#was somehow Herself too inbred

[voluptuarian]

Incredible how Cersei and Jamie are the products of cousin marriage who look so much alike they would switch places with each other as children and then proceeded to have kids with each other in Westeros' most impressive inbreeding speedrun, but I never see anyone claiming they're all secretly hideous looking or that we shouldn't root for or like them because they're tainted "mutants"

[francis-writes]

I'm super entranced by Ethel Cains 'Inbred'. Hear me out. Feyd to that song... He's just so religious satire and cannibalism as a form of love language coded. 'Touch me till i vomit' and 'He's so good to me and to nobody else, so you can fuck yourself' or 'If he wakes up, He'll show you what I'm talking about' STOOOOOOOOOOPPP fuming at the mouth

[I understood this are just thoughts about character, not a request, so if I'm wrong, please correct me. I suck at understanding intentions and anything that isn't put plain lol]

Unfortunately I don't listen to Ethel Cain (I heard her, just not my type of music) but you got me at cannibalism as a form of love. I love all the cannibalistic, gore, violent metaphors, idk maybe it's because I just like a man covered in blood, maybe because that how love feels when you're mentally ill.

Okay, so I'm checking my collection of cannibalism/love posts and somehow I forgot that I literally kept a screenshot of Ethel Cain herself.

Also kinda this:

Though I didn't think about religious satire before. I mean, I only wondered how much he knew about his role in Bene Gesserit's plans and whether it was any different for him than pressure of being an heir to house Harkonnen. So hard to say how he felt about being an important step in plan to create Kwisatz Haderach but I often compare his relations with people to biblical stories (I'm not Christian anymore but that's what growing up in religious household does to a mf). Like him and Paul, like Jesus and John the Baptist. Both born in the same time, both destined by God to great things. But no matter his talents and skills, he was the second. I don't know how much Frank Herbert was inspired by the Bible and how much it's my obsession with christian symbolism but also: especially Paul but also Feyd as important part of Kwisatz Haderach plan, remind me about Jesus and Isaac. Promised by God, special ones, admired, destined to great things, but also supposed to be sacrificed.

And Feyd and Rabban remind me about a few cases of siblings in the Bible, but mostly Cain and Abel? Elder brother jealous and bitter than the younger is God's favourite, that whatever Abel does is appreciated and praised, meanwhile efforts of Cain keep being rejected. There's a popular picture (bc Bible doesn't explain how God expressed his opinions on the offerings) that when they burnt their offerings for Lord, smoke from Abel's offering rised to the Heaven, showing that his gift was accepted and that Abel was worthy in God's eyes. Meanwhile smoke from Cain's offering floated downward. And I am just like. Yeah, that's Rabban and Feyd. And also Joseph and his brothers when he had dreams that all his siblings will bow to him...

Okay, I think I should stop here because I wandered out off topic and tbh I could continue this monologue about Dune/Bible correlation for a long, long time.

Apart from all my incoherent ramblings, I checked that song, and yeah... this is so Feyd (even the title, bc I suppose that in Dune marriages between close family in noble houses were rather popular; after all they wanted Feyd to marry Jessica's daughter, that would be his close cousin. Let me tell you, my family is from small village and for many generations there were marriages between close cousins, and if nobody stopped my grandma, she would marry family too. And I am a living mentally ill proof of how inbreeding ends)

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

It's important for everyone to remember that, despite Barty somehow being one of the smartest people in the room in the most recent chapter of TMWWBK, he is still a devoted minion of a cult of heavily inbred aristocrats who want to torture and kill all Muggle-Borns.

Their leader, charismatic and competent he may be, is still a mass murdering domestic terrorist tricking a gaggle of idiots into destroying themselves for the most petty of reasons. Yes, their society desperately needs to grow and change, but because it personally inconvenienced Tom Riddle, it all has to burn.

A reminder, in the opening of the story he was definitely going to murder Lily and then Harry and had already killed James. He only didn't because Lily inadvertently proved herself worthy of life by passing Tom's competency test.

I mean, Barty's right about Dumbledore. Man is either dumb or has his head too far up his own ass to see that the prophecy is not the greatest plan.

Let's just not jump on the Death Eater bandwagon. Barty is just a REALLY good actor.

The Man Who Would Be King by me and @therealvinelle

... Yeah

[tg-headcanons]

Comrade bestie, do you have any eto/hori headcanons?

WAIT HOLD ON EVERYBODY SHUT THE FUCK UP I LOVE THIS

I can imagine them meeting at a book signing, Chie is there as a photographer, and Eto can’t help but notice that she REEKS of ghoul. Well not normal ghoul smell, something fruity and sick smelling and (because she doesn’t know that that’s just what Tsukiyama’s inbred self smells like) is intrigued by her

Eto offers to take her to lunch, claiming to be exhausted from a day of signings and interviews and wanting some calm company, and Chie agrees. Free food is the way to her heart. She’s like the fae, offer her some cream or something and she will listen to your troubles. They get to talking, Eto mostly rambling about surface level stuff a human wouldn’t be suspicious about, but every so often inserting something to test her. It’s weird, she doesn’t react to things that a human who understands that it’s a euphemism for ghoul stuff should, but seems to understand it somehow. Hell, she even averts her eyes and hunches at the right times a ghoul would in a conversation. She clearly knows how to interact with ghouls and is doing it now. Still interested in her, she asks if she can have her number for “future business inquiries,” and Chie gives it to her, then loudly says something about how she’s gonna be pissed if she’s luring her somewhere to be eaten but she’s down to photograph whatever, then left, leaving the most powerful kakuja in Japan dumbfounded

She became obsessed. A human knee what she was, and she’s still alive, not even being hunted. Did she not call the CCG? Was she really as nonchalant about sitting across the table from a ghoul for an hour? What is wrong with her? She calls her eventually to invite her to photograph something, and is even more surprised to see that she showed up to the dingy ass warehouse she invited her to. All Chie did was ask what she wanted pictures of, and Eto, ever the showman, took out her kagune, little by little growing mare and more of her kakuja around her as she questions her on the nature of ghouls and humans, waxing poetic and gruesome as she often does to tease her victims, but the girl just took pictures, even telling Eto to move a large spike up for a better visual effect

Eto can handle a lot, she can twist life and death like it’s nothing, she can cause destruction and survive what would kill others, but apparently, she is completely short circuited by a stupid, tiny human calling the abject monstrosity that makes her outcast from humans and ghouls alike beautiful

She did not kill Hori. She kept her number.

