#Fresh flagships

[gadgets-ark]

Top upcoming phones 2023: The best smartphones of the year

The best upcoming phones this yearApple iPhone 15Samsung Galaxy S24Google Pixel FoldNothing Phone 2Samsung Galaxy Z Fold 5OnePlus V Fold Do you obsessively monitor every smartphone launch? Over the past 12 months, your diary must have been busy. There have been a tonne of brand-new, sparkling devices, ranging from foldable phones to inexpensive blowers to new flagships. But because you’re…

[emjayewrites]

Private Landing (Lewis Hamilton) (9/15)

SUMMARY: In the high-speed world of Formula One, Lewis Hamilton subtly introduces a mysterious partner via Instagram after a slight mishap during an interview. Sparking media intrigue, everyone wants to know: who is the enigmatic figure that calls herself Mrs. Hamilton?

INSPO: this post

PAIRINGS: Sir Lewis Hamilton x Aurora "Rorie" Phillips-Hamilton (faceclaim is Justine Skye)

WARNINGS: drama, angst, sexual content, formula one b.s., pre-established relationship (with flashbacks). RATED M (18+)

TAGLIST: @queenshikongo3 @cocobutterqwueen @mauvecherie-writes @a-moment-captured @yeea-nah @lovebittenbyevans @alika-4466 @saintslewis @cherry2stems @liamundi @trinitoldyouso @scorpiobleue @certifiedlesbianbaddie @httpsserene @motheroffae @perfecttrashface @xoscar03 @saturnville @weetjy @pinkcatcus @lewlewlemon44 @cranberryjulce @chaoticcoffeequeen @vile-harlot @periodjosh @melanin-queen369 @destinyg237 @niahxo @purplelewlew @ffenthusiastt

A/N: Please let me know if you want to be added/removed from the taglist. The headers/dividers are by @inklore

CHAPTER 9: New Horizons

Rorie stood in front of the full-length mirror, admiring the sleek Tommy Hilfiger outfit she was wearing for the promotional photoshoot. The partnership felt like a breath of fresh air amidst the recent turmoil. She smoothed down the crisp white blouse, tucked neatly into tailored navy trousers, a look that perfectly blended sophistication with her signature laid-back style.

"You look stunning, Rorie," the photographer called out. Rorie smiled, ready to face the cameras.

This shoot in the Culver City studio was the final piece of her campaign with Tommy Hilfiger. Most of the work had been done in New York a few weeks back - a whirlwind three days of shooting on the bustling streets of Manhattan, in Central Park, and atop a skyscraper with the city skyline as a backdrop. Those images had captured the essence of the brand's urban chic aesthetic, with Rorie as the perfect embodiment of modern, dynamic womanhood.

Today's shoot was for some additional lifestyle shots - casual moments that showed off the versatility of the collection. Rorie moved through a series of poses, from lounging on a minimalist sofa to standing by floor-to-ceiling windows, the soft California light adding a warm glow to each frame.

Between shots, Rorie chatted with the styling team, discussing the collection and her excitement about the partnership. It felt good to focus on her career, to have something positive to pour her energy into after the recent drama. And speaking of it, Deja finally managed to shut her mouth and stay off of social media.

That bitch needs her ass whooped...maybe I should've let KiKi drag her.

A couple of days ago, many of her good friends, KiKi being one of them, came to her defense and even threatened to hunt Deja down and let her reap the consequences of spreading lies, but as usual, Rorie was above the nonsense, and decided against it. Unfortunately, the damage from Deja was already done, and making things worse was not ideal, especially for her lawyers. A mixture of messages, ranging from support to vitriol continued to arrive daily in her comments and DM's, so much so that she had to disable both to safeguard her mental wellbeing.

All in all, work and home life was a welcomed - and needed - distraction from all of the bullshit.

"That's a wrap!" the director called out after a few hours. Rorie let out a small sigh of relief. As much as she enjoyed modeling, it was always intense work.

As she changed back into her own clothes, her phone buzzed with a message from Lewis:

Dinner with Fred Vasseur tonight. Big news. Love you.

Rorie's heart raced. She knew what this dinner could mean - a potential move to Ferrari for Lewis. It was exciting and terrifying all at once.

Later that evening, Rorie and Lewis arrived at Spago, Wolfgang Puck's flagship restaurant in Beverly Hills. As they approached the table, Fred Vasseur and his wife, Marie-Laure, stood to greet them.

"Lewis!" Fred exclaimed, embracing Lewis warmly and kissing him on both cheeks. "And the lovely Rorie," he continued, offering her the same warm greeting.

Marie-Laure followed suit, her elegant perfume wafting as she leaned in to kiss Rorie's cheeks. "It's wonderful to see you both," she said with a genuine smile.

As they settled into their seats, the sommelier approached, and after a brief consultation, Fred ordered a bottle of Château Margaux. "To celebrate old times and new beginnings," he said with a wink.

They then perused the menu, and the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from Lewis's recent races to Rorie's upcoming partnership with Tommy Hilfiger.

"I can't wait to see some of the campaign photos," Marie-Laure commented. "You'll bring such vitality to the brand."

Rorie's cheeks flushed slightly at the compliment. "Thank you. It's been an exciting project to work on."

After their appetizers were cleared away, Fred leaned in, his eyes twinkling with excitement. "So, Lewis," he began, swirling his glass of wine. "How would you feel about wearing red in 2025?"

Lewis glanced at Rorie, who nodded encouragingly. She could see the spark of excitement in his eyes, but also a hint of hesitation.

"I've been thinking," Lewis began, his voice thoughtful. "I've been with Mercedes for so long, and Toto has been incredible. But we haven't been winning races or championships lately, and I'm not getting any younger."

Fred nodded understandingly. "We know it's a big decision, Lewis. But we believe Ferrari can give you the car to claim those additional World Driver's Championships before you retire."

Lewis leaned forward, his expression serious. "If I come to Ferrari, I want to do more than just drive. I want to implement DEI trainings, make the team more inclusive, like I did at Mercedes."

"Absolutely," Fred agreed enthusiastically. "We've been impressed by your work off the track as much as on it. Your vision aligns perfectly with where we want to take Ferrari."

Rorie watched the exchange with pride, seeing Lewis's passion for both racing and social change shine through.

"It's not just about the championships," Lewis continued. "It's about leaving a lasting impact on the sport and the team."

Marie-Laure smiled warmly. "And that's exactly why we want you, Lewis. Your influence extends far beyond the racetrack."

As the main course arrived, they delved deeper into the details - the contract terms, the vision for the future, and the potential impact Lewis could have on the team culture.

By the time dessert was served, the foundations of a deal were firmly in place. As they said their goodbyes, with promises to finalize everything in the coming weeks, Rorie felt a mix of emotions washing over her. This move would be huge for Lewis's career and his broader goals, opening up new opportunities and challenges.

The drive back to their Malibu home was quiet, the usual LA traffic surprisingly light. Lewis held Rorie's hand tightly as he navigated the nighttime streets, the city's lights twinkling around them. Despite the silence, Rorie could sense the nervous energy still bubbling within Lewis. His thumb absently traced circles on her hand, a telltale sign of his racing thoughts.

Once home, they relieved Nina and settled in the backyard, watching the waves crash against the beach in the distance. The rhythmic sound of the ocean provided a soothing backdrop to their conversation.

"It's a big change," Rorie said softly, breaking the silence.

Lewis nodded, his eyes fixed on the horizon. "It is. But it feels right, you know? A new challenge, a chance to make a real difference."

They talked about the potential move to Ferrari, the excitement and the apprehension intertwining in their words. The conversation then shifted to the ongoing situation with Deja.

"I still can't believe she did this," Lewis said, shaking his head.

Rorie sighed. "I know. And even though KiKi wants to fight Deja, she's still acting weird herself."

"What do you mean?"

"Tia told me that KiKi's back with her ex," Rorie replied hesitantly.

Lewis's brow furrowed. "Khalil?" When Rorie nodded, he let out a frustrated groan. "I thought she was done with him. What about Miles?"

Rorie leaned into Lewis's side. "Apparently, Miles was trying to move things into more serious territory, and KiKi got scared. Tia thinks it's because of her low self-esteem, and how Khalil never wanted to commit to her before."

"So she's falling back into old patterns," Lewis mused.

"Yeah. The girls and I are planning to talk to her about it. Kind of like an intervention, I guess."

Lewis chuckled softly. "Sounds intense. But necessary, probably."

Rorie nodded. "And... I think we both need to apologize to KiKi too. For placing suspicion on her. I feel so bad that we did that."

Lewis was quiet for a moment before agreeing. "You're right. We haven't been the best friends we could be." He pressed a kiss to his wife's temple. "Whatever comes next, we've got this," he murmured.

Rorie smiled, snuggling closer to him. "Together," she agreed, as the waves continued their endless dance with the shore.

The next few days went by quickly. With the Las Vegas Grand Prix approaching, Rorie found herself juggling preparations for an Almave pop-up bar during race weekend alongside her usual responsibilities. Managing multiple homes at once was proving to be a Herculean task. Their London house was undergoing renovations, with Lewis's brother Nicolas supervising the work. Her family was currently at their Colorado home, where she'd just hired a new housekeeper. The Monaco penthouse needed attention, and of course, there was their Malibu home to consider.

Rorie sighed as she thought about Luisa, their Malibu housekeeper, who'd been sick lately and rather short in their conversations. She made a mental note to send over a care package. As she juggled all these balls, along with her growing list of campaigns and ambassadorships, Rorie couldn't help but wish she were an octopus, with enough arms to handle everything at once.

"I really need to consider hiring a personal assistant," she muttered to herself as she confirmed yet another appointment.

Amidst all this, Rorie found solace in quiet moments at home with Lyric and Roscoe. Watching Lyric toddle after Roscoe, giggling with delight, Rorie felt content, which made her upcoming OB/GYN appointment all the more significant.

The day of the appointment soon arrived, and Rorie found herself in Dr. Chen's office. The waiting room was a vibrant space, with walls painted in soothing shades of blue and green. Colorful artwork adorned the walls, interspersed with framed photographs of smiling babies - all delivered by Dr. Chen herself. Soft background music and the gentle burble of a small fountain in the corner was a nice touch of calmness, and a refreshment station offered water, herbal teas, and fresh fruit, adding to the welcoming atmosphere.

In one corner, a play area was set up with soft foam mats and an array of toys. Lyric immediately gravitated towards it, joining a couple of other children in stacking blocks and rolling toy cars. Rorie and Lewis settled into the plush chairs, watching their son play.

"He's getting so big," Lewis murmured, a hint of wonder in his voice.

Rorie nodded, squeezing his hand. "Time flies, doesn't it?"

Lewis nodded, his eyes soft as he watched their son. "Do you think he's ready to be a big brother?"

Rorie considered for a moment. "I think so. He's been so gentle with younger kids at playgroup. We'll need to prepare him, though."

"Maybe we could start reading him books about being a big brother," Lewis suggested. "And involve him in setting up the nursery when the time comes."

"That's a great idea," Rorie agreed. "We should also make sure to give him extra attention, so he doesn't feel left out."

Their conversation was interrupted as a nurse in cheerful floral scrubs called their name. "Hamilton family?" she said with a warm smile.

Lewis stood, scooping up Lyric who protested leaving his new playmates. "Come on, little man," Lewis said, settling Lyric on his hip.

The nurse led them down a corridor lined with more baby photos and inspirational quotes about parenthood. "He's adorable," she commented, grinning at Lyric. "How old is he now?"

"Sixteen months," Rorie replied proudly.

"Oh, a big boy!" the nurse said, smiling at Lyric. "Are you being good to your Mommy and Daddy?"

"Say 'no'," Lewis joked, lightly pinching his son's cheek and causing the nurse to laugh.

They entered Dr. Chen's office, which was just as inviting as the waiting room. Soft, natural light filtered through gauzy curtains, and potted plants added a touch of nature to the space. The examination table was draped with a colorful, patterned cloth, making it look less clinical.

Dr. Chen greeted them warmly, her kind eyes crinkling at the corners as she smiled. "How are we all doing today?" she asked, giving Lyric a little wave. As Rorie settled onto the examination table, Lewis sat nearby with Lyric on his lap. "And how have you been feeling, Rorie?"

"I've been feeling pretty good," Rorie replied. "A bit nauseous in the mornings, and I've had some weird cravings."

Dr. Chen nodded, making notes. "And you took a home pregnancy test, correct?"

"Yes, it was positive," Rorie confirmed, hope evident in her voice.

Dr. Chen began the ultrasound, and the room fell silent. Lewis held Rorie's hand tightly, his thumb tracing soothing circles on her skin. They both watched the screen intently, hope and anxiety mingling in the air.

As the minutes ticked by, Dr. Chen's brow furrowed in concentration. She moved the wand, checking different angles, her expression growing more concerned. Finally, she set down the wand with a sympathetic look. "I'm sorry," she said gently, "but I'm not detecting a heartbeat. It appears to have been a false positive."

Disbelief etched on her face. "But... I've been feeling nauseous. I've had cravings. I haven't had my period..."

Dr. Chen's voice was compassionate as she explained, "Sometimes, stress can mimic pregnancy symptoms. Given everything that's been happening in your life recently, it's possible that stress is the cause of these symptoms."

Rorie fell silent and her heart sank, tears welling up in her eyes as she processed the information. Lewis, sensing her withdrawal, spoke up. "What are our options moving forward, Dr. Chen?"

Dr. Chen's tone was gentle but optimistic as she replied, "We still have two embryos frozen from your previous IVF cycle. If you're ready, we could discuss trying IVF again."

She went on to explain the process in detail, outlining the steps, potential risks, and success rates. Throughout the explanation, she maintained a tone of gentle encouragement, emphasizing that there were still possibilities ahead.

As Dr. Chen finished speaking, she offered them a moment alone. "Take all the time you need," she said softly, before stepping out of the room.

In the quiet that followed, Lewis enveloped Rorie in a tight embrace, Lyric nestled between them. Rorie clung to him, still processing the news. As her initial shock began to subside, she looked down at Lyric, who was watching them with curious eyes. Tears began to fall freely down Rorie's cheeks, her body shaking with quiet sobs.

Lyric, sensing his mother's distress, reached out a tiny hand and placed it gently on Rorie's wet cheek. The innocent gesture of comfort broke something inside her.

"Oh, my sweet baby," Rorie whispered, her voice cracking with emotion. She pulled Lyric closer, crying into his soft curls. Between sobs, Rorie turned to Lewis. "I'm so sorry," she managed to say, her words muffled and broken.

Lewis shook his head, his own eyes glistening with unshed tears. "It's okay, love. It's not your fault," he said softly, wrapping his arms around both Rorie and Lyric. "Remember what Dr. Chen said? These things happen, and we still have options." He pressed a kiss to her temple, his voice steady and reassuring. "I love you, Rorie. We'll get through this together, I promise."

Rorie nodded, unable to speak through her tears but drawing comfort from Lewis's words and the warmth of her family's embrace. Lyric, not fully understanding but instinctively offering comfort, snuggled closer to his mother.

In that moment, surrounded by the love of her husband and son, Rorie felt a glimmer of hope through her grief. The path ahead was uncertain, but she wasn't walking it alone.

