#Brontes Processing

[fictionadventurer]

Jane Eyre is different from other classic literature I've read, in that it presents romance as a question of identity. Your ideal romantic partner is the person who allows you to be your most authentic self. They match your ideas and your personality, so when you're around them, you can just be you, and they understand you perfectly because they're a lot like you.

There's no question of growth, or responsibility, or appreciating other personality types. No suggestion that differing personalities can balance each other out. It's all about unconditional acceptance of who you already are.

I'm not sure if Bronte means to present this as a general theory of romantic love, or if it's just how Jane's story works out, but Jane's personality means that this idea of romance comes through very strongly.

Jane is a people-pleaser. She spends her childhood among people who hate her for having the wrong kind of personality. She makes some friends who shape her character and interests, but once she leaves Lowood, the only people she wholeheartedly connects with are people who are similar to her. The main connection between her and Rochester is that their weird personalities are a lot alike. They understand each other. Rochester likes Jane just as she is--she doesn't have to do anything special to please him. She leaves Rochester because he asks her to enter an immoral relationship, but she still firmly believes that he is her one and only soulmate--the only thing standing between them is the existence of his previous wife.

When she's out on her own, the people-pleasing tendencies come out full-force. Diana and Mary share a lot of her interests, so she fits in with them just as she is. St. John has a very different personality, and a very forceful will, and when Jane is with him, she can't stop herself from molding her personality to please him. The marriage is presented as horrific not just because he doesn't love her, but because it would erase Jane's true personality.

Once Rochester's wife is dead, there's no question that Jane will go back to him. He and Jane still have matching personalities, still accept each other exactly as they are, and that's the ideal marriage. It doesn't have much to do with character growth or learning to work together through the struggles of life. Sure, Rochester gets humbled and disabled and he learns that he was wrong, but it seems like Jane was planning to marry him even before she knew all that. It didn't matter if he'd changed, because he didn't need to change in her eyes--he was her perfect partner. In this framework, romance is all about the identity of the two people--find the partner who's your perfect match, and you'll have a perfect marriage.

You can see why that's appealing. There's truth to it--unconditional love is good, and you need to have someone who loves your true self. But it also feels shallow. Too simple. All you need for the perfect marriage is to find someone whose personality matches yours. And in the end, that's kind of the tragedy. Jane and Rochester don't grow as much as they could, because they've found a partner who accepts them as they are.

[mollysunder]

Singed and Silco together are so incredible, because they make such a solid partnership, and under all that bedrock is the nuclear bomb that is Warwick. Imagine your husband, with whom you've built a new life, has been keeping YOUR ex in the basement for seven-ish years to perform the kind of medical atrocities some tribunal out there wasn't creative enough to make illegal yet.

And for the entirety of their Singed and Silco's marriage up until his death, Silco never knew. It's like the opposite of Jane Eyre to me! Not really, but you get it, right?!

[the-way-astray]

hello everybody . . . have a fintante oneshot thing i wrote. it’s poorly named because i don’t have magical fic naming powers. dedicated to @crescentpaws for his birthday . . . happy birthday and also i borrowed your brainworms for this one . . . you can have them back next week. anyway. apparently you’re supposed to write descriptions for fics and stuff but honestly nothing much happens here except fintan tries to piss bronte off and then gets thrown out of his castle. loser. also you’re supposed to say how many words? idk man it isn’t long. should take about five minutes to read. without further ado, enjoy it or don’t

If I Could Touch the Sun

Fintan wasn’t much in the habit of keeping up with the news. 

He blamed his Ancient state whenever someone was annoying enough to needle him about it or try to regale him with (boring) tales of Emissary escapades or whatever the Council’s latest fuck-up was.

But there was one exception to his self-made no-news rule: the Talentless. 

How far he’d fallen. 

At one point, he’d never have stooped so low as to care about whatever was going on with those who had no abilities, and, therefore, nothing to contribute. At one point, he’d been soaring, reaching for heights most people could’ve never even dreamed of.

But now. Well. If only it was possible to touch the sun without getting burned. 

His eyes flicked over the line of castles lining the path in front of him now. He didn’t strictly have to get his news straight from the top; a walk through Mysterium would likely confirm his suspicions. But he never passed up an opportunity to irritate Bronte.

He strode up to one of the castles nestled toward the side in the line. After rapping on the door far louder than was really necessary, he sat down on a nearby rock to wait. Bronte would no doubt take his time answering, knowing it was just Fintan. 

No less than five entire minutes later, the door creaked open and Bronte poked his head out. He scowled. 

Wonderful. 

Fintan stood up and strode into the castle, shoving Bronte aside on the way. Bronte closed the door behind him with no comment, likely realizing it would only provide Fintan with ample verbal ammunition. 

Bronte’s sitting room: what the average sane person might call the epitome of nihility. It was as bare (or “clean”, as Bronte might call it) as possible, with just a single, pathetic table accompanied by a single, pathetic chair. Fintan immediately claimed it before Bronte could. 

“Why have you come this time?” Bronte sighed, raking his fingers through his dark, thick curls, something that made Fintan notice that his Councillor’s circlet was missing. Strange. But, really, he didn’t care anyway.

“Same reason as always,” Fintan said to the grains in Bronte’s table. “To find that item I left here when I was Councillor. I’m sure I’ll find it one of these days.” This he accompanied with a quick eyelash flutter to just his right eye and a slight twinge to the left corner of his lips. Most importantly: a head tilt, so Bronte could catch a proper glimpse. He wondered if Bronte would interpret it as a smirk or a sneer. 

It was an old taunt. Bronte had moved into the very same castle that Fintan had occupied when he was Councillor, and Fintan was pretty sure he’d managed to convince Bronte that he had actually left or hidden something important in his castle when he’d first brought the item up. Of course, there was nothing, nothing but Fintan’s amusement when he realized Bronte had actually upturned the castle in the fruitless search that had followed.

Not much amused him these days.

“I assume you’ll be wanting those rumors of a new Talentless child confirmed, then?” Bronte twitched his right eyebrow while tilting the left side of his mouth up just a hair. The result made his face look lopsided. Lopsided, because the alternative was to think the expression made his face look handsome yet smug, which, needless to say, was not what Fintan thought. At all.

