#this was nonsense going in about 6 different directions but i think about this a lot and i didn't want to lose this one in the ask box

[ch3rrybbie]

Shouldn’t have reposted that

Now I shall demand a homelander x fem reader coffee shop! Au at once!

Caffeine calls

Summary: he’s just some dude, kinda maybe. But he’s your favourite customer! And you’re his favourite…. mortal???

Warnings: flufffffffffffffff, Homelander being Homelander lol, yandere homelander?

ch3rrybbie says: I love you anon 😭 keep those demand coming yall r geniuses w ur requests. Kinda went for superman vibes??? Hope you like it 👉🏽👈🏽🥹 so sorry it took ages didn’t wanna rush it and be too awful I still think it’s bad hahah.

———

He came like clockwork.

Everyday for three weeks without fail. The timings differed but his presence he never did.

Six foot, perfect pearly teeth, golden hair, icy blue eyes and a thunderous laugh. He was powerful and everyone behaved when he came in, even the anxious shakes you got when serving someone.

A bell rings in the distance and you yell over your shoulder, “ Be with you in a sec!”

His smooth baritone chuckles back, “No rush sweetheart”.

You gasp and turn. And sure enough there he is amongst the stench of coffee and milk.

Mr H.

———

The first time he’d graced the shop his presence waved over the room.

Gasps and mutters filled the room, you ignored it deciding his gorgeous face was the root of this mass hysteria.

“Who shall I say the orders for?” You can’t help but beam at him, it was fifteen minutes before you’d finally taken his order. You been crying laughing at his anecdotes and jokes and he’d licked up you laughter with a devilish grin.

You’d already guessed his order, flat white no sugar no syrup no nonsense.

“Home-Joh- uh you can call me H” he shuffles awkwardly attempting to regain his lost composure.

Giggling you scribble Mr H on his cup with a tiny heart.

“Alright Mr H, coffee will be a few minutes”

“No rush sweetheart” he smirks at you.

———

“Morning H, you’re out early”

“Well you know me, babies to kiss and baristas to see”

And in no time you pull a coffee from behind the machine, ready and waiting for him, he slides over a twenty.

He was always generous.

You persist in your ignorance of customers flapping over him.

Taking him in with the little time you had, you decide his Vought baseball cap does nothing to hide his classic face.

The handsomeness of classic Americana, all pearly smiles and golden blonde hair.

Leaning over the counter a gestures to your hair.

“This is new!” He coolly exclaims, sending you scrambling to explain.

“Oh! I’m surprised you noticed I don’t know I just thought I needed a little change or-“ fumbling over yourself you scramble to come up with an excuse after all the criticism you’d received prior from others.

“It’s great” an affirmation if you’d ever heard one, his word was final.

Yet sensing the mistrust he persists.

“It’s perfect doll, in fact what are you up to tonight”

“Oh, well I um” insecurity seizes you, why you?.

He waggles a finger in your face.

“Let me decide for you, how about I pick you up around 6 ish and we go for some dinner?”

A smile whips across your face in anticipation sensing his apprehension peaking through you decide to oblige.

“I’m sure I could figure something out” you jest, the corner of your mouth twitching.

A fast knocking sounds at the window, a ginger woman in a bright canary jumpsuit signals the time to him and he rolls his eyes and stars to ready his departure.

He stands up from leaning across to you and directs a withering glance at her.

“Gotta go, world to save sweetheart. I’ll see you later” with a wink and a smile he’s gone as soon as he came.

Only problem was you didn’t remember telling him your address, and yet he said he’d pick you up?

[themoonlitquill]

Whispers Woven in Shadow. (6/?)

𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙞𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙚 𝙬𝙖𝙨 𝙖 𝙛𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙩𝙝 𝘼𝙧𝙘𝙝𝙚𝙧𝙤𝙣 𝙨𝙞𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧? 𝙃𝙤𝙬 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙣𝙜𝙚 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙣𝙖𝙧𝙧𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙫𝙚? 𝙒𝙝𝙖𝙩 𝙙𝙚𝙘𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣𝙨 𝙬𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙨𝙝𝙚 𝙢𝙖𝙠𝙚? 𝙏𝙝𝙞𝙨 𝙞𝙨 𝙝𝙚𝙧 𝙨𝙩𝙤𝙧𝙮.

𝗣𝗮𝗶𝗿𝗶𝗻𝗴 ; 𝖠𝗓𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗅 𝗑 𝖥𝖾𝗆!𝖮𝖢 (𝖾𝗏𝖾𝗇𝗍𝗎𝖺𝗅).

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞 ; HI. I meant to post this yesterday (like I did last week don’t hate me pls) but I didn’t like where I originally ended it so I revised and ta-daaa! 🪄 This one was a very fun one to write! It was going one direction and then ended up somewhere else, which I LOVED. And I hope you do too! 🩵 Alsooooo, the next chapter is already in the works and let’s just say I am STOKED for it. 🤩 Hehe. ENJOY!!

𝖳𝗋𝗂𝗀𝗀𝖾𝗋 𝖶𝖺𝗋𝗇𝗂𝗇𝗀𝗌 ; 𝗡𝗼𝗻𝗲??? 𝗢𝗺𝗴 𝗶𝘁'𝘀 𝗮 𝗺𝗶𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗹𝗲???

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗖𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁 ; 3553.

“The key to being a Daemati is discretion,” Rhysand stood in front of Ariadne, only a few feet away, with a rather serious expression in place. It was clear that what he was about to teach was important, no nonsense to be found, and she found herself thoroughly engaged. “Once you find your in, the last thing you want is to be discovered. It could be catastrophic otherwise, especially since you’re new at it.”

Her hands were clasped together behind her back, lips pursed. “That makes sense, but wouldn’t they be able to feel me enter somehow?”

“Not necessarily,” he picks a piece of lint off his sleeve. “When you’re in complete control and know what you’re doing, there’s nothing to be felt. Although,” the violet of his eyes were gleaming. “It also depends on if they’ve been trained against Daemati powers and if they have… it can be more complicated.”

“So there is a chance that I could be found out?” Ariadne frowns. “What do I have to do to prevent that?”

The High Lord smirks. “I’m so glad that you asked, littlest Archeron. That’s exactly what we’re going to work on today.”

“I have a name, you know,” her eyes were now narrowed into slits, annoyance set into the hard line of her mouth. “Use it.”

“You’re a sassy one, aren’t you?” Rhys chuckles under his breath. “Reminds me of Feyre.”

She swallows dryly, a pang hitting her chest. “I don’t want to talk about my sister with you.”

His shoulders lifted slightly and she had a feeling he had sighed, more than likely frustrated by the way she had shot him down. Not my problem. I don’t trust him. I don’t know if I trust any of them.

Ariadne takes a breath, the pain receding to a dull ache, and she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the pointed tip more prominent now. She didn’t know if she would ever get used to them. “Where do we start?”

The smirk diminishes as he straightens and it amazed her at how quickly he was able to switch from one emotion to another. It was almost too easy for him, which was a conundrum in itself. “Close your eyes.”

She hesitates for a moment, unsure, but obeys nonetheless.

“Now,” his tone is softer, more coaxing, like cool water flowing down a stream. “Picture a door. It can be any color, any shape, any size. Just be sure to put all of your focus on it.”

Slowly, Ariadne begins to conjure up what he had asked, allowing her subconscious to make the decisions for her; polished wood - ebony? - that was slightly worn with age, large enough for a grown person to fit through, and its handle curved into the shape of a crescent moon. She doesn’t know why, only that it felt right.

“Good,” Rhys hums approvingly. Could he see it too? It wouldn’t surprise her if he did. “The door isn’t yours, remember that, it belongs to someone else. Think of the mind as a house, full of locked rooms that hold a plethora of secrets.”

She gives a subtle nod, finding herself grateful for the way he was explaining things. Magic was a completely foreign concept to her and having powers, even more so. It wasn’t that she wouldn’t be able to figure it out if he approached it differently, but she’d rather it be done this way. Much easier.

A strange sensation brushed against the door then. It reminded her of nails scratching, not entirely unpleasant, though not comfortable either. There was an awareness that came with it, some sort of pressure, and she couldn’t help wondering exactly what it was.

“Do you feel that?” She nods again. “That’s me. I’m allowing you to sense that I’m trying to get in,” there’s a shift in the air and all of a sudden it disappears. “And now you can’t feel me anymore, correct?”

“Yes.”

“The goal isn’t to use brute strength, even though there will come a time when that’s necessary,” he pauses. “But for now, it’s about slipping through the cracks. There’s always a way in, Ariadne. Even if you don’t see it at first. Some houses leave windows left open, while others have weak locks. Sometimes there’s too many doors, which leads to things left unnoticed. Don’t force it. Follow your instincts and feel for the gaps.”

Ariadne exhales, finding her center where she stood and reaching out tentatively; it felt like her own opalescent barriers, though this time, it was extending towards the door she had created, moving along the outer edges in search of a way in.

Her brow draws together, coming up empty handed and leading to her releasing a frustrated huff. “I don’t- Wait!”

The shimmery mist gathers along the bottom left corner, probing at the wood and that’s when she feels it. A small hairline fracture, barely there, but it was possible, and that was all she needed. “I found it,” her tone was hushed, full of awe. Truthfully, she hadn’t put much stock into this and now she was a believer.

Rhys smiles. “Try to get through without me feeling you. I’ll wait.”

She takes a breath and holds it before pushing forward, allowing herself to slip into the crack, trying to be mindful of how much pressure she was putting behind it and there’s a whisper in the back of her thoughts, reminding her to be stealthy, as fleeting as a shadow. Her nails dig into the skin of her palms, teeth clenched, and she focuses on thinning out, bleeding through to the other side inch by inch.

“There you go. That’s it,” he encourages, watching her with a keen gaze that holds something akin to amazement, and he couldn’t help but marvel at her tenacity. “I can feel you, but just barely. If you keep practicing, I won’t be able to at all, which is saying something.”

Ariadne finally opens her eyes and she feels… accomplished. It wasn’t anything major - yet - and she still had work to do - a lot - and despite that, she had done it. There was progress made and she couldn’t help in feeling more determined than ever. This bit of success had served to further prove that she could do this, that she wasn’t going to be stuck, and she relished in it.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

As it turned out, Rhysand was a pretty good teacher. He was patient and explained things well, gave her praise when she earned it and corrected her when she made a mistake, though it wasn’t harsh, more on the constructive side than belittling her like she had expected. It was… nice, and she had learned enough to begin practicing on her own before they would eventually move to the next lesson.

There was no way she was ready for the whole ‘shattering minds’ aspect of it, but maybe Azriel had been right. It would be smart for her to at least know how to do it. Just in case.

And speaking of the elusive Shadowsinger…

Ariadne tilts her head, honey brown eyes roaming over bronze skin and swirls of black ink that adorned his upper arms, disappearing beneath the sleeves of his shirt. How many does he have? She wanted to ask and managed not to, especially after how he had reacted yesterday. Why did he leave like that? He owes an explanation. It was rude. If he doesn’t want to be around me, he should be an adult and say that. Are all Illyrians complete dicks?

She huffs and strides into the kitchen with purpose, dead set on confronting him and giving him a piece of her mind when he looks up, gold seeming to brighten, and causes her to falter, suddenly feeling warm all over.

“Hi.”

Azriel raises a single brow and she notes that he had stiffened, shoulders tense and shadows flitting about almost anxiously. “Hi.”

“How was your day?”

He balks. “My day?”

An uncharacteristic snort emits from her. “Yes, your day. It’s called having a conversation. You should try it. Unless you plan on leaving again without a reason why?”

Guilt flashes across his face and she places her hands on her hips expectantly. “I’m sorry.”

She softens. A little. “You shouldn’t have done it. If I do something to offend you, I’d much rather you tell me than running off and making me wonder what the hell it was I did. I’m a big girl, Azriel. I can handle the truth.”

He observes her silently for a moment. “I know you can.”

“Don’t do it again. Please,” she adds. “I want to be your friend and you’re making it harder than it needs to be.”

“Friends,” his jaw clenches and her head tilts curiously. Did he not want that? “Okay then. My day was… alright.”

Maybe he did. “Just alright? What did you do?”

“Trained with Cass.”

“What kind of training?”

“Hand to hand mostly,” he relaxes, slightly, some of the tension lifting. “Some flight maneuvers here and there.”

Ariadne perks up at that and leans against the counter, glancing at his wings briefly. “Did you ask him to race?”

“It may have come up.”

“And?”

“He agreed.”

“Oh, how exciting! When can we do it?”

“Whenever you want,” Azriel’s gaze intensifies and she feels heat creep up her neck. Why was he looking at her like that? “As the unbiased judge, we thought it only fair for you to be the one to choose.”

She hums. “Well, in that case, how about the end of the week? It’s only a few days away and it’ll give me time to write out a scorecard.”

“A scorecard?”

“Yes. It can’t just be based on how fast you are. That wouldn’t be as fun.”

He seems to think it over, lips twitching. “What are the other categories other than speed?”

“I can’t tell you that. Cassian isn’t going to get an advantage, why should you?” Ariadne raises an inquisitive brow, engaging in a silent challenge. “What’s fair is fair.”

“I don’t even get a hint?”

“No,” she releases an exaggerated sigh. “I’m afraid your skill will have to speak for itself.”

Azriel’s shoulders shake as his mouth curves up into a smile, the smallest hint of a dimple appearing and she finds herself fascinated by it, gaze zeroing in as her body leans over the counter. She wanted to see if he had another on the other side, but it was gone before she could ask.

She chews on the inside of her lower lip, suddenly finding herself at a loss for words; it seemed that happened a lot when she was around the Shadowsinger and she didn’t know why. It was like she had a million different things to say and couldn’t figure out how to string them in the right order to keep the conversation going.

It also didn’t help that she held a fear of him leaving again because she did something wrong that she was unaware of.

How was she supposed to navigate this?

Her mouth opens and then closes, brow furrowing, and she could see the shadows swirling about languidly, some slithering towards her and she wanted to touch them, wanted to touch him.

Wait, what? Ariadne shakes her head and resumes her incessant biting. Don’t do that. If you’ve learned anything, it’s that he’s an obvious flight risk.

Azriel watches silently and she had this weird feeling that he knew what she was thinking somehow. “They like you.”

She blinks. “Who?”

The shadows move closer and his head inclines slightly. “Them.”

Where had that come from? Their conversation in the library replays in her mind. He had pulled them away from her like it - she - was some sort of issue and now he was finally acknowledging it? It made no sense. Like everything else around here, she sighs.

“Maybe I’m better company than you are.”

His eyes widen a fraction and a low rumble reverberates in the back of her skull, warm and all-consuming. It sent tingles down the length of her spine and there was no doubt that it was a laugh. She was certain. Azriel was laughing. Maybe she wasn’t so bad after all.

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

Cassian was massive.

She had met him before and yet, she didn’t remember him being this big. It was sort of… intimidating. He looked like he could throw her through a wall and not even break a sweat. Her lips curve slightly at that. It was certainly entertaining to think about.

He stood next to Azriel and there was a shit-eating grin on his face, which only seemed to annoy the Shadowsinger and it was obvious that she was missing something.

But what?

Ariadne observes Cassian with interest, wondering how different he was from the others. He had to be a force or else he wouldn’t be the… What was his title? Lord of… Something, she tilts her head with a curious expression. Lord of Illyrians? What in the name of the stupid Cauldron was it?

She flicks her gaze to Azriel, silent questions in honey brown, and he elbows Cassian, chin dipping towards her and she wished more than anything that she knew them well enough to know exactly what they were saying without saying it.

“So, you can’t hear at all?”

A dark shadow passes over Azriel’s face that she chooses to ignore, mostly, and she shakes her head. “Not in the traditional sense. I mostly go by touch and sight.”

“That’s gotta be a pain in the ass.”

Ariadne fights a smile. Oh, I like him, she steps forward, eyes roaming leisurely. “Believe it or not, you get used to it.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Cassian looks down at her with amusement. “You’re really tiny.”

She scoffs, hands moving to rest on her hips. “You don’t miss much,” her neck tilts back in time with her perusal. “Which is surprising considering I didn’t think you’d be able to see from all the way up there.”

He barks out a laugh. “You’ve got my vote.”

What was that supposed to mean?

Azriel rolls his eyes, arms moving to cross over his chest. “Ignore him. I do.”

“It’s impossible to ignore me,” Cassian interjects. “Don’t listen to him. He’s cranky and needs a nap.”

Ariadne nearly laughed at that and it was a bit of a surprise at how comfortable she was with him already. Rhysand, she was still wary of, and Azriel… well, she wasn’t quite sure what she felt where he was concerned, but Cassian? He was a breath of fresh air and she liked that he didn’t seem to take himself too seriously. She thought they might end up being fast friends, which she was in no position to say no to.

“Or maybe you just get on his nerves.”

His grin widens - if that was even possible - and catches the small chuckle from Azriel, the rare sound a surprise and he found himself stunned for a moment; his brother could deny it as much as he wanted, but it was evident that there was something there and it pained him that he couldn’t speak on it, not unless he wished to come to blows and the last time that happened, it hadn’t ended well.

