#sh: karen

[webbelzebub]

want to work on character designs for everyone in hatchetfield, and I'm starting out with sketching out some headcanons on different characters played by the same person- more specific details below

becky: closest to Kim Whalen. to be real I really don't have much for her. Bright green eyes, big round cheeks but still with a sharp jawline. hair is a little paler

holloway: cat face, lips naturally curl up into a kind of :3. muted green eyes and brightest red hair. iny short small. like 5ft on the dot

karen: sharper and more angled features. grey eyes. deep red/auburn hair with some greys in it. taller and lankier, tends towards long skirts that exaggerate that

jeri: kind of perpetually looks terrified. has a deep tan and tan lines. very athletic build, a lil stocky.

[symbologic]

Recently saw a discussion on Twitter about why Skypiea gets more hate in the West than in the East

The easy answer is: Blame dudebros and powerscalers who care more about fights than about story (to which they will argue arcs like Impel Down and Marineford were FULL of story), or privileged people feeling uncomfy about the anti-colonialist themes (even though, let's be real, those themes are probably lost on the average Western reader :/)

But Skypiea hate in the West wasn't always a thing. At the time it was being released, most English-speaking fans who were keeping up with OP scanlations and K-F fansubs genuinely enjoyed it.

I honestly think part of the Skypiea hate has to do with a trend we've seen over the past decade, where Western audiences are so, so quick to label certain story elements as "filler" without considering their thematic importance and how it ties into the story the author wants to tell.

Basically, Western audiences have become obsessed with hyper-optimized, fast-paced storytelling that leaves little room to breathe

If the people and politics of an arc are beyond the scope or interest of the story's main antagonists, it's suddenly dismissed as filler that detracts from "more important" things

This attitude is not limited to One Piece alone.

[imasallstars]

SSR/SSR+ 【Blessed Fragrance】Karen Shinomiya

“There's two mugs, so its a set... kind of like... matching cups.... ahhh.. N-no... I didn't say anything...!“

FOCUS STAT 　　　8764/9816 VOCAL TOTAL APPEAL 　　　18871/21135 Skill:「Um, Well, Actually..!」 　　　(Fusion Score) For every 11 seconds, there is a 40~50% chance that PERFECT/GREAT notes will receive a 30% SCORE BONUS for 6 seconds. When your unit includes ≥2 cards with Score Bonus effects, the bonus increases to 37%. If your unit includes a Fusion Combo card, turn Great/Good to Perfect. Center Skill:「Angel Harmony」 　　　All ANGEL-type cards gain a 90% boost in their VOCAL stat.

※ this card is limited through scouting in Second Hairstyle Gacha boxes starting 31.01.2024

[cbrosa-archived]

the only k*ren and billy scene that i would accept:

[kaleschmidt]

fucked up that karen's color + font is not on the dialtown wiki

[libbytwq]

GUHHHHHH I AM SO NOT NORMAL OVER THIS OML GRAAAGH NXVA IM GONNA GET YOU!!!!!!!

ignatius you evil motherfucker JHDJEJFGJR OML THIS IS SO SO GOOD AAAAAAA

"poison isnt my go to" HFJENJFEJGJ IM SCREAMINGGG

Yeah, don't think I didn't see that tiny text, you silly goose 🫵

BOOM, GET DRAWING JUMPSCARED 💥💥💥

"Now, come on, Lore. You didn't think poison was my go to, did you? Oh, how foolish of you."

Dude, if Karen ain't careful, love is NOT GONNA WIN!!!! ☹️ Ignatius is a real freak, I tell you that much. /silly

Hope you like this angst @libbytwq, I still absolutely adore the drawing you did!! :3

Art without text below cut!

Smh SMGL:E you gotta stop having relationship drama 😞 /silly /j

[green-alien-turdz]

do u have any hcs for what the m4 would look like in middle school? 👀👀👀

The same, just with that awful middle school flare.

Headcanon time tho bcuz I'm insane n need to explain the shit happenin here (tw for sh n sewerslide attempts. but if you follow my bs this is nothin new)

Cartman: Bro was at PEAK loudmouth n fuck everyone shit, but at this point all mfs were pretty sick of it n he got into fights on the daily. Not to say he wasn't askin for it, he actually got a big kick outta pissin people off (nothin new as we know). He was pretty much doin this bcuz he didn't really care n couldn't process a lot of shit he was feelin so he would just take it out on everyone else.

Kenny: Overworked, stressed, n not fuckin blessed. If he wasn't at school, he'd be at city wok, which he was grateful for the cash, but it took a toll on him n his schooling. He was just tryin to take care of him n Karen as he watched Kevin just get worse n worse with the people he was hangin around. Conflict at home had him stressin big time. Catch them z's whenever the fuck he could.

Kyle: Bro almost never changes appearance wise due to insecurities. The scratches on his face are from a meltdown he had where he lost complete control of his actions n started hittin n clawin at himself (managed to convince his parents it happened in his sleep bcuz no one was home when the breakdown happened). This was a rather common thing to happen, seein as normal teenage horomones, mental illness, n eds are like the worst fuckin combo.

Stan: Legit the worst time of his life, both home n mentally. Around this time where he'd get super drunk n high to try n numb out everythin, but that would only start more shit of course. He felt completely caged in n stuck in life n in this cycle of bs. One night he spiraled pretty hard n impulsively tried to hang himself with an old belt. He pretty quickly freaked out n managed to get somethin under him so he could get back out. Uhh n misc. red hair bcuz he had started dyin his hair lots of colours (but usually red) for Crimson Dawn around this time.

[demon-kumo]

𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐧𝐤 𝐘𝐞𝐭 𝐋𝐨𝐲𝐚𝐥

➤ 𝐂𝐡𝐮𝐮𝐲𝐚 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫, 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢 𝐱 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

➤ 𝐒𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲: 𝐇𝐞 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐡𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐤𝐢𝐬𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐡𝐮𝐠𝐬, 𝐨𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐫𝐞𝐣𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐢𝐦 𝐛𝐞𝐜𝐚𝐮𝐬𝐞… 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐚 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝? 𝐁𝐮𝐭 𝐡𝐞'𝐬 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐡𝐮𝐬𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝.

➤ 𝐆𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐞: 𝐅𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

➤ 𝐖𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠: 𝐂𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐠, 𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐨𝐟 𝐃𝐚𝐳𝐚𝐢'𝐬 𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐞 𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐞, 𝐭𝐨𝐨𝐭𝐡-𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐟𝐥𝐮𝐟𝐟

➤ 𝐂𝐇𝐔𝐔𝐘𝐀

No one loves wine as much as CHUUYA. Hell he has a cabinet at home full of it, you were never one to drink though. Yet the minute he stepped into the home the scent of expensive wine reached his nose.

Working in the mafia had never been easy, whether you were a simple office worker or the boss, everyone went home late. Chuuya was no exception, as an executive he stayed longer than most. So the sweet pop in his bones allowed a satisfied smile to come to his face as he stood from the chair.

Finally, time to head home.

The click of the door allowed the corridor to open and sighed at the cool air hitting his face on the hot Yokohama night. His shoes hit the floor with a clumsy clack before it hit him. The strong scent of wine.

Perfect features, in your words "rivaling the gods", scrunched up as he walked through the penthouse and was met with an unfamiliar sight.

You. Hunched over the marble counter with a familiar red bottle in front of you. Soft cheeks hued red alongside your adorable ears, with a dazed look in your eye. Chuuya knew this sight, it had been on his own visage multiple times.

It seems the roles have been reversed.

Blazen blue hues softened considerably on instinct at the mere sight of you as he waltzed over. Placing a hand on your shoulder you looked up with glassy eyes and met the eyes of your lover.

"Hey (Y/n), you good?"

A drunk giggle escaped your lips, "Of course," you waved your hand, "I am perfectly fine, can't you tell?" you said as you were about to take another sip only for your husband to grab the glass.

"Alright love, I think you've had enough." He chuckled, finding your drunken state endearing and amusing. He had never seen you drunk before, you were normally the responsible drinker. It wasn't often that you drank wine.

The smile dropped from his face when you gasped like an overzealous Karen, hand to your chest as you looked at him with mouth agape.

"Sssirr, you may be handsome and k-kind enough to care about some stranger buuuuut don't call me that!" You slurred your demand as you pointed at him.

Chuuya tilted his head, "Call you what?"

"You know exact-ly what I mean you scoundrel! You can't call a w-woman you just met lllovveee,"

Chuuya raised his brows in surprise, "Huh?"

You squinted your eyes at him with a pout, "You heard meee right, I will have you know I am married!" You slouched in your chair.

Chuuya deadpanned, "L-(Y/n), I am the man you are married to."

You scoff a drunk scoff, "Y-you dare lie to me, I know my husband when I see him. And," You pointed at him for the nth time that night, "you look nothing like him."

You look through your blur and see the hazy figure of blue and orange covered in black and red clothes. Yep, 100% not your husband. "Myyy husband is ten times the mannnn you will ever beeee. He would never lie to meeee.... plusss he is-sh the most handsome man I have ever met."