Despite knowing how stupid it is to let a human go running around knowing her name and face, she kept coming back to her. She kept taking her to dinner and asking her why she is the way she is, and Chie answered. She talks like this is all normal despite not having to force herself to be okay with it like ghouls do, she’s honest the way humans never are, when she says that she likes the way Eto looks in her kakuja she actually believes it. Eto never tells anyone about her, and all of Aogiri is too afraid of her to question where she goes, so no one asks where she is when she goes to visit the human woman

Chie loves having someone who understands having an obsession that bleeds into all parts of life and compliments her photographs, Eto loves having someone to talk to and want her. Chie has no stake in the war, Eto has nothing to gain from lying to Chie, both of them know they love one another for their presence rather than anything they can get from them, and when they have romantic feelings for one another it feels natural

It’s an open relationship that works surprisingly well and both are happy with. Chie is sex repulsed and not one to be jealous of an activity she wants nothing to do with, and Eto’s idea of sex is completely detached from romance and would honestly kill a human. Plus the Aogiri members knowing that she’s still on her horny bullshit keeps them from suspecting she has a lover. But the poor idiots dumb enough to think they’d get out with all their limbs after sleeping with her mean nothing, and she always looks forward to going back to her human

Chie has already been friends with Shuu for awhile, so she knows what to expect and what is normal for ghouls. She’s always quick to cuddle her girlfriend when she comes home since she knows it will help her relax, she knows how to rub her shoulders without putting pressure on the overly tender kakuhou, and she knows how much it means when she starts purring around her

The Takatsuki Sen social media accounts have suddenly been getting much better pictures, and right around the time her new book with a photographer protagonist was released who, despite her usual brutal writing, got a surprisingly happy ending

You think you’ve seen protective? Well you haven’t seen Eto. If someone so much as looks at Chie wrong they show up on the news as a ghoul hunting victim. When they’re together she’s making sure no danger befalls her, that she’s happy and warm, and is rubbing up against her to make sure her scent never fades. Oh You should have seen the look on Shuu’s face his friend visited him absolutely reeking of kakuja

When ghouls are decriminalized, they’re finally able to be open about their relationship, and there isn’t a person on earth who wasn’t taken aback. What is Chie doing with a monster like that? What is Eto doing with photography student Peppermint Patty? No one knows how the fuck this happened, but now Takatsuki Sen’s social media has very artfully done photos of her with her kagune out and Chie convinced her to let her ride her kakuja form to work to scare the shit out of her boss

[cloud9in]

The Half of It

A Mc x Poppy fic inspired by the film 

Summary: Bea, the town’s outcast is recruited by the school jock to win Poppy’s heart. But what happens when she starts falling for her as well?

Author’s Note: So this will be a multiple part series that includes scenes heavily inspired from the movie “The Half of It”. I certainly recommend watching it. My version will have different twists and a different ending, and definitely more angst. It will include mature themes as the story progresses.

Warnings for this chapter: Swearing. This is a good thing for now.

Chapter 1- 

“Love is simply the name for desire and pursuit of the whole.”

                                                   - Plato, The Symposium

It is said that when one half finds its other, there’s an unspoken understanding. A unity. And each would know no greater joy....than this. 

 ...Except this is highschool. And in my opinion, there is no other half. Maybe the other half is a paper on Greek God philosophy due at midnight. But make that four papers, including mine. 

 My name is Bea Hughes and let’s just say...this is not a very happy story. Well maybe some parts are, but you’ll have to read to find out. I come from a small town called Farmsville, and when I mean small, I mean really small. Except the highschool seems fucking huge, with never ending hallways and when you do somehow find the end, there’s usually two inbreds eating each others mouths off. Lucky for me I am the epitome of antisocial, reserved, an introvert, or whatever the inferior beings, aka every other senior, calls me when they think I can’t hear. But I hear everything, including that one time Bradley Denbrough, upcoming hotshot actor, or so he claims, found out about a crush a poor unsuspecting freshman had on him. Everybody knew what Bradley and his goons did to that boy, even the adults, but no charges were pressed. This town is as conservative as it gets, but no one knows of my secret. I carry this school on my back when it comes to having everyone graduate, but that’s all I am to them, a pawn. And that’s all I wanted to be, nothing more and nothing less. I preferred to be in the shadows. 

 ***

 ...Except the mandatory Senior Talent Show forced Bea out of her hibernation hole. The thought haunted her as she sat in the dance studio, the last fucking place she wanted to be. Dance was so not a Bea kinda thing, but the blonde knew exactly why she granted herself the misery of picking the class. Poppy Min Sinclair, the golden girl of Farmsville High, the preacher’s daughter on a more serious note. She is...the most fascinating girl Bea ever laid her eyes on even if her boyfriend was a complete asshole who sermonized his duties as her future husband. Like seriously? Poppy has got to have some screws loose to date such a fake loser who plagiarizes all of his speeches at sunday church, and once literally begged Bea to write an apology letter to his father for him after completely upending their summer cabin. Except the blonde wrote the opposite of an apology, it went something like this…

 Dear beloved donkey, I mean dad,

 I am terribly sorry for inviting 20 hookers to the summer cabin. I have these strange impulses and you should at least be grateful I didn’t invite the big boss as well. His wife came though, in many, many ways. You should get the carpet changed. 