“She has a point,” the Shadowsinger gives Cassian a knowing look, who huffs in return. “I’ve never heard any complaints,” he focuses back on the youngest Archeron. “I could never. He loves me too much.”

Her eyes rolled, though there was no malice, only a subtle fondness that softened her features. “I wouldn’t push my luck if I were you,” a small hum emits from her throat. “Have either of you decided what you want the prize to be if you win the race?”

“I’ve been waiting for this!” Cassian claps his hands together, a mischievous glint in his gaze. “Oh, right,” he smiles sheepishly at Ariadne. “Sorry, this’ll take some getting used to. Anyway,” he perks back up. “I’ve been thinking that since you’ve shown so much interest in flying… That the winner gets to take you for the first time.”

Azriel tenses and so do his shadows. “Absolutely not.”

He ignores him, practically giddy, and continues on without missing a beat. “Az told me about this scorecard you’re making and since you’re the one judging, it makes sense for the winner to be the one to do it. You know,” Cassian’s grin returns. “Safety and all.”

“I said no,” Azriel bites out, jaw hard. Was he out of his mind?

“I like that idea,” Ariadne had noted the Spymaster’s reaction and it was the ten-thousandth thing that she added to the ‘makes no sense’ pile. “But instead of just going for a flight, why not make it more interesting?” There’s a brief silence and she took that as her sign that they were agreeing with her. “I want to go down to the city and explore. I’m sick of being in this house, no offense,” she glances up at the ceiling before returning to the two Illyrians. “I need to get out and the winner gets to be my escort slash tour guide.”

“Excellent!” Cassian pats Azriel on the shoulder. “I bet you’ll make sure you win now,” he winks playfully at the little Fae. “You’ve got yourself a deal!”

₊˚✧𑁍.ೃ࿔*:･

You are excited.

Ariadne looks down at the shadow encircled around her wrist, eyes brightening. Hi! Long time, no see! Wait, how can you tell I’m excited?

You wear your emotions plainly, it tightens its grip in a quick squeeze. It is easy to tell.

I never really noticed, she gives a half-shrug. But you’re right, I have something to look forward to at the end of the week. I get to fly to the city!

Velaris.

Yes, Velaris, her eyes move to the open archway across the room. I’ll be out of this house for the first time since that damn Cauldron and be around other people and check the shops and see that pretty river and be normal.

It was all she wanted; to have the opportunity to venture out and be a part of something instead of locked away in a hypothetical tower - that was actually a magic house - away from curious glances and speculation. Though, she found she didn’t care what the reaction would be to her, only that she was finally going to be free, even if it was just for a little while.

Who are you going with?

She blinked down at the shadow, watching it shimmer as it flowed around her wrist. They really were beautiful. Oh, I don’t know yet. I’ll find out at the end of the race in a couple days.

It is your decision who wins, is it not?

Yeah, it is, Ariadne hums and ghosts her fingertips over the sleek obsidian. Why was it so important? Why had Azriel said no? She had caught that - despite her lack of skill in that department - and hadn’t stopped thinking about it since. I want it to be fair, though. That’s why I made the scorecards. I split it into different categories.

You made a scorecard?

She huffs, not liking the fact that it felt like it was laughing at her. What was the big damn deal? It was the perfect way to judge!

Yes, that way I can take into account a few other things needed to win a race other than speed.

Such as?

Agility, form, and endurance, she raises a single brow, daring the shadow to tease her again. It doesn’t just take being the fastest. What about the air currents? The way they extend their wings and how far? What if something gets in their way and they have to go around it?

Like what?

What kind of a question was that? Ariadne throws her hand up, a second huff emitting from her lips, though more exasperated this time. I don’t know! A tree?

A tree in the middle of the sky?

Are you serious right now? I don’t know how high they’ll be flying!

It would have to be a very tall tree, the breathy whisper was lighter and she realized then that it was laughing at her. What a beastly little thing! She wanted to flick it.

I’m not talking to you anymore if you’re going to keep making fun of my scorecard!

Me? Making fun? Never.

She releases a frustrated sound and flicks it, eyes narrowed. Be nice!

Says the one who just wounded me.

Oh, don’t be dramatic. You’re fine, she rolls her eyes, but carefully rubs a small circle with her thumb, slow and soothing. I thought it was a good idea. There isn’t much to do around here, so I figured I’d go all in.

The shadow wraps around her forearm and squeezes, the temperature cool against her skin. It is. Your mind is fascinating and I enjoy seeing how you respond to things.

So that’s what that was? Ariadne purses her lips, watching as it moves further up until it’s on her shoulder and twirling through her hair. It seemed to like it there the best. What a weird way to go about it.

Not weird at all, little moon. You will soon see.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ; @ashblooddragons , @rcarbo1 , @waytoomanyteenagefeels , @prettylittlewrites , @tele86 , @missxmarvelous , @herondale-lightworm , @kabekusa , @fr0stf4ll .

[lightofraye]

Debunking Nonsense Against Jared

There's apparently some crap about Jared that is just absolute nonsense. Full of lies and bullshit.

It'd be one thing if people just didn't like him. It happens. Not everyone is likeable. You're not expected to like him. But don't pull up lies to explain why you don't like him. Especially when they've been debunked again and again and again.

1. The "racist" tattoo. Y'all, this is nonsense. It's been debunked over and over and over. It's not a racist tattoo. For one, it's lacking the logo of "Come and take it", which would make it a racist tattoo. But a lone star above a cannon does not a racist tattoo make.

Jared is a proud Texan. He also donates to many a charity and organization that help people, speaking out about them often. Not to mention, prior to pro-gun rights appropriating the symbol and logo, it stood for a proud history in Texas. Jared would've known.

So how about instead of focusing on a mere tattoo, come up with more proof that Jared is a racist? Hmm?

Besides, if you're mad at Jared's tattoo, are you then mad at Jensen's t-shirt, which did show the saying as well?

2. Fighting with fans online. Oh come on. Misha's done it. (Misha's done worse, in fact.) Danneel's done it. Jared doing it does not a bad person make. And I don't think he's done it in a long time.

And of course, people will go "Danneel was hitting back!" And? What's the difference? Jared was hitting back too. Danneel went a step farther most of the time, siccing her followers on them, threatening them with Clif, even ran crying to Clif because people were being "mean".

3. RE: Prequelgate. Give me a fucking break! Jared was right to be upset! He called and texted Jensen for hours before he gave up and responded to that tweet about The Winchesters announcement. Jensen also lied about not being allowed cellphones on The Boys set. When they weren't filming, they were allowed. (Of course they can't have their cellphones on their person during filming, unless it suited the scene!) Besides all that, Jared honestly didn't know about it! Kripke was even shocked when he learned Jared didn't know! Supernatural and its legacy is as much Jared's as it was Jensen's! The whole freakin' industry gave Jensen a massive side-eye for his unprofessional behavior. Kevin Smith, a man who has directed, written, and acted in the industry, thought it was uncool. Also, Jared wasn't drunk.

4. Supposed bully accusations. I'd need to see more of this to believe it, but outside of occasionally putting Misha in his bullshit place, I've never heard of Jared bullying anyone. Everyone he's worked with has sung his praises. The only one who hasn't is Misha and that's because Jared won't let Misha put him down. And in fact, has had to step in to stop Misha from torturing Jensen. So fuck off with your noise.

5. His fanbase. Is he now responsible for his fanbase? I never knew that. What about Misha's fanbase sending Jensen death threats for denouncing Destiel? Has Misha ever stopped that? What about AAs hoping for Jared to suicide after Walker was cancelled?

6. What about Genevieve? Oh come on! Do I like that Gen is featuring the kids a lot? Myself, no. But if Jared was truly bothered by it, I'm sure he would've spoken to Genevieve. And Gen isn't any different than many other mommy influencers. I'm not keen on exploiting the kids like that, but would you say the same about Danneel abruptly grabbing the kids at Wales Comic Con and dragging them out for a photo op? All because she had no one in line for her autographs and desperate for attention?

7. Jared's Hair. Apparently there are some claiming Jared had gotten hair plugs. My response to that is: So what? Misha's had plastic surgery (trust me, it's obvious--his eyes and clearly lip fillers). Danneel's had worse--her hair is fried, bad extensions, plastic surgery galore that has ruined her hair line because of facelifts, fillers, Botox, and breast implants (twice!). Jensen's likely had a bit of work too.

So. Fucking. What. About Jared's hair?

--

Come up with truthful reasons to hate Jared, hmm? Not bullshit.

[maxdibert]

“Sirius killed people-“ so did Snape, supposedly loved Lily but betrayed her location to Voldemort because he was jealous of James actually winning her heart, not to mention convincing Harry the abuse was his fault, nearly giving Neville PTSD to the point where his boggart was Severus Snape himself, being a racist pos to anyone born of muggle parents, and becoming a high ranking member of the death eaters so what? He could protect Harry?

“It’s easier to cry in a Ferrari-“

it’s easier to defend a terrible character and play the racism and eat the rich card when you can’t understand context and inference clues that JK Rowling laid out.

What’s easy is inventing canon. What a load of made-up nonsense, mate.

1. Learn to read. I didn’t say Sirius killed anyone, but he did attempt murder. And he did it because he thought it was funny to torture Severus.

2. There’s no evidence that Severus killed anyone before Dumbledore asked him for euthanasia. This is made quite clear when Dumbledore talks about his concern for Draco’s soul, and Severus immediately questions him about his own soul. If Severus is so worried about it, it’s implied he hadn’t killed anyone before—or at least not in cold blood.

3. Have you even read the books? The only person who knew the Potters’ location was Peter. He’s the one who betrayed them.

4. There’s no evidence he was a racist. First off, equating racism with the concept of blood purity not only trivializes a serious social issue but also makes it clear that some of you have no idea what racism is or its history. The discriminatory dynamics and their foundations are completely different. But anyway, putting that aside, there’s no evidence whatsoever that Severus discriminated against Muggle-borns. The only time he makes a comment is during the incident with Lily—which, conveniently, happens when James and Sirius are sexually assaulting him, and Lily seems to smile at James. I don’t think you can judge someone’s ideology based on a comment made in an extremely tense moment. Canonically, Severus doesn’t treat Muggle-born students worse in class or make comments about their heritage. Nor does he badmouth Muggles. At most, he makes condescending remarks—which, let’s be real, all the characters do, even the “good ones,” because they’re ridiculously patronizing toward Muggles.

5. Severus was literally a double agent and reached the highest ranks of the Death Eaters to, yes, protect Harry. That’s literally why. He’s following Dumbledore’s orders. Like, have you read the books, or are you just pulling this stuff from fanfics? 99% of what you’ve said so far is pure fantasy, mate.

6. Yes, love, it’s actually pretty easy for me to defend people whose actions are a direct consequence of their life circumstances, and whose poor decisions were directly influenced by a lack of opportunities, security, and the violence of their environment. In fact, that’s literally my job. That’s what I do for a living.

Look, I don’t give a damn if you’re a Sirius fangirl. You can love a character while admitting he was a massive piece of crap. I love The Penguin, and there’s no way to justify him at all. Like, it’s fine, you know? You also have every right to feel sorry for him—I’m not going to judge you for that or anything. I’m not invalidating other people’s feelings if they think Sirius’s life was super tragic and feel a lot of compassion for him. Everyone has their own feelings and points of empathy. But that’s not the case for me. I don’t feel sorry for him. There’s no excuse for being an abusive bully with sociopathic tendencies toward someone who was canonically in a position of social and economic disadvantage. If Severus had come from a good family, with money and power—or if Sirius had been someone without a name, wealth, or status—then I’d view the situation differently because they would have been on equal footing. But just like the Black family chose Muggle-borns to torture because they knew they could, Sirius chose Severus because he knew he could. He’s a hypocrite and a piece of garbage. At least Bellatrix admitted her tendencies.

[say-hwaet]

If I Had to Do it All Again

Chapter 23: Nevada, Part II Next Chapter: Twenty-Four Summary: Eliza is about to discover what life is like in front of the curtain. Arthur is about to rediscover his hidden motivation…and temptation. Warnings: Mature Themes, language, danger, little spiciness Word Count: ~12,900 A/N: I will preface that I did get some inspiration for Hosea's comedy bit. While I think I have some comedy-writing chops, I know that the humor back then was a little different than what we deem humorous nowadays, and I will share my resource here: “6 Jokes from 19th Century America.” NPR.org, www.npr.org/sections/npr-history-dept/2015/11/10/455415340/6-jokes-from-19th-century-america. Plus, it kind of goes into the clever idea that Hosea is just as much as unoriginal as he is original. He picks and chooses when to use his brainpower. I dunno. I thought it was a clever easter egg at the time.

“Are you sure I have to wear all this getup?” you ask under your breath. You can only see the lower hall of your body, not having a mirror, and your costume is nearly ridiculous. If it was just pants and a button-down blouse, you wouldn’t bat an eye.

But it’s makeup, a ridiculous hat with a red feather, green pantaloons, and high-laced boots.

“I look like a demented safari hunter.”

Sean cackles behind you as he readies himself for his part in this scheme. He insisted that Josiah have a part for him and, not wanting to endure his begging any longer, Josiah relented.

The magician ignores Sean’s cackling, and tries to reassure you of his plan. “Nonsense, dear girl! You need to wear all the colors to avoid being washed out! Besides, you want to be seen from the farthest reaches of the theatre, you are the main act!”

Hosea, standing a little ways off, casts a reassuring glance towards you. His eyes softening at the edges betray his concern, but he nods slightly, encouraging you to go on with it. “Just do what Josiah told you and you will do fine. And even if something does go wrong, there will be a few of us in the audience, ready to back you up.”

“It won’t go wrong, I assure you!” Josiah huffs before handing you the decorated pistol. “It will still sound loud like a real shot, but you won’t hit a thing!”

You take a deep breath as you let it slide in the holster, then adjust the absurd hat on your head and smooth out the pantaloons that puff around your legs. You almost recant your statement earlier—you’d rather sing in front of strangers than this. “I don’t know if that is supposed to help me feel better or more stupid.”

Sean laughs again, kicking his legs as he sits on an old barrel. “I could answer dat for ya!”

“Sean, shut it!” Hosea barks, swatting the air at him. “You say anything more to her and you’ll sit this one out.”

Sean’s grin instantly disappears, and his mouth goes agape. “Oi, you can’t do dat, Hosea! I earned dis job fair and square…!”

Hosea lunges at Sean who quickly flinches, raising his bent knees to form a defensive ball as he sits. “What you earned is a good horsewhipping!” Hosea snaps at him again, already annoyed by his antics. 

And Javier, who has been quietly observing while he sharpens his throwing knives, chuckles softly. “Es más ruidoso que un caballo, con todos esos lloriqueos que hace…”

Sean, while having no knowledge of the Latin language, gets enough from the chuckle and gleam in the desperado’s eye. He hops off the barrel, making a beeline in his direction. “Say it ta me face, pretty boy! I bet ya too scared ta say it in English!” Hosea intercedes and puts a firm hand on Sean’s chest. “Lemme at ‘em! He could use a good punch in de face…!”

“This is not the time, or the place, gentlemen! Save your rabble-rousing for later!” Josiah sighs almost exasperatedly, as though he were dealing with children. 

And being a mother yourself, you would have a difficult time disagreeing with that idea. 

“He don’t need a pretty face when throwin’ stupid knives at a wooden board!”

Josiah suddenly gasps, tapping his forehead with his gloved hand. “Oh! Good gracious, I forgot to tell you!” He grips Sean firmly by the shoulder, his strength taking the red headed teenager by surprise. “His target isn’t a silly little board, that would be too easy! Lackluster.” His eyes suddenly intensify, revealing the mischievous glint. “It is you.”

Sean’s face drains of color, his usual bravado fizzling out as quickly as it flared. "Me!?" His voice cracks, the usual cockiness replaced by a shaky dread. "You're jokin', right?"

Josiah's smile widens, almost devilishly. "Oh, not at all! In fact, it will be rather exciting, don't you agree?" Josiah's tone is teasing, but his eyes betray no jest.

Sean stumbles backward, tripping over his own feet, his gaze darting from Josiah to Javier, searching for any sign that this might be a mere ruse. "But...but I ain't no man's target!" Sean's voice is stricken with panic, the playful undertone completely vanished.

Javier stops sharpening his knife and looks up with a smirk, his eyes twinkling with mischief. "Don't worry, Sean," he says in a tone that does little to soothe. “I hit my targets.” He finishes sharpening the blade and lets it fly in the air before catching it expertly between his fingers. “Most of time.”

Sean's face pales even further, if possible, and he swallows hard. His usual flippant demeanor has evaporated into thin air, replaced by a visible tremor that travels down his spine. He looks around, possibly contemplating a quick escape, but his pride prevents him from doing so.

And somehow sensing this struggle, Hosea goes for the kill. “Come now, young man, where’s that Celtic Warrior courage of yours?” Hosea’s voice is both mocking and coaxing, the old schemer enjoying the unfolding drama a little too much.

Sean straightens up, his jaw setting firmly as though locking away his fear. “Right,” he exhales sharply. “Let’s get dis over wit.”

Josiah pats Sean on the shoulder, grinning from ear to ear. “Very good, dear boy! Once we hear the first round of applause, my friend is going to give us the stage. On my cue, you and Javier will perform following Hosea’s bit.”