Chuuya flushed bright red at your words but chuckled as he picked you up bridal style, just like he did the day he married you, and smiled at you. The same loving way he always did.

"Well then, that man is extremely lucky to have you. He also loves you more than anything, probably... no he would definitely burn the world for you."

➤ 𝐎𝐒𝐀𝐌𝐔

Being passed out from beer and liquor was a familiar scene to OSAMU. Within the years of hiding from the mafia and laying low, passed out in bars. But to find his spouse in one, now that was a new one.

"(Y/n), sweetie, I think you should stop," Dazai suggested as he watched you call the bartender for another shot. You already were way past wasted.

It wasn't often Dazai was seen with a worried expression but this was one of the moments. He was worried his darling wife would pass out soon and wake up with the largest migraine when waking up.

"Wwwwhatttt, no!" You childishly rejected it as you waved your hand dismissively. "I cannnn handle itttt."

"Sweetie, if you drink any more you will pass out." Dazai sighed, is this how you feel when you deal with him drunk.

He placed a hand on your shoulder and pulled you up, placing his credit card at the bar, and paying for your drinks. Surprisingly he actually had the money to pay for the amount of shots, for her, he will always pay.

"Come on sweetheart, let's get you to bed."

"mhm, nnnooo!"

You push yourself away from the man, stuttering away as you look at him with an exasperated look. Dazai gave you a worried smile, "What do you mean-"

"I tollld you no!" You shook your head, "I have a husband! I am a married w--woman!" You said with a small hiccup as you held onto the counter with your knees bent.

Thank the lords that this bar is empty, Dazai thought to himself as he let out a small laugh. "Sweetheart, I am that husband."

"Nope!" You shook your head, "I know my husband, he would never look like you. You're hideous, my man is the... picture of... beauty!"

You slid to the floor on your knees as your cheeks reached an even more red state while Dazai chuckled though if you looked close enough you could see a small blush.

"Oh is he now?"

"Y-yes, I would never betray himmm, what kind of woman... would I beee, if I went to bed.... with another man!"

Awww, that is so sweet, even if the man who is currently trying to take you to bed is your actual husband.

All of a sudden, tears fall down your face, large fat puppy tears as broken sobs. Dazai's shifted to shock as he quickly bent to the ground and placed his hand on your shoulder.

"Hey! What's wrong?"

"*Sob* It's just.... thinking 'bout Samu.... *hick* He is always sad." Dazai's eyes widened as he remained silent when you started to rant. "He never shows it... *sniff* but he thinks so poorly *hick* of himself... but he won't tell me how he feels.... he thinks he is unworthy of *hiccup* h-happiness... or me... I'm a terrible wife... I can't even talk to him about that *sobbing*..."

You cried on his shoulder, tears staining his sandy coat but he didn't care. He looked down at you with an expression he rarely ever wore in front of someone. No one could really describe it, looked like a visage of self-loathing and pity. Was this how you really felt.

He brushed a hand to your head, who had now fallen asleep on his shoulder, mouth slightly agape. You looked like a sleepy child in an adult body. He placed a soft kiss on your head.

" Sweetheart, I know you can't hear me so it doesn't count but, you are right I don't think I am worthy of you. You are the best thing that has happened to me, which is why I am trying my hardest to make you happy."

[lottiesboy]

cheer up, baby!!

pairing: cg!camila dunne x little!reader x little!karen sirko

summary: you’d been fussy the entire morning, so camila and karen get you calmed down.

tags: sfw, fluff, age regression, mama!camila, big sib!karen, crying, babyre, karen is around 4, reader is around 1, my first djats fic pls be kind to me

you were always a sensitive little baby when regressed, but today you would fuss at the drop of a hat. camila thought once you had a nap, you would feel a little better. you woke up in your crib, already wanting your mama to come get you. you started to cry, catching the attention of karen walking past your door.

"bubba?" karen walked in, the door creaking open. "bubbaaa, why crying?" she stuck her hands through the crib bars, trying to comfort you. it took karen a while but she managed to get the bars of your crib down so she could get in and cuddle with you. "s'okay, bubba." she covered the both of you with your blankie.

"karen, what's going on?" camila walked in your room, hearing your little cries. "heard bubba cryin'." karen laid her head on your shoulder. "oh, sweetie..." camila came over and sat down, pulling you into her lap. "where's that paci, huh?" she looked through your blankets until she found it. she pushed it into your mouth, finally silencing your cries. "i know, mi vida... aww, sh sh shh." she bounced you, rubbing your back. "mama's here, sweet baby."

karen gave you your stuffie and your blankie before putting her own paci in her mouth. you eventually calmed down with the help of your mama and your big sister. "bubba no cry!!!" karen clapped, smiling behind her paci. "that's right, my girl!!! you're such a good sissy, aren't you?" camila pinched her cheek.

“s’okay, bubba.” karen scooted over to hug you, kissing you on the cheek innocently. camila smiled at the sweet moment shushing you occasionally.

you were still a whiny but your paci was soothing you a lot. karen saw that you were still a little fussy and she wanted to cheer you up. she got up in a flash, running out of your room. “aye, no running in the house, darling. where are you going?” camila asked.

“gonna get toy, mama.” karen was gone for a while, and camila heard some rumbling from karen’s room. “what is your sissy gonna do, huh?” your mama smiled, booping your nose.

karen came back with her cat keyboard, sitting back down on your crib. “bubba, look. sound like cat, see?” she pressed on one key, the keyboard making a “meow” sound. you cooed, smiling a little behind your paci.

karen played old mcdonald key after key, earning praise and applause from camila when she was done. “bubba play.” karen gave you the toy, letting you tap all the different keys. every time the toy would meow, you would find it hilarious.

“i think someone’s a happy baby now, hmm??” camila bounced you on her lap, smiling at your sweet little coo. you and karen spent the rest of the day playing with the cat keyboard and camila would smile every time she heard the cat meow from across the house.

[say-hwaet]

That's The Way it Is

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three: Secrets Kept Summary: Arthur takes you to Horseshoe Overlook, where your supposed family for the last fifteen years has been. Who are these people? And what will you learn about yourself along the way? Warnings: Mature themes, mild language, interrupted cursing Word Count: ~8,400 words Author's note: This is an Arthur Morgan x You story, but I do have some character design/creative license. I wanted to experiment with the element of pretending to be someone else, so the MC does have a given name and character descriptions. Just wanted to give you a heads-up in case it doesn't fit your vibe. I hope you'll decide to give it a chance anyway!

You wish you had a paper and pencil. So many names, though slow and steady they come, and your head hurts too much to keep track of them all.

Arthur has gone down the list. John. Hosea. Dutch. Susan. Pearson. Strauss. Javier. Bill. Abigail. Jack. Uncle. Mary Beth. Tilly. Jenny. Mac. Davey. Charles. Karen. Sean. Molly. Micah. He gave his perspective on how you met them, how they've treated you, and their role in the gang.

You try to hang on to each name, each story Arthur spins, a thread you’re desperate to weave into the fabric of your lost memories. But it's overwhelming, like drinking from a firehose, and you feel the familiar ache behind your eyes intensify with every new piece of information.

"Slow down," you plead as you hold onto him. The scenery passes by you at a steady pace, but with the tender knot building on the side of your head, it’s almost dizzying. “I can’t remember them all.”

“Sorry,” Arthur replies. “I got carried away.”

You find yourself clutching tighter to his jacket. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

“You can, Kit,” Arthur’s voice softens as he reassures you. “We’ve got time.” His gloved hand gently pats your hand. His touch is comforting, familiar in a way you can't yet understand but makes you feel safer nonetheless. “We’ll take it slow,” he continues, “If people start crowdin’ ya, I’ll be there to ensure they back off.”

You manage a smile. “Somehow, I don’t doubt that.”

The rest of the ride is quieter, your head resting against his back as the landscape shifts around you. The endless stretch of dusty roads, framed by the occasional group of trees, seems to mirror your fragmented memories — vast and somewhat desolate. You close your eyes and try to focus on the warmth Arthur provides, the color under your eyelids changing as shadows cast down on you over the trees.

And soon, you leave the train tracks and enter through some trees, going down a soft slope.

And suddenly, you hear a voice, quickly recognizing it as the drunken cackle you heard during the fight in Valentine. “Who goes there!”

And Arthur answers back. “It’s me! Arthur!”

You open your eyes, but try to remain hidden behind Arthur’s back. You’re here.

“Welcome back!” the man replies, almost cheerful. And you hear his voice draw closer as Arthur continues to ride.

It is then that the man sees you. “Ho-ly sh—!”

“Shut up, Bill, you want the Pinkertons to hear us?!”

Drunken Cackle, now identified as Bill, fits how Arthur described him. Brutish, boarish, with a thick beard, leather duster, and plaid shirt. He looks like he had just rolled in some mud, and you wouldn’t want to be in his sights if he wants to fight. He quickly runs back into camp, rifle held tightly in his hands. “Hey! It’s Kit! Arthur has Kit…!”

Here it comes.

“I can’t tell if he’s happy or not,” you say under your breath.

