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Ayo Edebiri as Ariel Ecton — OPUS (2025) dir. Mark Anthony Green

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jo's inhale shivers, faintly, at his you say this comment, as though ready with an objection—but it dissipates on the exhale.

men hadn't exactly been throwing themselves at her feet either, before frederick. (there had been teddy, but that was different.) it had been a chance encounter, and that makes it all the more romantic. she had been immediately drawn to him, though she did not consciously realize it at first. it had been difficult to understand the nuances, but she is grateful it all worked out. she will never ever see a world that makes these arrangements unnecessary, but, all things concerned, she is as happy as a clam.

she feels his hand atop hers, and she smiles briskly. "i have a happy life here with fritz and our children we hope to instill in them the importance of supporting down-and-out friends, or," a knowing look, "welcoming someone who might feel adrift and lonely."

"that said," her eyes twinkle, mischevious as a girl, "i do hope you will endeavour to join us downstairs. they can be well-mannered, and most agreeable when they choose. their old professor has buttered you up for them, i'm afraid, my friend."

despite his own conclusive disinterest in interacting with children, charles can recognise jo's gift for it -- most crucially, her sincerity and warmth. even to the most casual onlooker, it would be plain to see she has arrived, in whatever manner fit for pleasing her. he cannot deny it pleases him, too.

                    ❝ yes. i see. ❞ though he cannot quite grasp the specifics, nor would he be crude enough to ask, it is clear jo's marriage isn't quite like any other. lacking certain obligations, offering select freedoms in return. she needn't convince him of the perks. her attempt, while well-intentioned, makes him snort. ❝ you say this as though i'd have a whole range of willing wives to choose from. perhaps you don't realise precisely how lucky you are. ❞ he does not mean to sound disparaging, and so he hastens to add: ❝ lucky within the given circumstances, at least. ❞ what are the chances, of meeting someone not only willing to enter such an arrangement but sufferable enough to love? to charles, it sounds like a fairytale spun for her orphans.

                    he's not come for himself, however, but for her. as though remembering his manners, he holds her hand atop his arm. ❝ all cynicism aside -- and i do apologise --, i am quite thrilled to see you so content. it's a relief, to be frank. ❞

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julian fawcett, the mp in question, will die in less than two months. he will quite literally be caught with his pants down.

and while the upstairs ghosts largely do not concern themselves with the going-ons of the basement dwellers, jemima sees everything. haunting the pantry and kitchens—because the growing girl metabolism stays, apparently, even if she can no longer eat, can hardly remember how anything tastes—at night means she learns many things about them.

for now, she will find it in herself to be content doing the same here. she was needing fresh meat.

she blinks, finally, owlish. "jemima." belatedly, her non-wrapped index finger pokes at her chest.

"okay, okay, that's fine."

and that's about all that cerys has got in the way of offering consolation. she's an only child, the youngest of all her cousins (last time she checked) -- ill-equipped to handle such fragility. gilbert's perpetually on the brink of tears, but some kind of magic prevents it from spilling over and embarrassing them all. it's impossible to think of him as having willpower; it must be magic.

"we definitely don't have any emmpees." she'd rather die (again) than let on that she has no understanding of what that is. "but there are others like us. a lot, actually. more than i'd prefer. some are even grown-ups. point is, maybe someone can help you. maybe this has happened to someone else before."

what maturity! and for the cherry on top: "oz's uncle was displaced, too."

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entertains her existance is a cruel way to put it, but befitting for the man—creature—they reference. anthony has little patience for vampires like sebastian.

the conversation, frustrating as it is, prompts him to share. "emil, did sorel ever tell you about eleanor?"

anthony's observation is painful, though emil suspected it. his shoulders grow heavier, dragged downwards by the blame he directs at himself.

"i wish it were otherwise. you know as i do that sebastian has no real interest in her. he only entertains her existence because we wish to steer her in a different direction."

his mouth is downturned, marred by frustration. "she's just a chess piece to them, and yet she seeks their approval above all else."

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Jacek Malczewski (Polish, 1854-1929). “Charon’s Assistant”, c.1911. oil on canvas

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truly, she should be used to batshit things happening now. the moment a slit throat did not send her to glory, anything could be possible. and yet—she still performs a double take at the rapidly freezing water.

with her mouth halfway parted, enough to show her teeth, nile snort-snickers. she is half parts incredulous and amused.