“You do know me so well.”

“Why should I confirm or deny anything for you?”

“For the same reason you told me about that girl from a few years ago, and that boy from a decade ago, and every single other Talentless child you’ve told me about over the centuries.”

“And that reason would be?”

“How should I know? I don’t know anything about you.” Fintan grinned then—a true grin. Ironic, but true. Bronte’s gaze darkened at the sight.

Bronte sighed, seeming to consider. He always did, always pretended he wouldn’t, but then he always caved. Always. Sometimes it took minutes, hours, days. But he always caved.

Bronte scanned Fintan’s face once. Naturally, Fintan took the opportunity to do the same. Bronte had probably combed out his curls into his favored style—thick, tidy layers piled on his head—just before Fintan had arrived, but his dragging his hand through them had ruined their careful pattern. Dark brown eyes: they were so dark Fintan couldn’t tell where the iris ended and the pupil started. Flat, unforgiving eyes: someone else might have been worried about that expression, but Fintan knew it was just a look. His former lopsided quirks were now wiped from his face entirely; he held his face almost unnaturally still and smooth.

What a drama king. Fintan rolled his eyes, internally first, then externally when Bronte turned on his heel and marched back toward the door. Fintan heard the bolts slide open and briefly wondered if Bronte would leave him here. If he’d somehow managed to annoy him that much. But then he reappeared in the sitting room, stomped over to Fintan’s chair, grabbed him just above the elbow, and yanked him out of the chair. Fintan yelped, but by the time he’d gotten his bearings, Bronte had already dragged him to the door.

“Yes, there is a new Talentless child. All but confirmed, unless he suddenly manifests at sixteen. But he’s none of your business. None of them are.” Bronte spoke the words slowly, bitingly, but they still felt too quick for Fintan’s current state of shock. He wondered what expression was currently on his face. He knew it wasn’t good, if the glee that danced in Bronte’s eyes meant anything.

Bronte spared him one last glance before flicking his wrist. Unfortunately for Fintan, that wrist happened to be connected to the hand that was clenched around his arm. He stumbled over the threshold, catching one last look at Bronte’s lopsided face and hearing the door slam before he fell particularly hard on the very same rock he’d been lounging on not even ten minutes ago.

But he barely registered the sharp spike of pain in his shoulder. Another Talentless child. He had to find out who this boy was. Immediately.

[jazzy-art-time]

Luan is in jarble? 🥺

Not really, not in the way you are probably expecting

[calicohyde]

Jack Hyde All-Character Tournament: Round 2, Seed 7

Angelito Alfaro ("Witch Noir")

Angel is a Medium who is ostracized from his community on his 18th birthday for being both a clairvoyant and a man (one of these sins might have been ultimately forgivable, but not both). A Medium is a type of witch that can see into and travel to the Hidden Place, or the astral plane which only Mediums, Gods, ghosts, and cats can interact with. Due to his wrongful enforced isolation, Angel becomes obsessed with helping other clairvoyants like him who have been left to the whims of the secular world by witches who should be welcoming them into their communities. He meets and becomes obsessed with Dido, who he thinks is one such abandoned clairvoyant. He convinces her to elope with him, but when it turns out she doesn't in fact have premonitions, but delusions, he can't face the idea of being alone again and the guilt of possibly having damaged Dido's sense of reality. As a result, he ends up with a severe case of selective etherealism - he involuntarily fades back and forth between the material world and the Hidden Place - thereby cementing his greatest fear of being alone, only ghosts and other people's beliefs for company.

Genre: Horror Fantasy Designation: Love Interest to Main Character Quick Facts: Mexican-American, bisexual, plays ukulele, wears tweed

VERSUS

Milo Bronte (Not Just Us)

Milo is a "demon" - that is, a human who happens to have some demon-like qualities, such as reddish skin, horns, and claws. Unlike a lot of people like him, Milo doesn't bother to alter or hide these aspects of his appearance. He doesn't wear makeup or file down his horns. More relevantly to his story, Milo is also what is known in his futuristic dystopia as a "financial terrorist", i.e. a thief. He robs the rich and gives to the poor, many of whom live in an underground extra-societal community. He doesn't just steal money, though - he also finds and liberates information on the corporations and CEOs that own everything and everyone. He is considered a supervillain due to his "demonic" strength and the severity of his crimes. He has a fun little homoerotic nemesis-ship going with Kenshin Mechado, happily playing the flirtatious Catwoman to Ken's snarky Batman, until such time as he can fully seduce Ken to the right side.

Genre: Political Comedy Designation: Anti-Hero and Love Interest Quick Facts: 8ft tall including the horns, Autistic, tourist chic

[she-posts-nerdy-stuff]

I have a lot of Thoughts about the Wuthering Heights casting announcements that my friends have already been subjected to, but I’ve now seen people suggesting how Luke Pasqualino would’ve been an amazing Heathcliff and I’m so sad that we’re not getting that because it would SO FREAKING GOOD

[itseasierthanithought]

"Crying does not indicate that you are weak. Since birth, it has always been a sign that you are alive"

~ Charlotte Brontë

[confloozed]

"Happiness is not a potato"

--- Charlotte Bronte, Villette (1853)

[brightlotusmoon]

I asked for rain. It has mostly threatened rain. My joints and my skull have been under so much pressure that it's extended to those raised neonatal scars on my ankles and underarm that look like tree roots and burns, and I am reminded that they're probably irritating nerves and connective tissue anyway.

I asked for rain, but the Anemoi and the Hyades seem to be on hold.

[poetry-roses-galaxies]

I am no bird; and no net ensnares me: I am a free human being with an independent will.

Jane Eyre, Charlotte Bronte

[afirewiel]

When you get down to it, Jane Eyre and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall basically have the same premise. They both feature a protagonist (Jane Eyre/Gilbert Markham) who falls in love with someone (Edward Rochester/Helen Huntingdon) who turns out to be already married. The books are even written by sisters. (Charlotte and Anne Bronte, respectively).