Arthur clearly heard you, for his warm laugh rumbles his body beneath your cheek.

"Either way, we'll handle it," he assures, his voice a low murmur as he steers the horse smoothly into the heart of the camp.

As you enter the camp, a wave of curious and astonished faces turn toward you. Some of them you recognize from Arthur's descriptions—like raggedy-faced Uncle with his sluggish posture.

“Oh! It is Kit!”

“Kitka’s alive!”

Arthur pulls Montana up by a hitching post and dismounts first. Tying him off, Arthur approaches you and lifts his arms. You accept his gesture and placing your hands on his firm shoulders, he helps you down.

You remain close to him, as he wraps a protective arm around you and escorts you further into the camp.

You see several tents pitched, and a couple of lean-tos. There is also a large chuck wagon and a cauldron over a fire, cooking some kind of stew.

These aren’t the wagons and tents that were in your memory. Maybe Arthur was right. A different time, when you were younger.

You look at all their faces, most smiles and bright eyes as they begin to gather around.

One woman steps forward, her graying hair styled atop her head. "Well, if it ain't a ghost," she says, her voice surprisingly tender. "Welcome home, Kitka."

You try to place her, but struggle. So many names and descriptions to sort through, and your brow pinches.

The woman, seeing the vacancy in your eyes, looks at you with worry. “What’s wrong, girl?”

You feel Arthur pull you closer to him, and while this would normally concern you, you prefer it in the midst of this confusing sea of faces. "Nothing's wrong, Miss Grimshaw," Arthur answers for you, his voice steady but filled with an undercurrent of concern only perceptible to you. “She just…don’t remember us. She got shot really bad and, erm…forgot everything up until Blackwater.”

Susan. This is Susan.

The woman’s eyes widen and she looks at Arthur with concern. “What? How the hell does she forget us?”

A woman, full-figured and blonde, scoffs at the old woman. “Can’t you just be happy she’s alive? For all we knew, she was dead!”

Susan scowls at her. “You watch your tone there, missy…! I missed her just as much as you did, if not more so! I’ve known her since she was a girl!”

Another woman, honey-blonde and slender, comes between them. “Let’s not fight, please!” She turns to you, offering a soft smile that twinkles with empathy as she steps forward. “Kit, I’m Mary Beth, it’s really good to see you standin’ here.”

Mary Beth, a kind soul, as Arthur described her. It was clear by the way he spoke that you and her had a deep friendship. And by the way she takes your hands, there is a true fondness that she has for you. No ill will or misgivings. Maybe someone you can trust.

“You were my friend,” you say, trying to will a memory into your conscious mind.

Her eyes brighten at your words and she squeezes your hands. “Yes, we often shared stories we’ve written. You were teaching me some Czech phrases.”

You remember some words that were spoken to you in your memories with that tongue. You hope that you will learn to speak it again.

Arthur's hand tightens around your shoulder, grounding you as your mind whirls with the fragments of the life you once lived. The words Mary Beth mentions stir something faint within you—a distant echo of laughter and whispered secrets under starlit skies. "Maybe," you venture, hope threading through your tone, "we could try that again.”

Mary Beth nods, and gently backs away.

Another woman, young with dark hair in a tight bun, holds the hand of a little boy.

You smile, deducing who they are. “Abigail and Jack…”

The little boy, with a twinkle in his eyes, beams at the mention of his name. “Aunt Kit!” And breaking free of his mother’s grip, he rushes to you and hugs you at the legs. “I missed you…!”

“Oh!” you gasp, more so at the name rather than his gesture. You look at Arthur. “Am I…?”

He shakes his head. “It’s…kinda hard to explain.” Arthur’s eyes are filled with that old, familiar pain—the unspoken torment of truths too tangled to unweave in a moment. Abigail steps forward, her expression soft and understanding, as she gently retrieves Jack, allowing him back into the safety of her arms.

“Sorry,” she says. “He’s just excited.”

You look at her apologetically, imagining the restraint she must feel to know you and not react similarly to how the boy had. “Don’t be,” you say.

And suddenly, come in a flock of questions, by voices you can’t yet identify.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“Did the Pinkertons get you?”

“Have you seen Mac? or Sean?”

“We thought Arthur was crazy!”

“Hey, hey!” Arthur barks. “Didn’t you hear a damned thing I said? She don’t remember!”

“And that includes you, don’t it, Cowpoke?”

There is a hush over the flock of voices as they turn to look at the one who just posed the silencing question. Your eyes fall on a man. Blonde, with a long mustache, white hat, and pot belly. He’s leaning against the table in front of the chuckwagon, eyeing the sharpness of his knife.

The feeling he gives you is evidence enough. Micah Bell.

Arthur remains still, his eyes narrowing. “Just say it, Micah.”

Micah laughs, a slick, demeaning laugh, as though he has all the cards in his hand. “Must be real hard, watching your plans fall apart, Morgan. The woman you love wandering back from the grave with no memory of any of us, especially you.”

The tension could be cut with a knife. Arthur’s jaw tightens, his fists clench at his sides. You feel an inexplicable urge to defuse the situation, yet you are more curious than anything. Love? What does he mean by that?

“I don’t know what’cher talkin’ about, Micah.”

Micah lifts his chin, like he isn’t worried about having his neck slit. “Oh, I think you do. You really thought you could keep that under wraps? All that sneakin’ off and…whisperin’…you were plannin’ to leave us, weren’t you, Morgan?” And he points the blade of his knife at you. “With that…circus whore.” And he cackles. “Must be real good…all flexible under them sheets.”

And the next thing that happens is a blur. Arthur leaves your side, a blur of brown, black, and green, as he body slams into Micah.

Fists fly, a dance of anger and old grudges, playing out under the heavy gaze of the setting sun. Dust swirls around them as your heartbeat echoes the rhythmic thumping of boots against the dry ground. You stand frozen, watching as each punch from Arthur seems to carry a year's worth of suppressed fury as he lands punch after punch at Micah’s face.

There are several cries from the women and you watch as Charles and John try to break them up.

Arthur roars with a rage that sends goosebumps up your spine. “I’LL KILL YOU, YOU SONOFA—!!!”

“ENOUGH…!!!”

The command rings loud enough for Arthur to pause for a second, just long enough for Charles to pull him off of Micah. Arthur doesn’t resist, but the fire in his eyes does not leave.

You feel gentle hands on you, and you whip your head to see Mary Beth on your left, and another girl, Tilly, on your right. They try to escort you away, but you remain planted, your only concern being for Arthur.

And that is when someone steps out of the largest tent. Tall, imposing, with dark hair and a dark vest with a gold chain. Rings on many fingers.

Dutch. It is Dutch Van Der Linde.

He doesn’t look in your direction, immediately walking over to the restrained Arthur and downed Micah. “What the hell are you doing, Arthur?!” he roars. “Is this what we do now? Start fights? Nearly beat our own men to death?!”

“Micah started it, Dutch!” A young man says. “He was saying things about Kit!”

Your name seems to do something to Dutch, as his eyes widen and his body tenses. “….Who, Lenny…?”

Lenny nods and points at you. “Kit! She’s back! She’s alive!”

“Didn’t you hear the commotion, Dutch?” Susan asks, almost perplexed that he didn’t hear it.

Dutch turns, his gaze finally landing on you. For a moment, the world seems to hold its breath. His eyes remain intense, a mix of disbelief and confusion washing over him. "Kit?" he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the murmur of the crowd.

You nod, feeling a tightness in your chest. This is the man you wanted to see. He was on that boat. He may know what happened to you. He was there. “Yes, Dutch. It is me.”

And suddenly, there is a shift in his demeanor. His body relaxes, and he opens his arms. “My child, you’ve come home…!”

Arthur looks on, confused, and Charles lets him go. He remains still and watches Dutch carefully as the leader approaches you.

Unsure what to do, you make your way over to him and accept his embrace as he holds you tightly. “We thought you were dead!”

“It is a miracle I am alive, Dutch.” You come away from his embrace and look him in the eyes. “I’ve been in Blackwater all this time.”

“Really?” Dutch asks inquisitively, his eyes reflecting a sudden interest. “And how did you find your way here?”

You look over at the still-seething gunslinger. “Arthur found me.”

Dutch's grin widens as he turns to face Arthur. “So, he did.” He turns back to you and places a firm hand on your shoulder. “Too bad Hosea had gone off to Emerald Ranch for a score, he’d love to be here while we celebrate!”

“But what about Micah?” Bill interjects, breaking the jovial atmosphere. “You still have that fight to deal with.”

Dutch's smile fades as he narrows his eyes. “I’ll deal with that, Bill,” he says in a low voice filled with determination. He looks back at everyone else gathered around him. “But for now, we’re going to have ourselves a party!”

There is a collective cheer and people begin gathering around you, their faces a mix of curiosity and joy. The sense of community, something you've been missing for so long, wraps around you like a warm blanket.

“We’ve missed gossipin’ with you, Kit!” Karen says, a laugh bubbling out of her lips. “We got so much more good stuff over the last month or so.”

