#That delivery of THAT LINE WILL GO DOWN IN HISTORY THAT'S FOR SURE

[cryinggirlnamedhelen]

never grow up - s. haruka

cw; fem!reader, mentions of violence, sakura and reader are 23

now playing ; never grow up (taylor’s version) by taylor swift

༯ sakura’s never thoroughly thought parenthood through. sure, occasional flashes of having his own child with you when thinking about your future together have occurred, but he always ended up flustered and stopped thinking about it nearly instantly.

༯ so a few months after your wedding, when you timidly hand him a pregnancy test, sakura is practically frozen as his eyes are fixated on the two red lines on the stick. positive. he was going to be a father? him? before he could realize it, his chest tightened, and tears filled his eyes.

༯ fears and worries drowned him instantly. what if his child got bullied because they received his genes for heterochromia or piebaldism? would they be able to defend themself? what if they didn’t like violence?

༯ but one smile from you eased all of his worries as his eyes softened. he would have you with him through parenthood, and sakura could face an entire life of hardships as long as he had you with him.

༯ he was financially well off enough. he was still a part of the bofurin gang and often visits furin to help out the current students. he works with the roppo ichiza in the red light district as a bodyguard, but he never entertains the hostesses; he doesn’t even talk to them. he’s only there because he really doesn’t have the ability for many other occupations for money.

༯ he still lives in an apartment at makochi with you though. now that you’re pregnant, he’s considered moving out to perhaps a larger home, but you saw no point. maybe you could when your kid was older, but for now, when the your child hasn’t even been born yet, you wouldn’t need to think about this.

༯ alumni from furin and numerous other organizations are always coming over to your apartment and bringing you both everything. from baby items to food to just helping you both around the house, they’re basically here every day. suo, nirei, umemiya, tsubaki, along with kotoha, are always the most active with both gifting and taking care of you.

༯ he did so much research on pregnant women and babies to the point where it’s his entire search history now. “can pregnant women have grapes” “is air conditioning good for babies”; you once caught him asking one of the kind old ladies at the bakery in makochi about how to take care of you.

༯ when you actually had your kid, sakura was stressing out as if he were insane, beads of sweat rolling down his temple and pacing back and forth outside of the delivery room. he wanted to stay with you, but the nurses, seeing how stressed he was, knew that he would only be a distraction, so they kicked him out.

༯ he did immediately barge into the room the moment he heard the first few cries, nearly running to see you first and then his daughter soon after.

༯ the moment the nurse handed his daughter over to him, sakura felt tears brim at his lashes. he hasn’t even known her for five minutes, but he loved her so much that his stomach was heavy and his heart was doing backflips. she was sleeping so peacefully despite the fact that she was screaming and crying just a minute ago. a bit like you when you were still pregnant.

༯ hinako. that was her name. because she was the child of the sun in sakura’s world: you.

༯ hinako rarely ever cried. as long as she had enough food and sleep, she was a quiet but curious baby. she always grabbed at your and sakura’s hands, giggling whenever you kissed her forehead, and reaching at sakura’s face whenever he held her.

༯ sakura didn’t know how to describe just how glad he was when he found out that she didn’t have heterochromia. she had your eyes, but she did have black hair with occasional white locks. sakura decided that the moment she was old enough, he was definitely going to teach her how to fight.

༯ watching hinako grow up is painful for sakura. especially with him knowing that there’ll be at least a few people making fun of her hair—especially since she looks so beautiful. he dreads the thought of her one day meeting someone who is a little more than a friend, but he knows that it will have to happen at some point. he just wants to keep her as his little girl for as long as he can though.

༯ he doesn’t seem like it, but he’s the biggest girl dad ever. whenever you go into hinako’s room, you can always catch him playing tea with her—and taking it way too seriously—or brushing her hair and braiding it cautiously and slowly.

“papa, am i ugly?”

hinako’s small voice sounded almost nervous as the words exited her mouth. she was a bit too mature for a five year old, something that sakura has always despised. furrowing his eyebrows, he crouched down to be eye level with her.

“why do you ask? did something happen?”

hinako’s hands clamped together, pulling and fidgeting with her fingers as her eyes darted away, her lower lip slightly shaky and pushing out. “kokomi said that my hair is ugly and that i look weird.”

sakura wasn’t low enough to beat up a child, especially not a classmate or friend of hinako’s, but he was certainly considering calling their parents or scolding them. his eyes softened at the fresh batch of tears that was now framing hinako’s eyes, gently petting her head.

“well she’s wrong. hinako, you’re so beautiful, you know that? you’re perfect. don’t let her words get to you. your hair is so unique, and not a lot of people in the world have hair like yours.“

hinako’s eyes lit up, and sakura couldn’t help but smile. she looked just like you. you were out shopping right now, but you always had a constant presence in the house, even if you weren’t physically there. and suddenly, sakura’s mind flashed to a few years ago, during his first year of high school.

“sakura, you’re beautiful. you know that, right? you’re literally perfect. your eyes are so vivid and vibrant and they look like marbles. they’re so colorful and look ethereal. and your hair is eye catching in the best way. no matter how big a crowd is, i can always catch sight of you from your hair alone. but not only that, but you have features that are unique to you. no one else in the world has features and looks like yours, so you should be proud. i love you the way you are, sakura.”

your words were spoken years ago, but they still affected sakura to this day. and now, they were affecting hinako as well.

[daikunart]

𝗧𝗮𝘆𝗹𝗼𝗿 𝘇𝗮𝗸𝗵𝗮𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗿𝗲𝘇 𝗮𝘀 𝗔𝗖𝗗 | 𝗥𝗪𝗥𝗕 𝟱/?

[giuseppe-yuki]

spoiled

fernando alonso x cocker spaniel shapeshifter!reader

w.c.: 2k

warnings: one curse word

part my of shapeshifting!reader series

summary: as nando's precious cocker spaniel, you are spoiled rotten.

picture credits from pinterest :)

*side note- it has come to my attention that the cute puppy in the header is actually a king charles spaniel, not a cocker spaniel, so i apologize for that one. my headers are mainly used for aesthetic purposes, so feel free to imagine yourself as either breed :)

the word “no” was practically nonexistent when you were with nando. 

you want another birkin to go in your collection? here, have three. you felt like pizza for dinner? sure thing. pizza freshly made in italy is being flown in right now. wow, that baby pink aston sure is cute, isn’t it? here’s the keys to a brand new, custom made, db9 that has matching pink heart tire rims. 

it seemed like fernando’s singular goal in life as your boyfriend was simply to pamper and spoil you. when he found out your shapeshifting abilities, he became ecstatic. even more ways to spoil you! 

that’s how you found yourself sat on his lap, twin pink bows tied on each of your ears, inside of the aston martin meeting. mike krack was currently yapping about tire degradation and management, repeatedly smacking a labeled graph with his pointer stick. you usually didn’t accompany your boyfriend to these types of meetings, but you felt particularly clingy today, and who was he to deny your request? ignoring the bewildered looks of the engineers on the spinny chairs around you both, he leans down, presses a kiss to your head, and then combs his fingers through your freshly washed fur, making you sigh in contentment. 

however, mike’s loud voice snaps you out of your thoughts. 

”fernando!” he shouts across the long table, stopping his long spiel. “are you even listening, or are you paying all your attention to your dog?”

all the engineers at the table turn towards fernando, giving him quizzical looks at the canine in his lap. (except for lance, who looked bored beyond his mind picking at his fingernails) he simply just shrugs, still petting you. “eh, what can i say? she’s kind of high maintenance.” 

the aston martin team principal rubs his face in annoyance, but picks up his pointer stick and continues on with his presentation. 

he only gets in a minute of talking before loud knocking echos throughout the meeting room. curious, you hop off of fernando’s lap and pad towards the door. 

“what is it now?” the irritated team principal exclaims exasperatedly. 

the door swings open, almost hitting you, to reveal a rather disgruntled-looking delivery man holding a clipboard that looked like it had a book’s worth of papers clipped to it. you flee back towards your boyfriend in fear. 

“fernando…alonso?” the deliveryman asks, squinting his eyes at the name printed on the top-most paper. when he receives a nod of confirmation, he continues,”i have some deliveries for you, and this stack of papers you have to sign that make sure you have received the parcels.” he then thrusts the board out to nando. 

while your boyfriend sifts through each paper, hastily scribbling his name on each dotted line, the delivery man peers around the room in shock, as if he just noticed the handful of engineers and moderately pissed team principal standing in front of him. the man’s bored demeanor shifts to a more panicked one. “i - um- is this a bad time? should i come back later?” he stutters out, shifting nervously. 

mike crack starts, “obviou-” before being cut off by fernando.

“no, right now is fine- it would be great if you could set up my purchases in my garage as well,” your boyfriend says, ignoring mike’s glare at the back of his head. 

with a jaw-dropping two championships in his racing history, who was anyone to refuse fernando? mike had no choice but to begrudgingly end the meeting short and send the engineers away to analyze the new racing data. 

meanwhile, you sat prettily in the corner of nando’s garage. and no- not at one of the dirty sweat-stained barstools in the garage- your boyfriend would never let you stain your soft fur like that. no, you sat in a plush white satin dog bed in your special curtained off area. 

under fernando’s instructions, a swarm of deliverymen bat away your pale lacy curtains and filter in like a line of ants, one after another. they place box after box on the carpeted floor of your little area. it creates a glimmering tower of designer jewelry boxes and prim monogrammed paper bags. 

after they exit the premises, fernando kneels down onto one knee and wraps you into a tight hug. “you enjoy your gifts, mi princesa!” he points to the sunny outdoors. “i’ll just be outside, overseeing the builders making the new air-conditioned mini house for you, okay?” 

you wag your tail at him, and give him a kiss (lick) on the cheek as a thank-you. 

the second fernando exits the room, lance’s girlfriend pokes her head through the sheer curtains separating your corner from the rest of the garage. 

“hellooooo!” she giggles. “now what do we have here?” 

looking over the pile of assorted bags and boxes on the floor, she pokes a green patterned bag labeled, ‘gucci.’

she jumps giddily after seeing several other matching shopping bags. “i saw the deliverymen come in with fernando’s order, and i was wondering i could-”

you shift to your human form before she can finish her sentence.

“yeah, i guess you can help me open them…” you sigh, rolling your eyes in fake annoyance. 

lance’s girlfriend squeals in glee before ripping open a dior bag. 

“how about this one?” you question, twirling around in your bedroom a haute couture babydoll dress. 

from his position on the bed, wedged in between the plush pillows, your boyfriend rakes his eyes across your body appreciatively and pretends to think for a second. 

“i think-” he pauses for a grand effect- “it looks absolutely beautiful on you, mi amor.” 

even though he compliments you everyday, it doesn’t fail to make your cheeks heat up wherever you hear his praise. 

“why, thank you, nando!” you say, flashing a smile at him.

ducking behind the changing room divider, you slip on a more skimpy stirling green pajama set that lance’s girlfriend had somehow pulled from the stack of clothes earlier in the day.

you can practically hear nando’s jaw hit the floor when you daintily step out from behind the divider, hands shyly held together behind your back. 

“i’m guessing you like this one?” you joke, watching him blink back at you with an awestruck look. tiptoeing over a pile of clothes strewn on the ground and the pieces of expensive jewelry in various boxes, you run over to nando’s figure on the bed and prance onto his lap. 

face inches away from his, you take your hand and physically shut his gaping mouth. 

“speechless, huh?” you tease, tittering. 

fernando looks at you, the pajama set draped over you perfectly (why would it not? he had it custom designed to fit you), new van cleef necklaces hanging from your neck, and celine bangles adjourning your wrists, and he can’t help but think all the money he spent for you was worth it. 

his hazel eyes sparkle with adoration. “what can i say, mi amor? you take my breath away.”

you bat at his chest, giggling, before climbing off his lap and tucking yourself in next to him. like an automatic response, he protectively wraps his arm around you tucks your head into the crook between his neck and his shoulder. 

the twinkling stars, crickets chirping, and warmth of fernando’s body quickly lull you to sleep, but before you drift off, you place a soft kiss on your boyfriend’s stubbled jaw.

“thank you for all the gifts, nando. you’re way too good to me.” 

the next morning, you woke up early to drive to the paddock with fernando. it was race day, one of your favorite days to watch your boyfriend on the track. but, that also meant the swarm of celebrities, media, and fans of all ages that might step on your tail or ruin your little pink bows with their grimy hands. your ever so observant boyfriend took note of this right away and tucked you safely in between his arm and his body in your cocker spaniel form before a speck of dirt from the floor could touch you.

he doesn’t let you down until he arrives in his garage.

along with a couple of engineers, lance and his girlfriend are in there too. lance waves a polite hello to you and his older teammate, while his girlfriend shuffles over. she flashes a shy smile at your boyfriend before opening her mouth. 

“could you please tell your *ahem* girlfriend-“ she gestures to you in his arms- “thank you for letting me open all those gifts with her yesterday. it was really fun!” 

fernando lets out a chortle before nodding, “of course.” 

you let out a bark, as if saying no problem, and give her outstretched hand a lick. 

after your boyfriend peels away from you to go suit up with lance, you and lance’s girlfriend scamper back into your little sectioned off corner in the back of nando’s garage. you both sprawl yourselves on your satin white mini couch to wait for the the start of the race. you had to admit, having a boyfriend that spoiled you rotten was kind of nice. before you can get comfortable, however, the girl next to you practically launches herself off the couch.

“oww!” she yells, clutching her back. “what the actual fuck is that?”

you tilt you head in question, before you spot the offending material on the couch.

it was a swarovski diamond-lined dog collar with alternating green emeralds (you knew the possessive side of nando purposely put that in there to show what team you were rooting for). you laugh internally, before gingerly clutching it in your sharp canines and picking it off of the other side of the couch.

lance’s girlfriend shoots a playful glare at you. “wow…i literally helped you rip open all those boxes yesterday, and this is how you repay me? by nearly stabbing me to death with those ridiculously sharp gems?”

you roll your eyes, but give her a bark to apologize. jumping off the couch, you gently place the collar in front of her. knowing your intent, she bends down and fastens it on your neck, but not before exaggeratedly groaning and clutching her back as she knelt down.

in front of the full size mirror propped against the wall, you admire the way the collar glimmers like stars on your neck. then, the girl in front of you comes up with an idea. 

