#two harts are better than one

[lady-sinatra]

One of their most romantic kisses, in my opinion. I love the way he places his hand on her arm and gently pulls her to him.

From season 5, episode 1 of Hart to Hart.

[whatsabriard]

A bonus drabble, for @marymcmagic-hair because i make the rules and i can break 'em.

i. Jonathan took her to hot spot after hot spot, each time ensuring they were seated at the best table. Each time ensuring the champagne they were served was the very best on offer. 

On any other man, it would have seemed like showboating, bragging, a ham-handed seduction. But on this man - on Jonathan Hart - it was a very effective seduction. 

Even the way he held her to dance, with gentle confidence and just a little too close. He told her she was lovely and he listened to her.

When his chuckle rumbled into her heart… well, that changed everything. 

Shit.

ii. At first, he looked at Louise Tobin as an intriguing way to pass the time. She was gorgeous and he had ideas about how she looked beneath that buttoned up suit. Her curves were soft against his palms, but she had spine and a sharp wit and she made him laugh with her wicked sharp tongue.

He wanted to taste that tongue, to drink the words right from her lips. He wanted to hold her and peel away the silk until she was bare and writhing for him. He wanted to talk to her all night long.

He wanted her.

[sergeifyodorov]

individual nhl trophies are by and large kind of eh except for a) dunking on people you find annoying and b) the conn smythe, which is the best one

[littlemiss-yeehaw]

You're Gonna Be Quiet

Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Reader

Summary: It's just an undercover mission, anyone could be married for one night - even you two.

Warnings: profanity, flirting, yucky old men, suggestive content (?), possessive Bucky <3

MINORS PLS DNI

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: y'all.... im not an author. im an artist, not an author, so PLS go into this with that knowledge. but I have been convinced, no, coerced into posting this little funsy by @ellemj

she threatened to withhold vacation pictures from me as if I didn't draw her bucky barnes dick earlier today and I'll be damned

anyways,, please enjoy and manage your expectations :,)

“Okay, rumor has it the target, Mr. Beaumont, has a thing for married women,” Sam says casually as he holds a ring between his thumb and forefinger, “so for this mission, you get to be Mrs. Barnes.”

He tosses the ring in your direction and you catch it with a sour expression. You slip the rock on your finger and admire it, your scowl slipping just a moment as you watch how it catches the sun. That is until you see Bucky with an equally foul look on his face. Suddenly, your frown reappears.

“Sam, I feel like there is certainly someone better suited for this than me,” you grumble as you put your hand down and look back up at him, “I mean, aren’t these undercover missions more of a Natasha thing?”

Sam rolls his eyes before turning to face you, a hand on his hip. You were in for a scolding. “Natasha has her own mission. So today, you get to be Mrs. Hart. And you,” he turns to Bucky with a smug expression, “will be Mr. Hart. Any questions? No? Good, you two lovebirds go get your outfits on.”

You turn quickly, but not quick enough to miss the death stare Bucky shoots Sam. This one seems even more lethal than his typical one.

~~~

The ride to the gala is silent. Bucky is always silent, but this silence seems more… suffocating. You fiddle with the ring on your finger before glancing over at him. “Are you planning to even look at me before we get there? I mean, we’re supposed to be a marri-”

“You’re supposed to be a woman in an unhappy marriage who's looking to fuck a billionaire,” he says bluntly, not even turning towards you, “I’m just making sure that you look plenty unhappy.”

He would never admit out loud that the real reason he won’t spare you a second glance is because the first glimpse of you dolled up sent almost all the blood in his rational mind straight to his cock. He needs to preserve what little sense he has left.

~~~

You get out of the car with a huff. Just as Bucky intended, you look unhappy and thoroughly irritated. You pull the hem of your little black dress down in an attempt to recover some of your dignity, but all Bucky notices is how the little tug causes your breasts to be even more apparent. Yep, there went the rest of the blood.  

He sighs and grabs your hand before plastering a fake smile onto his lips. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

You sigh and forget anymore yanking on your dress, looking up at him with a grim expression. “Let's,” you mutter under your breath before letting him lead you into the gala. 

As expected, the event is extravagant and no doubt costly. You feel out of place, and you can’t help the way you move a little further into your ‘husband’s side. You let a breath of air past your lips as you look around the room for your target. Nowhere to be seen, you nearly move further into the room before Bucky squeezes your hand gently and nods to his left. You’re quick to ignore the flutter of butterflies that his touch sends shooting through you and casually look where he’s pointed. Surely enough, at the bar, sits a piggish man nursing a flute of champagne. Your eyes find Buckys and you shoot him a look before you drop his hand and make your way over.

You take a seat a few bar stools down from the man, making sure to fail at getting the bartender's attention. “Sir? Sir, could I-” You drop your hand with a sigh, feigning a disheartened expression.

“Sir, this lady would like a drink,” like a mouse in a trap, Mr. Beaumont waves him down for you and orders you a drink, “you look like you’d drink something fruity, a little thing like you. Maybe a sex on the beach?”

You wish you’d missed the way his lips pulled up in a foul grin and the way his eyebrow raised ever so slightly, and you really wish you hadn’t seen his greedy eyes rake over your body. Nonetheless, a soft laugh and a bat of your lashes grace him instead of the scowl that wants to pull at your lips.

“I’ve never had one before,” you say with a saccharine smile, “maybe we could share.”

You notice how his eyes nearly bug out of his head and then slowly trail to your hand. He slides his fingers, not dissimilar to link sausages, down to your left hand where he trails a thumb over your ring. “Are you sure your husband wouldn’t mind,” he asks with that same vile grin, moving his hand to rest on your knee.

“Not particularly, but I’m sure I don’t care,” you whisper teasingly, leaning forward and showing off your tits that practically beg to fall from your dress. ‘Hook, line, and sinker’ you think as the man runs a heavy hand up the side of your leg and his eyes trail down your neck to your cleavage.

Trembling anger washes over Bucky as he watches the man practically feel you up in the middle of the bar. The beads of perspiration running down the target's neck and the way he keeps nervously licking his lips give Bucky all the indication he needs to know this man thinks you’re his. Then Bucky turns to look at you. You. You’re just letting the man have his way, no, you’re encouraging it. Yes, it’s the mission. And, no, Bucky has no reason to feel such vile hatred for the target in any sense other than the professional one. But for some reason, he finds himself wanting to dismember any part of the man that graces your body where he hasn’t yet.

Yet?

Yet.

~~~

“Who’s this, darling?”

You bristle as you feel a breath of air pass your ear before the deep timbre of Bucky's voice even registers in your mind. You whip around to look at him, an expression of anger and bewilderment replacing the flirtatious grin you were just donning. You look back to the target, trying to mask your surprise.

“Honey,” you manage to say through gritted teeth, “I didn’t even see you come over.”

You pull your hands from the target's grasp, nearly cringing at the moist feeling left behind on your skin. You feel Bucky’s firm hold replace Mr. Beaumont’s slimy touch, and your body reacts all too positively. You lean back hardly at all, but it’s enough to feel his chest rigid against you. Was he standing too close or were you too eager? There was no way to be sure, but one thing you could be sure of was the fact that neither of you shied from the contact.

“Hmm,” he hummed lowly, a disapproving air oozing from the short sound, “when you never brought our drinks over, I got curious as to where you’d disappeared to.”

His eyes shift from the side of your face to the man across from you, who grows increasingly uneasy at the sight of your tall and broad ‘husband’. Bucky leans down close, so close that his lips brush against the curve of your ear and you hope he can’t hear your blood rushing in your head.

“I’ll ask again, who is this?”

You’re not sure if it's what he says, or the way he says it, but his words send a wave of arousal through your body. Suddenly, the too-tiny dress feels too hot and you’ve nearly forgotten his question. That is until he quirks an eyebrow and tilts his head expectantly. You clear your throat and look back to a flustered target, presumably intimidated by your colleague.

“This,” you reply before turning back to the sweaty man, “is Mr. Beaumont. He owns a software company and..”

You turn to the target, a ditsy smile on your lips as you try to recover your role, “what else did you do? I forget.”

He laughs nervously, shifting on his bar stool to make himself appear taller. Still pitiful in comparison to the man currently staring daggers at him over your shoulder. “I develop software and coding for various companies and organizations to use where they deem fit.”

Another low hum sounds from Bucky’s throat as he lifts his head from your ear, he meets Mr. Beaumont's eyes and sighs.

“Very impressive, Mr. B,” he says condescendingly. You frown, peeking over at him. What is he doing? This was not a part of the plan, “so you must be a smart man?”

The man in question smiles smugly and nods. “I’d think so, yes.”

“Well then, pray tell, why have you been feeling up my wife,” he asks coolly, Bucky’s turn to look smug. You, on the other hand, whip around to stare at him with an irate expression. He looks down at you with a matching frown, hardly able to mask his irritation, “Don’t worry, dear, I’ll handle you later.”

You’d like to think you were subtle in your shock, in the way his words leave you flustered. You had no idea Bucky could smell the wave of arousal that flooded your panties, or that he could hear the beat of your heart like a snare drum. Neither of you even noticed the target’s pitiful stuttering, too caught up in the most sexually charged staring contest ever.

~~~

“What the fuck, Barnes,” you hiss quietly, walking ahead of him to the car with steam practically flooding out of your ears, “I mean, what the actual fuck!”

You don’t wait for him to catch up before you get into the passenger seat, slamming the door shut behind you. You didn’t care for appearances, your mission having been sabotaged by your own partner. What appearances did you have left to keep up?

He gets into the driver's seat a few moments later, pulling his gloves off with a sigh before running his flesh hand over his face.

“Are you done?”

“No,” you snap, turning to face him, “I’m not. You have the audacity to call me reckless, but you go and pull a stunt like that? I had it under control.” Your cheeks are red with irritation and your hair is a mess from you running your fingers through it, but he’s too caught up with thinking what else would have you looking so flushed.

“If you’d just shut up and listen-” he starts, but you’re quick to cut him off.

“I was getting the intel,” you’re practically ranting now, “and you just had to swoop in. And for what? To be all macho? To fluster me?”

The scowl on his lips that once matched yours turns into a scoff, and you narrow your eyes at him. Why are you looking at his lips? And why can’t you pull your gaze away from them? “What? What now,” you ask with a huff.

“You really need to learn when to stop talking,” he mutters, looking at you out of the corner of his eye as he tries to wipe the smug smile from his face, “y’know that?”

You’re startled by his words, the flush on your cheeks no longer caused by his irritating actions but by his shocking words. Your eyes travel over him shamelessly, ready to jeopardize everything just to get rid of the tension that has lingered and grown exponentially over the course of the evening.

“Then why don’t you shut me up,” you ask softly, your tone opposite to the defiant one you’d held only moments ago. Judging by the minuscule way his eyes widen and the way his lips part around a sharp inhale, you’d be safe to guess he’d beat you to the idea.

You aren’t sure who moved forward first, or even if you’d moved at all. All you can be sure of is the feeling of Bucky Barnes kissing you like he’d never have the privilege again. 

Your lips move feverishly against his own, the car filled with quiet pants and sloppy smacking. His hands tangle in your hair and he tugs you away from him, his expression turning stern when you whine petulantly. “Did you know you were a fucking brat tonight,” he asks lowly, his stare hard. You swallow thickly, pressing your thighs together to relieve the ache between them.

“I was not,” you rebut, your brows furrowing and your lips turning down in a pout. He didn’t like that.

“You were,” he chides coolly, releasing his grip on your hair and sighing, “especially after we walked back to the car. You never even let me explain why I stopped you.”

You would like to focus on his words, but you’re too worried about the way his metal fingers nimbly undo the buckle of his belt. Silence sweeps over the car, the only sound being your shaky breath and the clank of metal on metal.

“So here’s what we’re gonna do,” he continues, “I’m gonna talk, and you’re gonna listen. Quietly.” You’re salivating as he tugs the zipper of his dress pants down, allowing the tent in his boxers some much-needed reprieve. “You know why you’re gonna be quiet?”

“Why,” you ask in a breathless whisper, only just now meeting his eyes again. 

“Because your mouth is gonna be full."

[allergictocolor]

The Addams Family Through the Years

Before I get into character profiles, let me first do a run-through of the incarnations of the Addams family through the years.

As I wrote in my first post, Charles Addams created the nameless, bizarre family in some of the many comics he drew for The New Yorker starting in 1938. Morticia and Wednesday were named in 1962 when dolls of them were released. Charles Addams was asked for a list of names and descriptions for them and the other family members when the TV show was in development in 1963, but had little other involvement with the show.

The show ran for two seasons from 1964 to 1966, totalling 64 episodes. This was the same time that a similar show, The Munsters, was also on the air. Both shows were about wacky families of monstrous weirdos living in American suburbia. Both were in black and white, and both were canceled in 1966, possibly due to the rise of color television.

After a cross-over with Scooby-Doo, Hanna-Barbera produced a 16-episode animated series in 1973 which featured the family on a road trip in a creepy camper that looked like their mansion. It featured the same actors who played Lurch and Fester voicing their previous characters, and a 10-year-old Jodie Foster as the voice of Pugsley!

There was a reunion special in 1977, which reunited most of the cast of the show, called Halloween with the New Addams Family. The original show had remained popular, running in syndication for years. It was especially popular in Australia. According to one fan, this was because the Addams family was “less American” than the Munsters. 

In 1991, a feature film was released after a tumultuous production. Raul Julia became the new face of Gomez Addams in the popular consciousness. It was followed by a sequel called Addams Family Values in 1993, and in between there was another animated series. John Astin reprised his role as Gomez in that animated series. 

There were plans to continue the film series, but Raul Julia suffered from stomach cancer and died suddenly in 1994, canceling those plans. Although both films performed poorly at the box office, they gained a loyal following on home video and remain popular to this day. In 1992, an Addams family pinball machine was produced featuring original voice acting from Raul Julia as Gomez and Angelica Huston as Morticia. It became the most popular pinball machine of all time, selling over 20,000 units.

In 1998, a TV movie called Addams Family Reunion was produced by Saban, featuring Tim Curry as Gomez and Daryl Hannah as Morticia. The only returning actors from the 1991/93 movies were Carel Struycken and Christopher Hart's hand, who played Lurch and Thing, respectively. I have not seen it, and can not attest to its quality, or lack thereof. That movie was also meant to be the pilot for a TV show called The New Addams Family, but most of the cast was different. It ran for 65 episodes, none of which have I seen. (Hat tip to @tenthirtyone for pointing this out.)

After a try-out in Chicago, a musical debuted on Broadway in 2010. I was lucky enough to see that for my birthday that year. It starred Nathan Lane as Gomez and Bebe Neuwirth as Morticia. It was pretty entertaining. It would have been better if Lane wasn’t trying to be Raul Julia. He did a very fake Spanish accent, and it was terribly distracting. The musical was panned by critics and didn’t last long, but it was popular enough that it is now performed by high schools across the country. In fact, my friend Sarah and my cousin Charlie were both involved with different productions of it this past Spring.

That same year (2010), the rights were purchased by Illumination Entertainment, and they announced that they were going to produce a stop-motion film with Tim Burton. However, he decided to go with computer animation instead. That eventually turned into the 2019 film, after Tim Burton dropped out. This version was the closest in appearance to the original comics. Although the characters are rendered in 3D, the animators aimed to make them look as much like Charles Addams’ drawings as possible.

You’d think Tim Burton had been involved since at least the 1991 movie, but he hadn’t. Black and white stripes? Bats? Other goth things? That sounds like Tim Burton, but oddly enough, he actually hasn’t been attached to any Addams Family property until the Netflix show in 2022. It’s a natural pairing, and perhaps he would have been great friends with Charles Addams, had he been born several decades earlier. 

Now the Netflix show, centered on Wednesday, is in production for its second season after its first season was one of the streaming service's most popular shows to date. It's not the first time the Addams family has spawned a viral dance sensation. Way back in the 1960s, the original TV show started a dance craze called “the Lurch”.

In coming posts, I’ll go into how Charles Addams originally portrayed each of the nine characters in the Addams family pictured above (Gomez, Morticia, Pugsley, Wednesday, Fester, Grandmama, Lurch, Thing, and Cousin Itt) and how they evolved, or didn’t, over time.