Tilly, still holding your arm, escorts you to a place to sit down. It is a large log, lying in front of a small fire. Mary Beth and Karen sit close by, giggling like school girls.

Music starts somewhere in the distance and looking over, you see Javier playing a guitar, and he comes over to you. “Mind if I join you, ladies?”

Tilly giggles and that seems to be permission enough.

Javier settles down on the ground near the fire, his fingers already caressing the strings of the guitar, pulling a melodic tune into the air that gently swirls around the growing firelight. The song is a soft, happy thing that somehow carries a thread of love through its core.

But the soft moment is quickly ended when Uncle comes lopping over. “Play a good one! One I can actually sing to…!”

Javier rolls his eyes moaning, “Ay, way to ruin a moment, amigo!”

Uncle doesn’t seem to care, waving his bottle of beer in the air. “This is a party, not a soiree!”

“Dios Mio, fine! What do you want to sing?”

“Ring Dang Doo!” he cackles and by the reaction of the girls, it is clear that it is very undesirable.

Amidst the groans and laughter, Javier strums a few hesitant chords, his expression a blend of amusement and resignation. “Alright, Uncle, just for you,” he mutters, and the first notes of “Ring Dang Doo” echo into the night, bringing with it a raucous cheer from some of the other men who are in the vicinity.

The words are rather distasteful and you are relieved that you don’t know the song at all. As the laughter rises and falls around the flickering flames, your mind drifts, tugged by the playful mockery in Uncle's voice and the indulgent frustration in Javier's strumming. It’s moments like these that sharpen the edges of what you've lost—memories that feel just beyond your grasp, lingering like shadows at the fringes of the firelight. You feel a pang in your chest, a dull ache, as if your heart knows what your mind cannot remember.

The stars above twinkle with an indifference that feels almost cruel in its beauty, the vastness reminding you of everything that is missing. As the song ends and the laughter dies down, you find yourself wishing for a melody that could carry you back through the years to the moments that are now just ghosts in your mind.

Then, as if summoned by your longing, Javier switches tunes again, this time to something slower, more melancholic. The notes are deep, resonating with the unspoken sorrows.

And Karen, bobbing her head softly, begins to sing the tune.

I ain't got no father

I ain’t got no father

I ain't got no father

To buy the clothes I wear

And Pearson, the gang’s cook, joins her.

I'm a poor, lonesome, cowboy

Poor, lonesome, cowboy

I’m a poor, lonesome, cowboy

A long way from home

You swallow hard, the lump in your throat growing as the words seem to amplify your own sense of displacement. How aptly they resonate with the tide of confusion that has been your companion since waking up in this unfamiliar life. The song, meant for others' longing, mirrors your fragmented memories, flickering like the campfire before you.

And you look at these faces, faces you should know, and you realize that one of the most important is missing.

Arthur. Where is he?

You sit up straight, looking around, but you don’t see him at the table, or by the chuck wagon. You slowly rise to your feet and begin to leave the group.

“Hey!” you hear Uncle call. “Where you goin’?”

You don’t care to answer, as the music and light fade away from you as you leave. You walk back toward Montana, he’s still here. Arthur must be—

“...And I need you with me on this, son. You and Micah need to get along.”

You freeze. You have just started walking by Dutch’s tent, and no doubt he doesn’t expect you to be listening.

And you hear Arthur, speaking with great agitation. “You know how I feel about him, Dutch—”

“You went and got him out of that jail, and I am thankful, but now is not the time for grudges. Kit is back now, but I can’t have any distractions.”

“She ain’t a distraction, Dutch, but—”

“But what?”

“You—you said she drowned, Dutch.” And there is a sudden silence. “Why did you tell me she fell off the boat and drowned?”

Drowned? He thought you drowned? Can you swim? You don’t know, you can’t remember, but you’d think by living in California, playing in tide pools, you would have such a skill.

Dutch stammers and you can hear the growing frustration in his voice. “Well—well—a lot happened that day, son! Some did fall off that boat, and I didn’t see her after that! Was I to go into that water lookin’?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing! She’s here now…” And then Dutch’s voice lowers, bordering threatening. “…and if what Micah said is true about you—”

“It—It ain’t true! I weren’t gonna leave, and she and I—” He stops mid-sentence and sighs deeply. “I said I have your back, Dutch. Always will.”

There is another pause and Dutch speaks with a deep satisfaction. “Good. Now go and join the party. I’ll make sure Micah lives to fight another day.”

You hear heavy footfalls draw near you, and you take a few steps back until they stop again.

“Just for the record, Dutch, I don’t regret punchin’ him.”

And Dutch replies with a great agitation, exhaling deeply. “Just go.”

You motion to hide, and you do just in time to see Arthur head off not toward the party, but into the trees. You are tempted to follow, but you can’t risk Dutch seeing you. So, you decide to return to the party. It’s best you find Susan to find out where you will be sleeping.

As you weave your way back toward the lively sounds and flickering lights of the party, your mind replays the troubling conversation. Why did Dutch say you drowned? And why would Micah say that he was planning to leave? With you? The uncertainty muddles your thoughts, mixing with things you know and what you are trying to remember.

Micah said Arthur loves you and that he tried to keep it a secret. Is it true? Or, more importantly, do you want it to be true?

You don't have a solid answer, and the gnawing uncertainty fuels a dull ache in your chest. As you approach the periphery of the gathering, laughter bubbles over from the crowd, mixing with the clink of beer bottles and the strumming of a guitar. It seems alien, almost surreal, given the storm brewing within your own mind. The warm, yellow light from the lanterns dances across the faces of the revelers, casting long shadows that sway with the music. You feel detached, an observer of their joy rather than a partaker.

Susan finally comes into view, and as she turns her head to the rhythm of the song, her eyes catch you.

You smile and approach her. “I am getting tired. Where can I sleep?”

She clicks her tongue and rises to her feet. “Say no more, girl.” And she begins to lead you away from the gathering. “Come with me.”

As you follow Susan through the throng of dancers and revelers, the smell of tobacco and whiskey mingles with the evening air, heavy with the scent of pine and earth. The sounds of the party fade as you walk further away, replaced by the soft crunching of leaves underfoot.

Susan leads you to a lean-to with other bed rolls lying there. “This is where you’ll be until we can get you a separate tent. Mary Beth and Tilly also sleep here.”

You look at her, with saddened eyes. “I left none of my things here?”

Her eyes soften and she shakes her head as she explains. “When everything had gone to hell, we didn’t have much time to pack. We took what we could, and when we thought you had died…” She shrugs her shoulders. “It didn’t make much sense to grab those things.” She rests a hand on your shoulder. “I’m sorry, hon.”

You nod. It makes sense. You can’t begrudge them for fleeing for their lives. As far as they knew, you were dead. Why would they bring a dead person’s things when they needed the bare essentials first?

Susan bids you goodnight, and calmly walks away. Alone for the first time this evening, you go to your knees and take hold of one of the blankets. Wrapping yourself in it, you bury your nose in the wool, taking in a deep breath through your nose.

It doesn’t smell like tobacco, leather, and pine, and you can’t help but feel greatly disappointed.

You curl up under the blanket, your mind swimming with fragmented memories and fleeting emotions. The night air is chillier than expected, seeping through the gaps in the lean-to. Stars peek through the slits above, a stark reminder of how small your problems seem under the vast, indifferent sky.

Despite the comforting warmth of the blanket, you shiver, the cold seeping into your bones as if chasing the warmth of the memories you strain to recall. Somewhere deep within, a flicker of familiarity stirs each time you close your eyes—visions of firelight dancing on a rugged face, laughter mingling with the crackle of burning logs, and the solitude of just two bodies being intertwined together.

Who? Is this you? What memory is this? Your head starts to hurt, but you try to push through it, follow it, will it to make itself clear to you.

Yet, as vivid as these flitting images are, they dissolve into the crisp night air before you can grasp their meaning. A frustration builds within you—a yearning to remember, to understand who you were before the world turned its back on you. The shadows of the past loom larger in the darkness, your heart beating in sync with the slow, methodical drip of a leak somewhere outside your temporary refuge. Each drop sounds like a clock, each tick marking a moment lost to the fog of your forgotten life.

***

It’s morning and you find yourself the first to rise. Sitting up you see the sleeping form of Mary Beth next to you, eyes closed and peaceful. You wonder when everyone has turned in for the night, and can only imagine that it will be a while before they join you. 

You carefully rise, pulling the blanket away from you as silently as you can. Finding your footing, you rise to your feet, and coming out of the lean-to, you stretch out your arms and arch your back. 

You feel muscles relaxing, tempting you to bend backward farther than would seem natural.

…all flexible under them sheets…

Micah’s voice rings in your ear, and you quickly straighten, feeling uneasy and disturbed by his suggestive language. 

You move quickly as your mind goes to what happened. The look on Arthur’s face, like a protective wild animal, as he showed no restraint in beating Micah’s face in. You haven’t seen Micah since, and you didn’t hear where he was taken to recover from the ordeal, or how bad the damage was. You’re curious, the temptation to explore and find out for yourself pricks at you, but you decide against it. 