The tension in the air is palpable as the rest of the performers, being you and Davey, join the others and gather around Joisah, your faces a mixture of amusement and anticipation. Sean, trying his best to muster courage, nods stiffly. Javier claps him on the back, a little too hard, sending a jolt through Sean’s already tense body.

Josiah rubs his hands together. “Now, while Strauss handles the sleight of hand with the ticket sales, we are going to distract the crowd in here. We want people to keep coming, so if this show goes well, there may be an encore.”

You blink. “More?” You feel a tension in your chest. “I thought this was going to be one time.”

Josiah's mustache twitches with a hint of impatience. "My dear, the more successful we are, the more opportunities arise. We must adapt and embrace the possibilities." His gaze sweeps across the group, ensuring each member feels the weight of his words.

Hosea steps closer to you, his presence reassuring. "It will be alright, my dear. The goal is to bring in interest from those with large pocketbooks. Josiah here aims to steal a large coach.”

This is news to you. “A coach?”

“Yes! One with gold trim and velvet curtains. From none other than one of the greatest talent scouts in the western hemisphere!” Josiah’s eyes twinkle with mischief and opportunity, a combination that usually spells trouble. "Think of it, Eliza. This could set you up for a good while, and more importantly, it could give you the leverage you all need to negotiate your terms on various fronts.”

You raise a brow. “Then what’s in it for you? Surely, you would do better to travel in style than a bunch of dirty outlaws like us.”

Davey chuckles heartily. “So nice of ye ta group yerself with the lot of us, lass.”

You elbow him in the side, but he only laughs louder.

“You can sell it, travel in it, do what you will. It doesn’t matter. For me, it is the simple satisfaction that Mr. Rutledge be left high and dry for once. Reject my magic act, will he? Ha!” Josiah’s laugh echoes around the backstage corridor, catching the attention of a couple of nearby crew members who quickly look away, pretending to adjust ropes and lanterns. “He will soon discover talent, but by then it will be too late!”

You aren’t holding your breath. You still have yet to go on stage.

And as though on cue, you hear the applause of the audience and a jovial fanfare.

Josiah clasps his hands together, the glint in his eyes sharp as flint. “It is showtime, everyone! Wait for the signal!”

You turn to Hosea, hoping that he will give you some last-minute encouragement. “I guess this is it,” you say softly.

Hosea nods. “Indeed it is. You will do fine.”

Your brow pinches. “You said there will be some of us in the audience…” you begin to say and you swallow thickly. “Can I ask…is Arthur one of them?”

Hosea only grins and begins to take backward steps towards the exit. “What do you think?”

And with that, he slips away.

And with nothing else to distract your thoughts, you catch the tail end of the host’s words, loud and full of energy, as he tries to entice the audience to pay attention to the night’s performers. “The artists and performers that I have for you tonight have traveled far and wide to be here before you. From the reaches of the eastern coast to the mesas of South America, they bring a medley of wonders and thrills that will leave you on the edge of your seats!"

Your heart races as you adjust the gun belt on your hip, feeling the rough fabric of your pantaloons scratches at your hands, a stark reminder of the reality of what you're about to do. You glance over at Sean, who’s busy fiddling with his own outfit, a vibrant green bandana pulled tight around his neck, the nervous energy palpable as he pats his pockets to make sure he's got everything he needs.

"Ready for this?" you whisper to him, trying to steady your own jittering nerves.

Sean flashes a mischievous grin, his eyes twinkling with the excitement of the upcoming performance, his confidence returning to him. "Sure am, darlin’. It's gonna be a grand show, don't ya worry about me."

As you both prepare to be in the lamplight, a sudden rush of adrenaline courses through you. The crowd's murmurs grow into anticipatory silence, and the fanfare roars again.

Taking it as a sign, Josiah straightens his bowtie as he brushes past Javier and steps out onto the stage and a roar of applause erupts from the audience. Daring to get a better look, you shimmy behind the curtain, keeping your back against it to obscure your body. The lights brighten over the crowd, casting a golden glow over their expectant faces. You take a deep breath, steadying your hand on the revolver at your side. The gun feels heavier tonight—weighted with the significance of the performance and the piercing eyes you imagine might be on you from the dark shadows of the audience. Even being part of a gang, you never imagined you’d be in a situation like this. 

“Good evening, dear ladies and gents…!” Josiah immediately assumes a flamboyant posture and removes his hat in a large bow. “We are so pleased to be with you this evening. We have much in store for you. Some laughs, some thrills, and, of course, surprises! We always find it fitting to start off with aching bellies. And I mean that in the nicest way…” He looks off-stage and makes a gesturing sweep with his arm. “May I present, Melvin McGrabe and his perfectly comedic timing!”

That is Hosea’s cue. He immediately takes bold strides into the lamplight, opening his arms wide and smiling broadly. Josiah slips away seamlessly, leaving Hosea to his audience. 

“Howdy, folks! My name is Melvin and I want to thank y’all for bein’ here tonight!” Hosea has assumed a southern drawl, even changing his posture and mannerisms as he moves confidently across the stage. “I’ve made many tracks over this here country, and boy do I have a lotta stories to tell!” He holds out his hands, as though to pause his train of thought. “Forgive me if I am unable to refrain from actin’ these stories out, my mother was an actress, God rest her soul, and it’s just somethin’ I inherited along with her brown eyes and my father’s temper.”

The audience chuckles. He’s warming them up. 

“Speakin’ of my ma, I wanna tell you somethin’ that we all can relate to, as most of us came out of a mother’s womb, others seem to have come outta nowhere…Anyway, my ma was a hard worker. Never bought our clothes, always made them by hand. Heck, if she was given sheep she’d probably make her own wool! There came a point where I got tired of all the patches and was gettin’ sassy. I wanted her to buy me a nice pair from the store, but she refused!”

One day, during her typical mending hour, she called me into the living room and began to scold me. She said,” and adopting a high-pitched shrill voice he takes on the character of a Mrs. McCabe. “Now, Melvin! There’s two holes in these pants I just fixed for yous!” Well, I puffed out my chest and simply said, ‘Well, yeah, that’s where I puts my feet through, Ma!”

The audience laughs, amused by the familiar conflict between mother and child. You laugh and cover your mouth, lest it carry out onto the stage. 

“It weren’t long after that that I left home, seekin’ my fortune so I can buy a wide array of pants and silk scarves. Since then I’ve been everywhere in this here land! Hey, speakin’ of travels, I got a story for ya…” Hosea adjusts his stance and grins mischievously at the audience. “This is a good one, promise.” There are soft chuckles from the seats before him. “Okay, so a friend and I was passin’ a house on the road, maybe in Virginia or Vermont, can’t remember which, and we spotted a very peculiar chimney. You might be wonderin’, ‘Now what’s so interestin’ about a chimney?’ Well, aside from bein’ unfinished, it was made in a most… distractin’ shape!”

Some of the audience begin to laugh, seemingly catching onto the story. 

Hosea grins, glad that some have caught on. He grips the lapel of his costume and rocks backward on his boot heels. “So, it attractin’ our attention, we asked a flaxen-haired urchin standin’ near the house…” Hosea then changes his stance, acting as though he were a younger version of himself, and pantomimes lifting a hat off his head in greeting. “S’cuse me, sir! Does that there chimney of yours draw well?” His body relaxes and continues. “Whereupon the aforementioned urchin gave us the stingin’ retort,” Then, scrunching his face, Hosea adopts a disgruntled expression of the urchin and speaks in a near screeching voice. “'Yes, it draws all the attention of all the damned fools that pass this road!'”

You gasp softly at his joke, and stifle your laugh, wanting to save face at its brazenness. The audience doesn’t seem to have so many scruples, as they laugh and applaud at Hosea’s first bit. You aren’t sure if Hosea made that up on the fly or had read it somewhere, but it is clear that no one here has ever heard it. 

“Yep, I’ve had the pleasure of meetin’ all kinds of people. Some nice, some mean. You know, one of the quickest ways to meet new folks is by either goin’ to a saloon or a church. Seein’ as I had my fair share of saloons, I got the wild hair to walk into a church one day. It was a quaint little buildin’ with nice people. Very friendly towards a lone straggler like me.”

Hosea lifts his chin slightly, gazing past the reaches of the audience, as though envisioning that make-believe scene in his make-believe yarn. “I sat down for the sermon, and normally I’d leave right after, but the womenfolk had made lunch and I just couldn’t resist the invitation.”

Some of the men chuckle at his remark, the silent acknowledgment that men just can’t resist a decent meal. 

“I sat close to the preacher and he dared ask me what my thoughts were. And, for some reason, I felt impressed not to lie and so I said,” Again, taking on a more youthful persona, Hosea portrays a younger version of himself. “That was an excellent sermon, but it weren’t original."”

There are some gasps from a few women, no doubt from the audacity of the once young Melvin McCabe to even criticize a man of the cloth, but Hosea is unabated. 

He nods fervently. “I know, quite shocking, weren’t I? Well, obviously, the preacher was taken aback and questioned my grounds for such a statement. So I said, “I have a book back at home that contains every word you said!” He demanded I prove my claim and I said I’d bring the book the next day.” He looks about the audience, spotting a young man in the front row. “Don’t think I did it?” The man shakes his head. “Well, you must be a preacher, then.”

The audience laughs but Hosea isn’t finished. 

“To his surprise, and yours, I did return with the book! The next day I brought the preacher a dictionary…!”

The crowd erupts into laughter, clapping and slapping their knees as Hosea beams, relishing the roaring approval from his makeshift congregation of aristocrats and misfits. You watch the various faces, their features lit by the flickering glow of campfire light, their laughter genuine, a rare and precious melody in the often grim tapestry of the frontier. Amidst the levity, you catch Arthur’s eye from across the flames; his gaze holds a warmth reserved just for you, a silent admission of shared joy in this small respite from the chaos of your lives.

Before holding his gaze for too long, you quickly duck back behind the curtain, your breath nearly taken from you.

Hosea continues to perform his comedic bit, reenacting characters either fact or fiction, and the crowd gets in a cackling uproar. You never expected it to go this well, though never doubting Hosea’s talent. It’s a shame that he’s turned to a life of crime. Even though he’s rarely shot anyone or taken from those less fortunate, you see the potential in his way with people, all the good that he can do. 

How did he get all wrapped up in this? Why is he still here?

As he finishes, he takes a bow and some of the audience stands in ovation. “Thank you! Thank you!” Hosea calls out, and waves them goodbye as he strolls offstage. 

You back into the curtain to allow him room to slip away, just as Josiah comes out again to introduce the next act. 

His voice is drowned out as you turn to look backstage again, seeing Javier ready his knives. Sean looks at their glinting sheen silently, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows nervously. 

“Why don’cha use dem fake knives, Javier? I mean, as long as de crowd don’t know, what’s de point?”

Javier keeps his chin tucked but lifts his eyes, his brown irises piercing in near darkness. “I don’t do fake. Keep mouth shut and stay still.”

Sean clamps his mouth and you all hear Josiah roar energetically. “And now, the great knife thrower, Señor Delgado of Mexico…!”

There are audible “ooh’s” and “ah’s” from the audience as Javier steps into the limelight, his knives catching the firelight from the stage floor lamps and shining menacingly. The crowd's anticipation builds into a palpable tension that stretches across the gathering like a drawn bowstring.

And Sean, more reluctant, steps out onto the stage.

Backstage, you feel your own heart beat faster, each thump echoing against your ribcage as if trying to keep pace with the rhythm of the knives that soon would be whizzing through the air. Fear for Sean gnaws at your insides, a reminder of your constant worry for all those you’ve grown to care about in this ragtag family of outlaws and performers.

Once Josiah slips out of sight, you peek back around the curtain, watching as Javier positions himself, his eyes calmly meeting Sean and he gestures to the large wooden board positioned on lower stage left.

His silent command says it all.

Sean lets out a sharp exhale, resulting in thrilling the audience. They anticipate the potential danger just as much as, if not more than, Sean.

The young Irish man walks steadily to the wooden board and, turning around, lets his back meet the wall and he stands still. He lets himself close his eyes; he cannot bear to watch his life flash before his eyes.

Javier’s arm shoots up, a knife in hand, poised like a serpent ready to strike. The crowd falls into a hushed silence, every breath held in suspense.

The first knife flies, slicing the air with a sharp hiss before embedding itself mere inches from Sean's ear. The crowd gasps, a collective intake of breath that fills the night with its urgency. Javier, unfazed, sends another knife spinning through the air, this time landing even closer to Sean's other side, pinning the lad’s hat brim into the wood.

Sean’s eyes pop open at the impact, a mix of fear and relief washing over his face as he realizes he's still unharmed. “Javier, What the fo—?!”

Javier tosses another one, and as it lands right between Sean’s legs, the chunk of its impact nearly makes you jump.

“My name…is Delgado,” Javier says lowly, resuming the persona that Josiah has tasked him with.

And his delivery, so dramatic and full of mystery, sends a thrill through the onlookers.

And with a flourish as fashionable as his attire, Javier throws two final knives at the same time, both landing with a resounding thunk on either side of Sean's shoulders, effectively trapping his jacket against the board. The crowd erupts into applause, their cheers and shouts filling the night air with excitement and disbelief.

Sean, visibly shaken but unscathed, gives a nervous chuckle as he slips out of his jacket and bows slightly, playing off the terror that had gripped behind his eyes as part of the show.

The act now over, you finally let out the breath you didn’t realize you had been holding. Your heart pounds in harmony with the rhythmic clapping of the crowd, each beat echoing the danger and drama of life on stage and on the run. This could all be successful, but it could also fall apart.

There’s still your performance left.

You and Davey haven’t had much time to rehearse, but Josiah explained it pretty plainly. You are to appear as one of the greatest markswomen and animal huntresses of all time. Under a veil of smoke and mirrors, you are to perform various tricks while Davey works behind the scenes, dressed in black, to make your trick shots look real.

And now, it’s happening.

“Now, our next and final performance for you tonight is the last for a reason. We wanted to leave you in awe, inspired, and asking for more!” Josiah waits for the crowd to settle more, hearing their intrigued awe before continuing with a sly smile. "Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you—Miss Winona Coyote, the sharpshooting sensation who will dazzle you with her uncanny aim and death-defying feats!"

You feel the flutter of nerves in your stomach as you step into the spotlight, Davey hidden in the black backdrop. You don’t know how this is going to work, but that’s the whole point. You don’t have to believe it.

The audience does.

***

Arthur wasn’t sure what he was expecting when he heard Josiah introduce a sharpshooting woman to come out on stage. But even beneath all that makeup and ridiculous garb, he knows that it is you. He hears a group of men laugh behind him in the many rows of seats, and he’s tempted to turn around and shut them up, but refrains. He’s only here to make sure that you’re swept away if something goes wrong.

Mac, as he sits next to him, is another addition of security and his eyes wander about the stage in search of his brother. “Davey said he was doin’ his bit with Eliza,” he says under his breath for only Arthur to hear. “Do ye see him?”

Arthur takes his attention away from the cackling groupies to search the stage for the young Scott, but doesn’t see him. “No, but I bet he can see you,” he teases.

Mac doesn’t turn, but gives him a sideways glare. “Ye think yer funny, lad, don’t’cha?”

Arthur chuckles and pats Mac on the back. “Just don’t get caught up in lookin’ or you’ll miss the show.”

Mac snorts at that. “Me? Ye should speak for ye own self. Gettin’ all sappy eyes already.”

Arthur rolls his eyes but doesn't respond, his gaze fixed back on the stage as you begin your performance. His eyes follow your movements, as the floor lights cast long, dramatic shadows behind you as you load the pistol with practiced ease.

Just as he taught you.

He wonders if you can see him. Your eyes had met moments before, but he wasn’t sure if you were just looking out or not. But you are so focused now, and he can see the shakiness of your body as you attempt to conceal how scared you are.

There is a setup of several bottles, of various sizes, that will show increased levels of marksmanship. There is also a large, ornate mirror at the very end of the line, a bold choice considering its likelihood to shatter. Arthur's heart clenches at the thought of glass shards possibly flying toward you, a hidden danger in an already risky demonstration. There is also a mirror behind you and his curiosity allows him to wonder what it could possibly be for.

It is then that you lift your head, your shadowed eyelids relaxed. You take a soft inhale and with the gun in your right hand, you raise your arm. As you take aim, the crowd falls into a hushed anticipation. The air grows thick with tension, and even the flames seem to hold their breath. Your hand steadies as you line up the shot, your focus narrowing to the tiny necks of the glass bottles.

Arthur watches, his every muscle tensed, ready to leap forward should anything go wrong.

But the only sound he hears is the subtle flutter of your exhale. And you pull the trigger. Even if the performance is a farce, as Josiah reassured him, there’s something in his gut issuing a warning.

But the only sound he hears is the subtle flutter of your exhale. And you pull the trigger.

The shot rings out, crisp and clear in the still air, echoing off the wooden structures surrounding the grandiose stage. The first bottle shatters spectacularly, sending glass shards dancing into the sunlight like cruel little diamonds. The crowd gasps, a sound rippling through them like a gust of wind through tall grass.

And Arthur feels his heart leap in his chest. That looked too real.