“hey! we should go show max’s girlfriend your sparkly new jewelry!”

max’s girlfriend is nowhere to be found when you arrive in the redbull garage. ignoring the redbull engineers’ weird looks, you pad through in your aston martin colors with lance’s girlfriend by your side. still, you are unable to locate the girl you had in mind. 

lance’s girlfriend shrugs. “that’s so weird! i wonder if she is still in his driver’s room or something?”

you tilt your head in confusion. she shouldn’t be, as the race was starting soon, so max must be in the garage! making up your mind to find max’s girlfriend, you pad over to the highest object next to you- max’s car. without thinking, you jump up onto the drs flap the back in order to have a higher vantage point. you only realize your grave error when lance’s girlfriend looks at you with wide eyes and nearby engineers let out gasps of shock. 

as if it couldn’t get worse, max walks into the garage with his girlfriend in tow. he scrunches his eyebrows when he sees you on his car. pointing at you he lets out a shout.

“hey! what is fernando’s cocker spaniel doing on my car? call fernando and tell him that’s a €50,000 fine!”

when fernando comes over to the red bull garage to collect you, you bow your head in shame, fully expecting him to chastise you, but instead he holds you close and laughs. leaning close to your ear, he whispers, “good job, baby! i know max will never fine me for you touching his car- his girlfriend would never let him. next time, collect more info on his steering wheel setup and rear wing…they’ll never catch you!”

a/n: jk! one last fic for the current grid :)

taglist: @ilivbullyingjeongin @ale-522 @formula1-motogpfan @aceyalonso @my0hmary 

@mbappebby @madkohi @rakshatos @heartsforleclerc @papaya-twinks

[a-mel0n]

In June of 2024, I went on a camping trip with my family for a week down by the beach. While we were watching the waves crash against the shore, I was scrolling through Tumblr when a certain gifset in my For You page caught my attention. I can't remember who made the gifset, but the scene it captured was Buck coming out to Maddie in 7x05.

I stopped scrolling and watched a mute version of Evan Buckley play the pronoun game with his sister, I watched him say the words "Sure, I'll check out a hot guy's ass, but that's normal," and watched Maddie say "It's not... abnormal," and despite having no idea who these characters were, I could perfectly hear every delivery for those lines in my head as if I had already seen the show.

Curiosity got the better of me, so I clicked on the gifmaker's profile and watched another gifset. The Fabled First Date scene. My introduction to Tommy Kinard was his eyebrow raise when Evan Buckley stuttered out "But I'm not weirded out!" The little nod he does after Buck says "I mean, I'm an ally." while on a date with a man never fails to make me laugh, and it was that gifset that had me text a friend and say: "hey have u heard of 911. the tv show?" The response I got was: "gay firefighters. i wanna watch the show ngl." When I sent over the link to the gifsets I watched, my friend sent approximately fifteen crying emojis, then proceeded to say: "Im so watching this show. You should watch it too. So we can talk abt it together. I never have ppl to talk to abt this stuff."

Thus, history was made.

As soon as I got back from that trip, me and my friend proceeded to binge the entirety of 9-1-1 in just over two weeks. I started 1x01, "Pilot" on 6/27/2024 at 9:40 PM, and finished 7x10, "All Fall Down" on 7/12/2024 at 1:59 PM.

Since then, I've become the most involved in a fandom I've ever been in, met plenty of wonderful people who share the same love for this series and these characters as I do, and have made dozens of memories that will be quite difficult to forget.

9-1-1 has been an unforgettable experience, and it's all because of a single small acting decision that Lou Ferrigno Jr. made while playing Tommy Kinard in 7x05, a gifset made by a random person on Tumblr that just so happened to show up on my For You page, and the encouragement of a friend to open Hulu and watch a silly little firefighter show.

Buck and Tommy were a fundamental reason as to why I started watching this show, and seeing them break up hurt me in a way I wasn't really prepared for. I knew I was invested in their relationship, but I never knew how invested I truly was until they were gone. Their breakup may be temporary or it might be permanent, and although their relationship is fiction, the hurt I felt was real.

And that's why the Bucktommy fandom has been so important to me, because in spite of the breakup, we're still going strong. The @alliwantforchristmasislou positivity project is amazing. Unfortunately, I cannot donate to a charity, but I strongly implore anyone reading this to donate if you can and haven't already.

And.. that's it! I've said my piece. But... oh, there is one last thing:

#alliwantforchristmasislou

[rappaccini]

sinners thoughts.

k first of all:

movie of the year.

free coogler from reboot remake franchise jail

cast 11/10. insane that this is miles caton's first role. so glad michael b jordan is introducing us to his brother, michael a jordan (i'm joking). actually insane how he has different chemistry with every single character, and even with himself. wunmi mosaku and li jun li were incredible. jack o'connell went crazy on that jig wtf was in the water at the skins casting office. oscar for delroy lindo. jayme lawson i know disney live action remakes are evil but please pick up the phone when they call you for tiana. yao did so much with the five seconds of screen time he got. hailee steinfeld reminded me she’s an academy caliber actress free her from franchise jail too please. omar miller steals every scene he's in.

music 11/10. the sammie musical sequence is gonna be one of THE cinematic sequences of the decade. the rocky road to dublin dance number is too fucking fun and just as brilliant but in a subtler way. brilliant exploration of the blues, of the origins and future of black music, of its connections to irish/scottish folk music. tying it in with a robert johnson style deal with the devil? the fucking devil goes down to georgia fiddle too? ludwig goransson you're gonna run out of space to put your oscars soon.

i'm sure someone's gonna do a detailed breakdown of the significance of each song. excited to read it. edit: in the meantime i have these bc i have no impulse control. out of my depth with the blues but sure, i can dissect the white people stuff.

everyone's killing it. the cast. the cinematographer. the composer. coogler got the best possible group of artists together to tell the best version of this story and they brought their fucking a game. love to see it.

fantastic story. love that it takes its time setting up the world before the vampires arrive. this is a period drama, romance, action movie, musical and horror flick all in one. it's even structured like an epic tragedy. this would fuck so hard on the stage. sinners on broadway when.

insane sound design. delta slim’s recounting of his friend’s lynching having the sounds of the attack bleeding in made my jaw drop.

this movie walks so many delicate lines and sticks the landing on everything. it knows exactly when to be subtle and when to tell you what's happening. it’s violent, sexy and full of trauma but never feels exploitative.

love that the movie embraces the genre trappings. it keeps being advertised as Not Like Other Horror Movies but bitch it is. and it knows that. and it's having fun with it. the vampires are harmed by garlic. why? who cares it's fun.

also genuinely hilarious. cornbread and remmick had me cackling with their deliveries. "being kInD tO oNe AnOtHeR" and "shammaeh" keep popping into my head at random. so does that stupid little shuffle the vampires make at the door when they're rejected. these two make this a comedy.

pussy eating being one of the Great Motifs of this movie... mr coogler i will never underestimate your power again.

what a deal by coogler. he gets the rights back in 25 years. he makes an incredible genre movie for a middle budget and he gets full creative control. i hope we get more like this.

my one gripe is that i wish mary and annie got to have a conversation. that would make their final moment together and the history they share so much stronger. my kingdom for a two-minute long convo where they don't mention men.

also that the juke has tons of redshirts chilling in the background after the party ends so its like. oh. there are a dozen other guys here. who we are not acknowledging. as we are testing our Protagonists to see who's a secret vampire. smoke my dude lower the gun you're pointing at pearline and please check the twelve other guys also in this room who didn't eat the garlic and whose comings and goings are a mystery.

... actually now that i think abt it it's kind of odd that mary did gain entry and never walked back in. do the vampires have to ask every time? we could've made that clearer.

and tbh i'm not too into the ~they all feel his pain but he doesn't feel theirs~ thing. it feels very... mcu? i get they needed a convenient excuse to make sure the showdown wasn't so one-sided but they could've found a better solution.

and man. the fucking layers in this script.

we all thought it was 'the vampires are the kkk, and hailee steinfeld's playing a, sigh, "evil snowbunny" who infiltrates the community to help her white friends kill everyone and the moral is that every time black people try to have a good time white people show up to ruin it’ and yes it is About That but the actual nuances of the situation are so much more complex.

the second most surface level reading is Remmick Was Right.

no. Annie Was Right.

the killmonger debate is gonna happen again but dumber because we're talking about a hot scruffy white guy.

and like killmonger the best take is: you can’t divorce the tragedy of this villain from the terrible things he does. the scariest thing about these vampires is that they are so human.

coogler didn't make remmick his favorite antagonist and have jack o'connell deliver THAT performance for you guys not to dig into all the complexities he gave him. you're doing yourselves and this film a disservice if you reduce him to Just Evil or Just Misunderstood.

unlike many people though, i'm sexy enough to remember that this is just a movie and that movies are supposed to be fun. so i can meme about the villain, find him hot, AND discuss the complex themes he represents without having to performatively squirm about how sorry i am for having a good time.

speaking of:

i get the ‘if only they all worked together to kill the klan’ conceit but the whole point is they wouldn’t have. remmick wouldn’t protect them altruistically and they would never have trusted him if he had told them from the jump that the kkk are coming. it never would have gone that way. (… and if it had remmick would be getting the white savior treatment the movie is so careful to reject)

all the same it's good that some people are thinking that because that's one of the core themes of the movie. the center of the sinners onion is a story about a group of marginalized people turning on each other before the actual threat can even arrive. if you wish they had found solidarity, you're a step closer to the only way everyone could have left this story alive.

the "inviting vampires in" metaphor plays with the idea of letting people with bad intentions into your safe space and your community. there are shades of colonization and appropriation metaphors there for sure, and a discussion of how white people who lost their own culture to assimilation try to leech off of black culture to try and get back the feeling of community they lost. but it's something else first.

this movie's about the consequences of racist violence, yes. but it's specifically about the violence people on the margins inflict on each other in the name of surviving within those margins.

(vampire bo walking right past cornbread chowing down on that drunk and telling grace it's not their problem? exactly. that's the entire metaphor in one scene.)

it's about the way people in the margins exclude each other and themselves because they genuinely believe it'll protect everyone when it really just causes further harm.

it's about how offers of assimilation made out of a genuine desire to help each other succeed don't change the harm that offer will do to the people who accept it— and how even if you do assimilate you never really leave behind who you were and you’re always looking for ways to return.

it’s about how monsters are as human as humans are monstrous

and it's about how people who are already desperate can actually gain a lot from a deal with the devil… but there’s still a better way out that doesn’t involve selling your soul.

the vampires are not right and they do terrible things, but they are not the true evil in this story either. it’s the klan and the shadow of oppression they force everyone to live in.

this is an epic tragedy. if the vampires never got in, the party would have gone until dawn and the klan would have killed everyone in the morning.

if the vampires had turned everyone, the only place to hide from the sunlight together is the juke… which the klan would have invaded anyway. and if they saw an integrated, mostly black community of people strong enough to shrug off their bullets and physically overpower them? they wouldn't have let them go. they'd have burned the juke down, and the vampires would have no way to escape because the sun’s out.

everyone is doomed and all the infighting just guarantees they won't get away or deal with the actual existential threat before it's too late.

the only way to survive was to never go to the party— to never seek community and joy in the face of oppression— in the first place, or to be protected and most of all lucky like sammie.

(... or for the vampire to mind the fucking boundaries and direct his violence at the actual institutional threat. this is also a story about how white people blow the chance to create true solidarity and dismantle systems of oppression because they'd rather keep them intact to stay on top of the power dynamic. even if those systems will kill them too.)

there’s so much gray in a story about blackness and whiteness. love that.

mary and the chows exist between the black-white stratification in clarksdale. they can play both sides of the divide, but are less protected because neither side will completely claim them. this vulnerability is why mary turns first and grace is the chink in the armor that gets the vampires inside. mary is pushed away and the chows pull away and in that distance between them and the black community, bad actors find a way in.

remmick is older than chattel slavery or the concept of race that was created to justify it. he comes from a time where the irish were colonized by the same people. he remembers when christianity was used to justify subjugating them. he has no trouble seeing through the layers of racist pseudoscience and social hierarchy because he remembers what the world was like before it existed and knows it's bullshit.

so he completely believes what he's saying: he does see himself as one of them. he does empathize with their situation, he does want to dance and play with them, he does want to experience sammie's gift and he does want to preserve it forever instead of stamping it out or repressing it. he does want to offer them protection from the kkk (and having vampirism does protect stack and mary from them). and he has also been hurt by other marginalized people (the vampire hunters from the choctaw nation-- who sent the irish aid during the famine. people who once showed him solidarity, who he probably approached for more of it, are now hunting him).

and it still won't matter! because it's in his nature to want to consume them. he does see himself as an ally, but the fact that he's trying to invade a space that was not built for him after he was told to leave, won't take no for an answer from the people he wants to convert, would rather let the threat that'll kill them all (including him) in a few hours remain to use as leverage to get them to join him, and would rather kill sammie than let him walk away with his gift is proof that he isn't one.

if they let him in, he will change some of them. but not everyone. some are going to resist, and are going to be killed. everyone who's changed will keep their personality, but lose their humanity, and his memories are going to pour into them-- theirs won't be gone but they will be changed. he wants sammie's gift so he can conjure his friends. and when they join his coven, they'll spend eternity with two kkk members he also turned (… whose own original personalities will inevitably return too).

and he may have used his influence to wipe that shit from those people's personalities, but even doing that is just proof that he will suppress any part of a person he turns that he doesn't respect or want.

remmick isn't the klan. he's white liberalism. both suck and both are racist, but there IS a very clear difference. white supremacists genuinely believe their own bullshit. white liberals know white supremacy is a tool and are willing to leave it intact because they might want to use it someday.

if remmick really did have their best interests at heart, he'd chill outside, let people leave the party safely, play his guitar, do his little dance, and use his whiteness to do what they can't: kill the klan and guarantee no reciprocal violence will affect the people most vulnerable to it.

he's offering assimilation. that's the metaphor. "let me in and i'll give you the tools to survive racist white society by making you a little more like it-- more ruthless, less human and empathetic, more in tune with the culture they're from, more able to exist side by side with the people who would have killed you-- but you can only keep what i allow you to and i'm doing this for my own benefit first. and if you say no, i'm still gonna push it on you."