 Sincerely, your STD free son

 It was safe to say that Mr. Denbrough had a near heart attack after reading it, and Bea did kinda feel bad, kinda. He never mentioned the letter to Bradley though, instead silently calling up the owner of Teopoli Catholic Summer Camp and essentially deporting the boy to Canada for the summer. No son of his would end up in hell was what the old man preached everyday from then on. It was the quietest summer Bea had ever experienced. 

 Being the towns outcast, Bea could have her fun when she so chooses to, but that didn’t pay the bills. In fact, the multiple essays that people paid her to write was her way of surviving and taking care of her mother. They weren’t very rich but Bea worked with what she had, helping her mother manage the farm, which included getting on her knees and wrestling the pigs. And that’s how she was gifted the name “pig girl”, stupid Bradley and his fake friends just had to wander too far and catch Bea in the act. She swore a remixed video of her hog calling surfaced the web at one point and that gave the blonde her five minutes of fame. Boy was it an awful time in her life. 

 Bea worked her mother’s previous job as station master or signalman for the trains that passed through, even if it barely paid her shit. The secluded feeling of sitting in that booth and having a moment with her thoughts was enough to give her purpose. Bea was fond of poetry and it usually helped her come up with song lyrics.

 Song lyrics…

 That she would have to sing at the talent show. A huge sigh escaped her lips as she slumped further into the ground, maybe hoping she could bury herself six feet under. It wasn’t that Bea hated singing, no she absolutely loved it. Playing her guitar at night and belting out lyrics that only resulted in her mother banging on the ceiling below in efforts to shut the blonde up. But the mere fact that she’d have to sing in front of the ruthless seniors rubbed her the wrong way. Something would go wrong, it always did. Bea was shaken out of her thoughts when Poppy crossed the center of the room, moving her hips slowly to the sound of Rihanna’s voice. The class chose a slow r&b song to choreograph today and of course all eyes were on Poppy.

 If i’m your girl say my name boy

let me know i'm in control

 Her silky blonde locks swayed as she danced to the beat, hands thrusting sensually along her sides. Bea stared in awe, almost like Poppy was the only one in the room and a spotlight illuminated every movement, every curve. Except she definitely wasn’t the only one picturing Poppy in that way. Carter, the school quarterback leaned against the railing, arms crossed and eyes trailing the rise and fall of her chest. 

 Got me wondering, I’m wondering if i'm on your mind

 Bea sat up straighter but nearly lost her bodily functions when Poppy locked eyes with her before spinning away. It was simple eye contact Bea, don’t let it get to your head. You already have multiple lyrics inspired by Poppy offering the bare minimum in human interaction. She doesn’t actually like you. Poppy is popular and has the perfect life...and boyfriend, even if Bea heavily disagrees. Poppy was a bitch of course, but not a bitch bitch. Unlike the other wannabe mean girls, the blonde didn’t give Bea hell, well that was because the girl paid her zero attention. She seemed distant, off in her own world, or well in her parents world learning the strategies of business. Poppy was expected to follow in her parents footsteps and keep up with her reputation of being the richest in town, and of course a faithful future wife. So fun. But the blonde had other prosperous dreams of travelling and following her passion of music and dance. Highschool was her only outlet and she took advantage of it any chance she’d get. Bea knew this because she would ride her bike every friday night to the school and watch Poppy dance from outside the glass window. Maybe Bea realized it was kinda creepy, but she’s dumb enough to not realize her obvious growing attraction. I mean who pedals miles just to watch someone trip on their feet? 

 ***

 The sound of the bell caught everyone's attention and the teacher slowly lowered the music. Bea watched as Bradley approached Poppy and smothered her with kisses and praises. She rolled her eyes painfully, this kind of PDA definitely wasn’t it, she could have gone her whole life without seeing that. She walked silently through the crowd of kids in the hall, everyone was laughing and talking to their friends. All Bea could allow her mind to focus on was the very intimidating billboard of names a few feet across from her. 

 Winter Talent Show Sign-Ups (Mandatory For Seniors)

 Bea glared at it quietly before signing her name on the sheet, sealing her inevitable fate. Through the hustle of students, Carter watched the blonde with a yearning look from afar. This should be great…

 The next few classes were a blur and Bea eventually found herself getting up to hand Ms. Kingsley her paper. The older woman looked at her with a knowing glance as she took a generous sip of her coffee, which was 75% tequila.

 “6 different interpretations on Plato? Colour me impressed Miss Hughes.” 

 Bea shrugs nonchalant, “yeah well would you rather read their actual essays?”

 “Oh hell no.” Kingsley feigns shock as she looks at the stack of papers with a comical expression. She takes another sip, watching her younger, prodigy of a student carefully. “You know there are places outside of this godforsaken town where you can put your talents to use... Real use. I teach at Belvoire University occasionally.” Ina winks and slides Bea an application, studying her initial reaction. “It’s...in New York.”

“Damn right! The Big Apple.”

 “Kingsley you know I have to stay here. It’ll be easier for me to manage the farm and be close to home”, Bea says confidently even though her body language displays otherwise. She predicted the big sigh filling her ears before it actually happened and it still managed to faze her. “Who ever said you had to do anything? What about what you want to do?” Bea doesn’t make eye contact with Ina, that woman could convince you to do just about anything with a certain look. “No we are not doing this. You can take your reverse psychology and shove it where the sun doesn’t shine. I’m outta here.” The blonde stomps out of the classroom, the sound of Ina’s chuckles still ringing in her ears.

