#i just think we should give Vic a crown

[discountsoysauce]

Victor would look rly pretty in a crown

[bellewintersroe]

Max Verstappen X HornerDaughter!

Part 7, here’s the LINK for part 6.

Max throws a luxurious 26th birthday on a yacht in Monaco. Despite it being a fairly civilised meet up the drinks flow a little too easily when the majority of guests have retired for the night. Leni finds herself being one of the party goers drinking with Max until the late hours of the morning. Things only get a little too out of hand from there.

warnings: no spoilers but obviously alcohol consumption, swearing, Max and Leni are giving each other the eyes 👀 mentions of specific antics I will not go into detail about. Taglist: @ironmaiden1313 @callsignwidow @fangirl125reader @norassimpingzone @roseseraj @eugene-emt-roe @copper-boom @its-elias-world @cassiopeiia24 @larastark3107

“Happy birthday! Happy birthday!” I cheered, the birthday boy holding a hand out for me as I climbed on the boat, handing Max the biggest bottle of alcohol and a card over.

“Leni!” He exclaimed catching a sight of the present. “You didn’t have to!”

“No it’s fine, you should celebrate with it.” I wobbled slightly before setting my feet down on the ground below. “Thank you.” He smiled, rubbing my arm slightly. “It’s okay.” My voice cracked slightly as I had to force myself to tare my eyes to the other guests on the boat. Amongst them were Max’s mum and sister, whom I’d got along with so well over the years. I was relieved to see them here, alongside a couple more familiar faces I’d met over the years. ”Leni, it’s been too long!” Victoria stood up, welcoming me in a tight hug, one which was followed from his mum. “I know it’s been ages. When did I last see you both, last year?!” “In Abu Dhabi!” Vic immediately began snorting out laughter as I attempted to muffle mine, the memory of how plastered we both were after Max had been crowned champion was hilarious. We did things that were super messy and ever since it had been our inside joke. “Oh..” I cleared my throat. “Was it really that long ago?”

“Yes. I’m surprised you’re not still hungover.” Her voice wobbled from laughter. “What, I don’t get it?” Max approached, touching my back gently before sitting down besides where I stood.

“You wouldn’t.” His sister responded. “I probably am.” I answered her question with a giggle before we returned to our seats. I purposefully sat a little away from Max, especially seeing as his family was here. I didn’t want them to think anything was going on between us, not that it was- but I did want something to happen. Well, partly, the other side of me was playing devils advocate and told myself it was too early after his previous breakup. Even I was in a full fledged relationship only 5 months ago, hell I didn't think I’d thought about my ex once in the past two months, but I had to rationale the time frame before letting myself fully grow feelings for Max.

My mind was a goldmine for overthinking. It was hard not to, even when he was next to me, the warmth of his skin would brush against mine and I’d move away, but only after I’d experienced the way my cheeks warmed, or how my heart would skip a little, stomach would churn, or I’d experience the overwhelming sensation to move closer to him. Fuck! “Are you still with your boyfriend then, Leni?” Sophie asked me as I smiled gently, shaking my head. “No, we broke up a couple months ago now.”

“Oh.” She nodded as I awkwardly smiled, gripping my glass of champagne.

“He wasn’t a really nice boy though, was he? You could do better.” When she did that, I noticed how she eyed Max up slightly who sat besides me, innocently swigging his beer.

“Probably… has my dad been telling everybody about this or?”

“Actually Max told us.” She nodded as I almost choked on my drink. Max looked towards her as if to say ‘shut the hell up’ before I began laughing.

“You’re just as bad as my dad.” This time, I placed a hand on his arm. “They gossip all the time!” Victoria added on as my hand slipped off, shaking my head. “And they say girls are bad…” “Well are you going on dates, Leni?” Sophie asked again. Max let out a groan, “mum, we don’t have to talk about this now.”

“No it’s fine.” I reassured Max. “I’m not, nobody’s asked me.”

“Max ask her on a date.” Sophie immediately spoke, speaking deadpan serious. Victoria and I began laughing at the bluntness behind her words, but when I glanced over to Max I knew I’d needed to save him from such an awkward situation.

“No, no, I’ve seen a couple guys, but I wasn’t really interested.” “Well, I’m sure you’ll find somebody very soon…”

As the night continued we’d sailed further out, lingering not too far from the harbour when we’d dropped a few people off to go to bed. It was 2:30AM and despite the fact we weren’t allowed to play music, the 7 of us that were left were playing all kinds of stupid games.

“I’ve got a game! I’ve got a game!” Maria, who was a girlfriend of one of Max’s friends announced excitedly. “It’s like would you rather, but it’s not would you rather, because we don’t play kids games anymore.”

“Okay..” Ben, her boyfriend waited patiently. “So you have to say like ‘Ben would you rather drink this drink or that one’, and whatever you pick you have to do.”

“Alright, alright.” Max agreed, clearly pretty drunk if he was agreeing to play. “Would you rather, Ben, jump in the water or drink three of them.” Max pushed forwards 3 cans of beer.

“Well, seeing as we’re not allowed in the sea…” he reached out for the alcohol, making a start with his chugging skills. I cringed, praying I wouldn’t get such a difficult question. Who would’ve thought the game would turn so silly so quickly, when people began kissing each other, I’d already polished off way too many drinks.

“Leni!” Somebody called out. “Strip off your dress or take your underwear off.”

“Oh my god.” I laughed, knowing some of the other girls had already done the same. “Neither!” My response was met with protests. “You just want everybody to go commando!” I pulled on the strings of my underwear, not believing I was doing this at all. People wolf whistled and I rolled my eyes, sticking my finger up at Henry who had sent the request out of several other girls. From besides me Max was snickering like a child.

The game was still going heavy with four of us left, Ben and Maria, and Max and I. I found myself with a blanket Max and I shared wrapped over both our shoulders, huddled closer together.

“Leni sit on Max’s lap or give him a lap dance.”

“I don’t know how to give a lap dance!” I exclaimed in my defence, feeling Max’s arm shift down onto my lower back as I shuffled onto his lap, sitting across him with a casual arm over his shoulders comfortably. The alcohol was making me fidgety, I’d craved nothing more than this, I didn’t care about any prior doubts I had. When Max’s other hand rested on my lap, beer in hand, I gulped nervously.

“Max, now kiss Leni or throw her in the sea.” Despite my lack of sobriety I knew I was blushing a vibrant pink colour, giggling towards the Dutch man. “You can throw me in the sea, Max.” I teased. Max was smiling, borderline grinning in amusement. He took my cheek with the hand that still held it beer and we shared a peck on the lips, one that ended so fast I barely even felt anything.

“Oh, do a real one!” Maria groaned, swaying. “Like this-” Ben pulled her in closer, arm wrapping around the back of her neck as they shared the most sloppiest kiss I’d ever seen. Max and I both grimaced, blinking away. They weren’t stopping. “Ew.” Max muttered as I laughed.

“Go around the other side of the boat if you’re gonna do that!” The driver exclaimed as they actually stood up, ‘sneaking’ away on Max’s half-joke.

“Oh my god.” I exhaled in amusement, glancing back to Max. My legs were fidgeting slightly, and being alone in a position like this was making feel all hot and bothered.

“Jesus.” Max muttered as I glanced back down to him, amusement spread across both our faces. Max’s eyes fell to lips and I felt a burst of energy, excitement, an overwhelming desire to lean in. It must have been a mutual feeling, because his hand reached up to touch my face again, bringing me in for a kiss which happened so quickly my drunken mind couldn’t comprehend it.

The kiss was warm, his lips were plump and smiling against my own. We laughed as we kissed one another, butterflies filling my stomach as I placed another hand on his chest. At first it seemed playful, borderline not even real. We were giggling into the kiss like we knew we shouldn’t have been doing it. It seemed to come out of nowhere, but I wasn’t complaining. Max was a good kisser, even if we were both shit-faced. His lips moved against mine, beer discarded to one side as he deepened the kiss, pulling me in closer to his lap with a hand on my waist.

We were giggling, like children, and when a funny noise emerged from the two stumbling around on the other side of the ship I turned away and let out a louder laugh. Max exclaimed one of his own too, hugging me closer with a hand on the side of my hip. I felt his chin rest on the bare skin of my shoulder, eyeing my body up from where I sat.

“They’re so drunk.” I managed to squeak out, like the two of us weren’t absolutely rat-arsed. “I know.” He snickered, I turned back down to him and we shared a few more kisses. “What’re we doing, Max?”

“I dunno.” He laughed, kissing me again. I hummed out a giggle, deepening the kiss. I could feel his hands beginning to press on me, finger tips digging in as he pulled me even closer. Our tongues moved against one another’s, and we were fully making out. In fact, when I’d shuffled even further onto Max’s lap, I could feel something pressing against my thigh. He was fucking hard, oh my god. The thought felt alien to me, the fact I was sitting on my good friends lap, making out and he had a whole fucking boner. It turned me on to say the least.

It wasn’t until the boat docked up at the harbour that we broke apart, his hand digging deeper into the flesh of my thigh, as though he was desperate for more. My core was throbbing for him, I hated to sound so crude, but I was so desperate for him it was pathetic. Maybe it was a good thing that we were both a little too drunk, Max attempted to swig the last of his drink, but in return he heaved all over the path on the way to get a ride home.

“Oh, no, Max!” I scurried away in a fake disgust. Truth be told I went home and threw up more than I’d liked to have admitted that night (or morning) and passed out on the bathroom floor. Only future Leni would have to worry about the events of the night which just unfolded…

[stageyrebecca]

Theatre doesn't owe us authenticity

Or rather, theatre doesn't owe us perceived authenticity.

I think about this all the time, coming from a theatre studies background. So many plays, fringe shows, musicals and so on (extending to film and TV) are based on real-life stories. They're based on interesting historical events, figures, musicians, politicians, and moments in time. And the closer we get to present day, the harder it is to divide our experience of them and media surrounding it.

The Crown's audiences generally agree that the earlier seasons were more successful as audiences learnt lesser known parts of the Royal Family. And the latest season was just too close to what we've already experienced that it didn't feel true to what we already knew.

But we're not owed authenticity.

My motto with all theatre, and indeed film & TV, is "it's not a documentary". They're adaptations; they're telling us something through a specific lens, focused on particular moments or ways to analyse the present with events of the past. My domain with theatre, outside of musicals, is documentary and political theatre. It's always sparked my interest, specifically verbatim theatre as I wrote a semi-verbatim piece which I had a staging of years ago.

But even verbatim theatre doesn't owe authenticity to the material, to the subject matter and beyond. Let alone fictionalised retellings of events, which have the tall order of creating dialogue for undocumented conversations.

Before I move on, when I say "authenticity" I mean deep, analysed accuracy of a historical event or person, identified from all angles including right and wrong, present and past, real-time movement and public perception.

Take Hamilton - which I think is the ultimate example of this, and perhaps the extreme. Notably it has colour conscious casting to grapple with America's foundations through a modern lens, but it has the impossible task of refining years' worth of history into three hours. We have, generally, accepted this to be okay and a good example of not only musical theatre, but storytelling as a whole. And paved the way for the likes of Six the musical and Sylvia to adopt similar approaches.

And yet, we're still met with other musicals and plays that demand authenticity from some audiences. Despite us knowing that, through shows like Hamilton (obviously not the first) an exact retelling of events and the people in them is not even necessarily the best way to present theatricalisations of history.

It just sends my mind into a frenzy.

The three musicals mentioned above, perhaps, because now no one knows any parties involved due to passage of time are given an allowance to have inaccuracies and poetic licensing. Or the topics just aren't as commonly known and are therefore less open to history pedants (you'd be surprised at how many people don't know Henry VIII even had six wives).

Theatre at its roots can't give authenticity and nor should it. I think partly why this is a demand from audiences is because, again, shows like Hamilton feeeeel like a proper retelling of the founding of America because there's so much information in there, even if it's definitely not. And other West End, or big glitzy shows, *should* have done their due diligence into making it the most accurate, modern day-led angle in analysing the events. And maybe small shows with small casts in a small studio would be allowed to play with it all a bit more. But this dispensation should be allowed for all theatre.

I'm whittling on, but let me give some examples:

The recent Just For One Day at The Old Vic. It's impossible to hold this show to a standard that accurately represents Live Aid and its performers - so it actually took a step back to not do that which was a nice surprise. It kind of has the songs featured in the concert to score the creation of Live Aid, its fans and its key figures. In some ways, perhaps that is it giving authenticity and leave the actual concert to rest. But there's the angle that it's not diving enough into the criticisms of Live Aid from a modern perspective, or even from a 1980s perspective. It doesn't do enough to show that Live Aid perpetuates a white saviour complex.

It just doesn't have to. Maybe you walk away thinking "actually this has given me a really sour taste of what Live Aid was", and that's a great thing to take away. Querying and questioning the material and topic are totally acceptable things.

But deciding whether or not Live Aid was right wasn't the purpose of the piece. These topics are drizzled in, but ultimately Just For One Day is somewhere between a nostalgia trip for those that remember the concert, and showcasing the power of music and the world pulling together for a humanitarian effort.

A more tricky note for me was Dear England. It drew in a crowd of people who don't typically go to the theatre, and I think some were (similarly) taking away different points from the show. I had people say to me that they didn't like it, or that they were uninterested in seeing it, because it was trying to convince them that Gareth Southgate is an excellent England football manager. I mean, it doesn't, but some may confuse topic with sympathy. It's just a fictionalised retelling of those key years. It's *not a documentary*. It's not telling us to think anything of the people involved.

Also, Operation Mincemeat. There are so many other interesting angles to analyse Operation Mincemeat by, so many other theatrical devices to do this by. But landing on farce just so perfect for the piece, a clever way to marry the material to theatre and ultimately make it entertaining. The themes go beyond just placing a historical event on stage - and in the process must take dramatic licensing.

Dramatic licensing, whether that's truncating the story to actually make it a bearable 2.5 hours and not a real-time 10 year event, or altering figures to become comic relief, for example, is a necessary theatrical endeavour.

On a different note, take book to stage adaptations or film to stage adaptations. They're some of the easiest places to get critics as generally their audiences are people who love the source material.

The Time Traveller's Wife has been a film and a TV show, and now a musical. It's a book so beloved that I kind of love hearing why the film is bad or good, or the TV show is bad or good, as an adaptation. And much like the musical, it's simply that - an adaptation. Dialogue will change, scenes might move about, characters might not get as much stage time as they did in the book (page time?).

Back to the Future has made some necessary changes - the Libyans don't feature in the stage show despite being the major driving force for the actual plot of the film. And, perhaps due to sensitivities, that changed for the stage show. And it works (in my opinion - although I want to make it clear none of what I'm discussing in this essay are actually whether I think it 'works', rather it's theatre so it doesn't have to). Removing something that is either offensive/outdated or tricky to stage, and replacing it with something that drives the plot forward of equal quality.

Audiences need to free themselves from the notion that theatre must be perfect at all times, and that X Show: The Musical! should be THE DEFINING adaptation, and THE DEFINITIVE new take on something.

Theatre is always an exploration, and some may be more expensive or deeper analysations than others. But it's not a prerequisite for making it.

[inlovewithalotoffandoms]

Imagine.............Onyxe took you as bait so Jake and his family would came and rescue you.

Key: ()=Authors Note, Y/N=Your Name, Y/N/N=Your Nick Name and Y/L/N=Your Last Name.

Summary: You got captured by Onyxe. Jake decided to go and save you himself but got caught in the process. So his family come to rescue both you and Jake.

When Jake found out Onyxe took you he went to save you. He didn't have a plan but all he knew was that he had to know you' where okay. When he went to the lair he didn't know his family followed him.

Amy: Jake, you can't go alone.

Vic: Your sister's right son, you don't even have a plan.

Jake: Okay so let me get this straight....You're telling me that I shouldn't save my girlfriend.

Eva: Jakey we're not saying that. It's just you're rushing into things.

Colby: Yeah and you can't save her without having a plan.

Jake just ignored his family, got suited up and left. His family looked at each other.

Eva: Suit up.

Time Skip.

Jake tried to save you but it was an illusion and he was now stuck.

Jake: Now I know what you're thinking. Oh no! Jake's in a cage. How did this happen? Well, sometimes you have to get captured just to get a straight answer out of somebody. It's a long story but basically I'm trying to save my girlfriend. See, I spent some time in Texas, hiding out, having to keep the secret that i'm a villain along with the rest of my family. Then I meet Y/N, my girlfriend... she's really cute. Then she got captured so I came to save her without having a plan, which led me all the way here into this cage... where I met you.

He was in chains and talking to a skeleton that was in the cage with him.

Jake: How much longer do you think we'll be here?

Suddenly the bottom of the cage opened and now Jake was hanging from the chains.

Onyxe: Chaos, Son of Surge.

Jake: Onyxe. Son of a b***...you're still alive! I thought my sister killed you, like, a year ago.

Onyxe: I cannot die. Not until I fulfill my destiny and take away the one person you love most in the world. Other than your family.

Jake: You know, it's funny you should mention that because I've been having these terrible dreams of my girlfriend dying in my arms and you Onyxe are at the center of it all.

Onyxe: Then you have seen Ragnarok, the fall of love. The great prophecy--

Jake: Hang on. Hang on.

Jake: I'll be back around shortly. I really feel like we were connecting there. After a beat,

Jake: Okay, so, Ragnarok. Tell me about that. Walk me through it.

Onyxe: My time has come. When my crown is reunited with the Eternal Flame, I shall be restored to my full might. I will tower over the mountains and bury my sword deep in Y/N's--

Jake: Oh, hang on. Give it a second. Once again,

Jake: I swear I'm not even moving, it's just doing this on its own. I'm really sorry. Okay, let me get this straight. You're going to put your crown into the Eternal Flame, and then you'll suddenly grow as big as a house--

Onyxe: A mountain!

Jake: The Eternal Flame that my mum keeps locked away in our lair?

Onyxe: Your absence has left your family defenceless.

Jake: Okay, so where is it? This crown? But more importantly.... WHERE'S MY GIRLFRIEND?

Onyxe laughed manically and smirked at Jake.

Onyxe: This is my Crown, the source of my power. Oh, and your little girlfriend is my slave.

Jake: Oh, that's a crown? I thought it was a big eyebrow. And also.....YOUR CRULE. USEING MY GIRLFRIEND AS YOUR SLAVE. WHEN I GET OUT OF THIS..

Onyxe: It's a crown. And what are you gonna do?

Jake: BEAT THE LIVING CRAP OUTA YA. That's what. Anyway, it sounds like all I have to do to stop Ragnarok is to rip that thing off your head.

Onyxe: But Ragnarok has already begun. You cannot stop it. I am your girlfriends doom, and so are you. You and your family will suffer, and will burn.

Jake: That's intense. To be honest, seeing you grow really big and set fire to a house would be quite the spectacle. But it looks like I'm going to have to go with option B where I bust out of these chains, knock that tiara off your head, and stash it away in our vault in the lair.

Onyxe: You cannot stop Ragnarok. Why fight it?

Jake: Because that's what heroes do.

Jake: Wait, sorry. I didn't time that right. (pause) And, now!

Jake used his strength and got out of the chains then Amy came.

Jake: Great timing. You could have come sooner.

Onyxe: You have made a grave mistake, Chaos.

Jake: I make grave mistakes all the time. Everything seems to work out.

Amy and Jake battle Onyxe while Colby, Vic and Eva went to find you.

Another Time Skip.

Jake: I thought I lost you. Gosh, I am never letting you out of my sight again.

You and His family have never seen Jake this happy. You let out a small chuckle and smiled at him.

You: You're not gonna lose me silly. You're stuck with me for the rest of your life.

Jake smirked at you and gave you a sweet yet passionate kiss on the lips. You kissed him back.

Vic, Colby and Eva: AWWWW.

Amy looked at the two of you half disgust half happy.

Amy: Get a room love birds.

You and Jake stoped kissing and looked at Amy. You saw the playful smile on her face. His family could see that he was happy with you. And if he's happy then they're happy.

[sunlightbabe]

42 with Vic?

42) Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead.

Frustrated, you rub your eyes with the heels of your palms and fight back the urge to scream

You like your job. Usually. But it was three hours after you were supposed to clock out and here you are, still sitting at your computer in your small home office, with plenty more work waiting to be done. The e-mails just wouldn’t stop coming in and the excel worksheet you work off of was starting to lag. You were this close to smashing your keyboard in half.

“Lovebug?” you hear Victoria say from the doorway. “You doing okay in there?”

You hesitate a moment before answering. “Yep. Just peachy.”

The room is quiet and you think that maybe Victoria walked away, but then you feel her hands on your shoulders, thumbs gently brushing against the back of your neck. 

“C’mon, time to shut it down and come to bed,” she suggests, voice soft as she dips her head down to kiss the crown of your head. 

“I can’t,” and your voice is just inches away from being a full out whine. You rest your hands in your lap and lean back against the chair. “There’s an issue with one of the files and if we don’t get it fixed-”

“You have coworkers.” Victoria rubs your shoulders a little more firmly, shifting to press a kiss to your temple. “They can handle it. You’ve done more than enough.”

A tired sigh falls from your mouth. They could handle it, probably, but you could do it better. Victoria kisses your temple again and trails her lips down to your cheek, giving it a few small pecks before moving so she was beside you instead of behind you.

“Just... one more hour.” Victoria says nothing in reply, just sets about kissing the corner of your jaw, a ghost of her lips against your skin. “One more hour and then I’ll come to bed.”

Your girlfriend raises a hand to your cheek and tilts your head to face her so she can kiss along your chin. You know what she’s trying to do here, and you know you should stop her, but it’s hard to think when her mouth is so close to yours.

“No,” Victoria hums, wetting her lower lip with her tongue. “You’re done now.”

“I have to finish. I do, I really...” you trail off, your conviction slipping away from you as Victoria cuts you off with a kiss. It’s soft and teasing and she pulls back before you can properly kiss her back. Your eyes had fluttered shut without you realizing and you slowly blink them open to meet your girlfriend’s kind eyes.

“Do you have to finish?” she asks, voice low, and then she’s leaning in to kiss you again, right next to your mouth. “Because I don’t think you do.”

“... you’re trying to distract me,” you point out obviously, turning your head to catch her mouth with yours, but she pulls back before you can.

“I am- is it working?” The smile on her face makes your heart race a little in your chest and god, how you love the woman standing before you. You don’t answer her, but you don’t have to- you both know she won. Delighted, Victoria holds out her hands to you, her fingers giving an enticing little wiggle, and you place your palms against hers.

Victoria pulls you up and kisses you again, short and quick. “Work can wait. Your girlfriend cannot.” She kisses you once more and gives both of your hands a gentle squeeze before she’s pulling you out of your office and towards the bedroom.

And as you move backwards onto the bed, Victoria crawling on top of you? You forget all about work entirely.

[jjackrabbitt]

That Damned AU

Hey guys (gn), I know you’ve heard me talk about this before, but I’ve actually been working on it now, so here’s part of it. It’s called That Damned AU because it’s been waking me up in the middle of the night to think about it for the last two years, so it’s just me damning it. I will probably change the name at some point. If you have any suggestions, I will gladly consider them. Basically, That Damned AU follows the events of the canonical story line of MPHFPC, but I’ve changed some things around, messed with some details, and added a few things. Mostly to fix or add to things that I have complaints about or wanted to hear more of. I will be tagging it as That Damned AU in case you want to block it

Before we begin I would like to thank @finn-nito for letting me talk his ear off about all this and in turn talking my ear off. It’s been a lot of fun doing this with you and getting to know you.

Now for the damned thing:

Ricky actually goes into the house with Jacob when Abe doesn’t immediately answer. Probably makes dumb comments about the decor or some thing. Goes back to his car for the gun when they see the screen door. Tells Jacob to stay there. Rushes back when he hears Jacob yell for Abe when the flashlight is found. Catches up to Jacob just on the edge of the woods and gives him shit for moving. Tries to lighten the mood and reassure Jacob, until they see the trail of blood. Is there with Jacob when he finds Abe. Ricky tries to keep Jacob from touching Abe because he thinks Abe is already dead. Both of them handle the situation Extremely Badly. We actually hear Abe call Jacob “little tiger” this time instead of just retconning it. Ricky alternates between trying to get enough signal to call the police and crouching with Jacob to try and help him. Abe’s riddle is delivered the same as before and Jacob does see the hallowghast. Ricky tries to shoot it but can’t because he doesn’t even know it’s there. When Jacob sees it he does grab onto Ricky and start shaking him with one hand, still holding onto Abe with the other.

Both boys have to be questioned, together and separately. Jacob sees Ricky’s interview because he gets a chance to snoop through the policeman's notes. He gets mad that Ricky wouldn’t admit to seeing the hallow and Ricky gets defensive about it. They don’t stop talking though because they mutually think the other is having a stress reaction and is seeing things/is erasing things from their own memories.

Jacobs parents didn’t really like Ricky before and they really don’t like him now because they think having him around will remind Jacob of finding Abe, but Jacob almost seems less stressed when Ricky’s around so they’ll allow it.

