but he tried his best to do what was asked of him.

Broo yawned: He’ll live: the heartbeat is strong for a man of his years, no murmurs. He’ll live.

Herbie arrived back with a plastic carrier bag, “Will this do?!”

Malky took the bag from him, twisted the neck to create a makeshift mask and put it over the old man’s nose and mouth, “This’ll make it easier – breathe-out into the bag, then breathe in...” his ministrations appeared to be having the desired effect; Laphen’s pulse was slowing, the colour was returning to his cheeks. Kris stopped pacing and grabbed Herbie’s arm, “See, he’s gonna be fine - he’s just tryin’ to get me back...!” Herbie took the boy by the shoulders and gave him a shake, “Kris, I ‘aven’t time fer no bollocks - this is fer real! Make y’self useful -– go to ‘is stahdy 'n call the doctor!”

“Rossington...” the old man hissed.

Herbie knelt and looked at him with a doubtful frown, “Surely you want yer physician, boss?”

Laphen glared and growled, “I want Rossington!”

Herbie looked up at Kris, “’E wants Rossington. There’s a button for ‘im on the phone on ‘is desk.”

“Rossington...?” Kris complained loudly, with a sour face. Herbie gave him a serious look and he reluctantly obeyed. As soon as he left the room, Laphen smiled, closed his eyes and passed out. Malky checked his pulse one last time and took the bag away. “He’s sleeping it off. It’ll be OK to move him. Is he on any medication for asthma or any other respiratory illnesses?”

“’E ain't asthmatic or nuthin’. Dr Rossington gives ‘im these ‘vitamin’ shots that perk ‘im up.”

“Why? What does Rossington specialise in?” asked Malky, as if he didn’t know.

“’E’s the boss’ shrink, ‘as been for years. ‘Aven’t you ‘eard of ‘im?”

Malky and Brooster knew exactly who Rossington was and what he did.

It’s a small world, isn't it...

2 days ago, 100 miles north in The Ivy House, Downpatrick:

Roused from his meditation by the roar of a revving engine, Jamie Jameson Lumb, the young master of the house and the new leader of the coven, arrived at the Oriel window at the end of the main landing just in time to glimpse a motorbike zoom down the drive on its way to the main gate. The rider was dressed in leathers and a black helmet, a sight that sent shiver down Jamie’s spine; even if the rider was a lot shorter than Barry McKee, it was still a discomfiting reminder of the events of 2 years before. Who the hell was that? Nobody was allowed in-or-out of the estate since McKee’s capture 2 years ago, but as far as Jamie was concerned, the danger hadn't passed. McKee had been in a coma for the past couple of years, but it was cold comfort: he could die at any moment and the demon would migrate to another host. Then there was the release of dark energy in Kildare following the exhumation of an ancient mage -- probably an ancient ‘Güül who dabbled in the dark arts -- and in spite of the fact that the local witches had declared the area reasonably safe, Jamie still sensed that the danger hadn't passed. Maybe it was the responsibility of his position; maybe being holed-up in the house for so long without any contact with the outside world had made him paranoid. Whatever the reason the rules had been broken, and there was only one person who could've invited the biker in: “Goz, you arsehole,” he muttered.

After searching most of the house, he eventually bumped into Fordham the footman who’d taken up the butling duties now that Oggy had gone down for a Big sleep. Fordham was carrying a Martini on a silver tray, “I suppose that’s for our guest?” Jamie asked. Fordham nodded and rolled his eyes, “he’s in the pool, sir.” Jamie took the tray from him, “Don’t worry, I’ll see he gets it.”

Guy ‘Goz’ Gosling was floating naked on a lilo in the indoor pool, reading a loosely bound sheaf of papers that looked suspiciously like a script. “Who was that?” Jamie called out, as he walked along the edge of the pool, his voice echoing around the tiles.

Goz answered matter-of-factly, without looking up from page, “A guy I met in LA, if you must know. A director. He wants me to star in a little horror film he’s making here in Ireland,” he said, cool as a cucumber, slowly turning in the water.

“Oh Yeah? And how did he get in?” asked Jamie, carelessly putting the tray down on the poolside table, irritated by his former band-mate’s blasé attitude and patronising tone. It was what he’d come to expect. Goz had been restless for some time, but up to now he’d been willing to live under the rules of the extended lockdown. “Nobody can come in unless you clear it with me or Oggy. I’m surprised that security opened the gate,” said Jamie, bristling.

“I told them he was an old friend. I told them I was expecting him,” said Goz, unaffected.

Jamie nodded knowingly, “You told them you’d cleared it with me, didn’t you?” he sneered.

“Well, I thought you were studying in the library or meditating in your room or something and I didn’t want to disturb you,” said Goz, blithely, still perusing the pages.

“For all you know he could be working for one of our enemies!” Jamie snapped, sounding a wee bit shrill.

“Don’t be so melodramatic, JJ,” chuckled Goz, talking as if consoling a difficult child, “I met him at a screening of a documentary he made a few years ago. I was very impressed. both by him and the film. He was only 21, full of vitality and enthusiasm. I told him to keep in touch, ‘maybe we might work together some day’. I didn’t get any bad vibes, not at all. He’s a like little red-headed puppy: eager to please.” He flipped another page and said, “Remember, I’ve been at this game a lot longer than you, JJ. I can spot a wrong-un a mile away.” This was Goz’s signature tune: he was never done reminding Jamie that except for his pedigree and nascent superior powers, he was still a novice.

Jamie ignored the comment and moved on, “What’s his name?”

Goz let out a heavy sigh, “Kris Katz. Believe it or not, he’s the grandson of that drunken old coot Oliver Laphen... the miserable little bastard... I made a movie with him a few years ago... f**king nightmare... Anyway, Kris called me from LA and told me he’d be in Ireland scouting for locations and if I was interested he’d deliver the script by hand...” Goz turned a page, “... and after perusing it, I’ve decided to take him up on the offer. I’ve even agreed to put some money behind it. A small independent movie is just the ticket to restart my acting career. I can’t afford to turn it down.”

“You know nothing about him. He could be in cahoots with the tabloids,” said Jamie crossing his arms and shaking his head, “worse -- he could've been sent here by the Washington coven to case the place and see what we’re up to!”

Goz finally looked up from the script and laughed, “Look, he’s harmless! And it’s not as if I’m leaving the country -- we’ll be making the movie here!”

Jamie shook his head, “Oggy needs to know about this. You’ll have to wait until he wakes and discuss it with him.”

Getting a little more animated, Goz splashed the water with his fist and shook his head emphatically, “Look -- Oggy is hibernating, he won’t wake for at least another year and we start shooting in the summer! And I’m not a f**king prisoner, remember?! I’ve stayed here voluntarily! But enough time has passed -- 2 years to be exact, and that’s a long time in show business. It’s been a great place to hide from the world until the outrage over that... situation -- a situation that you caused by-the-way -- died down. But I’m not hiding anymore.” He sighed, relaxed and went back to the script, “I’m doing this whether you -- or Oggy -- like it or not.”

“We’ll see...” Jamie muttered under his breath, and walked away.

...

2 days later at Pagham House: “... See, I saw a tabloid story about gramp’s suspected ‘poltergeist’ at the airport, so I thought I’d have a little fun with it,” Kris explained as they crossed the landing, “we used to do it all the time, y’know, tryin’ to out-punk each other; each stunt more vicious than the last, but we always made-it-up afterwards. I didn’t think he’d get in such a state...” He paused when they heard a distant buzzing sound outside, “Uh-huh, here comes the ‘good doctor’,” muttered Kris, gloomily. They walked to a porthole-shaped oriel window at the end of the landing and watched twin beams slice through the low lying clouds. The buzzing became a rumble as the doctor’s chopper hovered for a moment before descending and disappearing behind a row of billowing pines; a few seconds later, a slim, middle-aged man dressed in cricket-whites carrying a tastefully weathered Gladstone bag, ran along the path that bordered the tennis courts, across the car park and sprinted up the marble steps at the front of the house; a few seconds later he bounded up the stairs toward them – all without breaking his stride, breaking a sweat, or gasping for breath. He held out a hand, Malky straightened up and reached out to shake it, but much to his embarrassment, Rossington blanked him and went straight to Kris, “Kristof! What a pleasant surprise! Long-time-no-see-and-all-that!”

The tanned, manicured hand hung in the air, unshaken. Kris, desperately trying to express his disdain but too polite to be rude, hesitated before managing a feeble tug on his nemesis’ fingers. Rossington grasped the flaccid appendage and jerked it up-and-down with gusto, “Over for a little visit, eh? Having fun, are we?”

The boy looked at his hand as if it’d been spat on and said nothing.

“I hear you’ve literally been up to your old tricks again!” said the good doctor, tutting thrice and shaking his head.

Malky had seen the good doctor on TV, but never in the flesh. Nevertheless, he didn’t like what he’d seen, and after meeting the man in the flesh hadn't changed his opinion; what you saw was you got: the man was too smooth to be true. That’s an oddly non-specific ‘posh’ English accent, thought Malky: Cary Grant with a dash of Ray Milland; and although the tone was upbeat and cordial, each bon mot was primed with a jagged shard of spite. “You might look 15, my dear, but you’re a 22 year old adult now.”

“23.” Kris grunted.

“23! Even more reason to find a nice girl, settle down and do something worthwhile... You don’t want to end up like your mother, now, do you...?” He’d been stealing glances at Malky until he couldn't contain his curiosity a moment longer; he turned away from Kris and asked, “Sorry, but do I know you? You look vaguely familiar...?”

Malky was about to reply when Rossington cut-him-off, “NO–NO–NO, don’t tell me!!” he cried, putting a hand his brow and snapping his fingers as he scoured his memory, “I never forget a face -- I’ve written books on how not to forget a face! Now, where have I seen you before...?”

Herbie opened Laphen’s door and hissed, “Shhh!”

Rossington backed-up toward the door, staring at Malky’s face and racking his brains... “I know you... I do know you...” Before entering the room, he stopped trying to remember and whispered to Kris, “Oh, if I don’t see you later - give my regards to your mother, won’t you? It’s so gratifying to know she’s finally found her niche at long last.”

Crimson cheeked, bright blue-eyes narrowed to livid slits, the boy clenched his fists and muttered a litany of barely audible obscenities as the door closed. Malky was careful not to laugh: that’s the same expression the young Ollie Laffin used to pull after James Finlayson tanned his backside: hurt and angry, but ultimately sad. What happened to that wee guy?

The boy took a deep breath and tried to keep his voice down, “...as you can probably tell, I cannot stand Rossington. He’s like... anathema to me. He’s like Kris-kryptonite in Gucci, dude!” What followed sounded like he’d researched his subject with a detective’s eye for detail. “He’s the self-proclaimed ‘Shrink to the Stars!’ - You mighta seen him on TV. He heads-up an institute for psychos... umm... what’s it called...? ”

“SCICI,” said Malky, “St Cedric’s Institute for the Criminally Insane.”

Kris nodded emphatically, “Yeah, that’s right! It’s like puttin’ a cobra in charge of a nest of vipers!”

The door opened. Herbie looked out, scowled and shook his head. Kris lowered his voice to a whisper, “The truth is he’s Jimmy Ross from New Jersey, a former male-model and wannabe actor who went to night school, got a degree in psychiatry and reinvented himself as the suave, debonair Dr James Rossington we know and loathe today.”

The pair retired to a pair of Queen Anne armchairs in an arched recess adjacent to Laphen’s bedroom door. Broo kept well back and listened from a distance. “In the summer of ‘70 when I was like 2 years old, my mom – Annelise Katz, née Laphen – scored some smack from a dude in downtown LA and left me strapped in a car-seat outside a motel in the middle of a heatwave – I was almost poached, dudes – by some miracle somebody saw me and called the cops and they broke in. They went up to the motel-room and found mom had OD-ed – her third in as many years. My dad was serving year-2 of a 15-year prison sentence for fraud, Grandma was outta town and outta her mind on booze ‘n’ ‘ludes, so they called Gramps who went totally postal and flew back from Rome to sort things out. He was desperate to get mom help, for my sake as much as hers, so he put the word around that he’d do anything to get her straight. Someone gave him Rossington’s card. See, Jimmy’d devised a method of reprogramming drug addicts with an uncompromisingly tough regime: torture and mind control, basically – but with some New Age horseshit thrown in to make it look progressive. The literature was all this, like, flowery bullshit about ‘rebirth’ etc, but the kids were treated like laboratory rats -- two guys died and a girl committed suicide, that’s not taking into account the mental scars of those who actually made it through.” Kris sighed, “Anyway, he promised gramps he would have mom detoxed and straightened-out within 6 months, so Ollie cut him a cheque.”

“And did Rossington’s treatment work?” asked Malky.

“Oh yeah. 6 months later, just as promised, there’s Annelise Katz, clean and sober, made-over, looking hale and healthy and weeping to Barbara Walters about her drugs hell and her ‘resurrection’, hailing Gentleman Jim as her Personal Saviour! She relapsed 18 months later, mind you, but it was good while it lasted.”

“Where was Ollie when all this wuz goin’ on?”

The boy became melancholy, his tone heavy with ennui, “He was on a world tour with his one-man-show for most of it, but he’d given up on mom when she relapsed. Rossington told him she was incurable and the only course of action was left open to him was to cut all her finances and hopefully the desolation would drive her to do something about it herself. It did. It drove her to prostitution. So gramps washed his hands of her – I was all that mattered now. He got temporary custody of me.