 “Hey! Everyone in this town fears God, but you know what God fears? My ability to hide a bottle of Don Julio in my left boot.” Ina pulls out the newly bought bottle and cradles it. “Come to mama.”

 ***

 Bea rode her bike alongside the dirt road, Kingsley’s words on replay the entire ride. Maybe she did deserve to experience something more than what this town had to offer. But would her mother manage without her? Sacrifices, sacrifices. Bea was used to making those for her mother after her father’s death. What would her dad think of all of this?

 “Hey!”

 He’d surely smack Bea upside the head for the little antics she pulled occasionally. And then he’d buy her vanilla coconut ice cream and ask for every single detail of what happened as they sat and laughed together. That’s the kind of relationship Bea would have had with her father, she liked to assume so. She also liked to assume that she’d get home safely everyday without a scratch, but then there’s Carter.

 “Hey wait up!” 

 The jock seemed to be running ridiculously fast and crashed right into the rear end of Bea’s bicycle, sending her face first into a mount of dirt. The initial impact was enough to boost the blonde straight back up like nothing happened and into a fighting stance, fists out and eyes wild. Very scary Bea. When she realized it was him...well it only pissed her off even more. “What the fuck Carter! You asshole!”

 “I’m sorry Bea! Here let me help-”

 “No! Move away! You- my bike- I…” Bea groans frustratingly, stepping away from the wreck as she tries to catch her breath. Carter watches her sheepishly, rubbing an envelope between his fingers awkwardly. After a few minutes of painfully uneasy silence he speaks up, “Okay...I didn’t want to ask you this way but I was wonder-”

“Oh, so you practically break my ass and now you want me to do you a favour? Real nice way of communication you have there Mr. Quarterback. What is with you and those freakishly large muscles anyways? Maybe it’s my fault I didn’t hear your avalanche built ass coming from behind.”

 “Hey! They are not freakishly large!”

 “I hate to break it to you Jackson but mine are significantly more appealing to look at.” Bea smirks widely, flexing her arm as best as she could. It’s a work in progress… just bare with her.

 It didn’t take much effort for Carter to break out into a smile and look at her fondly. Maybe there was more to this girl than just being a human dictionary. Well that’s what people called her, and he maybe believed it at first.

 Bea noticed the lack of response and shifted awkwardly, clearing her throat. “Listen, its $10 for three pages, $20 for three to ten, I'm not in the over-ten-page biz.”

 “No..no I’m not here to cheat!” Carter blurts out. “But I’ll let you know if I do plan on- anyways. I uh..” He hesitates before handing her the envelope. “What’s this?

 “Well you see it’s a letter..”

 “Yeah but who writes letters these days?”

 “I thought it seemed romantic..”

 “And I thought women writing Jeffrey Dahmer letters in jail seemed romantic”, Bea says sarcastically, her smile dropping instantly after catching a glimpse of Poppy’s name at the top of the paper. It was like the blood stopped flowing through her body for a few seconds as her mouth went dry. This had to be the work of the so-called God everyone praised in this town, or it was one cruel coincidence. Bea wasn’t sure why seeing her name made her heart beat ten times harder, but it also wasn’t a necessarily uncomfortable feeling…

 “I- I can’t help you.”

 “But if you just add a few more words-”

 “I’m not writing a letter to Poppy Min Sincla- to..to some girl for you. Letters are supposed to be authentic, from the heart, your own words, your...feelings.” Bea hurriedly turns to grab her bike, suddenly losing all interest in being social. 

 Carter was afraid this would happen. But he was stubborn. “But I can pay more for authentic!” 

 Too bad Bea was stubborn as well. “Just get a thesaurus...Good luck, Romeo.”

***

 Bea sat in her room, strumming away softly at the strings of her guitar. Some of the keys were off but the old thing still worked, and that was good enough for her. She could hear the tv blasting downstairs, her mother most likely watching the news. There’s something about old people and news, were they secretly ogling the news anchors? Just like Bea ogled Poppy any chance she could. The blonde frowned to herself, her eyebrows crunching together in question. What so hard about writing a letter to Poppy? It’s not like it's coming from her. Well it technically is, but Carter is taking the credit and Bea never had a problem with people taking credit for her words. So why did this very thought prove to be such an inconvenience? Lucky for Bea, her mind drifted elsewhere when she heard a painful snap. Even if it wasn’t physically connected to her body, she felt a horrible ache. Slowly peering down at the guitar in her hand, Bea found that the neck of the guitar had miraculously split almost clean off, a splinter of wood just holding it intact. She wanted to scream but nothing really came out, except air of course. Much to her disapproval, this was definitely a result of her strength. Stupid muscles couldn’t contain themselves at the thought of Carter being with Poppy. Now how could that be? 

 But now she had no guitar. And no guitar means no strings to strum, and no lyrics to sing, and no talent to show at the talent show. Now she was in trouble. Probably because she knew that the only way to get the money to replace the guitar would be through sealing the deal with Carter. Oh fuck it!

 ***

 “One letter. And enough money to buy a new guitar.”

 “Deal!”

 Bea turns away with a sigh, completely ignoring Carter’s high five. Now all she had to do was write this letter, and pray that Poppy wouldn’t completely consume every fiber of her being in the process.

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

End note: So how we feelin��? Carter and Bea Brotp??