You walk deeper into the camp, sneaking by sleeping figures and passing the chuck wagon and the table, which has poker cards scattered all over its surface. 

As you continue, a soft, glowing light gathers your attention, and following it, it leads you to the edge of the overlook. You see the rising sun, the glowing orb rising into the sky as it paints pastel colors behind it. 

And you see Arthur sitting on the edge. 

A soft “oh” escapes your lips, loud enough for him to notice and look over his shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you say. “I didn’t know anyone else was awake.”

His eyes meet yours and you feel a small wave of relief wash over you. His gaze is warm, and it's almost as if he understands your unspoken struggle. "I've always been an early riser," he says with a gentle smile.

"Even after the party last night?" you tease, trying to break the tension.

He looks away for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I didn't..." He trails off, looking pensive. "It's not that I didn't want to celebrate," he explains. "I just...”

“I understand,” you say softly, sensing the tension emanating from him. “It was a long day for both of us. It must not have been easy to see me and find that I didn’t remember you.” You see him tense up even more at this and you recoil slightly, giving him space. “About Micah…”

“Don’t worry about that,” he interrupts.

You blink in surprise. “Why? He may be slicker than an oil slick, but his words clearly affected you.” You take a cautious step closer. “What he said was either a pointed deception…” your voice trails off as you nervously swallow. “Or it could be the truth.” As you study the back of his form, the sound of birdsong fills the air and the leaves rustle gently in the breeze. “Which one is it, Arthur?” You wait anxiously for his response, searching for any clue in his stoic posture.

A heavy silence hangs in the air, broken only by the sound of your own breathing. You stand there, rooted to the spot, as each second ticks by with agonizing slowness. Your heart pounds against your ribcage, almost audible in its frantic rhythm. A million thoughts race through your mind, but you push them away, focusing on the one burning question: What is the truth?

You try to keep your voice steady as you ask again, "What would you rather have it be?" Your words hang in the air, filled with uncertainty and hope. If it’s a lie, then everything stays the same. You have friends who know you and a plan to stay with them until things calm down after the events in Blackwater.

But if it is the truth...

Then the man in front of you is keeping something from you. Something between you two, something that happened. 

Arthur scooting away from the ledge, rises to his feet. After a moment he turns around to face you and you eagerly search his eyes for an answer. He takes calm steps toward you and offers his hand. “Come with me.”

What? No, you don’t want him to change the subject. “Arthur…”

“C’mon, I forgot to introduce you to someone.”

You feel miffed but he’s piqued your curiosity once again. And the temptation to hold his hand is greater than you thought it would be. 

And just like that, you slip your hand into his calloused palm and he begins to lead you back into camp. 

You’ve made the inference that Arthur doesn’t share anything he doesn’t want to. If he’s as secretive as Micah implied, then he isn’t going to give you an answer until he’s ready. 

But are you willing to let it go?

For now, you will. Just long enough to see what he’s on about. 

Though his stride is broad, his footfalls are quiet and steady. You try to keep up, but your feet shuffle too loudly in the grass. 

He looks back at you and places his forefinger over his lips. “Shhh….”

Your brow furrows, how dare he tell you to be quiet, when you have a reason to be upset? You are about to slap his arm, but a golden color up ahead catches your eye.

He’s led you outside of camp, near a patch of grass where some horses graze. In the center of them, is a golden palomino American Saddlebred mare. Her coat shines in the sun, her legs strong and graceful, her mane is braided in unique plaits and her tail is long like a bridal train. 

You know it. In your gut, you know it. She’s yours. She’s your Odliv. 

“Say somethin’ to her,” Arthur whispers softly. “You used to have a tune you’d whistle to her.”

You shake your head. “I don’t know it,” you whisper back, an emptiness filling in your stomach. 

That’s when Arthur leans close to you and his lips close to your ear, hums the tune only soft enough for you to hear. 

Your ear begins to ache, triggering a memory. 

Your dark hair wildly dancing in the wind, riding bareback across a field, hands held out like wings of a bird. 

“I’m flying!” you cry. “Arthur, I’m flying!”

You hear a second set of hoofbeats catch up with you and you look to your right to see Arthur, younger and more carefree as he rides beside you on a beautiful blood-red mare. 

The memory fades and out from your lips, comes the soft whistle. 

And in an instant, Odliv’s head perks up and she knickers curiously. When her eyes fall on you, she pounds the ground excitedly and whinnies loudly. 

You feel Arthur nudge you toward her. “Go to her before she wakes everyone up!”

You hurry your steps, maneuvering between the other horses who have also lifted their heads. You reach her and as soon as your hand rests on her forelock, she calms down, her whinnies turning into soft snorts. 

She’s soft to the touch, and you’ll let your fingers spread out and fold in, scratching her softly. She brings her head closer to you, communicating her desire to be loved. 

"She missed you," Arthur says, breaking the peaceful silence that had enveloped you. You turn to face him, but your eyes are still drawn back to the majestic creature in front of you.

"She was red, wasn't she?" Your voice is soft and filled with awe.

Arthur blinks, slightly taken aback. "Who?"

"Boadicea," you reply, barely able to tear your gaze away from the beautiful mare standing before you.

With a quiet chortle, Arthur corrects you, "Liver Chestnut."

You shrug nonchalantly. "No matter, at least I remembered."

After a brief pause, Arthur clicks his tongue and begins to walk away. "Well, I guess I'll leave you to it then." The sound of his footsteps recede as he leaves you alone with the horse, the only sounds now being the gentle rustling of leaves and the steady breaths of Odliv.

You flip around, nearly spooking Odliv, and he is walking in the direction of Montana. “What? Where are you going?” You leave your mare and hurry to catch up with him. You still have your question that needs answering. 

He doesn’t answer immediately, reaching Montana and slipping him a sugar cube. “How’ya doin’, boy?” And he gives the stud a good pat. 

“Arthur…?”

He mounts Montana and looks down at you. “I gotta meet up with Hosea. Was supposed to already…but got a little sidetracked.”

Meaning you. You are the distraction, just like Dutch said last night. Is that what he means?

You don’t want to see him go. But you don’t want to get him in trouble. “Can’t I…can’t I go with you?” You’ve come to find that you can hold your own, albeit quite suddenly, with those makeshift explosives you threw at those bandits.  

His eyes soften at that, but he shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Kitte—erm—Kitka, it’s probably best that you take it easy for a while. Spread your wings, as they say. Maybe once you get back on your feet.”

Your brow pinches. “But I’m already on two legs.”

He shakes his head, chuckling to himself. “You did take things too literal sometimes.” He takes the reins and spins Montana around, the horse’s broad muscles moving in powerful ripples. “I’ll be gone a few days. Hopefully, you’ll be meetin’ Sean before too long.” And before you can say anything more, he makes a clicking sound with his mouth, and Montana canters on out of camp. 

You watch the wake of his departure, feeling an unsettling mix of frustration and abandoned hope gnaw at your insides. Left standing alone amidst the camp's morning bustle, you wonder if your past will ever truly circle back to embrace you, or if it is destined to keep galloping ahead—just out of reach like the dust kicked up by Montana's hooves. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding and turn away from Arthur's fading silhouette.

The camp seems full yet oddly hollow as you meander back into camp, still silent while everyone sleeps. You feel rather peckish, and you remember that there were some canned goods in Pearson’s chuckwagon. You suppose it won’t hurt to have a bite, after all, you haven’t eaten in over 24 hours.

You go towards the back of the wagon, an area of camp you haven’t explored yet, and as you look around.

You stop in your tracks.

A young man, bent over and head down, is tied to a tree.

You gasp loudly, which stirs him to awaken. He lifts his head and when his eyes meet yours his eyes widen.

“Please…” he begs. “I need some water.”

You know that you are amongst a gang of outlaws, but you couldn’t imagine why a young man would be tied to a tree with a rope.

He has long, brown hair to his shoulders. It looks like it hasn’t been washed in days. His eyes are bloodshot, either from crying or fatigue, perhaps both.

You think through all the names and descriptions that Arthur gave you, and none seem to match this stranger. You take a quiet step forward. “Who are you?”

He replies with a lilt in his voice, true panic as he whispers. “Nobody! I ain’t done nothin’!” Then his head hangs low. “I am so thirsty…”

You aren’t above helping someone, regardless of why they may be tied to a tree. You see a water bucket with a ladle and walk over to it. You fill the ladle with cool, clear water and bring it to his parched lips. He drinks greedily, water dribbling down his chin and wetting the dust at his knees. After a moment, he seems somewhat revived and lifts his head again, his eyes meeting yours with a mixture of fear and gratitude.

"Thank you,” he gasps. “I thought I was going to die…”

“Who tied you here?” you ask. “Why?”

“Dutch had me tied. I…was with Colm, but I ain’t never liked that feller…!”

Colm. You don’t recognize that name. But you can only figure he’s an enemy to Dutch. But why?