While Rochester and Helen are both unhappy in their marriages (Rochester's wife is insane and Helen's husband is unfaithful and abusive), the way they handle their situations could not be more different though. Rochester keeps his wife locked in the attic and keeps her existence a secret from all but a select few, letting the rest of the world think he is a bachelor. He deceives Jane as well and even tries to marry her, almost committing bigamy in the process. It's only the timely arrival of Rochester's brother-in-law Richard Mason at the wedding that the truth comes out.

Helen, on the other hand, runs away from her husband, taking her young son with her. She pretends to be a widow. But when she realizes Gilbert has fallen in love with her and wants to marry her, she comes clean to him about her marriage and says she cannot marry him because she is married.

Helen acts more nobly than Rochester and yet, of the two novels, it's the latter that was considered controversial at the time it was released with even Charlotte criticizing it for featuring a woman leaving her husband. Helen never tried to commit bigamy but somehow a woman leaving her abusive husband was considered worse at the time. It really is mind blowing.

[winxanity-ii]

⌜Godly Things | DIVINE WHISPERS: Parental Advisors DIVINE WHISPERS: Parental Advisors | divine whispers: parental advisors⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌���‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽

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Telemachus sat before his father in his parents' study.

It was a shared space where both Penelope and Odysseus spent their time overseeing the kingdom's affairs. The desk in front of him stretched almost the entire length of the room, with two chairs set behind it for both rulers.

Shelves filled with scrolls and books lined the walls, and in one corner sat Penelope's completed woven shroud, a testament to her patience and skill.

A fire crackled softly in the hearth, its warmth a gentle comfort against the stone walls.

Telemachus shifted in his chair, his leg bouncing restlessly. His eyes darted around the room, the flickering firelight casting dancing shadows across the aged parchment and the tapestry hanging above the mantle.

He tried to focus on the details of the room, but the uncertainty he felt twisted his thoughts into knots.

Across from him, Odysseus sat behind the large desk, glasses perched low on his nose as he read over a parchment, his gaze serious and unwavering. A servant stood by his side, carefully refilling his goblet with wine before silently leaving the room, leaving father and son alone.

As the door clicked shut, Odysseus finally looked up, his sharp eyes studying his son's posture. He set the parchment aside, his attention now entirely on Telemachus. "What seems to be troubling you, my son?"

Telemachus cleared his throat, shifting again in his seat. His hands fidgeted in his lap, fingers brushing against the fabric of his tunic. "Father, I... I need to speak with you. It's about..." He paused, his brow furrowing as he tried to find the right words. "It's about Lady Andreia of Bronte."

Odysseus raised an eyebrow, giving his son a patient nod. "Go on."

Telemachus took a deep breath, the air feeling heavy in his chest. "She spoke to me today," he began, his voice low and hesitant. "She mentioned... a proposition. A marriage alliance between Ithaca and Bronte." He could hardly believe the words as he spoke them, and he could feel his face heating up as he forced them out.

The study fell into silence, the crackling of the fireplace the only sound in the otherwise still room. Odysseus blinked, his brows knitting together as he processed his son's words. "A marriage alliance?" he repeated, his voice uncertain, almost as if he needed confirmation.

Telemachus nodded quickly, his eyes wide and earnest. "Yes, Father. She said it could help secure peace and strengthen the bond between our kingdoms..." His voice trailed off, unsure of how else to explain the strange conversation he'd had in the garden.

Odysseus leaned back slightly in his chair, his gaze turning thoughtful.

Just as the silence began to stretch uncomfortably, the door to the study burst open, and Penelope entered, her laughter echoing as she stepped inside. She was holding a parchment, her eyes alight with amusement. "Ody... you won't believe what Diomedes wrote back—" Her words faltered as she took in the scene before her, her eyes darting between her husband and her son, one of whom looked uncertain and the other tense.

The door closed heavily behind her, the echo of it filling the space as Penelope blinked, her expression shifting to one of confusion. "...Is it not a good time?" she asked, her voice softer, the excitement from moments before fading.

Odysseus looked at her, a tired but loving smile tugging at his lips. He shook his head, his gaze softening as he met his wife's eyes. "No, my love," he said gently, "you're right on time. In fact, I was about to ask someone to fetch you."

Penelope's brow furrowed slightly as she stepped further into the room, her eyes immediately shifting to Telemachus. The worry was clear in her expression as she moved toward her son, her steps quickening. "Telemachus, are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asked, her hands reaching for his face, brushing his cheek gently as she scanned his features for any sign of distress.

Telemachus squirmed a bit under her concern, trying to twist away from her hands, though a part of him found comfort in her presence. "Mother, I'm fine," he muttered, his cheeks flushing slightly as he tried to avoid her gaze. "Truly, there's no need to worry."

Odysseus chuckled from his place behind the desk, the sound low and warm. "No, Pen, our son isn't injured," he said, a hint of amusement coloring his tone. "But there is something else—perhaps even worse."

"Something worse?" Penelope's eyes widened, her hand flying to her chest as she shot a quick prayer to Zeus. "What is it, Odysseus? What has happened?"

Odysseus glanced at Telemachus, giving him an encouraging nod. The young man cleared his throat, his voice barely louder than a whisper as he spoke. "Mother, it's about Lady Andreia... She has proposed a... well, a marriage... between herself... and me."

Penelope blinked, her face going still for a moment before her lips parted, and she let out a soft, "Oh." She blinked again, repeating, "Oh." The tension that had gathered in her shoulders slowly ebbed away as she exhaled deeply, her eyes softening. "So, that's it," she murmured, almost to herself. Her gaze turned back to Odysseus, and with a huff, she moved over to him, swatting his arm lightly. "You need to stop scaring me like that. Honestly, I thought it was something far worse."

Odysseus chuckled again, rubbing his arm where she'd swatted him, though his smile only grew. "Apologies, my dear," he said, his eyes twinkling with affection. "But I suppose marriage proposals can be rather terrifying, depending on the circumstances."