Tags: @samanthadalton @somewillwin @clowneryme @baexpoppy @zigxryanz @uselesslesbianfr @aleiramacaii @thedaft1 @alexlabhont @iamsimpforpoppy

[justslowdown]

2 possibly dumb questions! 1st, why would Ms Chops breeder care about you using her for mixes after he has his show line? I've noticed mentions of owners of male dogs reluctant to let them breed mixes too. Is it just a Show Dog thing? 2nd, isn't a papillon like the size of a chihuahua

Not dumb! Yeah, we genuinely did not think it would be possible to be able to find a breeder willing to sell a show bred buhund to people who breed crosses, let alone consider allowing us to use her herself for that

It's a struggle to find show bred stud owners open to letting us use them. Often (I know several people who've had to do this) you can only disclose the name of the dog and breeder to actual puppy buyers, not the general public

Sport people can be a little more receptive, because sport bred mixes are a common thing. Generally only OK with it if the dogs involve y'know, do sports, they don't tend to see companionship as a good reason to breed. Working folks tend to be the most practical about it but I've still talked to working Scotch collie folks (a breed that allows outcrossing!) who basically laughed me out of the room, and English shepherd breeders who were insulted. In general a lot of working ppl are like "if it works it works, breed isn't key" tho

I think there are a lot of reasons for how hard the process is. In purebred dog culture the predictability of a pure breed is one of the main reasons to breed dogs. There's also this concept that breeding "to better the breed" or somehow improve the population is the only ethical way to do it. A lot of people seem to think when I ask about crossing their dogs with other breeds, I'm saying their dogs aren't good enough? Like, that I'm trying to improve them? When personally I'm trying to say "hey, I really love what you're doing, I'm not a purebred [x] breed person but it would be great to get your genetics into my program."

Then there's just weird eugenicist nonsense. That's literally how kennel clubs started and it isn't very thinly veiled. Purity and "untainted bloodlines" are worshipped. Not ALL show people but a lot of them... I've seen some things said that really turned my stomach.

And lastly there are lots of folks who privately are interested in my hobby farm dogs and the companion bred ones, but can't be open about their support. Because if they do, all the people mentioned above will gossip and their reputation within the breed community will be damaged. You should have seen how downright vicious and cruel the Saluki community was to a friend who was planning a lurcher mix litter with his. So even if people are ok with crossing, they usually keep quiet.

I'm sure there's plenty more reasons. But yeah, in general, it's really really difficult to find people who are willing to help with this kind of thing. It took four yrs or so to network enough get a well bred dog like Kiwi. People are already picky about breeding rights (being allowed to breed the dog) let alone with all this crossbreeding complication. Essentially the breeder is putting their own reputation on the line to trust you!

And then there was Lambchop. Her breeder was skeptical about my spitz-collies but I think meeting Kiwi and hearing about the farm helped a lot. He still wasn't too on board, but basically said that after he got his show bred litter back (she's a co-own) what we do after is our business. He doesn't want to be involved but it's ok. However... Pip and I aren't sure what the US buhund community in particular thinks about crossing. We're concerned his reputation will be affected if people know he agreed to it. He's doing us a solid selling such a promising show dog to beginners, and agreeing that her offspring can be used for all the mixing we want. Personally I'd like to breed her to a collie-type but we'll just see how it goes. We need to talk to more people In the Breed to make sure we aren't sabotaging Lambchop's breeder by doing that

WOW THAT WAS LONG sorry!!!!! It's just a big topic and one that affects me like. Daily

For the second question. Yeah 😂 they're little. I'd never ever want to raise purebreds, I'd be so scared of how fragile they are! But there's precedent. Border collie/papillons are a big thing in the sport mix world right now so I asked for feedback on the kind of size range to expect in puppies. Kestrel is 38 lb as well (smaller than she looks in pics):

The stud we're using has a litter with a low-30-something lb girl right now, so it will be interesting to see how they mature.

I like the idea of a more biddable, handler focused 20 lb Kestrel! From the feedback I've gotten about what I thought was just a wild idea, a lot of other people want that too. A pomsky type with a better coat, less spitz 'tude. More trainable and calm (paps aren't known for calmness but the sire is extremely mellow yet biddable). Better temperament and less inbred than a Klee Kai. And actually health tested and not $2.5k lmfao

[dailydianakko]

Diana's 95 Theses On Why Harry Potter is Lame

Sometimes, we write cracky drabbles instead of writing what we are supposed to be doing. Anyway here is a crossover for y’all.

Diana heaved a sigh as she looked through the stack of paperwork that Headmistress Holbrooke had given her. After the missile crisis, Luna Nova had received a startling number of reports about rogue wizards roaming about and performing memory magic. Due to the actions of those crackpot wizards, Diana had the displeasure of cataloging and receiving all the letters on behalf of the Headmistress. The joys of being a teacher’s pet and a prefect, she supposed. As Diana skimmed through the pages of the first letter, her brain connected the dots as to the identity of the perpetrators.

It was probably that crackpot cult that called themselves the “Wizamagont” or some other clever play on words revolving around magic. Like the Amish, they secluded themselves from the rest of magical and mundane society. They were also absolutely convinced that magic was a secret art, and were even more backward than Luna Nova during its pre-Akko days. 

They were a strange group that still practiced slavery of the fae, and it’s graduates could only do the most basic of spells. There was a reason why most of the students who graduated stayed trapped in that ‘secret’ society’s clutches. They were too under qualified to work anywhere else. Even the castle that they somehow obtained to teach children with was a trap. Being parked next to an offshoot of the Arcturus Forest did tend to cut down on the number of students who made it back home alive. Did they not understand some things were abandoned for a reason? 

Diana had occasionally talked to those who escaped the cult once or twice at magical gatherings. The escapees were usually runaways who had been born in mundane families. They often lacked a basic education outside of the paltry parlour tricks that Hogwarts taught. “It’s almost as if they recruited impressionable children into their ranks just so that they could feel more superior about being inbred…” Diana mused to herself sarcastically. Thank god Akko had never received a letter from them. Diana wouldn’t hesitate to burn down the whole school should they even attempt to recruit her. Their infatuation with Shiny Chariot had probably saved them both.