They don’t necessarily see each other more, but their interactions are way more emotionally charged now.

Ricky does start carrying his gun more because while he didn’t see the hallow, that was a scary night and he did hear something. He brings it into Jacobs house several times without Jacobs parents knowledge. This is a point of contention between Ricky and Jacob because if Jacobs parents find out Ricky will not be allowed back and will be cut off.

Because Ricky is still very much attached to Jacob when he starts seeing Dr. Golan this time, Ricky is in more danger of wights.

Dr. Golan hears a lot about Ricky. Probably significantly more than he wants to.

Ricky doesn’t get the medical attention that Jacob does because he’s poor and when Jacob knows Ricky’s having a problem he asks Dr. Golan for advice for Ricky.

Jacob is more resistant to Dr Golan’s work this time, because Ricky is there to call bullshit when he hears it and mentions that Jacob's meds are making him weird. Golan responds to this resistance by trying to convince Jacobs parents that Ricky is bad for Jacob. It does work but both of his parents are fairly shit at computers and they both have to sleep some time, so Jacob can still message Ricky and sneak out at night.

Ricky does appreciate when Jacob gets advice from Dr. Golan for him, but he does still give Jacob shit for therapizing him.

Both of them are being observed by wights at this point. Jacob gets a series of very weird food delivery guys and there’s like, three different cars that consistently follow Ricky. The food delivery guys aren’t outright weird, they just have the same ~*vibe*~ as Golan and some times they say strange shit. One of them knew his name without Jacob introducing himself.

The cars wouldn’t be weird if they weren’t definitely the same cars, didn’t only stop following Ricky when he A) was near his house or B) took random turns without signalling, and didn’t seem to follow any particular pattern to where he was seeing them. If they were in a similar area at similar times every day then okay, he just keeps seeing the same people on their way to work or whatever, but that’s not what’s happening.

Not much comes of it though. Jacob gets a few weird stomach aches, Ricky gets pulled over by a really strange cop once. Some one breaks into Ricky’s house while no one’s there and goes through stuff but doesn’t take anything or make a mess, the door’s open and a few things have moved when he gets home. You know, normal stuff.

Once, Jacobs parents go out of town. One of his mothers cousins is getting married, and they just aren’t sure that Jacob’s ready for travel and relatives and a party and everything. They don’t want to leave him for the weekend, but they both agree that he’s been doing really well lately (and it’s been months. They want to get out of the house and do Normal People Things). They tell Dr. Golan that Jacob’s going to be alone for the weekend and tell Jacob to go across the street to their neighbour for help if anything happens and they give the neighbour Dr. Golan’s number.

Roughly ten minutes after they leave, Ricky shows up. The Crown Vic goes in the garage, Alien is turned on, Chinese food is ordered and the weekend commences.

They barely even watch the movie, they’re busy talking. They fall asleep on the couch and honestly? It’s the best sleep Jacob has in months.

Until it’s about 4 a.m. and Jacob wakes up violently because this time the scene in his dream changed. This time he and Abe are in Abaton. He doesn’t know it’s Abaton, of course, and though the events of the dream have change, this one feels worse some how. Now he’s missing his grandfather and this place that he doesn’t even know what it is. He feels weirdly protective of it.

Dr. Golan Really doesn’t like Ricky. It’s significantly harder to manipulate Jacob if Ricky’s there to call bullshit. It’s still pretty easy to get Jacob to go to Cairnholm though. Even Ricky doesn’t call him a quack over it. Only tells Jacob to send him a post card of the only place on earth that’s more of a nowhere than Englewood, Florida.

Jacob does have some apprehension over being separated from Ricky, but he figures it’ll be okay since there will be a phone at their hotel.

They do spend a lot little more together than usual in the weeks leading up to Cairnholm. It worries both of them that they’ll be more than a 20 minute drive from the other. Jacob’s more obvious about it, Ricky (poorly) pretends it won’t bother him that much.

Jacob does bring one of his dads less favoured cameras with him, to take pictures.

His dad does try to insist that Jacob spends some time with him to look at birds. It’s funny, they keep seeing this one peregrine hanging around. Some times she, Frank says it’s a she, flies over them. She doesn’t seem too interested in hunting. Some times she disappears for a little while, but she comes back most of the time, unless it’s later in the day.

Kev and Martin are dating. I know it says in the book that Kev has a wife but no he doesn’t ❤️. Kev and Martin are dating and in love and very little will convince me otherwise. Everyone on Cairnholm is completely chill with it. They have dinner with Martins uncle on Wednesdays. Kev tried to take Martin fishing once and it went terrible but it was fun.

Jacob meets Martin on the first day, at the Priest Hole. He’s done at the museum for the day and is getting a drink with his sister and working on his poetry. He and his sister are harassing Kev while he’s on the job. They meet because Martins sister, Amelia, sees Frank and Jacob lugging more than they can carry up the stairs and makes Martin come with her to help.

Amelia is one of the very, very few ocs you’ll see in here, I’m not here to add a bunch of people. She’s here because I don’t want Martin to be lonely, as a plot device to make things move forward, and because I think we  should have more women. Yes MPHFPC already has a good amount of active women characters, yes I want more.

They start talking because both Martin and Amelia are huge nerds who would be excited about bird watching. When Martin mentions the museum, Jacob gets interested, as before he thinks it will help him unravel his grandfathers riddle. That’s it for now, but I will try to update again soon, though it probably won’t be as long. if any of you have any ideas or opinions to add, I’d love to hear them!

[writing-fool]

mlqc | sunday morning

I recently (well~like three months ago) got into this game called Mr Love: Queen’s Choice, and after doing some ‘research’ aka gaming, I felt confident enough to write something. So, here’s a little headcanon about a blissful Sunday morning with the boys~

Warning(s): ever so slightly NSFW (insinuations of a dirty-minded author), profanity/swearwords

Victor

Victor’s quite the workaholic, as we all know

like this man will be working 60-70 hours a week, often bringing work home with him 

you’ll be on the couch in pajamas and acting like a total bum while he’s literally next to you wearing glasses and breezing through 50 reports and documents

you steal his laptop and glasses when he starts criticising your report 

“Victor noooooooo~work mode OFF!” as you zoom past him with his prescription glasses (he got them fancy glasses with the blue light filter because he’s A WORKAHOLIC and he’s always staring at a computer)

needless to say, this man doesn’t usually have time to spare

sunday mornings are yours though

Victor doesn’t necessarily take the entire day off, but after a certain dummy’s whining, he has agreed to try and have a lie-in on sundays

he *usually* still wakes up before you, because he functions on like 5 hours of sleep (lemme tell y’all, it’s a curse and a blessing in one) 

Vic’s a total tsundere, but these moments definitely show off his #SoftCEO side

his little lovebug is sleeping peacefully, wearing one of his pyjama shirts (I bless you with the headcanon that Victor sleeps in silk pyjama pants sans shirt because he runs HOT)

actually, you’re drooling a little bit but even though Victor’s going to pretend he’s annoyed, he never is

oOOhh, also canon that this man is the big spoon in sleeping positions. he naturally gravitates towards you and holds you tight because he’s NEEDY

sometimes you’ll sleep facing each other. Victor holds you against his chest and just cradles your body in his like his life depends on it

100% will entangle his long ass legs with yours

strokes your hair and presses kisses on the crown of your head to wake you up in a gentle way (despite his demeanour, he’s actually remarkably gentle y’all see why i call him #SoftCEO?)

as you wake up, he’ll mock your bedhead with this incredibly fond look in his eyes baby boy these words don’t match your actions

you guys actually get up rather soon after, cos you are both busy people...

fun times in the bathroom not like tHAT well actually kinda~ but for legal reasons everything you do is PG, please spare author-nim who’s still ~barely~ underage

you take a shower and belt your favourite song that’s playing from the built-in speaker (did Victor get a built-in speaker because you thought it was cool? yep. did you ask? nope. did he do it anyways? yehep.) while he goes through his simple morning routine

you probably have more steps in your skincare routine, but he uses a serum, cleanser, moisturizer and some eye cream on the daily

has given you permission to do his skincare at night whenever you both have time

to reciprocate, he dries your hair after your shower you guys HAVE listened to the Right Beside You ASMR, right? ...it’s on YT for free because we’re poor, i know

also canon, blowing raspberries on Victor’s bare back while he’s brushing his teeth will make him choke on toothpaste. tested and approved by MC

“Dummy. What on earth are you doing?”

he hangs around and waits for you to get ready if he’s already done, you do the same. time is something Victor knows all too well, so the precious time he has, he wants to spend with you.

you guys DON’T shower together in the morning because really you’re not getting cleaner ahhh author-nim should really stop

afterwards, you get dressed in some relatively casual clothes (i’m talking a dress shirt without a tie or a polo shirt because no way that this man owns actual t-shirts) and have a simple breakfast

he cooks, obviously. 

always makes a balanced, Chinese breakfast (congee or wonton, noodles, tofu pudding, etc.) because he wants you two to start the day well, even on a slow sunday

also, he travels a lot, so he likes eating Chinese food whenever he’s home

ahh...waking up with Victor just sounds like a dream

Lucien

i’m a bit biased on this bitch because he was my first favourite in the game so this might get long. might not. just,,,we’ll see

Lucien is a bit like Victor, where he doesn’t sleep much and works a lot

On the other hand, his work is...ehem...shadier, so he usually works in his office when he’s at home

you’ll both have your own space to do whatever you need to do

days off for Lucien are rare. he usually powers through until he drops

for someone who constantly reminds you to take care of yourself, he’s mediocre at doing exactly that

after getting to know him better, which wasn’t an easy feat because damn this man has more layers than an onion he’ll also make you cry more bUUT we’re not ready to unpack that suitcase, you start noticing when he needs a day off. often even before he notices

you lock his office door and force him to take the FULL day off at least

he could technically open his office again, but he loves you and he’ll humour your attempts

Lucien wakes up before you. always. you’ve seen him asleep like 3 times in your entire relationship. 

Luci sleeps like 8 hours,,,a week.

he watches you sleep i feel like that makes too much sense for his character. we love a creepy boy. and wholeheartedly feels at rest with your sleeping figure by his side

in his sleep, Lucien lies on his back, holding you by the waist as you sleep on top of him. your leg is often slung around his middle, so you’re enveloping him. he likes the weight of you on top of him; it keeps him grounded and he likes feeling like he’s yours as much as you are his.

on another note, Lucifer—ah whoops—sleeps butt naked. i honestly can’t imagine him wearing clothes in bed. he’s not shy about his body and feels absolutely no need to cover up for his significant other. 

you, however, don’t usually sleep naked. well...nowadays you end up sleeping naked more often than not because alright author-nim’s horrible. can’t help it, he’s a fucking scorpio?

because you guys take a day off, Lucien’s content with waiting and watching until you wake up

he feels you stir on his chest and honestly your drowsy eyes make him swoon

“Already awake, my beautiful butterfly?”

his slightly husky morning voice *really* does things to a person tbh

you guys stay in bed for a good half hour after you wake up, just cuddling and talking, also sneaking in a kiss here and there

you have the same habit of tracing each other’s bodies with your fingertips

his fingers flutter over your waist, you trace his chest or hands with your index again, it’s a very grounding experience to Lucien

when you do get up and head to the bathroom, first thing you do is shower together

he likes washing your hair

bathroom bits might happen, but surprisingly, it’s not a thing that happens a lot so don’t come at me. we’re being wholesome

Lucien’s incredibly intimate and his love language is touch. Yes, he has a way with words but he’s also a really good manipulator

he’s used his words for evil too often and therefore can’t trust words anymore. so he uses physical intimacy as a way to show love.

Lucien has a skincare routine of dermatologically approved products. a double cleanse, serum, essence and moisturizer. he uses anti-age sometimes to prevent later wrinkles.

they’re also one of the reasons why he smells clean and fresh

will tickle you when you’re rinsing your mouth. you’ve sprayed water all over the bathroom mirror before. he loves the reaction. 

if you’re having a day off, you’ll probably just wear sweatpants and a t-shirt or a sweater. Lucien’s closet is relatively plain but clean. he has the best cable-knit sweaters/cardigans though.

your breakfast consists of western things like yogurt or oatmeal. Lucien likes having fruit at the start of the day

the rest of the day is spent relaxing and lounging, walking in the park, biking, reading, drawing, whatever you’d like

maaan...i wish i had more days off

Gavin

Gavin’s actually a decently laid-back person on weekends

like, sure he has to work a lot, but his job doesn’t necessarily force him to work from home, so you pretty much have his full attention at home but also he can’t bear to not give you his full attention so what are we expecting

the nasty thing about Gavin being a police officer is that sometimes, he gets called up and needs to work at unconventional hours

also, he gets injured. most of his injuries are minor, but that doesn’t stop you from worrying.

but anyways, he’s not a total busy bee when he’s at home, and relaxing isn’t exceptional

sunday mornings are...well...active. Birdcop goes on a run/hits the gym every morning, so he’s awake by 6am. what did y’all think i was going to write

afterwards, he takes a quick shower and joins you in bed again. 

Gavin sleeps in a pair of basketball shorts and a singlet. he’s somewhat shy about sleeping shirtless, and god forbid he sleep naked. but it’s all good and he respects your boundaries. besides, he’s comfortable in his sleep and that’s all that matters.

you spoon in your sleep. sometimes, he’s the big spoon because he likes being able to ‘protect’ you in his sleep. other times, he relishes in the comfort of being the little spoon and feeling you pressed up against his back. 

very important headcanon! you’ve learnt to sleep with the bedroom window open. on workdays, Gavin gets home late and jumps right into the bedroom. it’s become a typical habit for you two, although you used to be grumpy about not being able to sleep with the noises of traffic. 

you’re usually awoken by the sound of the shower and Gavin’s humming it’s canon that he hums now, bitches. also I bet his singing voice is amazing

so it’s less ‘sleeping in’ and more ‘lounging in bed like the lazy bastards you are’ i’m kiDDING

if he’s able to, Gavin might convince you to go on a run with him....but let’s be honest, you rarely agree

Gavin’s a total cuddlebug though, so be prepared to spend the next forty-five minutes in the tightest hug ever (to be fair, you’re not complaining)

he’s completely soft for you and you’ll have to wrestle out of his grip to get to the bathroom

you don’t shower in the morning, so everything’s pretty quick

Gavin doesn’t actually have a good skincare regiment tbh...he’ll slap on some cream and that’s it. probably washes his face in the shower with body wash...AND HIS SKIN STILL LOOKS AMAZING

you like making funny faces in the mirror while brushing your teeth and making Gavin laugh while he’s watching you in the doorway. he loves how you just make his day with the smallest things.

you guys both dress in really casual clothing, like hoodies and shorts/sweatpants/pj pants unless you’re going somewhere

Gavin has them grey sweatpants, if you know what I mean okay I’ll chill, sorry~

you wear his shirts a lot because they’re super big on you and Gavin secretly not-so-secretly thinks you’re adorable in them (a good thing about Gavin is that he’s easy to read; he blushes rather quickly)

“Ahh...it’s just—you look so tiny and cute.” guess he’s not the only one blushing now

i see Gavin as a ‘bun for breakfast’ kind of person. he picks them up at the stall a couple of miles away when he heads home. sometimes he does so running, other times...well he’s not called Birdcop for nothing

you guys have 2 buns each for breakfast because they’re delicious 

lounge time is often spent gaming or cleaning the house (you’re both busy people and Gavin tends to get messy because he just chucks clothes on the floor after a hard workday)

you make the most out of your sunday, hoping Gavin doesn’t get called in

who wouldn’t like being domestic with Gavin?

Kiro

Kiro, unsurprisingly, has an incredibly busy schedule

one that, similar to Gavin, isn’t really decided by himself

i suppose his situation is a tad bit worse than Birdcop’s, since his workdays don’t even actually end when he gets home. he constantly practices choreos, singing, etc. at home

so, full days off are few and very, very far between

this makes them extra precious

it helps to have a lazy morning once in a while though (in Kiro’s case, lazy sundays are most likely a bi-weekly thing)

you wake up first! Kiro needs his beauty sleep, and damn this boy can knock in 16 hours of sleep if need be

you’ll probably lay in bed for a while and then attempt to get up and ready for the day

until...you feel Kiro’s arm tugging you back

for a skinny, lithe boy, he’s remarkably strong. he pulls you back to bed with the groggiest, cutest sleep-laced voice EVER 

“Mmm, Miss Chips, it’s not time to wake up yet, is it?” 

he snuggles into you and refuses to wake up unless you give him kisses

during the night, Kiro sleeps in actual pyjamas with cute characters on them. when he feels lazy, he’ll probably just slip on a t-shirt and some boxer shorts, but he likes putting in the effort to wear matching couple pyjamas

Kiro cuddles with you 24/7, and sleep makes little difference here. he’s often the little spoon because he does like feeling your presence and your grip on him. he moves around when sleeping, so you might end up out of each other’s embrace, but Kiro subconsciously always touches you in some way or form, like holding hands or intertwining legs. he’s a man with many identities and needs your presence as a reassurance that he’s still the man that you love

he loves to pepper your face with kisses after getting home from rehearsals/concerts, claiming that it gives him energy

you do the same in the morning, anything to hear that sweet giggle of his

he’s deceptively cute though, and innocent morning kisses tend to spiral into...something more let’s just be honest, his stamina is something else entirely i’M SORRY 

morning exercise? check. Hotel? Trivago. non-sponsored~

you guys don’t shower in the morning. Kiro’s used to showering after practice, which is late at night, and you shower in the evenings to help you relax

however, on a rare occasion, you’ll draw a nice bath together and play around with bubbles and scented bath bombs so fun and relaxing

Kiro totally has a 14-step skincare regiment. you don’t get that beautiful baby-smooth skin without some effort.

he has the best ‘mid-range to high-end’ products on the market, and loves sweet and floral scents for his skincare and makeup. you guys try to line up each other’s routines to be able to do them together every morning.

Kiro also has a huge bedhead in the morning! it’s your job to get this sleepyhead styled for a fun day

even Kiro’s casual loungewear is top-notch hip and trendy. he has fun sweatpants with chains, belts, patches, you name it. he likes holding a little fashion show with you, no matter what you two are wearing

old jeans? strut it. thrifted shirt? vogue, honey.

Kiro’s on a strict diet, so usually he has a smoothie and some tofu pudding for breakfast. on occasion, you’ll indulge him in something decadent, like French toast or pancakes. on moments like these, you swear he loves you juuuuuust a little more but don’t tell Savin!

you guys are a relatively active couple, so unless you’re inside gaming or busy working, you’ll spend some time in thrift stores or karaoke bars, arcades, fun fairs,...

just thinking about Kiro brightens my day...

As always, I hope you enjoyed reading this! I’ll try to bring out more content for K-Pop idols, otome characters and anime characters during the holidays. Requests are still open, so don’t be afraid to send a little message in my ask-box!

Love,

R.

[potionsprefect]

The Familiar Face (Chapter 2)

Pairings: Ethan Ramsey x Victoria Clarke

Word Count: 1.6k

Summary: After yesterday’s news, Victoria spend a day with her kids.

Rating: General Audiences

Warnings: none

Category: fluff

Chapter 1 here

Chapter Two: Always There for You

Ethan was always the first one to wake up in his house. He liked to let Victoria have a lie in, particularly when the twins were newborns as Victoria was with them all day.

It was still dark outside, which was normal considering it was the middle of winter. Slowly, he got out of bed and headed down the corridor to check on the twins in their respective rooms.

Ethan smiled when he saw them both fast asleep, breathing deeply. If someone had told Ethan this this would be his life four years ago, he wouldn’t have believed them.

Ethan bent down towards Lily’s bed and stroked her blonde hair from her face. Selfishly, he wanted her to be awake so they could spend time together. Lily was the spitting image of her mother, bright green eyes and curly blonde hair and she had Ethan wrapped around her little finger. Much like Victoria did. He couldn’t say no to his two girls.

Luke meanwhile was the spitting image of Ethan with blue eyes and brown hair. He however had Victoria’s cheeky attitude whereas Lily was very much like Ethan. She has a no nonsense attitude and at 3 years old, Ethan wasn’t sure how and when she had picked it up.

The repetitive strokes had stirred Lily from her slumber and pulled Ethan out of his daydream. Lily sat up and rubbed her eyes, smiling widely when she saw Ethan.

“Daddy!” Lily threw her arms around Ethan’s neck.

“Good morning sweetpea.” Ethan smiled giving Lily a hug, sitting her on his lap. “How did you sleep?”

“Good! Mummy, Daddy work today?” Lily asked.

“No Mummy and Daddy don’t have to work today. We’re going to spend the day with you and your brother.” Ethan smiled kissing the side of Lily’s head. “Would you like to help Daddy make breakfast?”

“Yeah! With Luke and Mummy?”

“How about we surprise Mummy with breakfast in bed? Why don’t we go wake Luke and make some pancakes?” Ethan smiled.

That seemed to wake Lily up. She got off Ethan’s lap and raced off down the hall to Luke’s room. “Don’t run!” Ethan chuckled even though there was no stopping her. Despite being a mini Ethan, when Lily was determined she was exactly like Victoria. By the time Ethan had reached the hallway, Lily was pulling Luke out of his room.

“I was asleep!” Luke rubbed his eyes.

“Come on.” Ethan said picking him up. “We’re going to make pancakes for Mummy.”

That seemed to wake Luke up and he wriggled to be put down as both kids made their way down the stairs with Ethan behind them. They were met at the bottom of the stairs by Jenner who licked the twins faces making them giggle.

In the kitchen, Ethan sorted out all the ingredients and set to work making the batter. Luke and Lily stirred the batter and helped Ethan pour it into the frying pan. Once they were brown and cooked, he served them on a plate and put it on a tray.

“Are we taking it up to mummy?” Luke asked.

“Yes. Why don’t you lead the way and I’ll carry it?” Ethan suggested.

The twins grinned and ran off out the kitchen towards the stairs and up to Victoria and Ethan’s room.

“Mummy! Mummy wake up. Breakfast!” Luke and Lily shook Victoria awake.

“Did you do all this?” Victoria looked at the twins as Ethan set the tray across her lap.

“They sure did. They’re proper chefs our twins aren’t you?” Ethan said giving Victoria a kiss as the twins climbed onto the bed.

“We hope you like it!” Luke grinned.

Victoria ate both of the pancakes made much to the excitement of Luke and Lily. Victoria knew they had a real talent for food.

After getting dressed for the day, Victoria received a text from Sienna.

Have you seen the news?!

Victoria smiled at her phone, she knew Sienna was on the ball with election knowledge. She sent back a quick: yes I know who’s the nomination.

No no no. Have you seen WHERE he is? He’s in the hospital!

Victoria stared at the text. Ed was in the hospital? Why would he start his campaign in Bloom Edenbrook of all places?

Victoria raced downstairs and saw Ethan in the living room with the twins. She shoved her phone into his hands and his eyes widened as he read the text.

“I’ll sort this. I’ll make sure Leland understands.” Ethan said heading for the door and grabbing his coat.

“You don’t have to go in. Just ring them from here.” Victoria said.

“Vic I promised I’d never let him inside the hospital. I should’ve warned the team last night. If I had anything to say about it he wouldn’t even be stood outside the hospital. It won’t take long I promise.” Ethan said giving Victoria a quick kiss before opening the front door.

“Ethan don’t do anything stupid. Meet us in the park when you’re done.” Victoria replied.

Ethan just smiled and headed out the door. Victoria headed back into the living room where Luke and Lily were playing with their toys.

“Where’s Daddy gone?” Lily asked.

“Daddy’s just popped out but he won’t be long. How do you fancy a trip to the park?” Victoria suggested.

Luke and Lily loved their trips to the park and immediately jumped to their feet. Victoria just chucked as she helped the twins into their coats and put them in their buggy. The park was only down the road but Victoria knew their little legs would get tired and she couldn’t carry them both back home.

When they reached the gates to the park Victoria’s phone buzzed. It was Sienna.

So I’ve had to give the Senator a tour of the hospital and he doesn’t recognise me? You’d think after being forced to praise him he’d recognise a doctor that kissed his ass?

So not only was Senator Ed inside Bloom Edenbrook, Sienna was the one who had to give him the tour. Wanting more answers, Victoria sent a text back:

Was anyone else with you? And did the others recognise him?

Sienna immediately replied:

The ENTIRE hospital recognised him. I got many sympathetic glances. Luckily it was over in 15 minutes.

“Mummy are you ok?” Lily asked, pulling Victoria out of her thoughts.

“Yeah I’m ok.” Victoria smiled. “Now what shall it be first? Slide or swings?”

“Swings!” Both the twins exclaimed.

Victoria chuckled as she got the twins out of the buggy and set them down on the swings. Luke and Lily giggled as they were pushed back and forth by Victoria. Not long after, Ethan joined them.

“Daddy!” Luke grinned as Ethan picked him up out the swing and gave him a hug.