Penelope clicked her tongue, her lips curving into a playful smirk as she bent down, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "Terrifying indeed," she murmured, her voice tinged with amusement. "I remember how frightful I was of a certain cunning warrior—someone who had a reputation that preceded him, and not always for the better." She gave him a teasing look, her eyes glinting as she leaned back, her fingers brushing a stray lock of his hair.

Odysseus let out an exaggerated sigh, shaking his head. "Ah, yes, a reputation I worked very hard to earn, might I add," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips. "Yet, I seem to remember a certain young woman who was rather intrigued by that very reputation." He reached up, gently catching her hand and holding it, his thumb brushing against her knuckles.

Penelope raised an eyebrow, her gaze softening even as she feigned exasperation. "Intrigued, perhaps," she conceded, her smile widening. "But I certainly wasn't without my doubts. You were a rogue, Odysseus—a charming one, no doubt, but still a rogue." She laughed, the sound light and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Odysseus pulled her hand closer, pressing a kiss to her knuckles. "And yet here we are," he murmured, his voice low, filled with warmth. "The rogue and the queen, together still." He looked up at her, his gaze holding hers, the love between them palpable.

For a moment, the room seemed to shrink, the world narrowing to just the two of them.

Telemachus cleared his throat awkwardly, his voice cutting through the tender moment. But just before he spoke, a mix of emotions tightened his chest—embarrassment from intruding on their shared warmth and impatience that his problem seemed to linger, heavy and unresolved, while his parents could still find joy in each other.

It was almost as if his burden didn't belong in the same space as their lightness. 

"Mother, Father, what am I supposed to do? What do I say? I can't possibly be in her presence knowing what she wants..." He trailed off, his eyes wide and a hint of desperation in his tone. He seemed almost to ramble, his thoughts spilling out faster than he could process them. "I can't get married, not to her. I thought she'd leave once her brother... I mean, I just... how can I fix this?"

Penelope's expression softened, but her gaze grew stern. "Telemachus," she began, her tone gentle but firm. "I understand you're troubled, but you can't just outright deny her. Not only would it be unwise, but also rather rude, given everything that she's been through."

She stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on her son's shoulder. "My son, she's lost her brother, and now she's seeking some form of stability—something she can hold on to—the only way we as young ladies have always been taught." Her voice softened, and there was a flicker of sadness in her eyes, as if recalling her own youth, and the pressures she had once faced.

Odysseus nodded, his eyes meeting his son's with an intensity that made Telemachus swallow. "Your mother's right. If you refuse her outright, it would be seen as an insult to Bronte. It could make things worse between our kingdoms, and we cannot afford that right now after just getting things stable," he said, his voice calm and steady. "There are ways to navigate this—you could try to get her to reconsider the proposal. Perhaps suggest a different way for our kingdoms to form alliances, one that does not require a marriage." He paused, tapping a finger thoughtfully on the arm of his chair. "Like military support or even a cultural exchange proposal."

Telemachus' brow furrowed, and Odysseus continued, leaning forward slightly. "Military alliance is significant, Telemachus. If we were to go that route, it would strengthen our borders and ensure that both Ithaca and Bronte can stand against any threats together whenever the issue arises. And for cultural exchanges, well... those foster true friendship, pride, and understanding between our people. When alliances are built on shared strength and celebrated through culture, they last much longer. They become something more than just an agreement on parchment. They become a bond."

Telemachus listened, nodding slowly as he absorbed his father's words. He felt the weight of the situation pressing on his shoulders, and though he still didn't know exactly what he would say to Lady Andreia, he knew his parents were right. He would have to tread carefully.

Odysseus leaned back, a knowing smile playing on his lips. "Or," he said, a glint of mischief in his eyes, "you could always try to get her to break it off herself. Perhaps show her that life here on Ithaca is not as ideal as she thinks." He shrugged, his smile widening. "Self-sabotage can be a useful tool, if wielded properly."

Telemachus' eyes widened slightly, and he let out a small, incredulous laugh. "Father, I'm not sure that would be the most honorable approach," he said, shaking his head.

Penelope clicked her tongue, though her lips twitched with a hint of a smile. "No, Odysseus," she said, giving her husband a pointed look. "We should at least try to handle this with some grace. No need to encourage cunning behavior."

Odysseus shrugged, a twinkle in his eye. "Grace, of course," he conceded, though his grin remained. "But a little cleverness never hurts." He reached for his wife's hand again, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Odysseus' gaze darkened, the mirth fading slightly. "But beware, Telemachus," he continued, his tone lowering, almost as if speaking to himself. "Alliances are often tested, especially those forged in uneasy times. Stability today does not guarantee peace tomorrow."

Penelope glanced at him, her eyes reflecting a silent understanding of the unspoken dangers that lingered. The air between them grew heavy with an unspoken awareness—the knowledge of how precarious peace could truly be.

Telemachus sighed, the tension slowly easing from his shoulders. He still wasn't entirely sure how he would handle Lady Andreia, but with his parents' support, he felt a bit more grounded. He gave a small nod. "Thank you, mother, father. I'll think on it," he said quietly, his voice more resolute.

Penelope smiled warmly at her son, leaning in to press a kiss to his forehead. "Whatever you decide, we trust you, my dear," she whispered, her hand lingering on his cheek for a moment before she stepped back.

Telemachus nodded, taking a deep breath. He wasn't sure what direction things would take, but for now, he was ready to face whatever lay ahead.

A/N: Hey, winxies! Just wanted to give a heads-up to this little in-book 'one-shot' series called '𝐃𝐈𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐖𝐇𝐈𝐒𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒' since I edit a shitload of my books/chapters to make them more digestible/understandable (my daydreams shift dramatically from perspective to perspective like a film) a lot of scenes are put to the side because I don't want to mess up the pacing/overwhelm you all. But since I've been told you guys enjoy my writing---even the seemingly unnecessary bits---I'll be posting them 😩❤️❤️ i guess it can be seen as sort of filler/bridge scenes to get a look into things outside of MC perspective

Feel free to ask for clarity, I know I my writing tends to be erratic; I might not answer right away, but I'll definitely get to it...