“Anyhow, in the 80s Rossington’s rich and famous, but he yearns for something money can’t buy: a Serious Reputation. See, Jimmy wants Nobel Prizes not Daytime Emmys! He wants to be fêted by The Elite – i.e. the very people who call him a charlatan and a con man. He was a bit of a joke, so when gramps moved here permanently in ‘82, Jimmy tagged along, all-the-while plotting his next move. He met up with an old colleague who worked at St Cedric’s mental hospital in Dublin which specialised in cases involving extreme cases of aberrant behaviour and violence. Jimmy saw an opportunity: he wanted to turn St Cedric’s into an institute specialising in the psychology of the criminally insane -- a hi-tech facility where patients would be analysed by a team of crack academics from all over the world with the research going towards ‘a better understanding of psychopathic behaviour’ -- and sell a lot of books. so gramps called-in a few favours and made it happen. Jimmy’s all set! Unfortunately, the location sucks – Ireland -- a country known for its blood thirsty violence is, relatively speaking, serial-killer-free, so he has to import his cases from abroad. Do you know there are serial killers, rapists, child molesters, cannibals from all over the world passing through that place?”

“Aye, I’ve heard all about all about it,” said Malky, “In fact, didn’t your mate Gosling check-in there after that ‘incident’?”

“Yeah, like I said, ‘Shrink to the Stars’...” Then he took a deep breath, looked down and shamefacedly admitted, “Look... I know who you are, Mr Calvert. I know what you’ve been through ‘n I know what you do, but I was so intent on getting one over on the old man, I held back. I’m sorry. It’s like we met under false pretences and I wanna clear the air.”

“Uh-huh,” grunted Malky, grumpily. He was beginning to like the boy and now he felt slightly betrayed. Because if he lied so easily, who knows what he was capable of? Malky looked the boy in the eye and asked, “I have to ask you this, Kris: do you have anything to do with what’s been goin’ on in this house?”

Kris put up his hands and vehemently protested his innocence, “Hey now -- the first time I knew anything about this business was a coupla days ago when I saw that report in The Enquirer!!”

“... I mean, you make horror movies,” Malky asserted, “ye’ve got access to allsortsa props and special effects ‘n that. For all I know you ‘n Herbie -– maybe even Rossington -– could be in cahoots to put poor ol’ Oliver round the twist!”

Good God, I was wondering when you’d say that... Broo grumbled.

Just then, the door to Laphen’s room opened and Herbie emerged to give them the latest, “’is vitals is lookin’ good, blahd presha’s OK, no permanent damage, thank gawd...” Herbie clipped the boy around the ear, “You wuz lacky this time, boy! I ‘ope you take this as a lesson! No mowah practical jokes!”

...

Precisely 3 minutes ago (18:47 EST), approximately 3200 miles away, in a roadside ditch on the outskirts of Harrisburg, PA: Emil eyes slowly opened and he found himself staring into a silvery mosaic of inert smithereens. It didn’t take him long to realise he was gazing into a smashed windscreen. I’m still in the Volvo. But his head was squashed against the compressed ceiling -- the car was upside down! He tried to move -- that’s when a blazing pain ran through his entire body. If he could catch his breath he’d scream.

He heard crackling radios and excitable male voices: “Hey! He moved! He’s alive!” “Hey! Guys! He’s alive!” “He’s alive?” “For real? Shit!”

Then an older voice shouted, “We can’t wait for the ambulance!! There’s full tank of gasoline leakin’ into the grass! We gotta move him now!” Emil moved his eyes to the right and saw a fresh faced young fireman kneeling on the long grass, ear close to the ground, helmet off, talking through the upside-down passenger-side window, “I can see you’s in a lotta pain, sir, but we have a very volatile situation here... so keep still, don’t try to move, OK? I’ll be right back!”

Oh, I’ll keep still, kid... cos if I as much as blink it’ll hurt like hell, and I’d rather die than feel that pain again, so please, please don’t move me...

The excruciating pain seemed to radiate from below his waist -- his legs were splayed and trapped between the steering-wheel and the driver’s seat, his torso was between the seats, in a very awkward and painful position. His left arm was trapped beneath him, his right jammed under the buckled steering column. Oh God, the pain... bring back the darkness... bring back the numbness... Then he felt a hand under his armpit, another groping under him looking for the other other armpit, another took hold of his ankles... the pain was unbearable. An older man’s voice purred close to his ear, “Easy... easy there, sir, I got you...”

No! If you try to pull me out I’ll come apart like scarecrow... the pain, the pain... I’m begging you...

The soothing voice in his ear implored him, “Brace you-self, suh, we gonna do our best to get ya outta there as quick as possible...”

An impatient voice yapped, “C’mon, let’s go, guys, let’s do dis ‘n get the hell outta here!”

Emil felt arms around his midriff. Oh no. Oh God no...

Christ...

“I got ‘im! You got ‘im?”

Kill

“I got ‘im.”

“OK. After 3, swing ‘im out.”

now!!

“One... Two... and Three -”

AAAAAAHHHHH!!!

He was hauled from behind and twisted from below – then his body began to move backwards – something was stopping him: “the handbrake is stuck up his ass– we gotta lift him offa it!” The humiliation, the pain, the utter helplessness.... Somehow they repositioned him and hoisted him up again -- his left hip nudging-in the cigarette lighter – again the pain flared to an unbearable degree as he began to move backwards through the passenger-side window – simultaneously, he heard the tibia in his left leg make a crunching sound as it was unceremoniously yanked from under the steering-wheel... the pain became unbearable... then, at last, the shock kicked in... the pain became cold insensibility... he was being put onto a stretcher; he saw faces looking down, fuzzy unfocussed faces... a few seconds later he heard the young fireman’s voice call out, “Hey, his papers are all over the inside of the car... his passport – everything!!” Emil heard one of the men carrying him yell, “DONNY – get the f**k outta there now!!”

That’s when the cigarette-lighter popped on the dash.

There was a huge fireball – Emil and his rescuers were thrown clear, but the young fireman wasn't so lucky. Emil’s rescuers abandoned him on the bank and went to the aid of their fallen comrade lying on the smouldering gorse, fully conscious, screaming, his body ablaze...

Then Emil got that familiar feeling of dread infest his bones, that familiar, bitter taste in his mouth, that acrid stench in his nostrils.... Somewhere in his head a little girl’s voice -- presumably the voice of his interior puppeteer -- spoke huffily: <Well, you’re damaged goods now, Emil – you’re no use to me at all. You’re gonna be confined to bed for a long time. I just hope every second of every day is as painful as this,> Emil screamed as a shock of pain tore through his pelvis. He began to lose consciousness, but managed a defiant smile before a much different, more welcoming, darkness descended.

While Herbie waited for Rossington to finish, Kris volunteered to act as tour-guide and escort Brooster and Malky around the East Wing, the only area of the house they hadn't visited yet. “It’s the creepiest part! And it’s just gone midnight, dudes - this’ll be a gas!”

Broo whimpered, yippee, we get to listen to this idiot for the next 3 hours...

Before they embarked on their quest, Herbie had to fetch the keys from the safe in the study. As he handed them over, he had a ‘little word in Kris’ ‘shell-like’. There was a lot of finger wagging from the big man and a lot of shy nods from Kris. Despite his card being marked, their guide returned as ebullient as ever, “We’ll take the scenic route through the hidden passageway to the old chapel! It’s really cool!”

“Hidden passageway?” asked Malky, intrigued.

“Oh yeah – the old Duke and his disciples had to prepare for every eventuality! The place is riddled with ‘em!”

Kris chittered incessantly about the salacious activities of the 8th Duke of Roxborough -- the same story Malky heard from Herbie -- as he led them through the shadowy hallways of the East Wing. Eventually, “Here we are!” he announced brightly. He opened a hidden door in the panelling of a long, narrow corridor, revealing a dark passage way. He stooped, made an ugly face and raised the candelabra, “Abandon hope all ye who enter here... ” he said in a croaky voice “Follow me... if ye dare!” Malky, stooped and squeezed through the little hatch. Kris noticed the old dog dragging his feet, “C’mon Broostie,” he trilled, slapping his thigh and beckoning him hither.

If he calls me Broostie again, I’ll sink my teeth into his testes and hang on until he passes out, aura or no aura.

Almost crawling, they made their way along the low ceilinged tunnel for a hundred yards or so until they arrived at another door. “Here it is!” Kris whispered, turning a key in the lock. They squeezed through and found themselves on a small balcony overlooking what appeared to be the interior of a Christian church. Kris held the candelabra high above his head and led the way down a cast-iron spiral staircase, “Nowadays this is referred to as the chapel cos it looks like a chapel -- but it ain't no chapel -- no siree!”

Malky readily descended the wrought-iron steps, but Broo held back and observed from above. Kris wasn't talking now, he was leaning on a marble pillar in the nave, watching Malky look around with a big soppy grin on his face, like a hider watching a seeker get warm then cold, then warm...warmer...

Malky had been admiring what he assumed was uniform religious statuary in the alcoves, when it suddenly struck him that the busts and figurines were somewhat less than holy, “this-here is Pagan stuff made to look Christian,” he cried, “It’s all fawns, demons ‘n naked nymphs!!”

Kris was elated, “Right! Keep looking, dude!”

Malky borrowed the candelabra and held it aloft so that it illuminated the stone carvings atop the marble pillars; at first glance it looked like your standard host of cherubim and seraphim, however, closer inspection revealed it to be a representation of a horde of little winged sprites and faeries; the painted altarpiece wasn't a depiction of the Immaculate Conception, but an intricate painting of a strange naked Lady-of-the-lake type emerging from a swamp carrying the body of a dead child; the figure depicted in the stained glass window above the narthex wasn't Jehovah in his heavenly kingdom, rather a white-bearded, horned & tailed, cloven-hoofed Satan reclining on a throne made of human skulls.

“I wasn't expecting this at all...?” muttered Malky, fascinated and unsettled. He looked up at the old dog watching from above and wondered if he sensed anything untoward, but by the looks of him there was still no cause for alarm.

Kris looked left and right and lowered his voice, “Erm, to be frank, the film I’m making is based on the true story of Roxborough’s life. I’ve had to change the names and locations, but it’s loosely based on actual events, most of which I’ve hadda tone-down to get an R certificate! I have to be discrete, y’know, The Roxborough family are still a big noise in English society and they don’t like to be reminded of their lurid family history. They’d sue the ass-off-me if they thought I was exploiting the legend.”

They went through another door at the rear of the ‘chapel’ and entered a corridor lined by a row of white doors; Kris unlocked them one by one, “These were Thaddeus’ ‘private’ rooms’ where he indulged in his little perversions. But by the time gramps bought the house, the Roxboroughs had removed anything ‘incriminating’,” he said, looking a little disappointed. “Gramps stores his antiques in here now, y’know, stuff he’s bought on the spur of the moment, or gifts he’s received from different countries over the last 70 years: lots of ugly vases, objets-d’art ‘n shit that’re too big to have in the house.” The ‘White Rooms’ were now crammed with shrouded lumps of varying shapes and sizes. Broo kept back and waited until Malky and Kris moved onto the next door before inspecting the last. He sniffed around and checked under the sheets, but the evil deeds alleged to have been perpetrated here had left no trace; each room was the same: devoid of any spiritual presence or echoes of the past.

Just as Kris locked up and made to turn back, Malky noticed a wooden staircase up ahead, “Where does that lead to?” he asked.

Kris frowned, “Oh, the old infirmary.” He made a face, “Haven’t you seen it yet? The front door is on the outside of the house.”

“It was locked and Herbie didn’t have the key,” Malky replied, wondering why the boy seemed so uncomfortable.

Reluctantly climbing the stairs, Jamie filled them in on the infirmary’s history, “It was converted during Victorian times.The 10th Duke was wounded in some African war and set it up so he and his officer pals could convalesce in the luxury he was accustomed to. Nowadays, the villagers use it as a sick bay. They don’t believe in modern medicine for the most part, but when one of them gets really sick or injured they’ll bring them here and call a proper doctor.” He stopped at the little door and shivered, “Dude, I hate hospitals to the point of nausea. I don’t really wanna go in there unless it’s absolutely necessary. “

Broo looked at Malky. This time Malky didn’t need telepathy to guess what the old dog was thinking. “Aye, we’d really like to have a look. Would you mind?”

Kris sighed, produced the key and reluctantly unlocked the door. When it opened and a poof of fusty air escaped, he recoiled and held his nose, “yeeesh – I hate that smell, dudes...”

It was just as Malky had pictured it: a large, bare room with a dozen cots, six either side; the top of the room was dominated by two ancient cast-iron radiators under the shuttered windows; the pipes along the wall behind the beds were green with corrosion. There was a treatment room at the back stocked with basic medical supplies, the high shelves lined with large, empty specimen jars. Broo smelled formaldehyde and wondered what was once kept in those jars. But creepy jars aside, as far as Broo was concerned, like everywhere else, it was psychically barren.

“Anything?” asked Kris, looking from Malky to the old dog.

“Nope. If there was, he wouldn't be long in lettin’ us know.”

Kris was very impressed, if a little disappointed, “Oh, that’s good, I suppose... hey, what’s he doing now?” He’d noticed Broo pawing a door to the side of the last bed on the left.

I hear something -- and this time it’s not a tape recorder! My fur is standing on end! Open the bloody door!