[souldagger]

hi! sorry to bother! any sci fi recommendations with women in them? gay women would slap but i don’t want to be too demanding.

that is not too demanding at all! all of these are heavily focused on women & almost all have gay protags:

This is How You Lose the Time War by Amal El-Mohtar & Max Gladstone - poetic romance novella about two women on opposing sides of a war spanning all of time, unfolding through letters

The Space Between Worlds by Micaiah Johnson* - a tense, dark story about a world in which travel between parallel universes is monopolized, and a woman who is dead in almost every single one

Ammonite by Nicola Griffith - 90s lesbian/feminist scifi classic; thoughtful social sci-fi set on a world where a virus killed off all men and most of the women, about an anthropologist who's come to study the inhabitants and test a vaccine

The Echo Wife by Sarah Gailey - domestic thriller about a brilliant scientist whose husband clones her to make a "better" (more docile & housewife-y) version of her - and is then killed by the clone, leaving the two women to cover up the murder

The Luminous Dead by Caitlin Starling - unsettling, claustrophobic horror about a caver on an alien world, her untrustworthy handler being her only contact with the surface world

The Fortunate Fall by Cameron Reed* - bleak, heartwrenching 90s cyberpunk about a lesbian news reporter in a dystopian regime who uncovers more than she bargained for

Light From Uncommon Stars by Ryka Aoki* - emotional & hopeful scifi/fantasy mix about a trans violin prodigy, her teacher who has a deal with the devil, and an alien running a donut shop

some more, rapid-fire: Dawn by Octavia Butler* (iconic classic sf, first contact); The Telling by Ursula K. Le Guin (social sf, envoy-on-alien-world); The Seep by Chana Porter (utopian, unique take on alien invasion); The Splinter in the Sky by Kemi Ashing-Giwa (space opera, spy thriller); The Paradox Hotel by Rob Hart (time travel, murder mystery); The Outside by Ada Hoffman (cosmic horror); Gearbreakers by Zoe Hana Mikuta (dystopian YA, mecha); Woman on the Edge of Time by Marge Piercy* (classic sf, time travel)

(*books with an asterisk are ones I'd particularly recommend looking up the content warnings for, as they can get quite heavy)

[justsomerandomfanfic]

We Meet Again In Italy - Eggsy Unwin X Female Reader

Title: We Meet Again In Italy

Eggsy Unwin X Female Reader

Additional Characters: Reader's boss, Random character (Alexandra Winslet), Kingsman (Mentioned), and Harry Hart (Mentioned)

| Part 1 |

WC: 4,186

Warnings: Reader is mentioned wearing a dress/heels/makeup, enemies to lovers, banter, flirting, teasing, very brief mention on abuse, some italics, brief mention of crying, slight angst, and fluff

One word to describe Italy is 'breathtaking,' and that couldn't be more true than it was when you walked through the streets of Rome upon your first day there. Everything about Italy seemed so picturesque and beautiful. But you didn't have time to walk around and enjoy the scenery - no matter how much you would have loved to do so - you were on your mission. After the incident in the bookstore in New York, you were determined to get that file back from Eggsy.

"He's been spotted entering his hotel. Hotel Da Vinci." Your boss spoke to you over your earpiece as you sat in the middle of your large hotel bed. That was actually really nice; you might have to invest in a better mattress when you got home. "A message will come to you shortly with the information, along with the address to the gala he is going to be attending tonight."

Pausing, your hand hovering over your paperwork. "Gala?" You knew Eggsy loved to dance, but still. "Why is he going to a gala?" You asked, picking up the couple of pictures you had of Eggsy in various locations back from when you were tailing him in New York.

"He's meeting someone by the name of Alexandra Winslet. We doubt that is her real name, but that's all the information that we got on her."

"A name and a face is all I need." You spoke up, eyes flickering to your phone as a notification popped up. Picking up your phone from beside you on the bed, you unlock it before tapping your messages, slowly scanning the few pictures and documents that you were sent. Stopping at the picture of the supposed Alexandra Winslet, you hummed, tilting your head to the side. "Purple," You muttered, your eyes immediately going to her hair, which was short, cut to just below her chin; in a shade of violet purple. One thing was for sure, you'd have an easy time spotting her in a crowd. Scrolling further, you stopped at the picture of a mansion, surrounded by a fancy iron gate. "I am assuming that this mansion is where the gala is going to be held?"

You watched as the message bubbles popped up before you were sent the address, "Yes," Your boss then spoke, "It's a black-and-white event. Make sure to keep within the dress code. And get that file back. I don’t want any other issues to arise."

Shutting your phone off, you leaned back against the plush, satin headboard, "Sure thing, boss," You sighed, rubbing your forehead with a hand, you kept your hand there as you shut your eyes, "Is there anything else I need to know?"

"We’ll keep you updated." The line went dead.

Huffing, you opened your eyes, blinking as you checked your watch on your wrist. "Well," You muttered to yourself, clicking off your earpiece as you shuffled off the bed, trying not to crumple any of your paperwork and pictures as you did so. "Time to go shopping, I guess."

And so, you found yourself in Milan, which was the same city where the gala was going to be held. Milan was such a lovely place, full of rich, dazzling architecture, just like the rest of the country; it was also quite famous for fashion, especially among wealthy business people and high society alike. And before you knew it, your small shopping spree was finished. With two large bags looped on your arms, you made your way to your rental, and back to your hotel.

Entering your hotel room, you quickly shut the door, locking it before you sped to the bed and placed your bags down. They weren't hurting your arms with their weight, no, but it was what was inside that was important: your dress. Sliding out the white, paper box, you spied the brand name on the top lid, written in black, curvy font. Carefully, you pulled off the lid, feeling a small rush of adrenaline fill your system as you sat the lid to the side, your eyes zoned in on the black folded dress before you. 

Biting your lip, you tried to hide the large grin that was about to spread on your face as you gently took the fabric into your hands. Without a second thought, and seeing that you were right on time, you began to get ready for the gala.

It was around four once you finished getting ready, dressed to the nines and a hint of excitement ran through you. Staring at yourself in the full-length mirror near the bathroom, you turned every which way, your lips curled upward, feeling completely gorgeous. The dress was all-black, the sleeves were off-the-shoulder, the maxi skirt just brushed the floor, and it was made out of the softest velvet that you have ever felt in your entire life. Once you saw the dress on one of the mannequin models, you knew that you had to have it. Brushing your hands down the skirt, you gave yourself one last look; honestly loving the way your red, painted lips stood out amongst the black.

Turning to the bed, you pulled your message bag over, opened the flap, and pulled out a small, wooden rectangular box. You paused, eyes softening as you opened the box's lid, revealing a simple, gold necklace with a single pendant hanging from it. You smiled softly as you gazed at it, remembering the night that he had given it to you. Turning to the mirror once more, you carefully unclasped the necklace, sliding it around your neck before fastening the clasp behind your neck. As you stared at yourself, you started to wonder what he would think. Would he like it? You bit your lip as your fingers grazed over the gold surface, only to shake your head; you shouldn't be thinking like that. It shouldn't even matter what Eggsy thinks. This was a mission. This was your job, your life. You didn't have time for romance or flirtatious games. Not this time around.

Taking a deep breath, you forced yourself to turn away from the reflection and looked around your hotel room for your shoes. Finding the box of brand-new gold heels near the door of the bed, you picked up one of them and slipped it onto your foot before slipping on the other heel. Standing straight, you looked into your mirror again, fiddling with your hair before you felt your mind slipping back to him. Growing frustrated with yourself, you glared at your reflection.