[mediocrecowboyhat]

Set in sand - Chapter 19

We mark the year 1934 and a peculiar journal falls into your hands. It's telling the tale of an outlaw and the downfall of a gang. Some pages are torn and others are downright unreadable, but nevertheless, you are still able to make out some parts of the tragic story.

With the help of a certain time traveler friend of yours, will you be able to save the author of the journal or will you be the cause for his demise?

Previous chapter - Next chapter

Word count: 3.9k

TW: end-game spoilers will be mentioned very early on in the story, 18+ MDNI, sexual themes, violence, gore, death, misogynistic themes (anything that happens in the game as well), she/her pronouns

Note: Was the closet scene kinda cliché? Yes. Was it necessary? Absolutely.

Just as you expected the night before, it's impossible to save yourself from Karen's clutches and interrogation. The moment she spots you sipping peacefully your coffee over the campfire, she rushes over and slings an arm around your shoulders.

Her eyebrow is raised high as she stares you down in anticipation and with a knowing glimpse in her bright green eyes. "A little birdie told me that someone had fun last night.", she starts with a hushed voice.

Yes, she's the number one gossip source in the gang, but at least she knows how to be discreet about it. Putting you on the spot infront of everyone won't give her any of the answers she oh so desires and she's aware of that. The two of you are too good of friends for her not to be considerate about your feelings.

"No idea what you're talking about.", you say in false indifference and keep your gaze set straight. If you meet her eyes now you're afraid that your mask might fall off and she will see right through you. Of course she does that even without your help.

Her smirk only grows wider and she takes a step back to get a better look at you, crossing her arms infront of her chest in the process. "Come on!", she whines and quickly pushes you towards a table that's standing away from the others. "You have to tell me! I saw you two kiss!"

"Who kissed?", you hear Tilly, who seems to just materialize out of nowhere. You were so busy with Karen that you didn't even see the other woman lurking closeby with curious eyes.

And of course when Karen and Tilly are together, Mary-Beth isn't too far either. She joins the three of you as if summoned and places down the novel she's holding. "Someone kissed?"

The whole thing is escalating faster than you'd like to and you open your mouth to protest, but your dear friend, Karen, beats you to it. "Arthur and our future Mrs. Morgan over here."

The other two women gasp, absolutely floored by the information and you hastily shake your head with your hands held high as if you're being held at gunpoint. "I kissed his cheek! There is a huge difference."

"Surely that can't be all!", Karen argues, a mischievous grin plastered on her face. Before anyone can say anything more though, a large figure with broad shoulders approaches the group. Speak of the devil.

Arthur greets the three women that are with you with a nod before turning to you. "I was wonderin' if you're free tonight." He's asking you out on a date again? And infront of everyone else nonetheless. The women begin to snicker to themselves after hearing his question and you have to bite down on the inside of your cheek to stop a smirk from forming. "Angelo Bronte invited us to the Mayor's garden party."

You try your hardest to mask your disappointment and you quickly clear your throat before answering. "He's inviting us to a party after he kidnapped Jack?", you ask, disbelief lacing your voice.

"Dutch landed on his good side, it seems.", he answers with a shrug of his shoulders and motions with his chin towards the balcony upstairs. "Do you have a moment? Dutch and Hosea are talkin' 'bout the details right now."

A nod is the only thing you manage to do and you wave the other women goodbye before Arthur leads you inside the house and up the stairs. Sure, you feel a bit embarrassed for assuming that the outlaw would ask you out this soon, but that is a distant thought for now.

Once you step out onto the balcony, Dutch and Hosea turn to you with a nod. "Ah, so you decided to join us at the party then?" The gang leader's question is directed at you.

"If you want me there, then I'll be happy to come along.", you say, straightening your back and squaring up your shoulders ever so slightly to appear more confident. If Dutch personally wants you on board at a job, then you can't disappoint.

They explain the plan to you in great detail. How they will try to stay on Bronte's good side since he's in charge of the city and that, at the same time, you all will be mingling with the high society guests there. Saint Denis seems to be a promising location with all these rich morons around and any lead could be just the one you need to finally leave.

"I'm afraid I don't have the appropriate attire for the party.", you speak up before the group splits and they all turn to you. Dutch looks less concerned about your problem and makes a throwaway gesture with his hand.

"Ask Molly for somethin'.", is all he suggests. While he turns to leave, you hear him mumble another sentence under his breath. "That woman has more dresses and skirts than she has sense."

His comment leaves a bitter sensation on your tongue, but you brush it off. You give Arthur a side glance and he simply lifts his hands as if he admits defeat and shakes his head. A deep sigh escapes your lips and you run a hand over your face. "And what are you going to wear?", you ask the outlaw.

"Somethin' nice."

"Do you even have something that doesn't have stains on it?", you counter, a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of your mouth and he let's out an amused huff.

"Real funny."

After some more back and forth, you go to search for Molly who you find holed up in the bedroom she shares with Dutch. Her nose is buried deep inside a book and she doesn't even notice you entering the room until you clear your throat.

Her head snaps up as a startled noise escapes her, but the moment she recognizes you, she chuckles breathlessly. "I'm sorry. I didn't hear ya coming in."

"It's okay, no worries." You close the door behind you and fidget with your hands. Molly and you haven't really had the chance to talk much, so you're not quite so sure how to approach the woman. "I'm going to this party with the others tonight and Dutch said you could lend me something to wear?"

At the mention of his name, a strange emotion flickers over her delicate features, but it vanishes before you could decipher what it means. Molly puts the book down and gets up from where she's sitting, walking over to a chest that you assume she keeps her clothes in. "I should have something for you, I think."

While she rummages through a pile of garments, she throws some of them aimlessly onto the bed. Every single piece looks to be made out of the finest materials and it makes you wonder who exactly Molly O'Shea was before she joined the gang.

Most of the clothes she owns are different shades of green. She usually wears that color in every outfits she puts on and for good reason as well. It suits her fantastically.

After a few minutes of her digging through the chest and you silently waiting behind her, she straightens her back again and motions towards the dresses that are spread out over the bed. "These ones should fit the theme."

As you approach them, your eyes trail over every piece in wonder and you hesitantly reach out to touch them. You're careful, worried to tear or dirty them with a single touch. "Are you sure you want to lend me one? They all look rather expensive."