He sees the subtle reaction in your face. The puzzled look on your brow. You feel it, too. But will you dare say anything?

You lick your lips, eyeing the pistol in your hands. You lift your eyes and look towards the back of the stage, looking for Davey. But you can’t tell where he is, or ask if he saw what just happened.

You feel the pressure of the audience; the show must go on.

You move on, steeling yourself again, and raise the gun once more.

The next target is smaller, a challenge that under any other circumstances, you might have relished. But today, uncertainty coils within you like a snake. Each bottle stands like a silent judge, waiting to either proclaim your skill or expose a grim truth about the ammunition in an innocent target.

Arthur's gaze doesn't waver from your figure, his eyes narrowing as you take your stance. The firelight catches the metal of the pistol, casting fleeting reflections that momentarily distract some in the crowd, but not him. He's too consumed by the potential danger, by the stark fear that this performance, this trick, could turn tragic.

The silence is palpable as you line up your shot, inhale, exhale…

Fire.

CHING!

The bottle shatters in a thousand little pieces.

The crowd gasps in awe and Josiah steps out into the light.

“And now, let’s up the ante, shall we?” He gently takes you by the arm and you turn to him quickly, shaking your head and speaking under your breath.

“Josiah, the gun is—”

But he quickly cuts you off, squeezing your arm. “Miss Coyote will attempt to shoot our smallest bottle…” He points to the mirror that was behind you when your act first started. “…using her reflection in the mirror!”

“Josiah…!”

“Go on, dear girl! The audience is aching with anticipation.” He looks back towards the seated patrons. “Aren’t they?!”

They clap excitedly, some of them whistling. You search for Arthur’s face, but it is too dark.

He sees you searching for him and something tells him to stand up. He begins to rise, but a firm hand to his shoulder pushes him down.

“Don’t give ‘er away, lad,” Mac whispers hoarsely.

But he doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand that the bullets are real. “Let me go, Mac…!”

But Mac’s strength rivals Arthur’s and he manages to push him down. “I said, sit…!”

Arthur's jaw tightens as he watches you, the helplessness gnawing at him as fiercely as the fear. His fingers dig into the wooden bench, gripping it as if he could somehow transfer his fervent desire for your safety into the very grains of the wood. He knows you're capable—hell, he taught you how to shoot—but the risk of a real bullet, the possibility of it all going terribly wrong, claws at him like a ravenous beast. You’ve never shot in this manner before. Even he wouldn’t want to try it like this. 

The mirror is set up, standing ominously on the stage as if it too senses the gravity of what's about to transpire. The smallest bottle, its neck barely the size of a thumb, is placed precariously on a narrow ledge at the top of a small pedestal. The crowd's murmuring swells into a cacophony of excitement and nerves. You can feel their eyes on you, their collective breath held in suspense.

Trelawny, ever the showman, raises his hands to command silence as he takes a calm step back. He doesn’t say a word, adding to the tension that wraps the airtight enough to strangle. You can almost hear the collective heartbeat of the audience, throbbing in sync with your own. Slowly, you lift the pistol, feeling its familiar weight an anchor in the storm of your nerves, and turn it to rest its barrel over your shoulder.

Your hands don't tremble; they can’t afford to. Not when the barrel is close to your neck, not when every whisper of wind feels like a harbinger of doom. The sun dips just below the horizon, casting long shadows that dance macabrely across the wooden stage. It’s a moment suspended in time, the last breath before a plunge.

You close your eyes for a brief second, gathering the calm storm within you. When you open them again, you focus on the bottle in the mirror’s reflection. You adjust your grip on the pistol, turning it just so, and imagine its trajectory in your mind.

You then, once again, take a deep breath and fire.

CRACK!

You’ve done it.

The bottle shatters into a spray of glass, the fragments catching the burning glow of the lamps, scattering them like diamonds across the stage. The crowd erupts in an uproar of cheers and gasps, their tension released in a collective surge of awe and relief.

Arthur, released by Mac now that the danger has passed, can only stare in awe. You, who have only had a few years of experience, have proved yourself to be one of the best sharpshooters that he has ever known.

Should it surprise him?

“Aw, c’mon! You all really gonna believe this crap?!”

A lone shout amongst the cheers silences the excitement within seconds. 

A burly man steps through the crowd, his eyes narrowed in disbelief and disdain as he advances towards the stage. The audience turns to watch him pass, their earlier enthusiasm cooling into a tense curiosity.

Your heart tightens, but your face remains impassive, your hands steady as you lower the pistol. Trelawney walks to the edge of the stage, staring the disgruntled patron down from his vantage point.

“I’m sorry, but I couldn’t understand your outburst. Was that English?”

The audience laughs at Josiah’s question, lightening the tense air that the man started.

And Arthur watches the man intently. He’s only a few rows ahead, not too far away to escort him out if need be.

The man’s face twists into a scowl and he points a finger at you. “There ain’t no way in hell that she can make a shot like that! It’s fake! I know it is!”

The murmur among the audience swells, some siding with the skeptic, others voicing their support for your undeniable skill. Trelawny, with a flourish of his hand and his usual theatric theatricality, offers a rebuttal that is both elegant and dismissive. "Sir, if you doubt the merits of this performance, perhaps you’d care to demonstrate your courage? Why don’t you stand here…” He walks over to the last remaining bottle and holds it up for all to see. “and let this lady prove her mettle once more by shooting this bottle off your very own head?”

The crowd, now fully engaged in the spectacle, erupts in a mix of cheers and taunts. The man balks, his bravado faltering under the weight of Trelawney’s challenge.

You watch the scene unfold before you, feeling the anxiety in your chest make the color fall from your face. “It is fine, Josiah, I don’t want to hurt—”

“If it’s all a trick, then surely you have nothing to fear,” Josiah challenges, lifting his chin and offering a playful yet calculating smile. The burly man, caught in the spotlight of peer pressure and Trelawney’s cunning words, hesitates. His eyes dart from Trelawney to you and back again, gauging his options.

Arthur, ever the protector, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, and he feels Mac’s hand on his shoulder again. Arthur growls, “You tell me to wait again, I’ll knock you on your back.”

Mac only tightens his grip, whispering urgently in Arthur's ear. “Easy now, let her handle this. She’s got the mettle, don’t she?”

Reluctantly, Arthur settles back, eyes still locked on the scene playing out before him. He trusts you, but everyone else? Well, that is another story.

The man shifts uncomfortably where he stands, feeling the pressure of the rest of the audience egging him to get up on stage, and Josiah’s mischievous glare.

“All bark and no bite, hm?”

The man swats at Trelawny’s subtle threat and begins to climb up on stage, dodging the floor lamps.

“Let’s give this gentleman a round of applause!”

The audience obliges, hooting and hollering as Josiah guides the man to stand across from you, near where the other stands of unshattered bottles remain. Taking one of them, he sets it atop the man’s head. “Now, hold it there…” he instructs and the man positions himself, standing rigidly still with the bottle perched precariously on his head. Josiah lifts his hands and calmly steps away. “After you, my dear!”

Now it is up to you. You want to call this man’s bluff, to make him look like a fool, but you don’t want it to be like this. You still think your shots have been plain lucky. Sure, you’ve gotten better and you rarely have missed, but you also haven’t been taking many shots, either.

You lift your head to meet the man’s eyes before he closes them tightly as if bracing for an impact. The audience falls silent, the tension palpable in the dusky air of the makeshift amphitheater.

You steady your breath, focusing on the bottle as if it were the only thing in existence. The cold metal of the pistol feels almost foreign in your hand as you raise it, the weight a solemn reminder of what's at stake.

Slowly, letting out a soft breath, you squeeze the trigger, the hammer falls, and with a deafening crack, the bottle explodes into shards, showering down around the man's feet.

He screams like a little babe and goes to the ground in a sobbing mess. “They were real! I take it back…!”

The crowd erupts in a mix of shock and exhilaration, rising to their feet and applauding furiously. Their roars fill the evening air as the man remains trembling on the floor, his life flashing before his eyes.

But all Arthur can care about is you. You did it. You proved to that bastard that you are not to be underestimated. He watches you, admiration mixed with a touch of awe as Josiah helps the man back to his feet, chuckling softly under his breath.

“Ladies and gentlemen, Winona Coyote!” Josiah announces grandly, gesturing towards you.  “A sharpshooter of the finest caliber!”

Arthur feels an overwhelming urge to climb up on stage and embrace you, to congratulate you. For a brief moment, he hesitates, the memory of Mac's previous attempts to restrain him flickering in his mind like a warning light. But determination swells within him, pushing the doubt aside. The thought slips from his grasp, and with a deep breath, he rises from the plush chair, his legs a little shaky yet resolute. Each step he takes towards the stage is filled with purpose, as he navigates through the crowd, eyes fixed on you, his goal unwavering.

But you’re done here and you’ve had enough for one day. You lower your hand and turn to exit the stage, walking up to Josiah and handing him the pistol without saying a word.

And even if Arthur could reach you, the audience begins to crowd and move, blocking his way to the stage. He tries to push his way through, but they’re oblivious to his urgings, becoming an impenetrable wall. He thinks to call your name, but that would give you away, and that’s something you all don’t want. 

Then he remembers. Backstage. He can meet you backstage. 

And so, as soon as there is an opening, he pushes his way through the aisles of seats, even leaping over empty chairs to get ahead. 

“Wasn’t that quite the show folks?!” Josiah’s friend and host of the theatre calls out behind him. “Let’s give another round of applause to our performers tonight!”

Arthur doesn’t stop as the cacophony of clapping echoes all around him and he finally finds respite once he finds the door. 

Nothing will stop him. 

***

Your ears are ringing and it doesn’t help that your heart pounds in your chest. You still feel the weight of that pistol in your hand, the coolness of its metal barrel on your shoulder. 

You reach the end of the long stretch of curtain, stepping into the dark space of the backstage area.

That’s when you see Davey and when your eyes meet, he hurries over to you. “Lassie…!”

“Davey!” Once close enough he takes you by the arms as you explain what has you shaken. “The gun was real…!”

“I thought as much. The way the glass shattered, it couldn’t have been me! I was supposed to help make it look like ye shot em, but—“

“But I did! I really shot them!” And as the words leave your lips, it finally hits you. That wasn’t some trick or fake display. That was real. You did that. You shot a tiny bottle without even looking and a bottleneck off of a man’s head. “I…I did it…!”

Davey grins from ear to ear, understanding that you’re not as upset as initially perceived. “Ye sure did, Ms. Bloom.” He studies your expression and a bit of elation fills his chest because he can actually look people in the eye and mean it this time. “How do ye feel?”

Slowly, your lips pull back into a grin. “I feel good. Really, really good.”

The adrenaline still surges through your veins, making every sense heightened. Davey's grip on your arms steadies you, and you realize at that moment just how much you've accomplished. Not just tonight, but over all these years. Survival hasn’t been about just scraping by; it is about moments like these—proving yourself. Not to others, but to your own soul.

Davey lets your arms go. “Well, ye should. It could have gone a very different way, but ye showed 'em.”

“Everyone!” Josiah’s voice echoes into the darkened space and all around you turn to watch him push the large curtain out of his way. “Everyone, listen to me now!” All conversation settles long enough to hear his announcement. “They want us to come back! To do it again! And guess who is coming?”

Hosea gasps in disbelief. “No.”

Josiah nods, grinning from ear to ear. “Yes! The talent hound himself! And do you know what that means?”

Javier knows the answer to that question. “Golden trim and velvet curtains.”

Josiah then laughs enthusiastically, the young desperado nailing it on the head. “Exactly. We must be ready to do it all again tomorrow! And we will have more of you working behind the scenes to secure the coach. Mac and Arthur will be in charge of that.”

Your face falls. “But who will be in the audience? To be there in case something goes wrong?”

Josiah’s eyes soften for a moment before returning to their usual glimmer. “My dear, I think you proved that you don’t need that sort of assurance. Wouldn’t you agree, Hosea?”

Hosea nods, though his expression is thoughtful, a crease forming between his brows. "I do agree, Eliza. You're more than capable. But, we'll still have eyes out there—just in case. It's always good to have a plan B."

You nod, feeling a mix of relief of disappointment. While you don’t doubt that whoever will be in the audience isn’t capable, there was something about knowing that Arthur was there being your watchful protector that brought a certain comfort. But this is your new reality—standing on your own, proving that you are not just the damsel in distress but a formidable part of this crew.

“Let’s celebrate!” Josiah insists, raising his arms victoriously. “I know this nice little joint downtown that has a perfect secluded room for such a group like us.”

“Let me guess,” Davey snorts. “Ye got another friend?”

Josiah tips his hat, winking. “Dear David, whatever do you mean?”

Without any further comments, Josiah grabs his coat and cane and begins to lead the entourage. You feel odd, still in your costume, and hesitate to follow.

That’s when someone grabs your arm and pulls you away, leading you around the corner.

“Oh!” you gasp and turning to face whoever has you in their grip, you gasp again, softer this time.

It’s Arthur.

And you both speak first, simultaneously.

“I saw you…!”

“I lost you in the…”

You both stop, chuckling softly.

“M’sorry,” he utters, letting go of your arm. “You go first.”

You gently wave your hand, dismissing him. “No, that’s okay. You go.”

Arthur presses his lips together, his eyes searching yours, a mixture of worry and admiration swirling within them. "I saw you up there, Eliza. You were…amazin’. I…I…just wanted to say that." His voice is low, earnest.

You feel a warmth spread through you, but it's tempered by the knot of uncertainty tightening in your stomach. "Thank you, Arthur," you reply, trying to keep your own voice steady. "Didn’t know the bullets were real until after."

Arthur chortles, nodding his head. “Maybe Josiah did it on purpose.”

You can’t help but laugh at that, otherwise, you’d be furious to think that he would do such a thing. “He is a magician, after all.”

A silence falls between you and you begin to take the handkerchief in your breasted coat pocket to wipe the rouge off your lips.

Arthur nods pensively, looking down at his boots for a moment before meeting your gaze again. "I know I ain't…” he begins, and he struggles to find the courage to say much else for a minute. You continue to stand there, working away at rubbing off the makeup and powder that cakes your face. It almost feels like you’re not giving him your full attention, like you know he isn’t going to say anything.

But it feels more like a challenge to him and steeling himself, he begins again. “I know I ain’t on the best of terms wit’chu, not for a while now…” You lift your eyes now, and he knows that he has your full attention, your handkerchief dragging slowly across your plump lip. “But I want you to know that I…that I’ve never stopped carin’.” He sees your brown eyes soften, your brow pinching subtly. “Never.”

You let the handkerchief down, your heart pounding in your chest. So close. So close to hearing the words that you truly want to hear. But you can’t let him have your full love and loyalty, not until you hear him say it. “Thank you for telling me, Arthur.”

He was hoping that you’d reciprocate, and say something that will let him know if you both can start over. But he knows that he can’t live a bad life and expect to have good things happen to him. If he’s learned anything from this, it is that. “Shoah.”

“Josiah is taking us performers out to dinner, I guess…” you say, removing your hat and setting it down on a nearby barrel. “Do you wanna go?”

Arthur doesn’t feel like socializing, having been running all through the theatre and having his heart pound just now as though he had just run several miles. “Naw, I’m fixin’ to head back. Abigail’s been with the children long enough and I’m achin’ to see them.”

You’re a little disappointed. Maybe you wanted this feeling to last a little longer, the softest it has been between you in months. But, come to think of it, you’re done with people, too. And you long to hold your babies in your arms. “Can I…Can I accompany you?”

Arthur looks at you, surprise flickering across his rugged features. The invitation seems to unravel some of the tension that had built up between you. He feels like a young buck again, all twitterpated and excited, as if you've just handed him a lifeline.

Like as if you handed him the world.

A smile threatens to tug at the corner of his mouth, but he manages to hide it with a soft nod. "Yeah, Eliza…that’d be mighty fine.”

Night falls heavily upon Moreno, the stars peeking through the fabric of darkness like shy spectators. The town seems to hold its breath as folks either head to their nightly haunts or return to their homes.

And you sit on the back of Boadicea, right behind Arthur, as you make the journey back to camp.

The light of the street lamps cast an amber glow on the streets, after having rained just a few hours before, and it makes the cobblestones look like gold bars. The air smells thick with petrichor, the incomparable smell of sage and wet earth taking your mind back to memories long suppressed.

You take a deep breath. Even after all these years, he smells of the same pine and leather, it seems to follow him wherever he goes. You resist the urge to rest against his back, simply holding onto his sides is enough.

The silence between you isn't awkward, but filled with a tense undercurrent, like the calm before a storm. It's a quiet ride, only interrupted by the occasional snort from Boadicea or the distant hollering of town folks enjoying their evening revelries.

As the lights of Moreno fade behind you and the darkness of desert wilderness greets you, the canopy of stars reveals itself. The air is cleaner, breathable, and you let yourself exhale slowly.

He hears you, the warmth of your hands on his waist drawing his attention more than they should. He didn’t realize how much he missed it, how quickly his mind goes back to that rainy day in Utah. The way the bermed house smelled of wet stone and soil, the sound of the crackling fire as it accompanied your gentle sighs. He tries to focus on the land before him, the moon illuminating the way.