“How’s my favourite human?” Ethan grinned tickling Luke making him laugh.

“No Daddy! I’m your favourite!” Lily crossed her arms from the swing.

“And here’s me thinking I held that crown.” Victoria chuckled.

“It wouldn’t be fair if I said it to one and not the other.” Ethan laughed.

The twins ran around the park for a while longer before they became tired and the family of four headed home. Luke and Lily went down for a nap whilst Victoria and Ethan sat down on the sofa.

“So Sienna text me earlier. Saying she was the one who had to give Ed the tour.” Victoria looked at Ethan.

Ethan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “There was nothing I could do about that. She was already showing him around the ER when I got there. I tried to intervene but she said she could handle it.”

“Sienna’s a strong woman, nothing could scare her.” Victoria replied.

“He didn’t seem to recognise her though which I found strange. However the minute he made eye contact with me, I knew he instantly recognised me. It took all his restraint not to say something to me. I marched straight to Leland’s office and demanded an explanation.”

“What did he say?” Victoria asked.

“He said it was the hospitals obligation to show presidential nominees who request to look round hospitals.”

“He requested to look round the hospital?!” Victoria said startled.

“I didn’t believe it either. I had to argue with Leland as to why it was a bad idea. I had to tell him, I’m sorry. I don’t want him anywhere near the hospital again.” Ethan explained.

Victoria noticed her eyes brimming with tears. Ethan had noticed it too and pulled her in for a hug, gently rubbing her back.

“Why would he want to look round the hospital where he deemed himself to feel unsafe?” Victoria wiped her eyes.

“He doesn’t want people knowing that. Americans probably don’t remember the events at Edenbrook. I sure hope Massachusetts does because he should not win this state.” Ethan replied.

“I know I said I’m not scared of him and I’m not. But seeing him in power. I... I just don’t know if I could handle it.” Victoria said tears rolling down her cheeks again.

Ethan rested his chin on top of her head, stroking her hair. When she looked up at him, he wiped her eyes, kissing her forehead.

“Whatever happens, however this turns out, I will be by your side to help you see it through. And our two beautiful children will be there to give you a million hugs when you’re feeling sad.” Ethan smiled.

The tears started flowing down Victoria’s cheeks freely again, this time because of happiness. “What did I do to deserve such a beautiful family?”

“You didn’t have to do anything. We’d do anything for you. You know that.” Ethan chuckled tightening his arms around Victoria.

Victoria snuggled into Ethan, resting her head on his chest listening to the beating sound of his heart and the gentle rise and fall of his chest.

Everything that had been thrown at Victoria in the past, she had overcome, and gained newfound confidence from. This was just something else she would have to face with her head held high.

And with her family by her side, she knew she could face anything.

— — — — —

Writing dialogue for children is difficult so I hope I’ve made it as realistic as possible. My English A level required me to study child language development so I tried to remember how much a three year old could speak and implemented it here.

Hope you enjoy this! Lmk if you would like to be tagged.

Tag list: @ohchoices @openheartfan @queencarb @genevievemd @iemcpbchoices @choicesaddict5 @schnitzelbutterfingers @alina-yol-ramsey

[dynamics-of-an-asteroid]

Dont suppose you have a copy of the interview you could share?

For you, dear anon~

His Dark Materials: Andrew Scott on life after Fleabag and Sherlock

We’ve loved him as both Fleabag’s Hot Priest and Sherlock’s menacing Moriarty. Now, he’s back on our screens in the new series of His Dark Materials. Polly Vernon talks to our TV crush

Andrew Scott is mortified. The actor – formerly Moriarty to Benedict Cumberbatch’s Sherlock, then the Hot Priest of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s Fleabag, imminently Colonel John Parry in the BBC’s adaptation of Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials – arrives at the photographic studio, bang on the appointed hour, in a fawn cashmere cardigan with a fine gold chain around his neck, bemoaning “this terrible, terrible eye infection, which is making me so self-conscious. I’m so sorry. It isn’t that you’ve massively upset me before we’ve even started. It’s so annoying. But anyway…”

Scott, 44, is small, vivid, wiry and garrulously Irish, with a face that is not handsome so much as mesmerising, intense, sharply boned, symmetrical, startlingly expressive. Sequences of emotions so subtle and complicated that I can’t begin to identify or keep up with them ruffle his brow from moment to moment. And, yup, the whole thing is rather disrupted by his left eye. This is no light kiss of conjunctivitis. It’s a swollen, red, perma-weeping situation that engulfs the whole socket. Scott turns his face two thirds on to me, so the infection is largely hidden, which would probably help if we weren’t sitting in a brightly lit hair and make-up room with a massive, inescapable mirror fixed to one wall. “Oh God,” Scott says every time he catches sight of his reflection.

Stress?

“Let’s be honest,” he says. “Let’s not skirt around the issue. It’s being overworked and…” Scott’s eye begins weeping. “Oh my goodness. I am so sorry. Really, really very sorry.”

Wanna wear my sunglasses, I ask, holding them out to him.

“That would be a bit more weird, wouldn’t it? I actually did think about that in the taxi, but I thought that would be some sort of weird and screwed Invisible Man-type thing. I mean, it couldn’t be worse. And then we have to go and get our photograph taken. It’ll be one of those pictures where, you know, those creepy pictures… Of people crying?”

That’s what Photoshop’s for, I say.

“Anyway. Let’s just ignore it.”

I wonder if it’s particularly hard to walk around with an eye infection at a point in time where you’re not merely famous, as Scott is – a star of stage, screen and Bond film, winner of multiple awards, including, as of barely two weeks ago, a Best Actor Olivier for Present Laughter at the Old Vic – but specifically famous for being sexy.

In 2019, Andrew Scott became synonymous with, well, sex. While playing a character technically known as the Priest, whom the general public instantly renamed the Hot Priest, the spiritual support turned transgressive love interest of Phoebe Waller-Bridge’s supremely popular Fleabag, Scott became a cypher for the nation’s more exotic desires. A deliciously contentious pin-up. Ground zero on an earnest social media debate about whether the Priest’s relationship with Fleabag should be considered abusive, power imbalanced, “problematic”. And that was just for starters.

The Priest’s sexual iconography extended far beyond the limits of the show, becoming the subject of internet memes and real-life merchandise (visit online retailer Etsy for your £12 Hot Priest mug emblazoned with an illustration of Scott in priest’s robes, alongside the word “kneel”, a reference to a pivotal moment between the show’s lead characters, which takes place in a confession box, the climax of which, assuming you haven’t already seen it, you could probably take a stab at). There was an unprecedented upsurge in young worshippers, and women started bombarding social media “influencer” the Rev Chris Lee of west London with nude photographs. There was much foetid fan fiction.

To be publicly defined by so much sex, as Scott still is, a year and a half after Fleabag concluded, and then to be encumbered by something as visibly unsexy as an eye infection, I can see how that might make a chap self-conscious.

Scott isn’t here to rake up all that old Hot Priest stuff, mind. He’s here to talk about the second series of His Dark Materials, a lush, expensive fantasy drama based on the Philip Pullman books, jewel in the crown of the BBC’s autumn schedule. The series was filmed through 2019 and the beginning of 2020 and had all but wrapped before lockdown. Good timing, as it turned out, because the extensive post-production processes, unlike shooting, could be completed in isolation.

Scott’s Colonel John Parry is an explorer, the missing father of the central character, 14-year-old Will Parry. He’s a man who slipped into a parallel universe some years earlier, acquired a “daemon” – an exterior animal-formed expression of his soul, a female osprey called Sayan Kötör, voiced with public-pleasing symmetry by Phoebe Waller-Bridge – and never found a way back to “our” world and his son. I speak as a fan of the books, which you might describe as a darker, existential response to Harry Potter, although honestly? They’re better than that. The show is great, a deft, rewarding interpretation, and Scott is an exciting prospect as Parry.

Did he jump at the part?

“I did, actually. It was definitely something I was into. We were doing a play and it seemed like a fun thing to do.” Scott is one of those who slips into the third person when speaking about himself in a professional capacity.

Had he read the books?

“Yeah,” he says. “I think they’re extraordinary. The truth, but told on a slant. I love the way Pullman tells children about spirituality or religion in such an extraordinary, intelligent way. He doesn’t speak down to them. He talks to children’s souls.”

Given that Pullman effectively kills off God through the course of the books and Scott’s a lapsed Irish Catholic who has suffered his share of shame on account of the church’s grip on his homeland (more on which shortly), I’d imagine Pullman’s books talked to Scott’s adult soul too.

Presumably, he didn’t have to audition. Presumably, he never has to. Too famous for auditions?

“No,” he says. “Although I’ve always thought auditioning is a pretty good thing to do.”

Why?

“Because you’re able to understand, ‘Oh, this is the vibe here.’ You think, when you’re an actor, you don’t have much choice, but I’ve always felt like auditioning is a good opportunity for you to go, ‘Oh well, I don’t much like you either. I think you’re dreadful!’ ”

I don’t care that you didn’t give me that part?

“Yeah.” Scott becomes playfully, theatrically defiant. “I don’t care!” He flicks aside an imaginary rejection with a churlish hand.

Will John Parry and His Dark Materials be enough to eliminate all residual overtones of Hot Priest sexiness from Scott? Maybe. He is a fine actor, no question, entirely transformed from role to role. I saw him play Paul, a narcissistic, fame-addled touring rock star, at the Royal Court in 2014 in Simon Stephens’ Birdland, back when his deeply sinister Moriarty weighed almost as heavily on Scott’s reputation as the Hot Priest does now. I’d watched him become someone else entirely on stage. “Oh, you saw that?” Scott says, pleased.

I quote, “Am I cancer?” at him, his defining line from the play, as evidence.

“Oh Jesus. Oh f***ing hell. Oh my. I’d forgotten that line. ‘Am I cancer?’ ”

The Hot Priest association hasn’t left him yet, which is why I find myself asking what it’s like to be the very definition of sexiness.

“You get invited to more parties.”

Better parties?

“Yeah.”

Better than during his Moriarty phase?

“Definitely.”

It must be fun to find yourself le dernier cri in sexy, according to the whole nation.

“Yeah, that’s fun,” he says. “I didn’t really like being associated with scary. It’s not what I’m interested in being, in life, being intimidating to people. It’s not part of my nature, whereas being sexy to people…”

That is part of his nature?

“Well, they’re very different things.”

They’re both about having power over people.

“I suppose they are, yes.”

So did Scott, bored of scaring people, say to Phoebe Waller-Bridge, writer and star of Fleabag and a long-term friend (they met in 2009 while starring in Roaring Trade at the Soho Theatre), “Write a role for me that will make everyone think I’m just really, really sexy now”?

“That’s such a good belt. Are they two ‘Gs’?”

“Exactly.”

——————————

Andrew Scott is not the easiest interview. He’s utterly charming. Really, just a delight. In between prostrating himself for the offence of his eye and apologising for not turning up the first time we were scheduled to meet (ten days earlier; a delayed Covid test result meant he couldn’t make it), he ensures I have a good time in his company. He is playful. He makes me laugh. His every utterance is delivered as a grand performance. (“Shhhh! Just… Shhhh!” he implores, placing a finger against his lips while expressing frustrations over the mindless jabber of social media, and he does it so powerfully, he compels me to be quiet, breathlessly to await delivery of his next line.) He finds elegant ways to flatter me. He laughs at my jokes and is terribly taken with my belt.

Yeah. For Gucci.

“Oh. Ha ha! I thought it was the Golden Globes. I love the Golden Globes. Ha ha!”

And of course, he’s Irish. Clichédly, melodiously Irish, which makes everything sound softer and jollier than it might otherwise.

As for the actual business of being interviewed, of answering straight questions with straight answers, finishing off sentences, offering more than a slip-slide of vagaries punctuated by vigorous hand gestures, none of which translates into print? He’d rather not.

He tells me, as he’s told other journalists before, this is because he’s interested in navigating the line between “privacy and secrecy”, then says he’s aware he’s sometimes “got away with secrecy under the guise and respectability of privacy”, as if signalling potential incoming slipperiness, which means I prepare to throw every trick in the book at him.

First up: amateur psychology.

Might Andrew Scott’s gayness be at the heart of his reluctance to speak more freely? Perhaps. This is no scoop. He’s been out for almost as long as he’s been famous. “I mean, as a civilian, I was quite young [when I came out], you know? But then, as a celebrity…”

He tails off, allows me to fill in the blanks. This is another of his evasion tactics. I can’t very well quote Scott on the presumptions I make about things he never quite says.

He had to have another coming out?

“Yes. And I have another one coming up.”

He has another coming out coming up?

“Yeah.”

So that will be, what? Tier 3 gayness?

“Tier 3, yeah.”

Scott grew up in Ireland at a time when it wasn’t legal to be gay, which could certainly seed an enduring reluctance towards carefree openness in a person. He invokes the concept of shame more regularly than the average interviewee. He was born in Dublin in 1976 to Nora, an art teacher, and Jim, who worked at an employment agency. He has one older sister, Sarah, and a younger one, Hannah.

He was shy, so started attending a children’s drama course.

Did that help?

“Yeah. Acting to me is not pretending to be someone else. It’s more like, this is who I actually am. The lie that tells the truth,” he says. I am none the wiser. He was clearly talented. He went from adverts to his first starring role in a film aged 17 (Korea, directed by Cathal Black), won a bursary to art school but took a place at Trinity College Dublin to study drama instead, and ditched that six months in to join Dublin’s Abbey Theatre. He’s been gainfully employed in the field ever since.

How Catholic was his upbringing?

“Well, there were Catholic priests in my life,” he says. “None of whom I wanted to have sex with.”

Does it amuse Scott to know he inspired a mass fetishising of priestly ranks? That in 2019, the Hot Priest would make, “Can you have sex with a Catholic priest?” one of the most googled terms of the year?

“Absolutely f***ing mental,” he says.

Homosexuality wasn’t legalised in Ireland until 1993, when Scott was 16.

“I always think, if I’d had a boyfriend then, which I definitely did not…”

No?

“No.”

He knew he was gay, though?

“No. No, no, no, no!”

Was he suppressing it or not thinking about it?

“I would say suppressing. Definitely suppressing. I don’t believe people just don’t think about it.”

An upbeat, cheesy jazz remix of something or other starts playing outside the room.

“Oooh, this is the soundtrack for this bit of the interview,” says Scott. He wiggles his shoulders to the music.

I switch to strict dominatrix interviewer mode. Focus, I say. You were about to tell me something good.

“Oh, shit, was I? OK. I think what’s really insidious is that people don’t ask you about sex or… People wouldn’t say, ‘Are you gay or are you [straight]?’ And the lack of directness is very damaging. They just didn’t go there.”

Does he think his family, friends, the people closest to him knew then that he was gay?

“No,” he says. “I don’t think they did know. Or maybe they have a suspicion, but they think, I want to be respectful, so I’m not going to ask about that. Then [when you do come out], people say, ‘Oh, I’m glad.’ You know? If you do talk about it. So I suppose what I feel now is, talking about sex or sexuality is important. Really important.”

Having said that, “There’s still getting rid of the shame. In a situation like this, 10 or 15 years ago, I would have been…” He fakes shock, horror. “Oh no! Polly’s just asked me about [he switches to a whisper] that.”

Scott will talk about his sex life only notionally. No specifics. For 15 years, between 2001 and 2016, he was in a relationship with the actor turned screenwriter Stephen Beresford (Scott starred in Beresford’s 2014 film Pride). Ever since, he’s refused to answer questions about his romantic life.

And he’s not going to talk about it now, I presume.

“No.”

What if we talk about it opaquely?

“OK.”

Where does he see himself, domestically, in an ideal world? Married with kids whom he’ll, I dunno, adopt or have via surrogacy?

“I like it. It’s bold. Am I going to adopt or…?”

Get a surrogate?

“I definitely think that’s something I would be open to.”

Great, I say, with blatant sarcasm. Thanks. How specific.

“Ha! I’m sorry. OK. Have I got any children at the moment? No. How can I… [explain]? OK. I was with a friend of mine in Dublin…”

His partner?

“No, no, no. Not my partner. Ah ha. I see what you were…”

Teasing. Yes.

“Ha! Yes. So, I was with a friend in Dublin and we were walking around and he was looking at apartments and I was like, ‘What about this place here?’ You know? And he said, ‘No,’ and I said, ‘Why not?’ and he said, ‘I don’t live a heteronormative life, so I don’t want a heteronormative house.’ ”

What’s a heteronormative house?

“Two up, two down thing. He goes, ‘I can live in a loft or a weird space. I don’t need those things.’ He was so proud of it. He really owned it. I think where a lot of one’s pain comes from is when you go, ‘I should want that.’ And so, to answer your question opaquely, I have kids I adore. I love children, genuinely, and I had a very happy childhood. But I also feel, if I don’t have kids, that’s all right. I think I would’ve attached a lot of shame beforehand, with not living a particularly heteronormative life… Even with being gay, there’s a sort of way of being gay that’s acceptable. And I don’t feel that any more.”

He feels you can be unacceptably gay?

“Exactly. Exactly!”

I ask when shame shifted for him and Scott says it was when Ireland voted overwhelmingly in favour of same-sex marriage in the 2015 referendum, which felt, he says, “like acceptance, genuinely. And I remember going out to this gay bar in Dublin and this girl came up to me, this cool Dublin girl, and she said, ‘What are you doing here? You need to go down to, I don’t know, blah, blah, this bar in some park.’ She was saying, ‘This isn’t the right gay bar for you. This is some shit gig,’ when the fact I’m in a gay bar in Ireland [at all] is a miracle to me, and then some person with a half-shaved head is telling me, ‘No, you need to go somewhere cooler.’ ”

His left eye starts weeping again.

“I’m so happy about that,” he says. “Even though I’m crying.”

I ask Scott if he has a game plan when picking roles, if he plots his course from Sherlock villain to Bond quasi-villain (he played Max Denbigh in Spectre) to sex icon, and, if so, what next? “No. Jesus, no,” he says.

We talk about the totalitarianism of social media, which he isn’t on, and share a mutual despair over it. “I thought it was something one would associate with the right, but actually, now it’s [the left] that is very ‘you’re this’ or ‘you’re that’. I find that quite frightening. It actually makes me feel ferocious.”

Is he not worried about being cancelled, of somehow saying the “wrong” thing, according to Twitter sensitivities, then having a thousand voices mobilised against him, demanding his firing, in the style of JK Rowling?

“I’m not,” he says. “I refuse to be. A very intelligent person I was talking to recently was writing a book and he said, ‘I’m going to get a sensitivity expert to have a look. I don’t want to get cancelled.’ I found that frightening.”

Is he rich? “Rich is the absence of worry about money,” he says. He can’t remember the last time he worried about money.

That must be nice.

“Of course it f***ing is. I think it’s a miracle. I really do. I was working in a French theatre in London for nothing – none of us was working for anything – and I remember the artistic director of the theatre talking about the fact we weren’t earning any money as some sort of virtue. I remember feeling really annoyed about that, like this isn’t good.”

This leads to an inevitable conversation about how the arts are suffering with Covid, including a segue down the Fatima route, the much shared government advert that depicted a young ballerina and suggested she retrain in something called cyber. “Her name’s not even Fatima,” Scott rails. “I think she’s called Desire’e. From New York.”

I mean to ask him about his experience of filming The Pursuit of Love with Lily James and Dominic West, stars of their own recent off-screen micro-scandal in Rome, just in case he lets any scurrilous insight slip, but our time’s up and it’s not as if Scott has much form on offering up scurrilous insight anyway.

Still, I feel grateful to him for meeting me halfway on the other stuff. And so I say goodbye to Andrew Scott, the UK’s foremost gay heterosexual lapsed Catholic faux-priest lust icon with a troublesome eye infection.

[queenofgotham800]

I saw your requests are opened , I was wondering if I could request a Roman x reader fic/imagine. Reader is sick and Roman was out and comes home to her and takes care of her?

In the stars

(Roman Sionis x Reader)

Warnings: Gramatical Errors, Swearing, Medicine, Kidnapping, Weapons, Depression, Stalking

Summary: (Y/n) is sick and she terribly misses Roman who went on a bussines trip to Europe for a week. The bussines trip will not go as would Roman expect. He wants to go home to take care of you and if something or more like 'someone' gets in his way he will destroy it.

(A/n): I'm not quite of sure if I got the timezones right and the title is random. I decided to add something to it, I hope this meets the requirements of your request and I hope you will enjoy the story 💜

It was two hours in the morning. You sat on bed, coughing. Yesterday you were okay, but today the nauseating feeling gotten worse. Roman left yesterday to Europe, becouse he had to visit one of his bussines friends. Someone from Falcone family, you thought and fixed the pillows. Still, you couldn't sleep. Roman was literally on the other side of the world and you missed him. Does he think about you too?

Victor was sleeping in living room, becouse he knew you were sick and if you needed something he would took care of it.

"Victor?" you yelled from bedroom. Victor ran to the room and saw you sitting on the bed.

"What?"

"I miss Roman," you told him. Your eyes were teary and bit purple, becouse of lack of sleep.

Victor gasped, knowing that you were safe and went to sit on little seat near the bed.

"I just... I know that he's going to be there whole week, but I miss him already," you told Victor and closed eyes, becouse the nauseous feeling.

"Want some sleep pills?" Victor asked carefully.

"Yes please," you mumbled and waited. It were few minutes that Victor went for the water and pills, but to you it were hours. You missed Roman, feeling that his body was peacefully sleeping next to you, you missed even his snorting. You wouldn't be so sensitive if you weren't sick, but now everything was touchy subject for you. Your temperature was really high, pills didn't helped but you hoped that at least this sleep pill will do.

"Here you are," Victor came and handed you cup of water and the sleeping pill.

"Thanks, Vic," you said and took it.

After few hours, you stood near window. Still you didn't slept, pills didn't worked. It was just worse. You looked up to stars on the night sky, which were hardly visible due to the polution in Gotham. But you knew they were there. You knew that Roman is somewhere there.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

At the other side of world, Roman waited in his plane for car which would pick him up. They should be here any minute, he thought. Nervously he was looking on phone and then from window. Victor texted him that you were sick. Roman wished he could be there to take care of you, but right now he couldn't. Looking on blue sky, he thought about you. You were there, somewhere maybe thinking about him as he thought about you right now. It was just one day he was gone, but something was up. He could feel it. Something was telling him, that he should go back to Gotham, go back to you.

"Mr. Sionis, they will arrive in three minutes," waiter in airplane told to Roman. Roman looked up to him with frown and nodded. His thoughts were still on you even after he exited the plane and entered black limusine.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Victor sat next to you, thinking if he shouldn't call Roman. He knew he shouldn't, but you were really sick. You ate and drunk just a bit, becouse of your sickness. Victor was very concerned about your health.

"(Y/n), you should at least drink one cup of water," Victor scolded you, handing you over the cup. You took it and drank something from it. Then you put it away, and Victor pulled the phone. He had to call Roman. Those pills lowered your high temperature, but you felt sick anyways.

Exiting the bedroom, he closed the doors behind him and leaned on the cold wall, tired and exhausted.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Roman meanwhile sat in the limusine, still watching clouds above him through the window. At the meeting, there isn't going to be just him. There will be more families from all kinds of cities. At place like that a lot could go wrong. Part of him was glad that you weren't there with him becouse of possible danger, but the other part was affraid of leaving you alone when you were sick. Well...At least Victor was there.

Suddenly his phone started ringing, Roman answered, not caring about the glares that driver gave to him.

"Hello?"

"Boss?" Victor's voice came from other side of the phone, "I gave her those pills, which doctor gave it to her. They are slowly putting her together... But..."

"What Victor?" Roman said it more loudly than he expected.

"She can't sleep, it's like the sickness brought her some kind of depression," Victor told.

"Did she took sleep pills?" Roman asked.

"Yeah, for some reason they didn't helped."

"Sir, we are going to be there any minute," driver told and Roman shushed him.

"Then... I don't know bring her to doctor again," Roman yelled and cancelled the call. He was nervous. Maybe he should stayed home.

"Something serious?" driver asked Roman.

"Not your bussines," Roman answered and driver smirked. His behavior was strangely weird. At one moment Roman thought that this guy is going to kidnap him, but when he parked in front of Falcone's residence, this irrational fear was gone.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Through the day, you were feeling better, but the sadness was still somewhere there, hidden in your mind. The irrational fear of losing Roman. Why would you even thought about that? Well...He went to the world wide meeting of gangsters... What could go wrong right? But he should be already there at the Falcone's residence. Maybe he was going to sleep. You smiled and hugged pillows next to you. Victor brought you some food and water. You were bit better and you were starving, so you ate it in a minute, hoping that nausea won't come back.

You were thankful that Victor was here.

Roman wanted to take you both, but since you got sick, Victor said that he will keep an eye on you.

Five days... And you will see Roman again...