“Hey…!” A bark comes from around a lean-to, and you whip around. It’s Bill, grumpy and hungover, and he’s caught you helping his prisoner. “What do you think yer doin’?!” Bill stomps over, his heavy boots stirring up small clouds of dust with each step. His eyes are narrowed in suspicion and anger as he peers at you, then at the ladle in your hand. You feel a shiver of apprehension, but your grip on the ladle tightens slightly, a defiant gesture you can't quite explain yourself.

"He needed water, Bill," you say calmly, meeting his glare with a steady gaze of your own. The air thickens with tension, the only sounds the distant calls of crows and the soft rustle of the dry grass underfoot.

Bill snorts, his mustache twitching in agitation. “Dutch says no food or water ‘til he talks!”

And you suddenly bristle, memories of unkindness shown to you your entire life flooding in quick flashes. What would you have given for just a bit of water or food when your brother was sick and dying? Despite your headache, your fist clenches around the ladle and you swing it to hit Bill hard.

The ladle connects with a satisfying thud against Bill's temple, and he staggers back, more from surprise than pain. His hand instinctively goes to his head, and he scowls fiercely at you. "Kit, what the hell—?"

"Blázen! You know as well as I do that a man's got a right to basics!" you spit out, your voice thick with emotion. "Water is not a privilege. It’s a necessity…!"

Bill stares at you, his anger simmering down into something resembling grudging respect or perhaps confusion. He rubs the spot where the ladle struck, eyes never leaving yours. "Yer memory ain’t all there, so I am gonna spell it for ya…” And he leans close, snarling a threat veiled thinly behind a whisper. "Dutch's orders are law here, Kit. Don’t forget your place, or you’ll find yourself out there with nothin’ and no one."

You swallow hard, the sting of his words biting deeper than the chill in the air. How many times had you been cast out before, left to fend for yourself in the harsh world of indifference and cruelty? You don’t know, but the thought sends a cold wave through your spine. And yet, at the same time, there's a flickering flame of rebellion within you that refuses to be smothered.

"Maybe my memory isn’t fully restored, Bill," you reply, your voice low and steady, "but my sense of what’s right hasn’t faded one bit." You hold his gaze, unflinching, the intensity of your conviction casting a palpable sensation in the air between you.

Bill's eyes narrow as he assesses you, the standoff drawing a curious crowd from the nearby tents. Whispers weave through the other members as they’ve woken to your row, the poor prisoner in the middle, shaking in his boots.

Finally, with a snort, Bill turns away, dismissing the gathering with a wave of his hand. "See to it that he don’t drown," he mutters under his breath, loud enough for only you to hear. There's something akin to admiration in his tone, albeit reluctantly given.

As the crowd disperses, you sigh deeply.

You feel a sudden hand on your arm, and you turn to see Mary Beth, her eyes a mix of gratitude and worry. “I’m glad someone else feels the same way.” And she begins to lead you away from the prisoner. You walk beside her as he links her arm with yours and she leads you around the tents. “I’ve been sneakin’ Kieran some water and scraps since he’s been here.”

Kieran? That’s his name. And since Mary Beth has been helping him, she must know more about it. “Who is he?”

“An O’Driscoll,” she explains. “They are a rival gang. Dutch and Colm go way back, been fightin’ for a while.”

“Oh. Who is Colm, exactly? Why are they fighting?”

“You were there, when it all started. You are one of the original ones.” Mary Beth stops by the horses and you eye Odliv while she grazes. “I wasn’t there, but from what I’ve been told, Dutch killed Colm’s brother and he killed Dutch’s lover, Annabelle.”

Annabelle. You think hard about the name, but it doesn’t register. You shake your head.

Mary Beth continues, “Colm is evil. He’s killed innocent women and children, and shows no mercy, like we do.”

Your brow furrows. “How is tying Kieran to a tree mercy?”

Mary Beth hesitates, her gaze shifting to the ground before she meets your eyes again. "It's not, I suppose. But sometimes..." She trails off, searching for the right words. "Sometimes we have to make choices that don't sit well with us. You know that better than anyone, Kit."

You nod slowly, unsure of what she means.

She sees the confused expression on your face and offers to enlighten you. “When there was plannin’ for the ferry robbery in Blackwater, there were conflicting ideas. Hosea and Arthur were working on a con of their own, some sort of trick on some real estate brokers. And then there was Micah and Dutch, talkin’ about the ferry. You wanted to help Arthur and Hosea, you have always been good with costumes and performances. You can distract the strongest-willed of men…!” She giggles, most likely thinking of a specific instance. “We have always been a great team.”

But you want her to continue about Blackwater. “But what happened? Did I go with him?”

She shakes her head. “Dutch said he needed you with him. To act as a hostage when he robbed the ferry.”

Your eyes widen. “That sounds…dangerous.”

“That’s what you had said. I remember you telling me how worried you were about the whole thing. You said that something didn’t seem right…” Her eyes fall. “You…seemed different. I wish there was something that I could have done, maybe took your place.”

You shake your head, patting her arm. “No. It is as it was. You can’t change the past, Mary Beth.”

There’s a long pause as the air between you thickens with unspoken thoughts, a tangle of regrets and old wounds that no amount of talking can undo. But the soft smile returns to Mary Beth’s face and she pats your hand that rests over her arm. “Let’s do the wash. Us girls always do the wash in the morning, to let the clothes dry. Miss Grimshaw gets on our tails if we aren’t busy come sunup.”

You nod. “Okay, it will be good to keep busy.”

Together, you and Mary Beth gather the worn fabrics and soiled garments scattered around the camp and find the other girls by the washboards and buckets. The fresh morning air is crisp, pinching at your cheeks as you find a place to sit among them.

The chatter among the women is light, yet it carries a weight of shared history that you can't fully grasp. You try to focus on the task at hand, scrubbing at stubborn stains that mar the fabric. As your hands move in rhythmic motions over the washboard, snippets of conversation float around you.

"Molly’s lookin’ at her face in the mirror again…” Karen says while gnawing on a long blade of straw.

The girls look over near Dutch’s tent. Molly, with red hair more blazing than fire, eyes her own reflection as though it were an unfamiliar face, one she's trying to understand or maybe memorize. You can't help but notice the way her brows furrow together, crafting a silent narrative of self-doubt and contemplation that seems all too familiar.

"Molly always did take to heart what Dutch says about appearances being as important as a loaded gun…” Tilly snarks. “But I always thought looks weren’t everythin’.”

“It’s different when you got a man to please,” Karen argues. “I should know. The better you look, the better the pay.”

Mary Beth gasps at her brazenness. “Karen!”

“What? It’s true! Any woman who has had a man knows that.”

You remain silent, the conversation drifting over you like fog settling on a meadow. The practicalities and pitfalls of love seem a distant concern to your current predicament. Yet there's an ache inside that resounds with their words, a ghostly echo of a love you can scarcely remember but feel profoundly.

As you scrub on the shirt in your hand, you notice its color. Blue. The same blue shirt that Arthur had worn when you saw him in Valentine. Your heart skips, caught in the clutches of your most vivid memory, flitting at the edge of your consciousness like a shy bird. The fabric under your fingers suddenly feels heavier, soaked not just with water but with the weight of unspoken words and a past life that might as well have been someone else's dream.

You swallow thickly, thinking about how to word your question. “Did we…Did we talk about a lot of things…like secrets?”

Karen’s eyes sparkle at your question. “Oh yes! Not much gets past us girls!”

And Mary Beth, sweet and sympathetic as ever, can sense what you are getting at. “Is there something you want to know, Kit? Something you told us and want to remember?”

You feel your hands trembling, the words building in your body making it nerve-wracking. “Am I…Am I a virgin?”

There is a sudden stillness when the girls pause their washing.

Tilly is the first to speak, her voice raised higher than her normal range. “What?”

And Karen gets to the meat of the matter. “Why do you wanna know? You pregnant or something?”

You shake your head, you feel instant regret for even asking, but you can’t back out now. “No! I just…been having these dreams…”

“Oh…? What dreams?” Karen asks with a gleam in her eye and a mischievous grin.

“I don’t know…I think they’re memories, as that is how they usually come to me, but I can’t seem to put it all together.”

Mary Beth still looks softly at you, as she wrings a flannel shirt. “You always told us you wanted to wait until marriage.” And before you can doubt her answer she adds, “You were very adamant about it. You said being a performer taught you that.”

Performer? You remember being called circus trash, and also what Micah called you yesterday. 

It lines up. If you had your heart set on waiting…

You let the shirt go for just a moment to look at the ring on your finger. “And I’m not married.”

Tilly shakes her head. “No, Kit. You ain’t.”

“It’s strange,” you laugh. “Being 29 and still…” You work on scrubbing the shirt again, tucking your chin to hide your face behind your hair. “Oh, I suppose it doesn’t matter.”

“There ain’t no shame in waitin’, Kit.” Karen says, her voice more gentle than her usual teasing. “It’s better with the right person than the wrong one.” She laughs. “I should know.”

Mary Beth sighs, lifting her head and looking all dreamy. “I’m still waitin’ for mine, too.”

At that, Tilly chortles. “Mary Beth, the right one ain’t never gonna happen for you unless they come flyin’ right outta them books you write!”