His mind races with questions. What is this, then? Is this his second chance? Or is this just how it is going to be from now on?

The real question he asks himself is, which is better?

Only time will tell. 

***

“Do you think they noticed?” Mac asks Arthur as he faces forward after climbing the side of the coach to reach the seat. Arthur holds the reins tightly, still not ready to relax once they are clear of Moreno.

It was a close call, but once they got on the stagecoach, Arthur, having been disguised as a fancy coach driver, much to his chagrin, drove as calmly and inconspicuously as possible while Mac remained inside the coach, armed to the teeth.

They did it right under everyone’s nose, as the night waned, while you and the others served as the distraction. Your sharpshooting, Javier’s knife-wielding, and Hosea’s yarns all working together to keep Mr. Rutledge and the other patrons entertained long enough for Arthur and Mac to secret away the stagecoach.

All with the gold trim and velvet curtains.

“It’s too early to be askin’ them questions,” Arthur growls under his breath. “Just keep a look out until we only got nothin’ but sagebrush and junipers behind us.” He flicks the reins to urge the horses forward, and hears Boadicea whinny behind the coach, as though to say, “Don’t leave me!”

“We’re meetin’ up with the others, ain’t we?”

“Yeah,” Arthur answers Mac. “Lockpick Canyon.”

It isn’t too far, just secluded enough where they can hide a large, shiny stagecoach while they wait for the others to join them. It isn’t too hot today, thankfully, and so he isn’t as disgruntled to sit and wait. 

Mac, however, isn’t as patient, even in the best circumstances. 

After half an hour or so, just as the sun begins to rise, they reach the canyon’s entrance, its tall sides like sentinels to guard its inner stone from the sun’s rays. Entering it carefully, Arthur finds a large crevice, with light entering from above, and backs the coach into it. It’s secluded, allowing him to feel safe enough to wait for the rest of the gang to join them. 

You all will be leaving now, having stolen the coach, and will need to make tracks before the day’s end. 

Arthur sets the brake and loosely wraps the reigns around its handle, letting his hands loudly plop into his lap. “I guess we just bide our time now.”

Mac snorts. “No, I don’t think so.” And with that, he rises from his seat and gripping its edge, begins his descent. 

Arthur leans over, watching him with curious eyes. “What you think you’re doin’?”

Mac doesn’t immediately answer, making his way over to his stallion, who tosses his head eagerly. 

“Mac?” Arthur growls. 

“I’ve made plans with Davey,” the rabble-rouser explains, a mischievous glint in his eye. “One last hoorah before we leave this beautiful land and head to our next stop.”

Arthur’s brow furrows. “We don’t need to be stirrin’ trouble. Not when we need to get lost…!”

Mac cackles at that as he mounts Nuckelavee. “If trouble happens to be her name, who am I to call her different?” He grabs the reins and Nuckelavee tosses his head again, pawing at the ground in anticipation of the ride. “But as far as stirrin’…” He pushes down on his hat, darkening his brow. “That I won’t deny.”

And before Arthur can stop him, the rogue gallops off, leaving a cloud of dust in his wake. 

Arthur swats at the air, coughing briefly, and he groans in frustration. “Can’t he ever think with his head and not with his…?” He doesn’t care to say it and lets the rest of his sentence morph into a low growl. “That bastard.”

His growl bounces against the canyon walls, the confirmation that he’s now alone. He runs a hand over his face, dragging his palm slowly down his brow. In the darkness of his closed eyes, he lets his thoughts wander to help pass the time. 

But every time he begins to settle into the seat, let his chin fall to his chest, every second for the next two hours of waiting in the canyon, he’s enraptured by visions of you, your skin, and the freckles in your eyes. 

How do you look now? When all is bare and free. He can only picture it, reimagine from fractured images from memories and times near forgotten. 

You’ve always been soft to him. Soft in his hands, soft in your sighs, irises like the soft earth beneath his feet. Plush like feather pillows and sweet like cream. The milky whiteness of your skin, not exposed to the sun, was enough to let him be content to die right then and there. 

The warmth of your hands on his waist still burns into his skin. So innocent, so candid. That was nearly four days ago.

And each day has felt like decades. He’s been strong, akin to the canyon walls beside him, for all these years. Only once he caved; only once during the heat of August. 

Well, it’s August again, and he can’t take it anymore. 

Still covering his eyes with his left hand, he lets his right travel down his body, imagining your soft, gentle fingers, and goosebumps rise on his flesh.

It’s what he’s done before, back when he was young and lovesick, when being mere days apart from you was too long for him, and he was waiting for your lead. He hadn’t had the pleasure of you yet and since then, it would never be enough. It will never be enough. It will never be the same, and that’s his trouble. But he’s desperate. 

He hates himself right now. After just admonishing Mac for seeking out the pleasures of the flesh, here he goes thirsting after you with the aid of his own hand.

You’re a hypocrite, Morgan. A fool. 

His fingers find the leather of his belt and feeling the coolness of the buckle, he undoes it with lamenting finesse. 

A lowlife. 

The contact of his calloused hand, while incomparable with your softness, still stirs his heart to pound in his chest. His imagination is a powerful thing. 

A bastard.

He hears your voice in his ear, as though you are right here before him. 

Arthur, you sigh. I want you.

“Hell,” he groans, hissing between his teeth. There’s no turning back now.

Do you want me?

“Yes,” he pants, the world around him vanishing. 

Then take me. He envisions your smile, the motion as you lay on your back and expose yourself to him. Give me another son.

Oh, great heavens. He’s glad he’s alone. 

Nostrils flared, brow pinched, he bites his lip so hard it nearly bleeds. Oh, he’s close. So close, so quickly, his arm’s muscle burns due to its use. 

The sound of your imagined moans, the panting of his breath like a locomotive, all almost drown out the faint sound echoing through the canyon. 

“…Arthur…?!”

He lifts his head, gasping softly as his vision returns, and feels all color drain from his face. 

It’s Trelawny. And who knows who else he has brought with him. Oh no, he knows exactly who that damned magician has brought with him. 

And with only seconds before your reunion. 

He tucks himself back into his pants, careful not to agitate his now highly sensitive skin. But even once he secures the last buttons, and buckles his belt, the problem still remains and he’s desperate to conceal its aching exhibition. 

Taking his canteen, he rises from the seat, trying to maneuver downward as fast as he can. He needs to hide, to buy himself some time to let the heat leave his body, to calm his breathing, and to regain normal color in his face. 

“Arthur! Where are you, dear boy?!”

Getting closer.

Once Arthur’s boots reach the ground, he takes off in the opposite direction, deeper into the crevice. Spotting a large boulder, he tucks behind it, and in an act of desperation, he presses the front of his body against its cool surface. 

Breathing heavily, he listens intently for any sign of their approach. The rough texture of the rock scrapes against his shirt, a minor discomfort compared to the turmoil inside him. He can hear Trelawny’s voice, now mingled with another—Hosea’s sharp tones unmistakable as they echo off the canyon walls.

“Arthur? Where are you, son?”

He can feel the pressure in his member slowly subside, but it isn’t fast enough. Desperate to cool down, he opens his canteen and pours its contents over himself. The icy cold water trickles down his neck and chest, shockingly refreshing against the heat of his flushed skin. He shivers, not just from the cold but from the jarring transition back to reality.

"Arthur, really, this is no time for hide and seek!" Trelawny’s voice grows louder, a hint of amusement dancing in its cadence. There's a rustle, followed by the distinct noise of footsteps crunching on the loose gravel. “You wouldn’t have abandoned this beautiful stagecoach, would you?”

Panic knots tighter in Arthur’s stomach as he presses even harder against the rock, hoping beyond hope that his small sanctuary remains unseen. The sound of laughter follows the footsteps—Sean’s boisterous chuckles carrying clear across the air. "Surely, Arthur's around here somewhere, playing de coy fox as usual!" Sean calls out, the levity in his voice doing nothing to ease the tightness in Arthur's chest.

Arthur's mind races with each passing second. The combined anxiety with his racing heart isn’t working in his favor.

Then he hears your voice, soft and warm and gentle as you always are. “Do you think something happened to him?”

He doesn’t want you to worry, and he wants you to stop talking, as thoughts begin to creep in his mind again.

“Here…!” he calls out, his voice almost cracking. “I’m…I’m takin’ a piss! I’ll be over there in a second!” He hears you gasp and Sean cackles at your expense and he forces a cough to cover the break in his voice, "Just... give me a moment, will you?"

As your footsteps hesitantly retreat, mixed with Sean's continued laughter and Trelawny's murmuring reassurances, Arthur leans his forehead against the cool rock, closing his eyes. The brief reprieve allows him to gather his thoughts, steadying his breathing and trying to regain some semblance of control over his emotions. He wipes the remaining droplets of water from his face with the back of his hand, the grit of the desert mingling with the wetness on his skin.

Finally feeling a bit more composed, Arthur pushes himself away from the rock and picks his hat off the ground, as it must have fallen when he made his retreat. Putting it firmly atop his head, he makes his way back towards the stagecoach, hearing the voices of his fellow gang members.

And Sean is the first to catch sight of him.

“Wot! Did ya piss all over yaself, Arthur?!” he jests, pointing at the outlaw’s sopping wet shirt.

You, without thinking, swat the back of Sean’s head, scowling at him. “Have you ever heard of heat stroke, Sean?! How dare you speak to him like that!” You quickly look Arthur’s way, concern unconcealed in your expression. “Arthur, are you alright…?”

He knows your sensitivity to ailments related to heat exhaustion, the trauma of Isaac’s near-death experience still fresh in your memory. He holds up his hands, steadying his breath. “Yeah, Eliza. I’m fine. Just…just got a little hot, is all.”

The other gang members simply eye him for a moment, unsure whether to believe him or not. Arthur has never looked so disheveled before, especially when they all saw him mere hours ago. What happened?

Dutch dismounts his horse and as Javier and Bill step aside, he opens his arms to embrace Arthur. “We’re gonna be riding in style now, son.” He disregards the state of the rugged outlaw, wrapping his arms around him and giving him a strong pat on the back before releasing him. “You and Mac made excellent work at gettin’ out of town without delay.”

“But we should still make tracks,” Hosea reminds his friend, always being the voice of reason. “A coach like this one won’t go unnoticed for long.”

“Let’s get going then, shall we?” Josiah suggests with a grin. Unanimously agreed upon, you and the gang prepare to leave. You board the coach with Strauss and Pearson. The rest ride in your cart with Farm Boy or on their own mounts. 

When you reach camp, you will embrace your children, pack your things, and prepare to move again. 

***

“Alright, we best do this while there’s still light!” Dutch turns around after handing Josiah the handheld camera, regarding the positions of the members in attendance. Mac and Davey, the rogues, refused to stay long enough to get their picture taken, eager to head back to Moreno, again, one more time, for whatever reason. 

But everyone else is here, standing on or in front of the stolen coach. You and your children, Pearson and Swanson, Hosea, Susan, Strauss, Bill and Javier, Sean, Uncle, Abigail, Jack, and John. 

And Arthur. His son. His greatest asset. 

That man is the piece de resistance. It’s been a long time coming, since that awful attempt to abandon the family, but he’s proving his worth, reminding Dutch of why he picked that boy off the street in the first place. 

He’s confident now that there will be no more talk or thoughts to leave. Arthur’s woman and children are in too deep now. It would be foolish to go, especially not while they’re so close to paradise themselves. 

Oh, he’s good. If the nearly forty-five years on this planet have taught him anything, it is the knowledge of human beings. So predictable, and yet, so fascinating. 

He studies their positions for a moment longer, trying to imagine the photograph. It feels like something is missing, but he’d like to seek a second opinion. Usually, great work never needs to be redone, but he enjoys relishing in the praise of his work. “What say you, Josiah?” he asks amusingly.

Josiah steps forward, adjusting the lapels of his intricately patterned coat with his free hand, a slight flourish in his movement. "I dare say, Dutch, the composition could benefit from a touch of dynamism. Perhaps positioning John and Abigail slightly off-center?" He strokes his mustache thoughtfully, eyes twinkling with the usual mischief that accompanies his suggestions. "It could lend a sense of living motion to the tableau, don't you think?"

Dutch nods, pondering the change. He signals John, who gently sidesteps into position. Jack, in his mother’s arms, doesn’t like the distance between himself and his father and reaches out toward him. “Papa…! Don’t go…”

To prevent the boy from falling out of Abigail’s arms, John takes the boy and holds him close. Under Jack's weight, he adjusts his stance, bringing a rare, soft expression to his stern face. “Stick with me, son,” he speaks softly to him, and Abigail can’t help but smile. The movement stirs a quiet murmur among the others, the solemnity of the photograph disrupted by the tender moment.

But Josiah isn’t satisfied, and his eyes flow upwards to the tall, brooding man standing on top of the coach with a rifle in his hands, Bill sitting next to him. “I daresay, Dutch, you have made an interesting choice!”

Dutch turns to look at the well-dressed magician, raising a brow. “Come again?”

Josiah gestures to John and his family. “You’ve got the three Marstons there, but look…” He then points to you as you stand at the opposite end of the coach with your children. “You’ve gone and separated the lovely Eliza from her lover!”

Sean cackles suddenly, and gets immediately elbowed by Hosea. “Ow…!”

Arthur can only clear his throat and grip the rifle tightly. “Erm…”

Dutch remains still, only glaring up at Arthur. “It was a good choice.”

“From a fierce gang leader’s standpoint, sure, but if you want to appear like a family…” Josiah waves Arthur down. “Come down Arthur, and stand with your lady and littles...!”

Arthur hesitates, his gaze flitting between Dutch and where you stand below him. The tension is palpable, a thick veil settling over the group like dust kicked up by a stagecoach as you’ve traveled these past two days. He gives a curt nod, swinging his rifle over his shoulder before descending from his perch atop the coach with careful deliberation. Each step he takes towards you is measured, almost as if he is counting the beats of his own heart, each beat thundering against his chest like the hooves of a wild stallion.

As he draws nearer, the air seems to thin, charged with an electricity that makes your skin tingle. Isaac clutches at your skirt, his small face upturned in curious anticipation. Alice, her tiny fingers tangled in your hair, squints against the bright sun, unaware of the gravity of the moment.

Arthur finally arrives at your side, his presence commanding yet strangely vulnerable. The air shifts subtly as he stands next to you, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. You try to keep looking straight ahead, not daring to look his way, as you can feel his gentle breath on your cheek. 

He can’t help but look your way, his eyes cast down on you, noticing each freckle on your face, the little birthmark just under your left eyebrow. He watches as you lick your lips nervously, biting off some of the dry skin. 

He scrapes his own lips with his teeth, feeling the little scab when he had bit them too hard. 

“Satisfied?” Dutch asks with clenched teeth.

“Not quite!” Josiah replies, completely ignoring the growl in Dutch’s tone. He walks up to you and Arthur and, with a gentle nudge of his hand, urges Arthur to come closer to your side. “Arthur, put your hand on the boy’s shoulder and…” He brings a gloved hand close to your face and with a careful push, encourages you to tilt your head towards Arthur. “Perfect.” He then directs Susan to stand beside you, and Javier beside Arthur, leaving an open space in the front for the gang’s leader. “Done!”

Dutch clenches his jaw. He may keep his composure, but he will not pretend to enjoy being critiqued. He turns slowly to Josiah, who is unbothered by the leader’s glare.

“Go and take your place, good sir, and I shall take the picture!”

Dutch, still simmering with barely contained irritation, strides forward and positions himself in the gap Josiah had left. He stands stiffly, his eyes scanning the group before him, lingering for a moment longer on you and Arthur. The lines of his face are hard, carved like the rocky bluffs surrounding the high desert of Nevada.

Josiah steps back and holds the camera steady at his waist, looking through the viewfinder at its top. “Ah, the perfect vision!” he sighs, relishing in his handiwork. “Quite the lovely family of misfits, I dare say!”

And then, a soft click.

The picture now taken, Dutch immediately steps away. “We will set up camp here, and continue on our way in the morning.”

***

You kiss your babies goodnight and slip out of the tent. You want to stretch your legs for a minute before going to bed, having had a whole plate full of jackrabbit and cornbread.

Mac and Davey haven’t found your camp yet, and while you don’t want to worry, you wonder if they are in some sort of trouble. They claimed to have some business in Moreno, again, and promised to track you all down if you moved camps again. That was three days ago. Two days since the gang’s photograph was taken.

You remember seeing the picture Arthur had, of when the gang was just three: Hosea, Dutch, and Arthur. John wasn’t in the picture, so it must have been taken before you met Arthur in that restaurant that one day.

Oh, so long ago.

Speaking of which, where did he run off to? As soon as everyone got back to camp and unloaded the wagon, he didn’t waste any time in mounting Boadicea and galloping off. You thought that with the threat of heat exhaustion, he’d stay in camp to relax, but you hardly managed to get a few words out of him before he took off.

“Some business I need to finish,” he said. 

And you left it at that. 

You see the fire, and how no one sits around it. You exhale slowly, wrapping your shawl around your shoulders tightly, and walk calmly over to find a place to sit down.

The stars are out tonight, the sky as wide and as far as the eye can see. While you love the tall trees and the mountains, there is something about the vast desert sky that leaves you in awe.