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When Roman woke up in one of guests room, he picked his finest suit that he brought with him and went downstairs to huge dining room with marble floor. It had expensive paintings gained legal and illegal ways, long table and chairs from mahagony wood and fireplaces at it's sides. He was there alone for now. Quiet place scared him, it reminded him of one kind of trap where enemy's goons would popped up from random places with guns and stuff.

His thoughts were interrupted by one woman.

"Beautifull, isn't it?"

"Mrs. Falcone," Roman nodded, looking at one painting.

"I see you enjoy the art young Sionis," Sophia Falcone laughed.

Roman gulped when Falcone called him young Sionis. It reminded him of his childhood too much.

"Yes, I do," Roman mumbled, "Mine father knew your's. I heared that he was a good person." Roman knew what happened, but he had to tell some comeback on the nickname that she gave him. There was no young Sionis, there was only Roman Sionis or Black Mask.

"Oh, yeah, he was," she told and moved her wheelchair closer to look at the table, "Why so soon?"

"Excuse me?"

"I asked why are you here so soon," Sofia smiled.

"I..." Roman started but couldn't find right words.

"You couldn't sleep," she told and Roman looked away from paintings.

"I was thinking," Roman said.

"Overthinking can kill," she said and continued to the end of the table. After lunch there should be bussines talk and after dinner, there should be some kind of masquerade ball. Roman thought at how excited were you when he invited you with him, wishing you could be there right now with him.

He looked on Sofia Falcone, she was in coma for years. Then she woke up, faked her own death and traveled back to the residence in one of her family homes. This invite was more of an message she is alive and partially alright. As much as Roman despised Sofia, he also had respect for her. She survived a lot of things... Not that much like him, but she did.

Overthinking can kill...

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

It was bad again. Through the night the pain in your head intensified. Victor was exhausted nearly more than you. He refused to leave you alone after you nearly felt when you tried to leave the bed.

Moon was shining through the window, shining more than stars around it.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Roman was eating dinner, looking on guests around the table. They were politely eating and drinking vine. From time to time someone said something, mostly Sofia Falcone, but that was all.

The food was good, but he missed your food. Your smile when you gave him the good-morning kiss.

Roman smiled and didn't heard Sofia's question.

"Mr. Sionis?"

"Yes? Sorry," his hands in which he held fork and knife shook. He loved attention, yes, but here at the Falcone residence, his confidece somehow faded away.

"I asked how is Gotham doing," Sofia smiled. Everybody was looking at him.

"Ehm... It's good. I took a good care of the city," Roman said and took a sip from glass.

"I heared there were some problems with sales in northern part," she lifted eyebrows.

Other mobsters around the table let out little laugh or at least a smirk and Roman frowned.

"It wasn't that bad as when you were in charge. I actually managed to hold the crown longer than previous..." he smiled. This was aimed against the Falcone family. That respect that he had for them was slowly fading away every time when Sofia Falcone opened her mouth. Her face was bit disfigured from wound in her head.

"Miss Falcone, I am really interested how you woke up from coma," somebody asked Sofia, it was young woman in reddish dresses.

"Miss Lauyer I think this question was inaproperiate, but I will give you simple answer," her lips curled into weird smirk, "I had a great doctor."

Young woman stopped smiling and put her hands on her thigh. She probably had a gun under those dresses.

"I'm sorry," she looked in the food and didn't say another word. Roman thought that this would make Sofia shut up, but she still talked with others. Not like he minded small talks, but this was something else. Every information could kill someone.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

You managed to close your eyes. You didn't had nice dreams like usual. This was nightmare in which shadows were chasing Roman. He cried and screamed for help and you were there, watching it, unable to move, unable to help him. You were watching untill he didn't dissapeared from your sight in those shadows.

You woke up screaming Roman's name. Victor wasn't anywhere near you, maybe he was sleeping in living room. You took a phone and called Roman. You knew you shouldn't, but you had to know that he's alright.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Roman was finishing the dish, when suddenly his phone beeped. All attention was again on him and Sofia.

"I'm sorry," he mumbled looking at the phone. It was your number, "Actually, this is important."

"More important than this dinner with us?" Sofia asked.

"More than anything," Roman stood up and left the dining room.

He leaned on wall and picked it up.

"(Y/n)?"

"Roman, are you alright?" your voice was trembling.

"Yes, yes. How are you? Victor texted me you are sick and I think I will go home soon," Roman told.

"Wait... I know that the meeting is important, you can't just leave becouse of me," you coughed and Roman wished he could be with you, to take care of you.

"Don't tell that. I'm Roman Sionis, I can do whatever I want. In fact, I'm going to pack my things right now. I terribly miss you," Roman whispered and looked around. The hallway was empty. Only thing that made Roman nervous was the echo around the whole place.

"I miss you too, handsome," you smiled and coughed again.

"Isn't it like... A night now?" Roman asked.

"Yeah, I can't sleep," you mumbled.

"I'll be home soon, I love you," Roman smiled.

"I love you too."

You cancelled the call and Roman turned back to the dining room. But then he stopped and turned to stairs where were guest rooms. There was also elevator, but Roman prefered stairs.

After packing up his things, he made sure that he had everything that was needed.

He turned back to doors and was stopped by huge guard, who was actually the driver that got him here.

"Excuse me?" Roman tried to go around him, but the guard wasn't moving. Elevator rang and Roman rolled eyes. This was really the last thing he needed.

"Here we can see that Sionis, is still deep inside the little boy with bad luck," Sofia smiled on guards, which came with her.

"Don't you dare talk to me like that," Roman reached for his gun, "Let's see what will this bullet do!"

Guards were pointing guns at him, but Roman wasn't putting his gun down.

"You know... There was a reason I called you here. I wanted to make my return to Gotham a great thing. A party... You know, something special," Sofia smiled, "But we all know that there can't be a queen if there is already a king."

"So this is all about the crown," Roman laughed, "Yeah, I somewhat expected this shit to happen. What happened to others? Are they laying on the table poisoned?"

"Oh, those were my people. Everything was staged," Sofia took a pistol from the holder on her wheelchair. It had only one bullet, "It's funny, becouse Gotham actually has a Queen, since your... (Y/n)... What is even that name?" she laughed and pointed the gun on Roman. Roman frowned, how could she know about you?

"If you insult her again, I'll assure that you insulted her last time," Roman held the finger on the trigger.

"Are you sure you want to shoot? I mean, everyone is pointing at you with gun. When you will be gone who will take care about (Y/n)?"

Roman threw the gun on floor, putting hands behind head, kneeling down.

"Yeah, that's right. Remember your place," she smirked and snapped her fingers. Guards put down their guns, ready to take Roman.

But this was the moment, that he waited for, "At one moment, I thought you were smarter," he mumbled, "Either this will go very good or very wrong." As he finished this sentence, he ran and jumped out from the window. As he felt down, he heard shooting. They were after him. Those bags that he had could stay there, he needed to get home, get to you and nothing could stop him from doing so.

His arm and leg hurted, but he kept stumbling across the parking lot. He heared shooting behind him, so he dropped behind some car. It had keys in it. What a timing, Roman thought and entered the car. It wasn't limusine, this one was more like BMW. Since Roman drove a car only when he had to, which was rare he was stressed, but he had to go. As he left the parking lot, Sofia Falcone looked up on Roman's suitcase. He had there few suits, money, few guns and photo.

On the photo he was smiling with one woman, which Sofia never saw. She only heared of her. (Y/n) Sionis.

Roman managed to escape from Falcone's reach to the airport where was waiting his pilot.

"Boss? Shouldn't you be there whole week?" he asked.

"Start the fucking plane! We are going home now!" Roman yelled and threw himself on the seat.

Plane was slowly getting up from ground and Roman was hoping that nobody's going to shoot after it. Roman took out his phone, with cracked screen.

"Shoot, I'll have to buy a new one," he said and threw it to bin. It was broken after all.

He decided to call you from his cellphone that was in plane.

"Pick it up... C'mon..." Roman whispered, waiting. He didn't waited too long, becouse you picked up.

"Hello?"

Roman smiled when he heared your voice.

"Babygirl, I'm already in the plane, I'll be anytime with you. We are going to cure that sickness," Roman told.

"Babe," your voice was shaking, "How long will it take?"

"(Y/n)? Is everything alright?" Roman asked. Was something bad happening, "Can I talk to Victor?"

"No... Not now, he went to shop... Vegetables and Roses," you let out a little laugh, but stopped in second.

"Tonight were beautiful stars on sky," you said, "I love you, bye." You cancelled the call and Roman's smile faded away.

Tonight were beautiful stars on sky... That was your code word for help...

Roman held the phone in his hand. What did he done...

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

5 minutes before the call

You exited your room, going for something to kitchen. You were slightly better but Roman insisted on going home. You knew that the meeting was very important, but you were glad you will see him again. From what you heard Sofia Falcone was a smart person and nobody wanted to get on her bad side.

"Victor?" you called in apartment, entering the living room with yoghurt.

"One move beauty and you are dead," somebody pushed a knife to your throat. Victor was beated and tied to chair. You dropped the yoghurt on floor.

You lifted hands, slowly walking to the another chair.

"That one is for you," he whispered and pushed you on chair. You were quiet, but shocked. He tied your hands and you were finaly facing him.

He was wearing black hoodie. It didn't covered his face much, as if the person didn't cared.

"Who are you and what do you want?" you asked. Roman taught you what to do in moments like these.

Remain calm. Your head hurted and you asked once again.

"You know... She told me you are sick. But I didn't expected this to be so easy," he said in deep voice.

"She sent you? Sofia Falcone?" you asked. Maybe Roman was in bigger problems than you thought.

"Yes, for you it's miss Falcone. The queen of Gotham. At the end of the day, there will be no trace of you or your whiny husband," he said and looked on Victor, stepping closer, "Victor Zsasz," he smiled, "Maybe Sofia will give you another chance, since you were so good guard dog for her."

Victor was still unconscious, you didn't knew how would he react.

"Oh... For you it's Mrs. Sionis and Mr. Sionis. Tell me, what the bitch wants," you hissed.

"She wants you out of the town," he said.

Phone rang and you looked on it, it's Roman?

The man in black hood brought the phone closer to you. Then he put a gun beside your head and put his finger on lips.

"Hello?" your voice was shaking. Tears slowly slipping from your eyes.

"Babygirl, I'm already in the plane, I'll be anytime with you. We are going to cure that sickness," Roman told.

"Babe," your voice was shaking, "How long will it take?" You quietly cried.

"(Y/n)? Is everything alright? Can I talk to Victor?"

"No... Not now, he went to shop... Vegetables and Roses," you let out a little laugh, but stopped in second. Feeling of the cold gun on your head you gulped.

"Tonight were beautiful stars on sky," you said, "I love you, bye." You cancelled the call.

"I wouldn't tell it better," he clapped with hands, "What's with the stars?" he laughed.

"In case we talked the last time I just needed to tell him something nice," you said.

"Oh, you were," he laughed even more and left to kitchen, "Do you have something to eat? I'm starving."

You rolled eyes. You were used to all kinds of villains in Gotham. But this one was new.

"Perhaps you could eat yourself," you yelled at him and coughed.

"Carefully or you will choke yourself on that disgusting cough," he yelled back.

"Victor? Victor?" you whispered, trying to wake up Victor. He didn't even moved.

"So, let's talk more... About you," hoodie took an empty chair and sat next to you.

"I don't even know your name. Just get out from this apartment," you said, turning the head away from him.

"What? Do I have a problem with my face?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

"Nah... More like you are the problem," you turned to look at his eyes. One was green and other one was blue.

"Too handsome for you?" he asked and caught your neck. You spat on him, pulling away.

"Don't touch me you monster," you yelled.

"Why? I'm exactly your type, like Roman. Evil monster," he smiled and you. You frowned, refusing to say anything. Roman wasn't like this, he wasn't a monster.

"Run out of words?" he asked. You smiled, you weren't talking to him anymore.

"Say something!" he yelled and pushed a gun to your head. He couldn't shoot you, at least not now.

Then he caught his head, throwing the gun away.

"You are pretty, it would be a shame to... You know. I'm giving you an offer. You can live and leave with me to Europe. Or you can 'stay' with Roman," he smiled and picked up the gun again, pointing at it's trigger.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

When the plane finaly landed in Gotham. Roman entered his car, hoping it's not too late. He wanted to go take care of you becouse of your sickness and becouse he missed you, but now he was saving your life and he was more than needed. Maybe it was becouse of him.

He didn't bothered with parking the car, he just stopped and runned up, as fast as he could to the apartment.

He took out revolver and headed to the living room. He heard voices. He saw your eyes, which spotted him. You were calm as you could, ignoring the man in black hoodie, who was talking to himself.

Victor at the other side was unconscious sitting on chair next to you.

"Hands up! Who are you?!" Roman walked to the living room, aiming with the revolver on the guy.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm holding a gun as you can see. You will never know my real name. But you can call me Changer," he turned aiming a gun at you, "Maybe if you stayed with Mrs. Falcone, then this wouldn't happend. She would take care of you and like this... Well our (Y/n) is involved in this too," he leaned his head on your shoulder.

"She is not yours!!!" Roman yelled and shot him to arm. He was so precise with aiming, you weren't scared about him somehow shooting you.

But you flinched, becouse it was only few inches from your head. His gun felt out of his hand.

Roman had hurted leg and arm but he was faster then Changer. Before Changer could grab his gun back, Roman jumped at him and pushed him on ground and punched him multiple times. Then he stood and untied you.

"(Y/n), are you okay," he looked at you. On his hands and suit were stains of blood.

"Yes, now yes," you said and sneezed.

"Come here, I missed you so much," Roman said giving you hug, kissing you on top of your head.

"Don't, you are going to catch the cold," you said.

"As if I cared. I love you more than anything."

"I love you too Roman," you said and noticed his hand, "Are you okay, we should call a doctor."

"It hurts as fuck. Yes we probably should," he said and untied Victor.

"What happened?" you asked, looking on the guy that called himself the Changer. You took his gun and shot multiple times into the Changer's chest. Roman quietly watched you, "I missed you."

"But what really happened there?" you helped Roman bring Victor to the couch at the other side of room.

"When I heared your voice, Victor called me you were sick and I just knew I had to go back to take care of you. Becouse I love you, I care about you. Then Sofia Falcone came to my guest room and she threatened me and you... You saved my life. If I didn't went home, she would kill me," he said, holding you in his arms.

"I love you, please promise me you will be careful next time," you said.

"I promise," Roman whispered, "Now let's get you to bed, you should sleep."

"Yeah," you began to feel nauseous. You nearly felt down but Roman caught you, walking with you to the bedroom in bridal style.

He gently put you on the bed and covered you with blankets.

"I'm going to stay here with you okay? Victor should wake up anytime too. He wasn't so badly injured. And after sleep, I'm going to bring you your favourite food." Roman laid next to you, holding your hand.

"Roman?"

"Yeah?"

"Where was that clown in hoodie?" you asked. Leaving the living room you didn't remembered seeing him on the place where he got shot. Roman frowned, he didn't remembered it too.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Somewhere in the dark alleys of Gotham, the Changer put down his bulletproof vest. He had red marks all over his chest. He opened doors to his basement safe house that he builded years ago, when Sofia Falcone sent him on mission to Gotham first time. As much as he was obsessed with you, followed you on every step years and years without you knowing about it, he promised himself that Sofia Falcone will be the Queen again.

[allyvampirelass29]

The Lost Boy

A NOS4A2 Fanfiction By: Allyssa J. Watkins

"Vicki? Where are you!? Vicki, come here!"

"You're scarin' her, Linda, all your damn screechin'! Brat? Baby, come back here."

"Yeah, sure, Chris, you're the one drinkin' and throwin' whiskey bottles, and actin' like a freakin' lunatic, but my voice is scarin' our daughter! GOD, Mister Hero, and I'm always the BAD GUY!!! Damn it, Vicki, I SAID come here!!!"

Eight year old Vic McQueen hugged her denim jacket with the pink sparkly stars on the shoulders, tighter around her, rolling her dark eyes, as her parents fought in the open doorway. Biting her lip, she snuck her way around the side of the house, climbing on her red bike, pedaling away, shooting a quick glance over her shoulder, to make sure she wasn't being followed.

"Do they always engage in so unsightly a row?"

Vic squeezed the brakes on her handlebars with a gasp, her unruly brown curls falling in her eyes, as she stopped short, swerving, just narrowly missing the older boy, standing in the street.

"Geeze, Pal, ain't your mother never told you not to play in the street? What? D'you want to get hit by a car or somethin'? What's that mean anyway, row?"

"Feisty for a girl, aren't you?" The older boy, about twelve chuckled, adjusting his red silk kerchief, and dusting off his black vest. Vic was sure she'd never seen him before, dark wavy hair, and them thick eyebrows, he sure didn't sound like he come from Haverhill.

"Yeah, what of it?" She shot back, raising her chin defiantly, balancing on her bike. "Girls can be just a tough as boys, y'know? Ask Danny Merckle, I popped him one good. And if row means raise the dead with a lot of damn noise, then yeah, they sure row a lot."

The dark, mysterious boy shook his head with a smirk. "Girls shouldn't curse, nor should they engage in fisticuffs."

"That mean scrappin'?" She asked, screwing up her little face. Geeze what an oddball, this guy.

"More or less," The boy shrugged his shoulders.

"Yeah, well, I ain't exactly the type to play with dolls," She shot back, and he smiled again, his head tilted.

"So I see...... Well, Feisty, to answer your earlier question, no. My mother practically told me to go play in the street, nor would she have batted an eyelash if I'd gotten run over like a stray."

"Man ALIVE, your Old Lady is worse than mine!!!" Vic gasped, and she couldn't help but notice how sad the boys eyes looked. Real damn sad.

"You have NO idea, he said with a sigh," And they both jumped as the front door to Vic's house slammed shut.

"That's my cue," She whispered, leaning forward to pedal away again, when the older boy, grabbed one of the handlebars. "Hey, watch it guy, cant'cha see I'm tryin' to make a break for it?"

"I'm sorry." He said softly, his eyes going all sad again. "I'm sorry, you have to listen to them fight, and throw things, but you don't have to be scared."

"I ain't- I ain't scared," Vic's shoulders bristled, and the boy watched unconvinced as her lip quivered, and the autumn light caught in her pink sequins.

"It's okay..... to be scared. I am, sometimes."

"Pshhh are you kidding me?" Vic scoffed, resting her arms on the handlebars. "What's a tall guy like you got to be scared of, huh? Yeah, your old lady sounds like a witch, but, c'mon she's still your ma. She might carry on, but they love us. They gotta, right?"

The boy smiled again, but it was very sad. "One can only hope, Feisty. May I....... accompany you, on your daring getaway?"

"If that's fancy talk for tag along, then yeah sure." Vic shrugged her shoulders. "Damn, you're sure different, most boys older 'an me just want to push me around, you know, pick on me."

Vic pedaled down the sidewalk, away from her house, the sun hanging low in the sky, as the boy in the red kerchief walked alongside her, fighting his smile.

"I can't imagine anyone pushing you around. You're quite the novelty to me too."

"Thanks....... I think," Vic looked at him, scrunching up her brow. "So you got a rough home life too huh?"

"Horrendously so...... Your father may take to the drink, but I have the great misfortune of living in a bar, surrounded constantly by drunkards, and my mother, let's just say....... has a lot of boyfriends."

"No foolin'? GOD, that's gotta be some kind of awful! Folks get bonkers when they're drunk, at least mine come home...... most of the time, anyways. Boyfriends huh? What about your old man? Mine's a drinker, yeah, but he ain't all bad. He makes me laugh, y'know?"

"I don't have one...... I mean, I do, of course, but....... his identity could never in probability be ascertained. Whomever he is, he sure did not want me."

"God....... That's real rough. Everybody needs a dad......."

Vic's front tire hit a rock, and she swerved, accidently slamming into the boy, and he groaned as he fell back hard.

"Yikes! Holy sh- Are you okay?" She yelled, leapfrogging off her bike, kneeling down beside him, reaching to help him up, when she saw them....... "Hold on, guy, there's something on your neck there......"

"I'm perfectly sound, just a little jostled, hey, stop that, what are doing?"

Vic pulled off his silk handkerchief, and his hands flew to his neck, nervously. "Give it back."

"Hey........" Vic frowned, pursing her lip, and the boy shuddered, as she leaned over him, and pulled down his shirt collar. "You're bruised somethin' awful....... Did I-?"

"No-" He snapped quickly, leaping to his feet, one hand still hovering over his neck, the other held out impatiently, wiggling his fingers. "That's mine, thank you very much."

"No." She shook her rebellious curls stubbornly, clutching the kerchief tight. "You're not getting it back until you tell me....... Who did that to you, huh? You get in one of them rows with somebody?"

"Something like that...... Now give it, before I take it from you......." He scowled, knitting his dark brow.

"Like to see you try it, Buddy," She snarked back, holding it behind her back. "Who whaled on you, tell me....... It couldn't have been your old lady, c'mon."

The boy tried to look angry, tried to hide the guilt, and shame in his eyes, but they pierced through the dark shine, and he sighed, hanging his head. It was then Vic noticed the cuff on his sleeve had inched up, revealing the dark circles of even more bruises.

She gasped, her little hand flying to her mouth, slowly handing him the kerchief, which he snatched back, and carefully re-tied.

"I take it back...... Your mother's a witch with a "b."

The older boy couldn't stifle his smirk, hastily pulling down his long, starch white sleeve, fiddling with it. "Quite so."

"My ma used to get mad, and slap me around sometimes when I was talking back, but....... she ain't never left bruises like that....... You got to get yourself the hell out of there.

"I will....... Someday." He shrugged, hands in his pockets, and Vic walked her red bike alongside him, the sun casting long shadows behind them. "Someday, I'll drive away, in a fancy car, somewhere no one will ever hurt me again.

"Sounds real good, guy. You ever need a friend, you got one in Vic McQueen."

"Who's Vic McQueen?"

"Me, Stupid!" Vic laughed, elbowing him in the ribs. "You got a name, Kerchief?"

The dark-eyed boy smirked, bowing graciously, with a flourish of his hand. "Charlie Manx, at your service."

"God, you are so freaking weird. Well, put 'er there, Charlie!" Vic beamed, holding out her little hand with a smug grin, and hesitantly, Charlie took it, with a firm shake.

"A pleasure, Victoria."

Charlie Manx awoke with a jolt, bolting upright in bed, his hands flying instinctively to his neck, and he shivered, the sweat cooling on his skin.

"What on GOD'S green earth was that......!?"

His palm slid slowly down his neck, and he felt the pale brunette slumbering beside him stir, but she didn't fully wake. He stroked her face, breathing heavy, envying her expression of heavenly peace. How perfectly dreadful....... How dare you, Victoria....... Damn you, invading my sacred dreams, unearthing my- my secrets and shames. He rubbed his neck again, finding it still bare, and free of bruises, his skin, of course, flawless.

The angry tears stung his eyes, and he wiped them furiously away, his thumb circling his wrist over and over........ He had to admit this miniature McQueen wasn't quite so irksome....... Little Victoria was so far removed from her scathing, impulsive, teenage self, that there was something almost endearing about her, fussing over him and his boyhood inflictions. “How odd to think of us together, Victoria, as children, the bruised yield of broken homes. What might you have thought of him, The Lost Boy without his Neverland? We might even have been friends.......... How's that for a scary thought?”

He slowly fell back back onto the bed, his silky raven head sinking into the soft pillow, and he froze as his sleeping beauty whimpered, and eased her body against his, skin melting against skin, laying her crown of shiny curls on his bare chest.

"This one......." Charlie breathed, flaring his nostrils in a sigh, his claws caressing her luxurious curls, letting them sift, one by one, through his fingers. "She had a much different upbringing than the two of us........ An ideal childhood, and I envy her, Vic........ I envied her, her happiness, yes, I watched her grow up, loved, cared for, precious in her mother's eyes, and I ached to know what that was like....... To flourish in a tended garden, instead of left neglected in the thistle........ Ironic, isn't it......? She would have had no need of me to come, and spirit her away to Christmasland, and yet you....... who despise it most of all........ were exactly the kind of girl I would have saved.

He ran his hands through his mussed coif, his obsidian strands damp with sweat. "Imagine us, Vic, as childhood friends, the feisty girl, and the dapper dan, creating together, walking worlds that others can't even imagine....... Look at us now, scrapping, as you so eloquently phrased it, for a chance to kill each other, and I feel the swelter of your hatred, but even you can't deny that we....... are not so different."

I'm going to have to kill you, there's no way around that, not now. And I'm going to enjoy it, have fun, get...... creative with your meticulous undoing. He chuckled to himself, winding one of Ally's ringlets around and around his finger, with a menacing smirk. But that does not mean I won't miss this, our delicious conflict, the obscene pleasure that comes in hating you, hurting you....... In a perfect world, I would have you both, my conflicting passions, satisfied, her pleasure, your pain, my ultimate fantasy. But this one....... She was made too tender, Vic. Where your parents' endangerment hardened you an edge, this one feels too deeply through another's heart, even yours. She couldn't love a man that inflicts pain with such indecent pleasure, courting her tenderly with the same hand that harms you. In time, she will beg me to stop, fling herself at my feet, sobbing bitterly while you bleed, and being so affected by her, I will grant her wish. I will grant yours as well, and finally finish it, quell your flame, waste all of that Creative potential, killing you in secret. Then I'll tell her, Vic, I'll tell her I let you go.......