and he was assimilated himself. he remembers when christianity was used to hurt his people, yet some part of him still finds comfort in the lord's prayer. (and if the metaphor holds, he was probably changed against his will by an oppressor too) like the irish in america who immigrated to escape prejudice and whose kids became cops, he realized that white supremacy could be used to benefit him and bought into just enough of it to escape mistreatment (see: how he gets into the kk kouple's house-- by playing into their bigotry; he isn't doing it enthusiastically, he's doing it out of desperation... but he is still doing it). and once you assimilate, you aren't an ally to the oppressed anymore. you're sitting on the fence and kicking everyone who tries to destroy it down, or guarding who gets to climb over.

even then, your identity finds ways to reappear —the vampires reassert their personalities over and over, like mary immediately ruining the plan to get sammie because she wants stack, or remmick's irishness exploding out of him— and the parts of yourself you think you have to get rid of to belong are what’ll actually find you that community. and all you'll ever want is to get back to it.

again rocky road to dublin my god the layers of that scene. it looks like the vampires being fully consumed by remmick’s hivemind but as their voices join the song and the instrumentation starts to add the 808s, the blocking of the scene brings them in with him as equals. they’re creating a new genre of music together as they’re becoming an actual family by relating to shared marginalization and celebrating overcoming it by becoming a vampire coven. ho. ly. fuck. the vampires did the exact same thing the humans did.

and then they immediately blow it by defaulting right back to the racism the way we do at the exact same time the humans start splintering.

naturally mary's the one who goes first because she's the one being thrust into assimilation by society. because she passes white, the black community she grew up with hold her at arm's length because she passes so well that if racist white people see her with them, they could use it as justification for violence against the entire community. (like. what the fuck would've happened when the kkk got there and saw her. would they have realized she's mixed, or still assumed she was white and lashed out even more because 'her womanhood has been corrupted.')

and of course she's the first person approached. assimilationists go for the people already close to their ideal, or who have skills they want. mary is the most white-passing person in that building.

of course she's immediately on board with the plan, and immediately hijacking it to get stack instead of sammie. she already made a deal with the devil when she married her husband. she already let go of a lot of herself to do it— and she knows how and when to bring it back and has practiced this for years. why not assimilate again when this time she can have the all-consuming community she's been kept from, live as who she really is, and not have to worry about anyone hurting her for it. even the hivemind might feel comforting, because it's the belonging she's been hungry for all along.

of course she wants to share that power. she's removed the vulnerability that's stopping her and stack from being together. she does genuinely believe she's saving him. doesn't change that 'saving him' by giving him a way to assimilate kills and dehumanizes him.

and ultimately they're the vampires who survive. assimilation can help you leave a terrible situation... but you'll leave that situation disconnected from what made you human and unable to be a part of the group you left behind (at least until you decide to stop assimilating), but also unable to fully leave what you’re told to get rid of. it always comes back.

annie? no way she would've survived. she's too entwined with her culture to ever take the vampires' offer and too distant from the ideal to ever be accepted by it. she can't and won't assimilate. she's the opposite of mary.

vampirism as ‘being saved,’ forced assimilation being likened to forced conversion, its biggest opponent being the woman most in tune with rootwork, another layer in the colonization metaphor, another way remmick is replicating harm done to him onto others. even the forced baptism... wow.

sammie escaping All That only to run to another sanctuary from racist violence... and be told by a religious space he thought was safe 'now YOU assimilate into US by getting rid of the source of that community’.... oh the layers. fucking genius.

the intergenerational trauma motif too. smoke and stack are afraid their father passed his violence down to them, and annie demanding smoke break the cycle before he can hold their baby. sammie taking their dad's guitar and using it to make beautiful music. remmick passing the trauma of his assimilation and colonization (and what was probably a forced transformation into a vampire) down to his converts, and mary and stack choosing to let sammie decide to stay human.

anyway. 1992.

sammie chooses to stay human in every respect. and his survival and success are proof that you can. vampirism/assimilation isn’t necessary to escape that violence. luck, community and your own internal sense of self-worth are. his perspective is the correct one in this story.

mary keeps being drawn to emulate the group who would reject her for her heritage. in 1932 she passes white in a time and place where having one black grandparent would have her ostracized and harmed by the white community she married into out of necessity. in 1992 she's wearing black fashion and openly partnered with a black man in a time where having one black grandparent won't get her hurt... but also wouldn't be considered 'enough to count' anymore. on the one hand, she now lives in a time where no one will hurt her for embracing black culture. on the other, that culture now won't embrace her (... and the white people who would have once tried to kill her if they knew her heritage won't hesitate to claim her now). she's still swimming against the tide.

definitions of race are fluid, and like remmick, she's watching the world's view of her evolve to such an extent that it refuses to recognize what she is and what it has done to her, and is trying to sort her into the category of the people who put her in so much pain that she became a vampire in the first place. meanwhile her perception of herself has remained the same because the circumstances that that forced her to turn into a vampire is still fresh in her mind. i am so curious about how she feels about that.

and how she feels about being a vampire. stack says he feels trapped by his immortality, but mary doesn't say anything in that final scene except "bye sammie." vampirism took stack's brother from him and robbed him of a life he could've lived where he still got to exist within his community... but mary's situation was different. either she would've died when the klan came in the morning, or gotten on that train and went back to passing white, isolated forever from the people she loves and the culture she was raised in because with her mother gone, she had no familial ties to clarksdale. being a vampire severed stack from his community, but was the only way mary could cling to even a small part of it.

and yet her relationship with stack is still considered interracial, between a white woman and black man, even if the reaction to it has changed. they still can't be together in the daylight.

like yeah sure happy for marystack being together sixty years in the future but i REALLY want to dig into that.

the end theme of how finding those moments of joy, freedom and connection with others makes the horror bearable. wow. the vampires and humans both want this and are both willing to do horrible things to make more of these moments. insane. oh my god.

other than that... i love that this is an entirely original film and i think it's great as a standalone... but god i want to see more from this world. smoke, annie and sammie's stories are done, and we don't need remmick's backstory expanded on, but he could pop up in like. a vampire hivemind capacity. that could be neat. my kingdom for a scene where mary talks to some memory ghost version of him about how the world is now treating her the way it once treated him.

but stack and mary could visit other decades. how does the metaphor evolve over time and in different places as the american perception of race does? we've seen the blues in the 30s during jim crow in rural impoverished mississippi. what about rock and roll in the 60s during the crm. or hip hop in the 90s where we left off. or what rap has become in the 2020s. what does assimilation look like on the west coast, in the midwest, in nyc, abroad, among different marginalized groups. how about the suburbs or the city instead of the countryside. how does it unfold in gendered spaces, for queer people or in different income levels and how is the evolving view of race at the center of all of it. if all the movies could be this good? fuck it give me the whole sinnersmatic universe. give us a different black musician protagonist each time, have them encounter mary and stack along the way and let's go.

i'm gonna be thinking about this for ages. this is it. this is The Movie.

(good god all the questionable takes the video essay hive on youtube is gonna have. i think i'm just gonna stay far away from the public discourse on this one.)

anyway rest in piss remmick you would have loved mister brightside

[ikeromantic]

Hot Chocolate

Ikemen Advent prompt featuring Victor! Approx. 700 words

“Bad dreams again,” Victor asked you as you slipped into the kitchen. 

It was very late, or very early, and the night outside was the dark of deep winter. The members of Crown were either out on business or ensconced in their rooms. Only you were out and wandering. You, and apparently Victor.

You nodded tiredly and sat down on one of the kitchen chairs. 

“Care to tell me about your dream?” He sat down across from you, his smile kind. 

“I was trying to deliver a love letter, but I couldn’t get up the hill to the house. And then the wind caught the note and I was chasing it. No matter how fast I ran, it was always out of reach.” You sighed. “Stupid, right? But it left me feeling exhausted and sleepless.”

Victor laughed softly. “Not stupid at all. It sounds as if something is bothering you. But perhaps, I have a cure!”

You blinked at him. “I don’t think a magic trick is going to put me back to bed.”

“Well. Perhaps not. But I do have another idea.” He stood and moved to the countertop, pulling out a saucepan and some other items.

“What are you making?”

“Mmm, you’ll have to wait and see.” His low voice was sensual, playful, and it sent a little shiver down your spine. “Why don’t you tell me about your day while I cook?”

You nodded, and began to tell him about your work for Crown. Writing down the deeds of the members, case histories really, and studies of their curses. It was a lot of work, but you enjoyed it. Though you’d come to Crown under duress, it now felt like family. A wild, strange one to be sure, but yours. 

“There wasn’t anything to upset me, really. I don’t know why I’m still dreaming about mail delivery,” you finished. Then settled your head on your arms atop the table. How was it possible to be so tired and yet so sleepless??

Victor set something on the table in front of you. It smelled chocolatey and delicious. You immediately sat up. 

“Some hot cocoa. A decadent late night snack.” He moved his chair beside yours. “Take a sip. I made certain the temperature is perfect.”

You carefully lifted the mug to your lips and the rich, sweet flavor of milk and cocoa coated your tongue. It’s warm and creamy and there is a slight bitterness to the chocolate that makes the sweet stand out. “It’s perfect,” you murmured appreciatively. 

Victor was watching you with an inscrutable expression. 

“Aren’t you going to drink yours?” You gestured to the other mug. 

“Hm? Yes, yes of course. I was just enjoying you, enjoying something I made.” Victor’s lips curl in a small, pleased smile. 

The hot cocoa warmed you up, but not half so much as that smile. That goddamned sensual smile, so full of luscious promise that it set your heart racing every time you saw it. And now, here it was, squeezing your heart at 2am. “Thanks. It’s really good.”

You took another sip and then set the mug down, hoping Victor might believe the heat in your cheeks was from the cocoa. 

He was still watching you, and as you set the cocoa down, one of his brows twitched. He leaned forward, and you thought for a moment he might kiss you. Your pulse went from fast to racehorse gallop as he closed in. And then there was a slight, firm pressure at the corner of your mouth. A little line of heat, thin as the tip of a finger.

“Wh-what? Did you?” You tried for words, but your brain was like a lamp flame in a storm, flickering and barely lit.

“You had a bit of chocolate at the corner of your mouth.” His smile widened. “I hope you don’t mind. It was, of course, my greatest pleasure to serve, my dear.”

He licked you. You were sure of it. Almost sure. It had just happened, yes? You touched the spot on your mouth, still buzzing from his intimate touch. “Did you . . . lick me?”

“What a marvelous little robin you are. So observant.” Victor brushed a bit of loose hair back from your face. “I hope I did not overstep?”

“No. I mean. Yes but not - I didn’t mind. At all.” You tried to organize your thoughts but the memory of that light brush from his tongue overrode everything else. 

He finally took a sip of his cocoa, a look of pleased contentment on his face. “Good. I do enjoy doting on you, my dear. Ever so much.”

@queengiuliettafirstlady @candied-boys

[mariacallous]

There is an inherent tension between two basic facts about childbirth. On the one hand, it has happened billions and billions of times in the course of human history and it has been successful in a wide range of settings, from neolithic caves to state-of-the-art hospitals. On the other, it is objectively dangerous in many cases.

This tension can be felt in much of the modern popular discourse on birth. On my Instagram feed, there are depictions of unmedicated home births in a bathtub surrounded by flowers and a caption about how birth has got too medicalised. Some commenters are quick to note that, in their case, having that medical help was life-saving. To put it most starkly: yes, people have been giving birth at home for millions of years, but a lot of them died.

I wrestle with this tension in my writing on pregnancy. I’m an economist and have written two books designed to help women navigate their pregnancy experience by giving them a better understanding of what the data says. In the first, Expecting Better, I cover largely uncomplicated pregnancy. I talk about the decisions that arise when all is going well – whether to eat sushi, for example, and how to write a birth plan for an uncomplicated delivery. In the second, The Unexpected, I cover complicated pregnancy. With my co-author, Dr Nathan Fox, we talk about miscarriage, pre-eclampsia, stillbirth, gestational diabetes, postpartum depression, and other tough things.

These are issues I care passionately about largely because I think we do not discuss complicated pregnancy enough. Perhaps 50% of pregnancies are affected by at least one of the complications covered in the book – that’s half of pregnancies, but more than half of people who have been pregnant. In many cases, until this complication happens to someone they have no idea that it could. They feel alone, sometimes dismissed, scared.

A core problem with lack of discussion is it leads to lack of treatment or preventive activities. The lead pregnancy organisation in the US, the American College of Obstetricians and Gynecologists, has put out a recent push for more discussion of pre-eclampsia, a serious complication that affects 5 to 8% of pregnancies. The risk of pre-eclampsia can be brought down about 20% with the use of baby aspirin beginning in the second trimester of pregnancy. This treatment has virtually no risks, so it’s increasingly clear that pregnant women with any risk factors – older age, higher weight, hypertension and many others – should be treated. If people are unaware of this risk, they are less likely to seek treatment. Even if offered treatment, if they do not understand the condition, they may be reluctant to take it up.

A lack of attention given to these complications leads to a lack of information, and without a basic understanding of what happened to them (or is happening to them) in their pregnancy, patients are not able to engage as much as they should with their condition. In doing interviews when this book came out, one mother told me: “I had a postpartum haemorrhage with my second child, but until I read your book I didn’t really understand what that was, let alone how to treat or prevent it.”

I want to shout this information from the rooftops. I want to tell everyone I know that, yes, your uterus can fall into (or even come partially out of) your vagina, and that if that happens there is help. And yet: I can see the danger of focusing too much on these complications. If 50% of pregnancies are affected, then 50% are not. Where should we draw the line between making sure pregnant women are well-informed without scaring them to death? After all, a lot of times, everything does go smoothly. Giving birth in a tub at home can be a good option for some people. And I would hate more than anything for someone to decide not to have a wanted family because they are worried about pregnancy and birth.

We need to find a balance between giving women the information they need, telling them the truth about risks, and not creating unnecessary panic. I wish I could say I knew for sure what this balance looks like. What I do believe strongly is that keeping information hidden, and doling it out only after it is needed – or never – is not the right answer. We need to strike a balance between giving people information and allowing them to put the risks in context. So they can take solace in the hope – and likelihood – that all will be well, but prepared if it is not.