As they prepared to leave, Rorie found her voice again. "Maybe we should take some time to think about the IVF," she said quietly. "We have a lot going on right now."

Lewis nodded, understanding in his eyes. "Of course, love. We'll take it one day at a time."

The neon lights of Las Vegas blazed against the night sky, casting a surreal glow over the city as it prepared for its inaugural Grand Prix. Lewis stood on the balcony of his suite at the Wynn, taking in the spectacle below. The energy was electric, but Lewis felt oddly disconnected from it all.

His mind wandered to Rorie, back in Colorado with Lyric. She had been withdrawn since their visit to Dr. Chen, the false positive pregnancy test hitting her harder than either of them had anticipated. Lewis had encouraged her to sit this race weekend out, to focus on her mental health, but her absence left a palpable void.

The news had been tough on him too. He'd allowed himself to imagine their family growing, Lyric becoming a big brother. But as Dr. Chen had gently reminded them, they still had options. Two frozen embryos waited, a possibility for the future. Yet, Lewis knew the decision to try again had to be Rorie's.

Shaking off his melancholy, Lewis headed down to the lobby where his best friend, Miles, was waiting. The Vegas strip was awash with Formula 1 fever. Billboards flashed with images of drivers, including the debut of Lewis's own Fortnite skin. Rorie's Tommy Hilfiger campaign was also debuting this weekend, her face gracing billboards throughout the city.

Lewis had reluctantly attended the Almave pop-up earlier, putting on a brave face for the cameras despite his heavy heart. Now, he and Miles made their way to Delilah, the Art Deco-inspired supper club within the Wynn.

As they settled into their booth, Miles studied his friend's face. "How's Rorie doing?"

Lewis paused, his fingers tracing the rim of his water glass. "It's been tough," he admitted. "She's withdrawn, barely talking. I don't know how to reach her sometimes."

"And how are you holding up?" Miles pressed gently.

Lewis's composure cracked, tears welling in his eyes. "I'm trying to be strong for her, but man, it's hard. We wanted this so badly."

Miles reached across the table, squeezing Lewis's shoulder supportively as his friend wiped away tears.

As their meal progressed, Lewis opened up more about the pressures he was facing - the lawsuit, Rorie's father reaching out, and the potential move to Ferrari.

"He says he's going to be here this weekend, and wants to talk again," Lewis said, his voice tight with frustration. "I just… I don't know how to handle all of this."

Miles listened intently, offering words of support and gentle advice. "Have you thought about going back to therapy?" he suggested. "It sounds like you're carrying a lot, bro."

Lewis shook his head. "I can't right now. I need to be there for Rorie, for Lyric. They need me to be strong."

Miles leaned forward, his expression serious. "Lewis, listen to me. You can't pour from an empty cup. You need to take care of yourself too. Rorie would want that."

As they were leaving the restaurant, a familiar face caught Lewis's eye. Deja stood near the bar, her gaze locking onto him.

"Lewis," she called out, her voice carrying a mix of anger and hurt.

Lewis tensed, his bodyguards immediately alert. "Deja, I have nothing to say to you."

"Of course you don't," she scoffed. "But I have plenty to say. Like how you're letting Rorie play the victim when she's the one who stole you from me."

Lewis's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"New Orleans, 2017. All-Star weekend," Deja spat. "We met at the club, danced, kissed. You promised me we'd be together! You said I was special!"

Lewis shook his head, genuinely perplexed. "I'm sorry, but I don't remember. I was partying a lot back then. If we did hook up, I apologize, but it was just that - a hookup."

Deja's face contorted with rage. "Just a hookup? You know what, Lewis? I'm glad I met with The Sun's PI. The truth is finally coming out, and I couldn't be happier. You think you can just use people and forget about them?"

"Deja, I—" Lewis started, but she cut him off.

"No, you listen! You ruined my life, and now I'm going to return the favor. You and that bitch Rorie deserve each other! I'm going to make your life miserable!"

Lewis's bodyguards stepped in, creating a barrier between them as the situation escalated. "We need to go, sir," one of them urged.

As they hustled Lewis and Miles out of the restaurant, Deja's angry shouts echoed behind them. "You're a liar, Lewis Hamilton! This is just the beginning!"

In the elevator, Lewis leaned against the wall, his jaw clenched. "I can't believe this," he muttered, then slammed his fist against the elevator wall. "Damn it!"

Miles watched his friend, concern etched on his face. "Talk to me, bro. What's going through your head?"

Lewis ran a hand over his face, frustration evident in every movement. "I'm trying to make sense of it all. All-Star weekend 2017... that was a year before I even met Rorie. Why is Deja so hung up on this?" He paced the small space of the elevator. "I mean, I partied a lot back then, sure. But promising someone we'd be together? That doesn't sound like me, even at my wildest. I'm trying to remember that weekend, but it's all a blur."

Miles shrugged his shoulders. "The bitch is crazy, bro. Don't try to rationalize delusion."

Lewis shook his head, still trying to piece together fragments of memories. "But what if there's some truth to it? What if I did something I don't remember?"

"Look," Miles said firmly, placing both hands on Lewis's shoulders to stop his pacing. "Even if something did happen - which I doubt - it was years ago. You weren't with Rorie then. You didn't do anything wrong."

The elevator dinged as they reached their floor. As the doors opened, Lewis took a deep breath, his mind still racing. "You're right. I just... I hate that this is happening now, with everything else going on."

Miles nodded sympathetically. "I know, man. But we'll figure this out. One step at a time, remember?"

"One step at a time."

As they stepped out into the hallway, Lewis felt a mix of emotions - anger at Deja's accusations, confusion about the past, and a deep longing for Rorie and the simplicity of being with his family.

-------------------------------------------------------

This was not his weekend. At all.

Lewis stared at his phone, scrolling through the TMZ article that had somehow materialized overnight. The drama with Deja at Delilah had made its way to the gossip mill, complete with blurry photos and sensationalized headlines.

His dad had left several texts and voicemails, rightfully upset about what had happened. Lewis sighed, knowing he'd have to deal with that conversation soon. But for now, he was grateful that there were no messages from Rorie. The last thing she needed was this added stress.

His Twitter notifications were exploding, a mix of support and criticism flooding his mentions:

@F1Fan2023: "Lewis, stay strong! We know the truth is on your side. #TeamLH" @GossipQueen88: "First the lawsuit, now this? What's really going on with Lewis Hamilton? 👀" @RacingEnthusiast: "Focus on the track, Lewis. Let your driving do the talking. #LasVegasGP"

As he made his way to the paddock, Lewis tried to push the social media noise out of his mind. He had a race to focus on, after all. The Las Vegas strip was alive with fans crowding the streets and celebrities flocking to the various events.

Just as Lewis thought he might be able to lose himself in the pre-race routines, he spotted a familiar figure approaching. Martin, Rorie's father, was making his way through the paddock.

"This motherfucker," Lewis muttered under his breath, bracing himself for the encounter.

"Lewis," Martin called out, his voice tentative but determined. "I need to talk to you about Rorie. She's not answering my calls again."

Lewis exhaled heavily. "Martin, now is really not a good time."

"I know about the lawsuit," Martin pressed on. "I want to help. I have resources—"

"It's not just that," Lewis cut him off, then paused. He shouldn't be saying this, but the words tumbled out anyway. "We've been trying to have another baby. We just got some tough news from our OB/GYN. Rorie's… she's struggling right now."

Martin's face fell. "I'm so sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

"Thanks, but no thanks," Lewis said, turning away.

"Lewis, wait," Martin called after him. "I know I've gone about this all wrong, but I genuinely want a relationship with Rorie and my grandson. Her half-siblings, they want to know her too."

Lewis paused, conflicting emotions battling within him. He understood the desire for family, but his priority was protecting Rorie and Lyric.

"Look, Martin," he said finally, turning back. "I hear you. But this has to be Rorie's decision. And right now, she needs space. Can you respect that?"

Martin nodded slowly, a mix of disappointment and understanding on his face. "I can. Just… tell her I'm here when she's ready?"

Lewis gave a curt nod before walking away, his mind already racing ahead to the challenges of the day. As he reached for his balaclava, his phone buzzed with a text from Julian in all caps:

CALL ME NOW.

Moving to the back of the garage for privacy, Lewis dialed Julian's number.

"Julian, what's going on?"

"Lewis, we've identified the inside source giving Deja information," Julian said, his voice tense. "It's Luisa."

"What the fuck, man?" Lewis exploded, lowering his voice as he glanced around. "This fucking weekend is cursed."

Shit, maybe I need to douse myself in holy water.

"It'll be okay, Lewis." Julian tried to calm him down. "I'm preparing to file a motion to have her arrested—"

"No, don't do that," Lewis cut in. "Luisa has two kids. We can't…"

"What do you want me to do then?" Julian asked, frustration evident in his voice. "This is serious, Lewis. She invaded your privacy."

Lewis took a deep breath. "I'll handle it after the race. For now, just… keep this under wraps, okay?"

As he ended the call, Lewis felt the weight of everything pressing down on him. Between the race, the media circus, and the family drama, this Vegas weekend was turning out to be more complicated than he could have ever imagined.

Lewis took a deep breath, trying to center himself amidst the chaos swirling around him. The garage buzzed with pre-race activity, mechanics fine-tuning the car, team members hurrying back and forth with last-minute adjustments.

He pulled on his balaclava, the familiar routine offering a small comfort. As he reached for his helmet, Toto approached, concern etched on his face.

"Lewis, are you alright?" Toto asked, his voice low. "I've heard about the... incident last night."

Lewis nodded, grateful for Toto's discretion. "I'm managing. Just focused on the race now."

Toto placed a supportive hand on Lewis's shoulder. "Remember, we're here for you. Whatever you need."

As Lewis made his way to the car, he caught sight of Fred Vasseur in the paddock. Their eyes met briefly, and Fred gave him a subtle nod of encouragement. The potential move to Ferrari suddenly felt like it belonged to a different lifetime.

Settling into the cockpit, Lewis allowed himself a moment of calm. The familiar smell of rubber and fuel, the snug fit of the seat – it all helped to ground him. Here, in this space, he was just a driver. No drama, no complications. Just him and the track.

The radio crackled to life. "Lewis, how are you feeling? Car okay?"

Bono's voice made the corners of Lewis' lips quirk into a small smile. Although the car was still shit, at least it was somewhat better than the current reality of his life.

"All good," Lewis responded, his voice steady. "Let's do this."

"Alright, mate, whenever you're ready."

He pulled out of the garage for the formation lap, revving his engine as his mind began to clear. The neon lights of Vegas, the drama with Deja, the situation with Luisa, even the heartache over the false pregnancy – it all faded into the background.

For now, there was only the race. The grip of the tires on asphalt and the thrill of pushing machine and man to their limits. As the lights went out and Lewis launched off the line, he felt a familiar surge of adrenaline.

Let's fucking go.

The crisp November air of Colorado bit at Rorie's cheeks as she stood on the balcony of their secluded home. The Rockies stretched out before her, their peaks already blanketed in snow, the evergreens dotting the landscape providing the only splashes of color against the white and gray backdrop. It was a view that usually brought her peace, but today, it felt more like a beautiful, wintry prison.

Lyric's laughter drifted from inside, where he was playing with Aaliyah. Rorie pulled her thick cardigan tighter around herself, grateful for her sister's presence; it provided a welcome distraction from the tumultuous thoughts swirling in her mind.

She glanced at her phone, notifications muted but the screen still lighting up periodically with incoming messages. The early sunset of late autumn had already painted the sky in deep purples and oranges. She knew she should check her messages, knew that Lewis was probably worried, but she couldn't bring herself to face the outside world just yet.

The news from Dr. Chen still felt raw, a constant ache in her chest. Each time she saw Lyric, bundled up in his winter clothes, a bittersweet mix of love and longing washed over her. He was growing so fast, and the thought that he might remain their only child brought a fresh wave of pain.

Rorie's eyes drifted to the mountain horizon again, where the first stars were beginning to appear in the clear, cold sky. She'd come here to find peace, to escape the pressure and drama that had been building back in L.A. But even here, in this beautiful winter sanctuary, she couldn't outrun her own thoughts.

Throughout the day, Rorie thought about her husband and his race in Vegas. When the final results came in, she felt a mix of emotions - pride in Lewis's efforts, but also disappointment at his P7 finish. Part of her felt guilty for not being there to support him, but another part was relieved to be away from the spotlight. The lawsuit, her biological father's attempts to reconnect, the constant scrutiny – it all felt overwhelming.

"Rorie?" Aaliyah's voice called from inside. "Lyric's asking for you. And it's getting cold out there!"

Taking a deep breath of the pine-scented air, Rorie turned from the view and headed back inside to the warmth of the house. As she scooped up her son, feeling his warmth through his soft sweater, she felt a small spark of hope ignite within her. Whatever challenges lay ahead, she had this – the love of her family, the strength she knew resided within her.

"Mama," Lyric babbled, patting her cheek.

"I'm here, baby," Rorie murmured, holding him close. "Mama's here."

She settled on the couch with Lyric, and Aaliyah joined them, draping a warm throw over their laps. Rorie allowed herself this moment of peace, surrounded by the love of her family and the quiet strength of the snow-covered mountains.

Rorie heard the soft murmur of voices from the kitchen. Her mother, Marian, and stepfather Greg were preparing dinner, the comforting aroma of homemade stew filling the air.

"How're you holding up, sweetie?" Aaliyah asked, settling beside them and tucking the throw around their legs.

Rorie sighed, bouncing Lyric gently on her knee. "I'm... managing. It's just a lot, you know?"

Aaliyah nodded sympathetically. "I can't even imagine. But we're all here for you, Ror. You know that, right?"

Before Rorie could respond, Marian entered the living room, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Dinner's almost ready, girls. Rorie, honey, have you checked on Lewis?"

Rorie shook her head, a twinge of guilt passing through her. "Not yet, Mom. I just... I needed some time."

Marian sat down on the armchair across from them, her eyes filled with concern. "I understand, baby. But remember, you two are a team. Don't shut him out."

Greg appeared in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. "Your mother's right, Rorie. And speaking of shutting people out, there were at least a dozen paparazzi camped outside our house this morning. Mrs. Weatherly said it's still a circus back there."

As much as she was nosy, Mrs. Weatherly, her parents' elderly neighbor, was still a good person and kept them updated about everything.

Rorie groaned, burying her face in Lyric's braids. "I'm so sorry you guys got dragged into this mess."

"Hey, none of that," Greg said firmly, moving to sit on the arm of Marian's chair. "We're family. Your battles are our battles."

"That's right," Marian added. "And we'll face them together, just like we always have."

Lyric, sensing the tension in the room, began to fuss. Rorie stood up, bouncing him gently. "Shh, it's okay, baby. Mama's got you."

As she paced the room, soothing Lyric, Aaliyah spoke up. "Have you thought about what you're going to do about... everything? The lawsuit, Martin trying to make contact..."

Rorie paused by the window, looking out at the snow-covered landscape. "Honestly? I don't know. It all feels so overwhelming sometimes."

"One step at a time, honey," Marian said softly. "You don't have to figure it all out at once."

Greg nodded in agreement. "And whatever you decide, we've got your back. All of us."

Rorie felt a lump form in her throat, touched by the unwavering support of her family. "Thanks, you guys. I don't know what I'd do without you."