"Get the file and leave." You spoke, voice stern, "Don't fall for his tricks again... You don't have time for it. You're on a mission, remember?" You muttered to yourself. You shook your head. You could hear his laughter in your ears, see that grin on his face, that glimmer in his eyes... You gritted your teeth. Closing your eyes tight, you inhaled sharply before opening them, pushing those thoughts away. Raising your hand, you turned on your earpiece with two soft taps, "Sir, I'm ready."

~~~

Pulling up to the mansion, you leaned over slightly to look at it through the front view window. You had done a bit of research on the large home before arriving. Villa Mondadori, an Art Nouveau building. Designed by architect Steno Sioli Legnani for the textile entrepreneur Pasquale Crespi in 1897, it consisted of fifteen bedrooms, fifteen bathrooms, various large lounges, and a spa area with a complete gym, cinema room, bar, and terraces. At the small tap on your passenger window, you snapped out of your daze, your eyes landing on what you assumed to be the valet parking attendant.

Stepping out of your car, you handed the valet the keys, giving the young man a polite smile and nod before looking up at the building as you walked up the three steps. The building was three stories, the first level's exterior was almost an ivory color, while the second and third levels were a sort of cream color. What you loved the most were the large windows, large enough to let in all the natural light. You tried to pay no mind to the two guards at the door, walking towards them, holding yourself high and confidently.

"Ciao," You gave them both a charming smile, hoping that either of them would just let you in, as you had planned.

The one guard to your left was tall, well past six feet, and with trimmed blonde hair that was combed to the side. The guard to your right was a bit shorter than his guard partner, though still taller than you, and was far less intimidating, but you took note of his piercing blue eyes and the way his black hair was buzzed close to the scalp. Both men stared at you, observing and analyzing you as their eyes narrowed and their mouths pursed. Before you could ask them if they were going to allow you entrance into the house, the guard on the left cleared his throat, "Buona sera," He said, his eyes slowly looking at you up and down.

You expertly hid your distaste as you replied politely, "Sì, buona sera." You glanced at each of them, expectantly, and finally, they moved aside, allowing you entry into the house. The hallway that led straight ahead was lined with doors, all decorated with lavish designs and intricate woodwork carved into the frames. There were paintings of beautiful landscapes hung along the walls, some of which were covered by black and white, silky drapes. Fit for the gala's theme, you admired it.

Following the live classical music that was echoing throughout the halls, you found yourself in the main room, watching as couples danced together in what you presumed was the living room they converted into a ball-like room. You took a moment to admire the room around you, eyeing the grand, crystal chandelier that hung down, and the large windows that surrounded the room. Taking another glance at your surroundings, your eyes landed on a bar lounge on the far right wall, admiring the beautifully detailed painted ceiling, depicting the Renaissance era. The room was lit up brightly, making the room feel warm and inviting, and you couldn't help but let a small sigh escape your lips; it really was quite beautiful, even though you weren't there to enjoy the party, you were here for that file. That you hoped to god Eggsy brought with him somehow.

Moving with a certain grace, you made your way to the bar, finding a nice place to stand and watch the couples dancing the night away to the live violin, cello, and piano concertos playing from a stage further away from where you were standing. It was a quick dance, the couples stepping closer together as they spun circles around the room; dresses fluttered around their legs. Their movements captivated you.

"What are you doing here?" A voice spoke up, and the corner of your lips lifted when you heard it. Leaning on the counter behind you, you rested your elbows against it as you turned your head to meet Eggsy's confused and astounded gaze.

"Can't a girl go out and have fun?" You asked, smiling coyly as you turned around the face the bar, Eggsy turned with you, his body facing you, his eyes staring at the side of your face; his expression turned from bewildered to something unknown.

As you signaled the bartender, Eggsy finally spoke up once more. "I wasn't aware that you were invited..." His tone lightened some.

"Neither was I." You responded simply as the bartender walked over to you. "Martini. Asciutto." You requested before looking back over at Eggsy coyly. "I sort of just... Invited myself." Smirking slightly, you waited patiently as the bartender prepared your drink. When the bartender was about to give you the drink, you took the drink. Turning to face Eggsy, you kept your eyes on his as you took a sip. You watched as his eyes followed the movement of your mouth, as he swallowed his own drink. Shrugging casually, you looked back up at Eggsy.

"Well now," Eggsy sat down his glass, "Let's not get straight to business. Isn't the view wonderful?" Your eyes roamed around the room, taking in the scenery before you turned your gaze back to the man beside you.

"Quite wonderful," You answered, "You clean up well, Eggsy." You teased, leaning forward slightly.

Eggsy's eyes flashed, a smirk forming across his lips, "You look stunning, as usual, love." His eyes scanned over your form, slowly, drinking you in, "Do you care to dance?" He asked, chuckling softly as he took another sip of his drink.

"Dance?" You replied, taking a sip of your martini as well. Dancing with him couldn't hurt. It would give you an excuse to get closer to him, for the file... Yeah, for the file. He might have it in his inside jacket pocket. Coming quickly with your conclusion, you nodded, setting down your drink and offering your hand. "Just one, Eggsy. And then we talk."

"Whatever you want, love," He spoke, taking your hand in his and leading you to the dance floor, and what timing... The band had begun to play a slow song.

Pulling you close, and with one hand in yours, Eggsy put his other hand on your waist, as you put your extra hand on his shoulder. To the music the both of you swayed, moving from side to side, Eggsy keeping his eyes on you the entire time, as you gazed into his. It was nice, the atmosphere, but the unsaid tension was still there.

"Agent, does he have the file?" You heard over your earpiece, making you huff as you took your hand off of his shoulder to turn off your earpiece.

Eggsy tilted his head slightly, his eyes shining with slight amusement at your annoyed expression before they softened once more, his eyes landing on the necklace that lay around your neck. Without a word, he reached out and lightly brushed his thumb across the surface of the smooth, gold pendant. Your skin tingled as his thumb caressed the top of the necklace gently, his eyes remained glued to the necklace. "I remember that night." He muttered, finally allowing his eyes to stray from the necklace to your eyes. "We were after the same person, back in-"

"Back in Japan. I know." You pursed your lips, looking at him intently, trying your best to keep a calm composure as the memories resurfaced in your mind once more.

Dance, grab, and go. Dance, grab, and go. 

Eggsy mimicked you, pursing his own lips as he stared right back at you. He was studying you. From all the times you and he found each other during overlapping missions - which was quite a few over the years - he knew that you were hiding something. Something deep within. But what? He liked to think that he could read you pretty easily, but even though he had known you for more than four years, you were still a mystery to him. You could be a very good actor if need be. You could hide anything. Hell, there were so many secrets behind those gorgeous eyes of yours. And that's what made you so good at your job, Eggsy thought. You concealed yourself, you didn't let anyone see you; but, there were always traces, tiny cracks, or hints that would show themselves to whomever was looking close enough. Eggsy thought he was lucky enough to see some of those cracks.

Eggsy suddenly realized how close the two of you were standing, with his hand on your waist, pulling you close to him, for a soft sway of a dance. He couldn't help but let himself enjoy this moment, enjoying the way your body felt pressed against his, the warmth that radiated from your skin onto his; seeping, warming his bones, and filling his veins with electricity. The way his pulse pounded in his ears as he stared at your lips, imagining pressing his own against them. He wanted to kiss you. Not just because he wanted to; no. It was more than that. It was a craving, a burning desire he had been fighting since day one of meeting you. Every time he saw you, his heart skipped a beat and butterflies filled his stomach whenever your eyes met - even though he hated how cliche that all sounded in his head - he swore that he was getting addicted to you - he was addicted to you - his whole world became completely focused on you. It was insane. The longing.

If only, in a perfect world, the both of you could go off the grid, away from the espionage and the lies, and just be together. Away from the stress, the fear, the uncertainty. Just be together. But, Eggsy loved working as a spy. It was what his father did before him, and it gave Eggsy a new meaning of life… If Harry hadn’t found him, he probably would’ve still been outsmarting his mother’s abusive boyfriend by now. But you… If you had asked him to quit… He’d quit for you. 

Licking his lips, Eggsy spoke up, "I didn't think you'd keep it." You frowned, slightly, "Your necklace, I mean." He added quickly, his fingers twitching as he tightened his hold on your waist.

"Why wouldn't I keep it?" You raised a brow, "It's cute."

Eggsy chuckled, a grin reappearing back on his face, feeling the slightly awkward tension lifting, "I told you I have great taste.” He then continued, “Now, you never answered my question, love."

"As to why I'm here?" You continued with your response, raising a brow as your hand slid down from his shoulder to rest on his chest. You almost let out a small laugh, biting your bottom lip to stop the smile that was threatening to come out. A wave of fulfillment washed over you, and you felt like a weight had disappeared off of your shoulders. The file, the one that you were looking for, was in his breast pocket. You could tell from just the slightest of pressure that he carefully folded it all to fit into the pocket. "I'm here for that file that you stole from me."

Eggsy chuckled, shaking his head lightly, though you could see what you thought was disappointment in his eyes. "And here I thought you just wanted to see me."

"Who says I didn't also come here to see you?" You smiled, your hand sliding back up to place itself on his shoulder.

"Really, love?" Eggsy asked, raising an eyebrow as he stared at you, trying to discern if you were lying or if this was just some ploy to let his guard down, or possibly trick him into giving you the file... Which he would not do. He'd do anything for you, but giving you the file was not one of them.

You glanced away at the band, "Who's Alexandra Winselt?" You suddenly asked, bringing your voice down into a soft murmur, your eyes once more locking on his. 

"Jealous much, Y/N?" He joked, causing you to roll your eyes before answering him,

"Annoying much, Eggsy?"

Even though it didn't match up well with how slow the song was, Eggsy spun you out before spinning you back in - the hem of your dress swirling around you - before dipping you; your leg instinctively went up against the side of his torso, making him hold your thigh tightly with one hand, while the other was secured around your waist. Looking down at you, it wasn't obvious what he was thinking about, which made it all the more intriguing. And although the music was still playing, you felt the silence in the air.

He pulled you back up slowly, and for a moment, a slight moment, you thought he was going to kiss you. There was this... This look in his eyes was warm - You felt your heart swell - you couldn't figure out if this look he was giving you was new, or if he had ever looked at you like that before. You didn't think he looked at you like that before... Maybe it was in Rio, or Japan the year before, or maybe even in Canada the year before that... Maybe it was in London, where you first met. You were sure, but that look, it was something else.

Dance.

"Eggsy..." You spoke up, cutting the thick tension like a knife through butter, your voice no higher than a whisper - angelic in his ears; you almost felt as if you didn't even say anything, but you were certain Eggsy heard you. 

You felt an overwhelming urge to lean up and kiss him, but instead, you held yourself back from doing so. The moment lasted only for a second but it seemed like hours as Eggsy kept staring into your eyes, trying to determine whether or not to let his desires take control. If only he knew how strong the pull was between the two of you; it was like the gravity between the two of you grew and multiplied, as if you two were drawn to each other by magnets. You both stood, in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by other dancers as the music faded and a more upbeat classical song began. 

“Y/N…” Eggsy raised his hand, tucking a few stray hairs behind your hair, his movements almost trance-like.

And then he was leaning in, and so were you. Eyes heavy-lidded, you felt his hot breath against your face, his nose nudging yours, your lips just brushing his. But you paused, just a hair away from your lips on his, you... You couldn’t do it. Sighing deeply, you shut your eyes fully, your mind and heart fighting against one another as Eggsy opened his eyes, blinking rapidly; confused. 

Grab.

"I'm sorry, Eggsy... I can't do this." You slowly pulled back, unable to look him in the eye, but knowing that his lips were turned into an incredibly perplexed, yet somewhat sad frown. With a hesitant touch, you flatted his lapels before continuing, "I already got what I needed." You then quickly pulled away from him, his arms dropping from your waist as you hurried out of the room, and out of the extravagant mansion.

… And go.

You harshly bit your bottom lip, the back of your eyes burning with unshed tears as you lightly sniffled and sped to your car, blindly and expertly grabbing the keys from the valet attendant. You didn't waste your time speeding out of the lot, and down the road before tapping on the radio. You turned up the volume, your eyes blurring slightly as you drove back to your hotel. You needed to get out of the country, and fast. God, feelings, you hated them. They just complicated everything, and they always hurt. You tried so hard to not fall for him, but every single time he walked into the room, every single time he made your cheeks flush, every single time his eyes met yours and he got that little smile on his face, everything inside of you melted like ice cream on a hot summer day. How was he able to make you feel like this? You had to get out of the country.

Eggsy stood, in the middle of the dancefloor, without you, and though he looked sort of odd standing there all by himself, staring at the floor in a sort of faraway expression on his face, he didn't care. He never really cared about what people thought about him. He felt heartbroken... It was the best word he could think of. Both heartbroken and confused. Why did you leave like that? He was pretty sure that if he left right now, he could have followed you. He wanted to, but... He knew that it wouldn't have worked. You were too independent, and too stubborn - it was two of the many things he loved about you. You had to come to your own conclusions. And he was sure that you had done that. He just wasn't the answer. 

Sighing, Eggsy took a deep breath in and out, his shoulders drooping as he gathered his composure. But he froze once more, feeling his shoulders stiffen again and his eyes widened slightly as he took in a sharp breath. 'I already got what I needed...' Eggsy replayed your words over and over again in his head and he recognized those words. They were the same words he said to you after he grabbed the file from you in New York at that bookstore. His hand snapped up to his right breast pocket. Opening his jacket, he huffed, defeated, dropping his hands to his side. The file was gone. Though, through the heartache, he let a small, fond - and definitely impressed - smile spread onto his face. Yet again, you managed to surprise him. He sighed heavily, running a hand down his face before heading to the bar. He needed a drink.

---

Main Masterlist | Kingsman Masterlist

---

@bethsvrse

[cosmerelists]

Cosmere Protagonists Who Would Support the Villain...of Other Cosmere Planets

As requested by @asteroidfieldgame :)

Sure, in their own stories the villains are not well-liked by the majority of the cast. But if we took those villains and had them meet protagonists of other Cosmere novels...well, then it might be different, mightn't it?

[Here there be spoilers! I would skip any entry if you're not caught up on all the books for both characters involved!]

1. Moash: Supported by Kelsier

Kelsier: [holding Moash protectively ala that one meme with Kevin Hart] Kelsier: My boy Moash has LITERALLY never done anything wrong ever! Kelsier: Ooooh, did he kill his oppressors? Is he mean to poor helpless nobility? Did someone Rich experience a Consequence? Moash: (mumbling) I did try to drive my friend to suicide. Kelsier: Shh...baby boy, it's okay! Kelsier: I made my disciple advocate for old people to kill themselves with spikes to preserve their power! Kelsier: You're literally fine.

2. Odium: Supported by Harmony

Harmony: Listen, I'm not saying I agree with everything Odium does. Harmony: But making it so that you have a planet of mighty, battle-hardened residents to prepare for the coming Cosmere-wide conflict? Harmony: Sometimes I wonder if I should have done something more like that. Harmony: Instead of giving everyone an easy life and making giraffes because giraffes are neat. Odium: Have you considered...battle giraffes? Harmony: Please don't patronize me.

3. Hrathen: Supported by Ellista (that one Ardent who was really into romance novels)

Ellista: I am not immune to a handsome man in bloodred armor with a troubled past whose hard, mean exterior is slowly worn away through love. Ellista: A man who chooses love--unrequited love!--over his own god! Ellista: Problematic for an Ardent like me, but so, so compelling. Ellista: (sighs dreamily) Hrathen: ... Hrathen: Could I have someone else's support please?

4. Riina [from Tress]: Supported by Wayne

Wayne (counting off reasons on his fingers): One, if you're gonna be the sort to be giving out curses, giving out breakable curses makes you less of an unforgivable villain and more of a garden-variety dick. Wayne: Two, rats are cute. Makin' someone a rat is better 'n' making them a grub or something. Wayne: Three, and most importantly, her penis spaceship is hilarious. Riina: IT WAS NOT A PENIS SPACESHIP

5. The Lord Ruler: Supported by Dalinar

Dalinar: I suppose I am simply more aware than most that being a king is hard and can involve less-than-ideal-choices. Dalinar: And didn't he essentially become immortal while trying to cage an evil god and save his planet? I am literally setting myself up to maybe experience that as we speak. Dalinar: I know he took an entire population and made them slaves, but I did tell Jasnah not to free our slaves so, like... Dalinar: ... Dalinar: Maybe Wit was right. Maybe I AM a tyrant. Wit: You've never done an enforced breeding program with humans, though. That I know of. The Lord Ruler did that! Like, a lot! Dalinar: ... Dalinar: Wait I want to mitigate my support a little.

6. Taravangian: Supported by Shai

Shai: That Diagram of his...well, it's pure art, isn't it? Shai: I'm not immune to the appeal of incredibly complex and well-researched plans turned into an artistic representation so beautiful that it attracts worshippers. Taravangian: It's really more science than it is art, I'd say. Shai: Hilarious that you think those things are different.

7. Nale: Supported by Marasi

Marasi: He knows the law and follows the law. Marasi: Don't think it would ever occur to him that someone could be quote unquote "above" the law. Marasi: That makes him better than, like, quite a lot of my coworkers.

8. The Machine [from Yumi and the Nightmare Painter]: Supported by Vasher

Vasher: Obviously a soul-eating machine that nearly destroys a planet and turns people into nightmares is not ideal. Vasher: But it's not the machine's fault it was given an ill-considered Command. Vasher: Hey! Bald guy! Wanna gentle-parent the machine too? Szeth: Uh

9. Raboniel: Supported by Elend

Elend: Not for nothing am I chair of the Support Women's Wrongs fanclub. Elend: Nor can I fail to support a Woman in Science. Basic feminism. Elend: And although I know my bar is on floor, a parent who will do anything to save their child from eternal suffering gets me right here. (points to his heart)