“It’s the door of the bathroom,” said Kris, as he tried various keys in the lock. Once he’d found the right one, he turned the handle but the door wouldn't budge. “Gimme a hand, will ya, the wood must be swollen and sealed it shut.” Malky obliged and they pushed until the door let out a loud groan and swung inwards. Broo crept in and looked around. It felt quite damp compared to the rest of the secret rooms, which would explain the swollen door.

For some reason, he was drawn to a full-length cheval mirror adjacent to the bath. As he hobbled towards it, he saw that the image therein was something other than his own approaching reflection. In fact there was no reflection at all, it was more like looking into a long, tall, oval fish tank filled with murky water thick with web-like weeds, the strands of which formed a net; a net filled with the inert bodies of small children, like snagged marionettes in the cloudy depths of a stagnant pool...

At that very moment an antiquated bar of soap that’d been sitting on the edge of a shelf above the bath fell into the empty tub with a loud THUD! “What the hell was that?!” cried Kris, turning on the light – blinding brightness – the old dog reeled! He turned and barked loudly! “Oh Shit! Sorry!” Kris instinctively tugged the string and made it dark again. Of course, when Broo turned back, the image had vanished. He found himself looking into his own bewildered eyes twinkling in the dusty, smutty glass.

“Well, whatever it was, it’s gone now,” said Malky.

“What do you think he saw?” asked Kris, rattled.

“Dunno,” said Malky, turning the light back on, “is there anythin’ special about this mirror? It looks a bit out of place, a bit grand for a hospital bathroom?”

“I have no idea... I’m never in here,” said Kris, looking genuinely confounded.

“... it looks as old as the house,” said Malky, examining the frame.

Shivering and shuffling his feet, Kris was getting impatient, “Erm... if that’s it, dudes, I’d really like to get the hell outta here...”

As they made their way back to the West Wing, they were distracted by the sound of chopping-rotors and twin beams shining through the huge, stained-glass windows as the doctor’s helicopter took off. They heard the front door close, the jingle of keys and then the steel-tipped heels of Herbie’s Oxford-brogues clicking as they crossed the main hall into the lobby. As the lights receded and the rotors buzzed-off into the distance, Kris thought for a moment and then said, “Y’know... there was something that happened when I was last here... but I’m not sure if it’s relevant.”

Now he tells us...

Malky shrugged, “Well, we’re at a loss, so anythin’ you can tell us would be better than chasin’ round this place like headless chickens.”

“I’d like to show you something,” said Kris, enigmatically, “but we’ll have to go to the old pavilion to see it.”

“Alright lads?” Herbie called, standing in the shadows of the lobby looking up, “The old man’s OK, fanks-be to you, Mr Calvert - it wuz a panic attack an’ you did all the right fings.”

“Oh, thank f**k,” said Kris, sighing with relief.

As they descended the staircase, Malky asked Herbie about the mirror in the infirmary bathroom. “The ahsekeeper, Mrs Sparkes, ‘ad it moved there coupla years ago,” he said, in a doubtful tone, “she was in the boss’ study late one night ‘n she said she seen a little lad watchin’ ‘er in that mirror. Screamed the house dahn. Scanlon ‘ad to give ‘er a slap to shut-her-up.”

In spite of the big chauffeur’s doubts, Broo was sure this information was significant -- it sounded eerily similar to what he’d just experienced -- but for now, he could nothing but keep it to himself and see how things developed.

“Is the power on in the pavilion?” Kris asked Herbie.

Herbie tutted, “Ach, c’mon Kris, my son, no matter what the old man says we don’t expectcha to sleep aht there tonight!”

“No,” Kris chuckled, “I wanna use the screening room to show Mr Calvert some video I shot last time I was here...”

They took a leisurely stroll through the grounds to the pavilion and Malky pretended to listen as Kris nattered away about film making. Broo continued to lag behind, too debilitated by the boy’s aura to take in his surroundings.The misty halo had become murkier the further they got from the house. Broo had to move back another 6 feet to keep out of range. When Kris asked about the old dog keeping his distance, Malky told him he was just slow: “past it” he said. Broo responded with a sharp bark. Bloody cheek. It was quite a mild night, there was no breeze, the moon was bright enough to illuminate the darker corners, but the complete silence was unnatural and unsettling. Even Kris commented on it: “... listen, you could hear a pin drop out here. It’s eerie, isn't it? Complete silence. Not even the hoot of an owl or a breeze to rustle the trees.” A moment later, as they made their way down to the walkway that ran alongside the croquet lawn, they heard the clump of boots coming in the opposite direction. It turned out to be Charlie Noble, the incumbent head of security, who informed them he’d just unlocked the pavilion and switched on the power. He asked after Laphen’s health and as Kris gave him the latest, Malky gave him the once-over. He was a stocky man of medium height with dreadful skin that made his face look like a bag of lumpy pastry. He had a northern accent – Antrim Town, to be exact -- and like Herbie, he was ex-army.

“I hear you had a bit of trouble on Friday night?” said Malky.

Charlie looked to the boy for guidance; Kris nodded, “It’s OK, he’s got Herbie’s permission.”

“You mean the night the big clock got pushed over? ‘A bit of trouble’ is about right, aye,” said Charlie, spinning a large key-ring on his index-finger like a six-shooter. “The boss was in a right state. He hit the panic button ‘n I raced up here as fast as I could -– but when I got to the door -- the swipe-card wouldnae work and the friggin’ master key wouldnae turn in the lock! I hadda climb in through a winda -- when I found ‘im he was under the stairs shakin’ like a leaf! ‘Poltergeist!’ says he, pointing at the big grandfather clock lyin’ in the hall! It’d fallen off the wall! A big thing like that! I wuz flummoxed.”

“What do you think of this fella Scanlon?” asked Malky, still suspicious that this might’ve been an inside job; i.e. a disgruntled ex-employee with access to the house, maybe.

“Scanlon...?” thrown by the question, Noble bowed his head, scratched it and said, “Well, Scanlon was one of me best mates – ex-RAF, all-round good egg, so-he-was...” Then, suddenly aware that he was in the presence of the boss’ grandson, changed his tone, giving the impression that he’d revised his opinion, “Then again... he was a like law onto himself, had the run of the place, thought he was indispensable. Took things for granted. He worked here long before Mr Laphen bought the place, see. But... stealing from the boss ‘n that. Big shock that was...” Looking uncomfortable in his skin, he looked at Kris with an expression that said ‘can I go now?’ They let him get back to his rounds and continued on their way.

Once Noble was out of earshot, “See?” whispered Kris, “nobody believes Scanlon is guilty.”

“Hmmm, that maybe,” said Malky, doubtfully,”but he’s still the prime suspect.”

After passing through another archway and following a well-lit path lined with neatly trimmed shrubbery, they eventually came upon a white building set back behind a little copse approximately 200 yards from the house. From the outside, it looked more like a large clapboard house than a sports pavilion. Malky asked why all the windows were blocked-off. “To keep out the light. Gramps had it converted into a little cinema so he could screen movies,” said Kris, unlocking the door. “He got prints of all his old comedy shorts and he shows them to visitors.” He turned on the lights, “Wait til you see inside, it’s a feast for the eyes!”

They emerged from the vestibule and stepped into art-deco-heaven. It was just like a miniature version of the Picture-Palaces built during The Depression era that Malky had visited as a child: welcoming, sumptuous and tastefully plush. Emerald green deep-pile carpets, and huge, signed prints of silent movie stars’ publicity pictures lining the walls (Louise Brooks, Douglas Fairbanks, Mary Pickford, Chaplin, Keaton and, of course, the man himself – technically not a silent star - but whose comic oeuvre owed so much the pioneering comedians of that era), furnished with armchairs a pair of white leather Hoffman Kubus sofas facing each other in a b/w 20s-style cocktail bar/café. After a quick tour, Kris took them through a projection-booth into a back-room filled with various pieces of complicated-looking electronic apparatus connected by sheaves of multicoloured cables; the lower back wall was lined with racks of film canisters of varying shapes and sizes. Kris took a cassette from a rack of video tapes, brought it into the booth and pushed it into the player. “Gramps always made his own home-movies, so when video became popular he bought all of this state-of-the-art equipment – he has to have all the latest gizmos.”

While Kris worked in the projection booth, Malky went to the theatre and made himself comfortable. Brooster slunk under a chair in the far corner (15 feet away, but still within sight of the screen) and tried to stay awake.

“It’s a tape of the exhumation of the mummies,” Kris shouted from the projection booth, “I was in Dublin when it happened, so I drove back ASAP and fetched the video camera to shoot some footage.” The screen lit up and a bright blizzard of static flickered on Malky’s face; a few seconds later an image suddenly appeared. It was a shaky film of a woodland scene, presumably the woodland surrounding the bog; a few seconds later Kris’ recorded voice sounded in the theatre’s speakers:

“It’s Thursday July 20th 19-and-89, I’m at my grandfather’s house in Ireland in the marshlands on the outskirts of the estate, and I’m on my way to film a very significant ‘n strange event -- probably historic --”

What followed was a kind of home movie taken a day after the discovery of the mummies, accompanied by a typically breathless running commentary from Kris. It showed lots of people milling around the swamp; forensics people, gards, villagers and the press, had gathered to watch the bodies being removed. “I was staying here while Ollie ‘n Herb were in Japan,” Kris explained, talking over his voice-over as he joined Malky in the theatre, “I was writing the script at the time and I went to Dublin to do research when I heard about it. I was so hyped I hadda hightail back here to film it.”

When it came to close-ups of the experts, Malky recognised a few of the faces from news reports, but one in particular was more familiar than the others, “That’s Paddy Gilray, he’s a top forensics guy from Dublin. Big Phil Somerville 'n him are good friends. Dunno who the guy with ‘im is, though.”

“Emil something. I tried to talk to him afterwards, but he told me to f**k off,” said Kris, looking a wee bit hurt. “Somebody told me he’s another forensics guy from Canada. He flies over every summer and they do these archaeological digs.”

Just then, the voice-over took a strange turn; the commentary broke off mid-sentence and the sound of Kris vomiting filled the room; the film suddenly stopped and Kris pointed at the blank screen, “When they moved the bodies there was this unholy stink like nothin’ I ever smelled before -- that’s why I threw up! I hadda stop filming and get the hell outta there!” He made a sour face, “It wasn't swamp gas – cuz I’ve smelled swamp gas – it was more like this thick, sickening miasma that made it hard to breathe, Ugggh!” he said, grimacing, “And it wasn't just me! Look, everybody is retching or puking -- even some the guys wearing surgical masks!” He used a remote to rewind the tape and freeze-framed a wide shot of the bog. He indicated a coterie of Bogmire residents standing on the opposite side, “Now look at the villagers -- they’re are fine with it, like they’re used to it. And that’s not all,,.” He sat forward, lowered his voice and spoke in a sombre tone, “There was, like, this strange kinda purple mist hanging over everything. You could see it as plain as day -- in fact most people commented on it -- but it doesn’t show up on the tape. And I checked the camera -- it’s not technical fault.” Kris shook his head, “Anyway, I couldn't get the stench out of my nostrils or the taste outta my mouth. It got into my clothes -- I dumped them as soon as I got back to the house -- but I could smell it for days after. In fact, I smelled it until I left...” He turned to Malky, “I swear to God, I smelled it when I walked into the house today. 2 years later and it’s still there. That’s 24 months and several gallons of Sparky’s wood-polish and gramps’ cigars -- and it’s still there!”

Malky shook his head, “I didn’t smell anythin’.”

“That’s what’s so weird, I’m the only one who does,” said Jamie, looking genuinely perplexed.

Broo knew the smell the boy as talking about. It was that faint, acrid odour he smelled during their little stop in the village, but it wasn't pronounced enough to give him much cause for concern, now he wasn't so sure. How could a natural smell hang in the air for so long without dissipating?

And what of the vision of the children in the bathroom mirror? Children drowned in a stagnant pool: the bog? Is it something to do with the little girl found in the ancient one’s arms? Is she now a ghost reaching out to him via the Mirror World?

So many questions...

...

The night before, in the Ivy House Library: under the light of a reading lamp, Jamie sat at a desk and scanned the attendance log of his grandfather’s long-since defunct ‘naughty-hellfire’ type club, an association that allowed renowned dignitaries and celebrities to indulge their wildest, wickedest sexual fantasies in complete anonymity. Working on a hunch, he was looking for one name in particular in the thick, yellowing pages, and although all entries were in code, his grandfather had kept a separate log to record the members real names; all Jamie had to do was find the name the to fit the code. After an hour of searching and deciphering, his finger eventually alighted on the moniker he’d been looking for:

“Oliver Laphen.”

According to the log, Laphen’s last attendance was in June 1968. Jamie wondered if it was an amicable parting of the ways, or was he kicked out? If his reputation for hell-raising was an issue, expulsion was a distinct possibility. And if he was ex-communicated, did he hold a grudge? Jamie went to the sliding steps and rolled to the central bookcase; he climbed to the top rung and took a row of three glued-together, hollowed-out tomes from the top shelf, revealing a safe concealed in the wall behind. He turned the dial on the combination lock using the numbers written on the back of his hand, opened it and removed a heavy ledger.

