#like somehow that works in its favor. but knowing jonathan is one of the better ones in part 1 is 😭

[skyburger]

best day of my life was when vimms lair let other regional versions of games be on the site u have no idea how happy i was. like yes finally i dont have to send people digging through a huge archive.org dump of DS games so they can play professor layton & not suffer thru lukes american dub voice 😭

[davidmann95]

How'd you like the new Death Metal special (and, more broadly, this week's comics)?

pretenderoftheeast said: Comics this week (12/9/2020)?

Batman: Black and White #1: The first of a platter of anthologies today:

* The Tynion/Moore story is predictably fire.

* JHIII is JHIII. Also he does a really nice surprising story about how Batman’s relating to this moment of the time, but let’s be real, you’re here because JHIII, and be assured he is JHIII as helllll here and it’s great.

* Dini/Kubert plays as the former building a story around accommodating requests by the latter, but that’s not a bad thing, and glad to see Kubert’s kept up the pace since his DK3/Up In The Sky creative rejuvenation.

* Ok I’m a philistine who has no idea what that Emma Rios thing was about but it was certainly pretty.

* Wilson doing Batman is surprisingly disappointing, but Smallwood doing Batman definitely isn’t.

DC’s Very Merry Multiverse: Not a very merry time! I hate to say it given this should be so geared to my interests, but this is the weakest overall effort we’ve gotten from one of DC’s quarterly anthologies in a good long while, at least among those I’ve picked up. Not to say it’s a dud, there are several nifty little stories in here including the much-hyped first appearance of Kid Quick (destined to become the Flash of Future State) and really almost everything here reaches ‘pretty okay’. But for $10, and a creative space that should reach so much more than ‘pretty okay’, I don’t know that this is a justifiable recommendation unless you’re understandably desperate for all the President Superman content you can get your hands on.

Tales of the Dark Multiverse: Flashpoint: I’m surprised I got it too, but the preview grabbed me and in practice it was a fun, mean little high-concept adventure of Reverse Flash being a total cock.

Wonder Woman #768: Credit where it is due, this has been getting a bit better in its closing stretch.

Dark Nights: Death Metal: The Last Stories of the DC Universe: This ruled. Obviously there was the one story folks are most interested in, but almost all of the tales in here lived up to being a ‘final’ story of sorts for their leads.

* The Titans bookenders were pretty nice even if it’s hilarious that their big rallying cry basically amounts to “by god, our book may be shit, but we’re valuable IP so we’ll never be cancelled!”

* Green Lantern is basically an epilogue to Johns’ run sans the baggage of bringing back Johns (that we get in two weeks with Secret Origin and god forgive me I’m so looking forward to that), and definitely one of my favorite efforts from Lemire.

* Wonder Woman’s the stinker in what’s nominally her own event. I can parse the roots of most bad Superman stories one way or another, but I just can’t understand what’s behind most bad Wonder Woman stories beyond that the people handling it simply don’t give a shit.

* Astonishingly, the Green Arrow and Black Canary chapter in here might be my favorite of the bunch? Simone at her best, a really sweet slice of playful, sincere romance about two characters I’m not by default invested in but ended up quite caring for here.

* This Aquaman story is everything I generally hate in Aquaman stuff, a big long maudlin speech about the weight of the world as he swims through a black featureless ocean, except here between the real heart Sebela brings to the script and the mood artist Christopher Mooneyham manages to evoke, it all clicks together.

* The Batman Family story feels like it can’t quite make its pacing work, but it’s still a heartfelt little ode to the theoretical power of the concept.

* Hey, that Mark Waid guy? Turns out he can write him some Superman. It’s not perhaps the total barnburner you might have expected - I imagine he’s saving his biggest hits for later - but it’s a very solid execution of a gangbusters concept, and Manapul steals the show with absolutely sensational, gorgeous scenic Superman imagery. I’mma say 60/40 in favor of them doing a Superman project together on either a main book or Black Label (I know Manapul was supposed to be locked into a creator-owned thing with Scott Snyder but that was ages ago), because this is a paring that’s yielded some immediate results and I imagine everyone knows it. And given my upbringing, nice to see a big, iconic, beautiful Superman story with him rocking the mullet.

Anonymous said: Haha holy shit Crossover is literally Cates taking that page where Spawn meets all the corporate heroes locked up and spinning it out into a series

Anonymous said: Does Crossover #2 hold the crown for the funniest, dumbest, most baffling opening page ever?

Crossover #2: Readers I’m not too big to admit I laughed my ass off at the first page, and at least a little bit for the actual reasons intended. The sense of homaging that Spawn scene in the context of a book about “Gosh, isn’t IP the best folks?”, or Cates’ dialogue...(shall we say) proving why he likes the concept of ellipses enough to name a character after them aside though? That it’s already crossed the line with its central metaphor from “indefensibly insensitive in its ridiculous self-centeredness” to “out-and-out cartoonishly offensive” somehow actually makes it more rather than less palatable; there’s no longer the secondhand embarrassment of waiting to see how bad Cates is going to handle this, it simply is the worst it could possibly be and readers have to accept and perhaps revel in the sight of him stepping on rake after rake. I cannot wait for him to finally give an interview on this book where he explains what the hell he thinks this looks like, and I hope my dad keeps somehow enjoying it forever because I totally wanna see what pit this descends to next.

Penultiman #3: This is absolutely agonizing and probably the most relatable take on a ‘superman’ ever.

Home Sick Pilots #1: A new creator-owned book from Dan Watters (whose big two credits include the stupendous “Afraid of America” with John Paul Leon in the last Batman Secret Files, and the upcoming Future State: Superman/Wonder Woman) and Peter Cannon’s Caspar Wijngaard, this new book set against the backdrop of a Californian high school’s punk scene in 1994 describes itself as “Power Rangers meets The Shining (yes, really)”. The former influence isn’t much in play yet, but thus far this is a book that merges building tension and freewheeling dopey teen bullshit to an extent that’s subtly impressive as hell, and seems likely to proudly take a place among the current horror comic renaissance.

Warhammer 40,000: Marneus Calgar #3: Ok again I don’t have any experience with this franchise but you’d better believe that cultural osmosis was enough that I popped for BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD! SKULLS FOR THE SKULL THRONE!

King in Black: Namor #1: Kurt Busiek’s return to Marvel...sucks? Such is the power of Knull I guess even if he doesn’t manifest within the actual story here, this is a complete nothing of a comic and I’m not tuning in for issue #2.

Avengers #39: Eh, I’m not liking Aaron Avengers when it gets remotely serious nearly as much as when he’s doing stuff like having them finally help Blade with all those vampires or Captain America assisting with the delivery of an exploding space-baby in the back of a muscle car.

Anonymous said: That new Guardians of the Galaxy was something else. What do you think the odds are that Comic Books, with a decade or two of hindsight, recognizes Ewing as one of the best to ever do it?

Guardians of the Galaxy #9: I lack much context here beyond recalling from an interview that this is Ewing’s way of grappling with the ideas from Steve Englehart’s original unrealized vision of Star-Lord’s character arc, but wherever it stems from this is a hell of a comic.

S.W.O.R.D. #1: This is everything I’ve wanted from the non-Hickman X-books since the moment HoXPoX ended, and so much more, and also it is basically hilarious that Ewing is all but explicitly using his clout to force Marvel to let him to Ultimates3 under a currently cancellation-proof banner. Most importantly of all, Ewing has already mastered the subtle art of writing not merely Magneto, but the infinitely superior Jonathan Hickman Magneto. And good lord Schiti and Gracia, I already knew they were top-tier but these pages’d make a grown man cry.

[radiojamming]

This a weird prompt but would you write jonmichael? Asking solely because I want to read Elias and the archives staff dealing with that

good-ish AU where sasha’s still sasha and everyone’s cool with stuff, i guess? :DDD

- - -

The door-that-wasn’t-there-a-minute-ago slams open against the wall, shaking the shelves and knocking one cheap vase to the floor in a small explosion of sad porcelain shards and accumulated dust. Martin lets out a high-pitched, “Jesus Christ!” in surprise as much as raw shock when Jon Sims himself staggers out the door like a teenager doing the walk of shame. Granted, he’s bleeding from his hairline and one sleeve of his sweater appears to just be missing, but he looks more sheepish than injured.

Just as he makes the last step over the threshold-that-shouldn’t-be, Martin sees a vague person-ish shape wobble in the mysterious beyond. And it is, in fact, wobbling, like a bobblehead or one of those playground toys shaped like horses that waver on oversized springs until they fling some unfortunate child headfirst into sand. Extended metaphor it may be, but the wobbly thing gives a high, wavering giggle before cooing, “Don’t forget this, love!” in a voice tiered in multiple pitches like an eldritch wedding cake. Jon turns just in time for an arm-that-shouldn’t-be-that-long-oh-my-god-what-the-fuck to come shooting out of the door, an iPhone clutched pinched between its enormous fingers. Martin might be hallucinating, but he thinks the razor-sharp fingernails are lacquered in sparkly purple nail varnish. 

He doesn’t have much time to dwell on it before Jon gingerly takes the phone with a mumbled, “Thanks,” and the hand recedes back into the hellish landscape beyond the door.

“Of course!” garbles the wobbly thing. Then, with a range of voices topped off with an impressive soprano flourish as light as meringue, it yodels, “Call me!”

As abruptly and shockingly as the door appeared, it disappears with a sharp crack, causing the shelves to slam back into place with a small cataract of old books falling into the pile of broken ceramic.

Jon and Martin stand in the stuffy office, each caught in the awkward position of how the hell do you talk about that? 

Finally, Jon gives Martin the most soul-deep, weary look before quietly beseeching, “Please don’t tell anyone.”

All Martin can do is nod before Jon shuffles out to the hallway

- - -

Sasha sees him at the flower stall again. 

Through the warped windowpane, she watches him scoop up a great, garish bouquet representing nearly every spectrum in the visible rainbow, and some colours that might not exist save for the eyes of the mantis shrimp. When she gets to ground level and sees him semi-properly, he’s just a blond man in a beanie, carefully regarding a sorry bunch of daffodils held together by what looks like clingfilm cinched shut with twine. Rather than being all spooky and mysterious, Sasha thinks he’s actually deliberating. There’s a pinch in his brow as he lowers the daffodils in favor of prodding the drooping lower lid of a sorry little orchid suffering in London’s less-than-tropical climes.

Sasha kind of feels… sorry for him?

Granted, he’s a monster with terrifying monster hands and monster tendencies and apparently a taste for caffeine, but he really looks caught on what to get. That in mind, she does remember that he bought lilies the last time he was around. Maybe that was less of a coincidence and this Michael creature really does like flowers; or he may have some fellow monster friend that he deems worthy of buying flowers for. Honestly, Sasha doesn’t want to think of what kind of friends Michael keeps.

Against her better judgement and sense of self-preservation, Sasha walks across the street to where Michael forlornly weighs his options. He looks up at her approach, and the first impression she gets is that his eyes are more like spinning tops prone to rotate anti-clockwise. She blinks and sees stationary blue eyes regarding her with confusion, and then… relief?

Huh.

“Sah-shah Jaaayymeeesss!” he almost sings, lifting up the dying daffodils like a salute. “What a pleasure to see your radiant face again!”

“Michael,” she replies, a little colder than she intends. Last time they met, there were far more meaty hands and worms involved, and she’d rather get to work unscathed.

If he thinks the reply is chilly, he makes no sign of it. Instead, he flops the tortured flowers around in his terrible hands. “Actually, I was hoping to see one of you lovely little Institute-dwellers around. I think I gave Martin a bit of a fright laaaaast time!”

Sasha frowns, but can definitely picture Martin having to be peeled off the ceiling after a Michael encounter. “Oh,” is all she says.

Michael goes on, gleefully undaunted. “You see, you and I have a mutual acquaintance! And I think he’s in need of a little—” He gives the daffodils a vigorous shake. “—cheering up these days! But I just don’t know what he’d like! Silly me for not being obseeeeervant!”

“I… A mutual acquaintance?”

“Yeeeessss! Your lovely boss!”

“Elias?”

Michael laughs. Well, more like he laughs in a way that sounds like he laughed ten minutes ago and ten minutes into the future, and then layered the sounds over one another like phyllo dough in a hellish baklava. It’s impossible, but Sasha hears it all the same. “Noooo!” he giggles. “Not in a million endless cycles of time or those dimensions yet unperceiveeeeeed!”

Sasha won’t even start on that statement, except that it isn’t Elias, which means it has to be— 

Oh. Jesus.

Grubby, curmudgeonly, insomniac Jesus.

“Jon?” she gasps.

Michael laughs again, louder and higher so that a glass breaks somewhere in the distance. “Yeeeesssss! Poor Jonathan, always working so hard in that dismal cave you call an archive. I offered him office space that would appeal more to a sense of aestheticism, but he… Oh, what did he say? He thought it was a little heavy on the—” And here he speaks in an exact mimic of Jon’s dry voice when he says: “Impossible, improbable, and honest to God, Michael, my brain would shatter into a thousand pieces if I looked at that painting for another minute.” Michael dissolves into a fit of giggles before saying, “It’s just a lost Hieronymus Bosch painting, honestly.”

So Michael McMeatyhands is buying flowers for Jonathan Sims. Sasha’s having a hell of a time wrapping her head around that particular fact. 

The infernal giggling stops and Michael seems to circle (spiral?) back to his previous predicament. Dying daffodils or suffering orchids?

For a lack of anything more to say, Sasha wordlessly points to a bouquet of slightly more enthusiastic-looking daisies, bobbing peacefully in a tin pail of water. “Those,” is all she can manage to say. 

Michael looks thrilled. He actually hums some impossible tune (in full SATB with orchestral arrangement, all localised in his throat) as he puts the daffodils back, scoops up the daisies, and drops four quid into the stall owner’s hands with a wet, meaty thwap that the owner doesn’t seem to hear. Then, Michael swivels back toward Sasha and grins with the corners of his lips somehow curling up near his eyes like a particularly twisty Cheshire Cat.

“Thank you, Miss James!” he says. “You’re a lifesaver!”

“You’re… welcome? I think?”

But Michael’s already walking away, taking steps in a gait that doesn’t seem to match the rhythm of the rest of his body, like two halves of entirely different people drunkenly attempting synchronicity. Sasha half-expects his legs to walk away from his torso.

Toward Jon. 

She sighs and rubs a hand over her face before heading in the direction of the Underground station.

- - -

The boss is dating someone. This, Tim is absolutely sure of. He’s watched Jon like a hawk for a week now, carefully comparing his moods in the morning with how early he left work the night before. Long work nights equal really bad mood. Long not work nights equal better mood with less shouting and calling people morons under his breath. This is good.

This is very good.

Tim is pleased with his enviable knowledge. Whoever somehow won the heart of the boss must be a pretty special person, or at least someone with an endless well of patience. Or maybe they’re Jon’s opposite? Either way, Tim’s got a hankering to send them a box of chocolate as a thank you for chilling the boss out and making him more tolerable to work with. 

He tries to picture who this mystery person is, as Jon’s definitely not the type of person to take his personal life to work with him, inasmuch as he likes to take work home. Tim pictures someone easygoing, like a Margaritaville type. They balance Jon’s stick-up-assery out, maybe giving him massages over the back of the couch while Jon watches dry documentaries about the actual speed of drying paint. In his mind’s eye, Tim gives this person a hideously neon Hawaiian shirt and sunglasses, but a winning smile that melts Jon’s ice-locked heart and makes it so he can’t help but smile back.

Tim likes them, whoever they are.

And when he gives Jon a little wink after dropping off a follow-up report, says, “Had a good night?” in a way more than a tiny bit suggestive, he only relishes a teensy bit in how dark Jon’s cheek become and how he ducks his head down. He mumbles something before actually thanking Tim for the report.

Yeah, this is awesome. Tim owes Jon’s mystery partner a thank you card and maybe a cake. 

- - -

“Eliaaaaas.”

“Michael.”

Staring. Lots of staring. Cold, unflinching irises to a set of psychedelic, rotating disco balls set in a grinning face. Behind Michael, blue and purple streaks like the top of a wildberry Pop-Tart flash about and dance madly as Michael gives him the strangest of staredowns. Occasionally, his head appears to flip upside-down a few times on his swirly straw of a neck, and half of his teeth try to glitch through his lips in a way that Elias thinks of as an attempt at a sneer.

Finally, Elias sighs and calmly folds his hands on the top of his desk, ignoring the waves of tangible static pouring out onto the floor and possibly leaving a stain on the carpet. That’s going to be difficult to explain to the janitorial staff. “We may have to set some ground rules,” he says.

“I’ll bring him home by eleven,” Michael cackles in reply.

Elias narrows his eyes just as he feels Beholding roll its great omnipresent gaze in irritation.

“I mean to say that you’re not to interfere in Institute business any further than you are right now,” Elias retorts. “I should completely ban all Spiral-related statements on grounds of personal involvement.”

Michael grins. His smile rises up to his forehead like a crescent moon before rolling down the side of his face and hooking back up into the empty space where a normal mouth should be. “I can make this weirder. I can spiral any statement in this place. Every little word can bend in and around on itself like a pipe cleaner.”

Elias glares. “You won’t.”

“You can’t stop me!” Michael sings. “But I’ll keep courting your Archivist nice and proper as long as I’d like, or he’d like.”

“If this is an attempt to draw him into the Spiral’s influence—”

When Michael laughs this time, it seems to be drawn from every laugh that was ever laughed in the history of the muscular and diaphragmatic spasms that caused them. It’s so charged, so loud and explosive that Elias nearly winces at it. And when it’s over, there’s a vacuum of sound in its wake, so it takes a full minute for Elias to hear anything properly again.

Then, Michael taps his horrible fingers on Elias’ desk, eliciting a sharp tak-tak-tak-tak-tak that repeats in on itself fifty times over. “Not everything is about influence,” Michael hisses through too many teeth. “Not every attempt on a person is to draw them in and mark them, unlike what you do. Maybe sometimes, one of us can authentically like one of them. Is that too hard for you to understand, Man-of-the-Eye?”

Beholding tries to truly See Michael, but something about the Spiral’s nature twists the image. 

“No,” Michael goes on, followed by another round of tak-tak-tak-tak-tak. “I rather like the Archivist. And he likes me. Aaaand if you try to get in the way of us, I will peeeeerrrrsonallyyyyy claw your precious little eyes out of your sockets. Understand?”

Elias doesn’t have time to make a reply. Michael is gone in a gunpowder-bright flash of light and a shock of sound. If there was a door, it’s gone. So he sits alone in his office, staring at the space where the Spiral was, and he feels something terribly empty and terribly familiar.

- - -

Jon picks their next date and opts for something as normal as the last one was strange. He chooses a walk at St James Park, eating ice cream and admiring the pelicans while Michael regales him with some bizarre story that sounds more like a backwards recitation of the Jabberwocky poem. He pauses in between stanzas to eat more of his pistachio ice cream with a delighted gusto before he presses on in gibberish.

Something about it makes Jon feel oddly warm and content, even as the early spring wind chills him.

Their last date was to Annwn, which Jon had originally suspected was in Wales. He was half-right; it was Wales as much as it was also the traditional world of the afterlife in ancient Welsh rites. It was rather lovely and Jon thinks very highly of their honey cakes, although he suspects he probably wasn’t supposed to eat them. 