"It's no problem, really.", she answers nonchalantly and waves her hand around in the air. There is a sour undertone in her voice as she says the next sentence. "It's not like I've got any use of them now."

That's true. Dutch seems to never let her leave the camp and you only rarely see her outside of her room. Before that shitshow in Rhodes, Molly was at least walking around the tents and sitting by the water with a book. If you were even a bit closer to her, you'd have offered a hug as comfort.

"I know that things haven't been easy for you.", you begin, sounding rather awkward, but that's not stopping you. You want her to know that she at least has one ally in the gang. "If you want to talk, you can always come to me."

It's obvious in her expression that she appreciates you reaching out a helping hand to her, but she still produces a bitter scoff. "Talking won't help me now." In a defeated and exhausted manner, she falls back down onto the chair she was sitting on when you walked in and burries her face in both hands. "It feels like he closed himself off completely to me."

Slowly, you walk towards her and kneel down onto the wooden floor. Your hands find their way to her shoulders and you give them a light squeeze. "I think he's just stressed at the moment. It's a lot of pressure with the Pinkertons so close on our tail and all."

"It's not the stress, goddammit.", she hisses and you manage to not flinch under her harsh voice. They're not directed at you, after all. "He hasn't touched me in weeks and now he only has eyes for her."

Now that is a lot of information you didn't expect to get out of her. You're not exactly certain who Molly is talking about, but then again, you haven't been around much lately. It must be someone in camp, but you feel like one of the women would have told you.

"I don't want to think about that man now.", Molly says after a few seconds of silence and you both rise up. With her chin held high, she straightens her skirt and picks up one of the dresses. "Let's doll you up for tonight."

After you're done getting ready, she hands you a handheld mirror for you to inspect her work. Your eyebrows shoot up in surprise as you stare at the woman in the reflection. It's an unfamiliar sight, to say the least.

Molly has done a splendid job, hiding the scars and dark circles under your eyes with makeup. In fact, she has chosen just the right shade of eyeshadow to compliment your eyes and make the color pop out. Lipstick is there as well, but less striking and more subtle as if you had bitten your lips softly.

As distasteful as Dutch's comment about the woman was, he didn't exaggerate with the amount of clothes she owns. She was able to find a dress that fits your body in a way as if it was tailored to your exact measurement. The soft fabric is hugging your figure like a warm embrace.

Seeing you like this, banishes any doubt you had about joining the men for the garden party. Now you truly think you will blend into the crowd just fine. You can't fight the wide grin that is spreading on your face and you give Molly the mirror back.

"I take it that you like it?", she asks, knowing already by your reaction that you do. A confident expression is plastered on her face and you pull her into a tight hug.

"Thank you so much!"

With a soft chuckle, she returns the hug. Just as you're about to leave through the door, she calls out to you and your hand stays on the knob, unmoving. You turn around look at her. Hesitancy is written all over her, but there is something else flickering underneath that. Hope. "Can I ask a favor of you?"

Your answer comes shooting out faster than a bullet. "Of course. Anything, Molly."

"You're good with Arthur, right? Do you think you could talk to him about Dutch? He might listen to him more than to me."

A shadow falls over your face, but you quickly hide it away. With how things are at the moment, you really don't think that anyone is able to talk some sense into that man regarding their relationship, but you decide to keep that to yourself. "I will. Of course."

A relieved smile graces her lips and with a nod, you step out and join the others outside where an elegant, black coach is already waiting. Dutch, Hosea and Arthur are all neatly dressed up in classic black suits and looking quite handsome too.

"You guys cleaned up quite well.", you call out to them, grinning and feel Arthur's eyes wandering over your face and figure. Hosea let's out a barking laugh at your words and gestures in your direction.

"So did you. We won't have trouble blending in with a lady like you at our side.", he comments, earning an embarrassed chuckle from you. Thanks to Molly you do feel like a lady in this attire and you should give her full credit.

You look down at yourself, inspecting the dress and accessories further. "I wouldn't have been able to get this done in a million years if it wasn't for Molly, to be honest."

As you speak out these words, you steal a subtle glance in Dutch's direction, taking in his reaction. Only that there isn't much to take in. Not one muscle in his face flinches and you almost sigh in aggravation. There is no getting through to him, but you push that thought to the back of your mind. Now you need to focus on your social and deception skills.

A cough can be heard next to you and you turn to face Arthur. His expression is a gentle one as he eyes you from top to bottom. "You look lovely.", he mumbles awkwardly into his beard and you bite back a chuckle.

"Thank you. So do you." With that he extends his hand out to you and helps you climb into the coach.

The ride to the mayor's house is bumpy and you bet that your ass will be black and blue by tomorrow morning. It makes you miss Penthesilea, but it wouldn't be a good look to come storming in on horseback. Not only is the coach uncomfortable, but also a bit too small to hold four people.

As much as you welcome the nonexistent proximity between Arthur and you, you don't quite enjoy being squished against the wall. He's a large man and nearly takes up the entire seat which doesn't leave you with a lot of room. At least he's being a gentleman about it and tries to scooch away every now and then.

Relief washes over you once you arrive at the mayor's house and you roll your shoulders with new-found freedom. Unfortunately, it doesn't last long and your small group is being stopped by the security when you approach.

"It's mandatory for everyone to leave their weapons here with us.", says the man at the entrance and you all exchange looks.

Without any protest, you all hand over your guns and you can't help but feel exposed without the extra weight on your side. Of course you don't expect a fight to break out during the party and you trust that the mayor has the funds and resources for decent security, but still. It makes you jumpy and nervous.

You all are being led through a massive and neatly kept hallway. At the end of it, Arthur and Dutch are being brought upstairs to meet Bronte, leaving Hosea and you alone. Together you step out into the garden and let your gazes wander around the masses.

"We should approach this together. What do you think?", Hosea starts and you nod, not having anything to say against his suggestion.