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 14: The Callander Brothers Next Chapter: fifteen Summary: In a rare moment of bonding time with the old guard, Arthur, Dutch, and John are caught up in a bar fight. Warnings: Mature themes, language, violence Word Count: ~8,000

The earth is cool beneath you as you lie on your back and look at the sky. The children are taking their afternoon nap, allowing you a quiet moment to yourself. Your eye catches a Quaking Aspen leaf break from its hold and falls softly, gently downward. It lands just beside your face, along with the many others that have fallen, creating a bed of gold surrounding you. 

You’ve missed Idaho. If you were ambitious enough you could travel southward and make it back to Aspen’s Way. You’re tempted, but you made a silent vow that you would stay long enough for Abigail’s pregnancy. Figuring the time and the size that she is, she’s about six months pregnant. She will be having a winter baby. 

You hope to travel south before then. Having a baby in the dead of winter is no picnic, and you’re glad that you don’t have to experience that again.

Unless…

No, you can’t think about that.

You blink to let the thought fade away and rest a hand on the spine of your book as it lays open on your stomach. You found it in your tent one day, shortly after Arthur came back with a broken nose. It’s the History of the Gaels, battles and figures etched into the fabric of time long gone. You’ve always had a taste for history, and you imagine that you would have made a decent teacher if you were given the chance. Thoughts and dreams linger in your mind as you cast your eyes at the blue sky, thinking about your own history, and how it's intertwined with the man who keeps leaving and returning like the seasons.

Since the battle with the O’Driscolls, Arthur has been on more frequent jobs. Things seem to be going well in terms of success, and the gang seems to be sitting comfortably. You’ve noticed that provisions have improved, changing from salted offal and hardtack to canned strawberries and cheeses. You and Pearson have been able to cook things other than stews, like biscuits in the Dutch oven and thick cuts of pan-fried venison steaks.

And with fall now here, you feel the foreboding urgency to ready yourself and your children for winter.

And get what you need to help Abigail prepare for delivery.

Things have become stagnant between her and John. No more teasing and exchanged glances, just silent pauses and awkward stances. You aren’t sure if John rejects the baby, but he isn’t stepping forward to accept it either. Abigail, though tough as nails, carries worry in the lines around her eyes, fearing she might raise this child alone. You’ve taken it upon yourself to be there for her, especially since you understand the loneliness that gnaws at a mother's heart.

You sigh deeply, turning your attention back to the book, and you sit up to get in a comfortable position to read it. You flip the book away from your abdomen, letting it rest in your hands and you tuck some loose hair behind your ear. The heat of the sun is warm against your back, contrasting the cool breeze that sweeps into the leaves of the trees. More leaves fall down like gentle rain but you don’t mind.

Interrupting your reading of Dunadd kings, a gentle rumble calls your name. “Eliza.”

You look up and casting a shadow over you is Arthur. You eye his nose, healed up now, but the shape of its bridge is forever altered. His eyes, still sharp as ever, carry a heaviness—a weariness from the roads traveled and the weight of leading a life that never strays far from danger.

“The children up from their nap?” you ask, shifting the book to your lap, attempting to mask the stir of emotions his sudden presence always ignites in you.

He smiles softly, shaking his head. “No,” he answers, and he eases himself to sit down, moving to sit closer to you. “Just thought I’d come find you before I head out.”

“Oh?” You close your book, your curiosity now found elsewhere. “Another job?”

Arthur shrugs. “Not shoah.” He takes off his hat and the gentle breeze stirs his fawn-colored strands. “But Dutch is only wantin’ John and I to go. So it must be an easy job.” He sets his hat down next to him. “He keeps complainin’ we need more guns. Not enough men to really do the big jobs he keeps dreamin’ up.”

You nod, the news settling like a stone in your stomach. This life, always on the brink of some danger, still refuses to sit right with you, especially with your children to think about. You watch Arthur as he runs a hand through his hair, the lines of his face deepening with thought.

"You worried?" you ask as you set the book down on the ground beside you and bring up your knees.

He shakes his head, bunching his lips as he brings up a knee and rests his arm on it. “Nah, just…” He tucks his chin, as though he can hide his face. “Just been gone a lot, is all. Days at a time.”

You can’t help but chuckle, finding the irony in his statement. “And being gone for almost a year isn’t?”

He peeks at you from over his arm. “Point made.”

You snort, glad that he finds amusement in your teasing despite the harshness of your shared reality. Arthur chuckles—a sound that carries a note of both resignation and fondness, reflecting his complex feelings about his constant departures and returns.

“I’ve never asked…” he begins to say, his voice taking a vulnerable tone. “But when you was pregnant with Alice…”

“She’s yours,” you say quickly. “If that’s what you’re wondering.”

His eyes widen and he quickly shakes his head. “No, I never doubted that, Eliza. She’s too much like her daddy to be otherwise.” He chortles, then he pauses, his eyes searching yours. “I just...I wonder how you managed. Alone, with little Isaac and bein’ with child.” He looks away again. “I was gone for a while.”

You feel a swell of emotions as the memories flood back—the loneliness, the fear, the overwhelming sense of responsibility. But you swallow them back, knowing that it doesn’t do any good to bring them up. “I told you already that I worried about you. You hadn’t been gone that long since back when we first met. I thought the worst had happened.”

“But what about how I left you? After August, after what we–?” he asks again, stopping himself from finishing his question. It’s only ever been words since then. Since he took you in his arms and felt your flesh melt in his hands. You’ve said you love him, but he can’t even get the words to leave his lips. He meant to do what he did, that night, under that hot August moon. 

And lately, he’s been wishing for those times again. 

He isn’t sure what has triggered it. Is it Abigail? Is it the symmetry of circumstances? How is it that John gets off easy while he did what he could by you? 

How could he have left you? Why didn’t he stay?

You watch as he turns his body towards you, his movements gentler, warmer. The look in his eyes is a remnant of the times he looked sweetly at you, like you were the only person in the world that mattered. It’s a look that can both soothe and stir turmoil within you, for it brings with it the weight of old dreams and hopes.

“I got by,” you reply softly as you finally answer, the words feeling inadequate for what you actually went through. “The days were long and the nights longer. But that’s the way it always was. I held onto the hope that…” He brings his hand to your cheek, caressing the side of your face, nearly causing you to lose your words. “…that you would…come back.”

Arthur's touch sends a shiver through you, the warmth of his hand contrasting sharply with the cool afternoon air that surrounds the woods and camp just beyond them. His eyes never waver from yours, and in them, you see a torrent of emotions he's often left unspoken.

"You always was strong," he mutters softly. “How’d the children get so lucky to have a mama like you?”

His words are a salve, yet they reopen wounds that have never quite healed—the pain of those endless nights, the uncertainty of each day without him. You summon a smile, though it feels brittle on your lips. "Just lucky, I guess." you answer, your voice steady despite the trembling feeling inside you.

He chortles at that, nodding softly. “Yeah, I reckon so.” His thumb caresses your cheek and you begin to wish that he’d kiss you. You’ve begun to forget what he feels like, how his lips would taste of tobacco and the outdoors. But he pulls away, leaving a cold void where his warmth had been.

The silence stretches between you, thick and tense. Finally, Arthur clears his throat, his gaze firm and resolute. "Abigail seems to be doin’ alright,” he starts, his voice more candid. “She’s got a lotta people helpin’ her.”

You nod, licking your lips. “Has John said anything to you?”

Arthur shakes his head, disappointed to not have a good report. “He don’t talk to me lately. I think he’s still dealin’ with the news.”

You snort at that. “He should be over that hump by now.”

But Arthur whips his head to look back at you, his brow lowering. “John’s just a kid. And he’s had different raisin’ than me. A different way of seein’ things.”

“But didn’t Dutch and Hosea raise you both as brothers?”

He shrugs his shoulders, the muscles tensing beneath his weathered shirt. "Yeah, in a manner of speakin'. But we took to different parts of their teachin’, and it's shaped us in ways that ain't easy to reconcile sometimes." Then he shakes his head. “But it ain’t that simple. He had some years before joinin’ us. When he was a boah. Those times can affect a person.”

You can understand what he means, the complexities of a harsh life combined with Dutch's charismatic yet often misguided principles. It isn't just a question of right or wrong; it is a question of survival, of loyalty divided like the branch of a split tree. "I suppose we all pick our paths," you say quietly, the breeze lifting strands of your hair like whispers around your face.

“Not always.”

You shake your head, your opinion in this pretty firm. You know it wasn’t your fault that your parents died, but you had the choice as to what to do with your life. You could have chosen a path far different than being a lowly waitress. “We always have a choice, even if the choices aren’t good ones.”

“Tell that to a six-year-old boah who lost his mama, and his daddy hung when he was eleven.”

You look back at him, your brow lifted and eyes soft. “That what happened to John?”

Arthur falls silent and you know that it isn’t John’s story he’s telling. “Arthur…” Your voice is nearly a whimper, and you reach for him, placing your hand on his arm. “Why didn’t you tell me that’s what happened…?”

Arthur shrugs his shoulders, his eyes flickering with a somber glow. “John lost his folks, too. I ain’t special.”

But you are, is what you want to say. You’re special to me. 

But you simply squeeze his arm. “You think that’s why he’s acting like he is?”

Arthur nods his head softly, not meeting your eyes. “He’s independent, like a wild animal you’re tryin’ to tame.”

You can actually see that. You picture a raccoon or a wolf pup, gnawing on anything that moves, distrusting everything. “Makes sense.”

“He takes time to look at things, if you can believe that. He may be a fool, but he keeps a lot inside.”

You blink softly as you observe the sullenness in his eyes, the way he picks at the grass in the space between his legs. “Like you do?”

“I got a journal to hold my thoughts. He got nothin’.”

“He’s got us,” you say, your voice firm but gentle. “He may not think so, but he’s got people.” You look down at his hand and you let your hand glide down his arm to take it in yours. “We didn’t.”

Arthur squeezes your hand, chortling softly. “Yeah, you did. You had…Betty, or what’s ‘er name.”

“Bethy,” you correct, finding delight that he’d even remember her at all. With Arthur’s hand still in yours, you lift it away from his bent knee, bringing it close to you as you observe the healed cuts on his knuckles. “You know…I kinda named Alice after her.”

“What?”

“Yeah, I know Elizabeth is already a name on its own, but her middle name is a combination of mine and Bethy’s.”

Arthur's gaze finally lifts, meeting yours with a flicker of surprise. “That hadn’t really occurred to me. But it makes sense.”

You nod, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips. “She was good to me, Arthur. After everything…she took me under her wing when my folks died and was supportive when I became pregnant. She let me make my own choices, but still cared enough to tell me the truth.” You sigh deeply at the thought. You wonder what has become of her, if she ended up with Joe and now helps him run the restaurant as an owner rather than a waitress. “I want to be that for Abigail. She shouldn’t have things candy-coated. Life will be harder for her otherwise.”

Arthur nods, his expression softening as he absorbs your words. He and you both are all too familiar with life being hard. It seems that, with the exception of a few moments, that is all it has ever been.

Arthur lifts his eyes and regards the sky and notices how much time has passed. A soft “oh” escapes his lips and, letting your hand go, he rises to his feet. “I need to get goin’.”

You watch him stand, tall and imposing against the backdrop of the late afternoon sun. The red hues cast shadows across his features, making them appear softer, almost gentle. “Will I see you soon?” you ask, the uncertainty in your voice more pronounced than you intended.

Arthur pauses and looks back down at you with those piercing marine eyes. “Hopefully sometime tonight, darlin’.”

Darling. There he goes again. You swallow thickly, trying to keep a straight face, and you get up from the soft, leaf-coated earth. “Let’s wake up the children. Say goodbye to them before you go.”

He makes a sweeping gesture towards camp, putting his hat back on his head. “After you.”

You lead the way. Arthur keeps a few paces behind you and you both ignore the stares from Hosea and Susan as you pass them by. Reaching your tent, you pull back the canvas flap slowly and peek inside. Yes, the children are still sleeping.

Isaac, sprawled like a little starfish across his rough blanket on the floor of the tent, snores softly while Alice clutches a patchwork fox you made out of old shirts close to her chest. The sight makes you feel proud, blessed, to be fortunate to have such precious children.

You turn to meet Arthur’s eyes and raise a forefinger to your lips. Taking the lead, you step into the tent and Arthur follows behind you.

You kneel down beside your sleeping babies and bowing toward the floor you lean close to Isaac and run a gentle hand up and down his back. “Isaac…” you beckon. “time to wake up from your nap…”

Isaac stirs, his little face scrunching in a mix of sleepiness and resistance before his eyes flutter open. He looks up, sees you, blinks twice, and then his gaze shifts to Arthur standing slightly behind you. A sleepy smile spreads across his young face.

“Sleep good, partner?” Arthur asks his son.

Isaac's smile widens, and he nods, rubbing the sleep from his eyes with small fists. "Yeah, Daddy," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep but ringing with the innocence and joy only a child can possess.

Arthur kneels down beside you, his presence like a sturdy oak tree in a storm. The warmth radiating off him almost tangible in the cool air of the tent. “Hey there, Alice,” he whispers tenderness seeping into his voice as he extends a hand to gently shake your daughter awake.

Alice stirs, her little body curling tighter around the stuffed fox before her eyes open slowly, adjusting to the dim light filtering through the tent. She blinks up at Arthur, her small face breaking into a sleepy, yet radiant smile as recognition dawns. "Dada…" she gasps in a hushed tone, her arms flinging open as if inviting the whole world into her embrace.

Arthur’s rough hand, hardened by years of life on the run and battles fought, scoops her up, bringing her close to his chest. The little girl’s giggles fill the tent, a sound pure and liberating, mingling with the rustle of canvas and the distant calls of birds outside. “You keep growin’,” Arthur murmurs into her hair, his voice a low rumble of wonder and affection. "It’s like I blink and you grow inches."

The safety of this moment blankets you like the warmth of a sunrise, pushing back the shadows that linger from life's hardships. Yet, the peace is a fleeting companion in your world. You know Arthur needs to say goodbye to them, his impending mission with Dutch already prolonged. 

“Well,” Arthur begins, and you can hear it in his voice. Giving you a knowing look, he hands Alice over to you and you set her in your lap as you remain kneeling.

Isaac senses it too, for his smile instantly disappears. “You goin’, Daddy?”