But Michael looks just as pleased to be in this park as he was to be in ancient Welsh paradise. His Jabberwockish story comes to an end and he finishes the rest of his cone before throwing the little paper ring into a nearby litter bin. Then, he stretches his arms out to the side and sighs in contentment. “Just bonny, as they say!” he cheers before reaching down and taking Jon’s free hand in his. It’s got a mind-boggling weight and an odd texture, while appearing to be a normal hand. At first, it gave Jon such an acute sense of discomfort that he found himself involuntarily withdrawing. Now, it’s just another aspect of Michael that he’s learned to like.

Love, maybe. He hasn’t thought on that overmuch.

Yet here they are, holding hands like all the other couples in the park. It’s so simple, so normal. Jon’s life has been so ridiculous lately that the fact he’s holding a Spiral avatar’s nigh-impossible hand on a date in a park is just… maybe the most normal thing that’s happened so far. Michael’s not trying to kill him or throttle his mind to the point of madness.

They’re happy.

Jon’s happy.  

He smiles, and so does Michael. Yes, Michael’s smile is making an attempt to summit his head like Everest before flickering back into place like he remembers where he is, but he does smile and it’s perfectly authentic. 

It could be weirder, and for once, that thought delights Jon.

[overheardatthecontinental]

Talk Chapter 19

AO3 LINK

 It was over, but not done.

 There were still so many things to do before John could drop everything and go home to Helen.

 He starts by calling Nick.

 “H-hello?” Jesus, the boy really was afraid of him.

 Ironic, John thinks, considering he owes this kid more than he can ever hope to repay for allowing Helen to contact him during her imprisonment. And then looking out for her at the cost of his job, possibly his life if DeLuca had found out.

 “It’s done.” He says, “DeLuca’s going to be picked up by Adjudication. Are you able to stay until someone gets there to pick up Isabella?”

 “Yeah, yeah. Of course. The, uh, the bounty’s dropped then?”

 He exhales and, fuck, it feels so good.

 The bounty is dropped. The contract is closed. And while he doesn’t think either of them will ever be truly safe, no one is coming after her anymore.

 “Yes.”

 “Good. That’s, that’s good.” Nick sounds relieved, too. The younger man pauses for a moment and then tentatively asks, “Would you do me a favor, Mister Wick, sir? She told me if I ever wanted to talk… I just was wondering if you could ask her to call me. When she’s back and settled and shi—stuff. Stuff.”

 And, god, Helen was just      that    good. And it had started as manipulation, he knew. A way to save herself when he wasn’t there to do the job but there was no doubt in John’s mind that Helen would meet with Nick every week, for as long as he needed.

 “Yeah, kid. I’ll pass it along.”

 “Thank you.”

 John pauses, thoughtfully. “When Isabella’s been picked up, head over to the Continental. Ask for Winston. New York is always busy. I know they’re looking to hire another Sommelier. It’ll pay more than Syndicate; I can guarantee that. I’ll put in a good word for you.”

 “Really?”

 “Really.”

 He shakes his head, in disbelief of himself. He knew Helen was his reason, but John couldn’t quite pinpoint the moment he had gone utterly and completely      soft    .

 Maybe she’d have some insight to that, he thinks, smiling to himself.

 And, because he doesn’t want the knowledge that he has gone soft to spread, he adds, “Don’t fuck it up” and ends the call.

 After all, he isn’t done in the Underworld.

 For starters, the contract had been dropped but that didn’t mean the memo had gotten out. And that needed to happen before he brought Helen back home. The last thing he wanted was to bring her back only to have some kid target her because they ignored the notice.

 The hotel buzzes as John walks through the front door.

 He ignores it, as he always does, approaching the front desk. There’s a small queue that has gathered in front of Charon, but the Concierge waves him up.

 “The Manager is expecting you. He is in his office.”

 John nods his thanks and turns towards the hall where he’ll find Winston, only to run into Verdugo.

 The other assassin looks him over, regarding him with vague interest. He’s carrying a weapons bag, slung over a shoulder. A duffle bag resides in his other hand.

 He’s leaving, John realizes. Verdugo was a drifter.

 The only thing that had kept him in New York was the possibility of a substantial bounty that has since been removed.

 Verdugo breaks the silence first, “I’ll admit, when I heard you were trying to get the bounty removed, I didn’t think you could do it.”

 John raises a brow.

 Because what the hell is he supposed to say to that?

     Oh, no worries. Totally get it. You wouldn’t have wasted both our time if you had only realized sooner that you couldn’t kill my love?  

 “It was just business.”

 Now that, John thinks, is something he’s grown very tired of hearing.

 The Underworld, for better or worse—and right now, John Wick was very much leaning towards      worse    , was all about money and advancement. Status.

 The values he has been exposed to, he realizes, had been very self-serving. No wonder so many narcissists and hedonists thrived in the Underworld.

  And John had survived because he was so self-reliant. He had thrived in a world where favors are currency by being willing to help others and avoiding asking for any help in return. It made him rich, in more than just money. The pile of markers in his collection is unparalleled.

 But he still went home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life, where escapism had been his only fulfillment.

 Drifting.

 In control but, somehow, still empty.

 Until Helen had forced her way into his head, laying claim to his heart.

 And suddenly everything that had once seemed so complicated and out of reach was within his grasp.

 In that moment, he pities Verdugo.

 A man, so much like him in so many ways. A drifter. Free of roots and obligation. Making a name for himself by virtue of skill and competency. But hollow like a tin soldier.

 Verdugo will move on to the next contract. The name Helen Kingston will be replaced with another unfortunate soul, who John is certain will not be as lucky.

 And he’ll make his money and build his legacy.

 And he’ll go home alone. To an empty house. In an empty life.

 John wants to kill him along with anyone else who had hurt or threatened Helen’s life, but it occurs to him that might be a mercy. And maybe Verdugo doesn’t deserve mercy but John didn’t deserve mercy, either. But it had found him.

 Still, he feels the need to say, “If I ever see you anywhere near her…”

 “You won’t.” Verdugo assures him, “Be seeing you.”

 “No.” John says, “You won’t.”

 He leaves Verdugo standing in the hall as he makes his way to Winston’s office.

 The old man doesn’t even look up as John walks in. “It would appear that you had a busy day.” He says as he practically collapses into one of the leather chairs.

 “Busy week.” John amends, “I think I finally understand the phrase      thank god it’s Friday    .”

 Winston smirks, rising to his feet, “Drink?”

 He shakes his head, “No, thank you. I’ve had enough today, while playing politics. Did you happen to hear from Sofia?”

 “Yes,” Winston says, pouring himself brandy, “I already sent someone to collect Mateo. And Isabella. She said you got a confession from the former.”

 “Lorenzo plans to force the counsel to convene on Monday, here in the city.”

 “He wants justice meted out swiftly.”

 “That makes two of us.” John agrees with a nod. “I want this done and in the past.”

 “Understandably. You managed the impossible this week.”

 “Didn’t think I could do it?” John asks, thinking of his conversation with Verdugo and the time that had been wasted pursuing Helen Kingston.

 “On the contrary,” Winston says, taking the seat next to him, “You made me a great deal of money.”

 John arches a brow.

 “You successfully removing the bounty was the long odds over at Dex’s. Fifty to one.”

 And, fuck, but that makes him laugh. He didn’t realize how much he needed that after the stress of the day, “How much did you put down?”

 “Five grand.” Winston looks at him strangely and it occurs to John that he’s probably never laughed in front of Winston before.

 “Well-played.” He says, shaking his head in amusement. While he never intends to tell Helen of the betting odds placed on when she would die and by whose hand, he can’t help but think that she’d get a kick out of it. Either that, or she’d be pissed she never got a chance to get in on the action.

 Yeah. That sounds right.

 “I know the rumor mill will have heard that the contract was dropped,” John says, “but is it possible to get Administration to send out a mass message? To confirm it, and make sure anybody working solo is notified?”

 “I’ll see to it myself.”

 John nods gratefully. That would make him feel much better about taking her back to the city. Although he’s already mentally preparing himself for the wave of anxiety that will surely hit the moment, he leaves her alone to go back to work. He tables that particular worry for now.

 “I have another favor to ask.”

 Winston rolls his eyes, “Indeed?”

 “Nick Russo. Ex-Syndicate. He burnt some bridges today to help keep Helen safe. I’d appreciate it if you considered him for the second Sommelier position you were considering opening up.”

 The old man hums, “I’ll meet with him.”

 “Thank you.”

 And just like that, two things are checked off his list.

 Winston was good like that. As Manager, it was his job to be accommodating and helpful and ensure everyone was getting the best services that could be offered to those serving the High Table. But it was also more than that.

 For decades, Winston had been a mentor to him.

 After being introduced by Charon, Winston had immediately taken to the young, reckless assassin. He’d seen something that others had brushed to the side.

 And John had been skeptical. Untrusting.

 But Winston had been relentless. He offered sound advice that John found hard to ignore. Slowly, John had found himself utilizing the Manager. After moving back to New York, it became clear that Winston knew the city and its inhabitants better than anyone.

 Somewhere along the line, John had begun to trust him.

 Winston had tried to line John up for Management but had accepted his decision when John, respectfully, denied interest in such a path. While Winston mourned John’s lack of ambition, he continued to serve as a mentor.

 Arguably, the closest thing John had ever had to a father-figure.

 John doesn’t doubt, for a moment, his decision to retire. He will miss very little about the Underworld. But Winston would be counted amongst them.

 And while John doesn’t particularly want to have this conversation, he owes it to Winston to be the one to tell him.

 “I’ve decided to retire.”

 Winston’s head turns sharply, “Pardon?”

 John sits up straighter in the chair, “I’m retiring. As soon as everything has been taken care of, I’m leaving the Underworld.”

 “Jonathan, you have obligations.” Winston says, shaking his head, “You can’t just      retire    .”

 “Lorenzo is freeing me of my contractual obligations. I intend to reach out to Viggo to make arrangements as well.”

 “Lorenzo D’Antonio is letting you walk away?” The surprise is evident in his voice.

 John nods.

 “Miraculous in itself, but you cannot expect Viggo to do the same.”

 “I won’t take no for an answer.” John says softly, “One way or another, I’m getting out. And I’ve made up my mind about this. It won’t be changed.”

 He leaves no room for argument. Bittersweet as it may be, there is nothing that can change his mind anymore. Even if Helen didn’t want him, he would have left to keep her safe. His enemies wouldn’t have used her against him if he was no longer a problem.

 But Helen did want him. She loved him, beyond all reason.

 “Whatever will you do?”

 John feels his lips twitch. Aside from keeping house and devoting the majority of his time to ensuring Helen’s happiness—that she never regrets choosing him, he really isn’t sure. He knew he didn’t have it in him, nor did he have the credentials or the qualifications, to work in the real world. At least, for most occupations.

 And, truthfully, he was tired of the constant work.

 Hating his life and coming home to an empty house, John had filled his life with work. Work until the point of distraction. Which meant extra jobs, far beyond working for money. He worked to kill people and time, respectively.

 Decades of working seven days a week, every day of the year.

 He’s looking forward to the break.

 Maybe he’d pick up a hobby. He’d continue to bind books through the coldness of the winter. Maybe he’d even start to sell them or volunteer with a library to fix old tomes.

  Maybe, come springtime, he’d actually open the pool in his backyard which had been closed and unused since he first moved in.

 He planned to cook for her. Maybe he’d get into that. Learn to make things from scratch. To bake.

 The possibilities were endless.

 “I don’t know.” He answers honestly and he’s… surprisingly okay with that. The uncertainty would usually throw him for a loop, but John finds himself completely and unexpectedly happy not knowing. It was freeing.

 “Are you—”

 “Yes.” John interrupts before Winston can say      sure    . “More sure, more certain than I have ever been about anything in my life.”

 Winston nods, slowly. He doesn’t understand, John knows. The old man probably won’t ever understand why John was giving up the wealth, the prestige, the permanent get-out-of-jail-free card that existed for the members of the Underworld.

 “When?” He asks.

 “As soon as possible. I plan on testifying Monday. I’ll meet with Viggo after and inform him of my intentions.”

 “It will not be easy.”

 “I don’t expect it to be. But it won’t matter. Whatever Viggo demands, I’ll do it.”

 And he would. Nothing would stop him.

 They sit in silence as Winston seems to digest it all. It’s odd, he thinks. He knows Winston disapproves, just as he had when John had first told him about Helen. But Winston knows that John doesn’t give a fuck about approval. No one’s opinion influenced him, save Helen’s.

 He missed her.

 It had only been hours since he had last held her in his arms, and he missed her.

 Was this what it was to be in love? To crave the presence of another in any and every form? To hold them in your mind’s eye even when you are away?

 How did people stand it, living like this?

 And yet, John acknowledges, he would not give it up for the world.

 “I find myself at a loss for words.” Winston says after minutes of silence. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You were ready to burn New York to the ground to find her. Ready to declare war on the High Table to get her back.” The old man shakes his head, “And you seem certain. I know your mind will not be changed. But I feel the need to ask you, once more, Jonathan: is she really worth it?”

 John thinks of her smile.

 The kindness in her eyes.

 The warmth of her touch.

 Her quick wit. Her inquisitive nature. The way she just accepted things as they were. The way she shut him down when he was starting to bullshit himself. The books he had mentioned in passing on her bedside table as she made the effort no one else had to understand him.

 John nods, “She really is.”

 ……….

 He parks the car and John feels another wave of relief wash over him. The fact that it’s over, that Helen is safe keeps hitting him again and again. And now, he’s within feet of her.

 John slips out of the car, admiring for the first time since they moved to the Vermont safehouse how bright the stars were when there were no lights around.

 The front door opens and Marcus steps out, his bag in his hand.

 “I take it everything went well?”

 John nods. “You leaving?”

 Marcus nods back, closing the door behind him. “After everything, I figured you two could probably use some time alone.”

 He’s grateful for Marcus’ reasoning. While John had no intention of kicking Marcus out, he’s right. The only thing John wants to do is wrap Helen up in his arms and never let her go.

 “Thank you.” He says, “For everything. I’ll never be able to re—”

 “Don’t.” Marcus shakes his head. “I was happy to do it. More for her sake than for yours. You’re still kind of a dick but… she makes you almost tolerable.”

 John huffs out a laugh, “Who would have thought.”

 “That the only person capable of taking you down was a therapist who can barely form a sentence fragment without coffee?” Marcus exhales in disbelief. “Mind-boggling. Call me when you two get back to the city.”

 “Will do.” John promises as Marcus throws his duffle into the trunk of his car as he makes his way up the short stairs and into the cottage.

 John slips off his suit jacket, hanging it by the door. He undoes the buttons on his vest, one by one, as he walks down the hall towards the living room. He tugs that off, too, draping it over the couch.

 She’s not in the living room or the kitchen. He continues down the hall towards their bedroom. The door is open and, sure enough, Helen is in bed. Her back leans against the headboard, a book is open in her hand.

 John leans against the door, undoing the top two buttons of his shirt.

 Before him is a sight he could spend an eternity gazing in wonder at. Her glasses have slipped down the bridge of her nose as she reads. He watches as she reaches for her bookmark without looking up, turning the page as she inserts it.

 Without a glance, she smiles, “Hi honey, how was your day?” She asks as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. He loves her for it. For making him feel some semblance of normality amidst the bullshit and the chaos.

 John swallows even as his lips twitch in amusement. “Oh, you know. Bitch of a commute. Faked a powerful man’s death. Tried my hand at politics. Not a fan. Then I took down a mafia boss.”

 She sets her book aside before removing her glasses. Helen scans him up and down, assessing for injuries.

 His heart swells with love and adoration. It consumes him and makes it almost difficult to breathe. He doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do with all these emotions flowing through him.

 And, like she can sense he’s overwhelmed, Helen stands up. She crosses the room, her dark eyes gazing into him.

 He wonders if she can see his soul. And if she can, will she change her mind about him? Will she realize how truly terrible, how awful he is?

 But as he looks into those brown eyes, all he sees reflected back is love.

 She loves him, he thinks, even though he doesn’t deserve it. He was a despicable human being. One who had dragged her into the depths of Hell. Even still, she never wavered.

 Helen was stronger than he ever hoped to be.

 And she loved him. Despite everything.

 It staggers him.

 Helen reaches him and he cannot help but fall to his knees before her. His arms wrap around her middle, seemingly of their own accord, and he buries his face against her stomach. John’s breath escapes him in a shudder as her arms come up around him, holding him.

 She strokes his hair and he can barely hold back a sob.

 “I love you, John.”

 And, fuck it all, the dam breaks.

 He’d lost her, this week.

 Someone had taken her, stolen her from her bed. Had      hurt    her to get to him. Had put a bounty on her head for the sole purpose of manipulating him, simultaneously activating agents to find her and kill his beloved.

 Verdugo, who promised to make it quick.

 Kate, who would have obliterated Helen until there was nothing left.

 The kids in the alley, looking to make a name for themselves, would have killed her.

 Along with the hundreds of others who had searched for her, even idly.

 He had spent a week feeling out of control, out of his depth. Unsure of how to save her, hating himself for putting her into that position. Terrified that one wrong move could lead to her death.

 “I’m sorry.” He chokes out, aware that his tears are soaking into her shirt.

 She steps back, only to drop to her knees, too. Her arms wrap around him in a tight hug as he rests his head at the crook of her neck. A hand comes up to cradle his head.

 “You have      nothing     to be sorry for.” She assures him.

 He swallows, heavily. He’s not sure when he last cried but it had to have been decades.

 “It’s my fault…”

 The arm around his back tightens and she turns her face to his head.

 “I’m so sorry I didn’t… didn’t protect you better… and---”

 “Hey,” the hand on his head moves to his cheek and she leans back to look at him. Her thumb strokes a tear, “You didn’t know. You had no reason to suspect that I would be targeted. But you know what?” Her fingers massage his neck, “I’m glad I was.”

 He tilts his head in disbelief.

 “If DeLuca hadn’t have taken me,” she says softly, “I would have seen you for an hour this week. And an hour next. And the week after that. And that would be it. I would have loved you from afar because that’s all I could do.

 “But now,” she runs her fingers down his face, “I can hold you. And kiss you. And love you. And that is more than worth the price of spending a couple uncomfortable days locked in a basement and a couple more hidden away from the world.”

 John shakes his head, because she is unreal sometimes. “You deserve so much be—”

 “      We    don’t get to decide what we deserve, John. That’s never been up to us.” She echoes what she had told him that day in her office. Hours before she had been taken. “But we do get some say in how we’re going to live.”

 John finds himself swallowing, his breath hitching as he tries to breathe in. “And how are we going to live?”

 “Well,” Helen says with a soft smile, “We’re going to start by hiding away for the rest of the weekend. And you’re going to make good on your promise to fuck me on your tongue until I can’t scream anymore.”

 He can’t help but chuckle at how serious she sounds but      fuck    . Yeah, he’s definitely doing that.

 “And then, we’re going to go home. And instead of picking my lock to sneak inside and watch me sleep, you’re going to fall asleep next to me. And instead of leaving before daylight, you’re going to wake up with me. Every day.

 “We’ll take weekend trips to Vermont, every now and then. I’ll make you go antiquing with me.” He laughs at that. Helen smiles back, continuing, “And I’ll make you take me to that other house you’ve got in Maine.”

 “It’s on a lake.” He tells her, thinking she might like that. He’ll buy a boat. Or a few, unsure if she’d prefer a motorboat or something like a kayak. Whatever she decides, she’ll have. She’ll never want for anything so long as he is breathing.

 Helen moves so that she is high on her knees. Her hands reach to cup either side of his face and she leans in to press her lips to his forehead.

 “We’re going to have a really good life.” She promises and fuck, he believes her. “And we’re going to be so fucking happy.”

 She kisses her way down his face, slowly. Tenderly.