You stay closely by his side as he walks down the stairs and begins to mingle. He introduces the both of you with fake names and you put on the sweetest smile you can muster up. Normally, you don't have an issue with playing people like a fiddle to get information out of them, but normally the ones you tend to fool are drunk hillbillies.

So you let Hosea take the lead entirely and watch him do his magic. He's pretty charismatic and has a certain aura about him that makes others listen and trust. Arthur has told you many times before that Hosea is a natural conman, born and bred, and there definitely is no denying in that.

You steal a glance up towards the balcony to see Bronte all alone with his flock of loyal followers. They're smoking cigars, drinking expensive liquor and snickering amongst themselves. There is something sinister about that man, but you can't tell exactly what it is. The sight of him alone makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

In the corner of your eyes, you spot Arthur talking to a group of men at the fountain and you excuse yourself to join his side. With a soft tap on his shoulder, you make yourself known and throw him a quick smile which he returns.

He introduces you to the others and you give them the fake name Hosea has assigned to you earlier. They all tilt their heads and raise their glasses politely as a greeting and you mimick the gesture.

"I hope you are enjoying yourself, Miss?", asks Mr. Lemieux, the mayor. The shape of his eyebrows reminds you of an owl everytime you look at him.

"I certainly am. I must say, you have a beautiful garden.", you answer, earning barking laughter from the man.

His eyes trail around the property and he gestures with his hand. "Well, I would hope so, otherwise I would have to find a new gardener."

His joke makes the entire group laugh and you force out a chuckle as well. Then suddenly a man walk up to the mayor and they exchange hushed words with each other. You can't make out everything, but enough to know that it's about Leviticus Cornwall. That man seems to be everywhere and anywhere.

Arthur and you excuse yourselves and meet back up with Dutch who's overlooking everything at the porch. "Did you find any good leads?", he asks you as you approach and Arthur tells him what you heard just now.

"Go and see if you can get these documents.", he tells the two of you and you immediately begin to follow the man who talked to Mr. Lemieux.

He walks around the house and Arthur and you stop by a bush to avoid detection while he speaks with a police officer. Once he's on the move again and the officer leaves his post as well, you're on his heels again.

Making sure to keep a safe distance between him and you, you press your back against the wall and watch him. A woman is with him this time, keeping her head low and her gaze fixed onto the floor while he scolds her. His tone is stern and irritated as if it's not the first time that he catches her lacking.

Just when you think he will start moving again, you leave your hiding spot and he turns around, spotting you. "My apologies, but this area isn't for guests.", he says with a subtle bow, but other than that doesn't look upset.

"'Course. We was lookin' for a way back to the garden and got lost.", Arthur quickly explains and you throw him a side glance. That lie sounds as unbelievable as can be, but the man doesn't question it any further. Instead, he motions towards a nearby exist and vanishes at a staircase.

"We got lost? Really?", you whisper in Arthur's direction with a raised eyebrow and your lips curling up into a teasing smirk.

He simply rolls his eyes as he ushers you up the same staircase the man used, but his expression makes it clear that he isn't too offended by your comment. You force your attention back to the task at hand and peek around the corner.

The door to some kind of office is standing wide open for you to see the man doing something at a desk and closing a drawer before disappearing into another room. Without hesitation, you rush towards the desk and Arthur fishes a document out of the drawer

He holds it up for you to see it too and you recognize Leviticus Cornwall's name on it. The two of you exchange satisfied looks between each other and begin to make your way out of there, but you hear voices coming from the staircase. Quickly, you open a door and push Arthur inside.

You enter the room right after him and quietly close the door, pressing your ear against the wood to listen. Arthur's chest is right on your back and that's when you notice that you're in some kind of closet. It's tight, pushing the two of you closely together.

"I think the coast is clear.", you mutter in a hushed voice and turn around to face the outlaw. His blue eyes are locked with yours and he awkwardly clears his throat.

"We should go then.", he says, sounding mildly unconvincing. His calloused hands are placed on your waist and his warm breath tickles your nose. Being this close to him, you can make out a fresh, soapy scent with a subtle hint of tobacco.

Not only does he look nice tonight, but smells nice as well. This entire situation creates a certain heat in your chest which travels up to your head and through the rest of your body in a rapid pace. Yes, you have touched him many times before, but never have you found yourself pressed flushed against his broad figure like this.

Every flinch and every movement of his muscles under his suit, sends a jolt of electricity through you and even though his fingers are on the fabric of your dress, they still manage to burn into your skin. The wildest and most scandalous of thoughts course through mind, making you feel dizzy and lightheaded and cause your throat to dry up.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips which doesn't go unnoticed by Arthur. His eyes flicker down towards your mouth and something falls over his expression. A strange noise comes out of his throat and he seems to snap out of whatever daze he was in up until now.

His hand finds it's way to the doorknob and much to your dismay, you leave the small closet. None of you mutter a single word as you sneak out back to the garden, this time completely undetected. Dutch is waiting with Hosea at the porch and their faces light up as their eyes fall on you.

"Did you get everything?", Dutch asks and as a response, Arthur taps lightly against his own chest where the document is secured.

With that you return to the coach, your mind racing with all manner of thoughts and images, burning hot like embers. Even as you prepare for the night and lay down to sleep, you can't shake off the memories of the events from earlier and how restless they have left you.

It takes an eternity for you to drift off into a deep slumber, only to be haunted there by him as well. You simply can't escape the intense stare of a certain gunslinger and the echo his rough fingers have left on your body.

Taglist: @shackspossum @abducted-cowz @heloixe

[literaryvein-reblogs]

Literary Terms

Allegory. A kind of story that has a meaning deeper than its obvious one, and it’s a sort of extended metaphor. A famous example is Bunyan’s "The Pilgrim’s Progress", which ostensibly tells the tale of the journey of its protagonist Christian, but has a symbolic meaning that describes the journey of a Christian from Earth to Heaven. In Medieval times, allegory was commonly used to communicate religious messages, but later it became a way of commenting on politics or society. "Gulliver’s Travels" by Jonathan Swift and "Animal Farm" by George Orwell are both examples of allegories that use bizarre stories as parallels for real political and social situations; Swift was commenting on everything from particular politicians to entire countries, while Orwell’s tale reflects events in the run-up to the 1917 Russian Revolution.