It contained highly compromising information of every member of the club, probably in order to blackmail any black-balled ex-members tempted to spill the beans to the authorities or the press. Predictably, Laphen had an abundance of black marks against his name, everything from securities fraud to wife beating. Then, to Jamie’s surprise, he discovered that his grandfather had added a heavily underlined note pertaining to Laphen’s purchase of Pagham House: ‘Witches -- Observe!’ it screamed from the page. The Judge was clearly expressing his alarm and wanted the Witches of Kildare to keep an eye on things. And now we know why.

Oggy talked about Pagham House before he went down for his sleep. He said it’s a mansion built to the exact specifications of the Ivy House by the Duke of Roxborough: a wannabe wizard with no psychic abilities whatsoever, who tried to create magic using standard methods: sex and human sacrifice. It was also home to the swamp where the mummy of an ancient mage was discovered 2 years ago. And now Laphen’s grandson turns up and offers Goz -- the only one of us who could be tempted to break ranks -- a part in a film he’s shooting in Ireland? It was all too much of a coincidence.

He slammed the book shut, crossed his arms and sat back. Shite. This could be the first major crisis he’s faced since taking up the mantle of Master, and there was no Ogden Castle around to guide him...

...

After screening a few of Ollie’s old ‘Laffin Boy!’ shorts to lighten the mood, Malky and Kris sat in the little cinema’s cocktail bar/café and made use of the fully functioning, antique coffee machine. They took a sofa each, sprawled-out on the white leather and talked about Film Noir for the next hour or so. When the conversation moved on to personal matters, Kris chatted openly about his relationship with “Jolly Ollie!” It wasn't bitchy in the least, for the most part he spoke in glowing terms. Nevertheless, he was still bewildered and exasperated by what he called, ‘The Purge’.”

“Whatever his reasons, I predict old Ollie will be battling a few ‘unfair dismissal’ law-suits over the next coupla years,” Malky opined .

“Any potential litigants will have to go to the end of the queue,” said Kris, “gramp’s life has been one long lawsuit, and he’s got the best lawyers money can buy.” He nimbly flipped over the back of the sofa and trotted over to the counter for a refill. Malky had to shout to be heard above the loud gurgle of a sputtering nozzle, “I can honestly say I’ve never met anyone like him in my life! If I wuz you, I’d stay well away!”

“Everybody else does keep away, I’m the only one of the family that bothers,” he said, coming back to the sofa and flopping down, “I think our little spats are a sorta communication on a deep level. Like, I can’t explain it, but it kinda opens things up –- things you can’t talk about ‘man-to-man’ can come out in one of our shouting-matches.” Kris sat up, raised his mug at the life-size picture of the man himself in his heyday hanging behind the bar, and said, “No matter what he’s done, he’s still a genius. He’s a hard act to follow. All I can do is learn from his mistakes.” Kris smiled at the youthful, dimpled face, “When I look at him now I know I’m looking at myself in 60 years time, cos that’s probably what I’ll look like if I live that long. But I won’t end my days like him, alone in a mansion miles away from his family, abandoned by his estranged kids. My grandfather is nothing if not a walking cautionary tale.”

Malky was very impressed by this young man. His mother is a drug-addict, his father is a crooked businessman, his grandfather is an arrogant arsehole, and yet, he’s a realistic, intelligent, talented, well-rounded good kid. He raised his mug to salute his new best friend, “I hope my chile grows up to be as bright and as thoughtful as you are, son.”

“You’re gonna to be a father?!” Kris asked, excitedly.

“8 weeks from yesterday,” said Malky, smiling, but sounding a wee bit daunted.

Kris jumped to his feet and vigorously shook Malky’s hand. “That’s awesome! Congratulations, dude!”

“I never thought of the future til I heard the words, ‘I’m late’," joked Malky. He took a moment to think, then asked, “So, what do you think’s goin’ on in Pagham House, Kris?”

Kris answered straightaway as if he was expecting the question: “I have absolutely no idea. I mean, that grandfather clock -- besides the fact that I wasn't here at the time, there’s no way I could've pushed that over, let alone a scrawny old guy like Ollie. You’d need a tractor to move it!”

Malky shrugged and sighed, “Well, that’s us. There’s nuthin’ more we can do. As far as we’re concerned, the house is uncontaminated by evil spirits. I’ll just have to tell Ollie we've come up empty. If I was him, I’d leave it to the police.”

Kris looked at the old dog sitting in the corner and asked, “U-huh, I wonder what Broo makes of it all?”

“I dunno,” Malky answered, sleepily, looking over his shoulder, “like I said before, if there was anythin’ ‘supernatural’ he’d’ve let us know by now...”

But Broo didn’t know how to communicate what he was seeing. Because when the pair sat together, the boy’s aura, more opaque than ever, spread to envelope Malky. When the boy went to the coffee bar to get a refill, part of it stayed with Malky. They were both shrouded in that swirling mist that psychically shut Broo out and rendered him physically weak...

Oh God, I hope this doesn’t last. I hope it disappears once we leave this woe-begotten place...

...

Two hours later, sitting in the bar of Odin’s Inn in Brodir, the ghost of Sammy O'Donnell, the inn’s deceased barman, was sitting in the darkened bar listening to the distant sound of waves crashing on the rocks. He was very bored. Thank God the old dog’s back tomorrow, at least I’d somebody to talk to, he thought to himself. We could be watchin’ TV right now... his thoughts were interrupted by a far cry: <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...>

“What’s that?” Sammy said aloud, though nobody could hear him, “well, up til now.”

<Samuel... Samuel...> a little voice cried in his head. He wasn't imagining it. It’s a thought, he thought, like the way the old dog talks me.

<Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell...> It seemed to be a child’s voice calling his name...“Samuel O'Donnell...” He went to one of the windows and looked out. <Samuel... Samuel... Samuel O'Donnell... Samuel O'Donnell...>

Beyond the concourse, across the main road, standing atop the old sea wall, he saw the sparkling spectre of a small child. It was hard to tell if it was a boy or a girl, the clinging white dress could just as well be a nightshirt; the hair was wet and hung around its face and shoulders like seaweed: the ghost of a wee drowner, no doubt.

<Wave if you can hear me!> the little ghost yelled.

Sammy raised his hand and waved a feeble wave.

<I’ve been sent by the Powers That Be to warn you!>

“Warn me?” said Sammy, perturbed.

<Aye. From tomorrow forth your haunt will become infected!> cried the little spectre, <You’ll haveta get yerself to The In-Between until the danger passes!>

Even though he’d never heard the phrase ‘The In-Between’ before, Sammy could guess what it meant: “Limbo?! Why? I bloody hate Limbo!! It’s full of martyrs 'n murderers 'n all kinds of religious headcases!”

Talking quickly, as if he there was a time limit on his manifestation, the little spectre informed him: <You've no choice! The innkeeper is set to return from an infected place -- he’ll bring the darkness back with him! It’s a Soul-eating disease, no spirit is safe, not even us ghosts – so it’s in your best interests to bide-awhile in the In-Between until the danger passes and the house is pronounced safe.>

<But what is it...!> Sammy had so many questions, but the little spectre had begun to fade. He watched helplessly as the sparkle dimmed to a glow, then a glimmer. “NO! Wait, don’t go...!” he cried out, but the ghost had gone.

He sat down again and mulled over the message: innkeeper? They must mean Malky. But what does ‘bringing The Darkness back with him’ mean? For the first time since he died, Sammy O'Donnell was scared. If there was something wicked coming – something so dangerous that it’s fatal to Immortal Souls – how could he be sure it wouldn't pose a risk to The Living?

And what about an unborn baby?!

He couldn't – he wouldn't abandon Zindy!

To Be Continued...

#witch craft #Witchcraft #irish literature #fantasy #Ghost #Hollywood #hooray for hollywood #Mystery #poltergeist #magic #black magic #irish humour #demon

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vickyvicarious · 7 years

Text

max and the misunderstanding (bmw 6)

bullymagnet week, day six: the festival/fair

read day one, day two, day three, day four, and day five first. also available on AO3.

“We’ll have to split up into pairs to cover all the possible locations,” Spender muses in his deep, dramatic mission-planning voice. At least he’s not talking to the window or standing in front of a fan so his jacket billows out this time. “I don’t want to leave anyone alone in the face of this threat…”

“Great,” Isaac grumbles, “so who’m I with, Isabel, Ed, or you?”

“Well, Isabel, but you don’t have to ask like that.” Spender sounds mildly affronted. “Unless you actually want to go with Johnny again.”

“No thanks. Our philosophies clash,” he replies a little sourly. Looking over at Max, he half-smiles. “At least you can handle him.”

“Uh,” says Max, who is unaware that he’s ever been truly successful at curbing Johnny’s Johnny-ness. It’s been a few weeks since he came into his spectral powers, and even though he hasn’t officially joined the club he’ll help out from time to time – but while none of those times have ended in terrible failure yet, any word other than ‘chaos’ would still be a misnomer. “I can?”

“Can’t I?” Ed jumps in before anyone can answer that genuine question. “I beat him up once and we bonded, you know.”

“Face it pal, even if that did really happen it’s not like it’s ever stops him from destroying everything when you fight together,” Isabel grins, affectionately punching him on the shoulder and causing him to stumble back a step.

Max reflects, not for the first time, that Isabel could probably beat up Johnny if she wanted, even without spectral powers involved. Alas, organizing a grudge match is not the order of business today, no matter how much he’d love to see it (Johnny) go down.

“Look, Isaac said no, Ed can’t control him at all, Isabel I’m a little afraid what would happen,” Spender breezes through that last one extra-quick, “and I just… don’t want to. Max, you’re with Johnny on this one. He won’t say no to you anyway so it all works out.”

“He says no to me all the time,” Max says, flashing back to the fifteen minutes spent yesterday having a shouting match over who could have the last tube of red paint in art. The confrontation ended with Johnny pinning Max’s head to the floor with a foot as he used up the entire tube purely out of spite even though it covered his whole canvas.

For some reason though, everyone seems amused by this claim. Isaac blatantly laughs.

“Sure,” he says, grinning like he knows something Max doesn’t. “Ask him to the fair. He’ll definitely refuse you.”

“Whhhhhhhhhhh,” Johnny says, when Max asks him to the fair. “Whhhhut. W-who me.”

“Yes. And, um, not these guys,” Max says somewhat rudely, since if he doesn’t spell it out Johnny will definitely bring all his friends along. “Just you and me.”

“WITH YOU. ME. FAIR. WHAT.”

Behind Johnny, RJ collapses foaming at the mouth. Stephen falls to the ground to shake them, shouting pleas for their survival.

“Are you, uh, sick or something?” Max asks. “You’re super red and making no sense.”

Johnny spins to Ollie.

“AM I SICK, DUDE?” he roars in what appears to be panic. “’M I HALLUCINATING?”

Ollie leans in, squints at Johnny, feels his forehead, then inexplicably turns to Max, poking him several times and then tweaking his nose.

“Nope,” he tells Johnny, and claps a hand onto his shoulder, staring deep into his eyes. “It’s Code Twitterpate.”

Johnny takes a deep breath at this. He slowly turns back to Max.

“S-sure,” he says, voice startlingly soft. “Um. Yeah. Okay.”

“Cool,” Max says. “I’ll meet you at the West Entrance around noon?”

“Y-yeah,” Johnny nods, still using that really really gentle voice. Ollie is beaming down at both of them like some kind of proud parent.

“…..See you then then,” Max says, and walks off quickly. After a minute, his phone buzzes.

[How’d it go?] Isaac asks.

[Once you parse through the crazy, he just really likes the fair I think.]

Isaac sends back a string of laughing-and-crying emoticons, then refuses to explain what’s so funny.

When Max arrives at the fair’s West Entrance at approximately noon-fifteen the next day, he is immediately accosted by a vigorous noogie from his partner for the day.

“That’s for bein’ late,” Johnny says smugly, as Max pretends to himself the tears in his eyes are only from the bright sunshine. Ow. Ow. Ow.

“Sorry, geez,” he says, rubbing cautiously at his head. “I had to ditch Zoey. My dad wanted me to bring her too, but I mean that wasn’t happening.”

“I like Zoey,” Johnny reminds Max, as though he doesn’t regularly wake in a cold sweat over that very fact.

“So do I but do you really wanna bring her along today?” he asks, instead of showing his fear. Johnny blinks, then grins widely.

“Nah,” he says brightly. “I think we’re good as-is.”

“Yeah, good,” Max repeats, sounding a little dumb even to himself, but he’s kind of distracted by Johnny’s smile. It is just… so happy. Does he really like the fair that much, or is it just the prospect of beating up a spirit?

Maybe it’s the combination of fair and spirit?

“Here, I’ll uh, I’ll pay.” Max stumbles forward to buy their tickets with the money Spender handed out yesterday. Johnny makes a small choking sound in the back of his throat but doesn’t protest. He grips his ticket really hard when Max hands it to him.

“Right, so, we’re by the fairgrounds with all the rigged games,” he says as they walk into the fair, studying his trisected map. Ed called the rollercoasters right away, making all the blood drain from Spender’s face. At least Max managed to jump in fast enough to get the carnie games and haunted house instead of the area with the ferris wheel and carousel, that would’ve been super boring. “Do you wanna–PFLGMH.”

“Got some cotton candy,” Johnny explains, unnecessarily since about half of it is currently blocking Max’s airways. He never even knew that was possible with something that melts so fast. “Here, ‘s for you.”

“Gee, thanks being so attentive,” Max snarks after he manages to stop choking, but the sarcasm appears to fly over Johnny’s head as he just grins a little wider and takes a bite of his own cotton candy.