Charlie felt his heart quicken, imagining Victoria's aghast face, as though she were listening to his thoughts, racing by in a frenzy. That's right, My Feisty One, I'll make myself the hero of our doomed fable, and say I've decided to give up our fantastic feud, all for her, because she's changed my heart, absolved me of my sins, and she'll love me for it, Vic, praise me, reward me, even while you lay dead in the frozen wilderness. He closed his eyes, with a dark chuckle, a sinful breath escaping. You'd hate that, wouldn't you, Victoria? ANSWER ME!!! Tell me how much you'd hate that.......

You're messed up, Pal. You do that, and you're worse than your slap happy old lady.

Charlie's eyelashes fluttered open as he heard Little Vic's angry voice linger in his mind.

That's enough out of you, Young Lady. Only good girls get to go to Christmasland, and you've long outstayed your welcome.

You want me to scram? Make me.

Oh, I intend to....... Consider yourself grounded.

He simpered, feeling blissful, pressed against his wife's womanly warmth, visions of battling Vic frolicking through his head, as he smelled Ally's hair. You make me so happy, the both of you........ In hating one, and loving the other, The Lost Boy became a found man. You might not be one to play with dolls, Vic, but I certainly am......... And I don't intend to share.

[yourcoolfriendwithallthecandy]

Why So Jaded? Chapter 3

Chapter 3! Woo! In case you missed it, Chapter 1, Chapter 2, FFN and AO3 Enjoy!

Part 3

Buddy Pine had always had more than one plan. Getting caught and working for Phillip on his dime had been his contingency plan if the nanochip thing had backfired. But he never expected Phillip to be so accommodating or so generous. But having Violet be the liaison was the icing on the cake and to have her be his heir apparent was a fitting twist considering their shared history and he had had no problems with that part of the contract. He hadn't been this productive since before the incident a decade ago. And for the last few weeks, almost a month, the hours following her visits were always the most exciting as far as progress was concerned. He was finding his spark again and keeping alive and well, he even starting drafting and designing from scratch again. This was working out perfectly.

All he needed was time. Time to prove to Violet at least that he was not the same man he was a decade ago. He had been honest when he told her that Syndrome died. Because a part of himself did die that day and he had no interest in reviving him and his attraction to her was undeniable. 

"Good morning Ms. Parr," Buddy greeted when he heard the door open at 9:00am which had been Violet's chosen time to come in the mornings. He had learned to recognize her walking pattern, it was smooth and fluid yet light and precise, almost cat like.

"Good morning Mr. Pine," Violet replied evenly. "Mr. Sebastian sends his congratulations on the nanochip redesign, it has increased workload by your projections exactly and has earned you an additional 1.4 million dollars as of today." Violet informed him. Happy because it had earned her the same amount as well since she and Buddy would both be getting 15% each of all the sales, leaving Phillip and his company to earn the remaining seventy percent.

"Excellent, what else?" Buddy inquired, knowing Violet preferred to lead with good news before delivering the bad.

"Mr. Sebastian now has 5 new projects to add to your ever increasing roster." Violet informed him as she made a swiping motion from her tablet to his as his own tablet and electronics received the new project data before she rubbed at her temple and winced.

"You ok?" Buddy inquired as he watched her thoughtfully.

"Yeah, just a bad headache," Violet answered dismissively. "Now Mr. Salazar wants to know exactly how much titanium alloy you will need for the VIC project? And what tensile strength will you need to have the silicon wafers at?" She continued as she went down the list in her own tablet.

"I'm going to have to look over my calculations again and I'll shoot you an email with the specifics. How long have you had the headache?" Buddy inquired as he watched her closely, getting flashbacks of when Mirage had similar headaches and how much she used to suffer with them.

"Why does my headache matter? It's a headache, it will go away eventually and with enough Advil." Violet defended, her irritation clear in the way she seemed to snap at him because the pain was sapping every ounce of patience she had today.

"Supers don't usually just get headaches that can be cleared up with over the counter pain killers, they usually need something stronger, especially with your skill set as a Super, you're more likely to have inflammation in the central cortex." Buddy blurted out before looking up to see a practically seething Violet, he was at a loss as to why before it dawned on him of how he would know something like that. He could see it in her eyes, they burned a luminescent shade of ultraviolet for a moment. He could see that she wanted to kill him and the static electricity in the lab was so high the electronics started to warble and wane.

Violet was livid, how dare he have the audacity to speak of such things! She wanted to know how many supers he had lured to their deaths, how many had he interrogated or tortured and experimented on for his research before zeroing in on her family. She wanted to beat those answers out of him. She struggled not to do just that, she struggled to keep herself composed as her grip actually crushed her tablet which caused Buddy to jump and step away before she had to pull her rage back and put an emotionally void mask to her facial features as she struggled to remain in control and not kill him.

"If you have anything else you need for your work, you can contact my assistant, Leslie." Violet managed to bite out before turning and leaving quickly, keeping on her toes to keep her heels from making any more noise on the floors, once out of the lab she raced to the elevator and was thankful it was empty when it finally reached her. She leaned against the elevator wall once the doors closed and tried her best not to have a panic attack as she could feel the panic whirl in her chest and make it hard to breathe. These headaches were getting out of hand and were wearing her down and she cursed herself for having such an obvious and light trigger that he seemed to know exactly how to set off. She barely managed to make it to her own office to her safe room before she broke down and cried, an instinctual forcefield encompassing her like a security blanket. How could she keep acting like none of it happened and he was just another one of Phillip’s colleagues?

Back in the lab Buddy was kicking himself for not seeing how that could have backfired. And for the first time there was something added to his guilt, shame as he was cussing himself out for messing up so bad.

Meanwhile Phillip who was watching and listening to the conversation via security cameras was practically running to Violet's office. He had a hunch this would happen eventually and he had to make sure she would be ok. He got to her office and went straight to the safe room he had specifically built for her. He keyed in his code and the book shelf concealing the safe room moved away to reveal Violet sitting down and curled up in a ball, her knees to her chest as she hugged them and rocked herself, he could see she was shaking but he knew better than to try and touch her now, the forcefield around her would keep him from physically touching her. He couldn't hear her because the forcefield kept any noise she was making inside and would thus make talking to her impossible until she took it down. But what he could do is sit as close to her as possible and wait for her to notice him there.

After a moment she did look up to see him there and let down the forcefield before he crawled to her and put his arm around her shoulders and held her close and did everything in his power- super or not- to comfort her as she crawled into his lap and held onto him tightly.

"I'm sorry," He whispered into her hair as he kissed the crown of her head as she continued to sniffle into his shoulder as the other arm was wrapped tightly around her as he took up rocking her himself. He could count on one hand the number of times this had happened before and he was just grateful she let him in this time.  

"How did he know?! How does he know shit like that?! He shouldn't know that, especially about me," Violet cried, feeling vulnerable in the worst way and feeling like she was a little kid again. With that henchman as he was hunting her through the forest and was hiding in the water. She felt like she was drowning in anguish and anger and rage and hurt and heartbreak and she just wanted her dad to hug her and hold her in his big strong arms up to his massive chest and make her feel perfectly safe again but for now, Phillip’s arms and chest would have to do and she was grateful for him.

"I don't know, but I'll find out ok? It's going to be ok, I promise, I swear on my life it's going to be ok. Where are those pills we made for you?" Phillip asked, trying to get her to look him in the eye as he reached for her face and held it in his hands and used his thumbs to wipe away her tears and streaking mascara.

"I only have 2 left, I was saving them for when it got really bad." Violet tried to explain as she buried her head deeper into his chest, hoping the counter pressure would give her some relief. Phillip pulled her hair down from the bun and laced his fingers together behind her head and applied pressure into his chest, trying to help give her more relief.

"Does that help?" He asked.

"Yes, thank you Phil." Violet said in thanks as she reveled in the relief the counter pressure was providing as she did her best to regain her composure. She hated feeling like this, let alone be seen like this. But Phillip was special. He never thought less of her or think of her as weaker. It just helped him appreciate that even though she was a Super, she was still human and thus, imperfect and had weaknesses and limits. Phillip counted himself lucky to be able to witness this side of her and he had worked so hard just to get to this point with her.

"Now where are the pills? I'll make sure you have more before these wear off," Phillip offered.

"In my top left desk drawer." Violet answered before Phil managed to get up and pull her up with him before he carried her over to her desk and simply set her down on it then looked through her drawers for the meds before he found them and gave them to her as she used her coffee still on her desk to down them both.

"Have you been able to get any sleep lately?" He asked as he noted the dark circles under her eyes that she had tried to cover up with makeup.

"Yeah, I got a whole six hours last night," She answered.

"How much Ambian did it take to get that?" He asked worriedly.

"A hundred and twenty milligrams."

"Fuck Vi, that much should have put you in a coma." He realized.

"I know, but I just wanted to sleep so badly that I kept taking 2 tabs every hour until I finally fell asleep." Violet explained as she slowly got up and sat in her desk chair before letting her head rest on the desk's surface.

"Vi, why didn't you tell me it was getting this bad?" Phillip asked as he leaned against her desk next to her.

"Because there are a thousand and one other things that are more important," Violet groaned as she continued to lay her head on the desk and waited for the painkillers to kick in while she focused on not throwing up.

"Violet, I would not have the best doctors cooped up in a lab working 14 hour days trying to come up with the best solution possible if I didn't think that you and your health were important if not equally or even more important than my own. Promise me that you'll tell me when things are getting bad or if things get worse." Phillip urged her.

"Ok, ok, I promise," Violet said as she steadied her breathing, the painkillers beginning to take effect.

"Thank you, now I want you to do me a favor, take a few days off, go to the spa, get a massage or something and relax, read a good book and don't use your powers. Because the more you use them the worse this seems to get. Can you do that for me?" Phillip prodded.

"Yeah, I can do that, but what about Syn..Mr. Pine?" Violet asked, catching herself.

"Don't worry about it, I will deal with him personally if I have to and he will answer to me about this incident." Phillip placated. "And you start now, I'll go down to the lab to get you your meds, just stay here."

"Deal," Violet agreed as she kicked off her heels for her feet to rest.

Phillip went down to the lab and got Violet the special painkillers that have been designed for her and checked in on the sleep aid they had been also working on for her and got as much of that as they had as he informed them of her recent dose as the doctors rewrote the prescription. It was highly unusual for an employer to take such an intense interest in his employee but Philip considered this extremely special circumstances because Violet was so much more than an employee, she was a friend. A true one he felt and while he knew that Violet didn’t need him, he was becoming more and more dependent on her and was still hoping that when it was all said and done, she would stay with him and while they both had agreed not to pursue a romantic relationship, it was awfully hard for him to keep things strictly business between them. Especially after that first incident when they had been locked in his safe room for a week. It got very physical then and he had found himself craving her more and more and he had time to win her over. He also dealt with anything and everything having to do with Violet he did himself. It's not that he didn't trust his other secretaries and assistants but, he felt better knowing that because he handled it, it was done right.

He saw her off before going to Buddy's lab himself.

"Mr. Sebastian, I was wondering when you would come and see me," Buddy remarked, despite the slight nervous edge to his voice. He had been wondering what ramifications there would be for upsetting Phillip's little 'pet', remembering what lengths he used to go to when it came to anyone or anything that messed with Mirage.

"Well Mr. Pine, it seems you've been busy, making exceptional hardware, offending my staff," Phillip listed off casually, but there was quiet rage to his voice that Buddy immediately picked up on.

"I didn't mean to offend her. I just noticed she was in pain, I didn't mean to upset her," Buddy defended as Phillip took a long hard look at him.

"I'm going to ask you something and I need you to be honest in your answer. Do you have any design or intention of bringing harm in any way, shape or form to Ms. Parr?" Phillip gravely questioned.

"Of course not," Buddy answered.

"But given your history, especially with the Parr's..." Phillip began.

"I know, I'm the last person who should be put anywhere close to any of them but things change, especially in the time that’s passed." Buddy countered.

"I'm aware that you know a lot about Supers, and I know better than to ask exactly how you know..." Phillip began.

"Natalia," Buddy interrupted. "Natalia, or Mirage rather, had similar powers that Violet has, Tali suffered from extremely painful and debilitating headaches too, they were so bad she used to "joke" about drilling a hole into her head to relieve the pressure. Whenever she used her powers, especially her invisibility extensively. Supers are wired differently, they even have extra brain components, Supers who can turn themselves invisible, tend to have larger central cortex's. It puts pressure on the rest of the brain, that's why the headaches are so intense and hard to cure." Buddy explained. "That's how I know about it. I almost had a cure too at several points. But everything I came up with impaired her powers and she always needed to use her powers. Always. The Agency..." Buddy began as he did his best to fight the tears that came to sting at the corner of his eyes at all the memories came flooding back and what surprised him was to feel all that rage he had against The Agency rear it's ugly head as he fought to remain composed and in control of himself and his emotions.

"The Agency knew damn well it was hurting her, hell it was killing her and they didn’t give a single fuck. The needs of the many always outweigh the needs of a few right? And it’s not like she didn’t want to do the missions, she always did and it made her happy to feel useful and helpful and as long as I could come up with the right painkiller for the headaches and keep her in the field, she was happy. All Supers, the good, the bad and everything in between, they always have an itch that only Super work can scratch. They just sent her on mission after mission all while she was working for me, because she had the skill set to be useful in the more "clandestine" work and out of the public eye. To the point the villains never knew she was ever involved in their downfall. No matter what I did, whatever I provided them or tried to find other Supers to take her place on all these missions, they liked to remind me and her who she really belonged to and it took turning on me and exposing me to the fullest and deepest degree for her to break free of them and finally get the out she needed. I lost track and count of how many times and all the different ways I proposed to her, but she never accepted because she knew that The Agency could turn on her if she didn’t walk the line and it would have made both of us targets. Especially when Supers were under ban, she was used even though she was relatively young when all that happened because she was older than me by a decade and she was barely a teenager then. Of course she’s fine now, or so I assume. She’s perfectly fine being a trophy wife for just another rich, powerful billionaire playboy because there's so many of us these days and I used to lay awake at night and wonder what he had that I didn’t that got her to say yes to him but not me." Buddy revealed. Remembering how he used to cradle her in his arms and rock her and squeeze her head to give her counterpressure and swear he would find a cure if it was the last thing he did and the beautiful but fatally flawed relationship they had. But it was still...never enough.

“I see how you are with her. You depend on her a lot. And as much as you like seeing the way I react to her and act in her presence. She’s practically your everything and I know that you know that you’re pretty screwed without her. It would probably take what? A hundred? Two hundred people to do all the things she does on her own by herself. She’s irreplaceable. Funny isn’t it? We get all this money and power and make ourselves as desirable and needed as possible while individually independent as we can be, then a girl comes along and she makes it all feel useless and worthless and they make you realize that the world doesn’t revolve around you and that you aren’t the most important person in the room, let alone the world or the universe- that they are. And no matter what we do, what we give, what we invent, how we try to help-  at the end of the day and when all is said and done, they don’t need us, and it stings like a motherfucker. But if you’re lucky- they’ll want you and if they want you and genuinely care about you, then that’s all that matters.” Buddy confessed, not sure why he was telling Phillip all this. But he felt... absolved to a degree to get it off his chest and he wished with all his might that someone had told him all this fifteen years ago.

“If you had a time machine, would you do anything differently?” Phillip asked.

“Absolutely. I’d do everything differently. I would have dropped my grudge against Mr. Incredible at a very early age and recognized that I had a very unhealthy obsession with him and gotten my ass into therapy much sooner than I did. I still would have built the empire. But I would have tried not buying Tali. Because that was my fatal mistake, I tried to buy her with a salary that almost equaled mine. I got her stock options, I got her investments and I got her so set up that she technically didn’t need me or anyone else but I did it because I didn’t know how else to try to woo her because I will admit I'm not the most handsome, charming guy and I overcompensate and I would have never used her the way I did and I would have just let her be, no strings, no contracts, nothing. Just let her do whatever she wanted. I realized after the fact that she never really let herself really be her true self around me. The line between Natalia and Mirage was pretty blurred to the point, I never knew the difference between the two and I was foolish enough to think they were one and the same. The altruistic Supers are always the same person in and out of the supersuit. But the best ones, the most effective ones are the ones that you would never suspect are their Super persona.” Buddy revealed.

“So what do you advise?” Phillip asked thoughtfully, intrigued yet pleased he was getting all this from Buddy. 

“Never make your relationship with her about the money or the power or any of that bullshit. And don’t make the possibility of staying with you about what she could earn or inherit or anything like that. That's ultimately an insult to their character. Because our greed doesn’t rub off on people like them, they're surprisingly content with little, it comes from their upbringing which more often than not is really humble. In fact make it effortlessly easy for her to walk away from you at any point in time without any retaliation, without backlash and every good thing you've ever promised, make good on it and make it so that the only reason she would stay is what she genuinely feels for you. Make it about honesty and communication and honest to goodness chemistry and the like. And if you’re keeping anything from her, remember that every secret you keep from her is a reason for her not to fully trust you. And if you have any superpowers, either good or bad, never use them on her if you don’t absolutely have to, like if it would mean something like saving her life or if you have, stop and be honest and upfront about all of it , the good, the bad and the ugly and even all the parts that make you wonder if she would even look or speak to you if she knew about. She’s a Super who’s used to spy work, her life’s work is about secrets. She won’t want any in her real relationships. I knew one Super, he was a Villain, and he was known as the Love Machine. He had the power to seduce anyone he wanted within a radius of like, half a mile, it was ridiculous. Then he met a Super who was immune to him. And the more he tried to use them on her, the more repellent to him she felt and when he was finally genuine with her, she never believed him because of his powers and believed that any feeling she had towards him, were because of his powers, when in fact, the feelings were genuine, but she still refused to believe it and when she left him- he ended up drinking himself to death. And I was stupid enough to not learn that with Tali until it was far too late.” Buddy admonished as Phillip simply stood there and considered him thoughtfully.

"Come with me," Phillip invited as he turned and escorted Buddy two floors up to where he had the doctors working on Violet's condition.

Buddy looked over the schematics and her last MRI scans and fought not to cry or gasp. "Oh no. She's way worse that Mirage ever got, is she dying?" Buddy asked Phillip.

Phillip took a deep breath and nodded yes.

"Does she know she's dying?"

"No, because we are on the verge of curing her, no use in upsetting her now," Phillip answered.

"Well what are you using to cure her?" Buddy pressed before Phillip wearily showed him what they were currently using and what else they had already tried and what they were about to try as Buddy's spark was like a bolt of lightning in his brain as it kicked into gear.

"I can fix this, I can fix her," Buddy claimed. "Give me a few weeks working with these guys and maybe a few months of trials but give me access to my old data banks that The Agency took and I can have a cure," Buddy promised.

Phillip paused to look Buddy over before nodding again. "Ok, but you better deliver Pine." Phillip went over to a control panel and gave Buddy access to the databases containing all the research that had been confiscated from Buddy's Island the decade prior along with all the research that had been done since then, along with access to the Medical Lab he was currently in and a security tag so he could go from his own lab to the medical lab on his own. "By the way, Violet is now on medical leave, Mrs. Tyner will be your liaison for everything until she gets back. But anything you need for this project you will tell Tyner and you will keep Ms. Parr out of it. Understood?" Phillip posed.

"Understood," Buddy agreed before turning and bringing up all his old data and instinctively taking control of the medical lab.

Phillip left work and went to a florist and got some nice flowers before he went over to Violet’s apartment to check in on her.

“Hey, what are you doing here?” Violet asked as she came to the door.

“I came to check on you. Are you feeling better?” He asked hopefully.

“I am, come on in. I take it these are for me.” Violet smiled at her flowers before he gladly handed them over to her as she took them and got a vase from the top of her fridge to put them in.

“I got a spa day planned for tomorrow.” She informed him happily.

“Good, I hope you enjoy it. You’ve earned it.” Phillip grinned.

“Aww, thank you.” She cooed.

“So, can I talk to you as Phil instead of Mr. Sebastian?” Phillip carefully asked.

“Of course, Phil is always allowed to talk about whatever he wants to.” Violet grinned happily as she got a bottle of wine out.

About four months into this assignment, “Phil” and “Vi” were code for when they just wanted to be themselves and friends and not as employer and employee or Super and Protectee or handler and asset.

“So I talked to Mr. Pine about the incident this morning.” Phillip began.

“That’s a Mr. Sebastian tone though.” Violet noted with a frown as she went ahead and opened the bottle of wine because “Phil” and “Vi” often Netflix, Pinot Noir and Chill kind of “friends”.

“Ok so I asked Buddy about it and he confessed that how he knew about it, was Mirage, or as he referred to her- Natalia or Tali for short.” He furthered as he gratefully took the glass of wine as he took the seat at her breakfast bar and took off his suit jacket and tie as she hopped up in the other and turned to face him.

“Oh, so they were very intimate. I’m her protégé and I don’t even get to call her by her real name.” Violet professed as she made a face before she took a big sip of her wine.

“Yeah, so turns out that’s how he knows about the enlarged central cortex because she suffered headaches just like you and in between his own supervillain agenda, he was working on a cure for her. He knows that all Supers who use invisibility have that. So, it wasn’t nearly as awful as I thought it was going to be. And he reassured me that he harbors you no ill will and has no designs on you.” Phill assured her.

“Do you believe him?” Violet raised a curious brow at that.

“I’m not sure.” Phillip answered.

“Good because I don’t.” Violet insisted.

“What would it take for you to believe him?” Phil asked.

“His dead body.” Violet answered honestly which got Phil to crack a crooked grin.

“Ok. Well maybe one of these days you’ll get that and I hope it brings you closure and peace.” Phillip offered before he clinked his wine glass with hers.

“Thank you Phil. That’s very sweet.” Violet grinned. “So can I jump your bones while you’re here?” Violet asked with a waggle of her eyebrows.

“Hell yeah.” He adamantly as they came together quickly and kissed passionately as they moved each other to the bedroom where they spent the remainder of the afternoon in each other’s embrace as Phillip was proud of himself for not using his powers to get her in the mood. While he knew that Buddy had spoken the truth, he would be taking Buddy’s advice, but he still had his own ideas about how and when he was going to implement them and once they were both sated they laid in bed and looked up at the painting that Violet had installed on her ceiling in the apartment as Phillip sweetly combed her soft hair with his fingertips as Violet simply basked in the afterglow of a great orgasm. Orgasms with Phillip were always out of this world because of his powers and she didn’t mind one bit he used them for that purpose.

“Want to go out to dinner?” Phillip asked.

“Sure.” Violet readily agreed as she got up and went to put on her supersuit.

“Come on Vi, don’t put that stupid thing on! You won’t need it!” Phillip complained.

“Phil, we’ve been through this a thousand times. Every time I don’t wear it, I end up needing it, every single time, without fail. At this point I put it on to make sure that nothing happens and that I don’t need it.” Violet argued as she continued to pull it up over he naked body.

“Just one more time, let’s just try one more time. Please? Pretty pretty please?” Phil begged from the bed as he sat up and steepled his hands like he was praying.

“Where did you want to go out to dinner?” Violet asked as she paused in putting it on as the top half simply hung around her waist.

“Wherever you want to go that you’ll feel you won’t need to wear that.” Phil answered as he gestured to the suit.

“Fine, Sumo’s.” Violet answered as she pushed the suit off her legs.

“Yes!” Phil cheered happily.

“Thank you thank you thank you.” He thanked her as he came over and kissed her soundly before he got redressed in his suit as she slipped into a sexy little dress to go out with him to dinner and once they got to Sumo’s, they happily got all kinds of Sushi and Ramen and other Dim Sum dishes.

And while they were eating Violet noticed she felt especially warm and fuzzy and frankly almost love drunk towards Phillip but knew he was using his powers to make her feel that way as she mentally fought those feelings because she knew they weren’t real, and not genuinely hers. Mirage had always warned her that mixing business with pleasure had it’s perks but also it’s dangers and warned her to never, ever go to bed with someone she wouldn’t feel absolutely free walking away from in the morning, let alone free to put a bullet in their head if she needed to. And that if at any moment she felt that she was in too deep and too attached that that’s when the highest danger would inevitably come and always remind herself that it was still, just a job, just a mission, just an asset and that if at any moment, he could turn from asset- to target. And she needed to be removed enough emotionally to pull the trigger herself if need be.

But one look at the way Phillip was looking at her told her that he was already too attached to her. But she needed him to be for this mission to be a success. He had asked her to be his girlfriend several times over by now and she had always turned him down and instead told him to ask her once her contract was up. And that seemed to satisfy him. And they agreed that their relationship would remain ‘friends with benefits’ until then and that they were open and free to pursue other romantic relationships until then. Thus- why Phillip used the ballerina/model types like tissues. But Violet felt that if he honestly, truly loved her- he would wait for her, wait however long it would take. And every time he used a girl, it was another layer added between her heart and his and honestly helped her keep her heart and her emotions to herself.