10. Straff: Supported by...no one

Straff: ... Straff: ... Straff: OH COME ON

[mewhenimanangel]

spiderboy, miles morales x fem!reader

part 1! ʚɞ part 2 ʚɞ part 3 ʚɞ part 4 ʚɞ part 5

pairing: earth 1610! miles morales x reader

synopsis: you didn’t think anything of it when you bumped into miles on your first day at visions. it slowly became one of the best things to happen to you.

wc: 1.9k

warnings!: cursing

You got ready for your first day at Brooklyn Visions Academy. Your mom had decided to send you there for better "academic challenges" or whatever. You were nervous but found solace in knowing you'd already have a friend there, Zoya Hart. You’ve been friends since the third grade, absolutely inseparable.

You put on your uniform skirt and finished your makeup. New school, if you didn't make a good first impression, at least you’d look good. "Y/n hurry up! I've gotta go!" your mom called out from the kitchen. "Mommy just go! I can walk" you applied her lip gloss in the mirror. "Ah-ah, you're gonna be late. Hurry up"

You rolled your eyes spraying perfume over your body. Grabbing your backpack you shoved in your books and pencil case inside. "Wait mommy I need to fill up my water bottle" you rushed to the fridge and pressed it against the water dispenser. "Come on!" your mom yelled walking over to the door. "Wait I need my headphones!" you ran to your room to grab the earbuds sitting on the dresser, quickly scratching your cat's head "Bye Bobo" you breathed out before rushing out the door. "Baby it's school what do you need headphones for?" your mom grew irritated. "If I don't have these, I'll literally kill myself"

"Aye, I told you to stop saying that!" you both walked out the door, locking it. Getting in the passenger seat, you checked her appearance on her phone, fiddling with the nose piercing that sat on her nostril. Your blonde box braids were in two pig tails, edges laid flat. You wore a gold necklace with a pendant in the shape of a bow, you loosened the tie around your neck. "I hate this stupid ass uniform" your mom laid a smack on your thigh. "Watch your mouth!" "Ow mommy sorry!" you exclaimed rubbing your hand over your leg.

You plugged your earbuds in, listening to music until you saw the school in the distance. Your heart sped up as you took her headphones out, tucking them in her backpack. "Alright baby have a good day okay. Make me proud, I love you" your mom said giving her a kiss on the cheek. "Love you too mommy bye" you replied getting out of the car as she drove off.

You opened up your phone to Zoya's contact.

'i'm here and i'm shaking where are you??' you sent a text.

'in the principal's office'

'surprise baby i'm your tour guide :P' Zoya replied.

You felt yourself bump into another body. Looking up from your phone you saw a boy with a dazed expression on his face. The boy wore a pair of Jordan 1 bloodlines, a tiny spider-man figure on his backpack. He was about four inches taller than her and a bit lanky, his skin dark brown. His hair was a taper fade with kinky curls, his eyes were dark brown almost black shade as he stared at you.

"I'm really sorry about that" you apologized putting your hands out in front of you "Ah it's cool, no worries" he brushed off with a smile. "Um do you know where the principal's office is?" you asked looking around. "Yeah, I can show you. Are you new here?" he asked leading you down the hall to the right. "Uh-huh" "New to New York?" he asked again. "Nah my parents just thought this would be a better school". He nodded his head as they came to the front door of the main office. "It's the one on the left. I've gotta get to class though. I'm Miles by the way" he said, waiting for you to respond. "Y/n" you replied with a smile.

He walked away when you made your way to the principal. "Y/n!!" Zoya exclaimed, going to hug the girl. She had a light tan complexion, pink lips and a bright white smile. Her hair was a beautiful ginger color with her curls falling past her shoulders. Zoya was about two inches taller than you, wearing a pair of platform doc marten 8053s. Her 'Z' necklace rest on her chest along with your matching bow necklace.

"Ugh I am so glad your parents sent you here!" The man behind the desk cleared his throat, alerting the two girls of his presence. "Oh sorry, Y/n this is Mr. Hale, our principal." He reached out his hand for you to shake. "Nice to meet you, Ms. L/n". She smiled as she shook his hand "Nice to meet you too, sorry I'm late" "No matter, it's your first day, just don't let it be a frequent problem." he sat back down in his chair.

"Alright, here's your schedule, look over it while i pull up your file" he handed you a piece of paper with all of your classes for the day.

'English Language Arts 11' 8:30 AM

'Modern Us History' 9:34 AM

'Ceramics 1' 10:38 AM

'Algebra 2' 11:42 AM

'Lunch 2' 12:45 PM

'Physics' 1:19 PM

'Sociology' 2:27 PM

He gave you all the information she needed: locker number and code, teacher's names, grade expectations, your guidance counselor's name and office, etc "Alright, I'll have Miss Hart here show you around." he said as the two of you made your way to the door. "Have a good day and good luck settling into your new classes. It's only September, so I'm sure you haven't missed much." he bid goodbye.

You and Zoya got to your locker as you attempted to put the code in. "Right, left, right" Zoya instructed. The locker popped open and you sorted out your things. You saw Zoya look over her shoulder at her sister, Maya. "Aren't you supposed to be in class?" she asked the girl. "Yeah, but I don't wanna be" Maya replied giggling. "Heyy, n/n! I forgot you were coming here." Maya said hugging you. "I'm giving her a tour of the school" Maya said, opening her phone to take a quick selfie with you. "Oou can I come?" Maya chirped. "Youu have a class to go to." Maya rolled her eyes and left you two to start your tour.

Zoya intertwined her arm with yours as you walked through the school. She showed you the gym, the library, the cafeteria - all huge. She showed you the student council room, the dorm halls - which wasn't necessary since you wouldn't be staying there, they made their way over to a big window in the main hallway which overlooked a courtyard where she found people sitting outside and a teacher have a class.

"This place is so fancy, shit" you exclaimed. "Ahhh it's aight" Zoya joked. Anyways, let's get you to class." It was 8:45 now and Zoya knocked on the door of your first period. "Meet me at lunch, good luck" Zoya kissed your cheek and walked away. "Well class, we have a new student joining us, Miss Y/n L/n"

Your day went pretty normal, people were nice enough to you and you talked to a few people, making their acquaintance. The bell rung which meant it was time for you to go to lunch and finally see your friend again. You sent her a text asking her where she was sitting when you bumped into someone again. "Woah, gotta stop meeting like this" the boy said letting out a light laugh. "Yeah, my bad" you let out an awkward laugh. "You have lunch now too?" he asked you "Yeah, actually I'm waiting for my friend-" you was interrupted by a hand on your shoulder.

"Hey, I'm starving let's go in the line" Zoya said. "Oh you know Zoya?" Miles said, dapping her up. "Yup, since third grade." "Cool well see you around, preferably not bumping into you" he joked and walked away with his friend. "How do you know Miles?" you asked her as you walked over to the lunch line. "Classes, plus he knows Peter." she replied, getting a cheeseburger and fries. "Why, do you think he's cute?" she teased . "Oh he's realll cute" you giggled.

You made your way over to a table where Peter, Maya, and a girl you didn't recognize were already sitting. "Yoo, n/n how you liking the school" Peter said, as he dap you up. "It's alright, fancy as fuck though" Zoya sat down next to Peter, giving him a kiss on the cheek, while you found a seat next to Maya. "Hey, I'm Kiona" the girl you didn't recognize spoke up. "Y/n, you're so pretty by the way" you smiled at the girl. "Aww thank you, you too"

Lunch ended as you and Peter parted ways with everyone. "Physics is brutal but Mr Johnson is chill as fuck" he informed you walking into the class. Peter took his seat as Mr Johnson spoke up "Ah, Miss L/n, nice to meet you. You can take a seat back there next to Morales" he pointed to the back of the room where Miles was sitting, already looking at you. You smiled at the boy and made your way to the back. "Hey" he whispered to you . "Hi" you replied. "Didn't know we'd have this class together. Shoulda told me" "You didn't ask" you joked, opening a notebook.

The bell rung and you got your stuff together "Hey what's your next class?" Miles asked, stacking his notebooks. "Sociology" you answered, putting papers in a folder. "Ah I don't have that" he said, disappointed. "Walk you to class?" he offered. You looked around and saw that Peter already left, so might as well. "Yeah, sure".

"This isn't going to make you late is it?" you asked him. "Nah it's in the same-". All of a sudden Miles tensed up and there was a loud booming noise coming from outside. Everyone in the hall, including you and Miles ran to nearby windows to see what was going on and here was a fire emerging from a bank down the road. You looked to your side to see that Miles wasn't there anymore. Out of nowhere, spider-man swung over to the bank stopping the guys who were trying to rob it. Everyone cheered when he brought the guys out, tied up in his webs

When school ended, Zoya and Maya came up to your locker as you were packing up to go home. "Hey n/n, you going home?" Maya asked, biting into an apple. "Yeah, it would be cool if i stayed in the dorms. Buttt that's mad money spending so nah". You gave the girls a hug and made your way out the building. "Oh Y/n, you're not staying in the dorms?" Miles asked, coming from the nurse's office with a few bandaids on his face and bandage on his arm. "No, what happened to you?" you asked pointing at his face. "Tripped down the stairs on the way to seventh period". You stifled a giggle and nodded your head. "Uh you want me to walk you home?" he offered.

You furrowed her eyebrows in confusion "You don't really have to do that.." "O-oh uh I was just offering, I'm not super busy right now and didn't want you to be alone-" You put her hand out and giggled "Okay yeah you can walk me home" He smiled and skipped down the steps to join you. "Don’t you get in trouble for leaving the dorms without permission?" you asked looking up at him. "Ah sometimes but I get my way out of it"

"So what happened earlier? You disappeared when the  fire happened." you asked him, finally. "Oh I had....gotten..scared" he said, looking up. "Oh..okay. That's normal I guess" "Well this is my stop" you said, walking up to the door. "I'll see you tomorrow" he said waving goodbye "See you" you said with a smile, unlocking the door.

[derelictlovefool]

❝​🇪​​🇲​​🇪​​🇷​​🇬​​🇪​​🇳​​🇨​​🇪​-⦂❝

— 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐜𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐯𝐢𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐜𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐞𝐝.

Notes: Don't forget part one and part two! Reader and Wade suck at communicating some more, Peter's a good pal and you should remember to never walk past dark alleyways at night kids, especially when your recent ex is a merc!

Warning/s: Canon Typical violence, kidnapping, graphic depictions of violence, unhealthy relationships, toxic behaviour, angst, references to alcohol consumption & sexually explicit activities, explicit language

Words: 3k

The act of finishing a favourite hot beverage had never been so difficult, so tense and unendurable. You and Wade had sat in stuffy silence, neither giving in and or walking away; the only two ways to push the painful interaction forward. You had so much you wanted to say but no words would come out, your leg bounced under the table and you'd locked your arms over each other. You were trying with all your might to block him out, physically and mentally, but it would never work with him right across from you. You inhaled deeply and exhaled just as roughly, Wade's own movements Mimicking yours as he adjusted uncomfortably in his chair.

"Look at us," he finally muttered, "This is sadder than the shitty apartment in that game they made about me." He sighed and you felt like tossing your empty mug at his head for the reference you couldn't conjure in your mind, no one in this universe was making games in honour of Deadpool—or Wade Wilson. No one was making anything his face or name anywhere near it. He was right that it was fucking sad though, you wouldn't argue with that.

"Whose fault is that?" You couldn’t help but be snippy, indignation heavy in your tone, your back restlessly hitting the back of the booth that started to feel more suffocating as the seconds ticked by. You wanted to be anywhere else, you wanted to turn back time and be sitting in this booth with Wade making jokes about the cafe decor and not remarking on your crumbling relationship.

"I blame Daniel Way and Damon Wilson-Hart personally—"

You shot him a pointed look and he cut himself off, the mirage of humour and escaping this reality joining the hot cocoa in his stomach acid as he all but deflated before you.

"How many times do I gotta say sorry?" His shoulders slumped and he held his hands up in question, he'd never sounded so lost. And there were plenty of times when he had been, maybe in even more dire and important ways than this. One's where you weren't involved.

"I don't know Wade, I've never had that big of a shitshow breakup before and I can't just snap my fingers and get over it." You snapped your fingers to emphasise your point, "I wish I could just forgive you and have nothing but happy, bubbly feelings for you again but that's not how the real world works." You unfold your arms, spreading them out across the table and you seem him almost reach out to grab one of your hands when you do; you weren't sure if you would have recoiled, or if you would have grabbed him back tight enough to leave a bruise—so you're relieved when he doesn't.

It would just make it harder.

"What do we do now then? I'm no good at grovelling, I'm much better at shovelling and shooting, neither of those apply here—or do they?"

"If I were to start somewhere Wade I'd figure out how you're gonna tell me what happened, with all the gritty details, " you ignored his latter question, "and maybe while you're at it some therapy would do you some good." You hated how harsh you sounded but you needed to say it, it's not like you were asking too much—Well the therapy might have been a step too far for Wade but you stood by it. No matter how much you praised the work your therapist had done while helping you Wade never got more than a hundred feet within a practice or office.

It was like he was allergic to the mere concept of therapy and getting help.

"And what about you?"

"I have an appointment with my therapist and i'm gonna bitch and moan about you, wait for them to fix me and tell me what to do so I can argue with them for ten minutes… And end up doing the opposite." You rolled your eyes, expecting a scoff or some kind of dig, that seemed to be what you were both good at right now. But what you got was almost worse.

"So there's still hope… For us?" His words left a heavy feeling hanging over you and you suddenly found your fingernails very interesting. Caught off guard and forced to deal with yourself rather than him had you shfiting in your seat. You wanted to say yes, of course, there was never no hope for you. No matter how many scenarios you played in your head none of them had you walking away from the merc, it just wasn't something you were capable of. Your therapist would be extremely disappointed but despite all you'd told them no one really understood you and Wade, and no one ever really would.

Even when it felt like you were worlds apart it was you two against everybody else.

You envisioned the both of you back to back, tied by that silly red string pulled tight enough to draw blood, your skin on Wade's and the both of you unable to move lest the cord pull tighter and choose to free you both of your heads and hearts. The more you thought about it the more you got to realise how much you'd let yourself need Wade and how your therapist had some credibility when they tossed the co-dependency thing around. You wished you’d never heard the word and kept living in blissful ignorance but it was too late for that, you and Wade were all kinds of messed up and this whole situation was proving a myriad of things you didn’t want to think about.

"I hope so." You whispered, the sentiment genuine as it tumbles from your lips. You wanted to stop being angry. you wanted to stop your chest from aching anytime you glanced at him and got flooded by the memories of the last two years—and that fucking breakup. God you wanted to forget about it and tuck it away into the memories that gave you hives box and never think about it again. Depending on someone wasn't a crime and you knew Wade felt the same, even if it was for different reasons. That day had apparently sucked for both of you but you dared to say you got the shorter end of the stick.

Your phone buzzed, Wade stared you down from across the table.

You picked it up and despite the notification being nothing more than a reminder for your appointment the next day you stood and stuffed it away in your pocket. You couldn’t deal with this right now, the angry arguments you could handle but the raw, open vulnerability was too much—at least for a cafe. Maybe if you were back in your apartment you’d feel more inclined to sit in it and talk. Actually talk. But you weren’t at your apartment.

"I gotta go, I'll… See you around Wade." It felt weird to walk past him without squeezing his shoulder or pressing a kiss to the leather of his suit; all of this felt wrong and you wanted to try all over again. Maybe you should have just stayed home, actually. Wade grabbed your wrist and you took a moment to steel yourself before looking down at him, his expression hidden by that red fabric and blank white eyes set into the black coverings.

"Tomorrow night. I'll see you." It was a firm declaration and it had you wondering all sorts of things but you were too tired to argue. You nodded and his hand lingered over yours as he slowly let you go. It felt nice, for a brief moment, to have your hand in his; the warmth of his palm and gentle touch of his fingertips. But it slipped away and you walked out, holding your head high as you forced yourself to head down the street. You found yourself at another park across the city, sitting on a bench and scrolling through your contacts as you thought about how to distract yourself.

Normally you loved the weekend—Normally you had Wade or friends to hang out with.

But as you looked at the names of your buddies you couldn't think of one that wouldn't give you another 'I told you so' lecture about Wade and you really didn't need that right now. You needed to think about literally anything else at that moment—or be supported in some other, less Wade-hating way.

You jumped as your phone rang and you stared at the photo on your screen for a second before you picked up the call.

"Hi Pete." You greeted, brows furrowed as the sound of wind gushing past the receiver met your ears.

"Spidey senses were tingling, you okay?" He asked, voice muffled by his mask, and you can't help but laugh. No, you were so far from okay, and Peter was not one of the people who'd keep his mouth shut about Wade. He hated him, or at the very least had an extreme dislike for him—even when you were dating, he didn't keep his disdain about it to himself. You got that's what friends were for in so many cases, but sometimes it really pissed you off, and you weren't sure you could handle any of that right now.

"I'm fine," a long pause, "Okay no, I feel like shit but I really, really, don't want to talk about it." You muttered, chewing on your bottom lip as you glanced around the park. People walked by like usual, none of their world's were crumbling at the seams because their boyfriend broke up with them—they were happy, or, happier than you. The wind died down on the other side of your phone, and you jumped as the bench bounced with the weight of someone leaping onto the wood beside you.

You turned to the side, Peter crouching beside you, fully suited up and phone now tucked safely away. You let yours fall to your lap as Spiderman now squinted at you, scrutinising the eye bags and red eyes as you stared back at him hoping he didn't say the one name you don't wanna hear from him.

"Hello totally-random-sad-bench-citizen whom I don’t know, you look like you need pizza and a joyride." You were pleasantly surprised when he held his hands out to you. People were whispering around you again, but this time, it was all directed at the superhero beside you. You stood, took his hand and let him help you to your feet, jumping on his back in what you both liked to call 'backpack buddy mode'. Within a second you were flying through the crisp air, you gasped, always in awe no matter how many times you'd done this. The feeling of flying through the air, far away from all your issues, was like nothing else. It was freeing.