Well, whatever. Max is always willing to appreciate terrible food that’s bigger than his face. He accepts his and continues munching on it as they start off down the fairway, meandering around to avoid spirits and ghosts mixed in with the crowd.

“I was gonna say, do you want to try and actually win anything? I know we’re supposed to check them out but I kind of don’t want to waste money on something no one can win anyway.”

Johnny scoffs. “I can win ‘em. Do every year.”

“You’re lying,” Max says immediately. “Or cheating. Nope, lying.”

Johnny’s chest puffs up, and he turns his head to grin one of his sharktooth grins at Max.

“Sometimes I forget ya ain’t been around forever, but then you say somethin’ dumb like that,” he says fondly. Max is considering getting offended, but Johnny looks so happy at the chance to brag that he decides to let the insult slide this time. “You, new kid, are lookin’ at the King of the Carnival!”

“This is America,” Max deadpans.

Johnny just laughs, and dashes off to the nearest booth – one of those shooting galleries where you have to knock over the bottles. The guy behind the desk gets a very intense look on his face as soon as they approach.

“Jhonny,” he snaps. “Y-you won’t beat me this year! I’ve fixed every flaw!”

“So... you’re admitting to rigging the game, then?” Max asks.

“Wh- no! This is a game of skill, and anyone could win a fantastic prize!” the guy shouts with a big grin… then leans across the counter and snarls, “But between you’n’me kid, you’re going DOWN.”

Johnny looks up at the prizes hanging from the roof.

“Max,” he says confidently. “I’m gonna win ya a tiger.”

He – he does. Actually, really quickly, and Max is gifted a tiger bigger than himself by the crying carnie. He holds it awkwardly, unsure what to do with it and also still kind of stunned, frankly.

“Okay, that was actually really impressive,” he’s forced to admit. He’s tried his hand at these games before and never won one of the big prizes, even after reading How To Cheat A Cheat: Tips of an Ex-Carnie at the library.

Johnny flushes, grinning proudly.

“Jus’, just wait,” he kind of splutters, and then next thing Max knows they’re making their way down the row, challenging every game and decimating them all. It’s surprisingly fun, just watching Johnny go – he’s super into it, and keeps glancing up to make sure Max is watching, sending him these little grins and waiting expectantly for praise every time he dominates another challenge. It’s kind of hilarious, all these carnie guys are recognizing Johnny and getting all fired up to defeat him, but he doesn’t pay them any attention, too busy showing off. This one guy doesn’t even get to finish his rival monologue before Johnny’s popped all the balloons on the back wall and is shoving a stuffed elephant into Max’s (very full by this point) arms.

He even claims to have a technique for the Wheel of Fortune, which Max would normally scoff at, but by this point he just accepts the bragging as fact – a move justified when Johnny does, in fact, win on his first spin. By the time they arrive at the other end of the track, Max is exhausted just from dragging around the loot Johnny’s dumped on him, let alone the hours under the hot sun.

“All right, break time,” he huffs, dropping everything onto a luckily empty table. “Siddown your majesty, you deserve a funnel cake after all of that.”

Johnny plops down, grinning ear to ear, and he looks so proud of himself, obviously just having the time of his life. Max is really… really endeared by that expression for some reason, there’s just something about the sight of Johnny sitting there in his ‘like a boss’ shirt surrounded by stuffed animals, a dragon painted on his face, grinning up at the sky.

On a whim, he whips out his phone and takes a picture. Johnny blinks, losing the grin, and Max smirks.

“Got a new picture for my contacts,” he says, wagging his phone at his friend. Johnny’s cheeks go pink, and Max walks off to get the food before he can retort. On the way, he exchanges texts with the rest of club, reporting their lack of progress and confirming that so far everyone else is in the same boat. Though Spender has apparently vomited twice already, and Isabel made Isaac get his caricature then hurt herself laughing, which means that for once Max’s team is the only uninjured one, so far anyway.

When Max returns with the funnel cakes, sodas, and hot dogs, he’s ambushed by a heavy arm dropping around his shoulder. Johnny drags him into his side until their cheeks are pressed together, commands him to smile, then blinds him with his flash, all while Max is still struggling not to drop the food. Afterwards, he grins at Max, holding up his phone.

“Me too,” he says, and Max feels warm all over.

They really need to get under some shade at some point before he fries like an egg.

After they eat, Max points out the funhouse stuff – the haunted house comes first, of course, and he and Johnny step in together with all the confidence of preteens who have seen multiple movies they weren’t supposed to be old enough for yet. Though, Max doesn’t really have to sneak that much usually, his dad just tends to forget that ratings are a thing and invites him in to watch whatever. He kind of envies Johnny for getting to choose which stuff to smuggle in and watch in secret with his friends; it sounds a lot more fun than watching movies with his dad suddenly saying “oops” and covering his eyes at key moments while shouting off-key lullabies.

…Anyway. Max is kind of expecting the haunted house to be where the spirit finally jumps out at them. It’s kind of cliché, for an evil ghost to be in a haunted house, but those exist for a reason, right? He’s also kind of expecting to get told to leave his tool outside, because somebody bringing a baseball bat into a haunted house is just a recipe for disaster. Max and Isabel’s larger tools getting confiscated on rides and stuff is even the fake reason Spender made up after the fact for why they both needed to be paired with mediums today.

In the end though, both expectations are proven false. Max abandons his gigantic pile of stuffed animals outside, kind of secretly hoping they’ll get stolen because he’s tired of carrying them around, but the bored teenager at the door doesn’t seem to notice or care about the baseball bat sticking out of his backpack. And then once they’re inside, it’s darkish, and there are a lot of spooky noises, but it’s not actually that scary because the spirits that are everywhere in Mayview serve as kind of natural nightlights, making it really easy for spectrals to see the shoddy setup and the bored employees. The grudge they’re looking for isn’t around, and the closest Max comes to actually being scared is when he trips on the step going outside at the end and nearly falls on his face.

Normally Max would be majorly disappointed by something like this, but Johnny spends the whole trip through grumbling about not getting to reflexively punch the jump-scare staff in the face like he apparently normally does. Seeing them beforehand, he complains very seriously as Max attempts not to snicker too loudly, takes all the fun out of it.

“Th’ haunted house is supposed to hone my sick senses,” Johnny is still complaining as they step outside.

“Yeah, I can see the lack of spooks really has you aghost,” Max agrees.

“My spirits ‘re low,” Johnny admits, stepping over a line of small things that look like duck/toothbrush hybrids. He narrows his eyes pointedly at Max’s bat. “But I’m not gonna hold a grudge about it.”

Max laughs, breaking first. Normally he can go longer punning against Johnny, but right now he’s just in a really good mood, okay, so he settles for just kind of elbowing Johnny’s side. This devolves immediately into an elbowing match all the way over to the pile of fairground prizes, which Max is dismayed to see have not been stolen. Where is the rampant crime he was promised as part of the fairground experience?

“I can’t take all of these home,” he says, ignoring Johnny’s betrayed little noise. “This is way too much. Do you want ‘em?”

“I got those for you,” Johnny complains. Then clears his throat and says, “Uh, I mean, I got like a million already anyway. Just keep ‘em.”

“No way, these are all donation-bound.” Max glances over at Johnny and instantly regrets it; his expression is practically the definition of quiet disappointment. It’s even worse that it’s quiet, somehow. He looks hurt, which just isn’t fair at all.

“…Fine, whatever,” he mumbles.

“–Except Skullcruncher, of course,” Max blurts, then grabs at the first prize of the day. He instantly regrets choosing the gihuge tiger when he thinks about transporting this home, but it is the one Johnny actually promised to win for him and it’s kind of cool-looking, so. “Oh, and uh, something for Zoey. The weird donkey thing, I guess.”

“Nah, she’ll like the octopus better,” Johnny says. He’s correct. He’s also grinning, trying to hide it by stooping down to pull out the chosen toys from the pile, and for some reason him ducking his head and smiling into his shoulder as he hoists a five and a half foot tiger over it makes Max want to hug him, or ruffle his hair or something.

“R-right,” he says instead, snatching up the octopus and trying to hide his own smile for reasons he’s not entirely sure of. “A-anyway, uh, on to the hall of mirrors?”

It’s quiet and cool inside. Johnny’s quiet too, in that peaceful way he sometimes gets. He’s not the type of person you’d expect to be able to just be quiet with, but Max has noticed it happening on a fairly frequent basis when they’re alone together. He feels comfortable now, just like he always does when this happens, relaxed after a fun afternoon at the fair, and while the mirror house isn’t that exciting really, at least it’s not crowded.

He’s making faces into an eternity of reflections when he notices gray out of the corner of his eye. Half-turning allows him to see Johnny standing just behind him through another mirror. Something’s going on, but it looks to be all in his mind ‘cause Max can’t see any spectral reason for him to be emitting smoke. He looks like he’s in the middle of talking to his spirit, because he’s twitching pretty quickly in place, but of course that’s over in a couple of seconds.

When he emerges, it’s with a firm expression. He takes a deep breath, nods once to himself, then reaches forward, beyond the edge of the mirror Max is watching through. He’s not sure what Johnny’s trying to do; a second later he feels fingers brush against his hand, but at the same moment his phone buzzes, startling him, and he pulls it out to check his messages.

“Oh, hey! Isaac and Isabel got the spirit! Turns out it was in the ferris wheel watching the sunset and they surprised it from behind, talk about boring,” Max says. He looks up, laughing a little. “I kinda forgot that we were even here on a mission for a minute–”

He stops.

Johnny is staring at him, eyes wide, hand outstretched. Slowly, red spreads across his entire face. He drops his hand. He also drops Skullcrusher.

“I,” he says, and blinks several times. His voice is all croaky. “Um. I gotta go-”

Johnny spins around and bolts out of the room, crashing into four mirror walls on the way out. Max is left staring after him, completely confused. Somehow, he doubts that it’s Johnny’s bladder suddenly bothering him so much, a theory supported by the kid’s complete absence once Max finally makes it out of the mirror hall, but he doesn’t really know what else could be bothering Johnny so much.

When, after stalking the porta-potties for ten minutes, it becomes clear that Johnny really has ditched him, Max ends up convening with the rest of the Activity Club to catch a ride home from Spender, ending up smushed in the middle of the backseat between Isaac and Ed, and underneath Skullcrusher. He texts Johnny during the drive, asking what’s wrong, but there’s no answer.

“What’s going on?” Isaac asks quietly, nudging him.

Max isn’t sure what to say. He was having a great time all day, and he’s pretty sure Johnny had been too. Right up until that very last second, after talking to – oh.

“I think Forge said something that bothered Johnny,” he mumbles back, extra quiet since Spender is weird about Johnny’s spectral hitchhiker. “He got all red all of a sudden and just left, and now he’s not answering my texts.”

“Ah,” Isaac says wisely. “Ahhhhh. I see.”

“We all do, it’s not exactly subtle,” Ed interjects. Isaac ignores him.

Instead, he claps a hand on Max’s shoulder, smiling wisely down at him.

“Johnny will be okay,” he promises. “And Max, you’ll understand some day… when you’re older.”

“You’re thirteen shut up,” Max retorts, and sinks down into his seat to grump in peace since no one else is being helpful.

[Seriously, you okay?] he types, then doesn’t close the phone. Keeps staring at that picture of the King of the Carnival, smiling so wide.

#bullymagnet week #bullymagnet #paranatural #my fic #I HAD FUN WITH THIS ONE #alas if max had a better vocabulary all this could've been avoided #isaac is a Teenager and Wise About These Matters #or at least obnoxious about them

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dust2dust34 · 7 years

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Pieces of Always: January 2025 (FICoN ‘verse)

Life continues after Forever is Composed of Nows.

by @so-caffeinated and @dust2dust34

Summary: Jules' tenth birthday brings a few surprising moments for her and Felicity.

An ongoing non-linear collection of family moments for the Queens. (You do not need to have read FiCoN to enjoy this, but it will spoil the end. Please see the first installment for additional author notes. Thank you @jsevick and @alizziebyanyothername for the amazing beta!)

A/N: Please see the first chapter for an important Author’s Note, as well as under the cut for an additional one.

A/N: The effervescent @so-caffeinated is fully in the driver’s seat and she’s kicking all the ass, so please go send her your love!

(read on AO3)

January 2025 - More Than A Thousand Words

She should be reviewing proposals from the marketing department. That’s what Felicity should be doing right now. But today is one of those rare days where Felicity pushes her obligations aside, ignores her ever-present workload and turns her phone on silent.

It’s a Tuesday, but she’s taken the day off work - like really off work, not even work-from-home work is happening. Nate’s been down for a rare nap for a bit and the girls are still at school. So, in spite of all the things she should be doing, Felicity’s curled up in the armchair in her office at home with a tablet in her hands, replaying some of the most important moments of her life.

“Hi Momma!” Ellie’s voice calls out as the front door slams. Felicity jolts, looking to the clock and finding it a whole half hour later than she’d assumed. Time goes by so fast while you aren’t looking.

Ever a ball of energy, the blonde little girl appears in the open doorway bouncing on the balls of her feet as Felicity puts the tablet down and stands up to greet her. “I asked Frank to stay for cake, but he said he’s too worried that maybe you cooked it so he doesn’t wanna. He’s coming with Grandma Donna this weekend for the party, though, because I promised Daddy was baking. But Sara said any cake is worth the risk, so she’s staying. Can she and I go play in the fairy castle out back, pretty please with fairy dust on top?”