She still spent the night at his place though and Phillip gladly sent her in his Rolls-Royce to the spa and even ordered extra treatments for her and paid for her visit and Violet left that spa looking and feeling like a goddess before she insisted that she could come in on Monday which Phillip caved and agreed to.

On Sunday though, she was sent new medication which Phillip himself dropped off and once he left she was sent a video by Leslie of the conversation that Phillip had had with Buddy and Violet just watched it over and over again. She was blown away by Buddy's observations and his insights had been spot on and completely accurate and most importantly, completely honest and genuine and for the first time, she believed him. She knew that Phillip used his powers on Buddy to get that confession and thus why Phillip left it at that. And it was because of that video that she began to let go of her own grudge against him and slowly, but surely, she started to look at him and not see Syndrome anymore. Just...Buddy Pine, a colleague.

[chuckepisodes]

Chuck vs. The Crown Vic Part 2

Chuck called you to tell you what happened on his installation and to meet him at Casey's place. You walked and found Chuck and Casey standing there. "Hey." Chuck said walking over to you and kissing your cheek. "Hey. So what happened?" " This guy had all this money, someone dropped a bill, I picked it up and flasehd on it. It was fake." "Wow...Okay then." You then looked around to see if Sarah was here. "No Sarah?" "No. I thought you were going down to her apartment?" "Hadn't had the chance yet." "Alright get over here guys. Graham and Beckman are on." Casey said and you and Chuck quickly walked over to join him. "The serial numbers that Chuck flashed on are a strain of counterfeit currency that Treasury has been trying to crack for years. But perhaps we should wait to debrief you until Agent Walker arrives." Director Graham said. " Yes. Where is Agent Walker?" General Beckman asked. " Uh, ma'am, Agent Walker is currently... She, uh..." Casey started trying to think of something. " Agent Walker is currently suffering from a spastic colon, which acts up on her from time to time, so..." Chuck answered. " She has no history of that." Graham said. " Perhaps we should reschedule when Agent Walker is feeling better." Beckman suggested. " I'm fine. I'm sorry I'm late. Carry on." Sarah said, coming in and standing beside you. You smiled a little as you saw her and Chuck was just shocked. "As we were saying... Lon Kirk now devotes most of his time and money to aid projects, mostly foreign." " And we think he's the source? " Casey asked. "Not confirmed. However, we have intel that a major counterfeiter is in Los Angeles trying to acquire a new set of printing plates." " And how shall we proceed?" Sarah asked. "As far as Kirk is concerned, very cautiously. He's very well connected. He's hosting a charity event tonight at the New Constellation Yacht Club. Y/N and Chuck will go as guests. Casey and Sarah as staff." "Mr. and Mrs. Carmichael are coming back." Chuck said smirking at you. You blushed. "Sounds good." you said. "Good luck then." Beckman said before signing off. Sarah then walked out and you followed her. "Hey, hey, Sarah. Wait girl." " What's up?" "Um... Nothing. Nothing, really. Just, you know, good to, good to see you. Thought you'd be halfway to Bryce by now." "Why would you think that?" " I don't know, 'cause... he offers a pretty exciting life, I guess, sipping Mai Tai's in Jakarta, or... or... assassinating Afghani warlords, or whatever it is that you kids do for fun. I mean way more fun then hanging out with me and Chuck. I mean you must feel like the third wheel now and I know that ain't much fun. Plus... I can see you still have some feelings for him." "Y/N....I'm here because I have a job to do." "Right... Yeah... Yeah of course. The job. I know that." you said standing there, wondering what was going on with her. "I better, uh, I better get going as well. I gotta punch in. I told Chuck I would give him a ride back to work." you watched as Sarah nodded her head and began to walk away. "Sarah? " "Yeah?" "Should Chuck and I, should we carpool on our mission tonight?" " Be at my place at 8:00." Then Sarah was gone.

Later in the evening, you and Chuck were walking towards Sarah's door. You and Chuck were both dressed up for the evening. Chuck in a tux and you in a gorgeous dress.

Your dress:

"Did I mention how beautiful you look tonight?" Chuck said leaning closer to you. "You may have... But I don't get tired of it." you said blushing while looking up at him and smiling. You then arrived at Sarah's door. You were just about to knock when you hear Sarah shout. "It's open!" You and Chuck stared at each other, confused at how Sarah knew you were both there and then walked into her place. Looking around you noticed the knife in her alarm clock. " Not a morning person, aren't ya girl." " Well, it depends on the morning.  So we're clear on everything? Eyes and ears on anything that can trigger a flash." Sarah said approaching the both of you. " Your cover is that you're a married couple, you're..." " Charles and Y/N Carmichael. We got it." Chuck said. "Should be fun right?" "It's work." "Right." you said nodding your head. "Now remember Casey and I will be close to you both the whole night." "Good." "Okay, well, uh... ready to go to work?" Sarah asked as she began to walk out. You were about to leave when Chuck stopped you. "One more important detail." Chuck pulled out the two wedding bands, slipping yours on. "One day Y/N...this will be real." "Promise?" "Promise." "I'm holding you to it." you quickly kissed him then exited out Sarah apartment.

You and Chuck arrived at the event, walking down the stairs arm in arm. "If you're expecting me to hit the tables tonight, I'm gonna need a no-interest spy loan or something like that. You'd be shocked what a government super-computer pays these days. " Chuck said into his ear piece. "The CIA staked us. You have a hundred." Sarah said into hers as she walked by you both, posing as a waitress. " Oh, well, that's ample." A man then came by with drinks and Chuck grabbed a martini as you grabbed a glass of wine. " Since when do you drink martinis?" you asked him. " Oh, oh, I don't, no. But Carmichael loves them." "I was going to say." you said laughing a little. "Oh. There he is. Let's go." You and Chuck made your way over to the roulette table. You were sure to sit right beside Kirk. "Ah! Roulette, eh? My favorite game aside from "Call of Duty. "" Chuck said. " Chips, please. "100, sir." Casey said posing as the dealer and handing the chips to Chuck. "Good luck. Don't lose it." " I don't believe we've met before. I'm Lon Kirk. I'm the host of this evening's event. I know the people of Taiwan are deeply appreciative of your generosity." "Oh, well, cheers. The name's Carmichael. Charles Carmichael." Chuck said shaking his hand. " Pleasure, and your stunning... companion?" "Y/N Carmichael. Charles' wife." "Your wife? Wow...Congratulations. It's a Pleasure." " May I ask, Mr. Kirk..." " Lon, please." Chuck was hating the fact that this man was clearly flirting with you. You didn't like it either but you needed to get as much info as you could. " Lon, I was wondering how you came to focus your charitable efforts on Taiwan." "Well, I started doing business there, and I just fell in love with the people-- their indefatigable spirit-- and I said to myself... Three and nine, please." " Yes, sir." Casey said. "I said to myself, "Lon, you can help. "" "That's wonderful. " Chuck stared at you and you gave him a guilty face. "And I always bet on red because it reminds me of all the pain and suffering in the world." "How noble." " Any other bets?" Casey asked. "Mm-hmm! Mm-hmm. I'm in. All of it. "Always bet on black. " Wesley Snipes, Passenger 57. Not a great film, granted." Chuck said tossing all the chips in. You widened your eyes, staring at the chips. "You sure you want to risk it all, sir? You might want to reconsider." Casey warned him. "Doesn't seem prudent." Lon added. " Prudent? I mean, here I thought we were gambling, right? Plus, if I lose it, it goes to charity anyway. So here's to losing, right? Cheers." " Bets are in. $100, 000 on black." " What? ! $100, 000? Is that what you just said?" "Honey..." you said staring at Chuck. " Uh, no, no, no, no, wait, wait wait-- I didn't realize-- it's a normal bet for me, $100, 000. Come on, black. Black, black, black, black. Come on, honey, cheer for black." "Go black!" you cheered. " Three, red." "Oh God." you said. "Do you guys do mulligans in roulette? Or any kind of a do-over? Is there, like, a thing..." Chuck asked. "If you'll excuse me." Lon said getting up and giving you a wink and you winked back. "Did you really just wink at him?" "I'm sorry babe! But did you really just lose $100, 000? " You and Chuck looked over to see Lon talking to a man and you both flashed on him. "Psst. " You waved over to Casey. Casey leaned in. "Kirk is talking to Rashan Chen. He's the Taiwanese Attaché to the Premier, he's dirty." you said. " They're using the charity as a front to launder counterfeit money. " Chuck added. "Okay, something's wrong. I'm going to go over. Chuck, Y/N you stay at the table." Sarah said, hearing the whole thing and making her way to Lon. He definitely noticed her and started to flirt. " We'll work on a payment plan later." Casey said looking at Chuck. " Can we." Chuck said. " She's trying a little too hard, don't you think? I mean I know it's Sarah..." " Relax, Y/N, she's just doing her job." "Yeah I get that."

Chuck drove up to your house, dropping you off for the night. "Thanks hun." you said leaning over and kissing his cheek. "No problem. See you tomorrow?" "Oh uh... God I hate to tell you this but Sarah told me that he invited us to his yacht tomorrow afternoon." " Okay, what time should I be ready?" " No, just me and Sarah." " Oh, just, just you two. Alone on his yacht. Kind of disrespectful to your husband and actual boyfriend, don't you think?" "Look babe, I hate that I have to do this but if we can get closer and closer to finishing this mission then I guess I have to do it right?" "Why can't it just be Sarah?" "Believe me I wish it could have been just Sarah. I asked her if it could just be her and I could stay here with you but she insisted that I come." Chuck just sighed and looked down. "You trust me right Chuck?" Chuck looked up at you, nodded his head and smiled softly. "Of course I do sweetheart." "Okay. And I promise to come straight to you as soon as we are over." "You got it. Have a goodnight hun." "Goodnight babe." Chuck leaned over and gave you a loving kiss goodnight. You smiled at him one more time after before getting out of the car and heading into your home.

[korpuskat]

Summary:  It was all going to come crashing down now. You don't now how they know, but they do- all you can hope is that Michael is far enough away that they won't be able to track him. You'll never see him again- You can't hide the tremor in your voice, “Am I under arrest?”

Cool blue eyes bear down on you and you want to sink into the ground. “Should you be?” Rating: Explicit (citrus, violence) WC: 10,641 Warnings: Violence against reader, minor character death >Chapter 1 >Chapter 2 >Chapter 3 >Chapter 4   >Chapter 5 >Chapter 6 >Chapter 7 >Epilogue ======

You wander down the hallway, your movements sluggish and far away- you did not sleep well last night. Michael was not in bed when you woke. Yesterday he'd still been unwell enough to mostly remain in bed, but if he was up today... Fear had taken you at first. Thoughts ringing too loudly in your skull: he’s gone. He’s gone to kill someone again.

But muffled sounds passed between your bedroom wall and living room. Cartoons. Tom and Jerry. You couldn't help but laugh.

You changed out of your dirty pajamas- never having really changed much in Michael’s sickness- and into something fresh. Jeans and a big sweater. You brushed your teeth and inspected your neck in the mirror. Though Michael’s fevered and half-dreamed attack on you had irritated the delicate skin of your neck, the bruises he’d left were fading quickly into yellow-green shadows.

Two days have passed since Michael’s fever broke. He must’ve still felt awful to not be more active- though he’d been walking around yesterday and was independent enough to not make you help him to the bathroom again. He’d even put the mask back on, slept in it next to you once you’d dragged him into the shower and washed the sweat from his scalp. But he had not been too terrible of a patient, less standoffish than he’d been before he was sick. Maybe he had learned he truly preferred to stay in bed and watch TV than to be a thorn in your side.

You doubted it, though.

And as you got to the entryway and the openings between kitchen and living room, you find him- back in his now clean coveralls and mask- sitting on your couch and watching Tom and Jerry. It’s good to see him up, you decide. The mask turns slowly as he acknowledges your presence.

“I’m making coffee. Do you want some?”

He nods. You smile, but try not to make a big deal about his continued communication. He still would not talk- you aren’t sure if he even remembers how at this point- but he’s at least more forthcoming with affirmative answers. 'No's are still silent or warning wrist-grabs. But maybe you’ll get him to shake his head one day, too.

You pour grounds into the coffee maker and pick out the two mugs at the front of your cabinet. One is black with little red hearts on it, the other is a plain gray. You kind of want to give Michael the Valentine’s Day cup, just to see its cutesy aesthetic in his big, indelicate hands. You decide against it- just in case Michael is feeling less generous today. Besides, you’d probably enjoy it too much and knock him out of a good mood if he happened to have one.

You stand in the kitchen and scroll through your phone as you wait, leaning against the entryway molding to peek into the living room, not too unlike what Michael does when he lurks near you.

The little black appliance beeps obnoxiously loud and you move back to it. You make your cup first, before starting to call back to him, “How do you- oh,” The mask is already behind you, Michael cornering you in your little kitchen. It is not fear alone that makes you shiver, but his sudden proximity just another reminder how easily he could end you. The empty eye holes stare down at you; he does not reach for the cream and sugar.

So you do, turning away from him- turning your back on a murderer!- and towards the counter again. You pour one spoonful of sugar into the gray mug and glance over your shoulder- he does not nod, gives no indication to help you. You spoon another. Still nothing. You do another. The mask is unreadable and you wonder if he’s having you pour sugar into an empty mug for no reason. Well, there is a reason: because he can. You wonder if he smiles under his mask. You know he doesn’t.

You add one more spoonful of sugar- deciding that if this time you still get no response, you’ll get out of his way so he can make his own coffee. But he does; in place of a nod Michael reaches for the creamer and puts it in front of you. You huff- at least this sort of unreasonableness you can deal with. It’s childish, but hey. It’s not showing up at your door with a bloodied knife or demanding to cum on you yet again.

The thought of that has your hands shake as you pop the top to the creamer and pour in as much as you do. He nods this time and you finish his mug with dark coffee. He takes it without a word, without even stirring it, and returns to the living room. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding. Even as comfortable as you’ve become around him, his inner dangerousness is never lost on you.

He’d tried to kill you while half-asleep in a fever dream. His urge to kill is strong- but you’re fairly sure you’ve come to understand what made him leave both nights. Each time, you’d threatened his power. The first, you had broken the peaceful little trance you’d lived in, taking care of a murderer without any idea of who he was. The second, you’d disobeyed him.

He wanted to kill you those days- and he'd held the knife against your skin, had curled his hand around your throat.

But he didn't kill you.

You don’t even know if he knows why. But you think you know what drives you to keep letting him in, to keep bandaging him up despite the source of his injures. To let him crowd into your kitchen and silently demand you make his coffee while he stands there and watches. The self-hatred for daring the care about him is wearing off now, replaced by a warm and enjoyable acceptance.

You stand in the entryway to the living room and watch as he rolls up the bottom of his mask and sips the steaming coffee. He recoils slightly and you want to scold him for it being too hot- but that won’t make him stop. He'd drink more just to spite you. Maybe he’ll let you kiss his burned tongue better later.

You take your seat in the living room and give your drink a moment to cool so you don’t face the same tongue-burning as Michael. You watch the screen in silence and enjoy the silly animation he's let play. His presence, the shape on your couch, the soft sounds of him drinking, his low and steady breathing is all comforting, knowing you’re not alone in the house.

When he finishes his surely too-sweet coffee, he leaves the gray mug on the coffee table and rolls the latex down again. What is it about the mask that he needs? You’d much rather have that silvery-white scruff and scarred face than the blank, expressionless mask. It's not a matter of trust, you know that much- he let you take care of him without the mask. He’s even willingly taken it off for you twice now. Maybe one day he'd be comfortable enough to leave it off, or maybe he just likes how it makes you uncomfortable if you look at it too long.

You drink your coffee and watch Jerry elude another of Tom's swipes.

Gravel sprays, grinding noises echoing up your driveway. Ice runs in your veins. The peace of the moment is gone, cold tension sparking every nerve. Your coffee sloshes in the cup as you struggle to set it down before you're up and dashing to the entryway. A glance through the peephole in your door confirms the worst possible scenario: a dark green Crown Vic pulls through the dust cloud.

Your voice is small and far away. “Michael.” He’s already standing behind you in the hallway. “Leave, out the back. I’ll talk with them.” You don’t wait for his confirmation, already twisting the deadbolt and stepping out onto your porch- pulling the door closed behind you.

Please get out of here-

Two men step out of the car, you recognize one with his icy, piercing gaze and short, dark hair. The other you don’t know- he’s stout with a young, round face, sandy blonde stubble peaks from under his nose. You steel yourself and do your best to find the same inner strength that controls Michael’s expression. It’s easier than you think and by the time the porch’s first step creaks under the first state policeman’s weight, you feel centered, grounded. All you have to do is buy time.

“Morning, officers.” You greet, and manage to actually sound cordial.

“Good morning.” The new man says. There’s no joy in his voice. “Mind if we step inside to talk?”

You hesitate- Michael should’ve left by now, but had you left anything out of place? He should be silent enough to sneak out even while you’re outside with them. You size them up and assert yourself. “We can speak right here.”

“That’s fine for now.” The detective you met last time dismisses you. “You said the last time I was here you knew your neighbor, a Mr. Edward Morton?”

Your heart races, you lick your lips. Think of Michael and his cool, collected nature. “Not very well, mostly by reputation. I’ve only met him once."

Piercing Eyes answers. “Three nights ago he was murdered.”

The catch in your breath isn’t fake- at last now you know who Michael had found that night that he'd wanted to kill you. “That’s horrible. What can I do to help?”

The new, short officer’s brow knits together. He glances to his partner as he speaks. “We’d, uh, actually like you to come with us and talk somewhere private.”

It was all going to come crashing down now. You don't now how they know, but they do- all you can hope is that Michael is far enough away that they won't be able to track him. You'll never see him again- You can't hide the tremor in your voice, “Am I under arrest?”

Cool blue eyes bear down on you and you want to sink into the ground. “Should you be?”

You want to panic, want to jump off the side of your porch and sprint into the trees. But you can’t. You have to buy time, any second more that you can get before they have half the state police out here looking. Your palms sweat. You’ll go away for life. You open your mouth, try to think of something better than Of course not

You don’t realize what’s happening until it leaves your mouth as a light, strained, “Michael.”

The short one’s face screws up in confusion or disgust- the blue-eyed officer’s face lights up, ecstatic at your near confession. Neither of them follow your gaze, neither hear him, because he does not want to be heard.

The knife slides in near silently; the only noise is the short officer’s sudden wet gasp. His eyes grow wide and round, irises shrinking to tiny eclipses around huge pupils. Red bubbles around his mouth and he coughs-

You stumble back to your door. The other one turns, hand already reaching at his waist-

A huge hand wraps around the man’s throat and shoves him back into one of the columns around the stairs. He sputters- and something cracks in his throat. He stares, for the first time, into the lifeless latex.

Michael angles his other hand and the shorter stranger slides off his blade and down the stairs. He lies face up, his mouth moving in silent prayer as blood erupts around him. The knife turns- and in one clean motion, Michael buries it into the chest of the detective. He gasps, beats weakly at Michael’s shoulders- and is rewarded with the sickening twist, steel scraping on bone that makes the man howl for only a moment.

The one on the ground grows quiet.

And everything is silent except for Michael's heavy breathing and your shallow gasps.

The shape of a man before you retrieves his knife- your knife- and lets the detective slide down the wooden column, leaving a red stain on the wood. Gore drips from the blade, glinting off the shiny metal. You stare at it, watch as another thick drop splashes to the porch.

What would happen to you when he needs to move on? You knew the answer then.

Not even tears grace your face, shock driving all emotions from your body until you're left with only a numb acceptance. You close your eyes. Just make it quick.

But the kiss of his blade doesn’t come. First, you only hear his breathing, muffled and yet amplified under the mask. Even the birds have stopped their chirping in the presence of a predator. And then a single creak of the old wood as he steps closer.

You force your eyes open, flinching hard, your lip quivers. He stands there, still and solid. The knife is loose in his hand and drips slowly onto the wood- the wood you’d cleaned so recently. Your eyes drift up his body- taking in the sight of fresh, crimson bloodstains on the navy fabric. You’d cleaned so many out- and now you’ve seen them made. You find the mask. It’s clean for now, but you know it won’t be for long.

He doesn’t raise the blade, does not do anything more than stare down at you. You raise yourself up with the help of your door. Your knees shake under you. Your throat is dry and the words come out hoarse. “Are you going to kill me?”

The mask tilts precariously off to his right. It’s not a yes. It’s not a no, either. You swallow and try to reclaim some balance. For now, you have your safety to worry about. You live pretty far out of town, off the country highways and the trail up to your house is long enough- you should be able to clean up before anyone notices. You don’t know how long you’d have before the rest of the state police comes looking, though. And if they were here to arrest you… A chill runs down your spine. They were expected back.

Your throat feels thick, “We have to get out. They’ll come looking.” Michael’s hand tightens around the knife. You shake your head.

He steps closer again- your inhale is sharp, just edging onto a scream, tears finally burning at your eyes because oh god, he’s going to kill me now and Michael turns the door knob behind you. You stumble back, into the entryway. Michael walks past you, uninterested.

He takes a sharp right into the kitchen- and you hear the jingling of your keys. Right. Okay. Your thoughts race, and you shake, mumbling ”Okay, okay,” to yourself more than to him. You grab the first aid kit in your room and throw a change of clothes for yourself into a bag. What else did you need? What else could you carry? You blindly make it to the living room and grab your phone, charger, and wallet. You pull your shoes on without socks. Michael stands in the entrance to the kitchen, you pass him and open a drawer.

He watches, silent as ever but slowly tipping his head as you dig out a paperclip and begin to bend it straight. Your hands shake so much, it takes you several tries before you can wedge the end of the paperclip into the tiny hole on your phone. The SIM card pops out, so tiny and now malicious.

You wish you could tell someone you were okay. But if they knew you were unharmed, they’d know you were with him. You were really doing this. You stuff the SIM card in your pocket, just in case. You stuff two rags into the messenger bag and look to him.

Shock truly sets in- Michael leads you from the house, walking past the bodies of the two officers without even looking at them. You don’t look either, but can’t suppress the whimper that escapes at the splash of your foot coming off the last step. He doesn’t even look to you.

You wipe your shoes in the grass as best you can before climbing into your car. Two sets of footprints your mind whispers. They’ll know. They’ll know. You can’t think about that now. You feel instead Michael’s jerky, imprecise control of your car- the jerk of him riding up on the parking brake, and finally reversing down your driveway, your house shrinking as you make it out to the road.

You don’t think you even closed the door.

You only drive twenty minutes before the neon sign catches you. The little second-hand shop should’ve just opened. “Hey, stop there.” You point. “Pull around back, there’s a big tree next to the dumpster.” He does so. It doesn’t occur to you until you’re already parked that it was odd he’d listened.

You check the bag and grab your wallet. “I need to get you a change of clothes. You’ll attract a lot of attention looking like that. Just, stay here. I'll be fast.”

You are fast, even manage to avoid awkward chatter with the night owl opener who was too busy yawning to pay attention to your purchases. You give her a ten dollar bill and tell her to keep the change. You hope the clothes fit alright- but you don’t have time to complain if they don’t.

You take the plastic bag back to the car- and don’t find a mask waiting for you. Instead, it’s warped and strange-looking on the center console. Michael stares at you, face bared to the world, from the driver’s seat. You close the door and nod to him you’re ready to keep going. Again, the start is a little choppy, but it gets better once he makes it back to the road.

You don’t really think about where he’s going. If it was you at the wheel, you’d jump on an interstate and drive until you needed gas, then maybe drive some more. But Michael seems to have a destination in mind- and that’s alright. Your brain needs the rest from thinking, so you watch as the scenery outside your window changes from your sweet, quiet town to long, empty fields where the season’s corn has already been harvested. It’s quiet. He doesn’t turn on the radio, does not speak to you, does not even look away from the long, gray expanse of highway. You don’t even know what direction you’re heading. Would he go north or south? Or get out of Illinois altogether?

You doubted that- escape twice only to go back to his hometown? He won’t go far. A big, blue-painted sign catches your attention- and the little square under it that presents in big, block lettering: ATM

You don’t have to say anything- Michael already pulls into the right lane to take the exit to the rest area. The road curls, presents a breakaway for runaway trucks, and then curls again into a cement monolith surrounded by a massive parking lot. Two semis were already pulled in close. Michael chooses a spot in the far corner and turns off the car.

“Gonna grab some money.” You say, already unbuckling yourself and walking briskly to the center. You shiver and dread that you did not grab one of your jackets. Jackets you’d probably never see again. In your house that- You shove it down. Not useful. You need to take out your money right now, figure out how much you have left in your savings and what all you could do with that.