She massaged her temples with one hand and  tried to stave off the oncoming headache. Trying not to scream in frustration, she shuffled the letters around. If these idiots could stop targeting the political leaders who had seen the footage of the missile crisis; then maybe Diana could actually plan fun things to do with Akko during senior year. Feeling her nerves frazzle even more, Diana reached over her desk and took a sip of her tea. It was still warm, thankfully. She let herself get lost in the flavor of the mellow fruity undertones. Calmed enough to proceed, Diana placed her teacup back on it’s saucer and once more delved into the reports.

As she scanned the pages, her eyes fell across one of the more ‘secret’ spells that the wizards apparently employed. Diana snorted and rolled her eyes. “Anamagius. They don’t even know a basic metapmorphie spell.” She pinched the bridge of her nose. If she got this done, she could go to the magic cafe with her friends this evening. She could do this. Stomping down the frustration once more, she read on.

When an owl tapped on her window with a message in its claws, Diana was ready to recite the entire hail mary.

“Headmistress Holbrooke, We cordially invite your school to participate in the TriWizard Tournament…Oh bollocks.” Diana muttered. It looks like Akko was going to have a field day terrorizing other schools. At least it wouldn’t be the destruction of Luna Nova property this time. 

[flamehairedwritings]

The Fire In Your Eyes: Chapter Eight

Characters: Arthur Morgan x Original Female Character

Rating: The whole series will be E, 18+ ONLY for violence, gore, character deaths, animal deaths, parent deaths, swearing, grief, sexual themes and unprotected sex.

Summary: Saved by Arthur Morgan when her town is attacked, a young woman’s past comes back to haunt her when she has no choice but to join the Van der Linde Gang.

Read on AO3

The Fire In Your Eyes Masterlist

Please don’t copy, steal or re-post my work; credit does not count.

An American Welcome

Clicking his tongue, he urged Ophelia into a gallop, eager to put some distance between him and the town. He rode north, knowing Bill would head wherever he thought was appropriate to bury the boy and Micah would ride back to camp... and tell everyone what had happened.

This might just break Ada.

It was the first thought that came to his head as he finally began to process, and he immediately wanted it out of his mind. After all she’d been through, past and present, what would this do to her now? Christ, she’d even said he reminded her of her brother and now he, too, was gone.

Arthur slowed Ophelia to a canter as they began to pass wide, open fields. A few minutes later, he slowed her to a walk.

He was being a coward and he knew it, putting off the inevitable.

But, selfishly, he was thinking of himself, of what he could do to help her, of what he could say. He wasn’t good at comforting people and God knew she would need that. What if she turned him away again, like she had when she’d first arrived? It wasn’t good for someone with her history to be left alone, not when another tragedy struck. He shouldn’t have left her that first time, but what would he have said?

She’s got no one to make her laugh now.

As he turned east and took the familiar paths back to camp, Arthur tried to rid himself of the sinking feeling in his chest. He knew grief, knew it all too well, but he couldn’t let it get to him now. He would, somehow, have to be there for Ada and whatever was going to come the camp’s way next.

There was no one on guard duty as he came into camp from the north path but he wasn’t too surprised. They were probably mourning Sean as Micah relayed the story, lying through his teeth about how upset he was.

Arthur decided to hold onto the anger the boy’s death had provoked rather than the sadness. Anger was easier to deal with, more proactive.

Dismounting near a post and patting Ophelia’s neck, his head lifted as he heard raised voices near Dutch’s tent.

“... down. Everybody just relax. We are doing all we can.”

Frowning, Arthur began to move towards the small group that consisted of Dutch, Kieran, Molly and Trelawney. Dutch lifted his head and when his eyes fell upon Arthur he suddenly strode towards him, brushing past Kieran who looked distraught.

“Arthur, have you seen the boy, Jack?” He was the most rattled Arthur had seen him in a long time.

Arthur’s stomach twisted as he searched his features. “No, wh—”

“Where’s my God damn son?!”

Both men turned to see Abigail advancing towards them, her features thunderous. Ada followed close behind her, a Repeater gripped in one hand. Arthur glanced between the two of them, catching Ada’s eye. Her lips parted slightly, and he saw the fire in her eyes.

“Where is he?! Where’s my son?!” Abigail demanded as she came to a halt right in front of Dutch, her fists clenched.

Oh dear God...

“They took him, didn’t they?” Abigail’s voice shook as she spoke. “They took my son!”

“Who took him?” Arthur asked, trying to meet her gaze, his heart starting to beat faster.

Not little Jack...

“We think the Braithwaite woman took him,” Hosea called as he approached, as frantic as they all were. “That Kieran saw a couple of fellers, sound like Braithwaite boys.”

Abigail released a pained sound as she pressed a hand against her chest, and Ada settled her hand on her back as she demanded again, “Where’s my son?! If anything— Where is my son, Dutch van der Linde?!”

Dutch turned to her, fixing his eyes on her, and Ada had never seen him so serious.

“We will find him, we will bring him back to you and we will kill any fool that had the temerity to touch one hair on the boy’s head! Abigail, you have my word.”

Ada felt someone appear beside her and glancing up she saw John Marston, his obvious rage rivalling Abigail’s.

“Just get me back my son!” Abigail ordered through gritted teeth.

“I will get that boy back, so help me God, right now!” Dutch promised, and he, Arthur and John were already turning away.

As they began to stride towards their horses, Bill’s voice suddenly called out, Charles, Lenny and Javier behind him, “Dutch, we just heard about Jack! You need some extra guns?”

Ada lifted her head and looked to him, then Abigail. “We’ll get him back,” she murmured gently, before moving towards the men as the other women neared, Susan gathering Abigail into her arms as she finally released a sob.

“Yes, I do,” Dutch answered lowly, continuing towards his horse without looking at them.

Ada met Sadie’s gaze, and both women headed for their horses.

“Micah, Kieran, anyone strange turns up, you kill ‘em! Rest of you, let’s ride!”