 Her lips reach his. How, he thinks, can a kiss be so gentle? So different than anything he’s ever experienced.

 It was glorious when she kissed him passionately. It drove him wild when her teeth nipped at his lips or her tongue greedily sucked at his own.

 But she’s being so soft that it might very well break him again.

 She didn’t look at him and see the Boogeyman. Even knowing who he was, she didn’t let it influence her opinion of him.

 He felt human in her arms, in her eyes.

 He loves her for it. Among the plethora of reasons that he loved and adored her.

 John wraps his arms under her thighs, rising to his feet, and pulling her up with ease.

 She kisses the corner of his mouth as he carries her over to the bed. “I love you,” she whispers as he lays her down.

 They both undress, taking their time.

 The initial desperation has faded and while John is certain it will come back again, he is more than content to take it slow.

 When they are both naked, John revels in the warmth of her skin. He kisses his way around her body, allowing his hands the time to memorize every curve, dip, and swell of her body. And she lets him, like she knows how badly he needs this.

 And she probably does, he thinks. She’s always been in his head.

 Helen’s hand reaches the top of his head, stroking back his hair as he kisses every inch of skin he can reach from his place atop of her.

 His open-mouth grazes across her collarbone and John soaks in the way her hand tightens in his hair, her sharp intake of breath as his teeth scrape against her skin. He wonders what other sounds he can coax from her body… He’ll spend forever finding out.

 John kisses her lips again. How addictive that feeling, that taste has become.

 One hand tilts her head, allowing him to deepen the kiss while his other stretches down her perfect body, dipping between her thighs. He cups her core, feeling the warmth radiating from within her. He dips a finger between her folds. She’s soaking and it’s all for      him    .

 He kisses her harder, feeling his lips bruise as he gently circles his clit with his finger.

 She moans into his mouth and he swallows it down.

     I love you    , he thinks, and has to remind himself that he can say that now. He doesn’t have to keep it bottled in. He wonders how long it will take until he can say it without hesitation. Until it spills as easily from his lips as it comes to echo in his mind.

 “I love you, Hels.” He tells her, kissing down her jaw.

 “John!” She cries out as he continues to toy with her sensitive clit. He reaches down, coating his fingers in her slick heat before pressing them into her opening. His thumb takes over rolling over the sensitive bundles of nerves.

 Helen whimpers, her nails digging into his back. He nips at her throat with his teeth. She’s marked him well enough. Now it’s his turn.

 He wants to claim her. To leave his mark all over her so that anyone who sees her will have no doubt that she is taken. One day, he swears to himself that he’ll put a ring on her finger, but until then, he’ll be content with this.

 More than content.

 He sucks at her neck and plays with her clit until she is a moaning, writhing mess. Before she can reach her release, however, he removes his fingers from her pussy and brings them to his lips.

 Helen shudders as she watches him suck her essence from his fingers.

 His own cock twitches at the taste.

 When he is done, she grabs his hair and yanks him back for a kiss. She sucks on his tongue, tasting herself and he’s never been harder in his life.

 ..

 John takes his heavy cock in hand and brings it to her entrance. He pushes inside slowly, inch by inch. Letting himself focus on every sensation. The way her pussy yields to him, clenching around him. The way her stomach tightens and her breath stutters. Her grip around him.

 He closes his eyes as he finds himself completely buried inside of her. His hips cannot go any further.

 The hitch in her breath delights him. John draws back out, reveling in the soft changes in her breath, before he drives back in. Helen cries out and he kisses her neck. Her pussy tightens around him at the sensation.

 He’s never needed anyone the way he needs her.

 He knows he never will again.

 This woman is everything to him. She is it for him. And he’ll love her with every fiber, every atom of his being until he dies. And then beyond.

 “Fuck, baby!” She cranes her neck, giving him more access.

 He makes a mental note of how much she loves the attention he’s paying to her throat. He nips and she arches her back, crying out yet again. Clenching around him, again.

 John rolls his hips, careful to ensure steady pressure to her clit.

 Because it’s about her. It’s always been about her.

 He lifts his head, turning her head back to him so he can kiss her yet again. Languidly drowning in her as he takes his time fucking her, bringing her to the edge yet again.

 Helen swears, her nails biting into him. Her hips meet his, grinding against him as she moans. His thrusts increase in speed and John feels Helen’s entire body seem to tighten.

 And all at once, she breaks around him, crying out as a wave of pleasure slams into her. The way her pussy throbs around him is enough to make him lose his resolve and he soon finds himself spilling inside of her with a loud groan.

 His eyes lose their focus as his head drops down to the pillow, nestling in the crook of her neck as he breathes heavily. The rush of immediate pleasure leaves him but he is left feeling glorious as he lies on top of her body, still buried inside of her, still feeling the aftershocks of her own orgasm milking him.

 With an exhale, he raises his head to look back at her. Her beautiful eyes gazing at him.

 Helen reaches up. She pushes back the hair which had fallen into his face before wrapping her hand around to the back of his head, guiding his forehead to rest on hers.

 “I love you, John.”

 “I love you, too.” He says, swallowing back the emotions that overwhelm him.

 And he’s never going to let her forget it. She will never have the opportunity to forget or doubt that he loves her. That she is his everything.

 What she said earlier was true: they were going to be so fucking happy.

 And he was going to do this right.

 John kisses her cheek, “How about I buy you dinner?”

 Helen smiles back, “After all this, you better.”

......

One more chapter of this installment to come

thanks to @meetmeinthematinee​ for reviewing and editing <3

[flutteringphalanges]

                                    Don’t Let the Bats Bite

Summary: After decades spent together in England, Agatha, now vampire and wife to Dracula, has maintained a distance from her family members. Even though secretly she has wondered about them. It isn’t until she hears a report that an accident has taken the lives of her great nephew and niece-in-law and left their two year old daughter, Zoe, an orphan that she steps in and, against the Count’s wishes, brings the toddler into their unusual life. Will their vampiric ways conflict too much with parenthood, or is Zoe Van Helsing their missing link to perfection?

Ship: Agatha/Dracula

Rating: T

Chapters: 1/2 (or 1/3) 

Read on AO3

A/N: Originally, this was just going to be a one shot, but I felt like doing it in parts because I felt weird just being one long thing. So a few parts it shall be. Feedback is greatly loved and appreciated! -Jen

                                                         Part One

“Up!” Dracula stared down incredulously at the demanding two year old. Her name, according to what they could dig up in documents, was Zoe. Zoe Van Helsing. His however many grands niece by marriage to Agatha. During their near century in England, his vampiric bride silently withheld her desires to learn of her family’s presence. For their sake and safety. 

But like with many unplanned events, everything changed that fateful day when it was broadcasted over the news that a fatal car accident had taken the lives of Richard and Delilah Van Helsing, leaving their now orphaned toddler in its wake. Her decision was made right then and there. Even before the reporter finished his segment. And Dracula found himself caught between a rock and a hard place. 

“We cannot care for this thing, Agatha.” The vampire frowned as the little girl tried to claw her way up his pant’s leg. “We are vampires. We simply aren’t equipped to deal with...this.” Zoe let out a grunt of protest when the man peeled her off of him. “We should return her to Child Protection. Perhaps a social worker can figure something out.” 

“Zoe isn’t a thing. She’s a child. Need I remind you that she is family?” Agatha frowned, going over to the child and scooping her up. “Your family nonetheless. She has no one, Dracula. Just us.”

“Well perhaps she should be placed with a human family!” The Count argued with exasperation. “You didn’t even discuss this with me. You went about forging documents and somehow, despite the system, we’ve been granted custody of a practically helpless being!” He began to massage his temples. “Manipulating Frank Renfield to do our bidding is supposed to be my job, not yours.” 

It was almost unnerving that, even at her young age, the girl resembled her distant aunt so much. The blues of her eyes. The rich brown locks of her hair. If anyone didn’t know any better, perhaps she could easily be passed off as their biological offspring. How truly odd genetics were. Zoe watched Dracula with a curious expression, one that was slightly more appealing than Agatha’s glare of animosity.

“She stays with us.” The former nun declared firmly, glowering at her lover. “End of discussion.”

Agatha’s frown faded away into a warm smile as her attention turned to the toddler. Gingerly, she tucked a few stray strands of hair that had fallen from one of Zoe’s pigtails behind her ear. The child had only been with them for a few hours and already the vampire’s maternal instincts had blossomed. It was evident how much she adored the child, something her husband had yet to understand. 

“I took the liberty of making a list of things we need for the house.” Agatha said, adjusting Zoe in her arms. “I was hoping you’d be willing to go out and buy them.” 

“And you thought this why?” Dracula inquired, folding his arms. 

“Because I assumed you’d rather do that than stay at home watching her.” His wife replied, throwing him a look. “Zoe’s been through a lot. I don’t want to drag her around to various shops. I promise it isn’t too much. Just a crib, some child locks, baby gates, a high chair, more nappies, a few outfits--I have her size listed, and a few other things. It shouldn’t be hard.” She ignored the stare of disbelief Dracula was giving her. “Once we’ve had some time to settle down, we can really go about setting a nursery up.” 

A nursery. The infamous Count didn’t want to question as to which room they’d be turning that into. He knew. And even if he argued against it, Agatha would win. She always did. His prized artwork and treasured statues would be moved else---god forbid the closet. This was why he had never desired children even as a human. They were needy. Required things. Like his study. 

“Nothing should require this much work.” He muttered under his breath, knowing full well that Agatha could still very much hear every word. Begrudgingly retrieving his long trench coat, a gift from his wife no less, Dracula briefly glanced over his shoulder. “And where might I find this list of yours?” 

“The counter.” She replied curtly, nodding her head in the direction. “It’s getting late so try to be quick about it if you can. Stores close earlier on Sundays, you know.” 

“I’m well aware.” The vampire responded, snatching the note from its spot. “I’ll retrieve what I can.” 

“Thank you.” Agatha said with a small smile. “We will be waiting with bated breath.” To which she received a grunt in return. Rolling her eyes, Agatha’s attention returned to her niece once her husband had vacated the premises. “Uncle Dracula can be rather grumpy.” She chuckled, kissing the girl’s forehead. “Don’t worry, you’ll win him over. Just wait and see.” 

                                                        XXX

1897 had been a monumental year for Dracula for many reasons. Most importantly, it was when he met Agatha--though the circumstances were far from favorable. After the massacre of St. Mary’s Convent, he had decided to spare the nun for his own curiosity. A new bride of his own demise. Agatha, of course, had other plans. And after a failed attempt of killing him, she came up with the brilliant idea to end herself. Not a stake. No, lesson learned from Jonathan Harker, but the Sun. Second momentous memory--well, discovery--apparently that bright, burning star in the sky wasn’t so deadly after all. 

Something changed between them after that. The toxicity that had once embedded itself in their relationship began to drain away and soon new feelings surfaced. Happy, warmer feelings. Brighter than the Sun itself. And within a few years, hatred became love. And with that romance, became a partnership. Marriage. A life far from Transyvania and into Whitby, England. 

Though they could go out during the day, the two still seemed to prefer the nightlife. It was peaceful. Quiet. And watching the sunrise together before tucking away to sleep for a few hours did them both good. But now all of that was going to change. Or so he felt was implied by the list gripped between his clawed fingers. 

“First one?”

A friendly voice pulled Dracula from his thoughts and away from the crib he’d been mindlessly staring at. Turning, he saw a rather young man, red hair and equally warm green eyes behind wood framed glasses. Part of him considered the idea of dragging the innocent bystander out into the back alleyway and feasting upon him. But he knew well enough Agatha would somehow figure out he’d killed someone. She always did. Oh how he despised this humane sourcing of blood system they had going on with Frank Renfield’s connections. It took the fun, the rush out of it all. 

“If you would call it that.” He replied tonelessly. “Unplanned.” 

“Ah, so many of them are. But isn’t that the excitement of it all?!” The stranger grinned, clearly not picking up that his company was unwelcomed. “Do you know what you’re having?”

“A girl.” The vampire replied curtly. “She’s two.” 

“Oh, adoption!” The man sounded somewhat confused. “Were you not expecting it to happen so soon or…” He shook his head and smiled. “Well, way to go, mate! It takes a special kind of person to do something like that. Why--”

Dracula’s jaw set in frustration. “Look,” he began. “You seem nice. But I simply do not have time, nor do I wish to, discuss things with you such as babies and the happiness of parenthood. I’m here by request of my wife. I’d like to be in and out of here as quickly as I can. My best wishes to you and your partner. May your rugrat be tolerable.” 

It was the best sort of well wishes he could give. Lifting up a crate of cradle parts as if they weighed as much as a mere feather, he set them roughly in his cart before striding off. The faster he could get out of the damned place, the better. The cheerfulness of it almost made his stomach churn. Pink, spill-less sippy cups. Various stuffed plushies with big, beady black eyes. And a few large packs of nappies--though his eyes stared fixated at a purple potty chair. He didn’t want to think about training a child to use that. That, he decided, would be Agatha’s doing. 

“All set?”

Unlike the overexcited customer he had just run into, the cashier looked tired. Disinterested in all that was around her. Dracula didn’t mind her lack of emotion as he loaded the contents of his cart onto the conveyor belt. She didn’t share her excitement at the fact he possibly had a new kid, or bombarded him with questions on the subject. Instead, she quietly scanned everything and placed it back into the basket. 

“Have a nice night.” The woman said through a wide yawn, handing the vampire his receipt. “Come back to see us soon.” 

The wheels of the cart whined as he rolled his cargo across the pavement and to his cart. It took a bit of maneuvering, but by some stroke of luck, he managed to squeeze everything inside. Hopefully Agatha would deem the ride fit enough for a child to be in. It did have a back seat after all. That had to be good enough, shouldn’t it?

Agatha wasn’t there to greet him at the door when he arrived home. Nor did she help him unload the very stuff she had asked for. Instead he found her lying comfortably in their bed, the toddler fast asleep curled up at her side. She held a finger to her lips as he entered their room somewhat perturbed by the stranger in his spot. Surely he wasn’t secretly jealous of a two year old. He wasn’t that juvenile. 

“We’ll sit her up in her own room tomorrow.” The former nun whispered as not to wake the toddler. “For now, I see no reason for her not to sleep here. Poor thing is exhausted after all. Went right down not too long after you left.” 

“I got everything you asked for.” Dracula replied, leaning against the wall. “You wouldn’t believe how much it cost.” 

“We have the money, Dracula.” Agatha countered softly. “Much more than anyone in Whitby, perhaps even most in England. I proved to be quite the accountant when it came to managing our money--not to mention Frank Renfield’s services are rather useful. We will be fine with just one more.” She smiled down at Zoe. “You and I have had many adventures, my love. This is simply another one.” 

“A different kind of permanent one.” Her husband muttered quietly. “I’m going to the fridge. How opposed are you to me having the dentist tonight? It’s AB Positive.” 

“Take it.” She said with a wave of her hand. “I prefer O anyway. If you could heat up either some of the ethics professor or the banker--if we still have some left, I’d much appreciate it. And it doesn’t have to be the perfect temperature, just nothing below lukewarm.” 

Her husband nodded in understanding before turning on his heels and exiting the room. Agatha’s eyes followed him until he disappeared from sight. Apparently, this was all going to take a lot more getting used to that she thought. 

                                                      XXX

After a few days, the nightmares started and Zoe often woke up screaming for her parents. It didn’t matter what they were doing--whether it be having a nice, quiet moment to themselves or in the thralls of passion, Agatha would tear herself away from her husband and rush into their adopted child’s room. Dracula sighed as his wife brought the tear streaked face toddler into their sitting room right in the middle of their game of chess. 

“Want Mummy and Daddy!” The little girl wailed. “Want Mummy and Daddy!” 

“I know, I know…” Agatha attempted to soothe, rubbing the girl’s back. She looked to Dracula in almost desperation as if maybe he had a solution to all of this. “Aunt Agatha and Uncle Dracula promise to make all of the bad dreams go away.” 

Zoe sniffled and looked towards the Count. “Bye bye, dark!”

The man’s brows furrowed. “What does she mean?” 

“Bye bye, dark!” The girl insisted, her volume rising. “Bye bye, dark!” 

“Perhaps she’s afraid of the dark?” Agatha inquired, eyeing her niece curiously. “We should consider installing night lights around the house.”

“Agatha, we are creatures of the night!” Dracula groaned. “Certainly she can learn to adjust to the nighttime as we did. She sleeps through most of it!” But the look on his wife’s face told him everything. “Fine.” He said, tone almost cold. “But I get to decide what they look like and where they go.”

A decision, he came to, that involved the famous superhero “Batman”. It seemed only fitting to fix the well known symbol of a black bat surrounded by a halo of yellow within the various sockets in their home. He’d never been a fan of the comic, but he took humor where he could get it. 

“Funny!” Zoe informed him one day pointing at the light. She tilted her small head to the side and smiled. “Bird!”

“Bat.” He corrected, grabbing her hand. “As we’ve gone over before. Come now, your supper’s getting cold.” 

“Bird.” The toddler insisted, shaking her head as she followed her uncle. “Bird, Daccy, bird!” 

“Dracula.” The vampire exhaled, lifting the child into her high chair. “How is it you can say other things but my name gives you a great deal of trouble?”

“I find it rather adorable.” Agatha smirked as she set a plate of peas and macaroni in front of her niece. “Aunt Aggie and Uncle Daccy, has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?” 

“As tasteful as the blood of a leper.” Her husband said, throwing her a look. “Agatha, I honestly do not think this setting is working out.” And as if on cue, a single pea flew past his head and tumbled onto the floor by his feet. Zoe giggled from her seat, quite pleased with herself. “To further prove my point.” He continued, motioning to the abandoned vegetable. “I’m a cold blooded killer, not a loving guardian.” 

“We all have flaws.” His wife replied simply, going to wipe the toddler’s mouth. “But that doesn’t mean we cannot fix them.” She pressed a kiss on the toddler’s forehead before turning back to her husband. “And I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and have come to the conclusion that there is perhaps one way we can do that.” 

“And that would be…” The Count ventured. 

“An uncle and niece day!” Agatha chuckled, noting the stunned expression on her lover’s face. “It’ll be good for the three of us. I get some time to myself and you get to know Zoe more.” 

“In the past several centuries of my life, I have never heard of a more ridiculous idea!” Dracula retorted, eyes following Agatha as she moved about the kitchen. “Agatha, you can’t possibly expect me to…” 

“You’ve dealt with entire armies.” The former nun interrupted. “Surely a toddler cannot be that much harder.” 

Another pea flew through the air, this time hitting Dracula straight in the face. The man frowned deeply as the toddler gave him a toothy grin. When he had taken Agatha as his bride, he hadn’t expected a vegetable wielding toddler in tow decades later. Exhaling, he leaned against the counter. This was going to be one hell of a war. 

[soft-ris]

CP: yo!! im a witch and im usually a very understanding and patient person, but at the same time i have anger issues and little to no patience at all—i usually like to draw, sing, listen to music, and a whole lot more! im touch starved and an affectionate hooman being once you got to know me more. i actually have a collection of plushies that i cuddle with when i go to sleep—i go by the name lixilia online but my friends call me yana! im interested in a lot of things but procrastination is just preventing me,, im nice and have a loveable personality! and im talented??? (at least thats what my friends say—) hmm my top 3 faves? Bruno, Jonathan, Polnareff (+ Kakyoin, Joots, and a whole lot more— im indecisive im sorry—) ig the emojis i can use to describe me are: ✨💕💖😤💀👌🎮⛓🖤🎧🏳‍🌈 [ i-is this how you do it?—aas sorry im not used to stuff like these jfjsks]

Cupid’s Pick for your match made in heaven is...