Just then, the timer in the kitchen went off. "That'll be the cornbread," Greg said, standing up. "I'll go grab it."

As he left the room, Marian turned to Rorie. "Why don't you go freshen up before dinner? I'll take Lyric."

Rorie hesitated for a moment before handing Lyric over to her mother. As she headed upstairs, she paused at the landing, looking back at her family gathered in the living room. Despite everything, she felt a surge of gratitude.

In her room, Rorie finally picked up her phone. Several missed calls and messages from Lewis, all expressing love and concern. Taking a deep breath, she typed out a message:

I'm okay. We're okay. Call you later. Love you.

As she hit send, Rorie felt some of the weight lift from her shoulders. Rorie descended the stairs, and the rich aroma of Greg's famous cornbread filled the air, mingling with the hearty scent of the stew. The sound of Lyric's giggles echoed from the kitchen, bringing a small smile to her face.

She paused in the doorway, taking in the scene before her. Marian was at the stove, stirring the stew with one hand while balancing Lyric on her hip. Greg was carefully cutting the cornbread, while Aaliyah placed items in the dishwasher.

"There you are," Marian said, noticing Rorie. "Feel better?"

Rorie nodded, moving to take Lyric from her mother. "Yeah, I do. Thanks, Mom."

As they settled in the living room with bowls of steaming stew and plates of Greg's famous cornbread, Greg turned on the TV. The Broncos vs Vikings game was just starting.

"So, Aaliyah," Greg said between bites, "how's that new project at work going?"

As Aaliyah launched into a story about her latest architectural design, Rorie felt herself relaxing. The normalcy of family dinner and football was exactly what she needed.

Greg, ever the Eagles fan, watched the game intently despite neither team being his favorite. "You know," he said during a commercial break, "I'll watch any football game, but it's a bit more interesting now that Lewis is one of the Broncos' owners. Speaking of which, Rorie, does Lewis have any plans for trades? I've got some ideas..."

Rorie couldn't help but laugh, the first genuine chuckle she'd had in days. "Dad, you know Lewis doesn't really deal with trades and that kind of thing, right? But I'll be sure to pass along your suggestions."

Marian rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "Greg, leave the poor man alone. I'm sure he's got enough on his plate without your armchair quarterback advice."

As they continued to eat and watch the game, Rorie felt a sense of normalcy wash over her. The warmth of the stew, the comfort of her family, and the familiar sounds of football commentary created a cocoon of safety, if only for a moment.

After dinner and the game, Rorie excused herself to put Lyric to bed. She carried him upstairs, and she could feel the weight of the day settling on her shoulders. In the nursery, she gently changed Lyric into his pajamas, humming softly as she did so.

"Time for sleep, my little love," she whispered, placing him in his crib. Lyric gazed up at her with heavy-lidded eyes, his tiny hand reaching out to grasp her finger.

As she tucked him in, she whispered, "Daddy did his best today, baby. We're always proud of him, aren't we?" Lyric mumbled something unintelligible in response, already drifting off to sleep. Rorie stood there for a moment, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest, finding a moment of peace in the simple act of motherhood.

With Lyric settled, Rorie retreated to her room, closing the door softly behind her. She sat on the edge of the bed, staring at her phone for a long moment before finally dialing Lewis's number. Her heart raced as it rang once, twice...

He picked up on the second ring. "Hey, babe," his voice was tired but warm, instantly soothing her frayed nerves.

"Hi," Rorie said softly, curling up against the headboard. "Tough race today, huh?"

Lewis sighed, and she could almost see him running a hand over his face as he often did when frustrated. "Yeah, not our best. The car just didn't have the pace we needed. Felt like I was fighting it the whole time."

"You did your best, though. That's what matters," Rorie assured him.

"Thanks, love. But that's not even the half of it. Rorie, I need to tell you something, and it's... well, it's not good."

Rorie felt her stomach tighten. "What is it?"

He proceeded to recount his encounter with Deja at Delilah, describing the heated exchange and her claims about their supposed history. Rorie listened, her free hand clenching the bedsheet as Lewis spoke.

"She was yelling about how we met in New Orleans during All-Star weekend in 2017, saying I promised her things. I swear, Rorie, I don't remember any of it. If something did happen, it was just a hookup, nothing more."

Rorie took a deep breath, trying to process this information. "I believe you, Lewis. But why is she doing this now? After all this time?"

"I don't know," Lewis admitted, frustration evident in his voice. "She seems convinced that you 'stole' me from her or something. It's crazy, Rorie. We hadn't even met in 2017."

Rorie's mind raced. "Do you think she's just looking for attention? Or is there more to it?"

"I wish I knew. But there's more, and this... this is going to be hard to hear."

Rorie braced herself. "What is it?"

"Julian called me today. He found out who's been leaking information to Deja."

"Who?" Rorie asked, dreading the answer.

"It's Luisa," Lewis said, his voice heavy.

Rorie gasped, feeling as if the wind had been knocked out of her. "Our housekeeper? But why would she— How could she—"

"I don't know," Lewis cut in, his own voice tight with emotion. "I told Julian not to do anything drastic. We'll figure it out when I get back. I just can't believe someone we trusted would do this to us."

Rorie felt tears welling up in her eyes. "I trusted her with Lyric, Lewis. She's been in our home, with our son... Oh God, what if she—"

"Hey, hey," Lewis soothed, "Lyric is safe. He's there with you and your family. We'll sort this out, I promise. We'll make sure he stays safe."

Rorie nodded, even though Lewis couldn't see her, wiping away a stray tear. "You're right. He's safe. We're safe."

There was a pause before Lewis continued, "Oh, and there's one more thing. My parents are planning to come to Colorado. They want to be there for us, with everything that's going on."

Rorie felt a wave of emotion wash over her. "That's... that's really sweet of them. When are they coming?"

"They're trying to get flights for tomorrow. Is that okay? I know it's a lot with everything else..."

"No, it's perfect," Rorie said, surprising herself with how much she meant it. "I think having them here will help. Your mom always knows how to make things better."

Lewis chuckled softly. "That she does. How's Lyric doing?"

Rorie smiled, glancing at the baby monitor. "He's good. Missing his daddy, but good. He loved watching you race today. Kept pointing at the TV and saying 'Dada fast!'"

"I miss him too. Both of you. God, Rorie, I wish I was there with you right now."

"I know. Me too. But you'll be home soon, right?"

"Late tomorrow, I promise. Look, I know it's a lot to process. But we'll get through this together, okay? We always do. I love you, Rorie. You and Lyric are everything to me."

"We love you too," Rorie said, her voice thick with emotion. "Come home soon. We need you here."

"I will. Try to get some rest, okay? And Rorie?"

"Yeah?"

"We've got this. Together."

As they said their goodbyes, Rorie felt a mix of anxiety and determination. She lay back on the bed, her mind racing with everything Lewis had told her, but also feeling a glimmer of hope. Whatever came next, they would face it as a family. Rorie closed her eyes, taking deep breaths to calm herself. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, but for now, she allowed herself to find comfort in the love of her husband and the peace of knowing their son slept safely nearby.

KiKi sat in her car, parked a few blocks away from the trendy café where Deja was holding court with a group of her friends. Her fingers tapped restlessly against the steering wheel as she watched Deja through the tinted windows. It was supposed to be a casual surveillance, but the longer KiKi sat there, the more her frustration simmered.

Deja had been a thorn in Rorie’s side for too long, and KiKi had been watching her closely, waiting for the right moment to strike. She’d seen Deja run her mouth to anyone who would listen, stirring up more drama, and generally making Rorie’s life hell. KiKi’s loyalty to Rorie ran deep, and the thought of Deja continuing to cause problems made her blood boil.

When Rorie had told her not to beat Deja’s ass, KiKi had nodded, promising to stay cool. But Rorie hadn’t said anything about not finding someone else to do it, and KiKi had taken that as a green light. Enter her cousin’s boyfriend’s sister, Nyla. Nyla was a wild card, known for handling business in a way that left no room for misunderstandings. KiKi had mentioned Deja’s antics to her in passing, and Nyla had practically volunteered for the job on the spot.

As KiKi sat there, her phone buzzed with a new message. She glanced down at the screen and saw it was from Nyla, who was already on the move:

On my way. Got the address. Bitch won’t know what hit her.

KiKi smirked, feeling a sense of satisfaction. Nyla wasn’t one to play around, and KiKi trusted her to send a clear message. Deja had been playing with fire, and it was time she got burned.

KiKi’s gaze shifted back to Deja, who was laughing loudly, oblivious to the storm heading her way. The woman sitting next to KiKi in the passenger seat, a friend of Nyla’s named Tasha, shifted slightly, adjusting her oversized sunglasses as she leaned back against the seat. Tasha was cool and composed, her sharp eyes hidden behind the dark lenses. Her long braids were neatly pulled back, and she wore a leather jacket that matched her tough, no-nonsense demeanor. Tasha didn’t say much, but when she did, her words carried weight.

"She doesn’t look like much," Tasha remarked, her voice low and steady. "You sure this is the right one?"

KiKi glanced at Tasha, a hint of annoyance in her tone. "Yeah, that’s her. Don’t let the cute face fool you—she’s a snake."

Tasha nodded slowly, taking another look at Deja. "Good thing Nyla doesn’t care what she looks like. She’ll get the job done."

"Damn right," KiKi muttered, her eyes narrowing as Deja tossed her hair and flashed a bright smile at something one of her friends said. "Rorie’s been through enough, and I’m sick of this bitch thinking she can just do whatever she wants."

Tasha didn’t respond, but KiKi could feel her quiet agreement. There was a certain satisfaction in knowing that they were about to put an end to Deja’s antics, or at least slow her down. Rorie deserved peace, and if it took a little roughing up to get it, so be it.

KiKi’s phone buzzed again, this time with a simple message:

In position. Ready when you are.

KiKi grinned, the tension in her shoulders easing slightly. She fired off a quick reply:

Wait for her to leave. Don’t make a scene.

"Time to move," KiKi said, sliding her phone back into her pocket and starting the car. "Nyla’s got this."

Tasha nodded, her expression unreadable behind the sunglasses. As they drove away, leaving Deja to her fate, KiKi felt a sense of grim satisfaction. She hadn’t laid a finger on Deja, just as Rorie had asked, but she’d made sure the message would be delivered loud and clear.

KiKi’s car rolled smoothly out of the parking spot as she and Tasha headed away from the café. The sense of satisfaction in her chest grew with each passing second. Deja had no idea what was coming, and that was exactly how KiKi wanted it. But as much as she enjoyed the thought of Deja getting what she deserved, there was still work to be done. Loose ends needed to be tied up, and KiKi wasn’t about to let anything trace back to her or, more importantly, Rorie.

She drove to a more secluded area on the outskirts of the city, where Nyla had said she’d meet her after handling business. The rain had picked up again, the rhythmic drumming on the car roof only adding to the tension in the air. After about fifteen minutes, KiKi pulled into an abandoned lot, the dim streetlights casting long shadows over the wet asphalt. Nyla’s car was already there, parked under a flickering light. KiKi parked next to her, and she and Tasha stepped out, the cool night air biting at their skin.

Nyla was leaning against her car, her hands tucked into the pockets of her jacket. Her expression was calm, almost bored, as if she’d just finished running an errand instead of beating someone up in a parking lot, but there was a hard edge in her eyes that KiKi didn’t miss.

"Is it done?" KiKi asked as she approached, her voice low.

Nyla pushed off the car and nodded. "Yeah. the bitch didn’t even see it coming. Got her right as she was about to get into her car. Didn’t take much—she folded quick."

KiKi’s lips curled into a satisfied smile. "Good. And no one saw you?"

Nyla shrugged. "Even if they did, they won’t talk. But nah, it was clean. Just me, her, and the rain. She’s probably still trying to figure out what hit her."

Tasha chuckled quietly, pulling off her sunglasses now that they were out of the public eye. "Serves her right. Think she’ll back off?"

"She better," KiKi muttered, glancing at Nyla. "But just in case, we need to make sure this doesn’t trace back to us. No loose ends."

Nyla gave a small, dismissive wave. "Don’t worry about that. I made sure she didn’t know who I was. And if she tries to go to the cops, it’ll just look like she got into some random altercation. Ain’t nobody gonna believe her."

KiKi nodded, but her mind was already working through the possibilities, the what-ifs. She wasn’t one to leave anything to chance. "We’ll need to lay low for a bit, just to be safe. If anyone asks, we were nowhere near that café today."

Nyla smirked. "You’re paranoid, but I get it. Don’t worry. I’ve got an alibi, and I’m sure you two do too. We’re good."

KiKi sighed, some of the tension easing from her shoulders. Nyla was right—they were careful, and Deja was too rattled to put the pieces together, especially with the warning Nyla had delivered. Still, KiKi wasn’t one to let her guard down easily.

"Alright," KiKi said, glancing between Nyla and Tasha. "We’ll stick to the plan. If anything comes up, we handle it, but for now, we wait and see how she reacts."

Nyla nodded, pushing her hands deeper into her pockets. "Cool. You know how to reach me if you need anything else. But trust me, she’s not gonna be a problem anymore."

KiKi offered a small smile, though it didn’t quite reach her eyes. "Thanks, Nyla. I owe you one."

Nyla shrugged, already heading back to her car with Tasha in tow. "Just doing what needed to be done. Catch you later."

KiKi got back into her car. The drive back to her hotel was silent, the satisfaction of the evening’s events mingling with the ever-present undercurrent of caution. KiKi knew they’d sent a message, but she also knew the game wasn’t over. Deja might be down, but she wasn’t out—and KiKi would be ready if she ever tried to come back for more.

TO BE CONTINUED...

[my-mt-heart]

Dissecting Zabel's Inappropriate Comments

I shared my initial reaction to the Games Radar article, but now that the original SFX article is also out, I want to dive a little deeper into what David Zabel said. From one source to another, the meaning doesn't change.

Regarding Daryl's and Carol's relationship, he says...

Whereas with Daryl and Isabelle, he insists...

Zabel thinks he's shedding light on his male hero's two most prominent relationships [with women], when in actuality he exposes a lot more about himself and what kind of showrunner he is.

He has no interest in the flagship show nor its acclaim.

Had he actually watched TWD in its entirety, tracked the progression of Daryl's and Carol's relationship from S1 to S11, and researched their fanbase as well as their media coverage from over the years instead of just pretending to, he'd see that nothing about their relationship is "obvious" or "easy." Trauma and self-esteem issues hardly ever explored in TV couples—let alone TV couples in their 50’s—have always complicated things, creating obstacles for them to take their relationship beyond intense feelings and helping them grow closer together, feel safer, understood, and loved to a degree nobody else can measure. There are 12 years and 11 seasons of sexual tension, smoldering looks, vulnerable moments, meaningful conversations, and romantic subtext at Zabel's disposal. The natural thing for him to do, the only thing that furthers the narrative already being told is to confirm that they're "in love" and make them "a couple."