The men, Sadie and Ada mounted their horses and one after the other followed Dutch out of the camp.

Ada could feel her heart pounding in her chest, every kind of scenario running through her mind of what could have happened.

They’ve just done this to scare them, she told herself.

From what she’d found out about this business they had with the Braithwaite’s, it wouldn’t have surprised her if they’d finally caught on.

But to have a child pay for the sins?

“Let’s go get that boy back!” Dutch called as they all began to canter, some falling in beside each other.

"They must’ve figured out what we was up to, Dutch,” she heard Hosea call from a little further up in the formation.

“Yeah, we just got shot to hell by the Grays in town,” Arthur added, his voice coming from behind.

She glanced back at him, her gaze sweeping over him, assessing.

“I know, I heard,” Dutch answered, “About Sean, too. I don’t wanna even think about that right now.”

Ada stiffened and her eyes rose to meet his.

She doesn’t know.

Arthur opened his mouth, but then she turned and looked ahead.

Oh, God...

“We have to focus on Jack,” Dutch continued.

“I swear, I’ll kill everyone there.”

“Easy, John, try to stay calm,” Dutch called to the younger man.

“I’m fine.”

Ada stopped listening. She gripped the reins so tightly her knuckles were white.

She could see from the corner of her eye Arthur had moved up to ride beside her as they turned onto a wider path but she kept her gaze ahead, Dutch’s voice ringing in her head.

Focus on Jack, focus on Jack, focus on Jack...

The chant continued on and on in her mind as they rode. Soon, lights appeared in the falling darkness of the distance as they turned onto a long stretch of road, and she saw a large house looming ahead.

Braithwaite Manor.

“Okay, get your heads right. Nobody makes a move until I say so,” Dutch ordered.

Slowing their horses as they neared a brick archway, Dutch then called out, “All right, everyone, dismount and come to me. We’ll go in on foot from here.”

Ada pulled up beside Charles and dismounted swiftly, drawing her Repeater from Faithful’s saddle. Sadie joined her at her side as they moved towards Dutch.

“First Sean, now Jack. We should have stayed out of all of this,” Lenny murmured.

“Bit late for that, ain’t it?” Bill muttered.

“Quiet, we’re going to fix this right now,” Dutch silenced them. “Come on, let’s get this done.”

He then gripped John’s shoulder as the younger man made to pass him. “John, you sure you’re okay?”

His mouth was set in a grim line. “Like I said, I’m fine.”

Dutch nodded, and drew his revolver, his jaw set. “Follow my lead.”

Everyone drew or adjusted the grip on their guns as Dutch led them down towards the Manor.

“Both these redneck families think they can ruin us? I don’t think so... Who steals a God damn boy,” Dutch muttered.

“There they are,” Hosea warned as they neared the house, and Ada saw men step out onto the porch, guns in their hands.

“I’m gonna let fly at those sons of bitches,” John hissed.

“John, I need you to stay calm.”

John didn’t answer Dutch, his gaze fixed ahead.

“Get down here now!” Dutch suddenly yelled out. “You inbred trash!”

“What the hell do you want?” a man called from the porch.

Dutch glanced back and gestured at them all to halt.

“Easy, John...” Hosea murmured, catching him by the arm as he made to continue moving forward.

Taking a few steps forward, Dutch answered, “We’ve come for the boy. You must’ve known we would.”

“Shouldn’t have messed with our business now, should you?”

The man speaking and two others moved down from the porch, only a few feet between them and Dutch.

Dutch inhaled a breath, steadying himself.

“Whatever complaint you have with us, alleged or otherwise... That is a young boy. That is not the way you do things. Hand him over.”

“Get the hell off our land.”

Doors up on the balcony opened and more men appeared, there and on the porch.

Ada’s gaze darted between them all, and she could feel every one in the gang just as tense as she was.

Waiting.

Dutch’s voice was low and calm when he finally spoke.

“If you ain’t gonna be civilised about this...”

He raised his guns.

Everyone fired in the same moment.

Racing for a nearby tree, she dove behind it, gasping out a breath as bullets rained down. It was shoot or be shot at so, raising her gun, she fired at the men that spilled out onto the balcony on the first floor of the manor. 

They took Jack, was all she thought, was all that rolled around in her mind.

Both sides yelled at each other, gunfire drowning out whatever curses they spat. As she reloaded, pulling bullets from the pockets of the trousers Sadie had given her, she watched Dutch, John, Arthur and Charles advance towards the front doors, the other men giving them cover. A well oiled machine.

“Annie!”

Her head whipping to the left at Sadie’s shout, she saw her beckon her and point towards the fields; men were running between the produce and trees, firing at them.

“Come on!”

Without thinking, she followed after Sadie, running and standing behind an apple tree close to the other woman. Her gaze darting between the men, she counted them.

Sixteen.

“Sadie, we can’t take them all on!”

“Can’t we?”

Glancing at her, she caught Sadie’s grin.

“Christ Almighty...” Ada muttered through gritted teeth as she and her friend began to fire at the advancing men, sending them diving for the nearest cover.

“How do you like that, you bastards?!” Sadie yelled over the cacophony of sounds.

Ada just aimed, shot, aimed, shot, aimed, shot, pausing only to reload. It wasn’t until one, solitary man tried to run to new cover that she realised, yeah, they could. With Sadie’s bullet finding its mark, all sixteen men were dead, their blood seeping into the earth. Blowing out a breath, Ada glanced over at Sadie.

“Well, that was—”

“Annie!”

Before Ada could react, she felt a solid force barrel into her, knocking her and her gun to the ground. Her head rattled as her teeth clamped together with the motion, narrowly avoiding her tongue. Groaning as she hit the dirt, her eyes snapped up to see a man snarling at her, a Revolver in his hands. Half-twisted on her side, her nearest hand shot out, shoving the gun to the side as he pulled the trigger. Gasping as a bullet buried into the ground beside her head, she used his shock to shove her body up and over, pinning him beneath her. 