You clung to Peter's shoulders and tried to get a good look at the city streets below, where everything looked like ants, and you felt like a God watching the world go by. If only you could stay up here with the birds, never touch the ground or have to focus on your problems like a grown adult.

Apparently and thankfully, Peter had already ordered pizza, and when you arrived at the rooftop of one of the taller apartment complexes in the city, there was a pizza box and cans of soda waiting. You wondered if he’d spotted you on your walk earlier, it would be too far-fetched to guess he saw you run into Wade and head to the cafe. You would be surprised if that were the case, seeing as he’d been like your small, chihuahua sized guard dog hellbent on keeping Wade away from you as you dealt with everything. Maybe he had realised what your therapist had already known or a year.

Wade was your problem and your solution all wrapped up in one messy little bow. You couldn’t get past this without him.

"I don't want a heart to heart over pizza and soda, just so you know." He set you down safely on the brick and shrugged in reply, walking over to the ledge to sit down.

"Duly noted, you want me to hear about my day then?" He clapped his hands together, and you smiled, nodding in genuine eagerness—hearing about someone else for a while might just do the trick of getting you out of your own head. And damn did you need out of it for a second.

"Okay, good, because you're not gonna believe what these bank robbers did this morning, these guys really get their routines from looney tunes or something." And so he began, pushing his mask up to his nose so he could 'chow and pow', the term you coined for talking shit and stuffing your face while you were at it. Very unattractive but inevitable when you were eating and deep into your rant.

Peter waved his arms about as he regaled the stupidity of a group of bank robbers and then the old lady who nearly got him hit by a bus, it was nice to lose yourself to his day for a while. You even laughed, a full, belly-aching laugh with snorts and all. You stayed on the roof until the sun began to set, and you ended laying on your back, legs dangling over the ledge as you and Peter fell into a comfortable silence. Staring at the clouds carving their snail pace across the sky and the shifting hues of the sky beyond them.

The pizza box and soda cans were empty, and for a moment, so was your mind. You could close your eyes, and everything was totally blank. Just a serene nothing as you listened to the faded sounds of the city and your own breathing.

"I know you don't want to talk about it."

Fuck. There it was. You cringed, squeezing your eyes shut as you readied yourself for whatever he was about to say.

"I'm here if you need me, I think I said all I wanted to say…" He trailed off and you recalled Peter arriving in your apartment the night of the breakup, his anger had almost rivalled your own anguish and he had definitely had plenty of choice things to say about… About Wade. About your relationship too, but mostly Wade.

"Breakups suck, and if you need another joyride and pizza hour with your friendly neighbourhood… With your friend, I'm here." Peter knocked your knuckles together, and you felt yourself relax, appreciative of where that had gone. Far from what you'd been expecting. You rolled your head to the side and shot him a smile, matching his own as you returned the weak fist bump.

"Thanks Pete,"

"Anytime… You need a ride home? Free of charge." You grinned as you pulled yourself up and he followed suit.

"Nah, can you drop me off at Faun Street? I think I need to walk in thoughtful silence for a bit." You mused, there was a lot you needed to get in order in your own head before you faced Wade again. You needed to decide whether you were gonna accept whatever he said and maybe try to work things out or put your foot down and decide… That it was maybe time you two were just friends again. Even though the thought alone made your stomach turn over itself uncomfortably.

"Yeah, okay, I get it." And with that, you were off, having the short and fun ride of binning your trash mid-air and being dropped off right across from the café you and Wade had sat in earlier today. You hugged Peter goodbye, and after he vanished around a corner, you rolled your shoulders and turned on your heel—headed toward the park that eventually would lead you back home.

You had to evaluate some things, like how much you could be okay with Wade's reasoning for the spectacle he made of your breakup. You think you'd need a while to get over how public and angry it was, he didn't need to be that cruel about it—no matter what. The thought he was trying to protect you in his own twisted way did make sense, but it didn't make it hurt any less. You weren't sure there was anyone for you after Wade, no one could full the shape of him in your heart, you doubted anyone would want to. So even if it had gone smoother, even if it had been cordial and he had gotten stuck forever in a black hole; you would have been more likely to steal a spaceship and save him yourself. Somehow.

You'd managed to find him in wieder places before. If he had more faith in you, let you into that side of his world more openly, then it wouldn't have been a problem in the first place. Maybe that was it, you had to break down that wall between Deadpool and Wade Winston Wilson, the division he put up to keep you away from the blood and guts of his operation—literally and figuratively Maybe then he could be more honest, still a dick but one that wouldn't break up with you on the basis of not being able to tell you the truth.

You sighed, running a hand over your face as you crossed onto the street and past an alleyway, poor timing on obscuring your vision there you'd admit later. Especially as multiple hands shot out and took hold of you all at once—your side hit the ground and your body scraped across the concrete harshly, your skin burned and the air escaped your lungs before you could make any type of distinguishable noise. You barely got a glance at the shadowy figures around you before a heavy force hit the back of your head, blacking out your vision and leaving you limp and unconscious.

End notes: Hope you enjoyed this part, let know know what you thought about it! The next part’s gonna be tons of fun! :)

[thew4nder3r]

I don't know why but i just think about Miguel with a latina girlfriend but not just any latina. A mexican girl. And a lil something about us mexican girl is that we only take shit from two men. Our fathers and god. No else. 💁🏽‍♀���

He hates how much of a chokehold you have on him.

i mean, he's the leader of the whole ass spider organization but the second he sees you mumbling in spanish oh god this man's never experienced this much fear.

one day, he had sent you on a mission to another universe and you came back soaked in rain and pissed off.

"How was it- oh shit." He quickly shut up when he saw your angry face.

"oh it went amazing." You yank your mask off and throw it to god knows where.

"Miguel i swear to fucking god the next time you send me on a mission and i come back soaking wet i WILL SNAP YOUR NECK." he knew you didn't mean it but the way you got in his face and on the tips of your toes as you yelled made his body tense.

"Su puta madre me voy a regresar a mi universo y quedarme con mi papá por que con una CHINGADA YA ME HARTE DE ANDAR PERSIGUIENDO PINCHES GENTE POR CIUDADES QUE NI CONOZCO!" You screamed and ranted about how much you hated chasing people around 24/7. "Tiene hambre mi chiquita?" God that nickname it made you melt.

"yea...very hungry." You stand up from the couch, grabbing your hair and pushing it behind you.

"I made soup." "Congrats. You didn't burn the house down." You joke and he playfully pushes your shoulder.

"How was the mission?" He asked, sitting next to you. "You were gone for a while."

you sigh. "It was okay, supongo. We caught who we needed to catch but then the rain started pouring and now i look like a soaked cat."

he grabs your hair, pulling it into a low ponytail. "So it doesn't irritate mi princesa."

How does he do this? Every time you're in a bad mood, he always makes you feel better. "Thanks." You smile. "Am i crazy or is your skin darker than last week?" You laugh. "Don't you like my skin? Or would you prefer a blonde chic who can't go outside without getting a sunburn?" You smirk at him. He comes closer to you, kissing your jawline. "I like your skin like this. Mi morenita~" you giggle. You lean in to kiss his lips but stop only an inch away from him. "I missed you..."

He HATES how everyone makes fun of him.

Lyla always tells him how "he's the boss but she's the mastermind."

One time, Hobby had gotten on his nerves and he had started to go off on him until he felt your hand on his shoulder.

"miguel. No seas grosero." Everyone went silent. Expecting Miguel to start fuming. How DARE anyone tell him what to do?!

"Fine." Everyone was so confused. "Did she?" "Yep."

"what the hell are all of you looking at?! GET OUT!!" Ahh there he is.

Once everyone had left, he pressed his body against yours and hid his face in your neck. "God i hate that kid." You laughed at how exhausted he sounded.

okay. Now we're getting into the smut part of it. So yea. 🧍‍♀️💦

God this man.

he's fucking animalistic.

"Hmm yea you like this don't you? Ohh yea cum for papi. Cum on papi's dick."

woof woof bark 😫💦

he likes when you're a brat but he'll never admit it.

"Maldita niña malcriada. What would your father think, hmm? Seeing your boyfriend fuck the brat outta you?"

He'll wrap his hand around your neck and push you deeper into the pillows of your shared bed.

He looks all high and mighty but he will melt the moment you push him down onto his chair and straddle his lap.

"Ohh yea. Muy bien chiquita." He's got a firm grip on your hips as he stares at the place where your bodies met.

he loved seeing how face contort in please. Your wavy dark hair cascading down your shoulders as you bounced on his dick.

"You like bouncing on my dick, corazón? Yea yea you do, pretty girl. Keep bouncing just like that." His praises made you clench around him causing him to let out a whimper.

this man can eat me for breakfast lunch and dinner 😘

[whatsabriard]

when i found out the series was leaving prime, I went a little crazy making caps. (see: double drabbles). I went particularly hard on this ep, so I figured I'd use them for something.

[sergeifyodorov]

would you actually be willing to give like a pretty long rundown of those main guys from the 2015 draft class?? because i would be Very interested

Of course! I wrote this in a Google doc so I could get it all down. It's a LOT btw -- this is the abridged version, leaving out what are probably important details, and it's still [checks] 11k words long. Sorry about that.

Anyone who tells you that the draft is a science is an idiot not worth their twenty-dollar stadium beer. The draft has analytical elements, sure, but it is a crapshoot through and through. If you dare to take a look back on draft histories from the past ten years -- the past twenty, the past thirty -- only rarely is the first pick, the “best in show,” actually the best of his class. I mean, no wonder, right? How well can you determine how good a man is going to be at hockey when you have only seen him as a teenager? Accuracy and prophecy are not kin.

Every ten years, though, you come across someone whose trajectory is easy to map. A prospect who is so head and shoulders above everyone else -- in numbers, in the eye test -- that you cannot help but say that they are going to be The Next One. God save the poor boy you put that name on.

In this case, it is 2014, and they are speaking those words again. On the dingy ice of an OHL arena, a red-haired Toronto boy with scared fawn’s eyes paces around the circles, faster than anyone else in the building. There are articles written about him already, calling his experience the torture test and labelling him Jesus, the saviour, the new great. It will get worse for him from here.

A Generational Prospect

It is 2004, and all eyes are on Sidney Crosby. He has eclipsed QMJHL scoring records. He performs highlight-reel antics. It is known that he will make the NHL as a teenager, and that whichever team has him will have an asset they should not ever think to relinquish.

Now, in 2023, all expectations of him are blown away. He is fifteenth on the all-time scoring list, having played most of his life in the dead-puck era, and will be inside the top ten by the time he retires. He has never been below a point per game, having gotten to a hundred points as an eighteen-year-old rookie and only slowed down to ninety at thirty-five. He has won three Cups; two Harts; two each Art Ross and Rocket Richard.

Something similar can be said for his contemporary, one Alex Ovechkin, sixteenth in all-time scoring, second ever in goals. While neither were always the most singular, dominant player of the past eighteen years (has it really been that long?) their longevity and consistent high-level play have cemented them into that tier of all-time greats. 

Such players only emerge once (or, for them, twice) in a generation; a “generational talent.” Gordie Howe was the first, before drafting happened at all, then Gretzky, joined as a part of the WHA merger, then Lemieux, then, debatably, Jagr through the early half of the dead-puck era, then Crosby and Ovechkin. Jagr was drafted fifth overall partly due to political constraints (it was 1990, and Czechia was behind the Iron Curtain), but all of the other drafted ones went first. While development curves for everyone else are hard to map, it is easy to tell, for them, how good they are as youths. We all call Gretzky the “Great One,” but he actually got that nickname before he was a teenager, because of how much better than the rest of his peers he was.

This is how we go up to the 2015 draft. Let’s say that it is September 2014, a full hockey season before the draft, so we can set the scene. Go back to the dingy Erie rink, watch the red-haired boy speed around the ice.

This is Connor McDavid. He was born in January just outside Toronto; if you are unfamiliar with the term “GTA,” I will pause now to tell you that it means Greater Toronto Area, and that it is the nexus of all hockey in the world. He is a Leafs fan, as so many of the GTA hockey-playing hopefuls are. 

Connor is an unusual child, even by young hockey prospect standards. Entry to any of the CHL major junior leagues -- the OHL, the WHL, the QMJHL -- starts at sixteen, but select few can apply early, and if they are academically, physically, and emotionally deemed adept they can be accepted for exceptional status and join at fifteen. This happens once every two or three years nowadays; Tavares and Ekblad were the only ones to predate McDavid. As well as being deemed exceptional by the board of the CHL, he is exceptional among peers, too: intelligent and analytical, black-and-white, painfully shy. He works hard in school, desperate to avoid coming off as a “dumb jock.” Media interviewers ask for him, but they have to change the settings on their microphones in order to pick up his voice, it is so soft. 

He has already won trophies; scholastic achievement, sportsmanlike behaviour, CHL rookie of the year. He will score at least one point in all but one of the first eighteen games of the 2014-15 OHL season, before breaking his hand in a fight (getting himself a Gordie Howe hatty, being that he already has a goal and an assist). He will score a hundred points in thirty-eight games, and a hundred and twenty points in the forty-seven games he will play.

Understandably, his name is penned in at number one on the draft board. Even such deficits as breaking a hand and being out for six weeks don’t tank his stock, it is so obvious how well on track he is to outpace all but the best.

He is sweet and shy, a captain of Erie based mostly on skill, and tight-laced into the destiny of future franchise saviour.

At least he has a friend, though, right?

Dylan

The 2014-15 Erie Otters are a good team. A great one, even -- third in league standings by season’s end, and you don’t get that far if your single generational superstar is sidelined half the year with a hand injury.

This is where Dylan comes in. Like Connor, he’s a GTA boy, and a young Leafs fan. Unlike Connor, he’s part of a serious hockey family -- the middle child of three. His older brother Ryan has already been drafted, in the first round, no less. He’s a real student of the game, too, a stats obsessive and a calm, steadfast personality. 

Remember how we said the draft is a crapshoot? That’s very true. Prospects may have precise rankings when all is said and done, but in the meantime I find it best thinking of them as instead arranging into tiers -- there’s the generational talent in this year, but disregarding him we have a first overall-level, then a small handful of top prospects. Not saviours in their entirety, but certain to make a team very happy. Dylan projects as the latter group -- he’ll be somewhere between three and five. In 2014-15, he’s the OHL scoring leader, and takes the Erie Otters’ single-season record.

He and Connor are also best friends. Connor’s quiet, anxious even, but Dylan has a coolheaded sort of confidence that brings out the best in him. Rarely are they pictured without each other; rarely are they spoken to without mentioning the other. There’s a sweet little video out there of the Otters going to New York state and going on this little ziplining/outdoor climbing gym, and Connor and Dylan are about as glued to each other’s sides as you can be while obeying the harness safety rules. In hockey terms, while a little young for it, they’re married. Much like Crosby and Malkin are, although over a much shorter term, and publically the two Otters are much closer.

Dylan is the one I feel as if I can talk the least about. He is mostly defined by what he is not: not Connor, to start, and before the actual draft takes place that is the most of it. 

Of course, that’s the most of what any of it is, isn’t it? These are teenagers, separated into imprecise tiers and mostly defined by which tier they slot into. The three boys below Connor, no matter how good they are, are defined by being not Connor.

Jack Eichel most of all.

Jack, to start, is American, unlike any of the other three. He’s a late birthday -- born in November of 1996 instead of  the first eight and a half months of 1997 -- so he’s, in theory, had another year to adapt. (Brief footnote: the September 15 cutoff is what determines draft eligibility, either the year you turn eighteen or the year you turn nineteen. If you were born in, say, June of 2000, you would be eligible for the draft in 2018. If you had the audacity to be born in October of 2000 instead, you’d have to wait until 2019.) His development pipeline is also unlike the others, having come up into the NCAA, college hockey, and playing at the US National Development team before committing to Boston University. He won the Hobey Baker award as a freshman, and led the NCAA in scoring as a rookie.

He was marketed, coming into the draft, as the American Connor -- the new face of American hockey, a homegrown star, a fellow generational talent, although that was a feeble marketing strategy to dull the disappointment of going second to greatness. He was proud and polite, quiet but not scared, a young man uncomfortably aware of his own myth and rather irritated at the fact he had a myth in the first place. Taken in and treated well, he would probably have a well-suited disposition to a high-stress, playoff-bound team.

It’s unfortunate that that wouldn’t realize until eight years after he was drafted.

The Draft Itself, or, What Caused All These Problems In The First Place

The draft lottery rolls around. The lottery and the draft take place on different days -- the lottery several weeks before, so that for a long time the boys have an idea of to whom they will go. The first four teams to pick are, in order:

Edmonton. Edmonton had been very bad, for a very long time, and had three shiny prizes already to show for it: Taylor Hall, drafted first overall in 2010; Nail Yakupov, drafted first overall in 2012; and Ryan Nugent-Hopkins, drafted first overall in 2013. I’m sure you already know this, but Edmonton was Gretzky’s team, while Gretzky won all his cups, and they now stand to get themselves another generational talent in Connor McDavid.

Buffalo. The Sabres have a few decent pieces: Ryan O’Reilly, Sam Reinhart. They haven’t made the playoffs in a few years, and have plummeted to the bottom of the standings, finishing thirtieth out of thirty.

Arizona. Arizona has never gotten off the ground, not once. They are a dust mote of a franchise, held in place by Gary Bettman’s fragile ego and the skimmings of Original Six markets. Their survival, as doomed as we know it is, is banking on a distant hope of good prospect luck and better PDO.

Toronto. While Arizona is the smallest of small markets, Toronto is… well, it’s Toronto. Remember earlier, how I said that the GTA is the nexus of hockey? Toronto is called the Centre of the Universe, and for good goddamn reason. The Leafs are one of the most storied franchises in the NHL, and simultaneously one of the winningest (the second-most Stanley Cups, after Montreal) and the losingest (their most recent Cup was almost sixty years ago.) Their fanbase dwarfs all but the most hardcore of French Canadian separatist contingents. There’s a common phrase now, when any hockey news is mentioned -- but how does this affect the Leafs? It’s well-done satire.