If he wants to talk about a "TV book of tricks," he should re-evaluate the tricks he uses to justify a romantic connection between a well-established, unconventional, fiercely loyal man with intimacy issues and a blonde nun who’s only been around for a few months (and 6 episodes from an audience POV). Zabel tries to project what draws Daryl to Carol—broken until the world ended—onto Isabelle. He forces Daryl and Isabelle into intimate situations straight out of fanfiction—bathtubs, bed-sharing, cleaning wounds in hard-to-reach places—and uses other supporting characters like Losang to tell Daryl and the audience that it's romantic. That's not "seeing what happens," that's repeatedly trying to fit a square peg into a round hole and expecting everybody to think he's a genius. On the contrary...

He's completely tone deaf.

If he's calling Daryl's and Isabelle's relationship "mature," then he clearly doesn't realize how deeply problematic it is for a character to gaslight and lie to another character with a history of childhood abuse in order to get something from him, whether it's to help her find their new home or father a boy he just met. It's also triggering for fans who have survived abuse in their own lives to watch their hero fall back into the cycle without it being acknowledged or resolved in a way that helps him (and the fans) heal from it.

A dynamic between Daryl and a nun definitely could've been an "intriguing" dynamic to explore since they're both supposed to be emotionally unavailable. We'd get to see that Daryl's heart belongs to Carol and Isabelle is "married" to God. We'd get to see them bond over the idea of loving someone and/or something so infinitely and unconditionally that it's frightening to feel disconnected from them, whether physically or spiritually, and we'd get to see them help each other keep their faith, whatever that means to them. That's interesting. That's fresh. A romance between Daryl and a nun, regardless of whether or not she dresses like one, is not interesting. Not intriguing. Not edgy. Not sexy. It's disrespectful on multiple levels.

He calls Daryl and Carol coming back together only to realize that they've "changed" the more interesting story to tell? I call it sad. Sad and out of character for Daryl to feel anything other than elated to realize that the woman who represented everything good to him for over a decade crossed a damn ocean to find him. Sad that after "everything she's done" to find him, she finds that he's replaced her and their family back home.

He views the female perspective as irrelevant.

Saying he "respects" Caryl shippers only to invalidate them and then pour salt on the wound shows an air of superiority that is very typical of white male showrunners and executives. Granted, plenty of men ship Daryl and Carol, but it is also true that the majority of their fanbase is female and because of that, Zabel thinks he can mansplain the relationship to us. He tells us that what we want is cute, but he’s the one with the skillset to write a "good" story for the characters. He either doesn't care about our viewership because other men like him are his "real" audience or he assumes we'll come to our senses because he's right and we're wrong.

It isn't about shipping or romance at all though. If it was, he wouldn't just kill Isabelle off after insisting on this wild chemistry nobody sees but him (and Greg Nicotero). It isn't that Carol can't be a love interest either. It's about catering to the male gaze. Carol can't be the love interest for the white male hero that Zabel wants the fanboys to identify with and glorify. She doesn't fit their biases. Not young enough, not blonde enough, so on and so forth. Ignorance like that is generations-long and it doesn't just go away the more time he spends with Daryl and Carol. It only gets worse. Caryl may go to Spain alone, but there's plenty of new shipbait over there for him to introduce.

In what Zabel is actually quoted as saying about romance, which is all that counts, he only vaguely brings up a conversation with Norman, one I suspect is a lot more nuanced than he wants us to believe, but that's beside the point. He doesn't say "Melissa and I talked about Caryl's relationship" or "Clemence and I talked about Daryl's and Isabelle's relationship." Why not? Would the former disapprove of being treated like a sexless intruder in her "friend's" nuclear family? Would the latter hate to feel like a plot device for the brooding hero's manpain? What do the women have to say about their side of this oh so "interesting" emotional arc, Zabel? It's a rhetorical question obviously because if I really wanted to ask, I'd ask the women directly. The only thing is, they aren’t allowed to talk about it so openly and honestly, are they, Zabel? And you took advantage of that, right?

He's vindictive.

He may treat us like a bug on his windshield, but he isn't unaware that Caryl/McReedus have an active fanbase. He isn't unaware that AMC's promo strategy has centered on Caryl/McReedus. He's competing with it. He's aggressive in these articles because he wants to tell a particular kind of story that AMC, plus all of us unhinged shippers, won't let him. Taking a firm stance is how he takes control again (or so he thinks). The way he positions Carol as an intruder in "Daryl's" story, despite a sorry attempt to put a band-aid on it later, also presents itself in the SDCC trailer where everything, including Carol, has to revolve around the main hook: Daryl making a new family in France. For Zabel, it's true to life because he had to fit unconventional Melissa into his outdated "interesting" formula when that wasn’t what he was hired to do. To paraphrase what Melissa said, she was the newcomer who had to be careful not to disrupt a system already put in place before she arrived. What, or who, made her feel that way when she had already been playing Carol for over a decade?

To watch or not to watch

That is not the question. You can choose not to give AMC your money for Zabel's bullshit or you can choose to help the ratings go up for Melissa/Carol. Both are the right choice. The real question is, how will AMC know to blame Zabel and not Melissa if the ratings drop? How will they know that Carylers still need canon and...wait for it...good storytelling if they watched just to remind them how valuable Melissa is to the franchise? I know I sound like a broken record here, but this is why it's so important to be vocal. Use whatever platform you have (and are comfortable with) to specify what's bothering you whether it's the shipbaiting or Daryl's suspenders. Say what you love (Melissa is the correct answer) and what you want more of or what you want to change in regards to performances, relationships, and storylines. For me, I wanted to see both Daryl and Carol make every effort to get back to each other. I wanted to get the payoff I've been waiting for after a god-awful S11 that kept them separated and angry at each other the whole time. I wanted the story to center on Daryl's and Carol's relationship while everything else revolved around them. "To find home is to find each other." Where did that story go? I want it back.

No matter what we say, egomaniacs like David Zabel, Greg Nicotero, and Scott Gimple will spit on us, punch us in the gut, and kick us while we're down (though I guess only the first one is stupid enough to be so literal). If Zabel understood the first thing about Carol or Caryl, then maybe he would've realized that their fans know how to push back.

As for AMC, they don't care about the characters or the relationship or our feelings either, but they do care about their bottom line and these articles threaten that. Keep reminding them.

[ciphykiss]

< incubus (ii) >

blade x f!reader; implied nsfw (only un-explicit part), mdni (implied) somnophilia

a/n: second part of incubus, but stave off the thirst for now XD

“Declined.”

You blink, once, twice, dazed—you count every checkered tile in your peripheral vision, wondering if you’d misheard. Bewildered, you straighten from your previously bowed stance, head tilted to the side. Jingyuan pays you no mind, bent over a fortune scroll stamped with Master Diviner Fuxuan’s insignia. Behind him, Yanqing can only stare, wide-eyed.

“Excuse me?”

Those infuriating, once captivating (but now more serpentine than anything else) golden eyes peer up at you, unperturbed. “Upon careful evaluation, it has been deemed that [Name] of Cloudford’s maximum security detention center is to remain deployed at her post indefinitely—until the case of the stellaron hunter is sealed and closed.”

“By whom?” You demand, fists clenching the fabric of your dress. “‘Indefinitely’? Exactly how long is that? This is ridiculous, and against the very rights printed on Section 35 of the Luofonian Codex—”

“By me.” Jingyuan rests his scroll atop his checkerboard. “And I’m sure you’re aware by now, but the Codex also states every Arbiter General is free to exempt and circumvent said articles when deemed necessary.”

“You can’t be serious,” you hiss, slamming your hands over the table; you see Yanqing bristle, hands cleaving for his sword, and Jingyuan has to raise a hand to temper his retinue that had, no doubt, risen to their feet and aimed rifles at your head. You pay them no mind; the vampire-bruises from last night sting as a reminder of your paranormal plight, caked under layers of foundation and color corrector. There’s an odd sting that shoots up your left leg, making it slightly difficult to stand upright. “You’re making me a prisoner of the flagship?”

Jingyuan sighs, resting his chin on a hand; ah, it’s that attitude again, all unbridled kindness and fleeting exasperation, like waves atop a morning sea. Over time, it spells more patronizing than it does calming, and urges you to reenact the more violent (and less whorish) parts of your lucid dreams. Your fingers twitch at the sight of his unmarred cheek.

“Why must you always assume the worst of me, my dear assistant?”

A droll stare. “You uprooted a fresh graduate from her position as amicassador, took advantage of her naivete to weasel in mutable terms in her contract, had her work an eight to ten schedule with unpaid overtime, and encouraged said amicassador graduate with no background in combat to cross-examine one of the most wanted criminals in the galaxy.”

“First of all, what you are not paid in overtime is delivered to you in the forms of generous bonuses and an exceptional annual raise,” Jingyuan argues, scandalized by your declarations. Even Yanqing looks to him accusingly now. “And as for your meeting with… our newest problem, well, that’s a result of your own belligerence, isn’t it?” He taps his table with his knuckle, the first signs of irritation stretching over his usually composed visage. “You were instructed to meet with me as soon as you arrived on scene. If you had, I would’ve taken the time to inform you of what you were getting yourself into, and the risks associated.”

You throw your hands up in the air. “Well, fuck me for not considering my employer would throw little old me into a foray of top ten most wanted killers! I don’t know what you want me to say, Jingyuan, especially considering how little regard you’ve shown me for my entire career at your stupid post.” Your lips curl. “And you wonder why your turnover rate looks like it crawled out of Tingyun’s first year exam scores. Unbelievable.”

“Mind your tongue; there are children present,” Jingyuan snaps, but neither you nor his blond heir really give a damn. In fact, Yanqing looks like he’s fighting a smile. At least someone found the situation funny. “Regardless—this is a decision that has been agreed upon by both Diviner Fu and I. Thus, your resignation request has been… well, rescinded.”

His lips twitch into an almost-smile, and despite sounding like he meant official business, you can tell the bastard is enjoying this. You gaze mutely at the hastily-scrawled resignation essays you’d filled out at 6 AM over coffee stains and ink splatters, untouched beside a gold, ornate vase on the Jingyuan’s table; the general raises a brow at your lack of ire, likely expecting glares or creative (but politely-framed, as to not earn a bullet to the back of your head) death threats by now.

Instead, you smile. Jingyuan immediately grows wary.

“Article 6, subsection 23,” you purr, “Any defamation or destruction of property belonging to the Arbiter-General of the Xianzhou Luofu will result in the permanent termination of said civil servant’s contract; punishments include, but may not be limited to, a six-month leave of absence from all organized labor.”

You grin. Jingyuan’s eyes widen.

“...whatever it is you’re planning, do no—”

“I think I’m long overdue for a vacation, don’t you, general?” You sing, and the general and his compatriots can only watch in slack-jawed horror as you raise the vase (an armistice gift from the Marshall Hua) and send it shattering onto the tile.

Deathly silence fills the halls of Jingyuan’s palace. Jingyuan doesn’t look up at you when he speaks, low and gritted, as damningly close to murderous as you’d ever heard him.

“Take her away. Solitary confinement. Two hours—then ensure she returns to her duties. This time, I want completion.”

Your smile drops.

“You—!”

And then you’re thrashing, the ends of your heels digging uselessly into the ground. The stupidly beefy arms of his personal guards yank you backwards to your makeshift cell (the infirmary), preventing you from falling backwards on your face.

“You can’t do this to me!” Your shrieks go unacknowledged; Jingyuan is too busy mourning over his dumb vase. “Jingyuan, you bastard! This is a violation of my rights! Terminate me! Throw me in jail! Anything but back there!”

Yanqing glances over the broken shards glinting over filtered sunlight. “General… is it really okay to let her go like that?”

The silver-haired man sighs, weary and a thousand years older than his already-dreaded age; he picks up a shard and examines it for any signs of salvageability (there are none). “Despite her… grievances, Diviner Fu has already determined her ‘likely favorable but not quite necessary’ for this case. I’m afraid she would’ve had to stay regardless. Though I do wish my dear assistant was even a smidgen more… agreeable.”

“—I knew I should’ve let Tingyun leak your 18+ sauna album! Just you watch, Jingyuan, after I’m through—”

“She has what.”

ꨄ︎

“—so please, for the love of all Aeons, I don’t care if it’s your stripper alias or Foxian Beauty & Haircare handle, just please, give me something to work with,” you groan, finding yourself at the mercy of the selectively mute space murderer with both your clothes and hair disheveled from fighting off (clawing at) Jingyuan’s men. Your throat aches from two hours of screeching obscenities, begging for mercy, and finally, prayer (unfortunately, you’d never been pious, and Lan had likely forsaken you by now). You’d thrashed, flipped the nursing cot upside down, shattered glass vials against the walls, and fallen to a half-dead heap on the floor by the time you were dragged in to resume bio-data collection.

If he registers your incessant whining, the space-criminal doesn’t show it; he says nothing for a long while until the void fills with the sound of incessant pen-tapping against your digital clipboard.

His mouth bends into a frown. “Stop that.”

“So he speaks,” you drawl, sarcastic. “Tell you what—why don’t you share your introductions with the class—me—and I’ll stop yammering. Easy as that.”

“Is it necessary?” He inquires cryptically. “Why don’t you just ask that general of yours—I’m sure Jingyuan would be able to sate your curiosity.”

Your rhythmic tapping ceases. “You know Jingyuan?”

That, he doesn’t answer; you observe him as he lapses back into silence, as dark and brooding as ever before, and feel the welts on your neck itch, an obtrusive reminder of your night terror (your dubbing isn’t quite accurate, but the label makes you feel better about yourself). Then, you resume clacking your pen in tribute to the morning show you’d catch glimpses of on the way to hell (work), and observe the tick working on the man’s jaw.

“...Blade,” he says at last, the word cutting like the edge of a serrated knife; you blink. Blade. The name suits him, somehow—all edge and red, like the backdrop of a battlefield. “...but here, Ren.”

You’re tearing through the bio-data form like a storm; two lines is enough. You’ll make it enough. Blade/Ren. Affiliation: likely Xianzhounian. Fabric points to a prime of at least five-hundred years prior; further trace collection is needed. Picture comparison of clothing necessary for evaluation. Suspected relation with Luofu General—unsure if this is an attempt to derail from questioning/true identity. Unlikely, but possible. Discouraged communication style. Psychiatric evaluation necessary; put-off by rhythmic tapping. Likely suffers from heightened senses; could be a result of battle-trauma or mixed genetics (both?). Likely a Xianzhou Native; probable Homo celestinae, blood testing required for confirmation.

“Blade,” you murmur, and the name rests oddly comfortably in your mouth; a strange moniker, but it sounds almost sweet when you say it, as if meant to be spoken. The man—Blade—shifts, not out of discomfort or regulation, but as the first non-forced physical acknowledgment you’d managed to wrench out from him. 

His lips curve into a sneer when you continue scritching.

“All figured out, from just a name,” he mocks. You raise a brow.

“Does that offend you?” You tap your pen in thought, conjuring up the next bullet point. Easily offended by assumptions. Possible insecurity? 

To your surprise, he grazes a smile—but not your regular, run-of-the-mill grin. It’s malefic, a touch depraved, like staring into a hollow skull. “No. Fantasize all you want. So as long I ruin you in every end.”

You nearly drop your clipboard.

“I could ruin you,” his voice echoes. “I could make it burn. You would dream of me in the waking world, cry for me in the dreaming. A slave to passion, day and night; hardly sleeping, hardly eating, merely breathing…” 

No. Impossible. There’s no way—it can’t be—

Gingerly, you finger the skin over your pulse point. The bruised kiss hisses upon contact; you feel the hummingbird-flutter of your own heartbeat.