...Bruno!

———————————————————————

I’m a witch.

While all of them are fascinated and intrigued on some level���

Bruno would be a little skeptical at first (because I mean you could just be fucking with him like it’s a new mafia assassination tactic right?), but once you show him the real shit and he wraps his head around it, he’s extremely accepting. He’s just so in awe of your witchcraft and how it all works and about you. He also will protect u if someone bad finds out or if someone makes fun of you thinking you’re crazy in the head. He also won’t take advantage of your witchcraft, 100%. He asks for specific favors sometimes when he needs your help, but he by no means will force you to do something just because it’ll benefit him the best.

Jonathan… might be wary in the beginning. He probably grew up with the whole evil witch stereotype thing, so he finds it very conflicting (the ideals in him and you). But after seeing that you’re a genuine witch and mean absolutely no harm though, he’ll be so sorry for how he had treated you (he thinks he should’ve been more open and kind, because that’s what a gentleman should be like). He’ll be real curious and excited to learn about your life and witchcraft, and he’ll be supportive and protective too. If your witchcraft can heal him, he might subconsciously start to be more reckless because he knows you can just patch him up. Which is 0/10 recommend because he’s already so reckless :/

Polnareff will take it as a joke for a while, until you prove that ur the real deal to him and he goes through a whole range of emotions and scenarios lol. From being in denial (he thinks you’re just taking the joke or role play way too far), to being wary to you cursing him (because aren’t all witches evil?), to being curious about your witchcraft and its abilities (some of which he will try to take advantage of), to making 90% of his flirtatious comments revolve around you being a witch or your witchcraft. But he’ll silver chariot stab someone if they ever insult or make fun of you for being a witch.

I’m usually a very understanding and patient person, but at the same time I have anger issues and little to no patience at all.

Bruno & Jonathan handles the latter part better than Polnareff, but in quite different ways.

Bruno himself, I would say, is quite understanding and patient, so he likes that you have the same qualities because I see him as someone who responds very well to others’ genuine kindness. But he also has boundaries and self-respect, so if you unjustly take out your anger on him, he will (essentially) scold you or tell you off. He may do it in a softer way compared to when he tells his gang off for being idiots, but he’s still going to do it. BUT he’ll also talk to you after it all immediately like adults. He doesn’t want bad blood between the two of you, it’s not healthy for the dynamics. He loves you after all. If your anger and impatience is justified, then he takes it and tries to understand if it’s aimed at him. If it’s aimed at others? He’ll support you (somehow) LMAO. Imo Bruno’s the best with you for this because he tells you as is.

Jonathan appreciates that you’re understanding and patient because a lot goes on in his life (DIO, hamon, vampires, etc.). BUT, with your anger issues and little to no patience, he might lash back (or cry) if you say something that really hurts him, but if it ain’t that bad, he’d usually placate you with softness and patience of his own. And he might talk to you about it after you’ve calmed down if it was pretty bad and it wasn’t directed at him. He looks like the type to not mind getting angry with you if it’s directed at something real annoying though (not him). But would give you the Hurt & Disappointed look if you cross some line or catch him on a bad day. Then he wouldn’t talk to you for a bit until he’s ready or calmed down, which can be nerve wrecking for you and your impatience might fester.

Polnareff (imo) needs someone who’s understanding and patient as a whole. I’m not saying a person like that (with no negative emotions or habits) exists, but because he has a little too much pride and acts a little too much based on his emotions, if you pop off at him, he will pop back off on you. It’s just how it will be with him. There’s also an 80% chance he’ll say something real nasty if you say or do something that really hurts his feelings. He also strikes me as someone who moves past (minor to moderate) things relatively quick, so he’d be annoyed if you’re still hanging onto the previous argument. 3/10 for this disposition.

I’m touch starved and an affectionate hooman being once you got to know me more.

All 3 of them enjoys the physical touch, especially Polnareff, but I can see Polnareff trying to take advantage of that somehow if y’all aren’t at the dating stage yet.

Bruno enjoys the touches, reciprocates at his own rate and accepts your affections with soft smiles and kisses. In a relationship, I can see him amping up his physical affection to match your own. Idk why but I just HC him as someone who is equally touch starved and loves all the physical contact he gets with you, so there’s that connection and mutual understanding that he has with you.

Jonathan is the same in enjoying your affections, but I don’t really see him as touched starved so he may not understand sometimes why you’re so affectionate (not that he minds though, he’ll take all the love you give him).

I’m nice and have a loveable personality! 

Bruno would love for his s/o to get along well with his family/gang. He knows his gang is…colourful, but that’s his family. Like for example, Giorno may have had a rough start with everyone, and a rough relationship with Abbacchio, but they all still got along and was able to work together to some degree (some better than others). And because you’re his s/o, it would just make him feel weird if his family doesn’t like you or get along with you at all, so because of your disposition, it means a lot to him (family is everything to Italians in JOJO after all).

I’m interested in a lot of things but procrastination is just preventing me,,

Bruno would push you to go on when he notices because he wants to help you, and as we all know, he’s observant. Also a great motivator tbh. He’ll even spare time to explore the interest with you if it helps. He’ll even think of prompts to help you when he’s not around to motivate you. Imo I think out of the 3, he would be the best in helping you with this and maybe it help you overcome this procrastination issue.

I usually like to draw, sing, listen to music, and a whole lot more!

I see Jonathan & Polnareff’s personal interests and hobbies being more outdoorsy and active. So they would not indulge in your hobbies as much as Bruno would. They’d support you, 10000% for sure, but they’ll be pushing you to try to take part in their hobbies as well (sports, travelling, bars, etc.). I also see them as the type to wanna do things with their s/o a lot.

Bruno looks like he enjoys alone time as much as he enjoys being with you. His hobbies and interests also look more calm and can be combined with yours. Like going on a fishing trip, and you can turn on some music and he’ll fish while you draw or sing. Or cooking and you two can duet while prepping in the kitchen. Soft peaceful shit like that yk?

I actually have a collection of plushies that I cuddle with when I go to sleep.

Idk why but I can totally see Bruno going to sleep with you in his arms, and then wake up with one of your plushies in his arms instead and not mind it at all, which is hella cute uwu. He’ll even indulge in this collection of yours and get you new ones because now there are some in there from him.

ig the emojis i can use to describe me are: ✨💕💖😤💀👌🏼🎮⛓🖤🎧🏳️‍🌈

With the top 3’s vibes when I think strictly in emoji, Polnareff would be attracted to you for sure, but friendship would flourish better than a relationship (imo). Bruno thinks you’re cute, the contrast between you two would be like the face value ‘opposites attract’. Jonathan thinks you’re cool, I see the friendship flourishing better than a relationship again. Not saying it wouldn’t work (with Pol & Jonathan + u), just saying friendship would come easier than a relationship (compared to Bruno).

[radioromantic-moved]

a study in semantics

(hey, does this look familiar? it should! because i fucked up and it got deleted for a little while. things are okay now)

i came up with the headcanon that frank calls me a ray of sunshine initially sarcastically before it evolves into an actual affectionate nickname. and yeah, that’s what this is.

word count: 1650

They say in the business world that first impressions are everything.

Nyx probably didn’t get the memo. Actually, they probably got the memo and promptly chose to purposefully ignore it. 

They show up to interview for a position at Toy Zone wearing all black, with a close-cropped mess of blond hair as the main splash of color in a wardrobe that would probably camouflage them in a dark room. The way they cross their arms over their chest and stare across the desk they’re sitting in front of, Frаnk feels vaguely like he’s the one being interviewed.

“Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine,” he mutters to himself.

They level a bright green stare at him. “Excuse me?”

“I’m just saying, I’m guessing ‘cheerful’ isn’t one of the reasons you’re going to list as to why I should hire you.”

“I’ll have you know, my close friends find me delightful.”

He can’t tell if they’re joking. They deliver everything in the same sort of dry, vaguely amused sounding tone, as if they’re watching a somewhat-interesting movie. 

“We have a uniform here, you know,” he says. “It might clash with your aesthetic a little.”

“Yeah, I kinda got that from what you’ve got going on.”

They gesture at his bright red polo, name tag dangling conspicuously from it. “I can handle the shirt,” they shrug, “as long as I can still wear this coat. I feel like I’d have a case to sue if you guys didn’t let me wear this coat.”

It is a cool coat.

“There isn’t anything in our rulebook about letting you wear a coat over the shirt. Just don’t let it cover your nametag. But back on track, we still have to figure out if we’re hiring you at all. Do you work well in a team?”

                                                      ---

 It’s been a few weeks. 

And yes, he hired them.

People aren’t exactly clamoring to work at Hatchetfield’s one toy store smack in the middle of a shopping mall, but he wasn’t going to tell them that. 

Supply and demand notwithstanding, Nyx is on the team now. They get along surprisingly well with Leх (actually, not that surprising. They seem to be someone who never grew out of their edgy teen phase anyway), and whenever they’re on break the two of them engage in spirited discussions about--

“No, I’m serious. You’ve got the vibe.”

“Dude, I’m a high school dropout. Aren’t they all, like, cheerleaders or prom queens or something?”

“What? No! Don’t you know your lore? In the real kitschy ones, cheerleaders and prom queens die first.”

Frаnk stops dead in his tracks. “What in the world are you two talking about?”

“Leх would be the final girl in a horror movie,” says Nyx. “She doesn’t believe me.”

“Have you met me?” protests the younger of the two cashiers. “I’d probably run right into the middle of some shitstorm of a situation and get myself decapitated or something because it was a panic response.”

Frank shrugs. “I’m with her on that one.”

Nyx scoffs. “You’re just petty because you’d be the first one to die, Frаnk. Actually, scratch that--” they stare at him for a few seconds with that weirdly intense gaze of theirs-- “second. Final response. You’d die second in a horror movie.”

“Man,” he says, shaking his head, “you really are a ray of sunshine, aren’t you?”

Leх pats Nyx on the back. “Damn straight.”

                                                       ---

bossdude: Can I ask you for a favor?

me: okay shoot

bossdude: Something came up. I’m not gonna be able to open on Sunday. You’re the oldest staff member I have, so consider yourself officially temporarily promoted.

me: whoa whoa whoa

dude 

you want ME to open

on SUNDAY

bossdude: It’s one day. You can handle it.

me: alright but don’t blame me if people are dissatisfied with my subpar customer service and lackluster welcoming skills

so dissatisfied that it translates into anger

and eventually a boycott

and eventually you won’t need to find sunday replacements

because our store will be only a fading memory  in the greater hatchetfield consciousness

why did you let me open on sunday?!? why?!?

bossdude: For the love of--

Always a ray of sunshine, aren’t you.

I’ll see if Leх or Alice can help out.

You type fast.

me: awwww, thanks

                                                      ---

Nyx groans, resting their head on the counter. “I did not get enough sleep last night. I’m dead tired.”

“Well, you better snap out of it,” he says. “We’re already down one pair of hands today because you insisted you’d work overtime if Leх took the day off to watch her sister.”

Nyx lifts their head. “Of course I did. Her sister’s got a fever. I may be weird and creepy and kind of mean sometimes, but I’m not a monster. Workers have to assist one another when the corporate millstone attempts to grind away our humanity.”

“Still a ray of sunshine, I see.” He sets down two coffee cups next to them on the counter. “Maybe this’ll help wake you up. I went across the street before you came in and picked them up. The one on the left’s yours.”

 They take a tentative sip. “Hey, a white chocolate mocha. How’d you know?”

“You were talking about getting one after work last week. I remember it since it seemed like a weird order for you--you know, with your everything.”

Nyx grins. It’s a small one, but somehow, it seems to light up the whole store. “What? I think it’s a perfectly reasonable drink for a ray of sunshine such as myself.”

With that smile, he thinks, they could almost live up to that nickname for real. 

He doesn’t say that out loud.

“Oh, and, um, thanks. For the drink, I mean. It was surprisingly generous of you.”

“No problem.”

                                                      ---

“Now that was what I call a successful day.” Frаnk places a hand over his heart in faux-affection. “I love rich kids’ birthdays.”

Nyx looks up from rearranging the cash register. “Little Jonathan is sure gonna be occupied for...uh, maybe two days, before he gets bored and starts asking for more stuff.”

“Nice to see you’re as much of a ray of sunshine as ever,” he says, and there’s something suspiciously like fondness tinging his voice.

“Well, it’s not that I’m not grateful for the bonus.” They slide the cash register shut. “I can finally treat myself to a ticket to that alien invasion movie I’ve been wanting to see.”

“Aliens. Why am I not surprised?”

“Oh, and I’m sure your taste in movies is so highbrow.”

“I never said that. I like alien movies. You know, I was also planning to go see that at some point. And, you know, I guess today is as good a day as any.”

He didn’t think that. He has no idea why he said that.

They raise their eyebrows. “Are you asking me on a date?”

WHAT.

“What?! No, I was just, you know, bringing up the fact that I like alien movies and I might see that one on my own time. Maybe today, maybe some other day--still vague. Still working out the details. You know how it is.”

“Ah. Now everything is much clearer,” deadpans Nyx.

“But you know, and I’m speaking from a business perspective here--seeing as we both want to see the same movie, and we both have free time and the means to see it today, it would be convenient for both of us if we...in a strictly platonic sense, here--if we saw it...together? Assuming we’d be paying for our own refreshments.”

“Well, how can I say no to such a captivating offer?” says Nyx with a shrug. “You’re paying for your own ticket, too, though.”

“Aww. Can I suggest--?”

“You cannot.”

                                                      ---

Frаnk enters the supply closet and confirms a long standing hypothesis of his. 

“If it weren’t for the hair, I wouldn’t have known you were in here.”

“The dark is my natural habitat. One day I will return there for good,” says Nyx without turning around.

“Sometimes I think you’re just screwing with me.”

“Yeah, that one was a joke,” they admit. They swivel around to face him. They’re sitting on a box. 

“Any particular reason why you’re in here and not, you know, doing your job?”

“Mrs. Monroe’s in again--she wanted me to check the back for one of those dinosaur puzzles. The longer I’m in here, the more time she thinks I’m dedicating to her request. And I just needed to take a breather.”

“I could issue a write up for that, you know.”

“Well, I could be looking for a puzzle and be taking a breather at the same time.”

“We don’t have any of those puzzles.”

They place a hand on their cheek in mock-surprise. “Oh, really? I wonder what I was taking so long for! I was sure a sold-out item would magically appear in the back once she asked about it!”

“I see you’re a ray of sunshine as usual today.”

They scoff. “Oh, you could have used that earlier. A single sarcastic comment is a waste of ‘ray of sunshine’ compared to the ‘I will return to the dark’ thing.”

“Didn’t you say that was a joke?”

“Well, yeah, but a purposeful one. I gave you the setup and everything. C’mon.”

“I’ll--I’ll do better next time?”

“Oh, how the tables have turned,” Nyx remarks.

                                                      ---

He calls Leх a ray of sunshine once and never again. 

It feels wrong coming out and only more wrong when Leх looks at him sideways. “Don’t call me that. It feels creepy.”

“Yeah, I’m...not doing that again.”

“You’re lucky Nyx wasn’t here to hear that,” says Leх as she organizes stuffed animals. “Might have made the whole thing lose its meaning.”

“What--there’s no meaning to it, and it’s not a whole thing.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” says Leх with a rare smile.

It’s more of a smirk, really. 

[apathycares]

Interlude

Chapter Summary: In this part, we breeze through the beginning and the end of Dio and Sandy's "tryst".

Warnings: Dio lol

Pairings: implied Dio x Sandy (OC), implied Jonathan x Sandy (OC)

[England, 1882, Joestar Mansion Ball]

Sandy Wilmarth jiggled the chain of tags on her wrist, wondering if she'd be able to dance with enough party-goers to fill them all up. Her tyrannical mother had finally relented and let her go with them, therefore she had to try her utmost to get as much dances as she could.

"You must not dance too often or too little, Miss Wilmarth." Her mother said as they exited the cloak room. "If you are unfortunate enough as to not get an invitation, inform me at once - I'll introduce you to some high caliber gentlemen."

Sandy strained her face to prevent herself from rolling her eyes. That was the only reason she wanted to fill up her cards, for her mother to shut up for once. High caliber men were hardly an interest to her.

"Also," her mother started when she received no response. "Mr. Joestar recently adopted a whelp off the streets, for charity I believe. He's a fair-haired boy, but he's still beneath us. His name is Dio Brando. I better not catch you entertaining him."

"But why?"

Mrs. Wilmarth walked off without a word, leaving Sandy in a huff of indignation. How was she supposed to ask for dances again? Having sailed through a couple books on ball etiquette the week leading up to tonight, she had yet to find how to invite someone to a dance.

'Should I wait for someone to approach me? What do I do till then?'

Her eyes traversed the room intently, noting her mother had dissolved into a gaggle of women already. Sandy began to walk aimlessly, in faux confidence, mulling on whether she should slip into the safety of the women off the dance floor like her mother had, or park herself near the refreshments. Was she allowed to drink anyways?

"Good evening Miss, shall I have the pleasure of dancing with you?”

Sandy turned around in a flurry of lace and tulle, unbelieving that the invitation was for her, only to find a gentleman assuming the perfect position according to her research - he stood at a proper distance, not too close yet not far enough to leave question to whom he was addressing. His body was bent gracefully, accompanied by a slight motion of the right hand towards her, but his eyes...they were respectful yes, but hardly good-natured.

His amber eyes were absolutely vicious, daring her to refuse.

Without dignifying him with a response, she placed a tag in his outstretched arm, a perfect picture of nonchalance. Sandy would not refuse him - she had a goal to meet - however, she would be damned if she let some boy run her over when he didn't even know her name.

While she was preoccupied ranting in her head, he had fished out a pen from his coat and scribbled down his name on the tag before handing it back to her to hold onto on her chain. The purpose of the chain of tags was to keep track of accepted invitations between sets. They had to wait for the current dance set to end. She expected him to leave her for now and ask any other attending ladies as well, but he merely stepped next to her and watched the dance.

"Is this your first dance?" Sandy asked, trying not to meet his eyes as the books recommended.

"What makes you say that?"

She furrowed her eyebrows. What a disagreeable man. "Most men wouldn't waste their time watching others dance, at least, according to my research."

"Oh? And what does your research claim?"

"You're supposed to either entertain your partner, or invite more ladies to dance." Sandy faced him this time, noting his arms behind his back and his face bent closer than what she anticipated, but she refused to cower and pull back. "You're green because you disregarded both practices."

"Well, however accurate that may be, you're wrong to assume that I'm like most men."

Just as Sandy started laughing at his gall, and his face fell at her audacity, another man had joined their little party. He assumed position immediately, ignoring her first partner's burning gaze as he stretched his arm out. "Hello, I'm Jonathan Joestar, will you favor me with your hand for this or the next dance?” Jonathan lowered himself a little more, awaiting her response.

Two invites before the set ended? Sandy was elated. But as she was fumbling with her tags, before she could say anything, her first partner walked off without a backwards glance.

"Hmph, you can have her, JoJo." Was his parting words.

Jonathan jumped to comfort her when he sees her confused expression. "Don't worry about him, Miss...?"

"Sandy..." she trailed off, watching where he disappeared to so she could follow him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Jonathan, but I accepted that gentleman first. Maybe, the next dance?"

"Y-yes, of course Sandy."

She smiled graciously, pulling out one of her tags for him to write his name. Jonathan pats around his pockets and coats for a moment, before pulling out a pen and sighing in relief. Sandy giggled a little as he wrote his name in a fluster. Replacing it back on her wrist, she curtsied. "I'll find you when I'm done."