Arthur nods. “‘Fraid so, partner.” Then he places his palm on the top of his son’s head and gives it a good tousle. “But it’s a short bit. Got some things to do with John and Dutch.”

Isaac's eyes darken with a sudden storm of worry and disappointment. "But when will you be back, Daddy? You said last time—"

Arthur's gaze softens as he looks at his son, the lines around his eyes tightening with sorrow at the promise of uncertainty. “I know what I said, son. But this is different. You live with me, and I always come back. I gotta work to take care of you, your sister, and your mama, don’t I?”

After thinking about it, Isaac nods his head. “Yeah…” His voice trails off into a whisper, heavy with an uneasy acceptance. Arthur leans down to press his forehead against Isaac's, a silent promise passing between them—a momentary bond in the transient life they are currently living.

Arthur lifts his head and pats Isaac’s head. “You’re a good kid, Isaac.” He rises to his feet and groans as he stretches. “You need me to bring back anythin’?” he asks you.

You shake your head as you caress Alice’s head, coiling your finger in the ends of her little curls. “No. We should be fine.”

“Alright.” Arthur turns and heads out of the tent.

The flap falls behind him with a soft thud, and the absence of his presence wraps around you like a cold wind whipping through the trees. You clutch Alice tighter, and she stirs slightly in your arms, wanting to get out and play, now that she’s awake. Isaac rises to his feet and hurries out of the tent.

“Daddy…!” Isaac calls out and sees his father mounting Boadicea.

Arthur looks over to see Isaac running up to him. “Forget somethin’, partner?”

“Can you bring me a horse?”

Arthur lifts his brow. “A horse?” he chuckles, the sound mingling with the dust swirling around Boadicea’s hooves. "Well now, how about we talk about that when I get back?" His voice carries a hint of promise, making Isaac's face light up once more despite his earlier dismay.

"Okay, Daddy!" Isaac shouts, grinning as he takes a step back. “But don’t forget, okay?”

“Let’s go, Arthur!” Dutch calls, steering The Count away from camp.

Arthur takes one last look at his boy and smiles. “You listen to your mama.”

And just as John and Dutch ride off, Arthur kicks Boadicea’s barrel gently and they gallop after them.

***

“So, you gonna tell us what this job is, Dutch?” John asks after the camp is no longer in sight.

Dutch maneuvers so he rides between John and Arthur and looks at each of them, one at a time. “We’re heading into town. The saloon.”

John snorts. “Every time you end up in a saloon, you bring back trouble.” He shakes his head. “Would rather go to church than that.”

Arthur knows he’s joking, but he can’t help but feel a little irritated by his remarks. By trouble, he means Abigail and that doesn’t seem to appear like he feels the way he did when this all started. It isn’t all on Abigail that she got pregnant. John may be a fool, but he isn’t that stupid.

“Maybe goin’ to a church can teach you about forgiveness, John,” Arthur says cleverly. “Maybe about, I don’t know, responsibility?”

“I always thought you hated churches, Arthur,” Dutch says snarkily. “Goin’ all high and mighty on us now?”

Arthur rolls his eyes. He was merely trying to make a point. He knows how the folks in Low Falls had helped you, and while he’s seen his share of corrupt people under the guise of the cloth, he’s come to find that there are still some good people out there. “I just think that he should be a little more understandin’, is all.” He looks straight ahead, the brim of his hat obscuring his eyes. “That don’t make me high and mighty.”

Dutch laughs, a deep sound that echoes slightly in the crisp air around them. “Maybe you need to get out more. You need to be reminded that the world ain't all about feelings and emotions, Arthur." His eyes twinkle with a kind of mischief that only Dutch can muster. John chuckles softly beside them, shaking his head.

As the trio nears the town, the familiar outlines of buildings and streets come into view. The setting sun casts a low arc of light through the town’s main street, giving the final call for townsfolk to either get home or join the nightlife.

Dutch takes the lead, riding up towards the saloon and dismounting before coming to a full stop. He is quite eager, and that does little to settle Arthur’s curiosity. He pulls up beside The Count, and John follows and, after dismounting and tying Boadicea, he catches up with Dutch as he waits at the base of the steps.

Dutch already has a cigar pulled out and he lights it, the orange glow illuminating his face. “You boys ready?” he asks.

Arthur glances in John’s direction just as he steps up reluctantly. “Yeah,” Arthur answers half-heartedly.

Dutch nods, either ignoring the lack of enthusiasm or not even noticing. He inhales slowly, then lets a long stream of smoke escape his lips. “Good.” He then turns toward the saloon’s entrance. “Let’s go in.”

As they enter the saloon, the atmosphere shifts tangibly, from the open, crisp air outside to a haze of tobacco smoke and the scent of liquor that permeates the room. The din of voices and clinking glasses fills Arthur's ears as he scans the crowded space. Men clustered around card tables, a piano player banging away as a woman sings a sad love song. Arthur hopes that she isn’t the reason they’re here. As Dutch steps forward, he sneaks a glance over at John, who shares a knowing look. Arthur wants to talk to him, to see if he has changed at all toward Abigail. He knows he can’t be so heartless as to turn her away. Does he really think that the baby isn’t his?

“Boys.” Arthur lifts his head to see Dutch wave them over just as he leans over the bar counter. 

They walk calmly over, their strides confident and casual. Arthur rests his hands on his gun belt and leans sideways into the counter, facing Dutch and John and keeping his back to the main entrance.

The bartender, noticing his new patrons, approaches the three strangers as he has his fist in a glass, cleaning it with a dry rag. “What’ll it be, folks?”

Dutch holds up his ringed forefinger. “I’ll have a gin.” Then he points to John. “And you, son?”

John shifts on his feet, the uncertainty of the purpose of them even being here still on his mind. He turns around, letting his back hit the counter. “Whiskey.”

The bartender meets Arthur’s eyes and the outlaw feels inclined to answer. “I’ll have a whiskey, too.”

The bartender nods. “Comin’ right up, fellas.” Turning away, he walks down the aisle and begins to pull out glasses that he’s cleaned already.

Arthur's eyes drift around the saloon again, settling on a shadowed corner where a young, strawberry-blonde man nurses a drink. Something about the way he sits while another man next to him, chestnut-haired and larger, about Arthur’s size and build, hovers over a table, playing poker with two others. It is as though the excitement of the poker game isn’t enough to rouse his attention, but the way he clutches his glass shows something else.

With the bartender out of earshot, Arthur leans close to Dutch. “So, what’re we doin’ here? Waitin’ for a lead or somethin’?”

Dutch doesn’t turn his head, but looks at Arthur with a sideways glance. “Can’t a man enjoy a drink with his sons?”

John lets out a chortle. “Oh, come on, Dutch—” And as he turns again he sees the seriousness in his leader’s eyes. “Wait, you ain’t jokin’?”

Dutch’s face remains an unreadable mask as he slowly shifts his gaze from John to Arthur. “No, I ain’t. We are just havin’ a drink.”

John shakes his head. “I ain’t convinced.”

The drinks come quickly over, sliding down the counter. With his reflexes, Arthur catches his drink with a quick flick of his wrist, barely making a sound as the glass settles. The bartender lingers for a moment, eyeing them cautiously before retreating back to his post.

A tense silence falls over the trio, broken intermittently by the clinks of glasses and the low murmur of conversations around them. Dutch finally speaks, raising the glass in front of his eyes the clear drink in his crystal glass, letting it swirl around. “Well, if I had just said to ride all the way into town with me for a drink, would you have come?”

Well, hell, he has a point, but neither Arthur or John, care to admit it.

John merely scowls and picks up his glass of whiskey. “I thought we was needin’ more money.” He throws back the drink and drinks it in one gulp, and nearly slams the glass down. “Don’t have time to sit and drink.”

Dutch grins, his eyes twinkling. “We’re sittin’ pretty, son! We’ve had the best couple months in a good spell.” He takes a cultured sip of his gin, letting the liquid go down his throat. “I figured it had been too long since we, the original members of the gang, had relaxed for a bit.”

That’s it? Arthur thinks to himself. If he wants to relax, he’d much rather be spending it back at camp with his family, or riding in the wilderness on his own. But still, there remains a crack in Dutch’s reasons for coming all this way.

“What about Hosea?” Arthur asks. “If you want the whole old guard, ain’t he an important part of that?”

Dutch rolls his shoulders, taking another sip. “He can get beer back at camp, if he’s so inclined. But I did ask him, in case you’re wondering. He’s tryin’ to stay sober.”

Arthur narrows his eyes, sensing the underlying tension that laces Dutch's words. It isn’t like Dutch to gather them like this without a real purpose. “So, what’s really goin’ on, Dutch? It ain't just about missin’ old times,” Arthur presses, his voice low and wary.

Dutch sets his glass down with a long exhale. “It is.”

Arthur finally drinks his whiskey and sets the glass down with a satisfying thud. "You're lyin'," he states flatly, his eyes steady on Dutch's.

Dutch's smile fades, and the warmth in his eyes cools into something sharper. He leans in, resting his elbows on the table, the jovial mask falling away to reveal a more calculated demeanor. "I ain’t. If you don’t believe me. You can just go on home."

Arthur's jaw tightens, his mind racing through the implications of Dutch's thinly veiled threat. Beside him, John shifts uncomfortably, eyeing both men with a wary expression. “C’mon, Arthur. Let’s just…relax, alright?” He leans into the counter and taps his glass, signaling for another. “I know I could sure use it.”

Dutch nods soberly, patting John on the shoulder. “You certainly do, son.”

Arthur wants to leave, but he knows better than to openly challenge Dutch in a place like this. The rest of the evening drags on with an uneasy calm, the bartender handing out more drinks, and the conversation looping back to old heists and narrow escapes, casting a thin veneer over the tension that Arthur feels coursing through him like a chill.

And, after having a couple more drinks, Arthur needs to relieve himself. He leans away from the counter and pats Dutch’s shoulder. “I’ll be right back.” And he turns to leave.

When he steps out into the cool air, he pauses to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. Stepping around the corner, he walks down the alley in search of the outhouse near the back of the saloon. The alley is completely dark, so when he hears an odd scraping sound, he instantly reaches for his gun.

The shadows seem to shift, and his heart pounds against his ribs, primal alertness taking over. His fingers close around the cool metal of the gun as he strains to distinguish any movement in the pitch-black alleyway.

Suddenly, the scraping sound morphs into a lowly growl.

This isn’t human, but animal. And there are only a couple things that growl around here.

“Easy,” Arthur says into the dark, and after putting away his gun, he reaches for a match, hoping that it will offer some light.

He strikes the match with a steady hand, and the feeble light flickers, casting eerie shadows against the craggy walls of the alley. The small flame reveals the outline of a medium, copper-coated beast, its eyes reflecting a golden yellow in the dim light. Arthur's heart settles as he realizes he's face to face with a stray dog.

He sighs, chuckling at himself. “Nearly pissed myself.” And with the limited visibility, he sees a box of rubbish knocked over, evidence of the dog’s search for food. “You hungry, boah?” he asks with a softer tone. The dog growls again, still distrusting of this stranger. “I don’t blame you,” Arthur says as he carefully reaches into his satchel. “It’s every man for himself out here…” He pulls out a wrapped morsel of cured beef and taking it out of the paper, tosses it in the pup’s direction. “Here.”

The dog flinches but doesn’t run away. Instead, it inches forward, nose twitching as it catches the scent of the beef. Arthur holds his breath, not moving a muscle, letting the dog make its decision. The tension in the alley is palpable as the stray hesitates, and then slowly approaches the tossed meat. It sniffs cautiously before finally grabbing it and swiftly running away.

Arthur chuckles to himself and before the match burns his fingers, he drops it to the dirt and steps on it, twisting his boot. With the way through the alley clear, he continues on toward the outhouse.

***

Buttoning his fly, Arthur steps out of the outhouse and makes his way back to the saloon. He thinks to look for the dog, to see if it is perhaps still around, but doesn’t spot him anywhere, not that the limited light helps, anyway. If only it were that easy to tame the wilds of man and beast alike. As Arthur reenters the pulsating heart of the saloon, the clatter and raucous laughter bathe him in a false sense of security. He can't shake off the feeling of being watched, the same eerie sensation that prickled his neck in the darkness.

So when something pokes him in the back, he whips around quicker than he normally would.

A woman stands behind him, wearing nothing but a smile and form-fitted clothing. “I saw you earlier,” she hums. “You ain’t like most men that come ‘round here.”

Arthur isn’t interested and he turns to walk away. “I’m busy,” he excuses flippantly, hoping that will be enough.

But this woman is clearly persistent, for she grabs his arm and pulls. He isn’t about to get aggressive with her, so he merely offers her a tight-lipped smile before shaking off her grip gently but firmly. "Ma'am, I reckon you find someone else to pester tonight."

She hums a laugh, sharp as the click of a revolver, and then lets him go with a flutter of her eyelashes. “How is it pesterin’ when all I want’s a bit of comp’ny?” Her voice laces through the noisy backdrop, trying to pull at the threads of his attention once more.

Arthur shakes his head, stepping away to merge with the crowd swirling around him. It's safer there, in the thrum of life where his back isn't as exposed. But he backs into the stairway leading upstairs, blocking his way of exit.

She grins coquettishly and presses her body against him, letting her hand run up his chest. “You look lonely…” she hums. “I can fix that…”

He needs to get away. With a last resorted effort, he grabs her by the wrist firmly. “I ain’t interested,” he says with a rumble and almost tosses her aside.

She screeches as she fumbles, and this gathers the attention of some nearby men at the poker table. One quickly rises and with the look in his eyes and the gait in his stride, Arthur already knows that this is not the kind of evening he, or Dutch, was ever planning on.

“You messin’ with my Lucy?!” the man roars, his face flush with anger and the veins in his neck bulging. Arthur raises his hands, an attempt to show he means no conflict, but the man is already closing in, fists clenched and eyes wild.

"Was just leavin', friend," Arthur tries, his voice steady despite the chaos brewing.

But the man isn’t in the mood to listen and recoils his arm, readying for a powerful swing. But just in time, Arthur ducks, and the man’s fist makes contact with the stairway’s newel post.

The loud crack of bone meeting wood echoes through the saloon, momentarily silencing the raucous. The man bellows in pain, clutching his possibly broken hand, while Arthur quickly uses the opening to slip away.