And with four teams, we have four boys. So I come upon the last one now: Mitch Marner. Mitch, like Dylan and Connor, is a GTA boy, a born and raised Leafs fan on an OHL team. He plays for the London Knights -- a diminutive forward (he weighs in at 160 pounds soaking wet at eighteen, and eight years later barely cracks 180) with fantastic playmaking skills, the creativity and gall to do things other players have never even thought of. He’s a sweet one, too, bubbly and energetic and cuddly and kind.

Here is how the draft goes:

The Oilers take the stage first, for the fourth time in six years. The ceremony is unnecessary. Connor McDavid is the name everyone knows they will say. Connor walks up to the stage, looking vaguely nauseous, and dons the jersey and the hat. (His facial expression in the interviews afterward is thoroughly dissected over the next eight years. Some say it’s simple stage fright; others say it’s personal distaste for the Oilers -- remember, Toronto boy, Toronto heart. I choose to believe it’s the first one. Not all of us are John Tavares.)

After a first-round prospect is chosen, they bring him down for an interview, then shuffle him off to some arena underbelly for photos upon photos. Connor performs his niceties, but before he is taken back, he asks to stay. He wants to watch Dylan get drafted.

The Buffalo Sabres come second, and pick Jack Eichel. Eichel is asked, throughout, how he feels about Connor, being behind Connor, coming second to Connor. The narrative being pushed is called McEichel -- the Canadian wunderkind versus the American one -- and he wants no part in it. He’s impressed by Connor’s play, in their few brief meetings he thinks of him as nice enough, he wants to carve out his own path.

This refusal to play along may have been the start of the discontent, in hindsight. The media clearly wasn’t going to get anything out of soft-voiced scared-eyed perfect Canadian boy Connor, but Jack, sharper edges and colder heart, might be good for a soundbite or two about this new league-made rivalry. Jack, though, ever aware, puts himself solidly into Generic Hockey Interview voice and backs off.

The Coyotes come third. Here is where a choice occurs, the first genuine decision. Connor McDavid had been slotted into first pick since the day he got accepted for exceptional status. Eichel had taken a few years more, but his place in second after Connor was well known for months on end. Dylan and Mitch, however, were up in the air. Do you pick the big one with more points, or the small one with star power?

The Coyotes follow the conventional hockey wisdom, and take the big boy. Connor waits to watch his friend take the jersey, then hugs him in the wings.

Finally, the Leafs.

Let’s actually take a step back to talk about the Leafs rebuild, for a second, because it, like everything the Leafs have ever done, is a testament to failure. Also, somewhat, because it is relevant. Also, moreso, because I can’t shut up about hockey and you’ve asked me to talk as long as I like. If you’re still reading, I want you to know that a) I am ever thankful for your time and b) we’re, like, just getting started here.

The Leafs’ last contending era was before the 04-05 lockout season, which means it predates the salary cap. They struggled in the midsection, for a long time, then finally fell enough to gain the fifth overall pick in 2008, with which they selected a big tough young defenceman named Luke Schenn, the first official piece of the Leafs’ rebuild, strange as it may be. Luke, while competent enough, was obviously not the sort of franchise-changing star the Leafs needed, and they struggled in the midsection again, before gaining, once more, the fifth overall pick, with which they selected Schenn’s partner, one Morgan Rielly. The two would be perfect partners, but we won’t know this for eleven years. Luke was traded twelve hours after Rielly’s draft.

Rielly is still in the AHL the next year, 2013, when the Leafs make the playoffs. This is the infamous 4-1 series: the Leafs go down 3-1 in the series, claw their way back up to game seven. They gain a 4-1 lead, going into the third period, and then blow it completely and lose the game, and the series, in overtime. They do not make the playoffs in 2013-14, and before the 2014-15 season begins they change management. The man they install as President decides to tank, and tank hard, selling as much of the Leafs as he can in the hopes of landing that elusive first pick.

They end up with fourth overall, and Mike Babcock, the Leafs’ head coach, does not want Mitch Marner, instead asking the then-management for the bigger defenceman, a boy named Hanifin who will go fifth to the Hurricanes. The Leafs take Marner anyway. Watch him as his name is called. He, like the first three, sits in a nest of other prospects and their families -- Mitch actually sits right behind Jack Eichel -- but unlike them, when his name is called the other prospects lean over to offer him congratulations, as well as his parents and brother. Mat Barzal, from across the aisle, offers a bro-hug as Mitch goes by.

The rest of the draft goes as usual. The 2015 draft, beyond narratively, is one of the deepest drafts in recent memory; players you may recognize include Timo Meier, Mikko Rantanen, Travis Konecny, Sebastian Aho (the Carolina one!), Roope Hintz, Kirill Kaprizov, Troy Terry… the list goes on. These players have their own stories, but few really tie in to this one. (So far.)

Summer passes; we move on. Training camp rolls around.

Connor McDavid, as expected, makes the team. He moves in with Taylor Hall, a fellow first overall. Jack Eichel also makes the team.

Dylan and Mitch do not. Dylan’s reasons are unknown to me, but Mitch is sent down because, again, Babcock does not want him. He’s naturally undersized and does not have a frame that builds muscle; Babcock is not under the impression that young men in Mitch’s image make good hockey players. Both Mitch and Dylan are returned to the OHL.

The stage is set now; each boy has a team. Eight years on, only half of them are on those teams. But we can’t worry about that yet! We have to make it to the NHL first!

World Juniors and the Memorial Cup

Once Connor makes the Oilers, Dylan Strome is named captain of the Erie Otters. Very cool, to only get what you deserve after the golden boy is gone.

Jack and Connor are off playing with the big boys. They’ll get their own section later -- we have to work our way up, not up and down and up and down. I’ve got to be somewhat cohesive, you know? So, we’ll stay, for now, in the world of junior hockey.

The Otters and the London Knights, Mitch’s team, are in the wonderful circumstance of not only both being very good at the same time, but also being in the same division as one another. This means they see each other quite often (no plane travel in the OHL. Bus only.) and have thus formed… a bit of a rivalry. It is becoming difficult to dance around: Dylan Strome, despite the politeness they’ve shown each other at the draft, hates Mitch Marner.

And why wouldn’t you? He’s the one Dylan fought with all last season for the OHL scoring title; he’s fast on his feet and can shoot from impossible angles; he makes plays you’ve never even considered, much less considered possible. He dangles through the Otters and scores the easiest impossible goal you’ve ever seen and laughs as light as air about the whole thing. And he’s tiny. Unfortunately for the rest of us, Marner drew a lot of comparisons to Patrick Kane in his junior days -- thankfully without the character in common, but as a hockey player. An undersized (almost comically so) London winger with otherworldly ability to manifest scoring chances out of nothing. The exact sort of irritating worm that not one of us wants on the other team.

So, of course, they get put on the same team.

The 2016 World Juniors are summoned. Connor McDavid, then dealing with a broken collarbone and a great deal of pressure, is not on Team Canada’s roster. Dylan Strome and Mitch Marner both are. Suddenly and thankfully, the media’s focus shifts from one, false rivalry in McEichel to a very very real one.

I don’t want to dismiss what happens next as a mere symptom of the fact that hockey players are engineered to get along with their teammates, even if they don’t like each other. Admittedly, it does start that way -- Mitch is a winger and Dylan a centre, and both skilled, so the coach puts them on the same line. Simple enough. And then they spark up a friendship.

Dylan’s reasons for hating Mitch were not personal, just hockey-related. Dylan hated Mitch because he was good and he knew it, the simple way a teenager hates their direct competitor. On the same team, though, the competition aspect is removed, and the barrier for hatred is gone. This is the Dylan/Mitch enemies to lovers arc, if you want to put it that way.

Mitch, for the record, I doubt ever hated Dylan. He doesn’t have that in him, never had. He saw a rival, sure, and as soon as that rival wore a matching jersey I assume he taped the word friend over whatever defined their relationship before. Mitch is probably one of the most gregarious, friendly, charming hockey players out there. Beyond his cute little face and on-ice highlights, even. He’s loud, sure, but when he talks he knows how to include you. He finds out what you like and talks about it, he singles you out if you’re shy and builds up your confidence. He’s just plain nice.

Dylan, like the rest of us, was charmed. Within weeks he went from calling Mitch annoying to telling us all about how he loves cuddling (!?) with him. They became fast friends and great linemates.

Dylan’s not the only one Mitch Marner befriends at Worlds, though. Somewhere between matches, Mitch takes an elevator at the complex they’re staying at, and ends up sharing it with a boy from the American team, a tall square-jawed Mexican centre with a Justin Bieber obsession. This is Auston Matthews, one of the projected top picks of the 2016 draft -- born just two days after the cutoff that would have made him eligible to go in 2015. He played with Jack Eichel at the USNTDP, before taking his age-eighteen year to go play pro in Switzerland. He holds the NTDP scoring record as a seventeen-year-old, and will continue to hold it until Jack Hughes breaks onto the scene. The two boys in the elevator do not yet know it, but they are about to share the mantle of franchise saviour, for the franchise most desperately in need of saving.

Either way. The Canadians place sixth at World Juniors, the Americans do better, the Finns win the whole thing. (In the long run, Laine turns out not to be better than Matthews after all.) Mitch and Dylan go back to their OHL teams.

Erie and London tie in points that year, but London wins the OHL title and goes to Alberta for the Memorial Cup, the CHL trophy. Mitch Marner takes home the scoring title, the Stafford Smythe (CHL equivalent of the Conn Smythe), and the Memorial Cup itself. He is one of the most decorated winners in OHL history, touted as being clutch, creating magic, and racking up points. He has close friends in Dylan Strome and fellow Knight Matthew Tkachuk, who will be selected sixth overall in the 2016 draft, the second American after Auston Matthews himself. And when NHL training camp rolls around in the fall, even Babcock cannot deny he is ready, no matter how slight he may still be.

Connor Complex

There’s nothing that fuels story like a good rivalry, and the NHL was obsessed with marketing this rivalry. The Canadian versus the American. The perfect child of a long line of red-blooded southern Ontario tradition versus the Boston boy with a chip on his shoulder. Jack and Connor, Connor and Jack. They hyped Jack up the time leading up to the draft, trying to hint that he was almost as good -- no, just as good -- as McDavid himself.

He was not, and everyone knew.

The 2014-15 Sabres, then the worst team in the NHL and having done an elite job at tanking (they are one of the worst teams in the analytics era, besides the 2022-23 Anaheim Ducks -- I wonder what prize might be waiting at that number one spot? Surely not someone named Connor.) wanted McDavid. The Pegulas, the owners of the Sabres, tried to hide their disappointment in him as pride. They had an all-American star, they said, someone who had grown up not too far from Buffalo himself, and in the same country, no less. He would be the sort of man to lead them into a new golden age, away from the misery of the tank years.

And yet the narrative persisted. McEichel, they whispered. Look at how good Connor McDavid is, and look at how much Eichel is not him. McDavid, they say, McDavid McDavid McDavid. No article could be written about Jack without mentioning how he came second to Connor.

The Sabres tried to quell the whispers. Look at our boy, they say. They signed Eichel to an eight-year, ten million dollar contract, and in the beginning of the 2018-19 season they named him captain. Isn’t our boy great.

The team does not improve. The Sabres hadn’t made the playoffs for three years when they drafted Eichel; they still haven’t made the playoffs today. I wasn’t around to look, but the team was bad. Eichel did his best, but he was young and inexperienced and did not -- never did -- have captain’s blood in him; Ryan O’Reilly lost his love for the game.

The whispers of character issues start to come out. Jack Eichel is a “locker room cancer;” he’s selfish, stuck-up, quick-tempered. He’s caught in a cage where the only key is to be Connor, something which he never wanted to achieve in the first place, and never could have even if he did want it. The whole narrative was completely fabricated. He liked Connor well enough when they met.

I do imagine he has feelings about it, though, and feelings about Connor now. He didn’t know him, not enough to have an opinion on the boy, but the name followed him around long enough for him to think about it. Imagine it. You’re good in your field, great, even. You’re doing well enough to earn yourself a superstar contract, you’re an All-Star, and yet the only way you will get any recognition at all is when they say that you are worse than one of the greatest players ever to play the game. They lock you into a connection that you have never wanted, barring you from forging your own path. You exist permanently in that orange-and-blue shadow. I don’t blame Jack for being angry. I would be too.

Babcock

Auston Matthews was incredible from the jump. He was big, he was strong, his wrister is the stuff of legend. He won the Calder in his and Mitch’s rookie year, by a not insignificant margin, well ahead of Laine. He was a coach’s dream doll, unusual enough to be marketed and good enough to be useful. Unavoidably masculine even at nineteen.

Mitch less so. Mitch is still small, remember, and struggles to gain weight. I know I talk about his size a lot, but it’s genuinely important. Hockey and its fan culture has long been a group that prioritized size and raw power above all things. Mitch possessed neither of those things, and when he struggled with gaining muscle it was seen as an unwillingness to try. If you know anything about the ability of our bodies to gain or lose weight, you know that it is simply a genetic roll of the dice, a scale that puts a little bit of us into the “gains muscle mass easily” category and decides when to stop. Most hockey players actually aren’t very far up the muscle-gaining spectrum, especially when compared to American football or baseball players -- mass is strength, yes, but it’s also more to move around on ice -- but Mitch is especially low on the scale. Because of this, he is seen as unmanly, a dangerous thing to be.

The Leafs media market is a nightmare, and always has been. Because this is the Centre of the Universe, there are more eyes on the Leafs than on any other team. More eyes mean more writers, means you have to say weirder and wilder things to beg for clicks. Outrage is a good marketing tactic. Getting mad about one of the prize prospects seemingly not wanting to bulk up for the good of the team is a very easy thing to do.

What’s more, Mitch, after his entry-level contract had expired, had had a very difficult and long-drawn out contract negotiation, asking for a lot of money -- essentially the maximum that the Leafs could afford at the time. Because of the salary cap constraint, this was seen as kind of selfish. The angry clicks move. Mitch is sensitive, they say. Soft, selfish, weak.

It’s easy enough to dismiss out of hand when your uncle from Belleville does it, because what does he know. It’s different when it’s the head coach of the Leafs. Mike Babcock, is, at the time of hiring, the highest-paid coach in the NHL. He was signed before the 2015-16 season, and at that point had an eight-year contract, which would have carried him up until this year.

Mike Babcock sucked. Structurally, his teams were fine -- the Leafs made the playoffs in 2016-17, and haven’t missed it since, but he was awful, horribly mean to the boys under him, and especially, especially Mitch. 

We should skip ahead a little bit. It’s the beginning of the 2019-20 season. The Leafs have made the playoffs three times already, and lost in the first round each time -- but this, too, is not yet a phrase that strikes worry into our hearts. They’re young, and they have plenty of time left. 

Respected veteran Jason Spezza came home to the Leafs, having spent his career -- a player who might squeak the Hall of Fame, but is more likely just below its level -- in first Ottawa, where he was the captain of the Senators briefly and one of its most well-loved players, and then Dallas. Like the boys I talk about here, Jason Spezza is a former OHL player, a GTA boy, a Leafs fan. The Leafs’ season opener is against Ottawa, the team where Jason Spezza left most of his mark. There used to be a promotion with the Senators -- a local branch of some pizza chain would offer a free slice if the Sens scored more than five goals in a game. Spezza (and his linemates, Heatley and Alfredsson) were so good, they named his line the Pizza line. Mike Babcock makes Jason Spezza a healthy scratch on that day.

This is seen as disrespectful, but no more than a coach living up to his hardass reputation. You do what the coach tells you, don’t you? Lest you become a whiner, or worse, a locker room cancer. Scratching an extremely well-respected veteran on the opener against his former team is just something some guys do. A message, if you will. Stay the course, Babcock just wants his players to respect him.

And then news of the list leaks.

It happened when Mitch was a rookie, but they kept it hidden for three years. The Leafs went on a father-and-sons trip, one they do every season. They’re on a road trip, with only their fathers, isolated from their home.

(A brief aside to talk about Mitch’s dad; his name is Paul Marner, and he is the most stereotypical hardass hockey dad on the planet. A nitpicker, an armchair coach, a bully. I do not imagine Mitch felt particularly comforted by his and Babcock’s combined presence on this trip.)

Babcock approached Mitch and asked him to organize all of his teammates in a list. He wanted Mitch to arrange them in order of hardest workers to laziest; he thought Mitch was one of the lazy ones, and wanted to drive this point home by making him categorize his teammates like this. Mitch, as a rookie hockey player does in the presence of the Maple Leaf hanging over his head like the sword of Damocles, obliged. He was under the impression it would be a private affair, just an assignment from Babcock to teach him some sort of lesson. Whether it be out of fear or honesty, he placed himself last on the list. 

Babcock told the others.

Specifically, two Leafs vets that Mitch had placed low on the list -- Nazem Kadri and Tyler Bozak. Imagine this: you are a decent centre on a bubble team, but nonetheless an established NHL veteran of about a decade, and your coach shows you a list a rookie made. He tells you that the rookie arranged everyone by work ethic, grinders to lazy shits. You are firmly on the “lazy shit” end.

How much does the coach have to suck, or how much does the rookie have to be loved, for Kadri and Bozak to react like they did? The rumour says they called for Babcock’s head on the spot. Mitch was in tears. I wouldn’t want to stay in Toronto if that happened to me. No wonder he and Auston signed for so much -- Babcock was barely halfway through his contract when they did. If I’d thought that I would have to deal with him for that long, I wouldn’t accept anything less than as much as they could possibly pay me.

In the end, in the beginning of December, 2019, Mitch got hurt and the Leafs went on a road trip. They were already losing by the time they’d left, and they kept losing. Normally, a team on a road trip doesn’t take the hurt players with them, but they took Mitch. The Leafs lost six in a row and finally fired Babcock, letting Sheldon Keefe take his place. Mitch’s presence was a comfort.

Go West

The Leafs make the playoffs first, and take Mitch with them. The Sabres are fighting a silent war with their star centre, but they are no closer to success. 

Connor McDavid is named captain at nineteen, the youngest in the history of the NHL. He scrapes the team to a playoff spot, then to a second round loss. He wins the Art Ross and the Hart.