The rest stop is almost vacant; a mother carries a whining child into the women’s bathroom, a trucker sits outside smoking and checking his phone. You ignore them to go straight for the ATM. It beeps as you slide in your card- giving you a pop up that you’d have a fee.

You double check your balance and grimace at the meager remainder of your money. It would have to be enough- or really, it would have to be enough to start. You have a strong hunch on how Michael survives outside of Smith’s Grove and sooner or later it would come back to that. You withdraw it all and the machine spits out six fresh, crisp twenties.

You fold them and shove them into your pocket- and find the SIM card. You pull it out and look at it, the tiny little silicone chip that stored so much personal information. You open your phone just to double check the warning message- No SIM Card Installed. Your hand trembles as you put away your phone, but carry the SIM card in your palm. Out front, the trucker has moved on to calling someone, ranting about hour limitations. The mother and child have not returned yet, and there’s only one other normal car in the parking lot: a maroon minivan with a little stick figure family stuck to the rear window- a stickman, a stickwoman (which was only a stickman with a skirt), and a small stickgirl with a little stickdog following behind. You place the SIM card behind one tire and walk away.

The trucker has not noticed. You keep your eyes down. A man trots through the center of the rest stop and hurriedly pushes open the men’s room door. You return the way you came- and find a black truck with peeling paint parked a half-dozen spots away from your car. The driver’s side door is ajar. Your car is empty.

Your car is empty, the driver’s side door left ajar. Alarms ring in your head- your car is empty- until you hear the soft sound of a zipper being pulled up. You wish he’d just stopped to pee, but you have a sinking suspicion there's something more. Michael hikes up the incline to the parking lot with easy steps despite his sprained ankle. Your breath catches in your throat.

You’ve never seen him in normal clothes. He looks good- the black tee you’d grabbed is just a touch too tight and clings to his chest, the jeans a good enough fit. You can see plain enough he’s half-hard and as you look down further you can see why. He wears the same blood-soaked boots and just past the edge of the embankment, tucked into some bushes, is a man’s body.

Michael carries his filthy coveralls in one hand and throws them into the tiny backseat of the truck. You grab your bag and his mask and climb up into the passenger's side. He turns the key, the old truck's engine struggles to turn over, and the radio plays country. He turns it off before you make it back out to the highway.

He must have a specific destination in mind- he follows exits to switch highways that only bring you further and further out into empty miles of farmland. You can’t complain. The truck is louder than your car and the rushing sound of air slipping through the old frame is more comforting than you want to admit. You can almost imagine you're just taking a day trip somewhere, the first time you'd go out with him.

The sun reaches its zenith and beats down on the old truck, the light glinting off the exposed metal of the hood. You don’t know how far you’ve made it, but the barren fields give way to gas stations and then to a tiny hamlet of a town. Michael pulls off the highway at a green sign labeled Crestview and within minutes you find yourself in the middle of a pleasant, quiet residential district. Michael slows and drifts through the streets.

He’s hunting for something. You scan the long rows of houses- it’s midday, there’s no one out, no teens for Michael to hunt. Maybe he’s looking for shelter, somewhere to stay for awhile- you don’t even want to know where he stays of his own free will. But you let him circle, let him scope out whatever it is he needs to see- including slowing to a crawl past a tiny house with a weathered and half knocked-over FOR SALE sign stuck in the yard.

You wonder who owns it, how hard it was to sell a house in a town that hardly makes it to the map. It’s not a pretty building; clearly built in the fifties and aged poorly with pastel brickwork and a little raised cement porch with spray-painted white metal chairs on it. There’s a wire fence along the side, backed up to a wooden fence, and only a tiny decorative gate stands between Michael and getting in.

But there’s a dinginess to the windows, the curtains out of place- you doubt what’s inside is anything close to livable.

“There’s probably a motel.” You offer. You see one blue-gray iris slide to you. “I have enough money for tonight, at least.”

You think he’ll reject the idea and you’ll silently accept the fact that being on the run with a wanted murderer means giving up basic luxuries. Like a bed, probably. Michael has stared you down at the foot of your bed too much for you to even entertain the thought of him getting more than three hours of sleep normally.

But the truck jerks forward and you begin to slide through residential streets and back out toward the highway. A seriously dilapidated sign features half a sun rising over a blue background, the text a barely legible Sunny Side Inn. Michael does not pull in- instead, he passes it and pulls into a parking lot four lots down. You want to thank him, but you doubt he'd even care.

You make sure everything you have is in your bag- and grimace at the sight of Michael reaching into the back to obtain the coveralls. The blood has at least dried by now, but you’re still loath to put them in with your clean clothes. But what choice did you have? You go to grab for his mask as well, but he’s faster- pulling it close to him before you can touch it.

He’s unreadable as you search his face for meaning, but don't fight him on it. He still wants whatever it is the mask gives him, you just hope he doesn't wear it out in the open. You stuff the coveralls into your bag and pull the zipper. He does not turn off the engine, does not even make a motion to get out.

“Ditching the car?” You guess and are rewarded with only silent stares. You sigh and nod to yourself- if he hasn’t left you on the side of the road, if he hasn't killed you yet, he must still have some interest in protecting both of you. You get out, climbing down the running board and out onto the roughed-up concrete. You step away from the truck and watch Michael through the window- he stares at you for a long moment, then turns back to the steering wheel and the truck jerks forward and pulls away.

You turn away and walk through the parking lots- passing by a breakfast joint that was surprisingly busy and a McDonald’s that had more cars in the drive thru. You don't make eye contact with any of the patrons. The third lot is some kind of shop with sunflowers painted in the window and a sign in curly letters that reads Chloe’s but you can’t make out anything discernible in the darkened windows.

The motel has a faded baby blue paint job, making it look ghostly and pale now; the roof used to be painted a canary yellow and has actually fared better than the bricking. The complex can’t have more than twenty rooms, set up as two blocks of rooms in a single line with only a small break in the middle for a breezeway.

The office is small, but a neon open sign hums and invites you in. The door jingles as you open it and inside you’re greeted with carpet that has not been changed since the eighties and has not been cleaned since the nineties, long-ingrained stains camouflaging with the ancient brown patterning. You nudge the fibers apart with your foot and make the disturbing discovery that the roots of the carpet are actually orange.

“Can I help you?” You jump, and find yourself facing a young man with thick-rimmed glasses and a cluster of acne over his cheeks behind a fake wood counter. A black polo hangs ill-fitted and wrinkly around his shoulders, but bears no name tag.

“I need a room.” Your voice wavers, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“One or two beds?”

You hesitate, thumb at the hem of your sweater. “One.”

“Cool.” He says, types something into a computer behind the counter. The keyboard is old enough to click loudly as he types. “That’ll be fifty-nine dollars and-”

You thumb out three twenties and offer them.

“Who uses cash anymore?” He mumbles, but takes the bills and sticks them in a register, counting out a handful of coins for you. From a rack of keys on the wall, each hung with a big plastic key chain with a number on it- of which only the six is missing- he gives you nineteen. That’s fine. Far from the road.

“Check out’s at eleven, coffee’s available from five to ten.” He drones on in a clearly practiced script, motioning weakly to a little table with a big coffee pot, currently empty. “If you need any help, there’s a placard on the side table.”

You thank him in a small voice, and he responds only with a “uh-huh” and opening his phone behind the counter. The door jingles as you leave. You squint at the daylight reflecting off the concrete. It should be warmer for how bright it is outside, but considering Michael had apparently dragged you through northern Illinois, there’s no soothing spring sun coming any time soon.

You walk along the strip of motel rooms, finding a little blue compact parked squarely in front of the room labeled six with a lopsided metal symbol that had once been properly screwed in pace. Nineteen is, of course, all the way at the end- second only to twenty, which sits vacant. Maybe you should’ve asked for twenty. Maybe that would've drawn unwanted attention.

The key turns the lock and you step inside to the same orange-brown carpeting that’s been severely worn near the door. The bed, pressed up against the corner furthest from the door is in better condition. The comforter is a pale yellow with floral rose print, stiff with too much starch, but the sheets underneath are satisfyingly crisp and a shockingly clean white.

You sigh and lay down. And for the first time all the emotions you had shoved aside break free. Anxiety rushes over you first; tears bursting from your eyes- a sob rips from your throat. You clamp your hands over your face and press your eyes closed, but it’s too late. You shake as another sob is caught in your throat and you mourn. Your life is gone. It’s over. Everything you’ve ever known, your house-

Had the police already torn your house apart? Had they found the week's worth of dirty bandages? Would they question your family? Where can you go now?

You wrap your arms around yourself and roll to face away from the door, pull the blankets up around your shoulders. The sheets aren’t terribly warm, but the pressure feels good. You wish he was here- at least you wouldn’t feel so completely alone against the world.

You cry for a while, reason it as being good for you, a natural reaction, and probably better to do while Michael is out. All were true, of course, but the reality was that you couldn’t have stopped the onslaught of tears if you tried. So you lie in a cheap motel bed until your eyes hurt and there's no more tears and you shake.

The too-early dusk is already approaching through the curtained window when you roll onto your back and fish out the remote from the drawer. The television is old, a big box CRT-type and the reception is as fuzzy as expected. You never expected to be so excited for boring daytime TV. A soap opera is on; a glamorous countess recalls her tumultuous relationship with a drifter.

You watch, sniffling, as the show gets more dramatic- a doctor cries over a lost patient and a woman plots her revenge on the countess. It's stupid and somehow that's nice. It’s something other than your life.

The show ends on a cliffhanger of a character you don’t know returning home and as the end theme plays, you realize you’ve made a very vital mistake: Michael is still not here. He doesn’t know what room you’re in, he doesn't have the key.

You’re sure he could figure it out; he’s painfully observant. But doing so may risk more lives if he runs into trouble.

You don’t need more blood on your conscience. You can prevent that.

You rub your face dry and grab the room key and step back outside. The cool air irritates your red, itchy eyes. The setting sun casts long shadows parallel with the rows of rooms, two more cars have materialized in the parking lot- neither of them are old, worn-down, black trucks which is good, you think. You look around and find no other people out. Past the entrance, even the country highway is empty- not a single car passes as you stand there.

Maybe he’s keeping his distance for now. Or maybe he’s behind the building, waiting for a sign from you? You nearly trip just walking again, but you make it to the end of the row. Beyond that the parking lot curves around to go fully behind the motel row, followed by a thin strip of grass and a chain link fence. On the other side of that is a vacant lot, overgrown with yellow-brown weeds. You look around there too, but find nothing. No very still old men or curious white masks lingering.

You pick at the hem of your shirt and start around the back of the motel. More empty concrete greets you. From this side you can see the strange boutique and beyond that the McDonald’s which still sports three cars in the parking lot. The breakfast place even further seems to have shut down for the day; the lights are off and you see no cars or people around. Not even Michael.

You bite at your lip and fight the panic truly starting to surge through your system. What if he didn’t come back? What if he had one of those dark urges while he was getting rid of the car? You steel yourself and keep walking around the perimeter. The backside of the motel has air conditioning units lined up one after another, each tied into the one in the rooms, each surrounded by tan gravel that’s spilled out onto the cement of the sidewalk and the road. The little breezeway that separates the two sections of rooms is empty, save for a small trash can with an ashtray on top.

You make it all the way up to the office and find a tiny beat-up looking gray Camry that has to be at least fifteen years old. A variety of colorful baubles hangs from around the rear view mirror. Probably the clerk’s.

As you approach the highway, it occurs to you that you actually have no idea where you are. The other side of the highway has a gas station with truck parking- one semi with a purple trailer sits half-visible, some kind of automotive garage sits to the right. The quiet town is off behind that.

You round around the front, pass under the sunshiney sign. The office’s curtains are pulled open, inside the clerk has headphones in and is bobbing along to some unknown rhythm. You watch and wonder if this is how Michael stalks, the clerk entirely unaware of your presence. A white and black car rolls along the frontage road- you gasp and back off behind the motel long before it pulls into the parking lot. The police car is near silent, no lights or sirens playing- but it cuts a sharp turn and parks in front of the office.

You press your back up to the painted brick and close your eyes, try to focus on calming your heart down. Maybe they weren’t here for you. You head back down the walkway- you’d just go hide in your room. Nowhere else to hide out here, really- at best you could lay down in the weeds in that vacant lot, but you’d have to climb or circumvent the fence. And if they weren’t here for you, you might only draw attention to yourself. Your hands shake, you wish Michael was here.

You pass by the breezeway-

An iron arm closes around your middle, a hand covers your mouth- reaches all the way from one side of your jaw to the other. You can’t even scream, too shocked to even fight- until you’re pulled back against a wide chest. That shouldn’t make your eyes close, shouldn’t make you melt back against him in relief. You touch his wrist, but he doesn’t let go of your chin.

Instead he turns you in his arms- and presses you up against one brick wall, his palm still held over your lips. He steps in close to you, traps you between his arms. You expect the scruffy beginnings of his white beard- and get only white latex. Without his coveralls, the effect is much stranger- before his shape under the thick mechanic’s fabric was completely obscured, but now you can see the soft curves of his biceps, the shape of his chest. And still, the mask hides his face.

You stiffen, pat at his wrist again- he tilts his head, but moves his hand down to your shoulder. You whisper, “The cops are here.”

He straightens, his fingers closing tighter around your shoulder. Michael moves off towards the front of the breezeway, towards the parking lot- and you know that tension in his shoulders, the heavy presence that radiates off him. He’ll be seen. It’s still light out, it’s in public, there’s too many people- he's going to get caught, you'll lose him-

You panic, grab his arm- he spins to you, his hand ready to push you back to the wall- and you surge upwards.

He shoves you back, the impact knocks the air from your chest. There’s copper on your lips, the bitter taste of dirt and latex lingering as you stare up at him. You can count your heartbeats as he holds you there- you wonder if he’ll kill you for stepping over some invisible, undisclosed boundary. His right hand locks just under your jaw, forces your chin up. With his left he grabs the mask by its hair and tugs it off in three pulls-

He drops the mask beside him. His eyes are burning- you can hardly breathe. You’ve ruined it this time. But there’s no tightening of his hand at your throat, no cracking of the delicate bones there.

There’s no warning. His mouth crashes against yours, nose colliding painfully and making you gasp. Michael takes advantage. He’s messy, unpracticed, but all-consuming. He bites at your lips with the same ferocity he’d shown your neck, pulling at the thin skin until you’re whimpering, grabbing at his arms. His tongue dips into your mouth, demands control as he tastes you properly. Stubble scraps across your chin and cheeks, only making the skin more sensitive.

All you can do is take it- he gives you no other choice. With one hand at your throat, you can’t even chase him, can hardly tip your head to seek his mouth in return. Your lips quiver, and he finds them again, incisors sliding off and plumping your lips further as you shake. The warmth resurges in full force between your legs- and Michael steps closer, presses the full length of his body against you, traps you between lean muscle and hard brick. He’s hard again, through the denim he’s pressed up against your hip.

You can hardly manage a soft, desperate ”Michael.” He growls, deep and low and it resonates in your core. Your nails bite into his arms and you beg against his teeth, ”Please, please,”

He leans away- you strain against his palm to follow him. His breathing is still so steady and even, as you’re coming undone already. You tremble against him and he is unfazed, staring down at you. The only hint of reaction lies in his pupils: black nearly consuming the icy blue.

His switches hands- his left holding you in place while his right slips down between your bodies. You want to cry- he’s going to touch himself, find his cock in his pants and make you watch as he finds relief again. But he only steps to the side, grinds up against the right side of your hips- as his right hand pops open the button to your jeans.

You stiffen, inhale sharply, “Michael, no.” His thumb presses down over over your jugular and silences any further protests. He works your zipper down with the other hand and cold November air makes your skin prickle. Your vision narrows, a fogginess making your head feel light- and his hand loosens. You blink and try to regain your balance, too aware of the motion of his hips, the heat pressed against you. You whimper, fight back embarrassed tears as his fingers slide along the outside of your panties, cupping the warmth and wetness they find.

Your body moves of its own accord, rocking down against his hand. You swear, for only a fraction of a moment, one corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk. His hand slides back up and you want to whine at the loss of what little sensation you had- until he’s slipping under the elastic hem and you can feel the full warmth of his hand against you. Your mind wants him to stop, you’re so exposed out here, and yet every nerve in your body is set alight, your legs spreading to welcome him closer.

His middle finger dips between your lips, skates right off the top of your clit- your mouth falls open, your head lolling back against the wall. Michael seems to like that- he ducks his head and you find teeth on your neck again. They don’t sink in this time, but his bites are still demanding, leaving dark impressions over the healing bruises on your throat.

His fingers dancer further, their exploration made easy with the slickness that seeps out from deep inside. He roams, following some unseen pattern, dipping and circling near your entrance, dragging the wetness there back up to nudge at your clit. You whimper, push against his hips in a silent plea. You don’t know what you want- the teasing pleasure, drawing out this heat as long as he has feels so good, your whole existence shrinking down to a burning need, or for him to push his cock into you and claim you, to take what he’s wanted since he first met you.

He bumps against your clit again- you shudder through an inhale. You can feel him pause in his nips, his hot breath cascades over your sensitive skin- and he brushes against your clit again. You bite your lip and do your best to turn away from him. He seems to understand now- he fingers center over your clit and circle, slow drawn-out traces around it until you’re writhing in his grasp, bucking under him as he bites again. It feels good- so fucking good, pleasure tingling inside you and yet you’re so far, impossibly far from the edge. Your nails cut into his arms, your hips lifting in a frantic, useless attempt for him to touch you how you need.

Instead, his hand slides lower- even further away from your aching, swollen clit. You whimper, but he nudges into your entrance. And he waits there, even ceases biting at your neck again- you already know what he wants.

Your voice is hardly more than a breath. ”Please, Michael.”

He pushes in- his hand finds your mouth before you can moan, the noise muffled and warped by his palm. His finger is so much bigger than yours and moves unskillfully- moving inside you only once before withdrawing. You breathe in throughout his fingers, ready to spit another string of cries-

He pushes two fingers into you. The stretch burns in just the right way, filling you more than you’ve ever done to yourself. You buck, a strangled noise slipping between your lips and his fingers. Michael leans in close, scruff scratching your cheek, lips just brushing your ear.

It’s low and deep and quiet, but unquestionably there: Michael shushes you. You whimper, pinch your eyes closed and try to calm down. It’s hard when he’s knuckle-deep and grinding against you. He must deem you quieted enough, because his hand leaves your mouth to slide into your hair and twist-

You sink your teeth into your lower lip, claw at his arms and don’t make a noise. You can nearly hear the laugh in his breath before his teeth sink into the tender skin of your neck, his fingers beginning to move inside you. You can’t stop the panting breaths that escape, but you choke down everything more than a soft whimper, the quietest praise for his touch- and even with so little you can give him, his fumbling, naive touch becomes more intentional. Each time he curls his fingers, each time he finds some special, hidden thing, your breath catches. He notices. He remembers, seeking out that place with each motion.

A groan slips past his teeth, quiet- as though he wants to hold it in his chest- and he grinds harder against you until you’re sure he’s bruised the skin just above your hip. He has to be close now; if he’s been aroused since the truck stop, he can’t last much longer. The thought scares you; he hasn’t cared much if you finish in the past, even stopped you when you tried for yourself.

You clench down on his fingers, try to close your eyes, focus on the sensations he brings you- the deep pleasure that echoes inside, the scrape of his teeth down your neck and shoulder, nudging your sweater aside to bite where your throat meets shoulder. But it’s not enough; the heel of his palm is just too far off, the pressure not quite right on your clit for you to be able to rise up to that peak. Your lip trembles, you pull him closer- want to beg to let you cum, to please, please, make you cum-

He ruts hard against your hip, presses you into the wall and you can hardly bear it-

Past your own frantic breath you hear it. A gasp. Michael goes deathly still, barely pulls away from your neck. You snap your head to the left- out at the back side of the motel, a figure stands at the edge of the breezeway. Thin and gangly, you recognize the clerk’s voice, equal parts disgusted and not actually that shocked. “Fucking, come on, dude.”

You push Michael back, just enough to make his hand slip free. You immediately miss the fullness, but you’re spitting a quick and barely sincere “Sorry,” before you can contemplate that. You pull Michael away before he can consider anything serious- barely giving him enough time to claim the dropped mask on the ground. You don’t even rezip your pants. A quick glance at the parking lot tells you the cop car is long gone. Good. Perfect.

He follows you- and all you can focus on is the eyes burning into you, the weighted gaze on your back as you fumble with the keys in your pocket, shaking so hard you miss the keyhole the first time. But you get the door open, and stumble inside.

Michael turns the deadbolt behind him. There’s no use pretending this time. You’ve denied yourself enough. You don’t think he’d let you if you tried.

He stalks towards you. Slow. Methodical. You expect his eyes to dip to your heaving chest, your still exposed underwear, but they don’t. He stares into you- all his quiet intensity, the mesmerizing gaze locking eyes with you as you step backwards. When your knees hit the mattress you scoot back and kick your shoes off, leaving them at the foot of the bed.

His knee presses into the mattress and makes it dip. It’s all you can do to pull of your shirt as fast as you can, shimmying out of your pants and throwing them somewhere towards the television.

You reach for the hem of your underwear- already embarrassingly wet- and his hands catch your wrists. You whimper, think again of how he had so cruelly denied you while sick- and his weight comes forward, so easily pins your hands beside your head. He watches you for a moment, the trembling at your hands, your quivering lips, before he pulls both hands above you and holds them with one massive hand. His left hand.

The right comes before you- and presses to your mouth. The smell of your own arousal floods your nose. You lick at his fingers- and are rewarded with his eyes dipping to half-lidded for a moment. He presses against your lips, forces his way into your mouth. His fingers are so big they fill you, bump awkwardly against your teeth, but he doesn't seem to mind. You suck, wind your tongue between the digits as you clean them. It’s sweet, thick, and flavorful- mixed with a bitter tang that lingers under his nails. You whimper, push your hips up against him- he retaliates by pressing his fingers down on your tongue, holding it there as you try to lick and tease him.

He slides his fingers forward, off your tongue as you lap at the tops. He pulls down, pushes your teeth into your jaw- and he forces your mouth open. Watches as your pink tongue licks your own slick off his fingers. It must be enough.

He pulls the two fingers free and wipes them obscenely on your chest, the saliva cooling quickly on your skin. Without looking away from you, his hand finds the hem of your underwear. You lift your hips so he can work them down and off your legs; Michael as other ideas. His fingers twist in the thin fabric over your left hip and tug- a cascade of seams pop and leave the clothing utterly ruined, but not off you just yet. His eyes narrow, his hand closes entirely around it-

It doesn’t survive a second rip. The fabric shears, gives way under his strength. Only then do his eyes wander away from your face, meandering all the way down your torso. His thumb slips between plump labia, spreading your pussy open as he looks closer at you. You shiver under him and wonder if he can tell just how wet you are. From the easy slide of his thumb, he must know.

Only then does he let go of your wrists and begin to lean away. You start to sit up, to help him undress- and his hands are on you again, pressing you firmly into the mattress. The same warning he’d given you before; he wants you still. You nod your understanding, keep your hands above your head as he sits back on his heels, nestled right between your knees, and watches you, slowly cocks his head to one side.

You want to close your legs under the heat of his gaze, the muscles of your thighs traitorously trembling against him. He doesn’t mind- you think he likes how he can make you shake with only a look. Even his patience does not last. You’re disappointed but not exactly surprised as he pops the button to the jeans and unzips, hardly working the denim down at all.

He’s painfully hard, the tip scarlet with need, cloudy wetness from his precum already smeared across it. He takes himself in hand, strokes slow and tight from root to tip, darkening the head for a moment, squeezing another droplet to the surface. He could finish himself right there- leave his cum on you again, mark you, bring you so close to finishing and still keep all the pleasure for himself.

You bite your lip hard and push away tears of desperation. He notices, a momentary tightening around his eyes betraying his observation. You inhale and try to control the shudder in your voice- and still can barely manage anything more than "Michael, please,” He stares on, says nothing with his face. You whimper, cheeks burning and fight to push any words out. “Please, I- I need it.”

His hand stills. He leans forward again, left hand winding into your hair as he leans over you. Warmth radiates off his body, but his eyes are cool and distant now that he’s in control. He waits for a moment before tightening his grip, pulling your head back. You whimper and he lets go. He stares at you, waits for something that you don’t know- he wants you to say something.

You can hardly breathe, your mouth dropping open, lips trembling. You want to please him, want him to move on, to touch you, to do something, but the words flee your mind, your voice trailing off into a futile keen. He pulls your hair again and you’re ready to sob in frustration-

His breath is hot on your ear; the sudden sensation makes you jerk, pain lighting across your scalp. His voice is near hoarse from disuse, graveling and quiet- only for you. It’s not compassion that drives him, not a genuine desire to know. He already knows. “Tell me.”