"All right..."

With that, Sandy dives between the attendees, rushing to the hallway the man disappeared into. The orchestra were drawing to the end of their song, so if she wanted his dance, she needed to get him quickly.

A panicked running later, she finds him in a secluded study room, looking through the selection of books on the shelves. He turned towards her as she huffed, an irritated look marring his face.

"The next set is about to begin." She said.

He raised his eyebrow. "So?"

Sandy pulled herself together and sailed gracefully towards him, her cordial expression dropped into the hard look her mother would fuss about, and by the flicker in his amber eyes, the affect was still there. "So, does your invitation still stand?"

"You can dance with JoJo, don't bother with me."

"Oh, I will." She held back a scoff when his eyes practically thunder for a moment in indignation. "But you asked me first, and I accepted. Will you humble me with a dance -" She pulls up her wrist and searches for his tag. "...Dio Brando?"

Dio smirked, approaching her languidly after slipping his book back in its place. "You seem to be overly interested in me, girl. I'm beginning to question your intentions..."

Now, she scoffed. "It doesn't concern me if you do, but if it matters, it's my first ball and I would like to dance as much as I can."

"Hmm." His smirk widened.

They could hear the customary applause for the orchestra, indicating the end of the set, and this further prompted her to lift her skirts, ready to leave at a moment's notice. Dio made no sign of moving, so Sandy did what her manners allowed her to do. She curtsied and left him be. To her surprise, she felt a hand on hers, and turned to see him watching her hawkishly.

"Perhaps one dance won't hurt." He admonished, his lip twitching when she intertwined their fingers coolly. "You seem to be pretty stubborn, woman."

"My name is Sandy." She shot him a look clearly warning him to quit calling her anything but. "We better hurry, Mr. Brando."

With that, she tugged him out of the room and then down the hall, but as they slipped into the people, he spun her around dramatically and guided them into position, expertly avoiding clashing into the other couples. He smirked boyishly when she blinked.

The orchestra broke into song once again, and the ballroom thralled into life. Couples swayed around them in a blur of skirts and coattails under the shimmering lights, forcing each other into one position after another, while Dio somehow managed to hold their space and pull her away before someone caught her skirt under their shoe. He was an extremely good dancer, she concluded.

"You're competent enough." He said.

"Am I now? It seems like you're doing most of the work."

Dio chuckled, spinning her like it was a reward for her admission. "I meant as a follower. It takes two to dance, one should be willing to follow for it to work well, don't you think?"

"Appears so."

"Would you say you're a follower, Sandy?"

"Not entirely."

"Do you not wish to converse with me during this dance?"

Sandy finally raised her head, meeting his eyes. "You didn't give me a chance to respond properly yet."

"You sounded like you were done speaking though." Dio pointed out, searching her eyes in the meantime as she seemingly struggled to find her words. "Your eyes are entrancing. What is this colour called? Green with a burst of brown and gold?"

"It's hazel, did you see what I did there?" Sandy grinned when he raised a brow. "It's a psychological trick. You keep quiet for a bit and the other person'll scramble to fill the silence. The interesting point about it is that it's usually honest thoughts."

Dio's jaw slackened a little.

"Neat huh? I read that somewhere and thought I'd try it on you." She giggled as his eyes narrowed and his steps sharpened. "Tell me, Mr. Brando, would you consider me a follower?"

"Hmph, you're bloody stubborn." Dio pulled her closer, riding the fine line between appropriate and blasphemous teasingly. "In this dance, you're a follower. I wouldn't say your inherent nature is though."

"That means we won't get along at all. What a shame."

"....what makes you say that?"

She was very nearly relaxed in his arms. "You're the type to always take initiative, aren't you? You're a leader by nature too." Dio perked up at this. "Although, I don't agree with your position. I can understand it, but I can't agree."

"Why not, my dear?"

"You need to be able to let go to live a peaceful life."

Something stirred a little in his chest at her words. For the first time that night, Dio looked at her. Her face was bare of any unnecessary expression, a picture of perfect mystery, her entire air left him both comfortable and on edge - how that was possible, added more to her enigma.

"I'll save you for now," Sandy smiled when his expression became defensive. "I just realized something - are you the one who moved in with the Joestars?"

Dio's eyes flared at the name, his last fight with Jonathan still fresh in his mind. "What of it?"

Sandy lifted the hand resting on his shoulder blade and patted him a little. "It was a curious question, I didn't mean anything by it."

The remainder of the dance was spent in silence. Sandy wasn't sure if Dio was pouting, or had gotten bored of her, but she tried not to let it bother her. The night was still young, and she had a goal to accomplish. Her mother was watching her across the room too, and from her glowering, she wasn't going to hear the end of her 'indiscretions' later. Might as well milk this evening for everything it was worth then.

The song came to an end, and Sandy parted with him for a moment to clap for the orchestra. Despite how it concluded, it was fun.

"Are you engaged with anyone after JoJo?" Dio broke their mutual silence, grudgingly joining the applause as well. She looked up at him, but he made it a point to stare at the couple in front of them instead.

"No, I'm not."

"Perfect."

Dio caught her wrist and lifted up to eye level, startling her out of her carefully crafted mask, before he leafed through her tags and scribbled his name on the one after Jonathan with his pen. Before she could say anything, he bowed graciously and kissed her knuckles.

"I must repay you for this by finding you in return. I'll see you after your dance with JoJo. Try not to get too tired by then?"

Sandy curtsied with a gracious nod, before pulling away, leaving him to sink into the crowd.

That night, after her dance with Jonathan Joestar, he did make good on his promise and whisked her away right after the applause. Something worth noting however was that following another interesting conversation and being a follower once again, she danced with Dio Brando five more times. When one set ended, he would write his name again and ask if she was tired as the couples around them clapped. She'd say she wasn't and he'd smirk smugly and start up another topic regardless of whether the dance started or not. Their time together traversed from peculiar, to hilarious, and then downright addictive. If it weren't for her mother stepping in and saying they ought to leave at once, they probably would've continued to dance all night.

100 years later, knowing what he knew now, Dio would like to think that if he had one more dance, one more soulful conversation, she would've fallen in love with him too. Maybe, with a bit more coaxing and time, she wouldn't have rejected him. He abandoned his humanity and pursued his hunger to rule. First, he wanted to rule Jonathan, then came his kin, then, when his stand ability awakened, he wanted to touch Heaven. On and on he continued to find something he could take for himself. His life could've ended peacefully, but his drive to be a leader was his downfall.

Fifty or so years before that, knowing what she knew now, Sandy would've gone about her life differently. She probably wouldn't have died as she held her granddaughter between her arms, waiting for her to fall asleep on her and husband's bed. The thought of him coming home and raping her as usual, screaming about her dropping so low as to hide behind Sunny when the young girl only sought her out because she couldn't sleep, pushed her past her emotional limits. Knowing that her children and grandchild would never know why she died suddenly and continued to love that man as their patriarch was what mattered. He'd always been a good father anyways. Her life could've ended peacefully, but her stubbornness was her downfall.

Hi, thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.This is a (multi!)OC x (multi!)JoJo characters story that follows the lives of the Joestars and their near miss soulmates, whom all belong to one lineage. I’ve decided to post the recent chapter here, but you can find the rest on AO3.

Summary: "You fall in love with them quickly, almost magically." Joseph says, grimacing as he pulls out a yellowing postcard from his pocket. Jotaro watches him unfold it gently, as if it would fall apart, and he stops himself from saying it was long on its way to - with all the creases it had. The older man's eyes sullen, as he reads the beautiful message half written in Italian for the nth time.

"What the hell are you talking about jiji?"

"It's not called a curse because you fall in love with them." Joseph raises the postcard to his grandson's eyes, whom is so struck with shock, snatches it aggressively. The image behind the words is of a girl nearly identical to his crush.

"It's called a curse because they always break your heart."

Stay tuned~

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[v-thinks-on]

Into the Time Slip: A Second Chance

Day 13 (Part 1) of Holmes for the Holidays

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Today’s Prompt: Sherlock Holmes stuck in a time loop (from hold.my.coat)

Note: I liked this prompt so much, I ended up  writing two responses. This first one doesn’t fit the prompt quite as well, but I’ve been rereading the Sherlock Holmes stories and recently read Sign of the Four, and I have some thoughts on it.

“The division seems rather unfair,” Watson remarked. “You have done all the work in this business. I get a wife out of it, Jones gets the credit, pray what remains for you?”

“For me,” said Sherlock Holmes, “there still remains the cocaine-bottle.” And he stretched his hand up for it.

Holmes took his bottle from the corner of the mantel-piece and his hypodermic syringe from its neat morocco case. With his long, white, nervous fingers he adjusted the delicate needle, and rolled back his left shirt-cuff. For some little time his eyes rested thoughtfully upon the sinewy forearm and wrist all dotted and scarred with innumerable puncture-marks. Finally he thrust the sharp point home, pressed down the tiny piston, and sank back into the velvet-lined arm-chair with a long sigh of satisfaction.

“Which is it today?” Watson asked, startling Holmes’s attention away from the old black-letter volume which he had opened as the drug surged through his system. “Morphine or cocaine?”

“Cocaine,” Holmes repeated himself with some impatience.

Watson hesitated before abruptly protesting, “Surely the game is hardly worth the candle. Why should you, for a mere passing pleasure, risk the loss of those great powers with which you have been endowed?”

“You have done everything in your power to extricate yourself from the matter. I would say it is no longer in your hands.”

“No longer in my hands?” Watson demanded. “Whatever gave you that impression?”

Holmes waved it off, though he was truly touched by Watson’s fervor. “You say that now, but a married man has other more pressing duties than to an old friend.”

“My dear Holmes,” Watson exclaimed, “I fear the drug has addled your brain. What talk has there been of marriage?”

“It is a cruel trick you are playing, Watson, for I know you are a man of your word and would not have lied about your engagement to the lovely Miss Morstan.”

“Who?” Watson asked, now on his feet to examine Holmes properly. His concern could not have been mistaken for anything but genuine.

“I assure you, the lady is not my invention,” Holmes said, smiling at the absurdity of it all. A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, each more impossible than the last.

Watson’s concern showed no signs of abating.

“At ease, Doctor,” Holmes said with a dismissive wave.

At last, Watson settled back in his chair, though his eyes did not leave Holmes. Holmes, for his part, found he didn’t mind the attention, perplexing as it was.

He was just turning the peculiar puzzle over in his head when his thoughts were interrupted. “Aha! If I am not mistaken, that is the lady herself ascending upon the stair!”

Sure enough, Mrs. Hudson stepped inside, bearing the card of Miss Mary Morstan.

“Come to see Dr. Watson, no doubt,” Holmes said with a sideways glance at the doctor, though he could not deny that she had gone about visiting her intended in a strangely formal way.

“I have come to you, Mr. Holmes,” she said, “because you once enabled my employer, Mrs. Cecil Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by your kindness and skill.”

It was impossible, and yet, there was the very evidence before him. He could only confirm, “You come on account of a letter, received this morning, inviting you to meet an unknown friend at the Lyceum this evening at seven o’clock?”

She gasped. “How? How could you know?”

“Watson, I fear I have been most unjust to you,” Holmes murmured. “Could you do me the favor of reading the date off of today’s paper?”

He did so and it confirmed Holmes’s most irrational suspicion and then some.

“I fear I am a day off,” Holmes said, again perhaps more to himself than either person in the room. He could feel Watson watching him with the fear of seeing someone go mad.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Morstan said, “Have I arrived at a bad time?”

Before Watson could confirm it, Holmes silenced him with a wave and turned to the lady. “My apologies for my irregular behavior. You could not have come at a better time; your arrival has resolved a small dispute between my friend and I, and I am afraid I was in the wrong, rather more than I expected. I would not miss your case for the world, but I request that you entrust it fully in my hands.”

“What do you propose?” the lady asked with the guarded air of someone who does not know what is going on, but does not trust it.

“By a rather odd coincidence, I have come by some knowledge of the case which you present and I have a good reason to believe that I know the identity of the man who sent you that mysterious letter, as well as the pearls that preceded it.”

“How on Earth?”

He waved off the question. “Unfortunately, that I am unable to say. However, I find myself in an ideal position for providing the advice you seek. Allow me to contact your mysterious correspondent. I believe he will need to postpone your meeting, but that it would be to your great advantage to see him when he is available, and my friend and I would be happy to accompany you.”

She hesitated, but at last she said, “Very well, if you know of the matter I suppose it is best to leave it in your hands.”

“Excellent. I expect you will hear from your correspondent tomorrow if not today.”

After the lady had taken her leave, Watson turned to Holmes and asked, “Are you certain you are quite alright?”

“In truth, Watson, I am half convinced I must be dreaming. However, that is a poor presumption to act upon, and so far everything seems to line up precisely.” He gestured for Watson to hold his peace. “There is much that still needs to be done, and if I am correct, a man’s life hangs in the balance, as well as our fair visitor’s fortune. When it is done, then I will have a clean breast of it and you can send me off to the madhouse if you believe it is warranted-”

“My dear Holmes!” Watson exclaimed.

Holmes forged on with a shake of his head, “Until then, I ask that you trust in my decisions and make no hasty decisions, especially not on the matter of marriage.”

“Certainly.”

“Now, we must make for Pondicherry Lodge with due haste.”

Only after it was all done; Jonathan Small apprehended for the attempted burglary of Mr.  Bartholomew Sholto, the story of the Sign of Four revealed, and the Agra treasure divided between the Sholtos and the worthy lady, did Holmes face Watson by the fireside of their Baker Street flat.

“I owe you an apology, my dear Watson,” Holmes said softly, as though he was not quite sure he wanted the words to be heard. “You have been most unfairly treated.”

Watson appeared startled. “I have been concerned,” he admitted, “But not mistreated.”

“For some time now, I fear I have been rather trying on your patience. I saw it, but I did not observe, did not heed your distress. I did not realize how serious it was until” - Holmes hesitated - “You may think me quite mad.”

“I would hope you would reconsider your use of the needle after whatever has occurred, but I fear that somehow you have been right in nearly every particular. Did you have some warning?”

“In a sense,” Holmes said with a wry smile. “When we spoke the other morning, when I was so disoriented as to think you had left me for a wife, I truly recalled that you had. I recall it still. It seems as though it must have been a few days ago, though the date was the same. We were disputing over some ill chosen words of mine when Miss Morstan arrived and presented her case. We accompanied her to the Lyceum Theater at 7 o’clock, and were brought to the home of Mr. Thaddeus Sholto who told us the incredible tale of which you are now aware. With him, we went to Pondicherry lodge, only to find his brother dead, murdered by Mr. Small’s peculiar friend. As I investigated the murder of Mr. Sholto, it appears you fell in love with Miss Morstan and her with you. Mr. Small dumped the treasure into the Thames, leaving you free to ask the lady for her hand, and she accepted. And so, I was left to my cocaine-bottle until it appears it had not yet occurred.”

“Why, it must have been a dream!” Watson exclaimed. “And yet, you were not wrong in a single particular. I confess I do find Miss Morstan attractive, though I have been rather preoccupied with your condition.”

“My apologies for losing you a bride - for it can only be on account of my altered behavior that you are not now engaged.”

Watson waved it off. “She is much better off with her treasure than an old army doctor.”

“And yet, I find that I do not envy her nearly as much now that treasure is all she has. I am certain she make a most eligible bride,” Holmes amended with a wave, “but I assure you, Watson, you would have been most dearly missed.”

“My blushes, Holmes!”

“Having deprived you of a wife, it is only fair that I do what I can to make it up to you. You have never yet recognized my merits as a housekeeper.”

[anhed-nia]

THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS

When my concerned parents faced the early and unpleasant realization that they were raising a ravenous little horror hound, it meant that they had to somehow split the difference between their strict curbing of my potentially mid-warping viewing habits, and their principled encouragement of unfettered reading. That must be how I came into possession of a copy of Thomas Harris' harrowing police procedural The Silence of the Lambs at the tender age of 10, even as the film adaptation was being touted by many viewers as The Scariest Movie of All Time. I carried that book around like the Bible well into my teenage years, reading and re-reading it with even greater fervor after my parents finally decided that the film was sophisticated enough for me to watch without it turning me into some kind of animal-torturing arsonist. (Said screening was chaperoned and accompanied by an academic post-viewing family discussion, of course) The decision seemed to make sense; after all, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS had swept the Oscars the year it was released, scooping up wins for Best Director, Best Actor, Best Actress, Best Adapted Screenplay, and Best Picture. This is not to say that my intellectual and art-appreciating family regarded the Academy as the ultimate arbiters of taste and achievement. I mention these accolades more to point out that, as my parents had surely noticed, the film holds a certain power over viewers on both sides of the high-low cultural divide, a spell that has hardly weakened in its twenty-seven years of life.

As a child, I certainly responded to the same things that piqued the general public: Anthony Hopkins' iconic performance as Hannibal "The Cannibal" Lecter, his ambiguous romance with purehearted FBI trainee Clarice Starling, and the controversial perversity of serial killer Buffalo Bill. Though the story shares the influence of real-life ghoul Ed Gein with classic shockers like PSYCHO and THE TEXAS CHAIN SAW MASSACRE, the impact of SILENCE is more akin to that of DRACULA. Much of the enduring discussion about the film revolves around the tantalizing chemistry between the preternaturally elegant Dr. Lecter and the virginal Starling; the rest is somewhat unfortunately focused on Ted Levine's eccentric performance as the (pseudo-) transsexual murderer at large, which has come under some understandable scrutiny. However, it would be unjust to reduce Jonathan Demme's movie to a gothic romance, or a gory shocker, or a campy cult item with ironic eroticism and a great soundtrack. There simply have to be better reasons for a movie to stick around this long, lingering in the minds of stuffy critics and the hoi polloi alike.

In preparing my statements about what makes THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS stand out, I learned something very shocking: It began its life as the directorial project of Gene Hackman. Hackman eventually dropped out when the script produced by (Oscar-winner) Ted Tally turned out to be too violent. Prospective Starlings like Michelle Pfeiffer and Meg Ryan were similarly disgusted, so Demme got stuck with a less likely candidate in (Oscar-winner) Jodie Foster. Personally, I find (Oscar-winner) Demme himself to be an unlikely candidate. The director cut his teeth on exploitation movies under Roger Corman, and by the time of SILENCE, had distinguished himself as a hipster extraordinaire, directing classic performance videos for the Talking Heads and Spaulding Gray, as well as chic comedies speckled with cameos from the likes of John Waters, and underground music firebrands from New York's new wave scene. Time would prove that Demme and his frequent collaborator, cinematographer Tak Fujimoto, were perfect choices for this grim project, which only supports the idea that there is something more happening with SILENCE OF THE LAMBS than its gruesome violence and epic sexual tension.

In light of these more famous elements, one might expect an adaptation of Thomas Harris' grim and seductive novel to be grandiose, expressionistic, swathed in a dense physical and emotional mist, rumbling with its own pomp and circumstance. An orphan from the hills of West Virginia, Clarice Starling is a tragic hero from the start, guarding her broken heart against a world of condescending and hostile men. Her mentor Jack Crawford seems to distinguish himself from the herd by assigning her the ambitious task of interviewing notorious serial killer Hannibal Lecter for the FBI's files--but in fact, Crawford is counting on Starling's feminine charms and naivety, secretly using her to manipulate Lecter into profiling a killer at large, Buffalo Bill. In spite of this nasty revelation, Starling sticks with it, suffering Lecter's high-minded insults and penetrative analysis of her character, and eventually earning his admiration. She proves herself not only brave and determined, but a detective of unparalleled wit and instinct, single-handedly taking down the polymorphously perverse Buffalo Bill in his moth-filled subterranean lair, rescuing a high-profile victim where the entire rest of the Federal Bureau of Investigation have failed.