The year before his entry-level contract expires, when he is first eligible, he signs what is then the most expensive per-year contract in NHL history -- eight years, a hundred million dollars. He is looking forward to spending the rest of his prime as an Oiler. He wins the Art Ross the next year, comes very close the year after. The Oilers do not make the playoffs again until after Covid hits.

He gets hurt a lot, too -- he breaks his collarbone as a rookie, missing half the season, and at the very end of the 2018-19 year, crashes into the net irons and shatters his knee. There are rumours of the man who broke Connor’s collarbone doing it on purpose; Connor claims that he overheard the man bragging about it, and I am inclined to believe him. This guy gets traded to the Oilers not too long after that.

In the meantime, Dylan is struggling. The Coyotes stick him in Tucson, a team he is obviously too good for. His entry-level contract slides another season. He wiffles between Tucson and Arizona, not being considered good enough to stay up but being too good to stay down. In the end, on the last year of his entry-level contract, he is traded from the Coyotes to the Chicago Blackhawks, a similarly bad team with a few remnants of its Cup-winning days. Dylan, a feeble icon of Chicagoan hope for one last dance with the aging core, centres Patrick Kane.

In his first half-season with the Blackhawks, he scores 51 points in 58 games. There are hopeful flashes of what he can be, the touted prospect he once was. 

Things wrap up on New Years like this: Connor is beyond a hundred-point pace; Dylan, although in no less danger, is at least out of the dust at the bottom of the barrel; Jack is caught in a cold war; the team loves Mitch. 

John Tavares has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Playoff Series

March of 2020 rolls around, and with it the coronavirus pandemic. The league is shut down before the season ends, and the playoffs re-formed in July, inside a bubble -- no one in, no one out until they are eliminated. The Sabres stay with their families, having once again missed the playoffs. The Leafs are set to play the Columbus Blue Jackets, and the Oilers are set to play the Blackhawks.

This, to date, is Dylan’s only playoff appearance, and he is set to face Connor.

Dylan wins.

The qualifying round -- functioning as the first round of the bubble playoffs -- is a best of five, not of seven, and the Blackhawks defeat the Oilers 3-1. They then proceed to lose in five games (this one is a best of seven) to Vegas, but Dylan’s job is done.

The Leafs lose in the first round again. The Leafs have made the playoffs since Auston and Mitch’s debut, every single year, but they lose each time; in six, to the Capitals, then in seven every year after that. Or, in this case, in five.

Covid had not stopped by the end of the 2020 season ( :/ ) and the NHL was rearranged for what would be ostensibly the 2020-2021 season, but ended up being played mostly in 2021. Because of border laws, the Canadian teams are sequestered into their own, North division. Dylan Strome signs a two-year contract extension with Chicago right before the season starts -- one that will carry him until the end of the 2021-2022 season. 

If you’ve seen All or Nothing on Amazon Prime, it is this season that is covered. The Leafs tear through what is seen as a weaker North division, taking a comfortable first place spot. Connor McDavid cracks a hundred points in fifty-six games. Both Leafs and Oilers lose in the first round.

The Leafs do it perhaps most remarkably. They have drawn the Canadiens, a rather insubstantial team who are in their spot mostly because they have one of the best goaltenders in recent memory at their back.

I watched this game, live, before I was a serious Leafs fan. I can only imagine what it would be like if you were already invested at that point; I would not wish to live that horror on anyone. I tried to watch All or Nothing, later, but I stop here. 

Corey Perry and John Tavares are both on the ice, in the race for the puck. Tavares catches an edge, as you sometimes do, and falls, and Perry’s knee is in exactly the wrong place at exactly the wrong time, and it catches Tavares in the side of the head. He falls to the ice, his limbs splaying unnaturally. He won’t move. 

Medics come over, to try and raise him to his feet. He fights against them, blood streaming from a cut in his forehead, unable to tell if they are trying to hurt him or not. There is no one in the crowd, the stadium empty for the pandemic. The camera cuts to Kyle Dubas in the rafters, who has a phone in his hand and swiftly vanishes back into the halls of the arena. He is calling Tavares’ wife. We do not know what is going to happen. Everyone looks shaken -- the Habs have just watched a man nearly die, the Leafs have just lost their captain, perhaps forever. They lose, although the game feels like an afterthought. I do not want to watch hockey anymore.

They win the next three straight, though, even without him. Then they lose, twice, in overtime.

The Leafs, as they have done for the past four years up to this point, go to game seven.

Partway through the game, Mitch Marner panics in his defensive zone and puts the puck over the glass. This is a penalty, it is a penalty every time, and he knows that. He sits in the box, looking defeated already. He curls in on himself, and the camera flashes to the penalty box. He’s crying. He knows the game is lost.

The Leafs are eliminated again, and there is a target on his back now, not only for the puck going over the glass but for the tears. He’s soft, they say. As they have said since he was picked, because he doesn’t look like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t act like a hockey player should, because he doesn’t play hockey like a hockey player should. He makes too much and he disappears when it matters.

Thoughts on the Leafs’ playoff successes suddenly switch from the core is young, even if this is frustrating to they need to win before it’s too late. Already, in recent years, they have suffered historic game-seven chokes and drastic failures to launch. Whether they do it against teams like the President’s Trophy-winning Capitals or the barely-alive wild-card Canadiens is irrelevant. They cannot win a round, at all. The Leafs are already the team with the greatest Cup drought, and they are now gaining a long playoff round victory drought too. It should be time, at least, for them to look like they are a contender. 

This is how the Leafs find themself stuck; a particularly frustrating timeloop, even though hockey itself is nothing but. Sports are cyclical by nature. A team is bad, then okay, then good, then declining, then bad again, and this repeats anew. Some teams try to get themselves out of this cycle by being good forever; I can assure you that this only really happens to the New York Yankees, who employ a cadre of evil wizards to keep everything on that hell team going well for them. Most other teams who try end up stuck like the Canucks are, right now: bad enough to miss the playoffs, but not good enough to get key picks for a rebuild. I can see next season play out, clear as day: they struggle out of the gate, one of their stars gets hurt right when it seems like they’re at the very, very start of gathering momentum, they’re bottom-10 by January and the team says everyone but Pettersson are on the table, they trade picks and low-grade players, they get blazing hot post-deadline and finish twenty-first.

There is, unfortunately, also a perception that pure talent is not what makes players playoff performers -- instead, some so-called “clutch gene” that exists, or not. The reality is somewhere in between. Clutch exists. There are always players who can score when no one else can even dream of it, but a greater problem is luck. President’s Trophy winners are not often Cup winners (even if higher seeds are most likely to win), because the regular season is a much, much bigger sample size and the playoffs can change the course of all of it by a goalie having a hot streak at the right time. The 2018-19 Tampa Bay Lightning, third-best team in NHL history, got swept in the first round by Sergei Bobrovsky going crazy. The 2022-23 Bruins lost in seven in the first round in much the same manner.

And no matter what, the Leafs are always on the wrong end of the luck. Bounces hit the post. The refs take back goals for reasons they would have ignored at any other time of year. John Tavares slips, and his head makes contact with a knee.

Mitch ends up the whipping boy. He is the Leafs’ most valuable player, and this is a team with Auston Matthews on it, but I’m serious. He was the Leafs’ leading playoff scorer in 2023, he’s one of the best penalty-killers in the league, he’s adored by everyone who’s ever once talked to him. He only ever wanted to be a Leaf, and now that he is here he is the sacrificial lamb for the anger at a curse that is not his fault.

I do blame the media. I will always blame the media, those who turn on him at a moment’s notice because they know picking on the skinny pretty unmanly one will get more clicks than anything else. I beg of you -- know that, of anything that it could be, it is not Mitch’s fault.

Jack Eichel has a Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Neck Injury

It is 2021, and the Sabres aren’t going to make the playoffs. Jack Eichel has been captain for coming up on three years, and has been a Sabre for coming up on six, none of which have even slightly improved the team. He is widely disliked within the fanbase, and, rumouredly, within the locker room and organization. 

Jack is frustrated, dragging a mediocre team along through a slog of the past six years, and he has never been the kindest man on the planet. He is about to get worse. The Sabres are on a losing streak when they head to Long Island, and Jack is hit the wrong way and slips a disk in his neck. The Sabres insist he’ll only be out a week and a half. 

It is a great sin in hockey, to go against team. Anything that can be seen as selfish is demonized; shooting from a difficult angle when your teammate is wide open, not playing when you can muscle through the pain. Not trusting your coach or management is about as bad as you can get. If you’re a team guy, willing to sacrifice health and limb for the boys, you are held as saint, no matter how hurt you become in the end. This is a philosophy that has been drilled into these men since they were kids, as soon as they put their first skates on. You can stand any pain for the length of a hockey shift; you can play through anything for two minutes. It is a dangerous, dangerous school of thought, one of the most destructive parts of hockey culture. But it is, nonetheless, law.

Eichel is about to commit a sin so great they’ll kick him out of Heaven. I do think that, of the four of them, he is the only one with any semblance of genre awareness: when he was first scouted as a prospect and they were comparing him to McDavid, I think that he would be the only one to ignore the media’s spin on that as thoroughly as he did. He knows what he is, and he knows himself. Of course it comes off as bitchy and selfish, though -- that kind of pressure can’t be kind to anyone.

Before the week and a half is up, he visits a specialist doctor about his neck. This is where it all starts to go wrong.

The Sabres take issue with that for two reasons: one, that they hoped he’d be able to come back after the end of it. Keep in mind that he has herniated a disk in his neck, an injury typically so severe it’s impressive he’s walking -- slipping a cervical disk often causes nerve pain that radiates down through the entire spinal cord below that point, which is the whole body from how high up his is. Two, that the doctor he consults is an independent surgeon, one unaffiliated with the Sabres themselves. 

The thing about belonging to a hockey team is that you are, because of the way your employment is linked to your physical health, essentially their property. They make your medical decisions for you, they feed you, they tell you how to move. Going to someone else is a breach of contract, and the already-tense connection between Jack and the Sabres gets more tense. The Sabres keep losing. They lose eighteen games in a row.

Jack’s doctor recommended a surgery that no NHL player has ever had; cervical disk replacement. The Sabres did not want this -- the surgery carries risks, yes, but they also wanted to control the way that Jack’s injury was handled, and going through with this surgery was Jack’s wish, not theirs. The Sabres do their own evaluation, and ask for a different, more common surgery: spinal fusion. This surgery carries less immediate risk, but the bones in Eichel’s neck will also be fused, and he doesn’t want that. Because the team has final control over a player’s health, not the player, they decline his disk replacement. Having reached a stalemate, they rule him out for the rest of the season, trying to win a war of attrition.

September 2021 rolls around, and the Sabres, along with thirty-one other teams, take training camp. At the beginning of training camp, players do a physical exam. Jack, because his herniated disk has not improved, because he needs a surgery that has been denied from him, because he is stubbornly and bravely willing to wait out the Sabres, fails his physical. As a result, the Sabres, fed up with him, strip the captain’s C from his chest.

Jack makes one final request to the team: either let him get the surgery or trade him. In the end, they trade him to the Vegas Golden Knights, a team that did not exist when he was drafted. The Golden Knights approve him for the disk replacement surgery the day they acquire him.

The surgery is a success; his rehab goes better than anyone expects, and he starts tearing it up when he comes back. I would argue that, if the Golden Knights win the Cup this year, he should get the Conn Smythe -- he has been an invaluable member of the team, even without a letter on his chest.

It is less important for him to win his million awards than it is for him to come in and out of this surgery in the first place, still able to play. He fought with the team that was supposed to have upheld him as their star for months over his right to do what he wanted with his own health; in the end, the only way to go was for him to change that team. He was the first to have this surgery, but after him there have already been hockey players who have undergone it -- much like Tommy John, the baseball player who got his ulnar ligament reconstructed and the surgery to do so named after him. He fought for the chance to control his own body and won.

And for that, he was demonized.

The Sabres missed the playoffs every year they had him; they missed the playoffs every year after he left. Because he was the captain and he had the audacity to go against the organization’s wishes, he was hated. In Buffalo, he is still hated. If you ask, they’ll tell you he was a locker room cancer, that he was undevoted to winning. If you look at him in Vegas, neither of those things are true.

Jack Eichel is a rare man -- he does have that “clutch” gene, or rather doesn’t have the choke instinct. He has always been unbothered by the spiral around him. He operates well in the mire, and when the pressure rises it doesn’t affect him (or maybe, even better, he feeds on it.) He has the right kind of mentality -- that fuck-you, I’m here and you can’t change that, you tried to control me and I wouldn’t bend mentality. He has only made the playoffs once, this year. Like Dylan, actually, his only appearance has involved defeating Connor McDavid. Go back and watch his highlights from the Vegas-Edmonton series if you can: he has a couple of pretty goals and more than a couple great defensive takeaways, but he doesn’t lose his cool, not once. He has earned his right to be here, and he knows it more than anyone else. I’m rooting for the Stars, but I hope he wins some day.

153

How do you talk about the Edmonton Oilers? I mean, without either excusing or demonizing them, although I admit I have Hater Instinct and trend towards the latter. They have the best player in the world; that grown-up incarnation of the wide-eyed boy on the Erie rink. They have the best playoff performer in the world; Leon Draisaitl, who I have not avoided mentioning until now on purpose, but whom I cannot continue without bringing up. They have been terribly cap-managed since the day McDavid was drafted, and are an unstable roster with blazing-hot offense and very little defence or goaltending at all.

For a brief moment, let’s not talk about the Oilers. Let’s only talk about Connor himself.

McDavid has 850 points in 569 career games. Not even Sid had that many points through that few games. If he stays healthy, Connor’s well on track to become the second player ever to hit two thousand for his career -- after a certain other Oiler, who need not be mentioned. He has won just about every award you can win, with the exception of the Selke… and the Cup.

If it’s possible, he has proven himself better than all of the hype at the draft saying he would become a great. To watch him, you can see the way he has changed his team, how even though they have all learned from him that he is still the best.

There is something that many Oilers do. When next your team plays them, pay attention to it: they cut into the offensive zone with possession on the outside, using tight little crossovers to gain speed, after which they’ll usually try to rush the net (if there are no defenders in the way). This is a move that McDavid has patented; he’ll use it, just as many of the others will, but he’ll probably be the one that scores. The depth all skate like him, really, fast and in wide arcs, trying to generate a rush chance. 

Connor as a player is a tour de force, the best power-player in the world by a mile, no slouch at even strength, speedy enough to score even shorthanded. The boy’s got wheels. Sometimes it’s hard to tell which NHLers are fast and which are slow, but Connor’s just that tick above everyone else that you can see it without eye training at all.

Connor as a person is a bit less showy. He’s quiet by nature, shy and soft-voiced. Because he was hyped so much (franchise saviour, McJesus, Next One) he has been media trained into sterility, giving the same level answers as everyone else, hardly daring to express any opinion at all. His eyes are big, rounded, and one of them is lazy from a time when his brother tried to take it out as a child, and that combined with his heavy brow and stiff expression -- he’s never been a good smiler, smirks with one corner of his mouth and that’s mostly it -- give him a resting expression of something like concern, or maybe despair. When he laughs, he doesn’t really “laugh,” just kind of coughs, a one or two-syllable affair. He avoids eye contact with the camera, and often the reporters as well. There is no seething emotion under the surface, not like with Eichel, nor does he speak analytically like Dylan does. He moves through his life as if he is someone who does not want it to turn out quite like this.

I do not know if he wants to be in Edmonton. There are jokes about how he is desperate to leave, but I definitely don’t believe those; there’s a difference between not wanting to stay and wanting to go. I don’t think he hates it. He has been given a responsibility, the captain’s C -- and because, unlike Jack Eichel, he is a good Canadian boy who has been given a destiny, he accepts it. He loves his teammates, especially Draisaitl, whom he seems to derive all his confidence from.

I will also say that I don’t believe he’s stupid. Naive, perhaps; not stupid. There is no way out for him, even if he was sure he wanted to leave; he’s the best player in the world, far too expensive for any contender to afford in either trade or cap space, and if he asks for a trade he won’t let himself go to a team that isn’t already a contender. He will remain an Oiler at least until his contract is up, and I imagine that his staying afterwards depends on Draisaitl.

People talk about him leaving a lot, largely because of the team that has been assembled around him. The Oilers are not a well-created team, and I will say that plainly now and spend as little time technically deconstructing it as possible.

Beyond McDavid and Draisaitl, they have:

A rookie starting goaltender, whose success as we know it is based on a single-season sample size and a complete playoff collapse.

A five million dollar backup goaltender, who earned his contract by being carried by the Leafs, despite being utterly horrendous for a long enough stretch leading up to his free agency that anyone who looked beyond the win-loss numbers wouldn’t have signed him.

One genuine shutdown defender.

One young up-and-coming defender; by far one of the most promising Oiler (or otherwise) defensive prospects, beyond the usual suspects.

One netfront grinder who is great at playing wing to high-power setters, but cannot drive his own line.

One decent 2C.

Sarah Nurse’s cousin. Sarah’s better.

A supporting cast of bad defencemen and middling-at-best forwards.