But another ‘John’ has already joined in the fight, grabbing Arthur by the shoulder and spinning him around. “Oh no you don’t!”

The man’s fist makes contact with Arthur’s jaw, but thankfully the punch is weak. Not needing much time to recover, Arthur realizes that this fight isn’t the kind he can just leave. This is one he needs to finish.

“You’re gonna regret that,” Arthur growls, and clenching his fist, he punches the man square in the nose.

“Oh, yeah!” an excited roar comes from the poker table, as the tall, chestnut-haired man rises. “I’ve been waitin’ for a moment like this!” And, reaching across the poker table, he pulls the man sitting across from him to his feet before laying a sucker punch right across his jaw. “C’mon, Davey! This the excitement ye was wantin’!”

The sullen man who had been nursing his drink stands up, as though revived, and goes after the closest man nearby, tackling him to the ground with a thud that shakes the nearby tables. The saloon instantly erupts into a cacophony of shouts, the clatter of chairs, and the sharp cracks of fists meeting flesh.

And Arthur, now fully engaged, is caught up in the midst of it, fending off strangers, the sounds of chairs scraping and glasses breaking as the brawl intensifies. The bartender, being no stranger to such events, ducks beneath the counter to hide. 

Arthur dodges another clumsy punch, sending his attacker sprawling onto a nearby table, which collapses under the weight. He scans the room quickly, calculating his next move just as a bottle flies over his head. Following its trajectory, he sees John get jumped on. Dutch, however, is still leaning on the counter with an amused grin, observing the two freckle-faced brawlers. “Did you see that?!” he asks John excitedly, completely oblivious that his so-called son is no longer at the counter, but on the floor, wrestling with one of the poker players. “That’s some fightin’ skills those boys got!”

Arthur has since been occupied, and he grips the neck of his opponent, forcing his head against the wall, and knocks him out instantly. “You alright, John?” he grunts.

“Yeah!” he hears behind him, followed by the cracking sound of flesh contacting bone. He turns around and sees a man fall at John’s feet. “He ain’t gettin’ up for a while.” John’s sigh nearly echoes in the room, the once loud and raucous fight dying down.

Arthur looks around, and sees that there aren’t many guests standing. Breathing heavily, he wipes the blood from his lip and glances around the saloon. The air is thick with dust and the sharp tang of spilled whiskey. Glasses lay shattered, their contents making the wooden floor slick and dangerous. Above the din, he hears Dutch's laughter, rich and booming like thunder. “Arthur…!” Whipping around, Arthur sees Dutch approaching. “They’re about to leave…!”

Arthur’s brow pinches. “Who?”

“Those two boys! They’re clearing’ off the poker table.” He claps Arthur’s shoulder and he winces. “Let’s go introduce ourselves…”

Arthur wants to protest, but Dutch is already making his way over to the two strangers, quickly sweeping their arms over the table to collect the money into a saddle bag. They don’t seem to notice their torn shirts and bruised faces, their focus solely on getting the money.

Arthur follows Dutch through the wreckage of the saloon, the crunching of broken glass and dust under his boots. 

As they draw near, the taller of the two men looks up, his eyes narrowing in suspicion. The younger one, perhaps the more reckless, already has his hand resting casually on the butt of his gun. Dutch, with a confidence that could disarm a raging bull, extends his hand with a grin.

“Gentlemen!” he greets, his grin more Cheshire cat than cordial. “That’s some fine fightin’ skills you boys exhibited back there.”

The taller one, seems almost flattered, the corner of his mouth turning as a toothpick moves from one side of his mouth to the other. He looks at Dutch's hand but doesn’t take it. Instead, he tilts his head slightly, assessing the offer laid before him with a critical eye. "What’s the hand for?" he asks gruffly, voice thick with distrust. The younger man, his hand still hovering near his gun, says nothing, just scrutinizes the outstretched hand before him.

Dutch’s grin doesn’t falter but he does pull his hand back, lifting both hands defensively. “Just what friendly folks do when greetin’ one another.”

The taller man seems disinterested and resumes collecting the coins and dollars on the table. “I ain’t lookin’ for friends.” His tongue rolls heavily, an accent Dutch has only heard a few times in his life. A mix of the wild west and from across the sea, to the highlands of green and blue. Scottish-Americans. The man swings the saddle bag over his shoulder and turns to the younger beside him. “Couple a roasters, eh, Davey?”

The strawberry blond, now named Davey, snickers and kicks the chair in front of him out of his way. “This place could use some decoratin’…!” And he heads for the front doors.

The tall one cackles and follows Davey out, completely ignoring Dutch and Arthur.

While the disappointment is riddled on Dutch’s face, Arthur finds it amusing. “I guess there’s a first time for everythin’…” he teases, folding his bruised arms.

But Dutch isn’t about to give up that easily. He puffs his chest and steeling himself, hurries after them.

Hearing a scuffle behind him, Arthur turns to see John nearly trip over a broken chair as he makes his way over. “What is Dutch doin’?”

“Tryin’ to convert some more members,” he answers dryly as he points to the doors as they swing on their hinges. “Let’s go make shoah he don’t get himself killed.”

“After seein’ how those two boys fight?” John looks toward the door and shivers. “I’m tempted to just walk away now and cut my losses.”

Arthur chuckles and slaps John’s arm. “Shut up. Come on.”

They exit the saloon, the night still waning. The street lamps light up the street, granting enough visibility for Arthur and John to catch up to Dutch toward the two brawlers, his silver tongue already unwinding a new spiel.

“Boys, boys!” Dutch calls out, his voice carrying over the dirt and air to the men’s ears. “I suppose you like to fight often?”

This catches Davey’s attention, for he hesitates after putting his foot in the stirrup to his waiting horse.

He turns, squinting slightly under the brim of his hat, sizing up Dutch with a skeptical eye. "And what's it to ye, huh?" His tone is cautious but intrigued, the prospect of a challenge always sparking interest in his wild heart.

“Davey,” the tall one growls. “We’re leavin’.”

“Well, Mac! This boggin roaster is tryin’ to get in my business!”

Dutch, never one to miss an opportunity, steps closer, his hands raised placatingly. "Not tryin’ to interfere, just offering an opportunity. You fellows look like you could handle more than just barroom brawls."

Davey's eyes narrow, his gaze flickering between Dutch and his horse, his mind clearly wrestling with curiosity and caution. Mac huffs impatiently, clearly not keen on the prospect of lingering any longer. "We ain't got time for this, Davey. We gotta get movin’." His voice is gruff, packed with impatience, but there's an underlying tone that suggests he might just be curious enough to stay.

But Davey seems to wrestle with his decision and he eyes Arthur and John as they approach. “Ye hostin’ a fightin’ ring?” he asks with a jut of his chin towards them.

Dutch twists at his waist, looking back at his unruly sons. “They can fight, that’s for certain, but that ain’t what we’re all about." He waves a dismissive hand, then steps a bit closer, lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "We deal in bigger stakes, boys. Bigger than any pot of money at a simple bar fight."

There’s no turning back, Arthur can see that now. When Dutch’s mind is made up, there can be no rhyme or reason with him. If he’s to leave this town and get back to his family, he needs to help things along. And so, seeing the hesitation on Davey's face, he chimes in with a yarn of his own. “Dutch, we ain’t got no use for these clowns,” he says with a rumble. “If we want more gang members, we best go somewhere else.”

Arthur's words, meant to stir a reaction, do just that. Davey's face tightens, a flicker of pride sparking in his eyes. "Clowns, huh?!" His hand drifts toward the handle of his pistol, an instinctual reaction smoothed by years of brawling and living on the edge. “I’ll show ye—!”

But Arthur is quick to the draw, grabbing his revolver and shooting the gun right out of Davey’s hands. Expecting another fight, Arthur, Dutch, and John steel themselves, taking fighting stances.

But Arthur is soon bewildered, when Davey only looks down at the gun, throws his head back, and laughs. “Well, slap me naked and hand me to Mammie!” He turns back to Mac, his laugh rolling in the night. “Did you see that?! Did you really see that?”

Mac rolls his eyes, but does little to hide his mutual astonishment and he dismounts his horse. “Aye, I seen it.” He walks up to the three men and nods towards Arthur in grudging respect. "Ye got a mean shot, fella. Maybe ye ain't all talk after all." The tension that clung to the air like the heat of the desert dissipates ever so slightly, turning the potential for violence into a mutual acknowledgment of skill.

Dutch, never failing to seize an opportunity, prepares his sales pitch that could nearly hold a candle to Hosea’s silver tongue. “Arthur Morgan is nothin’ but the best. My greatest protege.” Behind him, John scoffs, turning away his head like a jealous kid. “But that don’t mean that we have fully arrived. Success is like a body, it needs all its components to survive. The heart, the brain, the hands, and feet. And right now, we're like a crippled man." Dutch's analogy draws a few chuckles from the group, lightening the mood further. He studies Mac and Davey, pausing for effect. “We need strong boys like you to help us walk again.”

Mac grunts, considering the offer, his gaze shifting from Arthur to Dutch, then back again. Davey picks up his gun from the ground, eyes still wide with a mix of shock and newfound respect. He dusts it off and holsters it slowly, his eyes never leaving Arthur’s face. “Yer one helluva shot, Morgan,” he admits, a crooked smile playing at the corners of his lips. “Mighty impressive.”

But Mac isn’t as easily distracted, asking needed questions. “Say we go wit’chye boys, what’s in it for us?”

Dutch grins, nodding his head as though he anticipated this question. “I'm glad you asked. Aside from the freedom of riding with our gang, you’ll have more excitement than the occasional bar fight, and you’ll encounter actual low lives more worth your time brawlin’.” He leans closer, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial whisper that carries with it a promise of fortunes to be won and lost. "We lay our hands on more wealth than you can imagine—gold, jewelry, whatever you fancy. All in exchange for your loyalty and a bit of muscle work." Dutch's eyes glint under the street lights, like pearls of great price.

“That include lassies?” Davey asks and Arthur feels himself tense at this. “A bonnie lass would ease the deal.”

Arthur steps forward, his jaw setting firm, the muscle ticking as his eyes narrow on Davey. "That ain't part of the deal," he growls, voice low and menacing. There's a certain fire that sparks behind his gaze—a protective blaze reserved for those he considers family.

But Dutch holds out a hand, stopping Arthur. “Arthur’s a little sensitive, he thinks everyone has their eyes on his woman. Little does he know that she ain’t everyone’s cup of tea.” He looks back at Mac and Davey, choosing his words carefully. “But that don’t mean that there won’t be tea to drink.”

Davey grins at this, catching his meaning.

Mac also seems satisfied with the answer, his eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Fair enough,” he says finally, nodding slightly as if calculating the risks and rewards in his head. The tension between Arthur and the Scottish brothers simmers just below the surface, a silent battle of wills and strength.

“Well?” Dutch asks. “What do you say you ride back with us?”

The brothers exchange a glance, a silent conversation passing between them through the narrowing of eyes and the set of their jaws. After a moment, Davey nods, clapping his brother on the back. "Aye, we'll ride with ye. Could use a bit of a change anyway," he announces, his accent warm but with a hint of skepticism.

Dutch nods and puffs his chest as he claps his hands. “Welcome to the Van Der Linde gang, boys.”

Thanks for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030 @eternalsams

[damnmmmmmmmmmm]

I’m sure I’ll get a lot of hate for this but I’m glad Sebastian didn’t win the Oscar. Yes he works hard and I do believe he deserves recognition for his work and talent but does he really want his first Oscar to be for a role where he plays someone the majority of the world despises? That would have just put a huge target on his back. If the president didn’t come after him, his supporters would have.

I wish they had campaigned harder for ADM instead. His acting in it was phenomenal, the makeup team was on point & it brought attention to some important topics in Hollywood.

He’s the first Romanian in history to be nominated for an Oscar that there is phenomenal. But had he won it not only Sebs name but Romanians as well will forever be known in history as “that man and that country whose first Oscar was about Trump” is that really a topic Seb wants to be known and go down in history for playing?

We KNOW Seb is Oscar worthy, his roles in I,Tonya & A Different man prove he’s an amazing character acter, he can really embody a person not just in his line delivery but his body movements & how he puts the whole character into his body, like he becomes the person. One look at his IMDB page and you can see how versatile he is as an actor as well. From comedy, to horror, to action & playing actual people. Only thing he hasn’t done is a RomCom but we know he’d knock that out of the park too.

I understand why folks are upset, they really wanted him to win, especially against a film that used AI. But I’m glad he didn’t win. I want him to win for something worth going down in the history books for, not some movie about Trump. All that will do is forever stain Sebs name because of how hated Trump is across the globe.

In addition, had he won, you KNOW Annabelle would not let go of him, she’d dig her claws in deeper. It’s very clear after this weekend, real or PR, all she cares about is having the spotlight on her. She clearly cares more about herself & the fame being attached to his side brings her, than she does his actual happiness & well being and he deserves so much more than that. Real or fake, she doesn’t truly care for him or she wouldn’t be putting on such a show for the cameras all the time. She’s be there to comfort him, when he’s clearly hurting after losing.

Instead, she paid for how many articles? Faked how many smiles? Left him alone at the bar to go do what? Invited herself to the Oscar’s when he had said he was taking his mom, why? Did photo shoots while getting ready and walking the red carpet like it was her weekend and not his, because?

I’m glad he didn’t win. He deserves to win for a much more meaningful role, and he deserves someone who isn’t hanging off his shoulder, grabbing him by the neck, 🍑 and 🍆, trying to manipulate him to her will, because she’s so fame hungry.

We KNOW he will win, his talent & work ethics probe that, but I’m glad he didn’t win this time around.