“Do you dream?”

You don’t know why you blurt that particular phrase; you suppose it’s more acceptable than “did we almost-fuck in my (our?) dream last night”. Still, you observe the intergalactic space criminal with heightened scrutiny, wishing (now more than ever) he didn’t have that cursed blindfold on.

You never realized just how much is missed from the eyes alone.

If there’s any reaction, he doesn’t show it; his next words are mere remnants of what they should be, like bones atop carcass.

“I do not recall the last I dreamt.”

You swallow, the first needles of paranoia sinking into your spine. That should be answer enough. But you wonder why it feels like a dance between confirmation and indifference; anything but denial. Suddenly, you think you hate him; his archaic, cryptic remarks, his riddles and his ambiguity.

“Not worthy enough for recording?” he cuts through the silence, the cruelty of a half-smile gallivanting across your vision. You realize you’d been spaced out, pen hanging between downturned fingers, and curse.

“...think nothing of it,” you mutter. You deem the passage worthy enough for Jingyuan’s approval (it isn’t) and chuck the pen backwards. It dematerializes into the confines of your clipboard. “I should offer you my services once more, but I’m sure neither of us truly wishes for that. A word of advice—behave yourself, and the general might allow you to roam the cell unshackled for certain hours. I’m sure there’s nothing you want more than a hairbrush by now,” you snort. Blade doesn’t reply.

“Danyin,” you murmur, catching the man by his cuff when you exit the hall; he looks frazzled, as if half-expecting you to return with a missing limb (likely a touch disappointed when you don’t; you don’t consider yourself particularly lenient when forced into this scummy duty). “Do me a favor. I want you to place a recording device outside his cell; one of those high-tech thermal ones that can navigate through the dark.”

Danyin pales. “D-digital recordings—any recording—outside what is sanctioned by the general himself is strictly prohibited! I don’t even have cle—”

You unclasp your wristwatch and replace it with Danyin’s own; the man can only babble out a half-hearted protest when you do, mourning his defeat already.

“I’d do it myself, but I’m not exactly out of general douche-canoe’s radar,” you sigh, tightening the clasp. Danyin mumbles something about hiring an underwriter for his will, to which you offer a sunny grin and a pat on the back. “I’m counting on you, friend!”

He mutters something about you being as shitty as Jingyuan. You pretend not to hear it.

ꨄ︎

“A dream demon?” Tingyun snorts, pushing the newly-gifted sunglasses she’d received from a Yaoqing merchant that served as General Feixiao’s retinue down her nose. “You can’t be serious. Please tell me you didn’t make me cancel my hair appointment to play therapist for your psychotic break. How many times did I tell you to just quit and work with me in—”

You yank down the collar of your dress, having wiped off the excess makeup in the restaurant bathroom prior. “Look.”

“For the love of—oh. Oh.” She tilts her frames downwards, viridescent hues assessing the damage. “You got yourself a suckerfish? Careful with those—one starskiff romp shimmied into your lunchbreak and they think they own you.”

“Actually, my very preventable trauma from waking up next to Dai—Daiqiu? Daiqing? Has rendered me unable to pursue any bedmates since,” you sniff. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“You sure you didn’t wobble into Inferno after your shift and had a couple shots too many? We all know it’s all south after your third martini. And your impairment the following morning.”

“You and I both know I don’t get off until midnight, and you were there when we both got banned from Inferno!”

“Maybe if you hadn’t laughed at the owner’s son and called him fossilized when he asked for a three—”

“He was at least as old as my grandfather, Ting! Without the Jingyuan-tier looks to make up for it!”

“Jingyuan isn’t that old—wait, do you still have a crush on him? What happened to—”

“That’s beside the point!” You swat her hand off the straw of her mid-afternoon cocktail, knocking her jade bracelet against the glass. The heat of it fogs the hexagons scattering rainbows onto the counter, and you are acutely reminded of the matching anklet that dangles on your left, forever warm and secured to your person. “I know you barely passed history—”

“Hey.”

“—but Foxian history can be traced as far back as the Long’s Scions, can it not? Surely there has to be something you picked up over the years. Maybe some old stories, some superstition…”

“[Name],” Tingyun sighs, “are you seriously asking me if I remember any bedtime stories?”

“So there is? Something, I mean?”

“You’re honestly better off taking that to a Vidyadhara historian or a senior Xianzhou Native,” Tingyun admits, to which your face cripples, because Aeons knows your social life had been reduced to zilch after your recruitment (and there was no way you’d press the matter to Jingyuan; you had no doubt he and Diviner Fu could grapple onto the dirtiest details of your midnight escapades). She swishes her drink with her straw in thought. “Foxian lifespans are but fleeting compared to the stories of our other long-lived peers; what are four hundred years, after all, to rebirth and a thousand?”

It’s said with a twinge of envy; you know Tingyun is not like Xianzhou commonfolk who dread their existence and eventual descent to madness. Life is—will never be—enough for her, never enough wine to drink, men to seduce; never enough jewelry and lost merchandise for Whistling Flames.

“We do, however, have our love stories—love and lust and betrayal and wroth, they’re quite similar, don’t you think? And the tales of the Foxians pale in comparison to none.”

“This isn’t about love,” is your immediate response. Tingyun arches a fine brow.

“Isn’t it, though?” With that, she reaches out to redo the buttons on your collar. Heat creeps up your ears. “Passion… this is something Foxians are accustomed with. We love our wine and jade, men and women all the same; I’m sure you know this,” she laughs, and you feel the fox-carving against your anklet simmer. “You know of the Xianzhou belief of soul partners, do you not?”

“Of course.” You reach down, absently, to tickle the jade that had been gifted (shackled) to you on your graduation day. “There’s the, erm, chosen ones, right? Bosom friends, sworn brothers—”

“That’s right; and they’re referred to as chosen for a reason.” She points the end of her olive stick at you. “It is the highest form of love, for some; philia, at the end of the day, is a choice,” she ignores your grumble of “where was mine”, “though, arguably, many believe these soul partners were predestined to be in your life. We gift our jade to these soul partners, and the Vidyadhara share a similar custom, but with bracers; warmth indicates the wearer’s partner is alive and well, and there is a belief that these gifts will eventually bring one back to the other, in life, death, dreams, or otherwise.” She narrows her eyes. “Though there’s no reason, seeing as I’d rather be caught dead than star in your rogue fantasies.”

“Wasn’t ever an option,” you mutter.

“There is another, more outdated; I’ve only ever heard stories about it, and some say the encounter died since the plague of abundance ravaged the long-lived. It’s less of a choice, more a force of nature; or so I’ve been told. A bunch of rubbish, honestly, but there does exist stories of another kind of soul partner—one that embodies a more… debauched role. I suppose soulmate is a loose term; these stories have long since been discarded, scoffed at as crude; these are the stories of scorned lovers, of passion, bedroom woes and death and betrayal; truly, nothing worth writing home about. I’m sure we’ve progressed enough as a society to leave behind such primal relics.”

Your head spins at the sudden onslaught of information; you inhale through your nose, pinching the bridge between two fingers. Tingyun finishes the contents of her drink, suckling the heart-shaped straw dry. “And what… what does that have to do with…”

“With your suckerfish?” Tingyun grins, dodging a kick under the table. “I’m getting to that. There’s a story—just one that I can remember, at least. My Lady wasn’t fond of me rummaging through those particular texts.”

“No wonder you turned out to be so godless—ow!”

“...like I was saying. There exists a…largely banned text. A bit blasphemous, but more so an overreaction, on the elders’ part; I’ll spare you the details, but the story can be loosely translated as The Foxian’s Obsession. Not the most creative of titles, I’ll admit, though it is fitting; it weaves the tale of a long-lived Foxian’s adoration of a short-lived fisherman. The woes of past society would not permit her to seek out a man of such fragility, and eventually, the fisherman married; the Foxian, hurt, enraged, and heartbroken, would curse the fisherman to an eternal sleep.”

“Sounds like one of those ex nightmare stories on Foxian Lipstick Alley,” you chortle.

“Imagine being so obsessed,” Tingyun snorts. “Anyways, the wife and family of the comatose fisherman start seeing ‘love marks’ on him, find him dead one day, bleeding from the mouth; the wife is put on trial until they discover news of said Foxian having passed in her sleep, coincidentally, with the same comorbidity.”

“What the fuck.”

“Creepy, isn’t it? Now, if that were the case with you…”

“Tingyun!” You screech. The Foxian snickers at your distress. “This isn’t funny! What if this dude’s some creepy old Foxy spirit disguising himself as some space criminal hunk to get into my pants and commit murder-sui!”

“Your drawers are in need of a seasonal refresh…”

“Tingyun, you bi—”

“Aeons, relax,” the amicassador slaps your arm in poor reassurance. “These are mere whispers of the past. The first starskiff hadn’t even taken flight when it was published. Besides, does your dream demon present with ears and a tail? You know that’s our one indisputable giveaway…”

“...no, he doesn’t,” you begrudge, a sigh of relief escaping you. Tingyun rolls her eyes.

“Then there you have it. I’m sure this is just a consequence of your ridiculous work hours—how many times must I tell you stress is bad for beauty? You’re even losing pockets of memory…”

“...you’re right. That must be it.”

“So? what happened to your resignation letter?”

“Don’t get me started—”

You vent the happenings of this morning to Tingyun, who, for the first time, appears rather irked; it’s not a common look for the Foxian, as leisurely and unbothered as a nepo-child of Lady Yukong can be, though you suppose even she has her limits on witnessing you falling victim to workplace abuse.

Throughout the conversation, you concoct the margins of your plan; the cameras should be set up by now, if Danyin is at least half-competent. You touch your now-fading love bites and make a mental note to pick up another bottle of fantasia.

If working with Jingyuan blessed you with any positives, it’s your seasoned thirst for vengeance—and the earlier you act, the swifter (and sweeter) your prize.

Perhaps it was a fluke. Perhaps it was a once-in-a-lifetime, paranormal encounter—but on the off chance it isn’t, well, now you’d be prepared.

Because if he can ruin you, who’s to say you can’t return the favor?

[dear-ao3]

ahem

The Crown Jewels Of Manhattan:

-99c fresh pizza on 40th and 7th

-42nd and 5th dunkies

-bryant park

-cupcake cafe (rip)

-nederlander theater

-veselkas

-the new york public library

-the morgan library

-etc on 46th street

-the port authority bus terminal

-zuckers bagels bryant park

-american girl

-chrysler building

-empire state building walgreens (rip)

-grand central station

-william h sewards statue in madison square park

dishonorable mentions:

-the flagship puma store on 5th avenue

-the 5th avenue abercrombie and fitch

-times square

-99c delicious pizza on 40th and 7th

-penn station

[aevallare]

what's up. i'm aevallare. you might know me as an idiot. here are some of my links.

ao3 || patreon || carrd

here are my bg3 fics beneath the read more. these are all available on my ao3, linked above. sorry about the white boy of the century.

look at the gold; call it a flex (conscript 38/astarion)

gossamer (ongoing) - post-game. previously unromanced ascendant astarion. changeling tav.

Her eyes flicker from brown to blue.

"Oh, Astarion. Why do you feel the need to control something you already own?"

commitment (complete, 1634 words) - fluff (?) one-shot. astarion overindulges.

38 denies Astarion nothing. Why would she want to? He freed her, made her a crown jewel— he gave her a home and he gives her chances to let blood with reckless abandon. What more could she ask for?

we can live forever if you've got the time (auri/astarion)

kindred (ongoing) - the og. the flagship. bg3, the remix.

auri knows people, and that's how she can tell; astarion is deeply, deeply fucked up.

pour one out (ongoing) - modern reincarnation au.

astarion's immortal. auri is decidedly not. but she's always had a way of doing the impossible.

inevitable (complete, 2102 words) - pwp two-shot. tadpole phone sex.

if she closes her eyes, she’s almost sitting in his lap again.

vow (complete, 5217 words) - pwp one-shot. menstruation kink.

when she’d helped astarion ascend, it had seemed like the right choice for a multitude of reasons.

excuses (complete, 4424 words) - pwp one-shot. sex pollen.

“Astarion, please.” Again, Auri begs. “Something was wrong with that meat I ate. It feels infernal. Everything’s so warm. I can't–”

infinite duress (complete, 2572 words) - pwp one-shot. bratty switch fic.

Astarion’s often the one in charge, but he’s been known to press his luck on occasion. If the tadpole still connected them, he knows exactly what Auri would say as he steps closer to Halsin.

Brat.

the art of scraping through (complete, 2579 words) - pwp one-shot. ascended astarion and auri have a very messy breakup. she has rebound sex with haarlep.

Astarion hates that she’s doing this, but he doesn’t get a say. He lost the right when he became the Vampire Ascendant, when he ended things after Auri refused to become a spawn.

honeysuckle and fresh meat (shadowheart/auri/astarion)

oneiric (complete, 7866 words) - pwp one-shot. sub!shadowheart + sub!astarion.

Shadowheart snorts. Auri can't stop thinking about what Astarion said in bed the other night. She says, “The problem is that I have trouble letting go of control with people that I don't trust. And people that I trust are few and far between.”

Astarion smirks. “Yes, I can see how that would be difficult. I tend to be the one doing the controlling, if we can call it that, but letting it go can be just as…” Astarion trails off as if searching for the perfect word. “Fulfilling.”

green-eyed (complete, 2427 words) - pwp one-shot. valentine's day cuckfic.

All sex before was mediocre compared to this. Shadowheart wants for nothing.

Well. Almost nothing.

verdant (aeva/halsin)

impractical (complete, 1200 words) - one-shot.

His savior was a half-drow, as he’d later learn, but there hadn’t been time to reprimand himself for his prejudices. She’d slain his captors with relative ease, assisted by a human warlock, a half-elf Sharran, and a raging tiefling, and when he’d said he couldn’t possibly leave this place without removing the goblin leaders from the equation, she’d tilted her head to the side.

“We disposed of them before we found you.”

adjustments (complete, 1011 words) - one-shot.

The Underdark is beautiful in its own way, but it’s difficult for Aeva to divorce its aesthetic from the realities of living there. She’d been forced to claw her way out from destitution so often that it might as well have torn the nails from her fingers, and if desperation was currency, she would have wanted for nothing.

vital (complete, 1384 words) - one-shot.

Halsin’s dangerous in an unusual way. Being near him makes Aeva feel secure, and that’s never ended pleasantly. A tenday ago, she would have ignored his question outright.

He doesn’t press her for anything else, and for some reason, that loosens Aeva’s lips more.

old habits (complete, 1545 words) - one-shot.

Death to slavers always. That much will never change.

faithless (wyll/nora/astarion)

acumen (complete, 984 words) - one-shot.

Wyll likes to believe that everyone is doing the best they can.

bluster (wisp/gale)

tailwind (complete, 1670 words) - one-shot.

Wisp is loud, obnoxious, and concerned with little but joy and adventure. Stealth eludes her entirely, she’s constantly talking about how she’d feel better if they were on a ship, she never stops talking about how much she misses sailing and the sea, and she’s purported to be a cleric, but Gale has yet to see anything holy about her.

assorted other stuff

hearth (complete, 602 words) - shadowheart/karlach one-shot.