You suddenly see a streak of white light stretch across the sky.

A shooting star.

Feeling a little childish, you close your eyes and make a wish. You wish for land, far away, with a cabin, your children, and—

“Ms. Bloom?”

You open your eyes and turn your head. Pearson stands before you with something in his hand.

“Something wrong?” you ask.

He shakes his head. “No, just was askin’ if I could sit here. I have some mail that I’ve been meanin’ to read.”

You shrug your shoulders. “Sure, go ahead.”

He grins and nods his gratitude before taking a seat beside you. “Thanks.”

You watch him as he settles down and begins to go through the various envelopes, deciding which one he will read first.

You can’t help but be a little nosy, reading the addresses on each one, and the names that Simon Pearson supposedly goes by. It must be such a hassle to remember all the aliases the gang has used in the past. This time around, everyone goes by Horace McGill, but recently you had gone by the name of—

“Hmm. Informant…” Pearson says suddenly, studying one of the envelopes. “Don’t know how this got in my stack.”

Your eyes widen. That was how you addressed yourself when you wrote to your aunt and uncle!

You don’t hesitate to snatch the letter, quickly rising to your feet.

“Hey!” Pearson exclaims, his voice laced with surprise and a touch of irritation. "That's not meant for—"

"It’s mine," you interject sharply, your heart pounding as you clutch the letter close to your chest. With a deep breath to steady your nerves, you turn away from Pearson, walking a few steps towards the dancing flames of the campfire. The heat brushes against your face, comforting yet stark against the cool desert night.

You tear open the envelope, your fingers trembling slightly. As you unfold the letter, the flickering light from the fire casts shadows over the paper, making the words dance before your eyes. You squint, trying to focus on the script.

But the handwriting is unfamiliar, indelicate, and sharp, not at all like how your aunt used to write.

Dear Informant,

Forgive me for being the one to impart to you some news that you may find distressing. I am unsure as to your connections with the previous owners of the house in which I reside, but Robert and Louise Bloom have since passed away.

You feel the color flush from your face and your hands begin to tremble as you grip the letter tightly. You continue to read.

I had kept in contact with them for a couple of years after purchasing their home. You see, they had spent the majority of their savings to search for the niece that you mentioned, but any leads would turn into dead ends. It was almost believed that she was murdered, as other souls have been turning up missing over these past couple of years. After their funds ran dry, and the town was unable to help, they sold their place, me being the buyer. 

Even so, after they moved eastward, they still held out hope that their niece Eliza would be found, and I believe they held onto that hope until their final moments.

Again, I am sorry to be the bearer of such news, but I, on their behalf, am so glad to hear that Eliza is very much alive. If you make contact with her, please give her my deepest sympathies.

Sincerely,

Mr. Danbury.

You crush the letter in your hands, suppressing the urge to sob loudly, as tears stream down your cheeks.

You should have known better.

You can’t live the life you’ve chosen and expect second chances.

This is your lot in life. Your bed.

And you must lie in it.

*** Arthur has been at Aspen's Way longer than normal, not that you’re complaining. Isaac isn't bothered by it, either, as Arthur's secret is coming true. The young boy cannot help but hope that it means forever.

"Okay," Arthur exhales, stepping away from you. "I'm going to throw this bottle in the air, and you're gonna shoot it, alright?"

You raise your gun, both hands firmly gripping it, and you steel yourself. "Okay."

Arthur leans back, prepared to throw it in the air. "Ready?"

You take a deep breath, steadying your hand. "...Throw it..."

With a quick throw, the bottle flies in the air. You watch it and as it comes back down, you aim, and fire on the exhale.

CRACK!!

The bottle shatters into hundreds of pieces, making light from the sky ignite the little shards as though they were part of a stained glass window.

"I did it!" you cry, jumping once before stopping yourself. "I hit a moving target!"

Arthur nods, concealing his smile. "You shoah did. Now, you can try it out on some small game. Maybe we can go for a small huntin’ excursion if you can have someone watch Isaac." While the aspect of continuing their lessons was a logical choice, it is the idea of being alone with you that thrills him. 

Things have been going so well between you, making it easier and easier to find the opportune time to tell you. To share with you what’s been on his heart. He can’t wait to see the look on your face when he tells you. But not yet. Not until you’re alone. Truly alone. It may be foolish to hope, but he anticipates your reaction to be completely unguarded. 

You walk over to the broken glass, reveling in your work. Your loose hair falls against your face and the sun casts down on your head, highlighting the red undertones in your chestnut hair. "Maybe." You turn your head and you lock eyes with him. "But do you think I will get good enough for when it matters?"

He knows what you mean. Will you be skilled enough to kill an attacker? If it were anyone else, he would have a ready answer. But it is like telling a deer that she will become a fox one day. It isn't in your nature. You could aim to kill, but how could you handle the aftermath? Would it change you?

In his silence, you begin to wonder if it is too late to change things. You have tried to ask him to stay before, but you’ve always accepted things for how they are. 

Little do you know, Arthur knows that things are changing and he, too, is wrestling with the what-ifs.

As you trace your fingers around the shattered glass, you cannot help but feel something in your stomach–an urgency. Like as though you were on the top of a cliff—being pushed farther and farther to its edge. You don’t want him to leave. You don’t want to jump.

Thank you for reading!

Tag Requests: @photo1030, @eternalsams

[thatguywhodoesstuff]

Some Unsorted Thoughts Regarding Murder Drones Episode 7 & Episode 8

Hopping back online for a moment to post a bunch of unsorted thoughts & mini-theories about the upcoming episodes:

Nori and Yeva are well and truly dead, and didn’t fake their deaths like I’ve seen others theorize. Despite this, I can picture them directly being involved with the plot via some convoluted Absolute Solver related shenanigans.

Personally, I like to think all Drones can save, edit, & transfer copies of their memories in a manner akin to saving files onto a flash drive to transfer over to another computer to be modified. This isn’t all that far fetched given how V and N’s memories were altered and how Uzi managed to help recover them.

Going off of the above points and the fact that each episode lampoons a different horror genre, I feel that we are due a good ol’ fashioned psychological thriller. I can easily imagine the under depths of the labs being loaded with all sorts of Eldritch nonsense (like those decidedly organic hands that drag off N during the trailer) that will undoubtedly push everyone to their breaking point before episode 8 even happens.

I’ve always had the long-standing theory/belief that Khan actually knows more than he lets on. I know there isn’t a lot to back this up, but it’s just something I always thought would make sense given everything he’s managed to live through.

I am of the mind that Nori was not the one to cause the core collapse that wiped out the humans on Copper-9. If anything, I think it would be neat if the core collapse was a complete accident that actually prevented/delayed the Absolute Solver from destroying Copper-9, with the event simply happening to coincide with whatever hell Nori was undoubtedly raising at the time.

I’ve seen a number of people point out how Uzi seems to be in control of herself when she grips N’s hand, and while a number of people seem to interpret this as her being mad at him for keeping secrets, I’m not convinced that’s the case. My crackpot theory is that Uzi is going to learn some hard facts about her mother and she is not going to handle them well and, with everything else going on, needs N now more than ever for emotional support, probably at the expense of his own mental well-being.

The cathedral under Cabin Fever labs was either built by Drones already under the thrall of the AS or Drones like Alice who got trapped in the facility and went insane from the experience.

As for what purpose the cathedral actually serves, I feel it could’ve an actual place of worship for the Absolute Solver, just as easily as it could be a conduit to broaden the area of influence of the malevolent “program”. Then again, it could just as easily serve as both, sort of like a giant transmitter/receiver with a decidedly gothic style to it for added flair.

There is this weird feeling in the back of my head that we won’t get a proper confrontation between the gang and Doll and, in true subversive horror fashion, something will happen to her that takes her out of the plot, at least for the rest of the season.

Part of me wonders if the reason Tessa acted so strange during episode 6 is rooted in the trauma from CYN’s massacre. After witnessing that and implicitly having been seriously injured, it wouldn’t surprise me if Tessa is poorly coping with the situation at hand. I also can’t help but wonder if she’s got a touch of robophobia directed towards Solver infected Drones.

Out of everyone, I feel that N is the least likely to perma-die in the upcoming episodes. In pretty much every horror series I’ve ever watched the nice one (when they aren’t one of the first people to die) typically lives the longest so that the narrative can torment them, regardless of whether or not they eventually earn their happily ever after. I doubt that N is any different, and I fear that his suffering has yet to begin in earnest.

Doll also doesn’t seem likely to die just yet (but given how Liam doesn’t seem all that shy about killing off major characters when needed…), and I have a feeling that if given the chance she could become a valuable ally, even if the alliance itself would be pretty unstable at best.

Of the four, Tessa and Uzi have the highest number of death flags waving around them. One has to wonder which is worse, losing an old friend who didn’t dehumanize your every action, that you just recently remembered/reunited with or losing the first friend/love you have had in a long time, who has also helped you recognize your own self worth. Either way, N is going to be crushed by the loss, especially given the likelihood of it being at his own hands.

If Tessa dies, I imagine her final moments will involve her bemoaning how N has doomed everyone… only to impart words of encouragement to him and assure him that his loving nature isn’t a weakness and may be instrumental later down the line.

If Uzi dies (I wouldn’t put it past Liam to pull this), it will be in an intense heat of the moment situation that won’t immediately register to her or N. I also think that if Uzi does die, it will only happen in a physical sense. My logic being that since Uzi became N and V’s new Administrator in episode 5, she could continue existing as a voice inside N’s head (sort of like Zane and Pixel from Ninjago), which could also result in N developing Solver powers. Alternatively, Uzi just straight up dies and N has to live with the pain of losing two of his closest friends and his first and second loves… Not to mention the fact a dead Uzi gives the Absolute Solver the perfect ammunition to use against N in the future.

TLDR: That trailer gave me a lot of thoughts and with everything going on in real life, I haven’t been able to put them into text until now. Thank you for taking the time to read the inane ravings of a burnt out college student/part time shut-in. Likes and Reblogs are greatly appreciated…

…I really hope Uzi and N kiss in the season finale.

[jackalopetrope]

I'm experiencing The Locked Tomb again, and the Second Reading (or listening in my case, I'm doing audio books this time), is absolutely DELICIOUS. It's like, a whole different book. Littered with details that couldn't possibly be enjoyed without having read the subsequent story beforehand!!

I've had to pause and jot some things down just because they make me feel ways (this is obviously full of spoilers):

In Chapter 6:

1) Aiglamene is teaching Gideon how to wield a rapier and tells her, her hands "Shouldn't be twins, but sisters", that they have different roles, but should be aware and support each other or something. And I was, Tamsyn are you sending me secret messages about the Third?

2) Harrow is speaking to the congregation and Gideon is thinking about how full of shit she is, but then Harrow says something like how no one will ever love the Ninth like she does, that "her heart is interred here", and Gideon is like well actually that bit sounded sincere. Oh boy. It sure is Harrow. Sounds like Ninth Poetic Gothic Nonsense, but in Hindsight, really quite literal. Well done Muir.

3) This one is a little less direct but when Gideon realizes she may never return to the Ninth and thinking that that somehow makes it seem fragile, that by turning her back on it, not looking at it, it might fall apart. Likes she's destroying it... Omg 😰 Just sort of rang like a precursor to how she felt about Harrow "turning her back on her" with the lobotomy y'know?

4) So Harrow and Gideon are getting on to the shuttle to Canaan and tension is high, they are not happy with each other and Harrow says "I want to watch you die", and Gideon, just super hyped to finally be escaping, smugly saying "Well you won't do it here." (Here being the ninth) 😭 Tamsynnn

Chapter 9:

When Ianthe catches Gideon hiding in dark, listening in on the third, she refers to "the necromancer of the third house", necromancer SINGULAR. Nice little drop there.

Chapter 14:

Harrow says "I'm not equipped to deal with a spirit attached to a live nervous system, you're so noisy!", implying Harrow is equipped to deal with spirits NOT attached to live nervous systems, like say, a bunch of dead kids haunting you???

Chapter 15:

Harrow says "She never liked that cursed thing anyway" in regards to Gideons longsword, said she always felt it was "judging her". Which is a weird thing to say about a sword Harrow

Also my current crazy theories that may debunked during this book or the next two because I don't remember all the lore:

1) Teacher is John? The colorful belts and the bracelets mentioned on Ianthe and Kiriona are like... Control belts or something. John needed a way to "be" on that planet without going to the system. John got hyper paranoid after all his Lyctors betrayed him, and wanted security measures on his Princes?? Like clearly he isn't aware of what they doing all the time, but maybe he can, remote in? Idk. Crazy theory.

2) Cytherea is the only reason Gideon made it through the aversion trial. Or Harrow rather, because I'm not convinced Gideons body didn't die. (Or do her escape death trick). During that sequence Gideon starts throwing up blood and seems like it's going to end very quickly then Dulcinea is like No! And the blood dries up, and the soul sucking pain is described as moving around Gideons body... I don't think Harrow would be experienced enough to adjust her siphoning like that. Also Dulcinea was clearly very intent on that key. At first I thought in half memory of the scene that maybe she was just interested in seeing if Gideon COULD survive the trial. But I don't think she cared who got her that key really.

Idk! I'm only on Chapter 20 of Gideon. I've gone completely nuts about these books.

[phantomoftheorpheum]

Ok i just saw the finale and Jen has to be a link to Bloody Rose, right? Something about her just doesn't sit right with me. I think maybe next season they reveal she is a bad guy? Idk if you've talked about this but I had to share with someone.

Throughout the season, I thought this was a possibility, since it was hard to know what was real about Jen and what wasn't, since she was caught in several lies. I thought that it might be other secrets, not necessarily Bloody Rose related, but I really thought she had a secret that would come out. I was surprised that there was nothing new revealed about her before the end.

Then in the finale, I definitely thought things were going in that direction when she pointed Noa towards Johnny and Christian, and then they both had incriminating evidence around to be found immediately afterwards. It felt like a planned set-up (I mean, it was presumably a set-up by Wes, but Jen pointing them out just at the perfect time to send Imogen and Tabby off to investigate and find the planted evidence was apparently coincidental). I was very convinced throughout the season that someone's love interest would betray them, and when we got to the finale where Ash, Shawn, Henry, and Greg were nowhere to be found, and Johnny and Christian had highly incriminating evidence show up with over half an hour left in the episode, I thought it would be her. I also thought that would explain why they spent so much time on the love triangle this season. I was very convinced that would have a bigger role in the story than just relationship drama.

Another thing that pinged on my "this might be a clue" radar (to be clear, if this were a different genre of show and I weren't analyzing everything to look for lies/manipulation, this probably wouldn't stand out that much to me) was that Noa repeats Jen's exact words when she brings up Christian and Johnny. This kind of gave me the vibe of "she doesn't realize how influenced she even is by Jen, because she's literally got Jen's words coming out of her mouth." But that turned out to be nothing.

I read (but have not seen a cited source, so take this with a grain of salt) that they didn't actually know who Bloody Rose was going to be until they were writing episode 6, and if that's true, then it very much makes me wonder if there was just too much possible set up (if they were ever considering Jen for being part of that plot) for her character that they didn't remove when they decided she would not be involved. Honestly, I don't like this writing style. I know it's not all that uncommon in TV, but I am firmly of the opinion that when you're writing a mystery, you need to know the answer to it from the beginning. You don't necessarily have to know exactly every step along the path, you should be flexible enough to make changes when the writing takes you a certain direction, but you should not just be making it all up as you go. And a red herring should be an intentional red herrings, not just leftover bits from you being indecisive about the solution.

I think this style of "we'll just write and see where it goes," is exactly what made the OG have so many underwhelming and nonsensical villain reveals the further into the show they got. When they were sticking more closely to the general guidelines of the books, people mostly liked those reveals, and when they wandered off on their own without a plan, things got too messy. This is an area that I would really like to see improvement in if there are additional seasons of the show.

[good-omens-classic]

I just watched all 6 episodes of season 2 in a row and I am having a very hard verbalizing the way I'm feeling.

I am speechless, and not in a good way.

For five and a half episodes, I was on board. I didn't expect to like this, but despite myself I found myself laughing and getting emotional and getting invested in the story, in a way I haven't been since first reading Good Omens and falling in love with it all those years ago. Nearly a decade ago at this point. I had problems with season 1 and the way the fandom changed, but that felt mostly natural and just like differences of opinion and interpretation.

The ending of season 2 feels actively malicious. Especially coming from someone who couldn't stop touting over and over on Twitter about what a nice queer love story this is.

Everything wasn't perfect--but it was...nice. It was something. It was engaging and I was starting to feel excited again, not like I'm going to start writing fanfiction again excited but at the very least I'm thinking, I can enjoy watching people enjoy this from the sidelines.

And then the second half of the last episode came. And Aziraphale wants to go back to Heaven to lead the angels. Not only is that a completely nonsensical thing for Metatron to invite him to do, but Aziraphale's entire character is that he's happy on Earth. He's happy on Earth with Crowley. OF COURSE CROWLEY REFUSED TO GO BACK TO HEAVEN. The entire fucking point is they belong ON EARTH, together, with the humans. Our own side, their own side, the humans' being neither good nor evil but full of potential and power and them learning they can be that way too.