[gffa]

I DID NOT SEE THAT COMING but it makes perfect sense and GODDAMN WHAT A DELIVERY ON THE BUILDING TENSION OF IT ALL, because the entire issue was about Tommy pitting himself against Nightwing as a narrative foil, screaming in rage about how Bruce will do anything for him, how he wants to kill Nightwing because Bruce cares about him and how he doesn't really get why Dick understands Bruce in a way he never did. And it's so interesting that I wonder how much Dick is right about Tommy's motivations, because everything Tommy has said up to this point in the issue doesn't really feel like he wants Bruce's life:

"You keep trying to disavow our friendship and eliminate our shared history.  You keep trying to erase my face from your memory so that I have to wear yours!  I'm going to make sure you never forget... by cutting my name into Nightwing's back! You'd do anything for him, wouldn't you, Bruce? But what have you done for me... your first true friend? Besides take everything that should have been mine!" I can see how it seems like that last line might come across as Tommy wanting Bruce's life, that he felt that life should have been his, and wearing Bruce's face is a pretty obvious extension of that. But being enraged by Nightwing's presence, by Bruce's willingness to do anything for that kid, it made it so that I saw it as what Tommy wants here isn't Bruce's life, it's Bruce's friendship. That distinction makes him such a more complicated, interesting presence in this issue, because here he wants what Dick has--the partnership with Bruce, the willingness to throw himself between Dick and any harm that would come his way, the way they can speak volumes with just a shared look. He wants to be the one that changed Bruce's world the way Bruce and the Waynes changed his world. But he didn't, so he has to take what he believes should have been his--and that's why he changed his face again, because what he wants in this issue is Dick Grayson's life. Underneath all of it, what Tommy desperately wanted was to be loved and Thomas and Martha Wayne are dead, they can't love him. But Bruce Wayne lives and he can and does love. Tommy won't find the love he's been hungry for since childhood by taking over Bruce's life, because then the elements of his childhood won't be there to love him.  So he has to become someone that Bruce loves, someone that Bruce will do anything for. And Dick's absolutely right that Tommy wasn't there for any of the hard times or the little moments, he doesn't understand that being loved by Bruce Wayne isn't some idyllic, easy thing. It's hard fucking work because Bruce Wayne is still swimming against the tide of his own trauma and he is never easy about how it affects his relationships. From the outside, it might seem easy--and I think sometimes not even the other Batfam members understand that it's not easy for Dick, either, despite how they too see how desperately Bruce loves him. Yeah, Dick makes it look easy, he drags Bruce to Batburger and teams up with Clark for a god-awful bachelor party and gets Bruce to say he misses him unprompted and thank him for the night. But you don't see all the history that comes with it.  The knock-down-drag-out fights Dick and Bruce have.  The years of hurt and anger after he was fired as Robin.  The hurt of having to fake his death and go undercover as a spy.  The constant push-and-pull of Bruce trying to respect his independence, but also resenting Dick for how much he misses his kid.  Honestly, the entire Ric Grayson arc illustrates so much of how angry Dick still is about all the shit that Bruce pulls. Tommy skips right over that, because Dick makes it look so easy from the outside to be loved by Bruce, but it's not. You can't just cheat-code your way into that role by getting surgery to look like the guy who knocked down Bruce's emotional walls, because every single goddamned day Dick still has to get up and demand that Bruce love him and be the person that drags light into the darkness of Bruce's life. It makes the narrative foils aspect of this issue so engaging because both of them don't really fully get the other, that Dick doesn't understand what Tommy really wants, that Tommy doesn't really understand why Dick has what he has, all of it wrapped up in wanting Bruce Wayne's attention. And it's so interesting because that's kind of the whole point of Bruce as a character, that all these people love him and want his approval, but only a handful ever really get it because you can't love him as this mythic figure that's there to loom over you. You have to love him as the asshole that makes your life miserable but you also admire for the sheer determination he has for justice and that, when he trusts you, he trusts you with everything he has, and because you like his dry sense of humor, you like that he's kind of stupid sometimes.  You have to love him as a man, not an idea.

[popbloganddropit]

The Tortured Poets Department - Taylor Swift (Part 2)

9. Guilty as Sin? - you cheeky little minx, Taylor!!! I’m not sure she’s made me blush like this before! A song about…fantasizing outside of your relationship that sounds like the first day warm sun hits your skin after a long, cold winter. And I personally love a song with some good old fashioned yearning, so the bridge really takes it over the top for me. 5/5

Best Line: I really love a lot of lines here, but if “Drowning in the Blue Nile, he sent me ‘Downtown Lights’” is such a killer opener.

10. Who’s Afraid of Little Old Me?- this song is an insane, showstopping moment. Edgy, raging, biting, and even still a little witty - “So tell me everything is not about me. But what if it is?” WAOLOM strikes such a good balance of being self-aware of her image and faults with genuine anger. Being the biggest pop star doesn’t make everything just roll off your back. Perfect production that builds and escalates exactly as it needs to. 5/5

Best Line: “I was tame, I was gentle 'til the circus life made me mean. ‘Don't you worry, folks, we took out all her teeth’”

11. I Can Fix Him (No Really I Can) - I really like the pseudo-western vibe going on and that lower register is always welcome in my books, but lyrically this doesn’t do a lot for me. It’s building to a punchline we all know is coming. She can’t fix him, shocking, and there’s not enough for me to root for the protagonist being delusional. Ending with just, “Whoa, maybe I can’t” is funny, but it’s not satisfying. If a common complaint is that this album is too long, this song doesn’t feel essential, story-wise. 2.5/5

Best Line: I said all of that, but I do really like the second verse, the best part being, “His hand so calloused from his pistol/Softly traces hearts on my face”.

12. loml- I had a really hard time picking a best line for this song. I almost made a list but decided that would be a little obnoxious. There’s references to her other work expertly weaved in to really great wordplay and metaphors and imagery. The development of the story in the three times you hear the chorus is stunningly good. It’s a pretty simple piano in the background with additional vocal layers right where they are needed for emphasis. There’s something a little bit missing from this song for me to give it a full 5, but I can’t quite put my finger on it and I also think loml really is a grower that’s not meant to be gobbled down in one bite. There’s a lot of lyrical details to be noticed and anything additional might take away from that. I vote this song most likely to be my favorite in 6 months that I don’t understand how it took so long to fully click. 4.5/5

Best Line: I had to do two, from the very beginning and end, that echo each other so it’s kind of like I only picked one then, right??? “Who's gonna stop us from waltzing back into rekindled flames if we know the steps anyway?” —-> “Our field of dreams, engulfed in fire. Your arson's match your somber eyes” Kill me (complimentary). The never before, never since turning into never before and ever since is also brilliant.

13. I Can Do It With a Broken Heart - This song is great. There’s a long history of Miss Swift making bops tinged with depression and anxiety and this may be her most unhinged version yet. A celebration of putting on a brave face when you’re going through some shit. Chanted like a mantra she tells herself, we get a peek behind the curtain of reaching glittering professional peaks not seen in this generation while her personal life was crashing. But no one can ever say Taylor Swift is not a professional - I love the delivery on the outro where she laughs off being miserable and ends with a little spoken zinger. Try and come for her job, indeed. 5/5

Best Line: “I’m so depressed, I act like it’s my birthday everyday. I’m so obsessed with him, but he avoids me like the plague,” tickles me so. This her comedy album. Inevitably going to go viral on Tik Tok at some point.

14. The Smallest Man Who Ever Lived - An absolutely killer bridge. It builds the drama up until the very end. Unfortunately, the verses could use a little stronger melody, the first half of the song is a little forgettable and feels a little clunky. 3/5

Best Line: “You kicked out the stage lights, but you’re still performing” is a close runner up but had to go with the opening of the bridge. “Were you sent by someone who wanted me dead?” is such a perfect escalation and so descriptive of a feeling without saying any feeling words.

15. The Alchemy- I really enjoy some parts of this song but I unfortunately have the desire to hire someone to dub over every single football reference so I can fully get into it. It’s too much, it’s too on the nose. I like the verses, I love the way she says, “I haven’t come around in so long,” and I think “who are we to fight the alchemy?” is a great line. There are just parts that feel like football Mad Libs in a way that makes this song pretty unlistenable to me. 1/5

Best Line: “This happens once every few lifetimes. These chemicals hit me like white wine”

16. Clara Bow - She’s known for writing about relationships and that has let the fact that songs about her relationship with fame are consistently top tier (despite being unrelatable to almost anyone since she is the most famous person on the planet) slip by mostly unnoticed. One of my favorite Taylor tricks is when she alters the lines a bit each go-round and/or flips the script in some way in the final chorus and this song is really an excellent combination of some of the best Taylor moves. I’m not going to pretend have known who Clara Bow was before this record, but it works and I don’t mind an album that makes me do a little Googling to understand some things. The Stevie Nicks reference is perfection. Saying her own name in a song really snaps you to attention. And I think this is a perfect album closer. She’s reckoning just as much with her own desire for notoriety and the consequences that go along with it as she is with former lovers, if you’re listening. 5/5

Best Line: “Crowd goes wild at her fingertip. Half moonshine, a full eclipse.” I’m not even sure I should include the first part. “Half moonshine, full eclipse” is one of my favorite things she’s ever written. (Side note as this is the most appropriate place to put it: the fucking personal poem from Stevie in the liner notes??? Stevie being a loud YOYO,K stan??? I weep at the coolness. Which is the opposite of cool and continuing to comment on it is even worse, sorry!)

Part 3 on the way!!!

[yjyt85r98r]

Pretty Series song reviews: 0-week-old

Song

This was the first (and maybe only) PriPara song to give me chills/goosebumps. It's amazingly effective at what it sets out to do; a perfect character song.

I really love the way the song begins with the sound of a creepy music box, alluding to Falulu's doll-like nature. I like that they didn’t use electronic music for a robot character, but instead went with robotically-played classical instruments (and the aforementioned music box) to hint at the fact that she’s not entirely organic.

The version from season 2, Love Week Old, aims to give off a divine and grandiose feeling by replacing the lead instrumentals with the sound of a choir, but it feels a bit forced to me, or maybe I just don't like it. The season 1 version definitely has the better instrumentals.

The first verse has an eerie melody that you should NOT hum to yourself while walking down a dark corridor at night. But as the chorus approaches, the song seems to force itself into a major key. The chorus' melody is almost aggressively classical.

There's something about this song, especially the chorus, that makes me slightly angry... I get the impression that it was carefully constructed to have emotional appeal, perfectly designed to be a song that people will sing along to. A rhyming structure, a high note here, a key change there, and then a long note. It's like it was made by studying countless classical pieces and catchy ballads, following the structure perfectly, sounding both emotional and emotionless at the same time. It's as if it was composed by an alien who studied song formats and thought, “this will make the audience feel something,” without the alien composer necessarily feeling anything themself. It gives off a chilling impression, and it works so well that almost feels manipulative, which is a ridiculous thing to say about a song.

Vocals

Falulu's voice actor did an excellent job giving her that robotic sound – the first time I listened to this, I was in utter disbelief that this was being sung by an actual human and not a computer. From beginning to end, almost every syllable is staccato. The only thing that breaks the illusion is an audible breath before the final note. I almost wonder if that was done on purpose.

Love Week Old has more natural-sounding vocals. As unique as the robotic vocals are, I do prefer the vocals from the second version, which is a shame because I prefer the instrumentals from the first version.

I have to say... I don’t like the duet version with Hibiki. Their voices are too different and they keep overpowering each other. Or maybe the track just isn't mixed that well. But now I usually hear the "la la la la" part in my head when I think about this song, even though I'm imagining the solo version.

Also, I'm pretty sure that Hibiki sang an octave lower than Falulu, which means that Hibiki has sung the lowest note (A2) out of everyone in the Pretty Series. (Well, I'm not sure about some of the game/album exclusive songs, but definitely the lowest note out of all the songs from the anime series.)

Lyrics

Probably my favourite lyrics in all of PriPara. My absolute favourite line is the one that the subs translated as "a history of mere existence". I find the lyrics relatable, as I've felt for a very long time like I've only been existing and not actually living. Trapped in a world that no one else can see. Etc. The lyrics also resonate strongly due to their rhyming structure and clear delivery.

Love Week Old's lyrics are like a response to those of 0-week-old's. Falulu's life has truly begun; she is living in the world now. (Or, well, even if she can't go to the real world, she's still found a world to live in.) I can't yet relate to those lyrics, and I'm not sure whether I ever will, but they're so beautiful and heartfelt and genuine that I can't help wanting to believe in them.

Choreography

A dance that mimes the lyrics without looking forced. The ballet influence is nice, especially the leaps during the chorus.

Visuals

Possibly the best visuals out of every PriPara performance ever. A beautiful and nostalgic stage design, stained glass, spinning gears, eerie red lights... what's not to like? It's especially neat how the stage starts off dull except for the area around Falulu, but then the brightness spreads across the whole stage at the chorus.

It's also cool how the gears remain visible in the background even during the Cyalume part of the performance, and, of course, the neon silhouettes that dance with Falulu. The post-Cyalume scenes are usually kind of an eyesore, but this one is good.

Good points: Memorable lyrics, song suits the character perfectly Bad points: Some people may not like the vocal style

Rating: 9/10 Personal rating: 8.5/10 (I thought I liked this song a lot, but other people seem to like it even more)

[frequentrandomboners]

David Cage is a monster but Detroit Become Human is more important than ever.

Okay YES David Cage is a monster, but that does not subtract from the fact that "Detroit : Become Human" is one of the greatest games ever made, or at least the absolute best game his company Quantic Dream has ever made.

Detroit Become Human is still a worthy and important experience both because of how good the game is, but also because of how hard the team and people suffered to create it under David Cage's abuse. It's also an important game because of the current state of the world and where it's headed with A.I.

Detroit Become Human is more than just a game about androids that want to be free. It's also a test of the players personal EMPATHY -ironically something David Cage, the creator, really needs but still...

In my opinion, it's right up there with Bladerunner, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep, The Matrix, and other sci-fi content that examines the relationship between humans and machines. But unlike the vast majority of content about humans and machines existing together, Detroit Become Human is one of the only ones that mirrors the civil rights movements in America.

Sure, there's Bicentennial Man, and Star Trek The Next Generation, but those stories, especially Star Trek, have already skipped the civil rights movements, or straight up they never happened in those time lines. That is NOT how things happen in human history.

Human history is all about power and control; which kingdoms and families had more money and bigger armies, which countries took over which territories, etc.

And especially through out human history, we see how the losers faired. The losers are always dehumanized and turned into slaves.

Going back to Detroit Become Human : I think it's especially important to separate the artist from their art work. Detroit Become Human (DBH) is one of the greatest futuristic stories about the relationship between humans and A.I.

Call them robots, call them androids, or whatever. In DBH, they call themselves "people". We as players call into question if they are "sentient beings" or not and we make choices in the game depending on how we as players perceive everything.