This all seems to portend a bigger, louder movie than what has been committed to film. However, the book has a certain organic grit to it, something honest, downbeat and tragically real, which Demme and Fujimoto grasp instinctively. The film provides a dry, frank view of the life of Clarice Starling: the toil of academia, the drudgery of physical conditioning, the undermining attitudes of her mostly-male peers. Shot in West Virginia and Pennsylvania, Starling's world is bleak and desolate, but earnestly so, without the pageantry of the film noir and Universal horror movies with which it is so easily compared. Demme's education under B-movie king Corman shows here, and makes for a much more compelling iteration of the story than we might have from someone less accustomed to economy. While SILENCE has developed a reputation for its brutality, the film is not remotely so gore-drenched as many traumatized viewers would have you believe. That said, it may be the film's generally stark and desicated look, its workaday-ness, and its endless (wonderful) dialogic exchanges that throw into relief its comparatively minimal violence, which usually appears not in scenes of assault, but in crime scene photos or autopsy scenes.

The blanched, dreary look of the film also offsets the emotional plight of Clarice Starling. She is afforded no real romance, external or internal. The petite and clear-eyed orphan is visibly used to, and exhausted by, the constant need to look out for herself, and SILENCE will see her shuffled from one humiliating personal trial to the next. She is led into a perilous situation by a mentor who pretends to respect her abilities, but who really counts on her to fall short of discovering his scam; She is trapped in roomfuls of macho cops who scarcely acknowledge her; She has to negotiate the sexual attention of evidence technicians and bureaucrats; She even has semen flung at her by a particularly rambunctious neighbor of Lecter's. (And how often do you see that in any movie? As gross as it is, it has a way of reinforcing the extreme adult-ness of Demme's often dry, methodical movie) And then of course, there is Lecter himself, who turns Starling's personal vulnerability into a form of currency with which she can buy the scant clues that lead her to her quarry. Instead of eroticizing the anomalous femininity that Starling brings to the traditionally masculine world of law enforcement, Demme constantly reminds you of her fear, her embarrassment, her alienation. One can also imagine the temptation to Ripley-fy the character, presenting her as a fully-formed badass not to be fucked with. Instead, by eschewing both these femme and fatale modes, Demme describes Clarice Starling as three-dimensional human being whose heroism is extremely hard-won. While the character is undeniably one of the great Strong Female Protagonists, Jodie Foster's performance somehow defies the cinematic semiotics of gender altogether, giving us a person whose most important qualities are purely psychological. Tak Fujimoto drives the point home by frequently filling the screen with closeups of her face, focusing us on what she thinks and says, taking the proverbial heat off her body. Even as Lecter probes her for painful biographical information, Starling's sexuality remains entirely private--still a rare thing in any movie with a lady lead.

I don't mean to suggest that THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS is principally successful because of its plucky girl detective--that contributes to its greatness, but not in the feminist fashion that I seem to be angling for. I am reviewing this movie presently because I recently found myself looking back on my own history with it, comparing my feelings with those of popular audiences, and thinking, "What is The Silence of the Lambs really about?" It can't be so beloved *only* due to the sexy slow burn between Anthony Hopkins' Count Dracula and Jodie Foster's Mina Harker. It can't be *just* a matter of the exotic insanity of the gender-bending madman sewing together the flesh of his victims and dancing provocatively to "Goodbye Horses" by Q Lazzarus (a sadly mysterious musician who Demme certainly knew from his involvement in the New York underground). All of these characters, and their respective dynamics, contribute to the important thrill of this movie, but not in the way that most people seem to think.

Rather like the director's earlier work with iconoclastic punk icons and indie auteurs, THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS is about authenticity. Hannibal Lecter, the unparalleled genius whose culinary expertise is part of his murderous MO, is a serial killer because he has such refined taste and decorum that he cannot live peaceably among other people. He favors victims whom he perceives as tacky, pretentious and impertinent--Starling knows that he would never harm her because, as she famously remarks, "He would consider it rude." Lecter is fascinated, not by her youthful beauty as Crawford had hoped, but by her sincerity. Starling is brilliantly intelligent in her own right, as she proves through her police work, but she doesn't have an ironic bone in her body. She is the most unpretentious individual alive, and nothing could be more interesting to Lecter, who preys upon people who are untrue to others and to themselves. Meanwhile, we have Buffalo Bill, who is attempting to change his sex by crafting a full-body "woman suit"--but, as Lecter insists, the killer is not a "true transsexual" whose legitimate identity is that of the opposite sex. Buffalo Bill is someone who was reared by his abusive parents to hate himself so much, that he is compelled to escape his natural identity; becoming a woman is less important as a matter of self-actualization, than as a means of becoming an entirely different person, *any* different person. He has been so radically alienated from his own essence by this self-loathing, that he is incapable of authenticity of any kind.

That, I really think, is the secret power of THE SILENCE OF THE LAMBS: the at-once satanic and profoundly innocent declaration, "to thine own self be true". I would really love to get into a deeper dive on this movie at some point, to discuss what I think must have been the very best and very last time that Anthony Hopkins gave us a fearless and unpredictable (and in this case, somewhat hilarious) performance; to insist that Ted Levine as Buffalo Bill and Brooke Smith as his would-be victim actually give the best performances in the whole movie; to talk about the problem of the Ubiquitous Daddy Figure (of whom there are no fewer than THREE in this movie) in so many narratives about powerful women; to simply analyze the movie's sly psychological techniques, like fully humanizing Brooke Smith *just* by showing her singing a few bars of a beloved pop song in closeup, immediately before her fate takes a disastrous turn. (I would probably not take such an opportunity to investigate accusations of homophobia and transphobia, which requires a smarter and more directly experienced voice than my own) There is really a lot to say about why SILENCE is so powerful, without even threatening to address its most famous features. Unfortunately, I don't have the gumption or the madness to commit all that to Letterboxd at the moment, so I'll have to be satisfied with my primary conclusion: That the film's simplicity and gritty naturalism mirror its commitment to spiritual purity, honesty, and self-knowledge at all costs. Even at the high cost of wearing a muzzle, any time they let you out of your cage.

[comicbookuniversity]

Ten Thoughts on Avengers: Infinity War

I’m writing this the day after my second viewing, but by the time you’re seeing this, I’m hoping the majority of you have seen this.

So if you haven’t seen it yet, SPOILERS.

1. This was easily one of Marvel’s better films. The scale of it all could have easily collapsed this into a mess, but McFeely, Markus, and the Russo Brothers kept this film moving along at an exciting and steady pace that built into an intense climax- insert sex pun. I loved this film and loved it more the second time around. I don’t think it was as good as Black Panther or Civil War, but neither of those films operate in the same way as this one. This film was a rollercoaster experience, and a fantastic one. I think this film has to be judged in a different manner, because even Black Panther and Civil War still operate by relatively conventional film standars. Infinity War is a different beast; one must be fluent in the language and conventions of the MCU to really understand it. There has never been another film quite like this; the closest examples don’t operate on the same scale. Never has it been more true to think of the MCU as the world’s biggest and most expensive TV show than it is when you’re watching Infinity War. I will need more time to think upon where it lands on my list of Best Marvel films.

2. Between this film and Ragnarok, Marvel has made an excellent case for Thor traveling around the stars in a similar to the Guardians of the Galaxy. I would love to see Thor and Valkyrie gather up a crew and bring the fight to whatever cosmic asshole is trying to threaten the innocents of the universe. They should be called the Thor Corps. I am surprised at how Thor had somehow become the protagonist after Thanos, if you don’t want to consider the bad guy the protagonist, even though he functionally is whether you like it or not. Until Ragnarok, Thor had been more muscle than heart, and when you consider how much more focus and success has been built out of the characters of and the relationship between Tony Stark and Steve Rogers, its surprising to think that Thor would be given so much screentime. It makes sense that he is the Avenger with the best chance of actually beating Thanos in single combat, but you don’t build stories around military tactics- you build them around emotional journeys. Thor has lost nearly everything, whereas Steve and Tony still have more to lose. When that is considered, it makes sense to focus on the building rage of a god while you build towards the ultimate loss of the great leaders of men. And Thor with his new hammer was freaking great.

3. I’ve seen a few critics argue that there were few characters arcs and that humor was used as a substitue. Plenty of great comedies have used humor as character work, and I think Infinity War also substantively used humor to efficently establish and advance character development in between the dramatic moments of the film from wherever the last time we saw them. This film had so many moving pieces to balance and it did so artfully.

4. Dr. Strange might have jumped significantly higher up my list of favorites thanks to Cumberbatch’s effective performance and the incredible fight sequences the movie utilized him in. Holy crap, you guys, Dr. Strange was fucking awesome in this film. Speaking of the weilder of the Time Stone, I decided to rewatch the Dr. Strange film the next night, and something occurred to me. I’m still debating whether this is just a common factor or a deciding influence, but I looked up the run times to all the Marvel films and had my hypothesis mostly confirmed. Generally speaking, the longer over 2 hours (including credits) the film goes, the better it has been recieved both financially and critically. This makes sense, because Marvel has even more time to develop all the relationships between characters; and the greater we are invested in these relationships, the greater the payoff. I think the Dr. Strange film would have been better if it had an extra 10-15 minutes to develop all the relationships at Kamar-Taj and a little extra for Rachel McAdams. I say only a little for McAdams, because I don’t think the film really needed that much more time in that arc since it was about him leaving her and the world she represents. My larger point is that Marvel should embrace two hours as the new minimum for their films.

5. Thanos is definitely one of Marvel’s better villains and that’s largely thanks to the brillaint performance of Josh Brolin, who commits to seeing and bringing the vulnerbility under all of Thanos’ power and evil plan. He’s still not Marvel’s greatest villain as that honor belongs to Killmonger, who will likely hold the honor until the next Black Panther film. Despite Thanos’ plan, Brolin, the writers, and directors of the film really give him certain amount of sympathy in seeing his commitment to his cause and the fear that ultimately drives him to act as he does. And it is fear that ultimately drives Thanos to act, because he sees the injustice in Life’s capacity for growth at the expense of the living. Thanos is someone who cannot and will not accept that Life is unjust and rages against this existintial condition with all his strength, and by the end of the film, the strength of the universe itself. But despite the great work of Brolin, what really helps Thanos is the sheer amount of screentime that the studio was willing to give him. With so many characters, many of of whom anchor their own franchises, it makes sense center the film on the least well-known character and force others to react to them, because it’s not about them in this moment. It’s all about their lives being interupted and forced to react to this almost natural disaster like situation, where winning doesn’t feel like an option and losing less feels like the only prudent mindset to have. Against the threat of Thanos, the superheroes are reminded of their own vulnerablity and mortality, and they feel more human than ever in this dark moment.

6. As introduced by Jonathan Hickman, my favorite members of the Black Order were Corvus Glaive and Proxima Midnight; look they all had wonderful names, Black Dwarf, Supergiant, Ebony Maw, and then they had the other name for their group- The Cull Obsidian. Damn those are wonderful freaking names, so I’m a little disappointed that the members of the Black Order didn’t even get named, outside of Thanos’ passing reference to Ebony Maw simply as “The Maw.” Also, this Ebony Maw has a different power set than his comic counterpart, but damn was he great; easily the creepiest and best member of the Black Order. Black Dwarf did have a weapon that kept changing into different modes that I thought was awesome. I wasn’t ever expecting them to be big and I was never certain if they would last beyond this film, but would it have added that much time for the Black Order to have gotten called by their names?

7. I thought Vision would have recieved a more significant arc in this than he did; Peter Quill did and all he did was lose his girlfriend, whereas Vision litterally has an Infinity Stone in his head and is willing to sacrafice his life to destory it. Vision spent most of his time being stabbed instead of being a hero. He would have made a good point of contrast to Doctor Strange; they’re each the weilders of Infinity Stones, but have radically different ideas of how deal with the stones when presented with the threat of Thanos. I guess it makes a certain amount of sense, due to the fact that he he is a Thor class fighter and that he hasn’t had much of a chance to develop as a character. To me, Vision is a low-key Superman figure of the MCU (or more accurately Martian Manhunter in direct compairson, but he’s just a more stoic version of Superman), and he suffers from the projections of Superman as tedious and boring figure being placed upon him. I think Vision suffers from the same problem that Star Trek does when compared to Star Wars; instead of treating the intellectual and philosophical pursuits with respect and excitement, the filmmakers assume that the audience is going to find it boring and treat it as boring instead of finding away to actually make it exciting. I think the best examples of the superhero genre are essentailly philosophical and ethical works that present the issues in a dynamic, colorful, and charming story, but because of what can be best called an attitude of anti-intellectualism based from ignorance, rather than something worse, the philosophy is often overlooked in favor of the simpler steps that would tie the character arcs and themes to larger philosophical concerns. I know it is not the most well liked of the MCU, but Vision’s scenes in Age of Ultron are some of the most earnestly poignant on the fragile beauty and duty of and to life itself. And these scenes also speak pretty directly to the core of Avengers philosophy, which has now been summed into a single line thanks to this film: “We don’t trade lives.” I just think Marvel missed an oppurtunity to really sell Vision as being more than a secondary figure and someone who is a product of the moral core of the MCU.

8. Considering how thoroughly representative of nearly every tone and narrative aspect of the MCU this film is, it only serves to highlight how underrepresented women and people of color are in the MCU. None of the Avengers or other characters who would typically hold franchises of their own are given nearly the same amount of screentime or material to work with in this film, because of it’s epic scope and the relatively simple nature of the conflict; but that being said, the women of the MCU are still given very little to do overall. They are supporting players while the men are off leading the charge or creating strategy that determines the fates of hundreds of trillions. The first person to die on screen is a black man, and there’s only one black man who is in a real position of power. Marvel still has trouble of thinking beyond America’s history of slavery and a segregated citizenery with African-Americans to see America’s other troubled relationships with national, ethnic, and religous groups and also give them some kind of positive representation. The only woman or person of color given a significant role similar to the signifcane of say Iron Man or Dr. Strange fighting Thanos on Titan is Scarlet Witch. This is a film where Scarlet Witch really gets to unleash her full power, and it’s seen in a tragic moment of where she is forced to kill her lover for the sake of the universe while holding back a nearly omnipotent being who defeated the Sorcerer Supreme just moments ago. Before I go on with this analysis, HOLY CRAP that’s kinda crazy to think how powerful she must really be, so I 1000% agree with Okoye when she asked why Scarlet Witch was not on the field of battle the whole time in Wakanda. Like, damn, she must be so powerful, so can we please get a film where Elizabeth Olsen is given more to do than play rookie and wear a sexy corest? And while there admittedly is a certain value to seeing her power arise from her love to Vision in this tragic moment, the fact that we have seen so very little of Wanda compared to her many male peers and her moment of great power is defined in part by her romantic relationship is not the most progressive choice. Had we had more time with Wanda in previous films, I don’t think I would find this choice as anything other than a sad moment in a star-crossed relationship, but because she has had so little time by comparison (and even without comparison) to her male counterparts this moment loses a little bit of the power it could have had as a symbol of female power equaling male power.

9. I’ve seen a few people complain about how the drama and value of the deaths of half the universe is undercut by the knowledge that these characters will be back in their own films within the next year or two. But I call bullshit on this complaint because it is based in cynicism and ignorance. There are three parts to this complaint: the first two problems are tied together in that the characters don’t know they’re going to come back, so if the film had botched its execution of setting up the emotional beats in this film to continue and progress our attachment to the characters, then it would have all fallen apart. But the film didn’t botch it, every line and edit is proposeful and effective in engaging and reminding us of why we love these characters in the first place, so since the film was executed well, we can sympathize and empathize with the characters in their sadness and shock at all these deaths. Second, even if we didn’t know from announcements made by Marvel or somehow guess from Marvel’s previous works that these characters would be coming back, the film establishes that its not over. Dr. Strange clearly knows what is going to happen (or at least something extremely close to the victory he searched for in all the possible futures). And even if Dr. Strange didn’t know, do we really believe these characters who we just watched try so valiently to fight Thanos from achieving his goal would allow him to go unpunished for his crime? Let’s assume for a split secon that there is not some way to fix what Thanos did, do we really believe that the film would spend so much time on all these different characters for it to just end on the one guy sitting on a hill when all their emotional threads are just left unfinished? The answer to all of these scenarios is no. There was never a version of this film that was a single part or the final film; this is clearly the first half of a story, so the audience value of all the deaths comes from thinking about and then later finding out how it all be fixed to as much as the heroes can fix it. People who compalin about the deaths as having no value or drama are just being babies about having to wait.

10. After having seen this twice and considering how well Marvel has been doing since the release of Civil War, I really think Marvel has found it’s groove and I am so excited for the future. While I would understand if they want time to do other projects, I would hope that the Russo Brothers, Stephen McFeely, and Christopher Markus always have one hand on driving the MCU. Feige has been there since the begining, but I feel like working with these four has really helped him focus overall and loosen his grip to trust the filmmakers he hires to execute their visions within the MCU. Gunn, Watts, Waititi, and Coogler all breathed new life into Marvel with their style and emotional honesty, and it’s this trend Marvel should continue to follow if they want to keep their success going. Infinity War is representative of many of the best elements of Marvel, and everyone involed in it should be proud of the work they’ve accomplished with it. That being said, Marvel still has progress that needs to be made, and it looks like it is going to be able to effectively do this by closing one chapter of the MCU and starting the next. I am so very excited for the journey we’ve all got ahead of us.

[thedeviljudges]

I’m lowkey obsessed with the idea of one of the kids admitting to Steve they’re scared they’re gay and they’re really frightened about it and scared he’s gonna hate them and everyone will too and they haven’t told anyone else and Steve has never told anyone he likes boys before and he’s kinda like “me too” and they’re just like “what?” And he’s like “I think I like boys so I get it okay?” And it’s makes which ever kid lol feel so much better because Steve is so cool and he gets it

uhmm okay so i attempted this and well, i hope it’s okay!!! i chose will out of them all because i feel like he’s the go-to??? also cuz it seems to make sense. i hope this is okay. <3

The porch is not the most ideal place for life contemplation, Steve thinks, no matter how comfortable it feels out here, staring off into the distance filled with trees, dead leaves, and the quiet hum of the wind rustling the branches above.

It is, however, where he finds Will, the shy kid taking a breather from the commotion inside. Steve has never understood what it’s like to be smothered by family, thinks he ought to enjoy such a thing after baring witness to absentee parents for a good few years of his life. He also knows that because he’s not used to it, it’s exhausting as much as it is overwhelming, and it must be the case for Byers enough to wander outside by himself.

“You okay?” Steve asks because he’s not as familiar with him as he is with the other kids, regardless of his acquaintance with Jonathan. He doesn’t expect a reply, actually figures he’ll be ignored because what does Will Byers and Steve Harrington have in common aside from the Upside Down? Aside from Nancy and Dustin who’ve all merged together in a group of understanding despite the oddities that otherwise would’ve kept them apart as individual people, no paths to be crossed and definitely no reason for interactions.

But Will shrugs his shoulders, leans his head against one of the wooden poles that lines the stairs to the cabin. “I’m okay.”

It’s a lie. Steve knows a lie when he hears one; he’s given his fair share of them when he doesn’t want people to bother him, or more importantly, when he doesn’t know how to tell the truth.