That's the point. That's always been the point. NEIL GAIMAN KNOWS THAT'S THE POINT. Aziraphale was clearly very unhappy with this decision, and hesitant. The show made it VERY clear he was unhappy and unsure after Crowley gave him a reminder of what they were supposed to be about...and he just went anyway.

And he did this right as Crowley declares his love and FUCKING KISSES HIM. In this, supposedly the cutest best queer love story. Nobody can even say "Well they just don't have that kind of relationship, they don't need to say I love you or kiss or hold hands" anymore because THEY LITERALLY DID KISS. And then IMMEDIATELY said goodbye to each other.

Tragedy is not just about making the audience unhappy. Tragedy is making the audience ache because of something sad and unavoidable, of knowing the characters could be happy in a better world. Good omens has always been about building that world, to me. I thought maybe they were going to go in that direction, with Aziraphale and Crowley building a non-apocalypse, at peace world on Earth together, with Aziraphale's newfound authority to teach all the angels and demons the benefits of humanity. That is, in my mind, the culmination of the themes of the original story, and the one I thought season 1 mostly got right except for some stumbling blocks. But this... This feels like a slap in the face.

The tragedy here is not that Aziraphale and Crowley can't be together, but that the writers....that Neil Gaiman threw away everything in the original story, everything from season 1, Hell, everything from earlier in season 2, about Aziraphale's character development and the most important themes of the story. And for what? Who finds this ending narratively satisfying, let alone is happy with it?

I was enjoying this. Maybe it was just because so much time has passed since season 1 that I've been able to more effectively separate the versions and think of them as different stories, and just enjoy them for what they are separately, or maybe it's because there was no other version of this story for me to silently constantly compare it to, but I was enjoying this...a lot more than I enjoyed season 1. I thought it was cute, I thought Gabriel and Beelzebub deciding to basically do WHAT CROWLEY AND AZIRAPHALE SHOULD HAVE DONE and make a "third side" was a great extension of the themes of the story, and all the Aziraphale and Crowley flashbacks set it up so perfectly for Aziraphale to realize at the end: The problem IS systemic, and Heaven isn't the "good guys." and Aziraphale clearly realizes this! And yet he doesn't act on it. If the last half an hour had just been Aziraphale going "I don't want to lead Heaven actually, I belong here on Earth if you want to come to me on how to run things the Earth way," and then he skips off holding Crowley's hand. To me that would be not only the happiest AND most narratively neat, wrapped up conclusion for season 2, but also THE ENTIRE FUCKING POINT OF THE ENTIRE FRANCHISE. and ALL the character development s2 had been setting up in the first five fucking episodes.

It just all got thrown in the garbage.

I'm tired. This could have been such a good, good story, and I was prepared to be disappointed, but nothing could have prepared me for this. When the clip of Aziraphale and Crowley kissing got leaked, I was bracing myself for it to be some sort of like....joke, or dream sequence that didn't actually happen. I was not prepared for THIS.

Someone please convince me it wasn't this bad. Someone please spin it in a way I hadn't thought of before that makes it make sense. Someone please disagree with me and explain why.

[spaceorphan18]

Sorry to talk about glee when you have mainly switched to Bridgerton. I just had some thoughts re Kurt and wanted to ask your opinion.

People seem to think he didn’t have a good friendship with Santana. Whilst I think they had their moments - especially Santana’s rant at him, I think overall she was supportive of him and wanted him to be happy, especially with Blaine. She certainly approved of the engagement and them joining her wedding, and never talked them out of being together.

People who don’t like Blaine like to think Santana didn’t either, when she mostly did, the only awkwardness was about Perfect or thinking he would get all the solos in season 3. To say Santana hated Klaine and would have been happy if they had split permanently is kinda just not right, imao.

This got me thinking that if certain characters had been around when Klaine split before season 6, those friends would have really tried to talk Kurt out of it - mainly Santana, Elliott, Mercedes or Sam. Season 6 just sits wrong with me because of this.

So. First of all. Guys. Seriously. This is a multifandom blog, and I'm really happy to talk about anything. And, I mean, just because I don't shut up about Bridgerton, doesn't mean I don't want to talk about Glee. Honestly, I'm one of those people who just collects new things and doesn't really let go of the old ones, hence the giant multifandomness of the blog.

<3 <3

Alright then. Kurt and Santana, canonically, become friends after they share their living space in Season 4. At no point after that do they stop being friends -- that includes the nonsense that went on during Season 5 with the Santana/Rachel fight. Kurt never took a side in that, and Santana really didn't have any beef with him.

Yes, Kurt fucked up by being an ass during the proposal -- especially since it was about him, and his own issues, and really nothing to do with Santana or Brittany. And Santana was right to call him out on it. (Now, as an aside, do I like her rant -- no, it was Ryan and Co's way of handling it, which was not funny, but she was within her right to call him out.)

That said -- it's weird that fandom takes these things and uses them as a black and white justification to define the relationship. Do people not get in fights with friends? Are people not doing any kind of conflict resolution with the people in their lives? Is everything really all sunshine and roses?

I don't understand why people hold fictional characters to way higher standards than their own relationships -- and I fear it's mostly because they want the text to fit the narrative they're trying to sell, in this case that Santana and Kurt don't like each other. When, you know what, they like each other fine. -- Do I think they're bffs? No, I don't. But I do think they like and respect each other and Kurt's one screw up doesn't negate all of that. Even Santana is fine after she's said her peace.

(I wrote up a whooooole thing about the Klaine and Brittana friendship where I go in depth about the different dynamics of the couples in relation to each other, I'll try to dig it up.)

Meanwhile, the people who don't like Blaine are going to find any reason to not like Blaine, and they're just wrong in their analysis of the text and even more so, they don't care that they're wrong because they want the story to fit their liking.

But ultimately, their opinion does not matter. Yours does, Nonny. Do you like Blaine? Do you like Santana? Do you want them to be friends? Even if they were dead enemies in canon, it doesn't matter. If that story means something to you -- then fuck what the rest of the internet says.

Going in a different direction, I'll preface what I have to say with -- I don't expect you to agree, nor do I expect you to feel better or worse about Season 6 because of this -- you are welcome to your opinions and feelings about it.

But... I think Kurt needed to take that journey. I don't think it was anyone else's responsibility to manage Kurt's feelings. If he wanted to break up with Blaine, that was his prerogative. And that's okay. So, even if his friends were around (and I'm sure at least Elliot was), it's not their place to push Kurt in any direction one way or another.

Thanks for the ask, Nonny! Always love hearing from you guys <3

[zvtara-was-never-canon]

What do you think about the claims that Omashu could still parallel Zutara because

1. When they “Bonded”, they were in Ba Sing Se, whose motto is “There is no war in Ba Sing Se”.

2. Zuko wore “yellow” during the catacombs scene and it happened while they were in a cave with similar colored crystals.

3. Katara defeating Azula is somehow a better parallel to Oma’s rampage than Katara’s anger at Aang nearly dying.

4. Oma or shu was holding an Olive branch and Katara offered to heal Zuko’s scar.

5. Aang can’t be a reincarnation of Oma or shu because neither was mentioned to be the avatar whereas Katara and Zuko could be their reincarnations.

I've already explained how nonsensical this "Oma and Shu is about Zutara" is, but MAN, the points you brought up only made it look even stupider.

1 - Being FORCED to be in a place together to bond is very different from willingly meeting each other. Ba Sing Se DENYING there's a war going on is very different from two people having to meet in secret because the war is THE ONE THING everyone in both rival groups is talking about. The situations are not just different, they're complete opposites.

2 - Zuko was wearing Earth Kingdom clothes because he HAD to blend in to survive. He did for the entire season, it makes no sense to connect that to a legend HE NEVER EVEN HEARD OF. And obviously the cave of Ba Sing Se, an Earth Kingdom territory, is gonna have the same color pallete of Omashu's cave, since it is also EK, and this show is aimed at 6-year-olds. That's why we have things like everyone in the WATER tribe having BLUE eyes.

Also, he and Katara were in a cave with crytals - but Katara and Aang were ON THE ACTUAL CAVE OF OMA AND SHU, and had their first kiss there, which they both seemed to enjoy. If simply having a conversation in a cave counts as parallels to Oma and Shu, Zuko opening up about his personal struggles to Aang (whose soul wasn't even there) in the North Pole and the Kataang dance in the secret party also count.

3 - Like you pointed out, Katara AND Aang fighting Azula, who had not even attacked Zuko at that point, cannot mean her grief over him parallels Oma grief for Shu (especially since, again, Zuko was fine). Meanwhile Katara was five seconds away from going Koizilla mode after Azula KILLED AANG IN BATTLE, aka the same way Shu died.

4 - FINALLY, a halfway decent point! Yes, the Crossroads scene was absolutely about two enemies maybe seeing eye-to-eye for once and realizing they're not so different - that's a theme that is constantly repeated through all three seasons of Avatar, through many different characters and dynamics.

But that doesn't change the fact that empathy/compassion is not the same as "I'm in love with you", nor the fact that, unlike Shu, Zuko REJECTED the peace offering - funny how Zutarians always ignore that part, huh? Once again, the situation is not just different, it's the direct opposite.

5 - The Avatar is the only confirmed case of reincarnation in Avatar. It's very possible that there are more (and Momo was originally going to be Gyatso's reincarnation), but we cannot say any character other than Aang is a reincarnation of someone else because the show did not ever say that was even possible.

And even if it IS, that does not mean Katara and Zuko HAVE to be Oma and Shu. There were literally THOUSANDS of people on opposite sides of a war on that show, and like I said, they were not even the only two characters to have a moment in a cave AND Zuko never even heard of the legend. He is not connected to it at all, unlike Aang.

(And while history repeating itself IS a theme in Avatar, cicles being BROKEN is also important narratively, so Zuko rejecting Katara's peace offering in Crossroads shows that even if, against all odds, he WAS Shu, their romance won't repeat itself, at least in this life)

Also, there's a big difference between saying "Katara and Aang are Oma and Shu reincarnated" and "The writers used Oma and Shu's story to further Katara and Aang's plot."

So yeah, bad, terrible, awful "arguments" just to pretend the Kataang centered episode was secretly about Zutara all along. These people gotta learn to the L already.

[athingimdoingnow]

Day 9: Bonded by the red thread of fate/destiny

This one has two names! Depending on if you go with what the page is named or what the book has in text. I will be leaning towards just calling it Red Thread, if at all. Also I think it was originally written in Spanish, that’s rad.

Okay so Red Thread is about dating people. You ever seen a dating anime? Like - VIOLET EVERGARDEN? Maybe I misunderstood Violet Evergarden.

Anyway. This game is quite straightforward. You make a character, character has traits that are more pronounced and a personality that ends in -dere, and you also have barriers (or just one large barrier) that makes it hard to connect with people. Over the course of the game you lower the barrier and raise affection until you’re dating someone. Relationship-focused narrative TTRPG. You with me so far? Originality: ⭐⭐⭐

Okay, so it’s clear what they’re basing this off of, duh. But you might think that few TTRPGs have ventured into this territory. I have bad news - I’m pretty sure they have. Now, I cannot name any off the top of my head, so maybe this is a fraudulent answer, but I do promise you I think they exist. It’s emulating a pretty popular genre, after all. 

Mechanics: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

I was pleasantly surprised by this one’s mechanics. I like the barrier system and I don’t hate the way scenes resolve via dice roll, with the roll being best at 3-4 (it’s a d6), and 5-6 being doing too much and the inverse being too little. It’s a neat reflection of how…. Talking to people works. The “Climax” (bear with me) system is kind of wack, but basically that’s when, in a scene, you attempt to resolve someone’s barrier or your own, and you roll for it. Then you reduce the barrier by 1 (of a max of 6, or 3 if you have two different barriers). I dunno, I do think it’s neat, it’s not perfect, it’s maybe a little off from what I would view as a PERFECT VERSION OF A DATING SIM or some nonsense but it’s quite solid. Oh, also one person is effectively a GM, they’re called Fate, and that’s cool. They don’t seem to do all that much besides populate the world (a big deal, but different than the adjudication I’m super familiar with. It works in this context though). 

Replayability: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

So, this system sucks for a campaign, by design I think. Because affection levels have the potential to increase every scene and you max out at +3 or -3, you’d have to do some real will-they won’t-they in order to get a longform game out of this, it shouldn't take more than an afternoon or three. For that reason, though, I actually think it’s very replayable. You do one story and then you can do it again, with new characters and tropes and etc. Speaking of new tropes-

Variability: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

The star that is gone might be representative of the fact that this game locks you so much into a pure dating sim. I understand that’s the point, but it does reduce variance. That’s fine! I think it’s good, in this instance. It lets it be laser-focused on what it wants to be, and it does actually manage to still be super flexible. I mean, just from the list of examples alone, I assume (having not seen most) that you can take it in a ton of different directions. I also know from actually reading it that stuff like setting, theming, even tone (to a lesser degree) are super flexible. You can run this as a fantasy game, you can do it in a pseudo-modern setting, you could probably manage Doki Doki Literature Club - esque adventures if you really wanted.

Character Creation: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

I should maybe give this one five stars but there’s not enough mechanical difference to push it over the edge for me. It’s good. The personalities are all tropes, which is fine the game is based off tropes and tropes can be good and fun in this context. The barriers are interesting. Having to lock in one emotion that you always prioritize if possible is a neat feature. It’s very good, it’s just not great. What would push it over the edge? I wish I had a good answer.

Overall: ⭐⭐⭐⭐

This is a very solid dating sim one. If you like romance anime you should play this. It captures the vibes really well. If you want more grounded or serious romance you could probably also play this, but I would look for something else. This game is exactly what it wants to be and what it wants to be is ridiculous and fun. You could feasibly explore serious topics but for me, looking at a character sheet with Tsundere written on the top would stop it from dipping too far in that direction.

Red Thread is name your own price. Check it out. The creator has made all kinds of stuff, too, so even if you aren’t into this, consider giving them a look.

[elliemarchetti]

Gwynriel Weeks Day 6

For this day of @gwynrielweeksofficial I would like to propose, in addition to a subversion of the usually male-driven realization of the mating bond, also a possible friendship between Gwyn and Elain. I hate when authors pit women against each other for the sake of a man, and both characters, who I find could get along extremely well, are very dear to me, so I hope you could enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it (on company time, so please don’t be mad if you find some mistakes).

Prompt: Mates

Words: 1021

Gwyn had never been very interested in the concept of mates before meeting Elain. Nesta's younger sister, but not the youngest of the Archerons, had the High Lord himself take her to the library to find out more about what could happen in case she decided to reject the bond tethering her to Lucien Vanserra and stayed at the House for a few nights, waking up early in the morning and going to bed late at night, her lovely button nose buried in the pages and her back bent over countless books. At first, Gwyn hadn’t approached her. Something had happened between the lady and Azriel, and although she had no right to be jealous, she had felt a note of annoyance at the idea. She had felt guilty, because the priestesses had taught her not to be possessive, and childish, since Azriel didn’t look at her like that, but in the end curiosity and kindness had won, and when Elain had asked her for help, they ended up chatting. She was different from how she had imagined her, not a warrior in the physical sense of the word, but a resilient creature, still torn between her mortal and Fae selves.

“I shouldn’t bore you with this nonsense,” she told her one afternoon, over a cup of hot tea. But Gwyn wasn’t bored, on the contrary, the more she listened, the more she understood about herself too. She had suffered a little when she saw her leave, declaring that her mind was clearer but she still needed to think before deciding, but she soon rejoiced when she saw her return, a basket full of apple and cinnamon biscuits, which she had told her were her favourites.

“I’ve realized I can’t choose if I don’t leave the Night Court’s comfort zone. Here every time I meet him I’m monitored, with Rhysand and Feyre watching my every move and Nesta and Azriel ready to slit his throat at the slightest hint of discomfort on my part. They don’t seem to understand ours isn’t a normal bond, and before establishing a relationship there will be moments of sadness to face together, embarrassing conversations that will have to be had in order to figure out if we want to continue in that direction, and maybe some mistakes will be necessary too to make things right,” she had said once they were alone.

“So you mean to leave?” Gwyn had asked, and unexpectedly she felt her heart tighten in her chest at the idea of losing her.

“Not permanently,” her new friend had replied, “and whenever I will return, I will come here to tell you about my travels and ask if you would like to join us. Rhysand would be thrilled to know that in addition to two emissaries, one of his spies would have free access to all Courts.”

Gwyn had blushed at that implication, she was still in the midst of her training and no one should know about it, but Elain had mentioned it so casually she had probably seen her succeed in one of her visions. They had never talked much about her powers, except when she told her she had seen images of her and her mate together, making her not particularly surprised when, on the third or fourth visit, she announced with a beaming expression that she had accepted the bond.