It’s cold tonight. Baldur’s Gate buzzes in the distance, and it’s hard to say what waits for them there. They’ve all still got parasites in their heads, there are two Chosen left, and Shadowheart’s renounced the only thing she knows.

cursed (complete, 1124 words) - gale/astarion one-shot.

When Gale Dekarios was born, there were whispers that he was cursed.

hypotheticals (complete, 542 words) - wyll/astarion one-shot.

in another life, a lot of things could have been different.

the devil in the details (complete, 1241 words) - wyll/astarion one-shot.

“Self-pity is a strange look on the Blade of Frontiers.”

all of your flaws are aligned with this mood of mine (ongoing) - 1/2 chapters. nevestarion modern au for @again-please.

Astarion’s mass of white curls retreats; Neve can just make them out in the darkness, courtesy of the street lamps. The scowl on her face sits firmly. She can’t throw the milk frother at him. But if he’s going to make this a miserable experience for her, then she can certainly give as good as she gets.

[positivelybeastly]

From the Ashes Infinity Comics #15: Pygmalion, Part 1

So, for those who are not aware - Infinity Comics are online-only comics distributed through Marvel Unlimited, their subscription based app and browser collection of comics. Regarded as 'inessential,' but still very much canon, the raft of Infinity Comics coming out of From the Ashes have been quite good, but I haven't seen fit to comment on them for a bit, until now, because . . .

Let's go.

For those not aware, Pygmalion is a famous novel by George Bernard Shaw, detailing the attempt by a phonetics professor called Henry Higgins to 'elevate' a Cockney flower-girl named Eliza Doolittle.

Intrigued by a bet that he could pass her off as a duchess through careful schooling, he decides to take her on, and though he succeeds, she ends up feeling marginalised and overlooked, treated as an object of gambling and curiosity rather than an individual in her own right, and though the play is best known for the 'culturing' of Eliza Doolittle, it is as much about the arrogance of Higgins, who is a thoroughly unpleasant and rude individual, in thinking that he has any ownership over Eliza for his education of her. He may have 'created' her, but he does not control her.

The Factory that the X-Men are living in at present must have really good central heating for Cyclops to be wearing basketball shorts and a crop top that short.

Beast is currently investigating some kind of issue with Magneto's chromosomes - to put it succinctly, he appears to be ageing rapidly, and does not have access to his X-gene at present. This is a continuation of the storyline in the previous Infinity arc, which focused on Magneto.

Something worth noting - this is the first acknowledgement of the fact that though Hank's body may be of roughly the same physical age as his original, his mind is considerably younger, situated at some point in his mid 20s. For someone who was always the oldest of the original X-Men, this is fairly significant.

Also worth noting - Hank joins the ranks of superheroes who are actively seeking therapy for their problems! Good on you, Hank! And good on you, too, Scott, for suggesting it. Though, perhaps, given recent developments in the mainline X-Men comics, you should take your own advice . . .

The fact that Hank refers to himself as the only one left seemingly confirms that X-Force took care of the Beast clones who Beast Prime planted around various landmarks as part of the Ghost Calendars arc. Though they were defeated in their respective future timelines, I wasn't quite sure if they had been taken care of in the present as well. This seemingly confirms that they were.

Hank's therapist is Dr. Andrea Sterman, a supporting character from Jed MacKay's Moon Knight run, and a member of the Midnight Mission. Given that the writer, Alex Paknadel, confirmed on Twitter that he talked with Jed MacKay about making sure all the details for Hank's storyline would line up with the mainline X-Men book, I can only imagine this was done as a rather fun continuity nod.

Hank also refers to a Shi'ar warship, an avian alien race that the X-Men deal with on a regular basis. This makes sense, given that Hank was beamed aboard the Shi'ar imperial flagship during the events of Dark Phoenix Saga in 1981 - ancient history for us, but relatively fresh in Hank's mind, given his memories come from 1985.

Hank, naturally, does himself a disservice here. Dark Beast was, assumedly, abducted at a relatively young age from his human parents, and indoctrinated by Mister Sinister as something of a protege - a protege living in perpetual fear of his mentor. He probably didn't have a chance to develop any kind of moral code divorced from the social Darwinist hellhole that is the Age of Apocalypse.

That being said, Hank probably lacks that context, and Dark Beast is unique among Age of Apocalypse denizens, not just for his unerringly cruel nature, having never shown any altruistic tendencies (unlike, say, AoA Cyclops or Nightcrawler), but also for his resilience. He persists, even now - though last seen in Immortal X-Men #9 as a head in a jar, he has come back from the dead at least twice before, and it is unlikely he is gone for good.

Fun fact - his appearance here is based on the costume he wore during his scrap with Emma Frost's X-Men team in a confrontation with Spider-Man and the Lizard. Though the X-Men naturally encountered him after this point, it's fun that this appearance by Dark Beast is considered iconic enough to be the 'definitive' look for him by this comic.

Hank's final remark, about 'Henry McCoy plus time equals atrocity,' is a sentiment often repeated on social media boards, and it's interesting to see it being internalised by Hank himself, given his unique perspective on the events that created his future self and the other potential timelines the X-Men files likely refer to.

Mm. A lot to unpack here.

Hank's relationship with his X-gene has always been complicated, and the way he views it here, as essentially morphing him into a shape that he finds abhorrent, predatory, and beyond his control, is consistent with how Hank seemed to see himself during his feline mutation, which lasted from 2000 to 2013.

Though his feline phase is not referenced in this comic, beyond the 'over time, and with a little help, these became more pronounced,' (probably a reference to Sage's jumpstarting his secondary mutation) it assumedly would be in the files Hank has been using to catch up, and one has to wonder if he's been repeating some of the thought processes that made feline Hank such a uniquely neurotic version of the character.

It's also nice to see a canonisation of my long held fanon that Hank's X-gene is actively attempting to craft a form for him that is best suited for survival, a belief that Hank only hinted at back in Morrison's New X-Men, but which made sense, given the circumstances of his mutation in X-Treme X-Men.

That being said, Hank's own mind seemingly strays back to the night his furry mutation first manifested at the Brand Corporation in Amazing Adventures, where he flew into a berserker rage and nearly killed Carl Maddicks, which always seemed a little incongruous with how Hank was written in subsequent appearances in Avengers and Defenders, but which now seems to be retroactively made an expression of the brutality he was capable of during his feline phase.

The 'violent upheavals' Hank refers to here are likely his initial secondary mutation, and then his near-death experience when said mutation randomly destabilised in All-New X-Men. It could also be a reference to his numerous genetic troubles during X-Factor volume 1.

His opining that he found refuge in the life of the mind is very reminiscent of Hank's desire to find meaning in poetry, literature, art, humanity, in the wake of the changes in his body in both X-Factor and New X-Men. X-Factor #33 and New X-Men #117 both specifically reference his delight in the freedom to think, in opposition to the clouding of the mind that came with his Pestilence inflicted dumbing down, or his newly awakened predatory impulses.

Ironically enough, Magneto is, aside from Simon Williams, the character with whom this version of Hank has shared the most panel time and dialogue, between his conversations in X-Men and previous From the Ashes Infinity Comics. It would appear that Max's need for a cure for his condition are fostering a necessarily stronger bond than Hank and Max have ever shared before in canon.

Precisely where the rest of the team is during the course of these events is unknown. If I had to guess, it's possible this might be set during the events of X-Men #2, where the rest of the team was attending to a mutant rescue in San Francisco, accounting for the lack of availability of the Marauder and a reliance on an old Quinjet.

Quite how Hank got his hands on said Quinjet is unknown, though it's possible it might be a holdover from Hank's Defender days, where he would regularly borrow a Quinjet from the Avengers, for purposes ranging from actual superhero missions to attending Patsy Walker's wedding.

Though this Hank's memories originate in closest proximity to the Defenders, and though that team did enjoy some degree of notoriety under Hank and Candy Southern's stewardship, the Avengers have always been where Hank was most popular in-universe, and he has had a habit of using that association to smooth things over in mutant related books, such as in X-Factor volume 1 and the 90s X-Men run.

Unfortunately, mutant rights are in a more dire state than ever before, with things having seemingly gotten only worse for them since the 1980s, and it's likely Hank didn't expect this level of hatred from normal civilians.

I have, unfortunately, run out of images, so I'll be posting the last of this issue and my final thoughts and predictions in another post.

[clove-pinks]

I am thinking about the largest and most powerful ships that participated in the War of 1812, and I wondered what was the highest-rated Royal Navy warship in the conflict (see also: comparative sizes of ships of the line).

There were a few 3rd rate ships involved: HMS Africa was part of the British squadron that chased USS Constitution, and HMS Poictiers rescued the Frolic from USS Wasp. The flagship of the North American station around this time period was only a 4th rate, HMS Newcastle.

And then I remembered: not only was there a 1st rate ship of the line in the War of 1812, she was built and sailed on Lake Ontario!!

HMS St Lawrence: the only first-rate Royal Navy ship of the line built on fresh water (Wikimedia Commons). She carried 102 guns(!), but never saw action in the war.

[distracteddream]

Okay, since it’s International Talk like a Pirate Day, I’m sharing the first bit of my Lokius pirate AU here. I meant for this to be a quick thing to write, but then Plot happened. Anyways, enjoy this teaser!

I Won’t Lead and You Won’t Follow

The sound of Mobius’ boot heels echoed as he carefully trod down the steps to the dungeon. The captain of the Timely Ventures Associates’ flagship hated coming down to the fort’s lower levels. It was permanently damp and what windows there were in the stone walls were too small for fresh air or more than a sliver of daylight. As a consequence, smoke from the necessary torches hung heavy in the air, choking what light they provided for those who had reason to make the trek to where the prisoners were held.

He wouldn’t have come down to the dungeon without good reason and unfortunately, the captain had an excellent reason on that day.

Mobius stopped in front of one of the cells, the only one currently occupied. The torchlight barely penetrated into the darkness beyond the bars, but a shift of heavy chains told him the captive knew he was there.

“Well, well, well. What do we have here?” Mobius asked conversationally. “When Casey told me to come down here and see what we caught, I never imagined it would be you.” Mobius crossed his arms, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the lack of light within the cell. He could barely make out the faint outline of the prisoner against the wall, the length of chain he could see lax. Slowly, the shape of the man within became visible, separating from the deeper darkness around it.

Even without the foreknowledge, Mobius would have known him anywhere. The captain had spent years chasing the pirate who most people considered no more than a ghost. He was a mere spectre who came and went with the tides, never leaving any tangible signs he existed when the winds changed. Mobius knew he was real though. He’d come close enough to almost touch the pirate a few times and every time, he’d slipped through Mobius’ fingers like the phantom the rumors claimed he was. It was maddening and Mobius was rational enough to realize capturing the pirate was verging on an obsession.

Which was probably what had really led him to the dungeons that day.

A low chuckle came from the back of the cell. “Just what I needed to make things worse. Come to pour salt on my wounds, Mobius?”

The captain would like to have said that the voice emanating from the shadows didn’t pour through him like warm honey. He’d heard it in so many ways over the years of their chase: conversationally when their captive was trying to talk his way out of trouble, yelling obscenities at Mobius and the crew of his ship, the Resolute, across the waves, whispering lowly in alleys of schemes and mischief. Once, he’d heard Loki singing in a tavern, an old song of home in an even older language. Mobius enjoyed that voice, even when it was damning him to hell, but he’d never tell anyone that. Not even the preacher who occasionally endeavored to save Mobius’ soul.

“No. Not this time.” Mobius grabbed a stool the guard had left outside the cell and sat. For as long as they’d been doing this dance, Mobius had never approached the pirate without a weapon in his hand. This time, he kept his sword in its scabbard and his pistol holstered. Perhaps if he didn’t start on a defensive footing, the prisoner would be more amenable to listening to what Mobius had to say. “I’ve come to talk.”

The chains within rattled, the captive evidently taking his time to respond. Mobius didn’t mind. He could wait the prisoner out if need be. It wasn’t as though he didn’t have experience in waiting for the pirate after all.

“And just what would you have to talk to me about?”

The prisoner’s suspicion was justified. They did have him restrained after all. And they both knew Mobius wasn’t the one who typically conducted interrogations, if one was deigned to be granted. Those accused of piracy were rarely given the chance to explain themselves. A quick trial, one the accused didn’t actually need to be present for, and a short drop - that was often the best someone in his captive’s position could expect.

Mobius had a better offer. He hoped so at least. He simply had to entice the pirate to accept it.

“Where’s the treasure, Loki?” the captain asked.

The chain clattered on the stone, two long legs materializing from the inky dark to cross casually at the ankles. It couldn’t have been comfortable, the iron shackles above his feet knocking together, but Mobius was relieved the guards had at least left Loki’s boots on. The voice issuing from the dark this time was mocking. Mobius had heard that before, too.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Did you get too much sun today?”

Mobius sighed and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees. “C’mon. The TVA just wants its property back.”

Metal on metal clanked noisily as Loki moved. Mobius realized he didn’t ask Casey if Loki had the four- or the five-point restraints on. That hidden part of Mobius, the one that would have admitted how much he enjoyed hearing Loki’s voice or just how well he knew the shape of Loki, hoped it was four. Mobius hated the idea of cold rusted iron around Loki’s throat.

“To do what with it, hm?” Loki asked.

Mobius knew, as with any pirate, Loki and his crew considered anything that could be taken, anything that they stole, to be theirs forever more. They would never willingly give back any property, regardless of who it had belonged to. Loki, however, always seemed to have a singular focus with his targets. Since trying to bring the pirate to justice, Mobius had studied each reported encounter with Loki. Aside from a few low-stakes plunders when he was younger, Loki only attacked Timely Ventures Association ships. He only stole Timely Ventures Association cargo. Mobius had wondered why but had never been in a position to ask TVA’s owner. At the end of it, Mobius’ duty didn’t require him to know why.

“It doesn’t matter what they do with it as long as my crew and I get paid when we’re due,” Mobius told him.

Loki laughed incredulously. “Right then. As long as you get yours and damn the rest of us. Do you know why the TVA needs all that silver? Do you know what the people you work for actually do out there in the real world, Mobius? Damn the rest of us, hm? Damn you! I’ve seen it! I’ve seen what happens when people like that get into power. I’ve seen how they destroy places and people and say it’s a better way of life and all they leave is despair and carnage behind.”

Mobius shook his head. This ranting was something Mobius had heard before, namely from any of Loki’s crew they’d managed to take alive over the years. They would repeat Loki’s ravings as gospel and no amount of discussion with them would change their minds - not even as they confidently strode to their deaths. Mobius himself had never witnessed any proof of Loki’s claims and frankly, he didn’t receive enough pay to contradict the TVA line either.

He did, however, get paid enough to know certain things about his prisoner.

“That’s enough of your lies, Captain Laufeyson.” Mobius sat up on the stool, affecting an unbothered air for the broadside he was about to fire. “Or should I call you Captain Odinson? Which is it?”

The chains clanged as Loki attempted to launch himself at the cell’s bars, coming to an abrupt stop when he ran out of length. The torches’ fire paled to the fury blazing in Loki’s eyes. “You shut your mouth,” the pirate snapped though it came out strangled from the iron collar digging into his throat.