The laughter that bubbles from Mary Beth is light and unburdened, a stark contrast to the heaviness of your own heart. "Maybe I do expect too much from a man. But a girl can dream, can't she?"

Your thoughts spiral back to your own dreams, fragmented and shadowy as they are, filled with fleeting touches and whispered names that dissolve as you awaken. There's a haunting familiarity in those hallucinatory moments, a sense of belonging that you can't yet place. Perhaps, buried deep within the cobwebs of your memory, there lies an answer. They feel so real, yet so far away, making you wonder if even you kept secrets from these girls who you call friends.

You girls finish the laundry, hanging the linens on nearby branches and a line strung up between two trees. You’re surprised to see the day half gone, and while you are grateful for the passage of time, you wonder what else you could possibly do.

And as you walk past Susan, she sees you and eyes your skirt. “Just a minute, girl!”

You freeze, and brace yourself. From what the girls have told you, you prepare to be given another chore to do.

She rises from the table where she has been working on sewing a patch and gestures to your skirt. “Just what do you think you’re doin’, wearin’ clothes like that?”

You look down. You had forgotten that you cut it all up for the explosives. While it is the right explanation, it isn’t the easiest one. “I…erm…must have torn it.”

“I should say so! We need to get you something else to wear.”

You shake your head. “I don’t have any money. Or other clothes.”

Susan motions for you to follow her and she leads you to the back of Dutch’s tent. On a barrel, sits a box.

“This is the money box. Everyone pitches in money from jobs and such to take care of camp needs.”

“But this is for everyone.”

“You’ve come back from the dead and are in need of new clothes.” She opens the box without a qualm, takes out five dollars, and hands it to you. “I’d say that is a good reason.”

You hold the money in your hand. It isn’t the thirty dollars you left behind in Blackwater, but you figure you haven’t really been familiar with large sums. “Thank you, Miss Grimshaw.”

“I’ll have Strauss go to town with you. Since you’ve been back, he wants to talk about nothing but resuming business with you.”

You look up, your brows pinched. “Business?”

She nods. “Just get yourself ready and meet Strauss by the wagon. He will take you to Valentine.”

Your heart hitches. Valentine. Where it all started.

Tag Requests: @photo1030

Thank you for reading! Feedback is always appreciated.

[dinitride-art]

“Mike wheeler’s armpit of a basement”

“I’ve seen Mike’s room look worse than this”

“I was being a total self pitying idiot”

“Why am I the bad guy”

“One day she’s going to realize that I’m just some random nerd”

“At least Lois Lane is an ace reporter for the Daily Planet”

“I’ve been bullied my whole life”

“Mike’s always whining about it”

“And yet you still have a C in Spanish”

“You can’t even write it Mike”

“You made it super clear that you’re not interested in anything I have to say”

“-and if I said that thing then maybe she’d want me there with her, wherever she is”

“The bad government dudes are after your super-girlfriend right? Right?! Okay, so, maybe the cops can help us find out where she is because they’re gonna kill her, man. And if they kill her, there gonna kill us!”

“Oh, no, no, no, no- it’s a shitty knock off, yeah”

“Who’s that twig with her?”

“That doesn’t mean he’s wrong. I mean, if that guy would’ve lived one more second- one more second- th- we could know where she is. Wh-why didn’t he just say the number? I-I should’ve explained myself, cuz then maybe, Eleven would’ve taken me with her and things would be different but I-I didn’t know what to say”

“And I feel like maybe I-I was worrying too much about El, and I don’t know, maybe I feel like I lost you or something”

“Y’know the last few days, I’ve had to think about the last talk we had. You know, before the cops and the whole word went to shit and everything? I- I guess- I just- I- I dunno- I guess I just wanted to- to say-”

“But… but what if after all of this is over… sh-she doesn’t need me anymore?”

“No I… it’s so stupid, given everything that’s going on. It’s just… I… I don’t know. I just”

“I, love you.”

Mike’s flopping on the floor like a miserable and suffocating fish out of water season. His friends make fun of him. Eddie made fun of his clothes. Karen told Dustin he’s welcome at the Wheeler’s anytime which implies that Mike isn’t really talking to his friends outside of school. Dustin and Mike didn’t know when Lucas’ basketball game was, which implies that they haven’t really been talking to Lucas a lot. Mike did call the Byers but wasn’t able to get through. El and Will are have been in Lenora for months and Mike hasn’t really been able to talk to either of them. El’s been lying to him in her letters and writing and signing letters is a reminder that he’s avoiding writing the word love. Everyone’s telling him that he’s doing something wrong. This kids going through it.

[leaves-lilies-and-esther]

Why being against trans rights as a feminist is bull

Generally I fall pretty neatly into line with the radfem line of thinking about things (anti surrogacy, anti sex industry, pro choice, anti beauty industry etc). And I don't think that radical feminists who disagree with me on this are evil or anything, but I do believe that it shouldn't be a priority and that this whole effort will be remembered badly.

"But the bathrooms-"

Letting trans women into female bathrooms does not increase sexual assault. According to Media Matters, "...the fear is baseless- completely unsupported by years of evidence from states that already have non-discrimination laws on the books." To give examples:

Rhode Island reported "no increase in sex crimes due to 2001 law"

Karen Richards of the Vermont Human Rights commission said she is "not aware" of any problems from a 2001 law

Jim O'Neill said he was "unaware of any sexual assault as the result of the CT gender identity or expression law" in Connecticut

If you search "Debunking the Big Myth about Transgender Inclusive Bathrooms" from Media Matters you can see the other twelve state level examples

There's also a very well written article from Time called "Transgender Bathroom: Advocates Say 'Predator' is a Myth" . They detail several locations like New York City and California which protect trans rights without seeing a spike in sexual assaults, the fact that school officials and police departments have not seen a spike either, and that several organizations dedicated to stopping violence against women all agree that bathroom rights aren't a threat.

Moreover, according to Vox's article "Anti-transgender bathroom hysteria, explained"- all of the incidences commonly cited of men dressing up as women or posing as a woman in order to commit sexual assault happened before a non-discrimination bathroom law was passed. Meaning that these laws don't cause sh*t.

But to add onto another point, there's a very good reason why we cannot simply say that women's bathrooms must be defined by sex alone. Which is that we end up exposing transgender or nonbinary youth to extremely avoidable violence instead.

According to an article from Harvard entitled "transgender teens with restricted bathroom access at higher risk of sexual assault", quote, "Transgender and non-binary teens face greater sexual assault in schools that prevent them from using bathrooms or locker rooms consistent with their gender identity." 36% of trans or nonbinary youth with restricted access had been sexually assaulted in the past year. In no world is that an acceptable number. Not only does restricting bathroom access not solve anything for cis women, it actively inflicts male violence on transgender women.

And even in the outlandish world where this wasn't enough of a reason, it also leads to cis women being policed on their appearance and how feminine they present in order to avoid looking trans. In Las Vegas a woman named Jay was kicked out because they mistook her for trans according to Advocate article 'cis woman mistaken as transgender records being berated in bathroom'. Aimee Toms in Danbury was similarly harassed, as was Jessica Rush in Dallas. There's several videos in the Vox article "Women are getting harassed in bathrooms because of anti-transgender hysteria". And guess what? This sort of policing what a cis woman can look like is only going to get worse as people continue to advocate against trans women in bathrooms.

And women's sports-

Any physical advantage that transgender people have in sports goes away several years after medical transition. According to the NBC article "trans women retain athletic edge after a year of hormone therapy"

(1) "For the Olympic, the elite level, I'd say probably two years is more realistic than one year" - namely, trans people have standard hormone levels if they wait two years after medical transition. "After two years, Roberts told NBC News, 'they were fairly equivalent to cisgender women'".

There were some limitations to the Roberts study, but there's also a 2015 Harper study backing this up.

(3) Joanna Harper, a medical physicist in Portland, already ran a study on this. "...found that trans women ran at least 10 percent slower after beginning hormones. And, relatively speaking, they did no better against cisgender female runners than they previously done against cisgender men".

Namely, as long as there's been a medical transition for several years, it's still a totally fair competition.

But laws which ban transgender women from sports have had the incidental effect of allowing for state-sanctioned genital inspections on minors. This sounds fake, right? But in Ohio Republicans have passed a bill which "...has a verification requirement, if someone is 'accused' or 'suspected' of being trans... she must go through evaluations of her external and internal genitalia, testosterone levels and genetic makeup." And believe it or not, they only had one transgender girl who was an athlete in high school. One! This is according to the Ohio Capital Journal's article "GOP passes bill aiming to root out 'suspected' transgender female athletes with genital inspection."

Similarly, Florida has just passed a ban on transgender students in sports in April 2021, with provisions similar to the Ohio law. "A dispute regarding a student's sex shall be resolved by the student's school or institution by requesting that the student provide a health examination... provides for 'routine sports physical examination' of students' reproductive organs, genetic makeup, or testosterone levels." This is according to Changing America, titled "Florida's new ban on transgender students in sports would allow schools to subject minors to genital inspections."

I don't know about you, but as someone who has enjoyed track, swim team, and basketball all through educational institutions- I don't want the government in my pants.