Aside. A device that has been used in plays for centuries, involving a character directly addressing the audience without the other characters being able to hear. It’s part of the story, usually kept brief and often used comically to gossip or make a comment about another character behind their back. Some films make use of this technique too, with a character looking directly into the camera to address viewers, known in this context as ‘breaking the fourth wall’. This is something "Amelie", the eponymous heroine of the French film that bears her name, does frequently by whispering conspiratorially to the audience.

Litotes. Understatement used for rhetorical effect, and usually makes use of double negatives for emphasis. For example, rather than stating overt enthusiasm for something, one might say that it was “not bad”. Another example might be “He’s not unintelligent”, as a means of saying that someone is intelligent (or even a genius). While understatement might at first seem a peculiarly British trait, the use of litotes is common in a number of European languages, and was a strong feature of Old English poems and Icelandic sagas. There are also instances of its use in the Bible, and even as far back as Homer’s epic "The Iliad", in which Achilles is described by Zeus as “neither unthinking, nor unseeing”.

Pathetic fallacy. A literary device in which human emotions are attributed to aspects of nature, such as the weather. For instance, the weather can be used to reflect a person’s mood, with dark clouds or rain present in a scene involving sorrow. It’s a form of personification. A novel that famously makes use of pathetic fallacy is Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte, the stormy characters and tumultuous relationships of which are reflected in the novel’s setting: the bleak Yorkshire Moors. Ferocious thunderstorms mirror Heathcliff’s aggression, and elsewhere reflect the turmoil Cathy must go through in choosing between Edgar and Heathcliff. Pathetic fallacy is even present in the name of the novel, which is also the name of the farmhouse in which the story is set; the word “wuthering” refers to wind so strong that it makes a roaring sound, or to a place characterised by wind that roars. Such threatening weather is used to create a sense of foreboding, forming a menacing backdrop to a story populated by characters whose violent and jealous temperaments are hugely destructive to themselves and others.

Stream of consciousness. This literary technique describes a character’s interior monologue (a continuous flow of thoughts going on in the character’s mind). It’s a technique that came to the fore in the 20th century, famously championed by Virginia Woolf in "To The Lighthouse" and, more bafflingly, by James Joyce in his groundbreaking novel "Ulysses", in which the idea of a stream of consciousness is taken to its extreme. Trying to represent the randomness of human thought processes literally, Joyce penned paragraphs like this: “My missus just got an. Reedy freckled soprano. Cheesparing nose. Nice enough in its way: for a little ballad.”

More: Word Lists

[smearp]

Was there ever a second rat?

The discovery of Micah being a rat has created some clarity and understanding, both for the players and the gang members themselves. However, according to agent Milton, Micah only became a rat at the beginning of chapter 6, which doesn't explain the chaos of the previous chapters and led to the theory that there was a second rat.

From the moment of John's recovery, even before the gang's downfall, Micah suggests that John has changed and Abigail is poisoning him against the gang and Dutch specifically, an idea that Dutch also repeats twice ("I swear this woman is poisoning him against me" and in Guarma he tells Arthur that John and Abigail are the only ones who seem to be benefiting from the situation).

At the same time, on missions with John, his loyalty to Dutch is very clear. Up until John's release from the prison, he idolises Dutch in a way similar to Arthur's while also dealing with his own hardships. As for Abigail, her son and the man she loves are her priority, she doesn't necessarily doubt Dutch, she just worries about the consequences his actions will have on John.

The role of the "second rat" was just Dutch's ego and Micah's feeding of it - Dutch has a constant need to be right, to be worshipped, and to have the upper hand, ever since Blackwater Micah was doing just that.

Dutch was fueled by the need to hit civilisation fast and hard, as a form of rebellion against it - Arthur and Hosea discuss the fact that they had a safer lead they were working and Dutch was too caught up in the excitement of the boat robbery to see it.

We see it again in Colter; Hosea warns Dutch that Leviticus Cornwall is a force they can't handle, only to be shrugged off.

After the train robbery had been pulled off and the gang had made it to horseshoe overlook, Dutch's ego had somewhat recovered, and I believe that if Cornwall hadn't caught up to them in Valentine, it would've somewhat delayed Dutch's descent to madness.

However, time and time again, Dutch challenges forces stronger than him (Leviticus, the Braithwaites and the Grays, Bronte) only to fail. Which then causes him to try and make a bigger move, to save his ego and keep up the gang's faith in him.

In reality, even without Micah helping the pinkertons, as long as he was feeding Dutch's delusions and as long as Dutch listened - the gang's demise was only a matter of time, Micah being a rat only expedited the process.

(note: Dutch's character is absolutely fascinating, and I can talk about him all day long, I love that manipulative little man)

[mhevarujta]

You can't deny that Ellen and Orlok loved each other. Eggers has said so himself.

I kind of can though.

In my opinion Eggers created a love triangle that is very much about the possibility of separatism between romantic emotion and sexual appetite. It also seems to be a conscious choice, considering that this was not the case in his 2016 script. You can see in his writing process that Eggers moves from a story where Ellen is tender towards Orlok and even feels confidence in his presence to all those elements disappearing from the script by 2023. Her desire is the only thing that DOES remain. I think it's very telling that people, and even women, have still trouble when it comes to dealing with female sexuality outside of romance, but I don't think that desire has to be somehow validated by love. Still, there will always be those viewers who will try to put Ellen's sexuality into a little box because deep down they are made uncomfortable by it even as they claim that they are accepting and understanding of this fictional character. I don't think this will change.

Moreover, when has Eggers ever said that Ellen and Orlok LOVE each other? I am aware that he has made a Wuthering Heights comparison, but he's stripped Orlok of any of Heathcliff's humanity. This is not Emily Bronte we're talking about. Eggers keeps emphasizing the aspects of sex and death concerning vampires, not love. And while he's certainly said that there is yearning and a connection that goes both ways, even that it's about loneliness, he's also admitted concerning his idea of a demon-lover story that: "It's not so much love, it's obsession. And I think that that's the nature of this relationship."