"fuuu—ck," she whispers, elongating the vowel. "okay, well, only if you're okay with betty crocker."

accepting the glass of water, xeno sips at it absent-mindedly. it's the first opportunity he's had to spend much time with nile, since he returned to visit yusuf and nicky and discovered a new immortal had joined their family.

"hmmmmmmm." an exaggerated hum. the remaining water in his glass is gradually freezing, transforming into a solid block of ice

"we should get drunk." very imaginative, isn't he? "and... bake a cake! a congratulations on not getting murdered since last week cake."

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jemima stares. (likely thing for her to do.) her brittle hair frames her tiny, dirty face like a daguerreotype. her teeth pinch hard at her lips. the bottom one will not stop trembling.

"i want to go home." now her eyes are wet, big as saucers. she does not remember when she last cried. she has been dead for centuries, you see. fuck all to cry about, when you're dead for that long, really.

with hitching breaths, "i lived with my village. in the basement. and robin, mary, hum—phrey, kitty, t-thomas, fanny, the captain, and pat. they live upstairs. the man living there doesn't see us. he is what they call an...an emmpee."

cerys lowers the paper to her lap and squints right back at her.

"you're from where? -- that could be for all kinds of reasons," the ghost suggests. "some people come out the other side of the dark nothing like how they were before. it's like -- like falling into a coma. someone wakes up and starts speaking a language they've never even heard of. a kind of metamorphosis takes place," she says, matter-of-factly. "but don't worry. it's usually temporary."

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her tongue sucks on her teeth. her eyebrows raise.

she has questions, but exercises some more restraint.

"yoo jaeyi. this is my shop." her shoulders half-shrug, half-roll at the inside. "i was just about to open. come in. i can make you some lunch, if you'd like."

wesley nods in response, an unintentional repetition.

"the lake. we're filming in the wider area, too. local landscapes across gyeonggi-do. production decided manyang would be a good base camp. i think the coordinator grew up nearby." and now he's talking too much. he pauses. "sorry. i'm wesley."

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redmon hurries off to the kitchen like he is pressed for time. he finds lesur in there, preparing dinner, naturally, and wonders how long it will be before the cooking noises break through and trevor can hear them, too.

dutch nods first, taps ash into the chipped ashtray second, speaks last. "we can't go past a certain point if he ain't with us. about the door of the bar downstairs is where we stop." a beat. "red doesn't go out often."

the unspoken not like he used to is heavy. "so we don't, either."

out of here, a barely audible thought, get me out of here.

"water's—fine. water's great."

unintentionally mirroring redmon, trevor is rubbing his hands together—pulling at the stitched-up sleeves of his oversized chunk knit like he's trying to crawl into the arms of it. to calm his head from spinning, he watches smoke rise single-file from dutch's cigarette.

"do you have to be where he is?" a nod in his direction, then redmon's.

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"they're—" redmon starts, but his first work takes the floor in a way he cannot deny makes him feel relieved.

"we're carted off soon as the boss here sends the final draft off to be published." the air around dutch is hazy with smoke. the green lamp on the table beside him adds a touch of chiaroscuro. "'til then, we're rubbing elbows with each other."

the author swallows, nods, giggles nervously. the last person who ever saw his characters was slyvia, and she has been dead for coming up on a decade. that's why there hasn't been any new hunter novels in the drugstores and airports.

"yes, dutch, thank you for that... enlightning—explanation for our friend. couldn't have said it better myself." he wrings his dry, aged hands. "since i have a couple drafts going for each series i write... it gets. crowded here, to say the least. would you like some—tea, coffee? water? i bet you'd like some water. let me get you some water."

trevor feels like someone's stuck him under a heat lamp. someone's got him pinned to the setting board. there's a flash going off on the inside of his eyelids every time he blinks, his own mind attempting to photograph the moment, hitting its shins on every corner in a dark room looking for a remote to pause. think.

what's worse than being seen?

what's a lighter feeling than being recognized?

he gives a short wave to the man in the corner. wants to say something to break the ice, like, love your work, but unsure where to point the praise.