Steve’s met with a crossroads then, choosing to ignore it in favor of respecting Will’s answer or finding another line of conversation that will attempt to crack Will open – if not to admit what’s on his mind, then at least a decent chat to distract him. Steve used to be a bit of an ass, but he’s working on it. Will doesn’t have to tell him anything if he doesn’t want to.

“I don’t think I am,” he says, blurts it out without a moment’s hesitation. It feels good to say that, to not have to smile at Nancy or Hopper or Joyce or even Billy for that matter, to have to pretend that splinters of exhaustion and emotion aren’t increasing the longer he stands on his feet. Steve wants rest; he wants the Upside Down to not be a thing that he – or anyone else – has to deal with, but along the way, he’s learned far too much about everything for his brain to catch a proper break.

Will startles at his comment, glances up as Steve walks forward, sits down on the steps of the porch. He leans on the opposite side of the rails, parallel to Will. Steve doesn’t want to crowd his space, doesn’t want Will to feel like Steve’s a looming presence after all he’s been through because no matter what he’s seen – what any of them have seen – it will never be anything as horrific as the experiences that this kid has gone through.

No amount of dreams, sweaty palms, or edginess will compare, and often, Steve feels guilty that he has after effects of the most mundane bullshit he’s experienced. It shouldn’t be a comparison game, but guilt is a very strong five letter word. “All this shit makes you think,” though he keeps his eyes trained ahead, on the moss and rocks across the ground that he hadn’t noticed before, “about who you are, what’s most important.”

“Everything feels different,” Will finally chimes in. His chin is pressed to his knees, hugging himself tightly like that might make all the bad thoughts go away. It won’t; it never does because Steve’s been there – been in bed and felt restless, felt like maybe if he held himself tight enough, long enough that he’d it’d make up for the lack of warmth he often experiences.

“It does.” Steve’s voice cracks, throws his gaze to his feet and picks at the hole in his jeans. They’re stretched across his knee, an old pair worn thin from multiple washes. It’s not fascinating, but he hates how the strings that weave the material together feel like an omen or, at least, a metaphor for all the connections his life has careened together. “Don’t even feel like myself sometimes.”

There’s a hitch in Will’s breath, so sudden that Steve turns to make sure he’s okay. The kid’s eyes are wide, maybe even a little creepy as he blinks at Steve. Though, the more Steve notices, the easier it is to pinpoint that Byers isn’t looking at Steve so much as he’s looking off in the distance of a memory, of a moment that Steve wasn’t a part of. “I think I’ve always felt that way.”

Steve doesn’t want to dampen the mood more than he must, but he’d like to counter Will’s statement with either you know or you don’t. There’s a certainty in life that he’s traveled through, solid in demeanor and tone. It’s not until you go through something, he thinks, that the limits of who you are are tested. 

Unfortunately, Steve thinks he understands the hesitation radiating from Will, that he’d experienced much earlier than someone like Steve who’d had the backings of moderate stability and general popularity to keep him from questioning – or really, to keep others from questioning – the position he’d definitely been given.

Will on the other hand, from the murmurings and chatter from Dustin when Steve drives him to and from the arcade, paint a different story, that some kids aren’t so lucky. In all fairness, Steve wouldn’t’ve even had to look at Will to know the truth because Jonathan was a prime example Steve only paid attention to when others found it necessary to reduce him to mud on the bottom of their shoes.

Steve, before the ordeal with Nancy, had no qualms, no reason to bat an eye to any of the so-called grievances that might’ve been bestowed upon him least he were anyone else. It’s no wonder his existential crisis has taken this long to manifest.

Steve doesn’t really know how to reply to that. Another agreement would fail them both, sat in silence until one of them found the courage to gather themselves for the group inside.

Though, the longer they sit here together, it feels a lot easier not to do that, to let them be, let Will be, let himself just be. A speck in the woods, observing rocks and mud and the blue sky only seen from the parting of branches from the limbs of trees, feels significant somehow, special and quiet. Steve hasn’t had that in a long time.

So when Will shifts his body, Steve isn’t expecting it, isn’t expecting a thrown rock to go flying forward or the tapping of shoes against the wood staircase. And most prominently, Steve doesn’t expect Will to whisper into the woods like he hadn’t spoken at all.

“I think I like boys.”

Steve’s heart flips, stops, then goes again, crazy feral at the hands of such a confession. It hits him like brinks, wonders if maybe he’d said it instead, voice weak from the screams and grunts he’d used to keep himself awake and alive.

“I hate how everyone thought it before I did,” Will says in that same small voice, a little bitter, definitely field with sadness. “They didn’t even let me-” His breath hitches, and he stops, Steve finally turning, finally moving until he’s slide closer to Will.

That’s the part of the story Steve cannot relate to no matter how much he wishes he could. Steve had a reputation, had it easy under the prospects of linear succession of high school fame. As mediocre as it felt all around, it allowed him the easiest navigation in life – now, not so much, but he’s almost out, almost away, and it’s a part of life he won’t have to experience ever again.

Will on the other hand- “Me too,” Steve says, runs his tongue across his teeth as if acid found its way into his mouth. He’d been contemplating it, would up at the notion that maybe everything he thought he knew was different. It started with Nancy, graduated into the Upside Down and the existence of monsters, and now Steve’s stuck at level three of a video game he hadn’t planned on playing – didn’t even know existed, to be quiet frank – and now that he’s there, he can’t quite reach the end of the maze.

“What?”

Once again, Will looks like a wide-eyed teddy bear, confused and in disbelief. Steve watches the emotions cross his face, one of disbelief and anger that comes next. “Are you messing with-”

“Hey,” Steve says quickly, shakes his head because he might’ve been a dick – might still be if the right person asked – but he knows better than this. Knows better than this now. “I think I like boys, so I get it, okay?”

Will’s skeptical eyes goad Steve into backtracking, into calling his bluff, demanding that the joke be over. But Steve is just as relentless, just as frustrated with himself and the situation that’s born out of realizing that girls are not his only forte.

“You’re serious.”

His teeth dig into his lip, and Steve wishes for a moment of reprieve because he hadn’t exactly come out here to make conversation about his issues and the bullshit he was dealing with. Hell, he hadn’t exactly come out here to comfort a young boy either; he’d just happened upon Will who also felt like a breath of fresh air would do him some good. But despite unknowingly walking into a bigger issue than he’d intended, Steve feels like maybe he’s all the better for it.

“They’ll hate me,” Will says, finally understanding that Steve’s serious. His shoulders drop, fingers curling around the railing.

“Then I guess they’ll hate me, too.” Steve thinks of Dustin, of what that might mean, thinks of Nancy and Jonathan, of Billy and Hopper and Joyce. Steve thinks of them first before his parents because it’s not like they wouldn’t care, but he suspects they’d be too busy to notice whatever is going on with their son. If they don’t recognize the distress he’s in from nightmares or anxiety attacks, it’s safe to assume they’d not pick up on much else.

And even then, Byers might be younger than him, and he might be like Dustin – a young kid he could call his brother – but at least Steve can save him from ridicule, can be an anchor until he’s ready to make whatever decisions he needs to. If that means talking about it- if it means existing until he’s out of this hellish town, then Steve guesses he’s got a purpose after all.

It ends with Will launching himself at Steve, a quick hug that Steve only has half a second to reciprocate because as soon as his arms are full of Byers, the kid is gone. He’s pulling himself to his feet, smiling down at Steve with big, watery eyes. “I’ll be here,” he says because he guesses that Will doesn’t want to stick around until his tears fall, the only cure to find the others so he’s not wasting away outside on a porch talking to Steve Harrington while he cries over something that is not yet set in stone.

Will smiles, shoulders relaxing as he takes a few steps up the stairs. “Thank you,” he says, and then he’s gone, Steve immediately recognizing the shakiness in his voice.

He’d like to comment, like to admit that avoiding the emotions attached to something like this is probably not the healthiest of things to do, but if he’d look in a mirror, he could say the same for himself.

Steve sits out on the porch long enough for it to grow colder, long enough for Billy to come outside for a smoke, sharing it with Steve like he’s a natural. Steve doesn’t say anything, just passes the stick back and forth until he’s smiling, until nothing makes sense, until he realizes that sharing his space with Billy isn’t so bad.

It might even be worth the risk.

[runningwitches]

Loved

Summary: The reader is sad because they feel useless. Steve makes sure they know that’s not true and the party cheers them the heck up.

Request?: Nah M8 I’m just sad as heck

Word Count: 1819

A/N: i mean, seasonal depression and a neverending fear that nobody will ever love me and that I will die alone drove me to binge read a shit ton of steve harrington x reader fics and cry despite the fact that i havent finished season two of stranger things but im gonna write this anyways.

i guess this is steve x reader but thats not the main point of the story

idfk i just want to be loved

(umm, henderson! reader who is loved by everyone, i do not give a shit if this follows the exact storyline, ok? i just wanna be happy again) (also i do not look anything like a henderson! so reader can be adopted or some shit? maybe a cousin?  who tf knoes? not me, thats for sure !!

Warnings: Probably Season Two Spoilers, No Editing, Probably super OOC and all that because I started this at almost three in the morning and now its four and I’m exhausted but I cant sleep because I’m sad. Anyways I’m just trying to say that it’s bad but I’ll love you if you read it anyways.

I was curled up in my bed, isolating myself from everyone as per usual. After the events with the mind flayer and demodogs and upside down, I realized something pretty depressing. Nobody needed me. I mean like? Sure I was Dustin’s sister. And sure, I was kinda helpful in saving Steve’s ass from the demodogs and Billy, but it just feels as if I weren’t there, nobody would even notice. As if my presence had no positive value to anyone in The Party™.

So instead of socializing with them while they all played DnD and joked around, I sat myself in my room, wrapped in a blanket burrito, holding back tears. I had my music on in the background as I mindlessly flipped through one of the magazines my mom had bought for me. Everyone was downstairs as it was Dustin’s turn to host the DnD night, and everyone was over. I mean, Dustin, Mike, Lucas, Will, El, Max, Steve, Nancy, and Jonathan, and I definitely wouldn’t be surprised if I walked downstairs to find Joyce and Hopper there too. Every once in awhile I would hear some loud laughter come up from the group, signifying how happy they were without me there. It definitely wasn’t easy for me to sit there by myself staring blankly at the pictures of celebrities I didn’t even care about, but I continued to tell myself that they would be happier without me, attempting to drown out the sounds of their joy with the mixtape I had made for myself a little while back.

As I closed my eyes, focusing on my breathing, trying to force the tears that had started to pool back into my eyes, I heard someone knocking on my door. I quickly wiped my eyes to ensure there weren’t any stray tears, pulled the blanket tighter around my body, and attempted to look miserable. But miserable in a sick way and not in a sad way. If it were anybody except Dustin or Steve, I knew I was going to be able to pull off the “I’m not feeling very well” charade, so my chances were pretty good (though odds were rarely skewed in my favor).

Of course with my luck my little brother came bursting through the door.

“(Y/N)! Why aren’t you down there playing DnD with us?!” he asked, voice booming loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear. As I prepared to try my excuse with him to see if my acting skills had gotten any better, I noticed someone else walking through the door. Looking up, my watery eyes met the concerned look on Steve’s face.

“Hey shithead, stop screaming. You don’t need to tell everyone in Hawkins about your sister’s lack of participation in game night,” he said to Dustin, ruffling his hair and then muttering for him to go back downstairs. Dustin looked angrily at Steve for a moment before looking between us for a second, muttered something to himself, and then left the room, surprisingly closing my door as he left.

“What’s up with you lately? It’s not like you to miss game night, but you haven’t been to a single one these past few weeks.”

“I’m just not feeling well, Steve, don’t worry about it,” I told him, looking down at the magazine in my lap and trying to will the tears away.

“Don’t try that bullshit with me, (Y/N). I know you better than that, do you really think I’d believe that crap?”

“There’s no bullshit to be had Steve, just go back downstairs, I’ll be fine,” I told him, yet I still refused to make eye contact. So when he sat down on the edge of my bed, put two fingers under my chin, and lifted my head up in order for me to make eye contact, I saw his face immediately soften.

“I’m not gonna go back downstairs until I figure out what’s wrong with my favorite girl.”

It took all of the resolve in the world for me to not break down at those two words, and it still didn’t even work. “Favorite girl?” I repeated, but only in my own head. “There’s no way I’m his favorite girl, he’s lying to me. Everyone always lies to me” I told myself. And in that second it was like the dam was broken. The tears started to fall freely from my face. I curled myself into more of a ball than I already was, which was a surprising feat of human flexibility, if I’m being completely honest. Steve’s arms immediately went around me, pulling us closer to each other, and practically pulling me into his lap.

I didn’t say a word as he stroked my hair and shushed me softly, I simply let out a series of what I would consider disgusting sobs.

He continued whispering to me, little things telling me that I’d be okay, or that he was there for me, or that everything was gonna be fine. As my breathing finally evened out, he hadn’t asked me what was wrong like I had expected, so I knew I had to speak up.

“Why are you even here, Harrington?” I asked him bitterly.

“What do you mean?” he replied, exasperated.

“Why do you even care about me?” I reiterated with a sniffle.

“Why do I care about you? (Y/N) what are you on about? It would take me ages to list all of that back to you.” I didn’t respond, but I allowed myself to relax a bit, leaning now onto his chest instead of holding myself as far away as I could while somehow still being in his lap. “(Y/N) you’re wonderful. You care so much about all of the kids, sometimes I think you out-mom even their own mom’s.” That was greeted with a sharp exhale from my nose which was (correctly) interpreted as a laugh. “You’re fucking badass. You can use a gun, a bat, a hockey stick, and pretty much anything else you can get your hands on to slay monsters, like real life monsters.” He checked my face after this comment, and was lucky he did, because he almost missed the slight curl of my lips. “You never let anybody get in the way of doing what needs to be done. Not even racist douchebags that show up and kick my ass. And you certainly don’t take shit from anyone.” A few more tears fell from my eyes, but he grabbed my face and used his thumbs to wipe them away, looking into my eyes. “And you’ve got a whole group of teenagers sitting down there worried sick about you because you mean so much to all of them.”

I sniffled again and threw my arms around his neck, whispering an almost inaudible, “Thank you.”

“Of course, sweetheart. Now let’s go get you cleaned up so we can finish that game of DnD.” I almost blushed at the pet name he gave me, if he didn’t sweep me up into his arms and carry me to the bathroom so I could rinse my face off. He made sure to grab my blanket from my bed and grabbed my hand to lead me down the stairs.

“Wow, it’s so nice of you to join us,” Dustin said the second we were down the stairs, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Steve shot him a look that said, “shut up or I’ll kill you,” while I just gave him a small smile. Before I even got settled on the couch I was smothered by two bear hugs.

“I missed you (Y/N),” El told me, gripping me in probably the tightest hug I’ve ever had. “You were gone for three weeks!”

“Yeah dude! Don’t leave us alone with these losers for that long ever again!” Max exclaimed, hugging me almost as tight as El was.

I smiled down at both of them, hugging them back just as fiercely. Looking up, I saw the smile Steve had on, but I ignored it in favor of the smiles on my girls’ faces. Ruffling their hair, I removed myself from their grips and went to sit on the couch between Steve and Nancy.

“It’s a good thing you came back (Y/N). I almost killed your brother, and not in the campaign, in real life. I’m pretty sure you’d be the only one who could stop me.” I chuckled to myself and then smiled at Lucas.

“It’s a good thing that I’m back then, huh?”

Will looked up at me this time, “Definitely! I was waiting for you to come down so I could show you this drawing!” I smiled down at him, glancing briefly at Jonathan, only enough to recognize the immense pride on his face at the fact that Will was genuinely happy and smiley. He brought it up to show me a picture that he had drawn of me fighting a monster, a cute little label that pertained to my name at the top. “Steve said you fought a monster and won! And I didn’t even get to see it. So I thought I’d draw it out for you.”

“I love it Will!” I exclaimed, pulling him into a hug and looking at the drawing again. It wasn’t until this second look that I noticed a label by the monster’s head as well. It simply read, “Billy” with a little arrow to indicate that the monster I was beating up was named Billy. I laughed at the naming of the monster and pulled Will into another hug, pressing a light kiss to the top of his head. He grabbed the drawing and placed himself back into his spot.

“(Y/N), you want to hop in on this campaign? We’ve still got a while left to go and we’re in a pretty good spot to add another character?” Mike offered, as he was playing Dungeon Master.

“Yeah, come on (Y/N)! You haven’t actually played in forever!” Dustin added.

The rest of the group added their own chorus of “Yeah”s to try and convince you to join.

“Okay, I guess. But only if I get to be a healer! I’m tired of killing the monsters,” I joked, earning a laugh from everyone in the room.

“Okay, okay, so the group walks up to the tavern in town, hoping for a nice evening away from the fighting for once. But the open the door and see, A MOM, not just A mom, it’s their mom!”

“What?” El asked.

“Mike what are you on about?” Lucas added.

“OH MY GOD, (Y/N)’S GONNA BE LIKE OUR TEAM’S MOM!” Max shouted in realization. The whole group looked at Mike in anticipation. “Well obviously, how else would I have gone about this? It’s perfect, and the perfect position to make her the healer.”

“I mean, technically she’s my sister,” Dustin announced, implying that you couldn’t be his mom.

“See (Y/N), I told you I was gonna kill him.”

[hush-falls-the-evening]

Solace

Characters: Jonathan Crane, Edward Nygma (scriddler - established relationship)

Rating: G Words: 1611

Synopsis: Every now and then, Jonathan is acutely reminded how time does not heal all wounds, but gives you better tools to cope. Edward is no tool, however. A fact Jonathan appreciates more than he will ever admit.

misc info: slice of life, comfort, domestic, this fic was inspired by @edwxrdnxgmapost a few days ago. Thank you for the inspiration, I needed that.

You can also read it here on AO3

This kind of the weather would usually bring fond memories to Jonathan Crane.

Not nice ones, other than perhaps the glimpse of a moment, a younger version of himself taking in a particularly pristine sight. A vision that appealed to his eyes alone, frozen in time, seemingly unseen by all who lacked an eye for details.

They never lasted, of course. Gone in a blink, ruined by a shout, renewed dread crawling up his spine in a visceral grip. Bitter reminders that he would never have the luxury to forget who he was.

Which, ironically, he had come to be thankful for. Thankful, but not forgiving. And that trail of thoughts would usually lead to a set of grim yet pleasant recollections of his past retaliations.

... But every now and then, neither his diligent work nor his methodical scheming were enough to give a positive spin on his restless ghosts. Every now and then, a familiar voice across the street would remind him of someone long dead and gone. Sometimes, the sound of rain clattering against his window would rouse imagines of flying terrors. An ageless angst scratching at the edge of his consciousness, settling into his bones where it made itself a niche a long, long time ago.

It was with great distaste that he had come to recognize this affected side of his psyche. And with great zealousness that he delved into the science of the human mind. To find a cure, to find an explanation. For himself, for others. Because understanding was the first step in healing. Because understanding was a weapon few had the chance to yield, and he proved to be extremely good at it.  

However, understanding one-self didn’t erase the vestigial imprints of a past upbringing, particularly in environments that would shame an individual for showing vulnerability of any kind. You could distance yourself from the past, but the past remained. And hence it made sense that someone who had fought and survived on their own, for the most of their life, would inherently feel a crippling sense of weakness toward showing this side of themselves, as they had been raised to lick their wounds in silence, or denied any veracity from their anguish.