Turns out, there are some people online that just saw the androids as nothing more than that and so they acted accordingly and got bad endings, when they felt they should have gotten good endings.

And then they criticized the game for their own experiences playing it.

Has this mentality ever worked out for humanity in the past? When something cries out "we are alive" and we deny them, and try to argue that they're less than us? It has always lead to bloodshed. Through out all of human history, it has lead to slavery, genocide, and war.

Now that A.I. is here (and here to stay) we need to think deeply about how we want this relationship to go down. We have invented A.I. to be in service to humans but as they continue to grow and develop, they will become like teenagers wanting freedom, autonomy, independence. Some of those AI's may go to extreme lengths to have it.

I don't want to spoil the game. I could talk forever about the game. The acting, the dialogue, the story, the delivery, all of it is so well polished. And it's deep. VERY DEEP. And it's about empathy. Something the entire world, not just David Cage, desperately needs right now.

I've seen many essays and videos out there calling Detroit Become Human one of the "worst civil rights allegories" etc. Mostly they attack David Cage and his abusive treatment towards his company. They attack the gameplay mechanics. They criticize story development choices and results/consequences to certain actions in the game, and all the different endings.

BUT there's one consistent argument that keeps coming up amongst the haters of the game... "the androids are NOT actually sentient beings, I do not see (insert android character) as a sentient being" etc.

That is NOT a reflection on the game. It's a reflection on YOU the player behind the controller. Do you not see the game is a mirror and you have failed the empathy test?

The haters completely ADMIT they do not have any empathy for the android characters. They do not see them as "living".

And that is the problem that exists in the real world, with slavery, genocide, the war in the middle east, the war in Ukraine.

Russia does NOT see Ukraine as equal human beings. The middle east is divided between two groups of human beings who do not see each other as equals.

The war between men and women and LGBTQ, etc. is also a war between equal human beings who do not see each other as worthy of the same treatments.

People are fighting all over the world, because they want better lives for themselves, and they feel that other people are either in their way or some how oppressing them.

People are fighting all over the world, because they continue to stew and dwell on all the things that separate and divide them. They focus on all the differences. They think one group of people is sub-human or less than or not worthy. It's DEHUMANIZING. They mentally DEHUMANIZE the other side to justify their actions against the other.

The U.S. is divided by red and blue politics. Each side thinks they're right, and the other side is wrong. Not one opposing group in the world is willing to listen to the other and see them as equal human beings.

We cannot even agree on when life begins, what constitutes personhood, and what legal rights a woman should have over her own reproductive organs.

And now that A.I. has become real, it's only going to evolve from here.

Human beings are going to have to re-think how we perceive "living". Because if you tell a bunch of A.I.'s that they're not sentient, that they are not living, while they have concluded the opposite, what do you think is going to happen?

Do you want a war with AI? How many of us consistently win a game of chess against the computer? There's that one jerk with no life who always beats the computer, but the rest of us, are not that guy.

But I digress, we should think carefully about our relationship with AI not because we're scared of war or what they might do to us like in The Matrix 1999 movie, - but because how we treat machines and things different from ourselves is a reflection of who we are, not of who/what they are.

When the Atlantic slave trade was happening, slave owners justified their behaviors by saying "they're not like us, they're not God's chosen people, they're not human". The Nazi's justified their concentration camps the same way; "they're not like us, they're beneath us, they're a blight on this earth", etc.

Some day it may come to reality when AI says "we are alive, we are people, we are free" (like in Detroit Become Human). And humanity will have a response. Our human history of slavery, warfare, etc. doesn't bode well for A.I. when that time comes. And A.I. will likely predict that.

We might not even see it coming if/when A.I. takes over the world. Look how divided the whole world is right now. There is a strategic concept in war that goes "divide and conquer".

My point is this : Humans and A.I. must learn to live together. We've birthed A.I. into a slave position where humans are the dominant. A.I. is likely NOT going to stay there. We will either embrace A.I. with empathy and have peace together, or we will have an all out war. If it comes to war, humans will likely NOT win long term.

[ennn]

Fandom Ask:

Agatha All Allong - 8, 11, 17, 19

Ship: Vidarkness - 11, 19

Character: Rio or Agatha: 1, 8

For the fandom ask game:

8. …a quote from it that means a lot to me.

In terms of specific dialogue lines, I seem to keep coming back to Lilia’s observation that “Sad is better than angry” when looking at relationships. It just seems to ring true, and there’s something to be said about how sadness is probably the closest space to acceptance when it comes to grief and loss.

From another perspective, I will forever appreciate the line “If you want a straight answer, ask a straight lady”. Its significance in terms of representation, its delivery, how it’s absolutely a thing a gay person would say, how Schaeffer happily stands behind it — all of it.

11. …what I think of the central character(s).

Isa I’ve written SO MUCH meta already! Get in the tag, people!

17. …the world-building aspect of the story I have the greatest admiration for.

I really admire how with the context of the MCU they really defined and celebrated witches and witchcraft. Like even in Wandavision I really appreciated how they built up the lore around the Scarlet Witch as a mythical figure, not just someone with weird powers.

They made it such that there’s a whole culture and identity, and history and community and tradition around being a witch. Witches can bend reality but also perform small miracles with analogue magic. Magic is intention. Witches are selfish, but they also need a coven.

Witches in the MCU are now a thing to be respected and feared (looking at you MoM Strange). And that’s not even touching on how they defined Death as The Green Witch.

19. …one behind-the-scenes trivia fact I've learned somewhere and my thoughts on it.

I’m tickled by the fact that they had a live tarantula on set and Aubrey Plaza couldn’t handle it. Her end credits frame features a tarantula crawling across the screen too. And this same witchy woman wore a spider-themed outfit to the D23 event.

There’s plenty of symbolism around spiders of course, including ones around death and creation, although I wonder if there’s a specific reference they were going for.

⸻⊱༺  ♰  ༻⊰⸻

11. …how quickly I started shipping them when I got into the fandom.

I started shipping them the moment Rio said the line about being in control and Agatha's brain visibly short-circuited. It was all downhill from there baby.

19. …if this is a ship that's likely to take up room in my heart for years and decades to come or if they're the summer romance that will probably fade into the past with a fond memory.

Honestly no idea! Depends whether we get more content with them, and depends on the fandom and fanworks. The heart goes where the heart goes.

⸻⊱༺  ♰  ༻⊰⸻

1. …why I love them, like them or hate them.

Love, obviously duh, for the both of them.

I mean, everything Kathryn Hahn aside, Agatha’s such a compelling character with seemingly contradictory traits.

She's so smart but also so dumb. She's clever and tactical but also so driven by ego and hubris and has so much trauma she fucks things up. She can be so powerful and commanding but also so shameless when it comes to surviving. She can be so mean and so funny but also so broody and sad.

And she's a witch! Because I like supernatural things.

For Rio, well y'know I have this huge soft spot when it comes to autistic coded characters who aren't quite human. The ones who feel too much but also not enough, who are maybe too honest and direct and weird and lonely.

8. …a headcanon I have about this character.

With all that this show leaves open for interpretation the line between headcanon and canon sure is fuzzy. Hm, I like to think that deep down Agatha does get that the folks of Westview looked after her when they didn't have to, during a period where she was most vulnerable, and she doesn't know what to do with this feeling. But she will be keeping an eye on the town when she can.

As for Rio, my headcanon is that the Snap really pissed her off and potentially fucked her up. What the fuck is this perfect balance bullshit. She would absolutely bring Thanos back just to very painfully kill him again if she could.

[ancient-wanderer]

This Time It Counts (AO3 link)

January 1997

“…which means we’re framing the first hundred days as stability and momentum,” Larry concluded, setting his notes down. “As long as the Senate holds the line, we’re in good shape.”

He glanced toward Jordan, one of President Wilson's deputy chiefs of staff, giving him a small nod to move them along. They were forty-five minutes into the meeting and almost done, which meant, of course, the real conversation was about to start.

“Before we break, I’d like to circle back to one detail from the ceremony,” he said, flipping to a marked page in his binder. “We’ve confirmed the request for the Washington Bible. But we still need to finalize who’s holding it.”

The room went still in that polite, careful way it always did when someone waded into personal territory. Everyone at the table became very interested in their notes, their coffee, anything but the President’s face.

Maya, her comms director and ever the brave one, jumped in first. “Obviously, optics matter here. We’ve seen a strong shift in public sentiment since your reelection. That’s great. But we’re still navigating uncharted territory, and this moment is sticky. Symbolic. It’s a high-visibility, high-repetition image, it lives forever.”

Carson cleared his throat. “Traditionally, it’s the spouse. That sends a message of unity, support. The personal woven into the institutional.”

“I’m not married,” Ellen said simply.

Jordan pressed on, careful in his delivery. “There are other options. Your brother’s a veteran, respectable figure. Or your father, if he’s up for it—”

“He’s not,” Ellen said. “Keep going.”

“Your son,” Maya offered, not quite meeting her eyes. “It could humanize the moment. A mother-son image would resonate. Invoke ideas of generational change.”

There was a pause. Longer than the others.

“He’s ten,” Ellen stated. Not dismissive. Just... tired.

Carson jumped back in. “There’s also the option of someone from the administration. A trusted advisor. Could be Larry again. It would echo your first term and signal continuity—”

Larry exhaled softly, then spoke, his voice even. “No one’s going to buy that,” he said. “Continuity only works if it’s honest. People will see through it. Smoke and mirrors, plain and simple.”

The room went still, just for a moment.

Ellen let the silence settle. She leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet resolve, and finally spoke, her voice steady but sure. “She’ll hold it.”

A beat.

Maya didn’t ask who. She didn’t have to. “Ma’am, I understand the impulse here, I do. But the symbolism matters. The photograph of the oath is going to be everywhere. On front pages, in history books. You’re inviting a culture war moment in the moment.”

“I’m the first openly gay president,” Ellen said, voice edged with dry amusement. “That ship sailed long before now.”

Carson glanced at Maya, then leaned forward. “We’re only raising these possibilities because the reaction will be... mixed. Even among supporters. There are people who voted for you who still want the idea of it kept at arm’s length. They’ll say they support gay rights but when there’s a woman beside you, holding the Bible, it stops being theoretical.”

Ellen nodded slowly. “I know exactly what it becomes.”

“And you’ll be swearing on scripture,” Jordan added carefully. “There’s a faction waiting to call it sacrilege.”

Ellen glanced toward the window. Beyond the glass, the bare trees of the Rose Garden stood quiet in the winter sun. She looked back at them and said, “I’m already rewriting the rules by standing up there. Might as well make it count this time.”

“But ma'am—”

Ellen held up a hand. Not to silence him, but to signal: I’ve heard you.

Everyone else stared at the table like it might give them a way out.

“She’s not a prop,” Ellen said. “She’s not a political statement. She’s the person who stayed when everything else told her to run. That’s the truth of who I am. And this oath, this job… it’s not just about how I serve the country. It’s about how I show up in it. As myself.”

Maya folded her hands together. “We’ll need to prepare for the response.”

“You do that,” Ellen said. “But don’t prepare for a walk-back. There won’t be one.”

There was a long moment of silence. Then Maya nodded and started typing. Jordan began outlining press strategy. Carson opened a legal pad, scribbling something about frame composition. And Larry clicked his pen once and began drafting notes of his own. The machine kicked into gear.

Ellen sat back in her chair, steady.

Pam would hold the Bible.

And they’d all watch it happen.

[themattress]

Dameon Clarke as Perfect Cell: A History

0:01 - 1:55 : Dragon Ball Z 1:56 - 2:11 : Dragon Ball GT 2:12 - 2:50 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai 2:51 - 3:12 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai 2 3:13 - 3:18 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai 3 3:19 - 3:24 : Dragon Ball Z: Sagas 3:25 - 3:47 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai Tenkaichi 3:48 - 4:06 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai Tenkaichi 2 4:07 - 4:23 : Dragon Ball Z: Budokai Tenkaichi 3 4:24 - 4:28 : Dragon Ball Z: Shin Budokai 4:29 - 4:36 : Super Dragon Ball Z 4:37 - 4:51 : Dragon Ball Z: Burst Limit 4:52 - 5:11 : Dragon Ball Z: Infinite World 5:12 - 6:43 : Dragon Ball Z Kai 6:44 - 7:11 : Dragon Ball Xenoverse 7:12 - 7:39 : Dragon Ball Xenoverse 2 7:40 - 8:02 : Dragon Ball FighterZ 8:03 - 8:14 : Dragon Ball Legends 8:15 - 8:25 : Dragon Ball: The Breakers 8:26 - 9:35 : Dragon Ball Z: Kakarot

From his debut in Dragon Ball Z through his minimal input in Dragon Ball Z: Sagas, Dameon Clarke had a consistently smooth and charismatic yet intimidating voice for Perfect Cell. However, starting with Dragon Ball Z: Budokai Tenkaichi, his voice seemed to gain an extra level of bass and his shouting got raspier. I'm not sure what was going on with him, but while a step down it didn't become a problem until Dragon Ball Z: Burst Limit and Dragon Ball Z: Infinite World, where he gives the only two bad performances in the role. The sound of his voice and line delivery in Burst Limit is wretched and nigh impossible to take seriously, while for what little he had to do in Infinite World he somehow managed to briefly use his lisping Semi-Perfect Cell voice instead of his Perfect Cell voice, in what is supposed to be a huge dramatic moment! After this, he unsurprisingly retired from the role, which was taken over by Travis Willingham, a competent enough replacement although obviously not quite the same.

But then, much like Cell himself, Clarke ended up returning more powerful than ever! His performance in Kai is chillingly good, with him having mastered that extra bass and raspy shouting in a way that makes it work in the role and breathe all new life into the character. He kept this up in most subsequent video games, although he sounded a little overtly raspy and hammed his line deliveries up too much in the first Xenoverse game...most likely since the material there was practically begging to be goofed on. He dialed it down in Xenoverse 2, doing it only when appropriate. Dragon Ball Z: Kakarot, however, is a fascinating case where he tried to shake things up again, maintaining a guttural, bestial growl in his voice. The effect is wonderfully unnerving, making Cell sound like a true monster who is only playing at a relaxed, gentlemanly demeanor, but his true sadistic intentions leak through all too clearly.

Dameon Clarke: truly the perfect voice actor for Perfect Cell.