"it's—so they're here, permanently?"

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the blunder will have to remain unredressed. as for now, she can tell herself that she has met another vampire, one that isn't an asshole and isn't louis or lestat. another someone that had their physical development arrested. another fake adult, trapped in amber or sap.

claudia feels her ears warm, and she chews at the inside of her cheek in order not to visibly react. and forty years from now, still little boys?

"bela lugosi ain't creepy," she confirms, coming back to herself. "but he does act more like a vampire than any actor who came before him."

OTHER VAMPIRES WOULD BE FANTASTIC! Petra is merely the unturned daughter of a turned man, the tragically and woefully human daughter of a vampiric crime lord. Louis and Lestat may feel a little less alone, thanks to Pyotr, and Petra is glad she can make Claudia feel a little less of the same. However, it's ultimately a different sort of kinship.

"College was overrated. You learn everything worth learning about life before that, and after it. You're a fake adult in college, trapped in amber or sap." Petra yawns. Her exhaustion and boredom morph into a sly pride.

"Bela Lugosi," she teases, aiming high, though the man was only in her father's presence once, and incidentally so, "Isn't as creepy as he looks. He can be really nice."

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@bluedprints

redmon tries a smile for trevor, though it comes out sheepish, more of a cringe, like when he thinks too many pictures have already been taken but is too polite to say it.

"so, uh. you've met—dutch."

the character in question, flesh and blood as the two of them, lights up a cigarette in that loud match strike way noir detectives always do. he waves by way of single upward nod.

"i suppose the others will follow soon enough. i—know it's a lot to take in." understatement.

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Mother. Mother. I think I have done enough of being that. Maternal love isn’t something for me, and yet I have been pretending to have that for such a long time. Now, I need to get my name back. I need to be myself. I need to live as Do Hae Won. Don’t you think? So Park Jeong Je, I want you to just listen to the sound of the deer coming.

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h.annibal this h.annibal that......get back to me when you've watched b.eyond evil (and write with jeongje and jaeyi)

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the smell of warm, soft gingerbread wafts from the kitchen, a treat so dear to the little souls within plumfield. a great many of them were more loyal to their stomachs than they were checking out the intentions of mother bhaer's guest—but not young dan keane.

for his part, he watches charles with an eye jo can only imagine is from being cheated by an untoward number of adult men during his time on the streets. the poor little innocent, she mourns inwardly, likely we will never know the extent of strife he faced on his own. she briefly excuses herself, lifting a hold-that-thought index finger.

"dan," she begins. the boy straightens, evidence of his improved manners and tender feelings for his benefactors. "i want you and the older children to keep an eye on the little ones. make sure they don't make themselves sick eating too much gingerbread. does that sound capital to you? i will be down in a jiffy. and hopefully," she turns her bright gaze back to charles, "mr. fraser-smith joins me."

the boy excuses himself, nodding sharply at charles. once he is out of earshot, jo turns around.

"i have gained much from this arrangement, to use your words. freddy loves me and i love freddy. endlessly and unconditionally. though not as man and woman. we only appear that way, you see."

she pauses, reaches out. her hand lands lightly on charles' bicep. "you mustn't do it with someone you do not love. there has to be love there, or else it only ends up like the marriage we—yes, we, i scorned romance in my youth, except in my books—loathe to lock ourselves up in."

@choicescreen liked for a starter feat. the all-knowing muse wheel (aka period allyship with jo bhaer née march + q/charles)

it is only when he thinks to himself she looks well, and catches his own surprise in thinking it, that he realises his preconceptions may have been unfair. on bhaer, certainly, but all the more grievously so on jo.

                    ❝ i will admit, i had my reservations ❞, sounding only as contrite as he is capable, which is not very much, but perhaps enough for someone as perceptive as her, ❝ but it seems you’ve gained more from this arrangement than just a shield from prying questions. ❞ if he appears to disapprove, it’s likely for his own benefit more than hers. his relief to see her unconfined is mingled with something bitter, unbecoming. perhaps it is envy? his delivery on follow-up is suitably dry, lest he be taken too seriously. ❝ for that reason alone, i’ve half a mind to change my stance on marriage entirely. ❞