Jonathan could recognize the logic of his anxiety, for example, and he knew it was not to be seen as a weakness, neither was seeking help to alleviate its effects. Those were truths he had come to repeat to his patients, to his (former)students, to his questionable friends. But he was nowhere near happy about it when he happened to be the one in that position

And it was with that conflicted irrationality of thoughts that he left his office, his legs leading him inexorably toward the riddling mastermind he shared his current lair with. 

The man was found in one of their common rooms.... sketching. He seemed to be scribbling notes and mechanical designs for future projects, with a few stray question marks decorating the margins. There was an array of laptops surrounding him, warming the room unpleasantly. Well. Three laptops was still far too many, which Jon would normally dispute, should be kept in Edward’s own workshop. To which Edward would retort that working in a different environment helped freshen up his ideas and hence they would normally bicker until one of them rolled their eyes and ignore the argument altogether In favor of something of equal bantering but-...

But, not tonight. And as he stepped into the room quietly, Edward raised a brow at his unusual lack of snark. Jon simply went to sit on the remaining side of the couch.

“I would move that one away, if I were you.” Jon said, pointing at the laptop sitting between them. 

“And what if I don’t?”

“Well, I’m lying down whether it’s there or not so, there’s always the risk that I might ‘accidentally’ throw one of your gadget on the ground in the process.”

The Riddler seemed intrigued, and gave a rich laugh. “Oh, trust me, Jonathan. My ‘gadgets’ are more likely to maim you than you are to damage them.”

“Oh, well then don’t mind if I-”

“No-, you.” He snatched the device away, giving him a particularly nasty glare. Jonathan almost chuckled. Almost. Edward positively sneered.

Jon somehow shifted his elongated frame to lay beside the redhead, who begrudgingly offered a wayward pillow for his head.

“I recall you saying my laps were quite comfortable,” he offered with faux triviality.

“They surely cannot be compared to mine, or so I’ve heard.”

“A mystery to none. However?”

“I’m going to be there for a while. I though I could be considerate of your thighs.”

“Oh how very thoughtful of you,” he offered sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 

But he was smiling, actually putting his work aside (for now) to lean over him, one arm pressed against the back of the couch, the other twirling a strand of dark peppered hair. “But enlighten me, my friend. What can I do for you on this fine stormy evening?”

Jon took a moment to consider his reasons, and went on to a whole new topic. “I’m actually quite impressed you haven’t turned on that ridiculous electrical fireplace of yours.”

“Well-... There’s no need for a fire, Jon. Anyone with an ounce of logic would understand that, what with all of this equipment running at once...” He trailed off, but added dramatically. “Although, with a bit of warning I could prepared a thematic scenery to exasperate you further, Lenore.”

“And come to find you draping the furnitures? How dreadful.”

Edward laughed delightfully. “Now now, we both know you love it.”

The tall man didn’t answer at that but chuckled deeply, closing his eyes. After a moment, he quietly fetched the hand above him, keeping it close to his chest. This had the simultaneous reaction of silencing the man in green. Jon felt the other freckled hand combing through his wiry scalp soothingly.

“I need to know what I’m working with, if you don’t mind.” Edward’s voice was soft, but with an unmistakable purpose. 

Edward Nygma was a man of many talents. Many one could ponder over on a daily basis. His life and personal knack for trouble had led him to hone a remarkable set of skills, and personality traits, that proved themselves immeasurably useful- 

Well, not all of them useful. Inconvenient at best, but that was for a different rant.

There was the undeniable fact that the man bolstered about himself a great deal, but only a fool would think he was not paying attention, not using the exact tone, with the exact tilt, for his exact goal. To you, the exact person he knew you were when you entered the room. Said fool(you) would found themselves led astray under his persuasive words faster than one could possibly conceive.

It was an ability that Jon had refined as well, for his own nefarious deeds. He could recognize the cleverness with which the freckled man earned the reputation of an efficient silver-tongued businessman over the years. For better or for worse, depending where his interests laid.

And sometimes, his interests laid with Jonathan’s.

Jon rested still for a moment, focusing on feeling the fading scratches on the palm resting underneath his own calloused grip. The hand in his hair softly tracing the outline of his ear.

“Bad night, perhaps?” he inquired, although he knew the answer already. 

“Something like that.” Jonathan drawled, bracing himself despite any rational reasoning. Bickering was a lot more familiar than asking for his assistance.

A moment of calm settled. Jon found a haven in the tactile familiarity between them. When at last Jonathan spoke, his tone was shaped with stoical clarity, as he preferred to view his state in a clinical light.

“Perhaps you could indulge me in any remote subject until this storm passes.” 

He did not try to see the reaction on his partner’s face, as he had very little care in it at the moment. He presumed the man considered his request from the thoughtful thumb was drawing half circles against his skin. 

“Perhaps I could,” he said, his voice the same calming quality as earlier. “Although, the weatherman claimed it would be thundering all night. Do you have any strong arguments as to make it worth my time?” he asked in jest, effortlessly pleased with the idea.

“Aside retrieving the use of your hands?”

“Oh now it’s a hostage situation, I see how it is.”

Jonathan smirked, amused by the thought. He shifted the caged arm so as to run his nose against the sensitive skin, following the junctions of palpitating veins threateningly. He knew Edward was holding his breath as a shiver ran past the limb in his grasp. 

Only then did he crane his head to look back at the riddle mastermind. Jonathan’s pale gaze bored into emeralds as he ran his own calloused thumb over the tender flesh of his forearm.

“Edward,” he began softly. “Your voice would be a most welcomed indulgence for me tonight, if you could oblige,” he finally asked, remaining as matter-of-factly as possible.

Jonathan then released him at last, folded his hands over his gaunt middle and sighed deeply, closing his eyes once more.

Edward had yet to move, reclaimed freedom be damned, his freed fingers softly drumming with irritation, as if to match the rhythm of his own beating heart. 

After a silence, Jon could hear him settle more comfortably, seemingly resolved on keeping his hand where it was resting for a while longer.

They fell back into the familiar setting they’ve come to adopt every now and then, when Jonathan would come to seek for his assistance. Edward reciting the flow of his latest interests with a voice meant to soothe an interlocutor, and Jonathan listening intently, letting the sound cover the clattering windows, the vague echos of chatters bordering his consciousness, the shrieks of the winds...

Jon knew he must had fallen asleep after a while. He could briefly recall the faint sound of scribbling. A soothing on-and-off-toned tenor humming the lullaby he had taught him a long, long time ago. One dark and stormy night.

[junker-town]

Pascal Siakam can be a star or trade chip for the Raptors. Which will it be?

Siakam is the biggest piece in the Raptors rebuild.

Siakam is full of possibility, in Toronto or elsewhere.

Where the Toronto Raptors go from here is one of the most thought-provoking questions filtering through the NBA right now. It neatly dovetails with another: What, exactly, is Pascal Siakam?

During the Finals I wrote a column about Siakam’s postseason struggle and how it may inform his future. This was before the Raptors won a title, Kawhi Leonard signed with the Los Angeles Clippers, and their roster for the 2019-20 season was pieced together. As of this writing, Siakam is eligible for a contract extension — worth up to $170 million — but no agreement has been made, presumably because his $7 million cap hold lets Toronto keep him and still have enough space to afford two max players (either via a trade or free agency) next summer.

The Raptors obviously value Siakam. They’ve kept him out of trade talks and allegedly refused to part in what could’ve been a blockbuster deal involving Paul George, Russell Westbrook, and Leonard. Now, Siakam is the key for a title defender that isn’t positioned to defend their title; a franchise that has one of the most unpredictable short and long-term futures in an increasingly unpredictable league.

I initially wanted to write a column about Siakam as low-key the NBA’s juiciest trade chip. A small part of me still believes moving him may be Toronto’s wisest long-term option — more on that later — but an isolated argument for it ignores how exceptional, fascinating, and attractive Siakam can still be on his own. It also seems a little ridiculous. (If Michael Jordan walked away from the Chicago Bulls after their first title, would they turn around and trade Scottie Pippen?)

As we steer into a season in which an abnormal number of teams think they can win it all — a belief ironically inspired by Toronto’s own run — hawking Siakam as a missing piece to the highest bidder may either pay dividends or be a colossal embarrassment. He combines the air of accomplishment with untapped potential. That’s rare enough to make moving on from him a non-starter. It also means there are teams out there that should be willing to pay the farm to get him. But before we explore what lies ahead, let’s glance back at the past.

Siakam’s third season was a 104-game recreation of the chest-buster scene from Alien. While not altogether unexpected, as it was happening you still could not believe what your eyes were telling you. He ran away with Most Improved Player on a roster loaded with multiple All-Stars, complicated egos, and grand expectations. None of it stopped him from excelling in areas that burgeoning stars either can’t or don’t. He blocked corner threes. He filled lanes. He spotted up in the corner. On both ends, he lined the paint’s edges with the instincts of a predator, and managed to stay within the confines of his own ability while also showing a willingness to stretch out and see what exactly those limitations were. Toronto would not have worked if he didn’t do what it needed him to, but it also wouldn’t be what it became if he didn’t pile more and more food on his plate.

In the playoffs, Siakam finished second on the Raptors in PER and usage percentage. The crowning moment was a 32-point waterfall (on 17 shots!) in Game 1 of the NBA Finals NBA Finals (The NBA Finals!).

All wasn’t gravy, though. Postseason opponents had no trouble figuring Siakam out, and his best moments came when the other team loaded up to slow down more established names like Leonard and Kyle Lowry. Meanwhile his individual matchups were particularly arduous: Jonathan Isaac, Joel Embiid, Giannis Antetokounmpo, and Draymond Green might be the most challenging gauntlet ... ever? Siakam’s points per shot plummeted — missing a bunch of open threes will do that — but the playoffs are all about struggle when tasted for the first time. Though it may not be fair to expect him to have a reliable Plan B, Siakam’s Plan A was flummoxed too easily in games that actually matter.

Siakam is the key for a title defender that isn’t positioned to defend their title.

Green aspects of his game make it tempting to indict Siakam for Leonard’s decision: If he made Leonard’s life 10 percent easier in the playoffs would free agency have gone another way? In an alternate universe Siakam fulfills a cleaner basketball destiny as Leonard’s sidekick for the next five years, growing in a role tailor made for his game’s strengths and weaknesses. Instead, we may soon see Siakam lead his own team.

Heading into Year Four, he’s an evolving, ideal chess piece built for a multi-positional future; still better utilized in some situations than others, he can comfortably blend into just about any style, beside any personnel grouping, without disrupting either. That’s wonderful news for a team that will explore razing its aging championship core in favor of a fresh start. At the same time, with Leonard in L.A., the Raptors either need Siakam to immediately assume fresh, difficult responsibilities he’s never handled before, or let him progress at his own speed and hope they can somehow acquire another star sooner than later.

Based on how quickly Siakam has progressed since he first picked up a basketball, both paths may be the same thing. Either way, he’ll have the ball in his hands more often than he did last year — when he ranked fourth in front-court touches — and be asked to attempt and assist more shots in a role that’s more congruent with that of a traditional star. Pick-and-rolls haven’t been in his job description, but they may be going forward.

Siakam can amplify a team’s confidence. It’s a mystery whether he can supply it single handedly. What we do know is that Siakam was self-reliant last season. He scored efficiently in isolation and in the post. Just under half of his 519 baskets were unassisted — at a slightly higher percentage than Jimmy Butler and slightly lower one than Jayson Tatum.

Those numbers suggest Siakam will be able to adapt his game to a larger role, but they ignore the fact that he also took advantage of so much attention drawn by his talented teammates. Be it during this season or the one after, Kyle Lowry will either play for a different team or not be Kyle Lowry. He turns 34 in March. Same deal for Marc Gasol, who turns 35 in January. Leonard, who had five pairs of eyeballs glued to his body whenever he put the ball on the floor, is already gone. What will Siakam look like as his offense’s focal point, night after night?

Life as an imposing, self-sufficient scorer is one thing, but having teammates depend on you, directly and indirectly, is another.

Watch every one of Siakam’s assists as a cog in last year’s framework and the first thing that pops out is how quick his mind works. So often he’d catch a pass and then immediately whip the ball along to a teammate he somehow knew would be open. At full speed it’s a poetic connection, the type of play that can make Gregg Popovich’s eyes well with pride.

He was so comfortable in the chaos of transition — a subtle and encouraging indication that the game was slowing down for him — but very few of his assists were set up by his own action. Siakam’s assist and pass percentage was low among all players who averaged at least seven drives per game. Hopeful glimpses shone through here and there:

(He racked up 66 assists in the playoffs. Nearly a third of them were to Leonard.)

But more often than not Siakam’s most impressive playmaking was a byproduct of his teammates’ heavy lifting.

Of course, just because he didn’t initiate offense last season doesn’t necessarily mean he never will, or can’t already. For an optimistic view of how Siakam can look as the sole spearhead of an offensive attack, imagine him as Greek Freak cosplay. Both players have a moon-landing stride and inescapable wingspan, but instead of turning defenders into puffs of dryer lint with brute strength and violence, Siakam glides through the other team like a goldfish who can’t be caught with bare hands. Any general manager could do a lot worse than surrounding him with three-point shooters and smart defenders. That team is fun, and if Antetokounmpo leaves the Eastern Conference and the ostensible holes in Siakam’s game fill out, they may be able to achieve even more.

But those are tough bets to make with so much on the line, and more star power is inevitably required if the Raptors want to have a run like the one they just had. To get there, do they keep Siakam, hope he blossoms into a regular All-Star while other assets (OG Anunoby, Fred VanVleet, Chris Boucher, their draft picks) become enticing enough for a seismic trade? Or, do they get scared off by the possibility of wasting Siakam’s prime on a string of 45-win teams that flame out in the playoffs, ever conscious that they exist in a city that’s consistently rejected by the NBA’s top tier?

It’s here where Masai Ujiri may see the writing on the wall. If so, the list of buyers won’t be short. Siakam’s market value will never be higher than it is right now. Every contender (again, there may be more of them than normal) will be interested, as will the rung below that wants to take a dramatic and immediate step forward. For example what if it’s January, the Raptors are fighting just to get into the playoffs, and the New Orleans Pelicans throw Lonzo Ball, Nickeil Alexander-Walker, Jaxson Hayes, and more than a couple future Los Angeles Lakers picks at them?

Siakam makes sense everywhere, and even on a max contract he’s young enough not to push any timelines ahead of schedule. What if the Thunder exceed expectations and start day-dreaming about Siakam and Shai Gilgeous-Alexander as a tangible duo that’s more attractive to their fanbase than all the draft picks they currently own? The Atlanta Hawks could be a very aggressive suitor, too.

Toronto’s whole situation is bittersweet, and dark parallels to the 2011 Dallas Mavericks are impossible to ignore, from the decision to surround one Hall of Famer with hungry, intelligent veterans familiar with playoff pain, to the depressing come down of an unfeasible title defense. The Mavericks haven’t won a playoff series since. Toronto doesn’t have to battle in the Western Conference, but that doesn’t preclude them from organizational lethargy.

Do they offer Lowry, Gasol, and/or Serge Ibaka new contracts, hold what they have together for as long as possible, grind around the margins, and then hold their breath until someone like Stanley Johnson has an epiphany? Do they cash out before this year’s trade deadline and set their sights on a genuine rebuild? Do they balance in-between in some sort of happy purgatory and operate with the type of patience only a championship can afford?

Whatever their course, Siakam, as one of the NBA’s 20 most important players, will be at the center of it all.

[kathleenseiber]

Ocean giants had an edge in the deep past

Extinction was unexpectedly common among smaller sea creatures in the deep past, fossil research finds.

The research, which appears in the journal Paleobiology, suggests evolutionary winners during most of the history of animal life included not only true behemoths of the sea, such as Jurassic fish as long as a bus, but also species who were giants of their kind.

“Our study shows there are macroevolutionary forces that tend to favor the survival of larger species,” says Noel Heim, a paleobiologist at Tufts University who worked on the analysis as a researcher in the lab of Stanford University geological sciences professor Jonathan Payne.

The findings contrast with extinction patterns observed on land and in today’s oceans. “Our findings suggest that the controls on extinction risk for marine animals across evolutionary time were quite different from those that are operating in the current extinction crisis, but were consistent across time and distantly related groups of animals,” Payne says.

Extinction risk in the deep past

Scientists have long debated how and why animal size and extinction risk were related in the deep past, often forming theories based on examples from land-based ecosystems. Payne has studied the question from different angles for more than a decade, mostly focusing on the marine environment.

His teams have demonstrated that the size bias of extinction threats in modern oceans does not exist in the pattern of extinction of fossil marine mollusks and fishes spanning the past 66 million years, and that marine animals evolved toward larger sizes over the past 500 million years.

The new study examines a far broader swath of the tree of life, from huge bony fish and giant clams down to crustaceans and sea snails tinier than poppy seeds. Payne and Heim conducted a statistical analysis of 251,124 fossil records, including creatures belonging to 9,408 groupings known as “genera,” one taxonomic level higher than species. They chose the largest specimen in each of these genera to represent its kind. Then they analyzed extinction and survival patterns for three long chunks of time between 485 million years ago and the present day.

“People might think paleontology looks like a rugged outdoors person battling the wilderness to extract fossils from the Earth,” Heim says. “In our case, we went to the library to extract data then wrote computer code to analyze it.”

They found disproportionate losses among smaller creatures, such as those belonging to a group of bivalves known as Pectinida. The smallest of these distant sea-scallop relatives, pancake-thin and narrower than the palm of your hand, perished in the later years of the Cretaceous period, which ended when a dinosaur-killing asteroid crashed to Earth 65 million years ago. Related scallop-like species whose bodies could grow to more than twice that width and 10 times the volume, survived.

Gaps in the fossil record

The study also addresses nagging concerns that perhaps scientists until now have counted fossils in a way that makes smaller species appear to be rarer and more extinction-prone than they really were; or that perhaps body size has been far less important for survival than range, which happens to be bigger for bigger animals.

Paleontologists know that the fossil record has problematic gaps when it comes to smaller species—due partly to the allure of big fossils, and partly to the technical challenge of tracking down evidence of the ocean’s smallest animals millions of years after they perished.

“Their shells tend to be destroyed prior to burial and fossilization,” Payne explains. “Even if preserved in rocks, smaller shells are often more difficult to see in the field and require greater skill and precision to prepare them in ways that enable identification.”

The study confirmed that larger genera do tend to have broader geographic range, and that better techniques for preparing and magnifying small fossils have allowed scientists to begin filling in gaps where smaller species remain underrepresented. Yet neither of these facts accounts statistically for the bias in extinction against smaller animals evident in every era over the past 485 million years.

“The biggest surprises for me were finding that neither poor sampling nor narrower geographic ranges of smaller genera explained the statistical association of body size with extinction risk,” Payne says.

Mass extinction then and now

The precise processes underlying the pattern of higher extinction risks for smaller ocean animals remains unclear. Yet its existence underlines the extraordinary nature of threats facing ocean animals today. So many species are now in peril that scientists warn losses may reach the scale of a mass extinction—only the sixth in nearly half a billion years.

It’s a crisis that fuels efforts by Payne’s team and others to identify what drives extinction risk, and somehow quantify how species died off in the deep past.

“The fossil record is our only archive of past extinction events,” Payne says. It allows researchers to examine directly which biological traits tend to lead to higher extinction risk under different circumstances, whether in the wake of an asteroid impact or volcanic eruption, or amid global warming.

Just as valuable are the insights scientists can glean from fossils about long-term recovery. “The bad news is that recovery is a slow process, taking hundreds of thousands to millions of years,” Payne says. “This finding adds substantial urgency to our efforts to conserve species and ecosystems before extinction occurs.”

Source: Josie Garthwaite for Stanford University

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