Felicity pauses at that and quirks her head to the side as she watches her younger daughter’s dramatic, toothy grin. Sara Diggle appears right behind her wearing an identical smile.

“Pleeeeeease Aunt Felicity?” Sara asks, batting those huge brown eyes of hers. As if she’d been going to say no.

“Sure,” she agrees. “Nate’s asleep, though. Don’t slam the door. Okay? And you, my birthday girl,” she says as Jules also joins the group of young girls, “how was your day, my ten-year-old?”

Jules’ eyes light up at the question and her cheeks flush as she smiles thinly and shrugs one shoulder. “Okay,” she replies. “I had art and library today. I found a book with a dog that looks like Buster and Mrs. Nelms, the librarian, said she thought I’d really like it.”

Ellie and Sara have scampered off toward the back yard. They wholly ignore the command to not slam the door, but it hardly matters because Buster has realized his girl is home and he bounds noisily through the house until he barrels right into Jules. He immediately jumps up, putting both front paws on her shoulders and whining as he licks at her face, tail wagging wildly. You’d think he hadn’t seen her in a month. It’s like this every single day.

“Down, Buster,” Felicity scolds. But it’s half-hearted at best because Jules laughs and kisses the mutt soundly on the top of his head. She loves this dog more than anything in the whole world and even if Felicity really wishes behavioral training would stick better with him, she also doesn’t really want to scold the pup today. He makes Jules so very happy.

“I missed you, too, boy!” Jules tells him as he nuzzles against her desperate for her attention. It’s sort of a miracle he doesn’t just knock her down. It feels like he’s grown even faster than Jules has. “Down, though. Down, Buster.”

Of course, he listens to her. He sits sharply at attention, tail thumping against the wood floor as he looks up at her adoringly. Felicity shakes her head at the sight. It’s not that the dog can’t understand direction, it’s that he only listens to Jules. Ever.

“That’s my good boy,” Jules tells him, scratching behind his ear. If a dog could preen, he would be. He’s so utterly delighted at being called a good boy by his girl. “Can Buster have cake, too? It’s basically his birthday, too, since I adopted him two years ago.”

Felicity could swear the dog understands her words, because he just stops and stares at her, both he and Jules wearing identical, wide-eyed expressions. ‘Please?’ they say. ‘Please can Buster have a treat?’ It’s absurd.

“The cake’s chocolate, which isn’t good for dogs,” Felicity reminds her. “But… I might have asked Raisa to pick up some of his favorite t-r-e-a-t-s.”

“Yes!” Jules declares cupping the dog’s face and ruffling his fur with excitement. The dog is thrilled, even if he clearly doesn’t know why. It doesn’t matter. His girl is happy. That’s all he needs. “You’re gonna have a great dinner tonight, Buster! It’s my party. I’m double-digits, now!”

Oh, wow… that’s… Felicity’s been trying really hard not to think about that all day, but there it is stated plain as day. It seems impossible that she’s ten now, but she is. And, in spite of wanting to make the clock stop, Felicity sort of loves this place they’re at right now. Finally. Things finally feel like they’re on the right track.

Almost a year after finishing chemotherapy, her mom is doing well. Nate’s finally sometimes sleeping in his own bed without complaint. Ellie’s ever-joyful and past that terrifying time when the other Ellie had taken her trip through time. But, most importantly, Jules seems more at peace than any time since she was a toddler. She’s happier, not open exactly, but not closed off anymore either. It feels like everything is moving in the right direction.

A laugh breaks through the sound of Buster noisy licking Jules’ hand and the girl looks up in confusion. “Is someone over?”

“Nope,” Felicity smiles softly. “I was just watching a few old videos. I guess I left them running.”

“Oh…” Jules says, craning her neck. She’s curious, but quiet. Both of these things come as no surprise to Felicity. But she’s gotten a lot better at picking up on her little girl’s nonverbal cues over these last three years, stopped to take in what Jules isn’t saying and hears it as loudly as what she is.

“Come on,” Felicity says with a tilt of her head in invitation as she walks back into her office. She doesn’t wait to see if Jules will follow; She will, but she’ll hesitate if she knows she’s being studied for a reaction. Instead, Felicity grabs her tablet and curls up in her chair again. Sure enough, curiosity gets the best of Jules and soon she’s leaning against the arm of the chair to get a better look at the screen.

“You were huge!” she says in astonishment, blinking her big, blue eyes owlishly in amazement.

Felicity can’t help it. She bursts out laughing immediately. “I really wasn’t, actually,” she corrects. “You were on the small side. I got a lot bigger with Nate.”

“I guess I didn’t notice,” Jules tells her. She’s not looking up, too distracted by the video playing out in front of her. Felicity gets that. It’s a pretty great moment.

“Oliver, how is it possible that you can build a bow out of like… twigs, but a crib gets the best of you?” the Felicity on the tablet laughs. It’s not long after their first Christmas and Hannukah together, not long after Will first started spending some full weekends with them, and they’re both sort of on a giddy high that came along with pieces of their lives together falling into place.

“This has more parts!” Oliver protests. He’s completely surrounded by wooden parts and piles of screws and wooden pins. God, they’re both so young. How were they that young?

“Who took this?” Jules asks. She’s completely entranced, watching as Oliver gives up on the crib, grabbing Felicity instead and tugging her closer. He’s still seated on the floor, still surrounded by the unbuilt crib that will one day house their older daughter, but he’s given up on that for the moment. His attention is wholly on his pregnant girlfriend’s belly.

“Aunt Thea,” Felicity replies, but it’s sort of unnecessary because Thea’s distinctive snort sounds through the tablet a moment later, right as Jules shifts so that she’s sitting on the edge of the armchair rather than leaning on it.

“You’re such a sap, Ollie,” she tells him as he presses his lips to Felicity’s stomach.

“At least my little girl won’t judge me, will you Julie-bug?” he asks. “You’ll love this crib no matter what.”

“She’ll love you no matter what,” Felicity corrects. “Because you’re her daddy. That makes you the most important person in her whole world.”

“She’s awfully important in mine, too,” Oliver points out. He’s on his knees looking up at Felicity, his chin resting against her stomach. Felicity’s got one hand on his cheek and a dreamy kind of look on her face as her other hand rests against the curve of her belly, thumb stroking against the fabric of her shirt like maybe her unborn daughter can feel it.

“Mine, too,” she smiles back.

“God, you guys. I’m getting a toothache here,” Thea declares as the angle changes and the screen momentarily goes black.

“That’s it?” Jules asks. She sounds frustrated and she’s leaned so far over that Felicity just tugs her the rest of the way onto her lap so she can see better. And so that she can enjoy having her daughter on her lap. At ten years old, that’s a rarity these days. Hell, it’s been a rarity with Jules for a long time.

“For that day, yes,” Felicity confirms. “But there’s more coming…. You never wanted to watch these with me before.”

Jules doesn’t say anything to that, just gives a silent nod of admission as she presses her lips together tightly and watches the screen. Buster’s resting his head on her knee, but for once the girl is paying no attention to her dog. The whole of her focus is on the screen in front of her. Felicity’s watched these videos a hundred times. She knows them by heart by now. So, she takes the opportunity to watch her daughter instead.

Especially because she knows what’s coming next.

“Oh!” Jules gasps aloud. She starts to scoot forward, closer to the screen and the scene playing out on it, but Felicity adjusts her hold and tugs the girl back so she can both cuddle and see the picture well.

And oh what a heart-rending picture it is. Jules is just hours old, so very small, and barely awake in her father’s arms as he sings quietly down to her. Love radiates through the screen so strongly that it makes Felicity’s heart swell and her eyes water. The way Oliver loves is beautiful. It always has been. His devotion to his city, to her, to their children, it steals the breath from her lungs and sets her pulse racing. It always has.

“Is that me?” Jules asks. Her voice is so quiet, so in awe and tinged with disbelief.

“It is,” Felicity confirms, brushing Jules’ dark hair behind her ear so she can see her face better. “Ten years ago today. I’m asleep in the bed over there. You can barely see my leg at the bottom. Fourteen hours of labor and you wore me out, kiddo.”

“Fourteen hours?” Jules asks in astonishment, looking up at her. “Did you get… breaks or anything?”

“It doesn’t work like that.” Felicity laughs before acknowledging, “It was a long day, but it was worth it. You’ve always been worth it.”

Jules looks a little stunned by that. She’s never quite believed when her parents have said things like this to her, but she doesn’t scoff or roll her eyes this time. She just chews her lip and looks back to the screen with fresh eyes. Something about that makes hope well up in Felicity’s chest. The idea that Jules isn’t immediately dismissing this, that she might actually accept it, feels like the best present she could have ever asked for.

It’s a sweet, but not particularly long clip and Jules makes a noise of protest when the moment ends. Felicity can’t blame her, because she wishes it weren’t so short, too. It’s such a beautiful moment, Oliver’s singing voice notwithstanding.

“There’s lots more, Julie-bug,” Felicity murmurs, kissing the top of the girl’s head as she relaxes again and the scene fast-forwards just a few hours.

She’ll like this one - Felicity knows she will - and she’s not at all surprised when her little girl lets out a giggle. “Is that Will?” she asks. “He’s so tiny!”

“Same age there as Ellie is now,” Felicity replies, a fondly reminiscent smile pulling at her lips. He had been so tiny, such a good little boy, and he’d been so in awe at this arrival of his baby sister.

“She’s here? Can I see her? Is it okay?” Will is anxious on the screen, an excited, jittery mess. Felicity doesn’t even know who recorded this one because they don’t speak and somehow manage to keep Will, Jules, Felicity and Oliver all in the frame. Something tells her it was Samantha, but she’s far from certain, and if it is then Will is far too enraptured with his baby sister to say anything to his mom.

“You can even hold her, buddy. We just have to be careful. She’s very little,” Oliver tells Will, heading to take the newborn from Felicity’s arms. This was a few days before the postpartum depression had really set in and Felicity wishes she could reach through the screen and warn her younger self, tell her what’s to come and that it’s not her fault, let her know that it’s okay to get the help she needs and it doesn’t mean she’s weak. But life doesn’t work that way and at least in the scene Jules sees now, her mom isn’t crushed by a hollow sense of brokenness.

On the screen, Felicity kisses her newborn’s dark hair and breathes in her unique baby scent. It’s so strong a memory that from ten years later, sitting in her office, Felicity’s pretty sure she can recall it with perfect clarity. The younger version of herself takes her time before handing over the baby to its father, she’s so reluctant to let the newborn go and it’s obvious enough that that same little girl on her lap now can clearly see it. Her eyes grow wide with surprise, but she’s so drawn in that it seems like she’s trying not to even blink for fear of missing this moment.

Oliver wipes at the baby’s mouth and smiles as she gurgles with more alertness than Felicity had expected at the time. She works her little arms out of the loose swaddling, a hospital-provided baby blanket covered in storks, and reaches one hand for her father’s finger, the other going straight to her mouth. She hadn’t sucked her thumb long as a baby - not like Nate or even Ellie - but those first few weeks she’d found comfort in it.

“I’ve got you, sweet girl. You’re okay, Julie-bug,” Oliver tells her softly, rocking her just a little. Her tiny brow is furrowed like she’s trying to figure something out, like she’s unsettled by the change of arms and her own motion through the world. “I’ve got someone very special who wants to meet you.”

Absolute joy spills off of Will’s face. He’d been so nervous just a month or so prior, but those nerves had quickly given way to excitement and he’d never once looked back. But then Will’s loyalty is absolute and his trust is easier won than Jules’ has ever been.

“Sit down, Will,” Oliver tells his oldest, nodding his head toward a small sofa in room. It’s too small, really. Poor Oliver had taken a few short naps on it the day before and his frame hadn’t even come close to fitting on it. But it suits their purposes now and Will scrambles for the sofa as fast as he can, sitting at attention and squaring his shoulders as he holds his arms out stiffly. He’s blindingly excited, but Felicity thinks Oliver might be even moreso. His smile’s a mile wide and there’s so much joy in every single feature. It took her breath away at the time and it still does now.

“You all look so happy…” Jules says. It’s so quiet, so absently stated that Felicity thinks she might not even be aware she said it aloud.

“Oh, Jules… you have no idea,” she tells the girl. There’s a grating heaviness to her voice that surely emphasizes her point and the ten-year-old looks up at her with such raw hopefulness that it cleaves her heart in two. “You’ve owned such a big piece of my heart from the moment I knew you existed, sweetheart.”

Jules’ eyes water visibly and she can’t keep her mother’s gaze, but she holds on harder. She nestles back into Felicity’s embrace and clings to the side of her shirt as she soaks in more of the moment playing out in front of her.

On the tablet, Oliver’s eased himself down next to Will. The little boy is nearly plastered to his father’s side, craning his neck to get a good first look at his baby sister.

“Hiya, Julianna!” Will says, waving at the newborn, as if she could possibly understand that. His half-toothless grin focused entirely on the baby. “I’m Will. I’m your big brother!”

He’s so very proud of the title, had been telling everyone who would listen for weeks and detailing everything he was going to teach his baby sister, all the things they’d one day do together. At the time, Felicity had thought that interest would wane, that he’d tire of the crying or lose interest as she toddled after him. He is seven years older than her, after all. But that had never happened and the relationship Will and Jules have forged over the years is something she could have never expected, but also leaves her with a grateful sense of awe. Felicity never had any siblings, so she doesn’t know for sure, but she thinks that what Jules and Will have is exceptional. She thinks it’s rare and precious, and she really can’t imagine either one without the other at this point.