“I prepared a great dinner, and forced him to eat everything like a civilized being before approaching me,” she had told her, and they had laughed at the matter, exchanging the recipes mentioned and whispering like little girls who feared being caught discussing something forbidden when the details of the frenzy became obscener. Gwyn had never spoken that way to Emerie and Nesta, who knew what had happened to her in Sangravah, but she still found it refreshing, and it helped her delve into some of the more suggestive reading that her friends had never recommended to her. Not that she didn’t talk with Nesta about her relationship with Cassian, but the Lord of Bloodshed and her fellow Valkyrie were more tumultuous, caught up in constant bickering that ended in wild, noisy sex. It was a different bond, because they were different people than Elain and Lucien, all properness and secrecy, but they made her curious about other mated couples. The most obvious was the relationship between the High Lord and Lady, a connection based on sharing: he was part of her, they spoke telepathically, they flew together with those special wings only they possessed and they had a death pact, to go down the road to death at the same time. A little codependent, for Gwyn’s taste, but after all it wasn’t up to her to judge, since she didn’t have a mate of her own.

Obviously, like any girl, she had thought about the characteristics she would like her Cauldron chosen to have. A strong male but capable of infinite sweetness, who knew how to work with his hands and at the same time caress her as if she was the most fragile creature in the world. An intelligent Fae incapable of presumption, who listened to her talk endlessly about the things she had learned and in turn had something to teach her. She would’ve liked them to have shared interests, and she had revelled in the idea he was someone who didn’t constantly need external reassurance, someone who saw her and her truth as enough, but it was only a daydream, qualities she could’ve found in anyone and not necessary a mate, although every now and then the idea of belonging to someone who could understand her soul, she who had no certain roots and who had lost her entire family, intrigued her. But it was just a game, definitely not something she expected to find far from Prythian, in an unknown village, in the middle of a dangerous mission, in the form of the only non-foreign person within miles. A wave of panic washed over her at the overwhelming realization that Azriel Shadowsinger was her mate, and under no circumstances should he find out.

[fersauce47]

I'm stuck inside my house again =/

If you'd have told me a month ago that I'd still be inside my home ranting on Tumblr, I would have told you to leave me alone. I may be a mess, sorry for being gone. But I'm back now and I made you some posts! =D What a beautiful day to be inside ranting on my PC.

First off, the world is changing. There's a lot going on, from the (not so) recent election to all the TikTok drama I won't mention by name, to the global warming, and to the lack of new music from my favorite artists like Bo Burnham.

The world is so fucked up. It needs direction from someone like me... a white man who has little problems. There's only one thing I can do, (While getting attention) and it's tell jokes. So if you start to panic, don't. Come to my page to see my jokes!

I got this idea while I was on the phone with my mom earlier. We were on the phone, she was talking about nonsense the season 6 finale of The Blacklist, while simultaneously covering the camera with her thumb and holding the phone 6 inches from her face.

When I was a sophomore, I took AP World. My teacher would always dumb down and white wash history, telling us that everything was great and the world works by every creature giving what they can and taking what they need. But no, the real world is a lot more messy. It's full of genocide/exploitation of minorities, and protects the interests of the top 1%. Sorry for being dark.

Why do you see the same things on every millennial white woman's Instagram? Golden retrievers, cheesy poems in the sand, bible verses, latte foam art, etc. Can we switch it up a bit?

What's the deal with these internships? Sorting papers, running around, sitting in a meeting room acting like you aren't there, and getting coffee for everyone? I should just go back to living with my parents.

It'd suck if Bezos joined Muskrat's group of friends. We need at least ONE billionaire who isn't THAT fucked up.

Have you ever done what they call sexting? Me and my gf did last night bc I'm out of town. They say it's just like regular sex, but no, it wasn't. Emoticons cant give me a bj. =[

I'm just trying to be funny. I've been stuck in my room for a while now, and I'm starting to wonder if being funny while trapped in the same room is even possible...

Some of my jokes might be problematic. But at least they aren't bad as my old YouTube channel, that'd be a yikes.

Guys... I'm officially unc status. I turn 20 in a couple weeks, and I CANNOT deal with allat. I used to wake up with a smile and ride my bike through people's yards, but now I'm gonna be the old man yelling at all the kids for doing exactly that.

Are these jokes okay? Are you tired of them? Too many? Too little? Nevermind, I'd prefer not to know.

How are you guys feeling today? I'm still in my house, I feel like shit.

You know, I don't think I'm alright. I'm approaching an ATL. (that's an "all time low" not Atlanta)

While you're here, welcome to Tumblr! If nothing interests you here, you'd be the first! Just nod or shake your head and we'll do the rest! Be happy, be horny, be crying at rage bait, there's a million different ways to engage. Hope you enjoy!

MAN FUCK BEZOS

Although Tumblr is fun, a lot of things on here give me that funny feeling. Like all the people who preach about Tumblr being a "dead site" and how they wish there were more people here, and then turning around and saying they like the community. Pick a side!

Did you really make it this far? Damn, didn't know I'd have so many eyes on me.

I'm pretty much done here, I'm out of jokes. But do I really have to finish? Does returning usually feel like this? So this is how it ends... If I can chase this high for any longer, I'll promise to never go outside again.

Here's a fun idea: How about I go scrolling and watch YOU rant next time? I wanna hear you tell a joke to an empty text box.

Am I going crazy? Would I even know? Am I gonna end up right back where I started? Fuck this, I'm over it. I'm not leaving my house, I'll rot here. I'm panicking... is there anyone's page I can go to for a joke?

This post will end any day now... I swear...

[cosmic-consumption-au]

Chapter 6 - A Two Star Consolation

That night you have no real dreams of note, the only one you can remember being you riding on a strange small ride of sorts in a darkless void. You woke up after losing your last coin that supposedly kept the ride going in a grate that seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

You are confused.

Either way, you try to not think about it too much seeing how nonsensical it was. You have something else to worry about today, and it’s not traveling.

When you all gather for breakfast, Loop is surprisingly still asleep on the couch, positioned like they’d just been hit by a wagon.

(They deserve to sleep in…just a little longer.)

However, Bonnie will not let this atrocity go unpunished. They stomp up to them, inhale, and scream before you can take action to stop them.

“LOOOOOP!!!!” You and your friends flinch at their volume, and Loop seemingly jumps up like a cat in surprise with a scream.

“WHAT’S HAPPENING, IS THE WORLD ENDING?!?!” Since they’re in their star form, the sparks and sparkles are much more visible and you can’t help but laugh.

“HAHAHAHA!!! You look like a cat!” You point at Loop, who looks rather angry at you for this comment.

“Oh, haha. How funny,” They sit up and roll their eyes at you. They do their strange ripple-like transformation back into their more humanoid form with a stretch. “I really need to find some way to make this stick…” Loop seems a little…disappointed by this.

Nonetheless, Loop joins the rest of you and eats as if they were starving once again. Only this time, they feel the consequences of fast eating, placing their face down on the table with a pained groan.

“Yeah. Can’t gorge yourself,” Odile lectures with a chuckle and a smirk as she shakes her head.

After everyone gets everything set up, Mirabelle realizes something and turns to Loop. “Oh! Loop! Since we’ll probably be outside for a while, do you need some sleeping supplies?”

Everyone kind of side-eyes them in a similar question.

“Not really,” Loop shrugs. “I’ve been rather warm to say the least, so less stuff on me the better.”

You still aren’t sure just how hot Loop is, being a star and all. When you fought them, they felt like an overheated person rather than a flame though.

(Grabbing their face didn’t burn me, and neither did pinning them down. If it did, that fight would have had a very different outcome.)

You kind of shudder, wondering what would have even happened.

(Best not to think about it.)

The party heads out of the city, luckily having to wade through a less crowded street. Since you’re changing directions, it will take longer than expected to come across another town by night.

Walking along a path through a grassy field in silence is…you could cut the tension between you and Loop with a knife. You occasionally look over at them, but look away when they notice you. However, when you notice them looking at you, they don’t look away.

(That look…you’ve seen it before. Back in the loops…)

“Ya know,” Nille says, looking back at the two of you. “You two kinda look like siblings!”

Her chuckles make it seem like a little joke, but it unintentionally leaves the two of you kind of uncomfortable.

“Teehee! I guess we do, huh?~” Loop laughs it off with a forced smile.

“Maybe that’d be a good cover story?” You raise an eyebrow at them.

(It’ll be easier to tell strangers we’re related than the same person.)

Odile overhears your plan, and hums an agreement. “It would be more believable.”

“Guess it’s settled! Me and stardust are siblings, as far as the world is concerned,” Loop nods.

Even if they’ve fooled everyone, you know Loop isn’t exactly stoked about this idea. Having a proper face already gave them away, but you can see faint sparkles come off them for a moment.

All of you keep walking in a tense silence, everyone obviously wanting to say something but not having the guts to do so. Even Bonnie seems hesitant to start a conversation.

By the time it’s noon, you all settle down for a lunch break on a nearby field of lush grass. Loop, despite having socialized with them yesterday, diverts from the group to sit alone. Everyone seems a little worried, looking at one another with questioning looks.

“Did we do something wrong?” Mira asks, looking at you with an anxious stare.

“Um…” You aren’t sure what to say. “Maybe they’re just…recharging? They did talk to you guys a lot yesterday.”

Everyone seems to be satisfied with that answer, but Bonnie got another idea by ‘recharge’.

“Oooh, so they’re like glow-in-the-dark?” They seem convinced of this hypothesis.

You laugh at this. “Yeah, maybe!”

“Well, since you’re kinda them,” Bonnie takes some praline chips out of their bag. “Could you give them these? They said they like bananas, and pralines are close enough, right?”

You take the chips with a nod. “I’m sure they’ll be thankful for these! It’ll help recharge their glow.”

Isa chuckles a little at you fueling their little theory, and you respond with a cute wink at him.

Loop’s sitting still, their new hair ruffled by the wind. You still feel the tension between you two as you shuffle closer to them.

“Hey,” you say in a nervous tone, “got some praline chips for you…”

They hum an answer, extending a hand for the chips. They look over them with a stoic look.

“Praline chips, huh?” They chuckle coldly. “I suppose enough time has passed.”

With a shrug they eat the chips. You’re honestly sick of this tension, and decide to be blunt.

“Ok, what is it?” You stare down at them, and they look back with a raised eyebrow. “I thought we made up! Why do you still have this…this problem with me?! Did I do something? Why can’t we just move on?”

You didn’t mean to be that blunt, but your emotions got the better of you. Loop looks up at you with raised eyebrows, seeming shocked by this outburst, but not surprised.

“Guess I haven’t been…the most transparent when it comes to my thoughts and feelings lately.” They rub one of their arms nervously. You sit down next to them, so you two are more or less at equal height. “Ok,” they sigh out, looking a little less tense. “So I did talk to…them yesterday. That wasn’t a lie. But…I didn’t tell them about our little…disagreement at the end.”

You can’t really blame them for leaving that part out. You’re not sure now they’d take it, but odds are; not well.

“I just…I miss them, you know?” They continue, looking up at the sky. “They aren’t…them. Just your versions of them. I really thought…I was going to see them again, after our fight. Either that or dying, I was happy to take either one. But…The Universe just…repurposed me, I guess. I looked like a star, so I was a star. Seems like solid logic, right?” They laugh darkly at this, seemingly bitter about this. “It wasn’t that bad to be honest. Even if I missed them, I had developed a sickly pleasant heartache that was oddly…comforting. So in a twisted way, I kind of liked the isolation. I was able to see the stars up close, and felt at some kind of peace. But then I…”

They slow their words down, and wince before rubbing their temples. “I saw…” They look in pain at the mere thought of whatever they’re remembering, and you worriedly reach a hand towards them.

“It wasn’t good, I can tell you that,” they eventually respond, still rubbing their head. “It’s similar to our country, I think; the headache thing that keeps happening to me?” They explain in a half questioning tone, looking to you for some kind of confirmation. You nod a little, putting it together that they really can’t explain what they saw out there.

“Either way, it was enough to snap me out of my bittersweet bliss, and caused me to fall back here. Blinding hurt, but I’m still standing here aren’t I?” They look over to you with a small shrug. 

You think back on the dream you had, seeing some similarities.

(Was this some kind of connection to them? That’d explain the wish acting up suddenly.)

Even when you try, you can’t pin down what it was you saw that caused you to fall away from the stars. But you can agree with Loop on one thing.

Whatever it was, it was bad.

“Aside from the Universe deciding to just let me see horrors beyond comprehension and throwing me back here,” Loop continues with minor annoyance in their tone, “I…I still…I’m still mad at you. I still kind of want to…I don’t know, take your place? But honestly, we both know that’s a stupid idea. Even if I could easily morph my body to look more like you, steal your clothes, and say you just ran away or something…it’s too much of a hassle for me.” They wink with a smirk as if to write it off as a joke.

Even as a dark joke, it still makes you shiver for a second.

You smile and laugh nervously to brush it off too.

Loop sighs and looks away, their face dropping from its almost manic expression.

The two of you stare off for a while before speaking again.

“Well,” you say to break the silence, “I am genuinely glad you’re back! I hoped that you could get another chance. You’ve changed so much…literally!”

Their eyes shift to look at you, but they still face ahead.

You continue speaking. “You aren’t me. That’s been apparent. And it’s not just because you got all starry and stuff; it’s because you experienced the House differently. You stood by me and watched from the sidelines, a different role! You weren’t the ‘hero’ anymore. But that didn’t make you worth any less. It just gave you a different perspective. And now…you can go forward with those new understandings, and you can go on a different path.”

Loop stays quiet for a while, and you don’t look at them for a while so as not to make them uncomfortable.

Then you hear sniffing.

You turn a little to see Loop holding back tears and failing, big drops beading along their narrowed eyes.

You aren’t sure what to do, so you just worriedly look around and hold your hands in front of you.

“You blinding crab…” Loop’s voice cracks as they cover their eyes with the palms of their hands. “We both know we don’t deserve this.”

You chuckle a little with some tears in your own eyes. “You’re right.”

They look a little caught off guard as they peek one eye out at you with confusion behind the tears.

“We don’t. But you do.” You smile at them warmly, trying to reassure them with a simple expression.

They move their hands down and wrap their arms around their legs in a hug. Still crying, but a bit less than before.

(They’re probably just too dehydrated to keep crying.)

You offer them your water canister, which they take after some hesitation. They chug it for a while before they give an empty canister back to you.

You’re a little annoyed, but glad they’re hydrated nonetheless.

They go back to looking ahead of themselves, but their eyes seem to be more…focused. More thoughtful.

“Thanks, Stardust.” They say in a much better off tone. “I needed that.”

You smile and gently pat their shoulder. “Anytime, Loop. Or whoever you choose to be.”

The two of you sit up and head back to the others together to chat and get some more food. After a while, the lunch break is over, and you all head back on the road.

-

Somewhere further away from the party, but following them for afar, a stranger lurks in the tree line.

“So…these are the saviors of Vaugarde, huh? Kinda…disappointing.” They say to themselves, a pair of arms on their hips as they pout. 

“A child…a traveler…a Housemaiden…a Defender…and those two…mmm…yes, I think this will be ‘fun’. At least, those two will be something. And I can tell…they’re sick too! Sad it took people in Vaugarde too…a shame.”

A pair of arms shrug and they chuckle with a smirk before continuing their dialogue. “I’ll leave them be for now. After all…it’s not like it’s going to get more broken.” They laugh at that last line, wiping a tear away with a hand as they clutch their sides.

“Well, whatever. Everything’s rotting anyway. I’m sure the world won’t mind if I waste a few more days observing before I make another futile effort.”

Without another word, they step back further into the tree line, low hanging branches being snapped out of their way.

End of Chapter 6

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[bladeweave]

how well could the origins characters do at being actors interviewed in a press junket where the big pr issue they were specificially instructed not to discuss by the studio is addressed point blank by the interviewer and they are asked to comment on it?

Astarion: the only one who will blatantly lie and say oh no thats not true, nothing of the sort has occured. will gladly denigrate anyone who says otherwise in a way that does not sound like an insult. whatever his real opinion is he says the opposite of that. the execs love him and the fans think hes absolutely fully of shit. 9/10

Gale: hates lying not because it's bad but because he hates conveying incorrect information. he will prevaricate around the topic for a time, speaking a lot and saying nothing, and probably says something self-effacing that suitably shifts focus away from the issue but leaves the viewers with questions. goes home and posts his actual thoughts on his priv acc. 8/10

Karlach: you may be thinking theres no way she could navigate anything delicately. you are WRONG! with her natural verve and zest she could easily say something incredibly funny that completely distracts from the topic at hand and moves the conversation in a different direction that the interviewer cant steer back on course. this is highly context dependent though i will admit. 7/10

Lae'zel: if you tell her not to talk about it she will not talk about it. point blank. hard eyed stare into the zoom camera until the interviewer gets nervous and starts spitting nonsense trying to get her to react. technically correct in that she did as she was told but her patter really needs some work. 6/10

Shadowheart: won't comment on it directly but because she loves shit stirring she is the only one who cannot resist dropping a hint of a hint as to whats truly going on. its the most replayed section of the video and gets speculators going apeshit in the comments section. which she eats up. did she spill? no. are the higher ups happy? also no. 5/10

Wyll: everything he says is so fully sincerely from the heart and simultaneously rehearsed scripted garbage. full of statements like "he's a joy to work with" and "it's really obvious how much effort he's been putting in." he really makes himself believe what he's saying and it convinces half the viewers as well. 10/10

Dark Urge: is the PR crisis. 0/10