Mobius didn’t flinch. He’d faced Loki’s anger before; he had the scars to prove it. Loki was one of the more dangerous pirates Mobius had dealt with because he was unpredictable, but he didn’t scare Mobius. Because Mobius had always survived his battles with Loki. Not all of his colleagues had been so lucky. That was another piece in Loki’s puzzle Mobius would have liked to have.

Perhaps now he could finally get it.

He waited until Loki seemed to calm, metal sliding against stone as Loki settled down on the floor nearer to the meager torchlight. The chains shifted, Loki having to lift both hands to rub at where the iron had pressed into his throat. If Mobius didn’t think Loki would gut anyone who came close, he might have told the guards to take the collar off. Mobius wasn’t so altruistic as to risk sacrificing people to Loki’s whims. He hated that they used that collar at all and wanted it gone. And to do so, Mobius would just have to hope Loki would hear him out.

“You’re not in a position to make demands here,” Mobius said in a gentle tone. “And lucky for you, I’m in the mood to bargain.”

The flames of the torches danced over the planes of Loki’s face as he rolled his head back and the sigh Loki gave him sounded like it had centuries of weariness behind it. “I have nothing you want.”

“You have knowledge.” Loki scoffed but Mobius was undeterred. He didn’t come to the dungeons to give up on this idea. “If you don’t have the treasure, then help me find who does. I know you can.”

“Your faith in me may be misplaced.”

It wasn’t an immediate no. Mobius waited. If there was one thing a sailor knew, it was patience.

Loki pursed his lips, eyes cutting to Mobius. “And what do I get in return?”

Mobius spread his hands out. “Your freedom.”

“I have that already.”

“Had,” Mobius pointed out.

“Ha!” Loki spat out a mocking laugh. Mobius tamped down on the shiver Loki’s sharp grin sent down his spine. Loki held up his hands, the chain between them tugging on the chain connected to the collar around his throat. “You think your chains will hold me much longer? I’ve escaped better places. I’ll be gone in the morning.”

Mobius didn’t doubt him. It’s why he’d come as soon as he’d put to port and heard Loki was in the dungeon. Loki and prisons were a relationship that never lasted. If Mobius had any chance of success, he’d known he didn’t have much time.

“If you say so.” Mobius shrugged and pushed himself to his feet. Loki watched each movement from his spot on the floor. Mobius stepped closer to the cell door, well within striking distance if Loki had had just a few more inches of chain. “I hear the rats get rather bold at night. Might want to tuck your feet in tight if you’re still here.”

Mobius tapped the bars and turned. He got as far as the first step before he heard the chains behind him.

“Wait,” the pirate called and Mobius paused. “Wait, wait, wait. Fine.” Mobius pivoted to face Loki, and suddenly found himself trying not to lose focus at the sight of Loki kneeling in his restraints. “Fine. I’ll help you. It won’t do any good but I’ll do what I can.”

Mobius didn’t move, waiting for the trick. “And you’re not going to attack me the minute I turn you loose?”

It should have been impossible for Loki to look offended in that position and yet it seemed Loki still had some surprises up his sleeves for Mobius to discover.

“That’s not my style.”

“That is exactly your style.” Mobius withdrew his foot from the lowest step and crossed back to Loki’s cell. “Swear to me you won’t betray me the first chance you get.”

Loki shook his head. “You want me to swear? Are you in such dire straits that you’d take my word as bond?”

“Your word is all you have right now, Loki.” Loki’s eyes narrowed on him but Mobius wouldn’t back down. “So will you help me?”

He wasn’t sure what thoughts went through Loki’s head. How quickly he could free himself without Mobius letting him go? How he would betray Mobius in the end? How Mobius was an idiot for trusting him? Maybe all that and more.

Loki tossed his head back, a hard look in his eyes as he proudly lifted his chin. “Aye. I’ll help you find your treasure. Without the betrayal.”

Mobius grinned slowly, grabbing the cell’s keys from the wall. “See? I knew you weren’t all bad.”

[snapscube]

are these releases really that small scale?

Not when you say it like that LOL. They’re not miniscule! They’re really cool! But they’re also not ur huge flagship titles like ur Mario Odyssey’s or ur Zelda’s or ur Metroid Primes. Mario RPG looks fantastic but it’s a remake of an isometric classic with a simple art style. Mario Bros Wonder is doing a lot to break into a new fresh era for 2D Mario, but it’s still 2D Mario. Lots more ports and remasters on top of that. New Peach game looks cool but it also seems pretty tame in terms of budget and we don’t know much about it.

None of this stuff is a bad thing mind you! I was screaming my lungs out this Direct! This shit is awesome! But it’s also still clear that they’re keeping the REAL big guns close to the chest, and I assume that’s either because the next couple years of Switch are gonna be suuuuper slow in a rough way, or they’re saving the big guns to advertise next to a new system.

[tailschannel]

Sonic to get "several new mobile titles" in the future, according to SEGA management meeting document

The Sonic the Hedgehog series is expected to receive "several new titles" for mobile platforms, SEGA's parent company confirmed in a management meeting early Wednesday.

Apple and Google were both named as "key players" in the mobile sector for SEGA, as the publisher detailed an encompassing transmedia scheme for the blue blur, which will include licencing and collaborations with other third-party properties.

"Several new" mobile games under development

With an established presence thanks to the likes of free apps like Sonic Dash and Sonic Forces Speed Battle, the franchise looks set to dive in the world of mobile gaming, as part of SEGA's future plans.

The publisher did not rule out exclusivity clauses with subscription-based mobile gaming services. In recent days, the publisher signed a contract with Apple to produce Sonic Dream Team, and Netflix announced a mobile port of Sonic Mania Plus for their game subscription service.

No word of a specific timeframe for the aforementioned mobile games, currently in development.

Future Sonic mobile games to adopt Rovio's Beacon toolkit

As part of the mobile expansion, the upcoming slate is expected to adopt "Beacon", an internal development and marketing toolkit powered by machine learning, frequently utilized by Rovio, the Finnish studio behind Angry Birds that SEGA acquired over the summer.

The studio described Beacon as a platform to "build games and get games to market, models to profitably grow and monetize the game and live operations tools to maximize our players’ fun."

The toolkit has been criticized in a number of fan-run Angry Birds forums for incentivizing revenue at the expense of gameplay quality.

SEGA did not disclose if the Beacon platform will extend beyond the present suite of HARDlight mobile games.

More details on SEGA's resurrection of classic hits

SEGA also unveiled these new images and descriptions for the five new games announced at The Game Awards, described as a "power surge" to re-electrify their classic hits, like Crazy Taxi and Jet Set Radio.

Crazy Taxi: Innovative & Fresh Style Driving Action! Cheerful feeling of freedom and fusion of nature and city. Peel out the new stage of Crazy City!

Jet Set Radio: "Counter-Culture" - Tokyo Street Open World! Experience the "rebellion" movement that feels free in a suffocating society. Make friends, increase your fans, and create a movement!

Shinobi: Slay the enemies in the silence of the moment. Run through the world of Shinobi, full of monsters and ninja actions. Grab Oberozuki, the legendary sword and slay evil once more. Your clan and the world are counting on you.

Golden Axe: Warriors arise to subdue the demons! Defeat your enemies with a variety of attacks with swords and magic! The legendary story about the battle axe, Golden Axe is about to begin!

Streets of Rage Revolution: Beloved side-scrolling beat 'em up action series! Take control of one of the ex-officers and make the city a place where people no longer have to walk the "Streets of Rage."

The announcement coincided with SEGA's plans to strengthen their flagship video game brands like Persona and Like a Dragon, and to expand with legacy properties.

(Edit 2:00 pm ET - post updated with new details)

[mariacallous]

Tucker Carlson went to Moscow last week and had an absolute blast. He rode the subway and marveled at its clean cars, the fancy tilework in Kievskaya Station, and the lack of booze-drenched hobos. He went to a grocery store and was astonished by what ordinary people could apparently buy. He even managed to meet a local history buff and sit down for tea and conversation. Carlson, who had never previously visited Moscow, declared himself “radicalized” against America’s leaders by the experience. He didn’t want to live in Moscow, but he did want to know why we in America have to put up with street crime and crappy food when the supposedly bankrupt Russia provided such a nice life for its people, or at least those people not named Alexei Navalny.

My former Atlantic colleague Ralph Waldo Emerson called travel a “fool’s paradise,” but not all forms of foolishness are equal. Many commentators have guffawed at Carlson’s Russophilia and pointed out that Russia’s murder rate is roughly that of the United States, and that its citizens are dirt poor, about a fifth as wealthy per capita as the citizens of the United States overall. “I don’t care what some flagship supermarket in an imperial city looks like,” The Dispatch’s Jonah Goldberg tweeted. “Russia is far, far poorer than our poorest state, Mississippi.” Bloomberg’s Joe Weisenthal suggested that Carlson instead visit the grocery stores of the “10th or 50th” richest Russian cities, and see how they compare with America’s.

In 2019, I visited several large and small Russian cities, and I went grocery shopping at least once in each. Would you believe that Tucker Carlson is on to something? In Moscow (the largest) and St. Petersburg (No. 2), the flagship supermarkets are indeed spectacular. The Azbuka Vkusa branch next to the Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Moscow is more luxurious than any grocery store within 100 miles of Washington, D.C. Other branches in Moscow vary in quality, and they are usually smaller than American supermarkets. But to some extent that’s just a matter of culture: The U.S. has fewer supermarkets, but each one is big enough to feed the 82nd Airborne Division for a month; in Europe, supermarkets are more numerous but tiny.

Makhachkala (22), the capital of Dagestan, followed a similar pattern to Moscow. One supermarket downtown was amazing, the equal of an upscale supermarket in Washington or Dallas. On the outskirts the quality varied, but not drastically. Local residents were not eating soups made from grass clippings. In Murmansk (71), the cramped bodega near my rented flat had a good wine selection and enough fresh staple foods to prepare a different meal your mom would approve of every day of the week. Only in Derbent (134) did I start to wonder whether the bad old days of the Soviet Union were still in effect. But even that would be an exaggeration. In Derbent, for $15, you could get champagne and caviar with blini and velvety sour cream. If you want to flash back to Cold War communism, go to Havana. There the grocery stores stock only dust and mildew.

With apologies to Emerson, travel can disabuse you of foolish notions just as often as it plants them in your head. An idea ripe for dispelling among Americans at this particular moment is that life in Russia must suck because the frigid depression of the Cold War never ended. In those days ordinary citizens were spied upon and tortured and killed, and the shops were empty, save for substandard goods at prices few could afford. Now Russia is different. The state repression is much more limited, though no less brutal toward those who attract its attention. Until the Ukraine war added a huge category of forbidden topics, the main ones that you could get locked up for discussing were war in the Caucasus and the personal life and finances of President Vladimir Putin and his inner circle. Most other topics were broachable, and you could whine all you liked about them.

Equally in need of updating are American expectations about Russian economic misery. Those whose visits to Russia stopped 20 years ago tend to have outdated views of the best the country has to offer. My visits started 24 years ago. Back then, I spent days at a time on the Trans-Siberian, crammed into railway cabins with little to do but talk with Russians and see how they lived. Life was not beautiful. The men busied themselves with crosswords and sullenly browsed pornography. When not in motion, I stayed with Russian friends in single-room flats that looked straight out of a New York tenement building 100 years ago. No one I met was starving, but women sometimes approached me in train stations hoping to rent out their homes or bodies, or to sell me family heirlooms. That type of desperation seems to have subsided, although I would be shocked if any of those people are able to buy the jamón ibérico at the Smolenskaya branch of Azbuka Vkusa yet. On the roads between the big cities, there are still villages so ramshackle that they look like sets from The Little Rascals. Evidence suggests that the Russian military’s frontline troops tend to come from these depressed and benighted lands, the places that really are stuck in the 20th century.

Certain aspects of life remain dismal even in the cities. My flat in Murmansk had surly drunks tottering outside its entrance, and its stairwell smelled like every cat, dog, and human resident had marked its territory there regularly since the Brezhnev era. But the playgrounds were decent, and you could get a delicious smoked-reindeer pizza at a cozy restaurant for $7. Remember, this is in a small, depressed Russian city—not somewhere stocked with goodies just in case an American wanders out of the lobby of the Radisson and needs to be impressed. The “useful idiots” of yesteryear were treated to fake Moscows, which evanesced as soon as the next Aeroflot flights took off. The luxuries of Moscow that Carlson sees, and that I saw, are not evanescent, and they are not (as they are in North Korea, say) a curated experience available only to those on controlled visits.

The stubborn belief that all good things in Russia must be illusory can in turn warp one’s analysis of the country, and in particular of Putin’s durability in power. After all, why would anyone remain loyal to an autocrat who delivered only hunger, penury, and the reek of cat piss? Putin rules by fear but not only by fear. Most Russians will tell you that Russia today is better than it was before Putin. They compare it not with the Soviet era but with the anarchy and decline of the 1990s. Life expectancy has risen, public parks are better maintained, and certain fruits of capitalism can be tasted by Russians of all classes. Who would risk these gains? Like every autocrat, Putin has ensured that his downfall just might destroy every good thing Russia has experienced in the past two decades. This risk is, from the perspective of regime continuity, a positive feature, because it keeps all but the most principled and brave opposition quiet, and content to shut up and enjoy their cheap caviar. Those like Navalny who object do not object for long.

Carlson’s videos never quite say what precisely he thinks Russia gets right. Moscow is in many ways superior to New York. But Paris has a good subway system too. Japan and Thailand have fine grocery stores, and I wonder, when I enter them, why entering my neighborhood Stop & Shop in America is such a depressing experience by comparison. Carlson’s stated preference for Putin’s leadership over Joe Biden’s suggests that the affection is not for fine food or working public transit but for firm autocratic rule—which, as French, Thais, and Japanese will attest, is not a precondition for high-quality goods and services. And in an authoritarian state, those goods and services can serve to prolong the regime.

I confess I still enjoy watching Carlson post videos of Moscow, wide-eyed and credulous as he slowly learns to love a country that I love too. I hope he posts more of them. One goes through stages of love for Russia, often starting with the literature and music, then moving to its dark humor and the personalities of its people, which are always cycling between thaw and frost. Inevitably one reflects on the irony that this civilization, whose achievement is almost without equal in some respects, is utterly cursed in others—consigned to literally centuries of misgovernment, incompetence, and tyranny. The final stage is realizing that the greatness of Russia is part of the curse, a heightening of the irony, as if no matter how much goes right, something is deeply wrong. Maybe when things go right, the more deeply wrong it is. Carlson seems to still be in one of the early stages of this journey.

[timhanfounder]

Tim Han Reveals How to He Overcame Racism and Inspired the Lives of 40 Million People

Life wasn't always easy for Tim Han. As a young immigrant boy who experienced a childhood of abuse, racism and pain, it's easy to imagine that Tim would have been resigned to a very hard life. But rather than allow these chains to drag him down, he relied on his spirit and effort to climb out of this life and achieve this that most people could only dream of. And now he's on a mission to change lives and inspire hope in millions through his LMA Life mastery achievers course.

Here is his story.

Growing up

Tim Han's early years were filled with pain and cruelty.  Born in South Korea, Tim endured a horribly abusive father and had to watch with horror as his mother gave everything to support the family on her back.