It’s gentle and slow as Oliver hands his infant daughter off to his son, adjusting his hold and reminding him to support her neck. It takes a moment, but Will gets the hang of it quickly and he’s so very proud of himself once he does, looking up toward where his stepmother is lying in the bed watching on.

“I got it!” he declares triumphantly. “See Felicity? I’ve got her!”

“You do,” she replies, the smile on her face barely visible from the angle of the camera.

“Hi Jules! Hiya!” Will says again excitedly. Jules smacks her lips at him and grabs his thumb in her tiny fingers, gripping for all she’s worth. “She’s really strong!”

She blows bubbles at him and he laughs happily, sticking his tongue out in return, which seems to utterly shock her. Oliver wraps an arm around Will, encompassing both of his children as they interact for the first time. He watches them for a moment before looking toward where Felicity lies in the nearby bed. Even given the distance between him and the camera, she can still see the dewiness of his eyes and she can still make out the words as he mouths ‘thank you’ to her.

‘Thank you, too,’ she hears herself murmur back just before the screen goes black.

“But…” Jules ventures before hesitating. There are more videos to come, but Felicity hits the button to turn off the tablet and devote her attention to her daughter here and now. The videos will be there later.

“But what?” she asks as Jules as the girl plays with the fabric of her sleeve.

“But… I wasn’t Ellie,” she says quietly. “I don’t understand. You wanted Ellie.”

That she still thinks that is like a knife to Felicity’s heart, but this also feels like a turning point, like an opportunity she can’t afford to let slip by.

“And yet,” she says slowly, “it was so much better that we had you.”

Jules’ eyes bug out hugely at that and her cheeks turn pink as her eyes dart toward the open door. It’s like she’s looking for Ellie, to make sure she hadn’t heard that. But that proves two things - first, that she’s completely unaware that her sister is incapable of doing anything quietly at this age and second, that she completely misunderstood her mother’s words.

“When I was pregnant with you, I thought you might be Ellie born earlier,” Felicity confesses. She holds Jules tighter as she says this, like she’s afraid she’s going to scare the girl off. “There were times I even thought that might be something I wanted, but that’s only because I didn’t know yet.”

“Didn’t know what yet?” Jules asks guardedly.

“That I’d love you every bit as much as I love her,” Felicity confides. “That having both of you was going to be so, so much better than just having Ellie. Jules, there is not a thing in this world that I would trade the experience of being your mother for. Nothing.”

“Nothing?” Jules asks, disbelief painted across her every feature.

“Nothing,” Felicity replies with fierce honesty. “Not having Ellie earlier, not having the other Ellie back. Nothing. You’re you, baby girl. You are so special. You impress me every day. I would do anything for you. Anything at all. So would your dad. So would Will.”

Nerves flitter across Jules’ face. Getting what she wants, hearing what she’d like to believe, those are things she’s never trusted easily.

“You are the cornerstone of this family, Jules. You are,” Felicity emphasizes, her voice breaking as she holds tightly to her daughter and silently prays she understands, that she believes. “You are my first baby. Will’s first sibling. Your father’s first daughter. The original Ellie showed your dad and I that we wanted to be a family. But, honey, you’re the one who made us one.”

Felicity will never know exactly what part of all of this gets through to her, but something does. Jules lets go of her mother’s shirt to throw her arms around her neck instead, letting out a relieved sob into her shoulder.

In hindsight, she’ll be hardpressed to decide which of them needed this more. Weight she hadn’t even known existed feels like it melts right off of her and it’s replaced with a lightness of heart and spirit, a sort of solidarity she’s never really found with her older daughter before. It is so hard-won, but maybe that just makes it mean more.

“I love you, Mommy,” Jules says with a shuddering breath and wet eyes pressed to the collar of her mother’s shirt. Felicity feels like her heart might burst on the spot and she clings to her daughter with a newfound sense of purpose.

“I love you, too.” It sounds like a prayer, like a vow. Maybe in some ways it is. Maybe it’s every bit as important as the ones she’d said when she’d married Oliver. Maybe it’s actually more important. “I will love you every day of my life. Always. I could live to be a hundred years old and I would never love anyone more than I love you, Jules.”

She says nothing, but Jules nods against her neck and it’s the best feeling Felicity’s ever had. This feels like solid ground, like the first step of a joint journey together, like they’re finally, finally on the same page. She kisses the top of her daughter’s head several times - it’s almost compulsive - and shuts her eyes hard against the tears that have welled up past the point of containment.

“I want you to believe that, Jules,” she whispers. “Now and always. No matter what. I need you to know that. Because, God, baby girl, you deserve it so much. I want that for you - I want everything for you - but I especially want you to know how loved you really are.”

The unity found in this moment is as beautiful as it is unexpected. Jules holds on for all she’s worth, her mother’s hands rubbing her back as she lets out shuddering, relieved sobs into her mom’s neck. Those tears are the best thing Felicity can even imagine. Because they’re healing, because they’re washing clean the scars and bruises of their relationship.

It is, by far, the best birthday present she could have imagined, but it feels as much a gift for her as it is for Jules. She has wanted this so badly, struggled for this kind of understanding between them for so very long. But she and Jules have so frequently crossed wires, talked at each other instead of to each other, and this trust is so very hard won.

But maybe that’s good. Maybe that’s better, because now that they’re here, maybe it’ll stick. Maybe it’ll stay forever.

God, she hopes so.

Felicity has no idea how long they sit there. Distantly, she can hear the laughter of Ellie and Sara in the back yard. Buster’s concern for his girl gives way to some kind of distraction and he wanders from the room. The front door opens and shuts and Felicity glances toward her office doorway to find Will watching them with concern. Jules doesn’t even pick up her head though and Felicity just smiles at her stepson and shakes her head softly. He takes the hint and leaves them alone, wandering toward the kitchen, no doubt on a mission to eat the contents of the entire fridge - a sixteen-year-old boy’s appetite is something else.

But she and Jules stay in a little bubble of their own making right up until the patter of tiny feet echoes through the house and a half-awake Nate stumbles into the room.

‘Half-awake’ might be charitable, actually. He’s rubbing at his eyes with one hand and dragging a teddy bear by the ear with his other. He can’t quite seem to get his feet to work the way he wants yet and he blearily stumbles into the doorframe as he tries to make his way over to them.

Nate doesn’t say anything, though. The two-and-a-half year old just climbs up onto the chair with them, wedging himself between his mother and his oldest sister with a contented sigh and wrapping his arms around Jules’ midsection and nuzzling in. He’s such an affectionate kid, so very tactile.

“Hey,” Jules greets him, letting go of her mom with one hand to pet the back of Nate’s hair. He loves that. Playing with his hair is the very easiest way to get him to fall asleep.

“Hi,” he says, yawning hugely as he finishes the word. “You’re home. Is it birthday time now?”

“It’s been my birthday all day,” Jules tells him. “That’s how birthdays work.”

Nate wakes up a little more at that, looking up between his mom and sister. “Is there cake though?”

Of course that’s where his mind goes. This boy’s sweet tooth is absurd. But that hardly matters right now. What matters to Felicity is that she’s got two of her babies on her lap right now, safe and content and openly affectionate. She tries to hold this in her mind, to take a snapshot of it so it lasts forever and ever.

She’s so very glad she took the day off of work. There’s not a thing in the world she’d trade this experience for.

“Not yet, goofball,” Jules says, ruffling his hair.

“But soon?” Nate questions, his eyes huge and pleading. “There’s gotta be cake. Cake makes birthdays good.”

“There will be,” Jules says. She’s smiling. She’s honestly smiling. It lights up her eyes and makes her look so happy, so at peace, so at home in her own skin. It’s beautiful to the point where Felicity could positively sob at the sight of it. “But…” Jules continues, looking up at her mom as she keeps talking. “It’s already been a pretty great birthday, even without the cake.”

Reviews literally feed the soul muse, so go send some love to the fabulous @so-caffeinated!

#olicity #felicity smoak #julianna queen #ficon #forever is composed of nows #pieces of always #fanfiction #my fics #my fics: cowritten #so-caffeinated #dust2dust34 #arrow #arrow fanfiction

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turtle-paced · 7 years

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GoT Re-Watch: Fine-Toothed Comb Edition

I’m back! With a really bad episode!

5.09 - The Dance of Dragons

This episode has a previously on, reminding us of the envoy Cersei sent to the Iron Bank and that Meryn Trant went with. We also get the the snake-in-a-box again, if you wanted a giggle! It ends at 1:42.

(4:14) In spite of the snow, and from the looks of the establishing shot it’s been snowing for a while, the tents go up like they’ve been soaked in kerosene.

(4:21) The shot from above shows us that fires were set at a bunch of disparate points throughout the camp. The fired tents weren’t right next to each other, they were broadly and more-or-less evenly spaced.

(4:47) “A band of twenty men, maybe less. They were in and out before anybody spotted them.”

1. Contrivance strikes, and the plot reaper will soon follow. I don’t - I can’t - urgh. Right. So. I’ll give it a try. Twenty men snuck into a guarded camp without being noticed - had to be multiple entry points, too. They scattered and located every tent and wagon with supplies, plus the siege weapons (and why weren’t those guarded especially, as valuable, hard-to-replace pieces of machinery vulnerable to sabotage?). That should total more than twenty objects, so at least some of these twenty good men found secondary targets, possibly even tertiary targets. Then they set them alight more or less simultaneously, every tent, wagon, and siege weapon thus torched going up like a gumtree in a bushfire, destroying Stannis’ supplies and siege weapons totally. Then these twenty good men all got out of the camp without being spotted. This is ludicrous.

And why has this guided missile strike on Stannis’ chances of success occurred? Because the writers hate Stannis.

The writers have always hated Stannis. And you know, that’s fine, everyone has characters they like more than others, and everyone has characters they flat out dislike. This sort of contrivance to eliminate a hated character, however, is bad writing - and exactly the sort of bad writing you see most often, probably, in bad fanfiction, where the writer goes “lol no!” and pulls the rug out from under an established subplot more or less solely because they don’t like the character heading that subplot and don’t want that character to succeed.

Yes, I’m saying this is bad fanfiction. Not good fanfiction. Bad fanfiction.

2. Fewer.

(5:01) If there is one redeeming feature of this development, it’s Stannis expressing his meta-disapproval. “Twenty men rode into our camp without anyone sounding the alarm?” This does not sound like a man who’s suffered a crippling military setback. This sounds like a man who now knows for certain that the gods are out to get him.

To be fair, the gods of this particular universe are indeed out to get him!

(5:22) Davos here takes the role Sansa will take next season, outlining problems and hammering on them so the audience knows the person they’re speaking to is wrong wrongity wrong wrong McWrong (they’re wrong), but failing to offer anything remotely resembling a solution, or even a less bad course of action.

(5:30) From this cut over to Melisandre, from Davos’ perspective, we know that this decision is all Melisandre’s fault!

(6:03) Season six gave us a lot of funny teleports, but until then, this one was my personal favourite. Jon and company go from being on ships off the far northeastern coast, to the midline of the continent - north of the Wall.

(6:37) This was done for the tense, dramatic moment, when Alliser Thorne may or may not let the Free Folk through, against Jon’s orders. But it’s like…why didn’t you just sail south of the Wall?

(7:44) Sam also takes Jon’s reflection that Castle Black has come back to life. Not in those words, no, but he takes the central idea that Jon has done something big and important and meaningfully good by letting the Free Folk through the Wall. The writers continue to outsource Jon’s brain to Sam.

(8:26) Gee, do you think Olly might be up to something suspicious?

(9:36) So, now Stannis can send someone back to Castle Black asking for supplies? Alternatively, Stannis doesn’t want to get Davos killed, or alternatively alternatively, he knows he’s coming up on a difficult moral choice (to burn your daughter to alleviate the partly cloudy day, or not to burn your daughter to alleviate the partly cloudy day? Think about it, Hamlet) and doesn’t want Davos persuading him to anything.

(10:19) Oh, there goes the argument that Stannis knows he’s coming up on a defeat and doesn’t want to get Davos killed - he rejects the idea of sending Selyse and Shireen with Davos. (If he’s the sort of asshole who wants people to go down with him, why not Davos too? It’s pretty bloody clear he cares about Davos more than Selyse.)

(10:43) Now there’s a person suffering from lack of winter clothing? Davos is wandering around just fine without a hat!

(11:06) Title drop!

(11:27) Ugh, what was that direction with Shireen? Was there any need to sound so satisfied about a man getting burnt to a crisp because he did something not very clever? Hahahahahah oh man that’s funny and Davos in particular, whose son died by burning, would find this tale of a man getting dragonfried hysterical.

(12:18) Davos is talking about that son now. His dead son. Do you think it’s possible Shireen will be burned at the end of the episode, making this entire scene yet another deeply cruel joke?

(12:55) Check out the angle on this shot; we’re practically getting to see up Jaime’s nose.

(13:15) We know Jaime’s interacting with Myrcella as a father because he’s policing her fashion choices.

(13:39) Doran’s point about contacting him in secret is sensible. But there’s also no good reason to be having this meeting with Ellaria, Myrcella, and Trystane listening in.