Many charming characters, of course: Zach Hyman, the grinder, is a beloved ex-Leaf, and I’m personally a fan of Nugent-Hopkins, the 2C, but the vast majority of this is not the sort of thing a contending team is built upon. McDavid has missed the playoffs almost as often as he’s made them. The playoffs are a crapshoot, but in order to try your luck you have to at least be able to enter the lottery, and it takes a stunning amount of effort to be able to do that.

So, McDavid lingers, in this kind of limbo. It mirrors the Leafs, almost. (And yes. Because McDavid is an Ontario boy, and the Leafs are the Centre of the Universe, we have to mention them both in conversation. Not all stories revolve around the Leafs, but this one does.) One true contender, and one generational talent, both what we picture to be well overdue for their Cup run, but neither having yet done so. 

The thing about the stories of the class of 2015 is that they intertwine, that they mimic and mirror each other. These boys have not simply gotten drafted in the same handful of picks in the same year and gone on their merry ways -- they layer, they parallel, they weave around each other. Connor is the captain of a team that cannot win, Jack is a captain, Mitch cannot win. Jack fought for the right to control his body and was demonized for it; Mitch negotiated for a contract that he determined to be a fair price for Babcock, and was demonized for it. Whatever pure saviour they figure Connor to be, Jack is the twisted inverse of that, falling from grace.

Connor has one of the best seasons in NHL history, one of only seventeen player-seasons with over a hundred and fifty points (Nine of those seasons belong to Gretzky. Another four belong to Lemieux.) He loses, in six games in the second round, to the Vegas Golden Knights. At the time that he’s eliminated, he leads the playoffs in points. Leon Draisaitl is tied for second place. Counting from the date Mitch Marner played his first game in the NHL, the Oilers and Leafs have almost exactly the same number of playoff game wins, with the Oilers having one more.

There’s No Place Like Strome

Before we can look to the future, there is one person I have been neglecting. Dylan, poor Dylan. I think it would be only half an unfair assessment to call him a draft bust. He’s talented, for sure, but not nearly the same calibre that the draftees around him are. Hardly a Marner, an Eichel, or even a Rantanen or a Meier. 

His career has existed quietly in the shadows, so far from Connor McDavid that it only feels fair to mention them in the same conversation in this context. It has been eight years since they were best friends, Connor so close to Dylan he waited in the stadium in order to watch him get drafted. They didn’t look each other in the eye in the handshake line when Dylan won their series. Connor didn’t go to his wedding.

That being said: so far, he has found himself a knack for landing in the shadow of greatness. When he was an Erie Otter, it was Connor -- Dylan held the scoring title in their draft year, while Connor was out nursing his hand, but Connor was the chosen son and Dylan was the Coyotes’ consolation prize. When he was traded to the Blackhawks, he found himself centring Kane and Debrincat, but of course both of them were the offseason and trade deadline’s prizes, and not him.

And then he signed in Washington.

So now, we go back to Ovechkin. Alex Ovechkin is one of the greatest players of all time; his Capitals are on the decline now, but they contended for a long time while he was playing and may still contend as long as Ovi still skates. For a long time, the team relied on Ovechkin’s goalscoring, assisted mostly by his faithful centre, Nicklas Backstrom. They, too, are married; they have played a thousand games as teammates, been through a decade of heartbreak together before the Cup was theirs. During the 2021-2022 season, Backstrom took time off -- he needed hip surgery, something likely to end his career. Ovi was alone.

There is a fundamental difference, of course, between the expectations of wingers and centres. A winger, like Ovi, scores, or assists, at his own leisure, but it is the centre’s job to drive his line. Ovechkin is generational -- he will sink forty goals no matter what -- but he still needs someone to move him out of the defensive zone, someone to make his assist.

Enter Dylan -- a young centre, not especially fast on his feet but intelligent, and clearly experienced in the realm of managing high-calibre wingers (see: Debrincat, and the ghost of Patrick Kane.) He joins the Capitals on a one-year contract, desperate to prove himself. Chicago didn’t want him, and Arizona didn’t either. It takes barely until November before he is, once again, the necessary shadow of greatness. 

Ovechkin, the team’s captain and centrepoint, clearly likes what he sees, and the management does, as well. The Capitals offer Strome a five-year extension.

Maybe it’s because he’s less of a superstar then the other three members of his draft class, but Dylan has a life outside of hockey -- a wife and young daughter. After being thrown away by other teams, and with his new family, I can only imagine that it was… peaceful, if anything, to be offered this contract.

Chicago, after rapidly getting rid of him, Debrincat, and then Kane, would go on to tank spectacularly, and win themselves the first overall pick. They will use it to draft another generational talent. His name is also Connor.

The Blue Wedding

So, here we stand, at the end of it all. Dylan finally has a home, a mother hen of a Russian bear that it has become his job to assist in record-breaking, and soon to be two daughters. Jack has a team that loves him, freedom from pain, and an ongoing potential Cup run. Connor has a sterile mansion, a best friend, and an unsteady team. Mitch’s life is up in the air.

Right as I’m writing this, the general manager of the Leafs has been unceremoniously kicked out. His tenure will end the day before Mitch’s no-move contract kicks in, but it is not known if Mitch’s time as a Leaf will survive that long. He is well on track to become one of the greatest Leafs of all time, and his tenure might be cut short in the prime of his career. 

But let’s wrap up with this: Mitch will get married this summer. Because he’s Mitch, the darling of the league, everyone’s best friend, I imagine the wedding party to be extensive/ Packed to the brim of current and former Leafs, as well as people who have never been Leafs. I wonder if Dylan Strome will be there -- or even Connor McDavid, although McDavid never even attended Dylan’s wedding.

The stories, as they do, go on.

[blissfulphilospher]

So, I don't know why I am posting this but I had this in my heart since a long time. So, bear with me.

I read Princess and the Queen and Fire and Blood back in 2019, after GoT ended for more content. And I got to know about The Dance from Tumblr, the awesome artists and fanarts.

When I read those books, I felt for Rhaenyra. No I don't have a step mother but Rhaenyra felt alone, like her mother died and her father remarried, her new step mom was first kind and loving but then after a brother all that changed.

I can't blame book Rhaenyra for not having good relationship with her siblings, she was a child, just like them and the world was trying to replace her with them just as her mother had been replaced. (When my brother was born, I felt the same and we don't have the best relationship even now, but you know whose fault is that? Adults. Adults who love to compare and pity siblings against siblings)

Why Viserys never tried to mend the relationship between his eldest son and daughter? Even Alicent tried. And then Daemon evidently manipulated Rhaenyra more to hate her siblings for his own benefit. He was pushed down in succession. (He should never have been in succession)

Then Rhaenyra grows older, bold and doing as she like, fighting her step mother, beefing with her siblings and people are following her. She is being courted and has freedom in that era.

I liked book Rhaenyra because she seemed ruthless. She wasn't trying to pretend being good, she was ambitious, she was fighting for the throne because her father chose her. Not because of a stupid prophecy. We all know how that ended. She wanted the throne. (I will eat my brother alive if my father chose me for something and not him). She was unhinged.

And I liked that about her. I liked Princess Rhaenyra Targaryen. She was greatly flawed, she offered her brothers for Laenor, she fed a man to her dragon, she hosted a lavish feast in a starving city, she was a woman and let men do the fighting. She was a mother and did everything to protect her children (foolishly though). She faced death with bravery and didn't begged and didn't offered negotiation, didn't ran. A true dragon. Like those menacing cruel dragons?

And then HotD gave us...

1) 'I rather serve as a knight and ride to battle and glory' but she isn't train with swords. If she wants that then why isn't she trained? Was this to appease Arya's fans? Also this message of feminism, 'a woman only cool and worth something when she wants to be like men, Do what men does.' I am not saying this is bad but you are making her a feminist atleast let her appreciate females? Also, again, if she wanted to train with swords then why didn't she? Nobody stopped Visenya and Alyssa, no one would have stopped her.

2) On Aegon's nameday, enough people have said that already, Rhaenyra being mean to her two year old brother and acting like a spoilt child but I want to add this—

Everyone came there for Aegon, hoping Viserys will name him heir. HotD gave us Rhaenyra acting like a brat and then killing a boar and totally projecting her as a protagonist by showing White Hart, and sexy cool asf covered with blood. She could have made alliance, like book Rhaenyra would have mingled with everyone, dressed better than everyone, charming everyone. Not arguing with other ladies and lords.

3) Daemyra. Enough said. I never thought Book Rhaenyra and Book Daemon had any great love story, they were not even written as such. Nah, Rhaenyra desired Criston, tried to seduce him first. Daemon was only using her. He had one healthy relationship in the book and that was with Laena. They both came together because none of them considered Alicent and her children as their family too.

I hate this show for promoting them as some great tragic love. Nah, Rhaenyra needed his protection and Daemon wanted to be closer to the throne. Why didn't they let them be that? How are they going to justify as to why Daemon left Rhaenyra and his son alone to go die along with Aemond?

And if Daemyra is a great tragic love story why they got afraid to show Rhaenyra having Laenor murdered? Because that was the level of her craziness in the books, and that's in the character of Daemyra. That's 'I will do anything to be with you, for you' energy.

Gods, I thought Rhaenyra would be Cersei Lannister level in HotD, cool, snarky, awesome, beautiful, unhinged, fashion icon, doing everything for her children, doing everything for her and not shying away from the person she is, a necessary evil (like feeding Vaemond to Syrax). And incestuous. Of course Jaime x Cersei level of craziness in Daemyra?

In HotD... Emma and Milly did awesome job but their character was bland. Served to us by writers as 'a goody two shoes always right'. 'she can do nothing wrong.'

Why is media afraid of showing what women are? Why can we only be 'goody two shoes, patriarchy bad, I am awesome cause I am not like other girls' in feminist shows? Why can't they women as humans, as grey, ambitious? Why can't woman be anti hero? Rhaenyra is suffering from stereotyped blend of Arya and Dany.

Alicent is a fresh breath in that regard. But I hate the show for stripping away her agency and making her a crybaby. You are showing me that the Queen, who may or not have murdered Viserys, cried for him? That her, who plotted and plotted and led the Greens, crowned her daughter would not want her son to be king?

They even changed the dinner scene, everyone was supposed to make fun of the other party. No heartwarming and Aegon was supposed to fight Jace.

But make two female characters cry over each other, cry over men, abuse them, strip their agency, make the person you are trying to show as protag (she should not even be a protag) blander than water and call it a feminist show.

(HotD should not even be a feminist show, it should have been a family drama show. Imagine my embarrassment when I told my brother that I love Rhaenyra and I am just like her before the show started and by the end I was like ... Wow Aegon Second of His Name, I stan the One True King. Because he, despite they made him a monster is more interesting than Rhaenyra at this point.)

I was robbed. We were robbed of spicy hot pizza and instead given a bland cheese toast.

I refuse to eat bread, give me cake. Cersei, Margaery, Catelyn were cake, Alicent... She is the cookie. (Not adding Sansa because in the end of the show... Book Sansa is pastry.)

At this moment we all most cope. Thank you whoever read this. Also wanted to add, I was Team Woman but I can't stan this Rhaenyra. Nah.

[badass-queer-couples-battle]

Gay wrongs tournament, round one of the major bracket

Propaganda:

For Nandor and Guillermo:

I feel like accessory to murder and cause of the murder counts, right? 

Classic vampire/human who wants to be a vampire except there's an understanding in the show of how messed up that is, down to Guillermo helping chop up the bodies of Nandor's victims to hide them for him. Then there's the added wrinkle of Guillermo finding out he's a vampire hunter by blood and actually very good at killing vampires. There is more than one incredibly erotically charged scene with Guillermo holding a stake to Nandor's chest. Their dynamic is fantastically complex, from Guillermo starting as Nandor's somewhat disgruntled servant to him besting the vampire in combat and becoming his bodyguard, to Guillermo getting tired of waiting and getting another vampire to turn him leading to a long jealousy arc culminating in Nandor nearly killing him... there's just so much going on with these two. Nandor flew to space just to impress Guillermo. They do a number of heinous things to humans and vampires alike, but through it all they are so in love and so rich with pining. One of these days they'll kiss, I'm sure of it. It's just a monumental slow burn with many vampiric atrocities along the way.

They aren't romantically canon yet, but dear lord. Both are canon queer, Guillermo is specifically gay while nandor is mentioned to be pansexual in interviews. Yeah they are everything and nothing. They fought and can kill eachother but they literally can't do it emotionally. Also forbidden love trope, vampire x vampire slayer /familiar/ body gaurd / best man. They make me unwell.

For John and Jack:

So, they both are literal murders. One of them is a little bit more insane than the other. Okay, the little bit part is not right, totally insane that is John, yes. But gonna love him though. He had been in rehab for alcohol, drugs, sex and murder. Don't kiss him, he might be wearing poisoning lipstick. They are canon mlm. They had been stuck in a two week time loop for five years, which was like leading a married life for them. They didn't actually marry, but they were partners, both in business and sexually. They worked together for an time agency. Then Jack's memories of two years were erased and he left. He went into  independent self deployment, doing scams using his knowledge of future events. After that he build an alien hunting institute in Cardiff, Wales. When John and Jack see eachother again after years, you don't know whether they will they kiss or fight. They do both. Did I tell you that along this story Jack became an inmortal who can't stay dead? No matter how or how often he dies or is killed, he keeps coming back to life. This is all very scraping on the surface, but oh boy, would it be at least a novella to describe them.

They worked together in the Time Agency where they did horrible things to the extent where Jack had two years of his memory stolen so that he couldn’t know what he’d done. They were also in a time loop together for five years where they canonically thought of each other as the wife (John was a good wife :3), and were basically married. Then they had a divorce arc and they both separately went rogue from the Agency to become conmen, although they still worked together/clashed on occasions, always still with that spark of passion. “Frenemies with benefits” Jack called them once, although John preferred “my lover, my rival, my nemesis and destiny. And bane of my bloody life.” Canon finds us where Jack has tried to reform and be a better person, but John is still chasing cons, and all he wants to do is bring Jack back to the stars with him, back to the crime and the glitter of the galaxies (it doesn’t work and he shoves Jack off a building but Jack got himself immortal so he’s fine <3) anyway I am very normal about them xoxo

In John's introduction to the series he shows up on a roof where some guy is mugging someone, grabs him by the throat and dangles him over the edge of the building while this guy begs for his life before dropping him just because he felt like it. When John and Jack interact for the first time in the show there's a super cool guitar riff, very evil western vibes, they walk up to each other, look deeply into each other's eyes, make out, then start throwing punches to Blur's Song 2. In one of the audio dramas we're told about various times where these two conned people, stole a bunch of money and gold and gems and stuff, then had sex with whoever it is they conned before (sometimes) killing them. When Jack devided he was done and left John to die John escaped and married the queen of England (Victoria) then locked Jack up somewhere to take his life force and live forever, destroying the timeline in the process. John has tried to kill all of Jack's friends at least twice to have him all to himself. He found Jack's long lost brother and when the brother turned out to be a terrible person with a vendetta against Jack John did everything he could to save Jack. Their relationship is canon but very one-sided most of the time

just this video

[paquerettexx]

edward hart — valentine

vampire thinks it's so pitiful to be cursed by a human with this thing called love.

pairing: edward hart / reader, m/f

tags: slight angst, it's ed missing you hours, major character death bc ure dead lol

words: 581

[cross posted from ao3]

edward knew exactly why he was feeling reminiscent. it started with the box rui found under his bed, something they got into an argument over which caused rui to grumble and huff, leaving his captain alone. if edward was going to be difficult while rui's cleaning the bedroom then fine! he'll just return later! that's precisely how edward ended up alone again in his bedroom, heaving a sigh as his hands fiddled with the box's contents.

for a proud, powerful vampire, he was feeling nothing but the opposite of that. he was sick- rather, cursed was more befitting of a term. never in his centuries old age would he think a human would curse him, that a mere human would cause him so much pain and anguish. it was all too much even for someone of his stature. this curse was dangerous- it was affecting his heart and making him feel as if it was being ripped into two when his eyes focused in on the photograph in his hands.

it was a photograph, black and white in color, the edged tattered and folded. it looked old, a century or two old, yet it was well preserved for its age. it was amusing how a simple photograph can hold so many memories; to think such a simple non-anomalous thing invented by humans would become so precious to him later down the line– he must be growing old and senile if he's reminiscing about her like this all of a sudden.

it took three years worth of his savings from his measly salary to surprise her. living in western europe as a commoner was a daily struggle, often times earning shillings that aren't enough to live off comfortably- even so, he took a cut of his pay just to prepare this birthday gift for you.

you, who on your twenty third birthday, he took to a photo studio to get your photographs taken. he made sure to dress up better than usual just as he advised you to do the same. it was awkward, staying still in the same pose for a long time yet he reveled in how his hand was snaked around your waist, holding you close to him for an extended period.

he could smell your cheap perfume which he didn't mind, in fact, it brought him some sense of comfort every time knowing that it's you. still, even the vial of your perfume he kept had its scent faded, becoming a useless relic of his devotion to you when you were still breathing the same air as him.

all these love for you- it was suffocating him, choking the air out of his lungs. it was a curse to love a human. it was a curse to love- one that eats away at him for the rest of his eternity. you were the love of his lifetime, yet his lifetime was just a prolonged agony of misery from missing you. he misses you, yet he wishes that sometimes he could forget you. he wonders at times, would he miss missing you?

like a ghost, you were haunting his waking hours. the ghost of you was watching over his decline, his downfall, his spiral of torment. he felt as if you were watching his fall with those beautiful eyes of yours he adores so much, as he plunged into hell alone, the mess that he is now.

oh, his valentine... his decline would be so, so much better with you.