Beyond the creepy implications of the state demanding invasive inspections on literal children, this also goes back to the point I made on bathrooms above- that when we take spaces away trans people, we take spaces away from any woman or girl who society deems as presenting too 'masculine'.

As feminists we can absolutely support trans rights without compromising our integrity. And not only can we, we should.

Edited August 24, 2023: I wanted to add a section about the provisions of these bills for literal genital inspections. I regret that it wasn't in the original, but I remembered these articles earlier and thought that it was important to add here.

The other thing I did later the same day was take out the part referencing women like Caster Semenya competing in the Olympics and being removed because of high testosterone levels. Someone has kindly pointed out that these are intersex women, which the original article I had read referred to as cis. I feel that intersex women in athletics deserve their own discussion, and I haven't (a) read enough on the issue or (b) learned enough about the intersex community as a whole to take part.

[imasallstars]

【[Private Dress] Karen】

Today’s outfit is an exceptional casual dress! Saying its.. matching is embarassing... but, would be nice if we could, drink together...♪

availability: obtain 【Blessed Fragrance】Karen Shinomiya

[darkmaga-returns]

As the meltdown continues in the wake of President Trump’s landslide election victory, a new trend has emerged among individuals with extreme cases of Trump Derangement Syndrome: advising women to secretly poison their husbands if they voted for Trump.

We have already seen calls for a sex strike, endorsed by Kathy Griffin and Whoopi Goldberg, and even intentionally downgrading personal appearance to punish patriotic American men.

Now, however, some are escalating the rhetoric, openly suggesting more drastic, even dangerous, responses to a spouse’s political beliefs.

Modernity report: Of course, most of the women in the videos have green hair and/or look like they’ve been possessed by demons.

The New York Post reports that “Women online have taken to filming ghoulish murder-fantasy videos in which they romanticize lacing men’s beverages with deadly poison as a justifiable response to fears about abortion rights under a second Donald Trump presidency.”

“Many of the videos have been viewed millions of times on X or TikTok and feature young women fiendishly grinning as they adulterate a cup of tea or other drink with an unknown substance,” the report adds.

It further explains that “Some of the women have dubbed the videos part of a ‘Make Aqua Tofana Great Again’ (‘MATGA’) movement, a nod both to President-elect Trump’s campaign slogan, ‘Make America Great Again’ (MAGA), and ancient killer Giulia Tofana, who has been adopted as the disturbed group’s heroine.”

[ringdabel]

Some KobyLawLu HCS bcs i love them sm

They all have matching handmade bracelets (made by koby) with letters of eachothers names

if they ever decided to cook together it would be very VERY chaotic.... Luffy burning the kitchen every 5 minutes and attempts to eat everything on the table, Law trying to stop Luffy from eating everything on the table and Koby being the only one knowing how to cook

Koby keeps Luffy and Law's wanted posters on his office, Luffy has pics of his 2 bfs in his wallet, Law secretly has at least 6 pics of the other two SOMEWHERE in his room (its very secured and hidden)

At home, Koby makes them breakfast, lunches and dinners, he knows exactly what they don't like eating and their favorite food! (he has them written on his notes)

Otama is their adopted daughter, change my mind (you can't)

Law and Koby tries to keep their relationship a secret bcs of obv reasons like keeping their reputation, etc.. until Luffy loudly and proudly exclaims that they're dating to the whole world

THEY ARE ALL TOUCH STARVED!!! Law is too shy to admit it, Koby is a bit embarrassed to say that he wants affection and Luffy be hugging them whenever they ever see each other, damn

when cuddling, Luffy will wrap his arms around Law and Koby then sleeps, Koby would prob adore the warmth and Law would be reading a book with his glasses (human anatomy mm interesting)

Luffy is ACE, Kob is def Bi, Law is gay and graysexual asf, there is no way these creatures are straight....

Luffy forces Law to sleep with him and Koby and drags him there (someone make Law stop drinking coffee every 10 seconds)

Lends clothes : Koby, Law | Steals them : Luffy

Luffy be wearing Law's hat and Koby's glasses then running away from them like a little shi-

Koby will never stop talking about Law and Luffy for the next 6 hours, not even when your ears are bleeding Helmeppo, stop being such a hater smh going shopping with them!!! :

Law forces Luffy to wear a mask when going outside

Luffy being in a leash so he wont wander off on his own and eat everything

Law being tired of Luffy's antics and is just tired of his bs

a karen decided to yell at Koby and insulting him for "attempting to kidnap her kid". Law keeping Luffy from beating the sh*t outta the karen until the karen becomes violent and slaps Koby on the face. thats when the two sets on beating this Karen bcs the AUDACITY TO SLAP THEIR BF

Luffy vibes at the random music in the supermarket, Koby sorta vibes with him while Law is lowkey embarrassed bcs everyone is staring at them

Luffy sits in the cart knowing damn well he is too heavy for it but he does not care-

tries to get all the meats to the cart, failed

Koby having some nice convos with Law while Luffy is nibbling on a raw packed meat bcs he is hungry (Law stopped him from eating it in time)

THEY WILL HAVE ICE CREAM TOGETHER AFTER SHOPPING AND THEY WILL SIT ON A BENCH AND TALKING AND LISTENING TO EACHOTHER THEN KISS EACHOTHER-

luffy gets a lollipop :]

[imabeautifulbutterfly]

Hello ✨ I was wondering 👉👈 if you’re still doing the celebration fics 🫣 may I please request Crosshair with “In a week” by hozier

Thank you 💕💕💕

Hello Anon!

Thank you for this amazing request: In a week by Hozier

It was ... wow. This one was a rough one. It lead to only one way. Angsty.

I hope you like my interpretation of it.

Love oo

In A Week

Warnings: Angst, fluff (if you squint), kiss, freezing, cold, different AU to the Mayday episode, implied demise. I think that's if. If I miss anything please let me know.

Main Master List   | Star Wars Jukebox Roulette |   AO3 Link

It started with arguing, that’s how it always started between the two of you. 

After a few months of intense distrust and annoyance, it shifted into respect for each other’s work. 

Still arguing, but with respect coated throughout.

Then you were assigned together on a mission, and it didn’t necessarily hurt your working relationship, but it didn’t necessarily help either. There was less arguing, but that was about it. 

When the Empire took over, things became more intense on Kamino and in the galaxy at large, but things between the two of you seemed to smooth out weirdly enough. However, you were being permanently assigned to Crosshair’s team now. Which was weird to an extent, but oddly comforting to another. 

That’s always been your relationship with Crosshair, on the one hand things were always tense and a moment away from exploding, on the other, you both highly respected each other and were ready to jump to each other’s defence if anyone even dared to disrespect either of you. 

So the fact, you were curled into Crosshair’s side as the snow came pelting down on the two of you, was somewhat ironic, as you shivered in each other’s arms. 

“M-maybe w-w-we s-should’ve l-let M-mayday search I-instead.”

Crosshair huffed, “A reg? Please.”

“H-he’s n-not t-that b-bad.”

“Hmph, of course y-you’d say t-that.”

“Y-you’re n-not t-that b-b-bad, e-e-either.”

Crosshair looked at you, “Really?”

You nodded as your eyes drifted close.

He shook you away, “Hey, c-come o-on. You n-n-need to s-stay awake.”

“I-it’s c-cold. I-i-i j-just n-n-need a n-nap.”

He squeezed you tighter in his arms, “Quitter”

“W-what?”

“You. Are. A. Quitter.”

“Am not!”

“Are too. You’d rather take the easy way out t-t-t-t-then try and find a way o-out t-together.”

“T-that’s n-not true.”

“No? W-what about u-us?”

You froze and looked at him as he shook in the cold, his armour doing little to keep him warm, “W-w-what a-are y-you t-talking about?”

He looked into your eyes, his shaking hand trailing along your jaw, “Y-you k-know.”

“N-no. I-i-i n-need to h-hear I-it.”

“I l-l-ove y-you”

You curled into him, as you gently kissed him with shaky lips, but his lips were just as cold as yours, “S-sh-should’ve d-d-done t-this s-s-sooner.”

“W-w-we can try n-next t-time.”

“M-m-mayday w-w-will  f-find u-us.”

Crosshair held you close, agreeing that you’d be found. It may be a week later, but you’d be found eventually. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead as he held you close, keeping you as warm as possible for as long as possible. 

The temperature was dropping too quickly. The best Crosshair could hope for, was that neither of you felt it when it happened. He watched as your eyes closed, his followed shortly after.

“I …” your voice was barely above a whisper, “I l-l-l-ove y-you, t-too.”

“Shhh, s-s-sleep. T-t-t-they’ll b-b-be h-h-here s-s-soon.”

You held him close, as you let a tear slide down your cheek, you knew he was lying, but it didn’t matter. Because at this moment, in the moment that actually mattered, you were in his arms and that was the best place to be.

Crosshair closed his eyes, he had you in his arms, and for all the pain and suffering he went through, at least in these final moments. You were there with him. 

Main Master List   | Star Wars Jukebox Roulette |   AO3 Link

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