You do sob, press your eyes closed so you don’t have to look at him anymore. “You! I need you, Michael. Please, I-”

His right hand slides under the back of your leg, lifts and spreads you open. He shifts forwards properly until you can feel the heat of him on your inner thighs and then even closer. He sits up again, leaving his left hand to press your sternum down, keeping you flat on the mattress. You whimper, twist your hands into the sheets. Satisfied you aren’t going to move, his hand leaves your leg and returns between you-

His other hand finds your hip, thumb pressing cruelly into the sensitive skin where he’d been rutting against you.

You open your eyes- and find him waiting. Just so he could watch your face as his cock slides against you, presses at your entrance before slipping up, the underside rubbing wetly on your clit. You bite down on your lip until you taste copper, will yourself to watch. He doesn’t look away and this time he doesn’t miss.

He presses in and he’s just barely too big and you’re just barely too tight, but you’re so wet it doesn’t matter. He slips in, pain and pleasure and the addicting sensation of being just so full of him rush over you, each sensation too strong for you to focus on anything except the fact that Michael Myers was inside you-

And with the tip in, it’s easy for him to pull you close, to sink deeper and deeper until you’re seeing stars, your mind shutting down, everything in you overwhelmed at the intrusion, at this part of yourself you’ve been missing. He presses against something deep inside, a pressure just this side of uncomfortable behind your navel- but it’s not enough. Both hands settle on your hips, keep you still as he drives against it. You choke on a noise, feel him push against you until his hips slot against yours.

Your discomfort does not even cross his mind. He withdraws halfway- the drag alone has your walls singing- and he ruts back into you, pries you back open, spearing you on his cock. It hurts and he fills you and you want more-

You don’t even realize your arms have moved until his painful grasp has left your hips. He captures them again with one hand and holds them against your stomach. There’s an edge to his gaze, a tip of anger that you did not obey. You whimper, want to beg forgiveness- he exacts his punishment.

His right hand finds your throat again, keeps just enough of his weight on you to keep you pinned firmly under him. Michael’s hips drive into you with sadistic force, slamming into you with utter disregard. You cry out, squeeze your legs against his sides- but you can’t resist him. If he only wants to hurt you, he doesn’t succeed. Even with bruising thrusts and his iron grip of your wrists, the motion still fills you, still jabs at the sensitive place his fingers had found, his body still rubs at your clit.

The mix of sharp pain and persistent, continuous pleasure makes your head spin, writhing weakly under him. Michael’s thrusts slow, ease off- and you can barely crack your eyes open to find his head tipped again. He rolls his hips forward again, almost experimentally- still demanding, but less intentionally hurtful. You moan, clench around him- and he repeats the motion, harder. This time it makes you flinch, moan louder, a deep ache mixed in. He’s not satisfied he’s learned what he wants to know yet, and presses your wrists down against your torso. That’s all the warning he gives before returning to that bruising, forceful drive of his hips that bounces painfully off the wall deep inside you, avoiding the pleasurable push against your front wall.

You cry out sharply, your legs snapping against his sides, even managing to lift your head off the mattress in protest before being slammed back down under his weight. Tears bead at your eyes- and his thumb strokes just under your jaw. You prepare for the next sadistic thrust, prepare for the very real possibility that that’s just how he would fuck you-

But his hips roll forward, still piercing you deep, but finally finding what you need. It’s still forceful, still makes you slide on the sheets- your inner thighs will be purple tomorrow, but after the truly cruel aim before, he’s practically gentle. But there’s something more: he uses his grasp on your wrists to pull you closer, to force your hips up onto his knees so you’re barely tilted upwards.

He drives in again- you close your eyes, lightning pleasure between your legs steals the air from your lungs, silences the cry in your throat. And Michael does it again. You gasp this time, writhe under him on instinct, open your eyes to tell him, somehow, what he’s doing to you. But the curious, observant tilt of his head over you tells you he already knows. He does it again, and this time you cry out, sharp and high, a knot forming in your belly.

His hand closes around your throat. Your eyes roll, struggling to stay focused on Michael, the world shifts in and out of focus, darkness lurking at the edges. He fucks you, uses your wrists to keep you close, keeps careful control of himself even as he begins to pant. He’s meticulous, each motion controlled, unrelenting as your world dips in and out of existence, the raw pleasure of his cock inside you driving all rational thought away.

You pull at your hands weakly and the hand at your throat loosens just enough for you to gasp in greedy lungfuls of air. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t let you catch your breath before taking it again with another thrust that makes you wail for him. You can feel it now, burning inside you, the sparks that race along your skin.

His hand closes at your throat again and you can’t even find the words to beg properly. Your head swims, voice lost as you can barely hear yourself whispering his name over and over. A chant in worship, pleading with a capricious deity for mercy, ”Michael, Michael, Michael…” until what little air that makes it to your lungs is not enough.

Your world darkens- and goes white; unbridled pleasure washes over you, makes you spasm against his holds, clench hard around his cock. Your mouth drops open- if he hadn’t already choked you to near unconscious, you would’ve screamed. He doesn’t stop through it, keeps driving the pleasure higher, drags it out longer until you’re nearly crying, begging for him to stop.

The world is blurred, distant- and his hips become more forceful, more demanding- you seek his face through growing tears and see why. The intensity of his gaze is back, an unspoken command hidden behind his eyes. And he would make you would obey whether you wanted to or not. He gives you no break, no chance to object-

And his hand leaves your throat. You almost mistake it for mercy before it settles between you, his thumb finding your clit. It’s too much; the sensation makes you jerk under him- and when he doesn’t stop, you actually try to fight. You can’t cry out, the pleasure is too sharp, unfiltered, filling your mind with the painful edge of something just too good- and he drags you unwilling towards the edge again.

Tears fall across your cheeks and sob as you clench around him again. He watches, completely enraptured as your face screws up, mouth dropping open in a stifled cry. Without his hand at your throat you’re aware through it all, able to squirm and gasp and whine- breaking out into weak begging before his hands finally, finally grab at your hips again.

He gives you no warning- only drives into you with that painful force. Two orgasms make you ever more sensitive, but the dopamine swirling in your head dulls the pain. You watch, almost distant, as he curls over you, fingers digging into your hips to make you meet each thrust. He groans, long and low and you want to hear that noise forever, want to see how his brow knits in pleasure.

His eyes close, every muscle in his face going slack- there’s a stutter to his hips. Warmth fills you from the inside out as he marks you deep inside. He struggles to keep fucking you, to keep riding out his own pleasure. He looks serene, his lashes flutter on his cheeks before lifting half-way. He stares down at you with fogged, unseeing eyes.

You reach up to him and find he doesn’t fight when you pull him down to you. He does not complain when you draw him into a kiss, only nips at your lips once. He doesn’t withdraw, keeps himself inside you as long as he can. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders- and he pulls you closer. He only really shifts to stretch his legs out and finally move onto his side. All the while, he doesn’t let go of you.

He blinks slowly, and it’s almost painfully vulnerable to watch them close as sleep takes him. You can’t complain. Little shivers of residual pleasure linger in your abdomen, but you move closer to him, lay your head on his bicep, and close your eyes.

=====

Next Chapter

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[rumplstiltskn]

summer girl: a betty/inez fic

summary: what if inez only wanted james because she wanted betty? kay imma just leave this here I don't know what it is, it was written between classes because I am obsessed. @sealphanie should accept full blame.

Inez had thought she hated Betty. 

But really, she spent a lot of time staring at a girl she hated. Thinking about the way those stupid flower crowns fell into her eyes. The way those white sundresses made her swim-team tan skin shine like bronze. 

She wondered if Betty was a good fuck. Sometimes. Not obsessively. Not obsessively. 

Sometimes, she pressed her fingers to her lips and tried to remember what James had kissed like. Tried to remember if she ever tasted Betty on her. She knew Betty’s lips would be soft; it was just one of those things you could tell, but what else? What else? 

Inez wanted to know everything. That was her problem. 

She wanted to know what Betty was reading. She’d seen Rebecca in her bookbag once - right around the time Inez had told her about James - and had thought it was lucky. Inez wondered what else she read - did she dog-ear her books? Probably not. Knowing Betty’s unmarked knees (and Inez was an expert on these, watched from the roof when summer was at it’s peak and Betty finally traded her long skirts for prim knee-length sundresses), she probably pressed flowers between the pages. 

It was just that Betty was interesting, that was all. 

More interesting than James had been anyway. 

Leather jackets and skateboards. Inez scoffed, rising from her seat on the hood of her car and tossing the empty beer can to the floor. You meet one James and you’d met them all. There was nothing down that road but disappointment and if she’d had any doubts about that, James had proven it to her.

It was just a summer thing. 

What James had meant of course, was that she was just a summer thing. Inez had heard it before. Everyone thought it. Inez, with her hot tongue and thigh-high red skirts wouldn’t last in winter. She was just a phase. 

Well, fuck them. Look at her now. December was here and so was she, snow melting on her cheeks and on the hood of the car and she didn’t feel it. She didn’t feel anything at all. 

“Inez?” Of course. 

Inez tried to smile because summer girls always smiled. 

“Betty!” She smirked, though she didn’t feel it. “Think of the devil, right?” 

Betty cringed, but she was so lovely still; the cold had painted her cheeks rose-gold. Inez didn’t think anyone could pay her enough to stop staring. 

“It’s cold out,” Betty said, biting her lips. Inez wanted to tell her to stop, to wait so she could do it for her. 

“No shit, Sherlock,” Inez leaned back on her car, staring up at the snow-white sky. “But I’m six beers in and I really don’t think you want me getting behind the wheel.” Two seconds and Betty would be gone, vanished into the snowglobe town and Inez would be left to freeze. 

She closed her eyes. 

And then snapped them open again because Betty had just got into her car. 

They stared at each other through the windshield. Inez had been wrong, she realised. Betty’s eyes weren’t blue; they were a kind of murky silver. With all that gold hair pulled back, she looked like a wolf that you would find in one of those illustrated fairytale books. The kind that Inez had traced out as a kid, slowly and carefully, to make perfectly sure she hadn’t missed anything. 

“Inez,” Betty said finally, her voice warmer than the sun, “I’m driving you home.” 

Inez might have told anyone else to fuck off, but though she hated to admit it, Betty wasn’t just anybody. 

She was so stupid and so fucked. 

Betty had turned the heat up and slowly, feeling was returning to Inez’s fingers. She studied the other girl out of the corner of her eye, terrified to break the silence. This was the first time they’d spoke since James and Betty had gotten back together. It had been such a public affair too, at Betty’s garden party with half the 12th grade watching. 

Inez hadn’t been invited. Obviously. 

“You remember where I live?”

Betty shook her head, smiling slightly. “I’m taking you to mine,” she said, “I figure you should sober up first.” Then, smiling a little wider, “And we have cookies.” 

Inez was almost too shocked to reply, “Well, if you have cookies.” 

… 

Of course, Inez knew where Betty lived. 

She’d biked there sometimes when she was thirteen, just to see how the other half lived. Her other half, she meant, and Inez knew it was strange to describe someone you weren’t really friends with as your other half but what else did you call someone who’s spirit you felt had followed you around since you were nine and pushed her off the swings and she had just laughed and held out a hand for you to pull her up and god, had it really been that long, and god, why had she kissed James in this car when all she could think about was Betty’s knees, Betty’s knees and the scar behind her elbow from when Inez had pushed her -

She was crying. 

“Inez, what’s wrong?” 

She could only shake her head, she was sobbing so hard. “I’m cold,” she finally managed to say, “I’m so cold.”

They were right. Summer girls didn’t last in winter. 

She was so busy staring at nothing that she didn’t realise they’d pulled into Betty’s driveway and Betty was opening the passenger side door and helping her down the step of her truck like a cowboy in an old Western. 

“If you’re cold, you better come inside.” Betty was giving her an odd look, and Inez realized she’d been standing in the doorway for too long, probably. 

She stepped inside. 

It was warm. Everything was warm, from the red-brown leaves decorating the dark oak table to the red socks hanging over the fireplace, and of course, the Christmas tree, decorated with handmade beaded ornaments and dried flower crowns. Inez bit back a smile. Of course. 

Betty shoved something hot into her hands. Inez stared at her, her mind struggling to process so many new things at once.

“Hot chocolate,” Betty said, lifting a shoulder so the cream sweater fell to expose a little more bronze skin. “I thought it would help.” 

“Thank you.” Inez sipped at the chocolate, following Betty deeper into the house. She had to shake herself out of this. “I did hear something about cookies…”

Betty’s laugh, like a spark, lit something inside of her.

…

It was only later, when they were quiet in Betty’s room (walls a deep blue, something that surprised Inez), that Betty asked The Question. 

“Why?” Betty asked, and her eyes weren’t angry like Inez thought they’d be. “Why James?” Here, she bit her lip, like she was weighing her words. Inez loved that she was so careful with them; that she knew how much they could hurt.

“I was bored,” Inez finally said, because she knew this was what she was expected to say, “Is that what you wanted to hear?” She could feel herself getting angry and she knew it made no sense, but she wasn’t like Betty: her words were always lost to her the second they entered her head. “I was bored and it was a hot summer night, and my blood was singing for the soul of another young virgin and so I lured her to bed with my siren’s song, stole her virtue and was done with her the next morning.” Inez let her head drop to her knees, and though the words were bitter on her tongue, she knew they were true, and she wanted to give Betty something worth something, “It was just a summer thing.” 

Betty’s voice was small when she spoke, “That wasn’t what I wanted to hear.” 

Betty’s hands were soft on Inez’s shoulders, then under her chin, so soft, but her eyes were steel, shining like a sword in the fog of a battle. 

“I wanted to hear you say that you want me. That you kissed James because you wanted to kiss the lips that I kissed.” Betty’s mouth swallowed Inez’s gasp. “That you wanted to know me the way she knew me.” Betty tasted like mint and chocolate and something Inez couldn’t name. 

She couldn’t breathe, she couldn’t think. She touched the back of Betty’s knees like she had always wanted to, tugged her golden hair out of its ponytail so she could hide between the strands. Inez knew she was speaking but she had no idea what she was saying. Poetry, probably, or something equally embarassing. God, she was lost. 

“How did you know?” Inez wanted to know. She needed to know. 

“You were wearing my cardigan.” Betty’s mouth was pressed against her nose, and Inez’s mouth against her chin. “You were wearing the cardigan I left under James’ bed. The one with my name embroidered in the sleeve, like a -“

“Like a secret,” Inez finished, letting her eyes fall shut. 

“Exactly,” Betty said, and kissed her again so that Inez would know them all. 

[nightofnyx8]

Robstar Week Day 6: Children

So, I actually wrote this a couple of years ago, but I edited it to fit today’s theme. I find Mar’i to be a very interesting character to write, with many different sides to reflect her parents’. And based on the storyline in Kingdom Come, it’s always interesting to consider why she became Nightstar in the first place. So without further ado, I hope you enjoy today’s theme.

I fear the night.

The glow from the day slowly fades away, and darkness seeps into every corner. It swallows the light, chokes it. Night means uncertainty, blindness, cowardice.

Death.

Of course, my dad thrives on it. He whoops with joy as he swings from tower to tower in a black and blue bodysuit. The darkness clings to him, aiding him as he takes his enemies by surprise. A sudden chill, a metal clang, and then you're upside down as you're met with a smirk and a bad pun. The one and only Nightwing of Blüdhaven was the prince of the night (as a certain Bat claimed the crown as King).

My mom was different. She didn't exactly blend into the night (especially when her hair was on fire). She drew her strength from the sun, brimming with radiance and passion. There was little subtlety in her actions: just a high voltage starbolt with deadly aim. She wore her heart on her sleeve, her emotions the center of every decision. Dad says I take after her in that area, but I'm still not sure it's a compliment.

They made a good team, Nightwing and Starfire. Night and Day. Darkness and Light. Dad could cool her fiery temper, Mom made him laugh. She managed to drag him out of the evidence room, and he brought her back down to Earth when she drifted too far out. I guess it was only natural that I came along to complete everything.

I thought it would be like that forever.

But the night always comes, no matter how bright the day was. And in my family, it has a history of claiming the ones we love.

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It was stupid. So unbelievably unfair. She had faced the most unearthly demons: demented aliens, homicidal sisters, psychotic metahumans in Halloween costumes. But in the end, my mother was defeated by something so incredibly…human.

At first, we didn't think much of it. After all, the symptoms of a common flu were nothing to fret over. But a few days stretched into weeks, which turned into months. She grew weaker and frailer, her strength and glow dimming every passing day. She spent most of her time in bed, curled in a ball waiting for the pain to stop. All while her worried husband and daughter watched helplessly by her side.

When the results finally came back, it was worse than we feared. The disease found in her body had spread so quickly through her foreign DNA that it would have been declared terminal on the first sighting. There was nothing that the doctors could do. And even despite Bruce’s best efforts and research, it was to no avail. All we could do now was wait.

The morning after the news my father climbed on top of the roof and remained there for the rest of the day. No matter how many times Bruce or Alfred tried to coax him down, he stubbornly stayed put. Needing some comfort, my nine-year-old self flew up to meet him on the roof. As I landed softly next to him, he turned to look at me. His deep blue eyes that once held laughter and light were now hollow, empty, and hopeless. He tucked a strand of my hair behind my ear and whispered, "I was the same age, Mar'i."

We sat there as the sun set behind the skyline, watching Bruce sped back to Gotham while dusk approached. It was a tender mercy Jason and Tim had volunteered to look after Blüdhaven for the time being. Nightwing simply didn't have the heart to don the mask tonight. We probably could have stayed up there all night when I heard a soft cough behind me. I turned to face my mother on the roof, who looked exasperated with the both of us.

"You will both catch colds if you two stay up here all night." She sounded exhausted, but her eyes held a bit of amusement in the fading light.

My dad suddenly came to life. "Kory! What are you doing up here?"

My mother scooted next to me and stroked my hair. "Well, it does get a little lonely down there by myself, especially after yesterday. Besides, the sun is setting. It is tradition, is it not, my dear Robin?"

Dad gave a timid smile at his old superhero name. But his demeanor changed quickly. "Kory, you should be resting."

My mother scoffed. "I have been resting far too much. I wish to do something more with my life."

"But Kory," my father sighed. "You're..."

"I do not have much time left, Richard. I want to spend time with you and Mar'i. I refuse to spend the rest of my life being afraid of even going outside."

Dad sighed. "I just don't want to lose you, Kory. At all."

There was an eerie silence on the roof as the inevitable truth sunk in. Wanting things to go back to normal, I tugged on my father's sleeve.

"Daddy, can you tell me a story?" I asked. He looked down at me with surprise before smiling.

"Only if your mother helps." He replied. Dad picked me up in his lap, just like he did when I was smaller, and pulled Mom close to him.

"Ok Mar'i," he started. "Let me tell you the time your mother first met a certain little Robin by almost destroying an entire city..."

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Surprisingly, the next couple of months were considerably normal: school, work, training, patrol. We had even gone to see Paris so Mom could finally see the infamous "tower of love." We could almost pretend nothing was wrong.

Almost.

My mother tried not to let anyone see it, but she was slowly fading. More time in bed was necessary, the trips to the hospital were frequent. The medicine receipts piled higher, as well as our stack of bills. She slowly began to lose her strength, her eyesight, and finally, her ability of flight.

But she always managed to keep a smile on her face around me and Dad. On better days, she would take me on short walks and point out the most random things.

"Look at that little robin, Mar'i. Is it not beautiful?"

"But it's just a bird, Mommy."

"Just a bird? Hmm, on the surface yes. But perhaps there is more than what meets the eye. Just like you, my little Bumgorf."

Relatively, these were happy moments. But at last the dreaded day came, and it started out perfectly.

Dad got work off early so we could go to the last night of the carnival. We ate too much cotton candy, failed at most of the games, and were about to go on the Ferris wheel when my mother suddenly doubled over and grabbed onto my Dad for support.

"Kory?" He watched in horror as his wife looked up at him with terrified eyes as she struggled to breathe.

"Kory!" He scooped up my mom bridal style and rushed to the car, his daughter along in a tow.

When we finally got back to the house, we knew we only had minutes. My dad had laid her down on the bed and clutched her hand while stroking her hair.

"Mar'i." My mother rattled. "Come closer. I wish to see you better." She reached out for my hand and squeezed it weakly.

I didn't say a word as I looked up at my mother. Her fiery red hair had lost its luster a long time ago. It hung like a dull rusty curtain over her pale face. Her beautiful features were slowly eroding due to the harsh medicines. But her eyes were still a vibrant glowing green, full of Tamaranean energy—the same energy that flowed through my veins.

"Kory," My father's voice broke as he placed his forehead against hers. She smiled and closed her eyes.

"Richard," she breathed. "If I could only express to you how much you mean to me."

My father kissed her temple. "I already know, Star. I've known for a very long time."

My mother drew me closer as she whispered, "Do not forget to smile, Mar'i. There is joy in this life if you look for it. Please, do not let your father forget that either. I love you, my little Starshine."

I cried as she held me, Dad wrapping his arms around the both of us as my mother gazed upon her little family for the last time.

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"That's Pegasus, and over to the left a bit is Andromeda."

"Is that what the Tamaraneans call them?"

"No, they have weird names for constellations, with even weirder stories. I can't even pronounce most of them."

"I bet I could."

"Okay fine, Princess. Nice to see that you're still humble as ever."

I smile as I slug Dad in the arm.

"Ow!" He complains. "You Tamaraneans seem to forget that your playful punches hurt."

"Quit being a baby and pass me the mustard."

Dad smirks as he gives me the large bottle with a straw sticking out. Our evening picnic by mom's grave seemed an odd sight to some, but we didn't care. Our little memorial marked seven years since my mother's passing. We spent the day with Gar, Rachel, and Vic at the pier as they told me the stories I had heard a thousand times. I never grew tired of hearing about my parents' adventures. Bruce and Damian came by the house later with about twenty floral arrangements to brighten up the grave. And once it hit 7 o'clock, my dad and I headed off to the cemetery to visit my mother.

Four years ago, Dad put his foot down. We were not going to just stare and cry at a headstone all day. So he packed a lunch along with some scrapbooks into our picnic basket as we set off for the cemetery. He said Mom would have wanted us to throw a party or something to celebrate her life. The tradition had remained ever since.

"Speaking of Tamaran, I found this the other day while I was cleaning the attic." He pulls out a small white package and hands it to me. I remove the wrapping to discover a round magenta pendant, set in a silver casing. Its polished surface gleams in the moonlight.

"It was your mother's." Dad says. "She told me it was the only thing she could grab before she was taken by the Gordanians."

I hold up the pendant and trace my finger over the worn Tamaranean markings on the edges. "It's beautiful."

"It's yours." Dad states simply.

I look at him in shock. "But...this is moms. Doesn't it belong to you?"

Dad wraps my fingers around the pendant and looks at me with imploring eyes. "Mar'i, she would have wanted you to have it. Besides, you're the one who's got Tamaranean blood."

I sigh. "Like I even have a clue how to live up to that title. How am I supposed to control...this?" I feel a tingle up my arm as green energy collects around my closed fist. The starbolt isn’t refined and accurate like my mother's. It crackles and burns in the cool night air. Uncontrolled.

My dad gives me a wary look. "You'll learn, Mar'i. It just takes time."

My starbolt fizzes out as my emotions give way to grief. "I miss her."

"I know Starshine, I know. There's not a day that goes by that I don't miss her by my side." He draws his arm around my sagging shoulders and pulls me close to his strong chest. We stay that way for a while as the breeze blows my tousled hair away from my face.

"Dad?"

"Mhm?"

"Do you think Mom's watching us right now?"

He looks up at the shimmering constellations. "I know she is. She's probably dragging my parents around up in Heaven and gushing about how gorgeous her daughter is."

I let a small smile break through. "She really loved us, didn't she?"

Dad gazes back at me with intensity. "Mar'i, you were her world."

I crane my neck to see the stars above. We used to spend hours naming the constellations. Sometimes Mom would even bring me to meet Dad on patrol so we could climb the highest tower and see them a little closer.

That seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Dad, can you tell me a story?" I put on my "I'm-still-your-little-girl" face for the extra effect.

He laughs. "I'm pretty sure that's not a single one you haven't heard at least fifty times."

"Oh come one, there's got to be at least one you haven't told me yet."

He gazes off as he thinks for a moment. "Aha! I've got it!"

I lay my head on his shoulder as he goes off on one of his and mom's adventures. I close my eyes and try to picture my mother sitting next to us, laughing at Dad's stupid jokes while holding me close.

I open my eyes and smile. I'm a part of her legacy. Hers and Dads. And even if she couldn't be here physically, I could still bring a part of her back down to Earth.

Perhaps it was time to let go of old fears. Accept and move forward. Like an old Bat once said, to conquer fear, you must become fear. Maybe I could do the same.

For if we did not have the night, then how could we see the stars?

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Ok, I honestly cried writing this, but according to Kingdom Come Starfire died of some circulatory illness. It is interesting considering her alien anatomy, but I wanted to focus on how Dick and Mar’i may have reacted to the situation. Anyway, thank you for reading and I promise a happier story next time. :D