This scene is wearing too many hats. It has to deal with the political aspect of Jaime’s mission (not a simple rationalising job), further Jaime and Myrcella’s lack of relationship, and set up for Myrcella’s death. And if we hadn’t had cringeworthy scenes of the Sand Snakes in prison, we could have had that much more justification. Not that I think this plot is especially salvageable, but even now this plot could be better.

(13:53) Everyone here knows Ellaria was responsible. Everyone.

(14:13) While Doran gives his reasons for preferring not to start a futile war with the Lannister regime, remember that the end result of this plot is that he’s killed for being too ‘weak’. Yep. It’s real spineless of show!Doran, to know his people want war and to resist taking that path because it would hurt people, mostly his own people, needlessly and for no good result.

(14:37) The whole pouring out the wine thing was shoehorned in pretty clumsily, and taken together with Ellaria’s previous comments and actions, it doesn’t seem like a powerful gesture of protest, but rather sulking and spite - against Doran, more than Jaime.

(15:10) For a second here, with Doran’s lines about the alliance between the Iron Throne and Dorne, you think you’re going to get something like his pro-Targ plotting in the book, which was an awesome twist. Nope! I’ll talk about that more in 6.01.

(15:48) A hint that Doran’s not what Ellaria’s accusing him of being? Nope. They did enough work with Doran’s character to actually pull off the pro-Targ twist, I reckon, one of the few successes of this plot (thank you Alexanger Siddig!), and they manage to make it a compound fail.

(16:13) The part of this plot where literally every woman is irrational and emotional, and the men can calmly and quietly get things sorted out, is really quite distasteful.

(16:41) Oh, Bronn. I think this scene is tiresome too, and I’ve only heard a second of it.

(16:45) “Why do we play?” I don’t know either, I-think-you-must-be-Nymeria! This is a bad scene. A very bad scene.

(17:00) So going back to the part of the plot where the women are written incredibly badly. These ladies here have literally nothing to talk about but sex and violence, and are written as enjoying hurting each other.

(18:00) Woman called “slut”: 1.

(18:18) Sassy Bronn can get away with making light of his hitting Trystane and speaking out of turn.

(19:02) Sexual harassment of Arya included just because they couldn’t have a female character talk about clams without a Beavis-and-Butthead level “hur hur, she said clam.”

(19:12) We get it! Oysters, clams, and cockles! We heard!

(19:34) Arya just moved the poison from her cart to her belt pouch because…um…I think it’s because the audience needed to be reminded that she’s carrying poison.

(19:44) It’s going to be said a few times over the next season or so worth of episodes, but show!Arya is a really crappy assassin, and for the wrong reasons. Stare at your target, girl. Stare at them conspicuously. Book!Arya gains the skills of a Faceless Man, but cannot give up her identity nor her sense of justice, rendering her a terrible Faceless Man. Show!Arya cannot stalk a target, which also renders her a terrible Faceless Man, but there was some significant missing of the point going on.

(20:04) Mace Tyrell arrives in Braavos. He could have used one of those teleporters.

(20:24) The Iron Bank is still part of the plot?!

(20:55) “I’m afraid I don’t partake.” The writers don’t get that these societies without safe water don’t think of wine and alcohol in general the same way we do.

(21:13) Arya is the best assassin, staying right on the heels of her targets as they head into what’s clearly a higher-end business district.

(22:07) Musical interlude by Mace Tyrell.

(22:32) Renly and/or Loras is gay: 1. Do you think Meryn Trant might be a bad guy?

(22:54-56) Sex workers: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6.

(24:07) Sex workers: 7, 8.

(24:27) Sex workers: 9.

(24:36) Once again, do you think Meryn Trant, with his constant repetitition of “too old” in reference to the sex workers he would prefer to patronise, might be a bad guy?

(26:02) “You’ll have a fresh one for me tomorrow.” I dunno, people. I think Meryn Trant might be evil.

This is ridiculous. We know this man is bad. We knew it a long time ago. We understand perfectly well why Arya wants to kill him. There was no need for the show to add even more “shocking” implications of sexual violence against women. Or, in this case, girls.

(26:38) Deaths: 1. Old man in the background just drank from the murder well.

(27:22) I don’t know what Doran thought this would accomplish. Ellaria and her children already violated a whole bunch of norms and customs in attacking Myrcella; what makes him think she’ll hold to a formal oath of allegiance? (In circumstances where the system of feudalism is already clear that Ellaria owes Doran her support, no less.)

(28:27) Nor has Doran taken any precautions to maintain Jaime’s security. He’s just letting Ellaria wherever. Including into Jaime’s rooms. Unannounced. Where are his guards?

(28:38) Jaime writes like a seven-year-old. Well, they at least remembered that he’s writing with his off hand - and forgot that they established show!Jaime as dyslexic back in season two. Whoops. Hilarious how this dyslexic character has trouble with writing. Let’s make fun of him for it.

(29:04) The implication here is that brother-sister incest is A-OK in Dorne. What the fuck, writers, what the fuck? A society that is less disapproving of extramarital and same-sex relationships isn’t all-permissive.

(29:17) Not true! What we see in things like WoIaA is that there is consistent tension between the Targaryen tradition of incest and the general beliefs of most Westerosi peoples.

(29:29) Also, I don’t know about you, but I could do without the romanticisation of Jaime and Cersei’s abusive relationship. It’s not “we want who we want,” it’s Jaime having no idea how to form and maintain a romantic or sexual relationship with anyone else.

(30:38) It’s no accident that the writers have Shireen tell Stannis about the Dance of Dragons. Aside from the title drop. We’re being reminded that hey! Stannis thinks he has a right to the throne! And his claim to the throne has perpetuated warfare! And he murdered his brother for the right to the throne!

(31:47) “If a man knows what he is, and remains true to himself, the choice is no choice at all.” This is what people mean by the show making Stannis evil. He’s saying in this line that becoming king is more important to him than Shireen. No other rationale. No duty to the realm. No imperative to save the kingdom. Just kingship > Shireen.

(31:13) Oh, isn’t it just the tragicest? Shireen wants to help! So selfless, so kind. She loves and trusts her father so much. A shame he’s building up the bonfire outside.

(32:34) Shireen here explicitly quotes from the wonderful heartwarming conversation she had with Stannis a few episodes ago. This is meant to hurt the viewer. All along, there was no other purpose to developing this relationship but to cause pain to the audience.

(33:44) Even now Shireen’s calling for her father, not knowing that he’s the one who decided on this.

(34:23) Faced with this scenario in the books, Stannis is still executing men for cannibalism. His standards remain. This scenario will only arise in the event he believes it’s Shireen, or everything. The show has done a piss-poor job of convincing us that Stannis’ straits are so dire that he’d resort to this…and it doesn’t care, because the writers were firmly convinced going in that Stannis is evil.

This is where the “bad fanfiction” point comes in. The writers have blown up this subplot because they don’t like the character. Who cares if it causes giant plotholes, disregards the established values and skills of the character, and means the next season has to retread the same ground? The writers have favourites and they are going to play with those favourites, goddamn it.

(34:41) Oh, and while we’re at it, let’s talk about how goddamned sexist this is. Whatever you think of the adaptation and depiction of Selyse’s relationship with Shireen in the show, it is perfectly valid to depict a woman who does not love her child, and that is exactly what has happened in the previous seasons. It is also perfectly valid to depict a woman with strong religious convictions. But all these things just melt away in this moment, because Selyse is a mother. Needless to say, it ain’t happening with Stannis, who was established in the show to love his daughter far more than his wife does.

(34:58) As if to punctuate how un-desperate this situation is, Stannis’ soldiers are being very disapproving.

(35:12) …except for the ones willing to perform the plot requirement of preventing Selyse from saving her daughter.

(35:37) Deaths: 2. Shireen, killed by Stannis and Melisandre.

I do not think this show is a good show.

(36:41) Most pointless fake-out ever. Hizdahr really isn’t a traitor.

(37:27) Abs & pecs: 1. There’s one guy behind Daario.

(37:59) Abs & pecs: 3. Two more guys behind Dany. They’re out of focus. As if the showrunners would ever show breasts out of focus.

(38:07) Abs & pecs: 6. Another three from behind Hizdahr.

(38:09) Abs & pecs: 12. Six in this shot, that I counted. Again, pretty clearly meant to show poverty rather than sexualise the wearers, especially since a lot of these shirtless men aren’t perfect specimens of masculinity. Shirtless men are allowed to be not stunningly attractive in a way that shirtless women aren’t.

(39:10) Oh, fuck off, once again. “Has your experience ever involved any actual fighting?” No, but that doesn’t stop someone being capable of analysing fights. It may well mean Hizdahr has less insight into the specific factors that would help a smaller man win a fight against a larger man and, if called on to predict the outcome of a fight, he might well be less accurate - but it doesn’t prevent him from observing the record.

Also, yes, this is meant to undermine Hizdahr because he’s not a manly man who’s tried to kill people himself. As if standing up to Dany to persuade her to let him bury his father wasn’t brave of him. Seriously, criticise the guy for his past complicity in slavery and support of exploitation in the arena, not that he isn’t macho enough.

(39:50) Deaths: 3.

(41:00) Abs & pecs: 15.

(41:17) Dany has had this argument about pit fighters before, with Daario. We do not need to rehash it.

(41:20) …except for the fact that Tyrion has not had this argument about pit fighters before, and now he can put this debate to rest for us. Thanks, Tyrion!

(41:35) Abs & pecs: 16. Those are definitely some fanservice abs.

(42:09) Good on Dany for going ahead with starting the fight. Jorah’s continual, flagrant disregard of her wishes about their proximity is poor form in someone who would be either (or both) Dany’s advisor or her lover.

(42:56) Deaths: 4.

(43:04) Deaths: 5. Jorah kills another pit fighter.

(43:07) Abs & pecs: 18. New angle!

(43:52) Deaths: 6. Ow, right in the fanservice.

(44:10) All these reaction shots of Dany’s face aren’t making me think “oh, she’s still concerned for Jorah!” They are making me think Jorah is a complete bastard for making Dany watch him die. Which was the point of this exercise.

(44:34) Deaths: 7.

(44:55) Abs & pecs: 19, 20.

(45:20) Deaths: 8. Jorah kills a second other pit fighter.

(45:47) Deaths: 9. Jorah kills a Harpy. That’s some good bodyguarding from everyone else!

(46:08) Deaths: 10.

(46:15) Deaths: 11. Abs & pecs: 21.

(46:17) Deaths: 12.

(46:28) Deaths: 13. Daario kills a Harpy.

(46:30) Deaths: 14.

(46:37) Deaths: 15.

(46:40-41) Deaths: 16, 17. Daario’s second kill.

(46:48) Deaths: 18. Hizdahr, killed by a Harpy as he came back and attempted to help Dany escape. What a wimp.

(46:53) Deaths: 19. Daario’s third kill.

(46:55) Deaths: 20. Jorah’s fourth.

(47:06) This would appear to be a deliberate callback to Dany’s refusal to take Jorah’s hand when she exiled him. Because it was her emotional issues getting in the way when she booted him out of Meereen for spying on her and lying about it, and her emotional issues at fault for preventing their reconciliation when Jorah won’t listen to a damn thing she says.

(47:19) Just to go full damsel in distress here, deaths: 21. Tyrion kills a Harpy, saving Missandei in the process.

(47:29-33) Deaths 22, 23, 24.

(47:44) Deaths: 25. Jorah’s fifth kill.

(48:09) Abs & pecs: 24.

(48:13) Abs & pecs: 26.

(48:17) Abs & pecs: 28.

(48:42) Deaths: 25.

(48:52-53) Deaths: 26, 27.

(48:57-59) Deaths: 28, 29, 30. A sixth kill for Jorah, a fourth for Daario.

(49:02) Deaths: 31. A fifth kill for Daario.

(49:10-12) Deaths: 32, 33. A sixth kill for Daario.

(49:43) Drogon ex machina. This amazing flying lizard is here to save Dany from certain doom and deliver her to her next plot point, rather than do these things and also create covetousness in others that Dany must deal with politically and signify aspects of her own character.

(50:00) Deaths: 34.

(50:06) Deaths: 35.

(50:14) Deaths: 36, 37, 38, 39.

(50:21) Deaths: 44.

(50:33) Deaths: 49.

(50:43) Deaths: 50.

(50:54) Deaths: 51, 52. Jorah and Daario each hit seven kills.

(51:21) This moment would hit so much harder if we’d seen Dany compromise more, or had a better-articulated theme of unsatisfying peace vs. Bloody war.

(51:28) Deaths: 53. Eight kills for Daario.

(51:47) Ow, ow, ow, spiny dragon back, ow.

(52:15) The CGI people did such a good job with the dragon it’s a damn shame that nobody remembered that Dany’s hair needed to be blowing around.

(52:37) Here we get a big “relative importance of characters to the writers” moment. Dany’s just hopped on her dragon and flown off, the climax of a season’s worth of tension (go with it) between conciliation and war…and we leave off not on Dany flying for the first time, but on Tyrion’s wonderment at the sight.

Game of Numbers S05E09

Deaths: 53. Daario killed eight Harpies; Jorah seven, Tyrion one. Stannis and Melisandre killed Shireen. Hizdahr died in the Harpy attack.

Boobs: 0.

Abs & pecs: 28. All bar one were the standard “Essosi poverty” shortcut.

Sex workers: 9.

Woman called “slut”: 1.

Man called “slut”: 0.

Renly and/or Loras is gay: 1.

#anti got #fine toothed comb edition #cw: violence #the wheels on the plot go round and round #season five

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