But while it hurting seeing his mother struggle, he knew then that he needed to do everything he could to help her.

Dealing with racism and an immigrant child

Due to the domestic political turmoil in South Korea,Tim's mother took the family to Poole in the UK. While this was meant to be a fresh start, the reality was even more pain. He experienced incredible racism from his classmates and was mercilessly teased for being different. The bullying got so bad that it lead to genuine violence and he often feared for his physical safety on account of his accent, skin colour and the shape of his eyes.

A troubled coming of age

Tim's reaction was understandable. Violence begets violence and he became a bully himself, completely betraying the vow he made to work hard to protect his mother.

As his grades deteriorated, his hopes of further education were dashed and he continued down a path of violence, vices and even crime.

Starting from the bottom

After a stern intervention from his mother, Tim got a job scrubbing toilets, hardly a position anyone aspires to reach.

He knew something needed to change or his life would go down the toilet too. That's when he discovered personal growth through places like Youtube.

A new lease on life

The topic of personal development was all he wanted to experience  and so he consumed content ravenously. Whether it was paid courses, books, videos and even getting a coach.

His life was completely changed and from there, Tim had an incredible confidence to take on the world as a force for good and founded the Youtube channel Success Insider.

And clearly, Tim was on to something as he had several viral videos that have resonated with a huge number of people. By 2016, Success Insider was the fastest growing personal development channel on Youtube as millions had become inspired by Tim's incredible message.

Helping people today

Tim Han has worked tirelessly to help millions of people all around the globe discover the best versions of themselves and find happiness in their lives. His flagship course, the LMA Life Mastery Achievers Course, has been a smash hit, reaching people in over 59 countries. Jim's story is not unlike many and he shares it not to brag, but to inspire others who feel their lives are mired in the toilets he once cleaned.If you'd like to learn more about the  LMA Life Mastery Achievers Course, be sure to check it out here.

[my-mt-heart]

Day 2 of "what the hell is going on with TBOC's promo," which is kind of a rhetorical question because I'm pretty sure we're witnessing a duel between two opposing marketing strategies again. I wish AMC would just put their foot down already and tell the dudes trying to ruin everything for Melissa and the fans to sit in the corner and stfu because the whiplash is not serving anyone, especially not two weeks before the premiere. Let's look at these bios...

Carol’s bio really does capture the true nature of what Daryl means to her and it gives her a strong emotional drive for her journey in S2. I think it also could've touched on her dealing with the trauma of losing Sophia all those years ago to round out her arc, although I'd argue that even that isn't separate from finding Daryl seeing as though that loss "ignited" their "unbreakable bond" in the first place. In any case, I like Carol's bio a lot and I have no doubt Melissa's performances throughout the season will bring it to life. Whether or not Zabel's writing can live up to it is a post for another day (Notice that the word "friend" did not come up once? That's how you know Zabel didn't get final approval on this one). Here's the thing about soulmates, though. If one feels that deeply connected, the other should too. If one of their stories gets damaged, the other's does too and that's what's bothering me right now. We should see their soulmatism reflected in Daryl's story as well, but we don't and without that mirroring, both his and Carol's journeys just feel sad.

Long before the promo circuit for TBOC started, I was worried that we wouldn't get to see Daryl fighting to get home to Carol (specifically), catch glimpses of him missing/thinking about her (specifically), or feel that spiritual connection that Carol does and this bio does absolutely nothing to alleviate my worries. This makes it sound like Daryl is going to be solely focused on whatever is going on in France until Carol arrives and even then, I worry about how he'll interact with her (thanks again for your unthoughtful analysis on that, Zabel). Similar to how Daryl has been taken hostage by the French characters, albeit through gaslighting, it feels like he has also been taken hostage by Zabel, Nicotero, and other men in charge who desperately want to use him as a stand-in for the generic, emotionally unavailable action hero that male viewers are supposed to identify with and/or aspire to. They won't let him be the character many of us were drawn to in the flagship show: the unconventional hero who's loyal to his family and falls in love "forever" with one woman (Carol). Like I said yesterday, "loyal" Daryl is the only Daryl I recognize and the only Daryl I want to watch, so it needs to be explicitly clear where Daryl's heart lies. We need to see that Carol is his first and only choice and we also need to see that Daryl has no romantic interest in Isabelle. That's the other problem...

Without Daryl's and Carol's bios mirroring each other as they should, Carol and Isabelle get framed as opponents in a quest for Daryl's heart, which is completely unnecessary, gross, and straight out of the "book of TV tricks" Zabel claims not to use. Daryl and Carol have 11 seasons of chemistry to capitalize on. Caryl's romance is the only one that's been earned, the only one I'm invested in, and the only one that needs payoff. Clemence is an extremely talented actress whose portrayal of a nun could've added something really fresh to the story, but having her catch "feelings" for Daryl after knowing him only a few months and question her long-standing faith of over a decade not only paints her as a weak woman whose weak principles are no match for a man's charm(?), but also glosses over the string of lies and emotionally manipulative plays she made against Daryl in S1. Isabelle's character has become nothing more than Zabel's and Nicotero's seriously problematic projections of what defines a woman, and I don't want it. It's an insult to Clemence, to Caryl's bond, to Daryl's history of childhood abuse, and to fans who have also suffered through CA or DV. So believe it or not, retconning her as a "former" nun all of a sudden does absolutely nothing to make this forced romance less abhorrent, AMC.

If the last couple of days have proved anything, it's that Daryl's and Carol's show needs a female showrunner who understands how to write not only complex female characters like Carol (and like Isabelle could have been), but complex male characters who don’t fit the dudebros’ definition of what makes him masculine or heroic. That's what Caryl, Melissa, and the fans deserve. They deserve a successful show and promo that gets everyone excited instead of confused and anxious. I enjoyed the clip of McReedus discussing the scene where Carol flirts with Daryl on top of the bus in S3, I liked hearing them confirm that Daryl's reaction was due to trauma and not lack of desire. I wish AMC would let them do the heavy lifting instead of trying to placate three EPs who keep self-sabotaging (seriously, you don't need all of them hogging the mic and spewing nonsense at Palyfest/NYCC). I don't appreciate being given consolation prizes (today's video, Carol's bio, yesterday's poster) after being kicked in the teeth. It says a lot about what I can expect from the season, which isn't very encouraging. It just means AMC is still trying to make everyone happy and will end up making no one happy and potentially ruining two iconic characters in the process.

[visit-new-york]

Crosby and Broome Street

Crosby St & Broome St New York, NY 10012

Unveiling the Splendor of Crosby Street & Broome Street.

In the heart of Manhattan's SoHo district lies an enchanting convergence of history, artistry, culinary excellence, and urban allure – the iconic intersection of Crosby Street and Broome Street. These two thoroughfares, each with its unique character, weave a narrative that transcends time, revealing the captivating evolution of a neighborhood that has blossomed into a haven for creativity, luxury, and vibrant community life. Embark on a captivating journey as we delve into the intricate details that define Crosby Street and Broome Street in SoHo, transforming them into a destination unlike any other.

A Stroll Through Time and Architecture

Crosby Street, a narrow cobblestone path, invites visitors to step back in time. Its cast-iron facades, remnants of the neighborhood's industrial origins, have been artfully repurposed into galleries, boutiques, and residences. The very buildings that once housed factories now stand as testaments to SoHo's ability to seamlessly fuse history with modernity, each cast-iron detail whispering stories of the past while embracing the future.

Intersecting Crosby Street, Broome Street adds another layer to the architectural panorama. Amid the luxury boutiques and contemporary structures, the Old St. Patrick's Cathedral stands tall, its Gothic Revival architecture an eloquent reminder of the immigrant history that helped shape the neighborhood. The streets serve as a living embodiment of how a community can pay homage to its roots while embracing change.

Artistic Expression and Creativity

Crosby Street's artistic soul continues to thrive through a fresh blend of pop-up exhibitions, murals, and interactive installations. The street itself has become an ever-changing canvas, a vibrant symphony of colors and shapes that captivate passersby and engage the imagination. It stands as a testament to the power of art to transcend conventional boundaries and inhabit the very essence of a neighborhood.

Broome Street's creative vitality is equally vibrant, boasting galleries, studios, and performance spaces. These intimate theaters provide a stage for emerging artists, musicians, and actors to share their talents, breathing life into the neighborhood's commitment to nurturing artistic expression in all its forms.

Culinary Odyssey and Pleasures

The culinary offerings on Crosby and Broome Streets present a feast for the senses, a tantalizing fusion of cultures and cuisines that reflect New York City's global character. From cozy cafes to upscale dining establishments, these streets offer a culinary symphony that celebrates diversity and innovation. Each dish and cup of coffee is a testament to the culinary artists who infuse their creations with a passion that mirrors the vibrant spirit of the neighborhood.

Retail Therapy and Luxury Lanes

For the discerning shopper, Crosby and Broome Streets emerge as a haven of luxury and style. The boutiques and flagship stores of luxury brands create an ambiance of refined elegance, where the latest trends and timeless fashion converge. The windows serve as a visual masterpiece, drawing in fashion enthusiasts and blending artistic expression with the world of commerce.

Community and Cultural Fusion

Beyond the aesthetics and commercial offerings, Crosby Street and Broome Street thrive as hubs of community engagement and cultural fusion. Throughout the year, these streets come alive with a myriad of events that unite residents and visitors, fostering a sense of belonging and shared identity. Art walks, street fairs, and seasonal celebrations fill the air with excitement, allowing individuals to immerse themselves in the neighborhood's vibrant tapestry.

Local artisans and craftsmen also find their home along these streets, offering a glimpse into the ingenuity and entrepreneurial spirit that define the SoHo community. From handmade crafts to vintage treasures, these local establishments contribute to a sense of authenticity that resonates with those who seek to uncover the heart of the neighborhood.

Residential Enclaves and Urban Sanctuaries

Crosby Street and Broome Street are not just destinations for exploration; they also embrace a vibrant residential community that calls SoHo home. Living on these storied streets offers a unique blend of urban sophistication and neighborhood charm. Residents find themselves at the nexus of luxury and convenience, with high-end boutiques and dining establishments just steps away from their front doors.

These streets, with their cobblestone pathways and historic facades, serve as urban sanctuaries where residents can escape the bustling city and find respite within a community that values both creativity and connectivity. The sense of camaraderie that emerges among those who reside on Crosby and Broome Streets is a testament to the enduring allure of this remarkable neighborhood.

Conclusion: A Continuum of Splendor

In the heart of SoHo, Crosby Street and Broome Street stand as sentinels of a neighborhood that has gracefully evolved while preserving its character and heritage. These streets are not isolated entities; they are part of a continuum that weaves the past, present, and future into a seamless tapestry of experiences. From the cast-iron architecture that whispers tales of industrial prowess to the vibrant artistry that defines its modern incarnation, this intersection beckons travelers and locals alike to embrace the charm, creativity, and community that define SoHo's essence.

As you traverse the enchanting landscape of Crosby Street and Broome Street, you're embarking on an exploration of the soul of New York City itself. Through its art, architecture, culinary delights, and dynamic community, this iconic intersection embodies the spirit of a city that is both a canvas and a masterpiece – a city that thrives on innovation while honoring its storied past. SoHo's odyssey continues, and at the crossroads of Crosby and Broome, its timeless allure is more captivating than ever before.

[that-left-turn]

Saw your post about advertising revenue going down. Subscriptions to AMC for Q1 went up while TOWL was airing. What are your hopes for TBOC drawing in new audiences for AMC? Do you think Caryl is a big enough draw and if not in its current state what needs to change?

Subscriptions going up while TOWL aired was good (for AMC). The question is if it's fans of that particular show dipping in and then dropping off? AMC can't appeal to the larger TWD fanbase for all the spinoffs. They've slimmed down, so they need to find ways to grow those individual audiences and they need to retain them for the longhaul.

The appeal of TBOC is in the lead characters and sadly, not the story. Zabel hasn't done his homework (which an incoming showrunner should do): he has either only watched the montage and final scene of the flagship show, or he's relying on what other EPs have told him about the characters and their arcs. That's why he thought Ezekiel was Daryl's friend, since he was there to see Daryl off in the series finale.

Contrary to what you'd believe from looking at the fandom and the loudest screaming individuals, Carol resonates with the general audience, so seeing her again will probably draw curious viewers, but will they stick around? It depends largely on how her character arc is handled and also, her relationship with Daryl. They have natural chemistry, which the show should capitalize on as it comes with a built-in audience.

Will it, though?

From what I know about TBOC, Carol and Daryl's individual arcs merge at the end of block 2/beginning of block 3, so 204-205-ish. That means half the season has them separated. That's not ideal for a show where the main appeal lies in the relationship between the leads (whether romantic or platonic). Their emotional drives appear uneven, from my limited view of the beats, which might also be a viewer deterrent.

I think AMC needs to go all-in on canon once the storylines intersect—especially as it looks like we're in for some heavy nunbaiting—to at least get some good word of mouth and maybe draw back parts of the audience who've given up on the show. There were people who stopped watching TWD in S7-8 who came back after the original Caryl spinoff was announced. Having a loyal core audience is vital, so the studio needs to insure that those viewers are invested and engaged.

The show also needs a story engine. The escort mission in S1 had little urgency, beyond Daryl looking for a radio, and the actual meat and potatoes of the external plot was nondescript. Laurent was said (prophesied, really, by a Buddhist monk) to be the new Messiah who will "save humanity." It's very fuzzy on the details and not in a way that implies mystery. It screams of hand waving. The show has to draw in horror fans with a season arc that services the genre.

Caryl fans would watch for a good emotional arc and the GA should be treated to a well-conceived external plot. If you can cater to both of those demographics, you can grow the audience (because people tell others when they like a show) but it hinges on tight storytelling. You have to have an actual detailed plan and not a vague idea of where you're going—pantsing might work for a novelist, but never for a screenwriter. There's an A story, a B story and you may have a couple of runners, for the season as well as individual episodes, so a TV show requires organization. (And I'm getting off-topic here, so I'll leave the logistics at that.)

I'm not confident in TBOC based on what I know of Zabel's writing in general, his management of S1, his statements to the media and what I know about TBOC. I think the show needs a redirect into a different subgenre and some fresh ideas that showcase McReedus playing off each other and Caryl being thrust into the unfamiliar (both to the characters and the audience)—we need to see something new while the characters stay in-character to tether them to the character development already done on the flagship show. (And now I've written 'character' so many times that the word has lost all meaning 🙈)

Zabel played loose and fast with Daryl's backstory in S1. Fans are invested in those details and if it's made it to screen, the showrunner can't ignore them to shoehorn the already well-established protagonist into a plot involving new characters. He shouldn't love his own original creations more than the actual main character. All of these things give me pause as to Zabel's suitability as a showrunner for a show that already has a preexisting ecosystem.

That said, it looks like the show is getting delayed to a fall premiere, promo seems to be on a hold and the season finale may still be in post, which could be signs of AMC fixing problems and/or changing direction.

Sorry the answer was neither short nor succinct, but I hope it gave some clarity regarding my thought process. Obviously, like everybody else, I have ideas of what I'd do to increase ratings, but I'm not the person in the hot seat 🙃 I'm waiting for the panel at Tribeca to see what I can decipher from the inevitable sell speak.

It may be a long summer for us.