She could hear Sadie cursing, trying to find an opening to take a shot as she and the man grappled, fumbling with the gun he clung to. He was probably no taller than her but strong, making her hiss through her teeth as he tried to bend her hands away. One of his hands suddenly left their scrambling and she thought she had the advantage, when his fist drove into her stomach. Gasping for breath as he rolled them over again, she had to swiftly block his next oncoming punch to her face. Undeterred, he aimed the gun again and she stared into the barrel.

A boot invaded her view, kicking the gun aside and she seized the opportunity. Thrusting her leg up, she reached into her boot, withdrew the knife Sean had gifted her and thrust it into the man’s heart. His eyes widened as he choked on his last few breaths, before he went slack and slumped forward. Shoving him aside, Ada sucked in a breath, her chest heaving. Shaking from adrenaline or fear she didn’t know, most likely both, she looked up, watching Sadie pick the Revolver up and pocket it.

“Thanks for that,” she gasped.

“If you hadn’t’ve been rollin’ around like pigs in the mud I could’ve ended it sooner,” Sadie answered, arching an eyebrow as she smiled.

Giving a much needed if slightly shaking laugh, Ada took her offered hand and let her pull her up to her feet. 

“You all right?” Sadie asked, rubbing her back gently as the auburn-haired woman brushed the dust from her trousers.  

“Yeah.” She straightened after wiping her knife clean on the leather material of her boot and pushing it back into it, licking her lips. “I think so.”

Sadie dropped her hand, smirking lightly. “Good. Let’s see what else we can do.”

She jogged towards the front of the house as Ada moved to her Repeater, retrieving it from where it had fallen. She could still hear gunfire towards the front of the manor, Sadie now possibly, no, definitely joining in. Checking how many bullets she had left, she took a breath, turned and followed after her. Two wagons filled with men came down the main path and she ducked down beside Javier, firing at them as horses screamed and tried to pull them away. They were handled quickly. Behind her, she could hear shouts and gunfire in the building and a swift glance around told her Dutch, Arthur, Hosea and John were missing, most likely in there.

Sounds to the left distracted her; men coming up from the cabins on the shore. There was only a small group of them, though, and it was almost a relief that, after firing twice, she ran out of bullets, her pockets empty.

I’m going to have to get a gun belt and bandolier, she thought faintly.

The men were finished with in barely a minute, and Ada and Javier shared a look.

Was this all of them?

Glancing over the crate they’d used for cover, she caught Sadie’s eye, who shrugged.

“I think that’s all of them!” Charles called from beyond her, standing.

They all stood, too, still watching the fields and pathways, just in case.

Screaming came from within the manor. All turning, they tightened their hold on their guns but none raised them. It was a feminine scream, without a doubt belonging to the lady of the manor.

Ada had never seen her, of course, but Hosea had described her to her only a few days before. She reminded her of her mother, physically at least.

Moments later, Hosea, John, Arthur and Dutch emerged. Mrs Braithwaite, thin and small in only her nightgown, her grey hair unkempt, was over Dutch’s shoulder, hollering and yelling. Beyond her, the manor was on fire, rapidly being engulfed by hungry flames. Ada could feel the growing heat of it on her face. The gang backed up, forming a close group as Dutch deposited her before them on her side.

She looked up at them all, full of hate and pleas.

“You damn yankee!” she spat at Dutch, snarling.

Hosea stepped forward, standing over her. She’d never seen him so angry, as calm as he sounded. “Why’d you take the boy, Mrs Braithwaite?”

“You stole my liquor—” Mrs Braithwaite began to yell.

“Boys are off limits,” Hosea spoke over her, anger now seeping into the calmness. She could see how this man, who was so gentle and kind to her, had made this life for himself.

“— you stole my horses, ain’t no rules in war, Mr....”

“Matthews,” Hosea helped her.

“Yes...” she hissed, smoke unfurling around her, flowing down the front steps, “... that’s it.” She began to cry.

“Where’s the boy?” Hosea pressed, unfazed.

Ada saw the older woman grit her teeth, and she turned onto her back, looking Hosea full in the face.

“My sons gave him to Angelo Bronte, so my guess is Saint Denis.” She looked to Dutch and revelled in every word. “Either there, or on a boat to Italy!”

Oh my God.

She felt sick.

Hosea turned away instantly, his features thunderous. “Let’s go.”

The rest of the gang moved as he did, returning to their horses, their expressions matching his. Ada went with them but couldn’t quite look away from the sight of the sniffling woman.

“Arthur, come on!” Dutch commanded, turning away.

“What are we doin’ with her?” Arthur asked even as he followed after him.

“Leave her,” Dutch retorted as she pushed herself up to her feet, weeping loudly. 

“I told you she was crazy,” Hosea called from atop his horse.

As they all walked up the main path to their horses, Ada stared over her shoulder, watching, unable to look away, as Mrs Braithwaite stumbled towards her home and into it, disappearing into the smoke and flames that touched the dark sky.

As she looked away, all she could hear was the woman’s cries.

—

It was a fast, quiet ride back to camp. Even Dutch didn’t say anything, or John. Looking over to the latter, she felt her heart tighten at his grim expression. He was going through the unimaginable, he and Abigail both.

This could have been avoided, was all that kept returning to her.

Only when they entered the safety of the camp did Dutch speak.

“Javier, Micah, Lenny take a watch, Hosea, John, Arthur with me, everyone else get some sleep.”

And that was all that was said. No one quite knew what to say, she supposed. There was one thing, though. Something that she’d had to shove to the deepest corners of her mind, something that was now clawing its way to the forefront.

Dismounting, Ada strode towards Arthur.

“What happened to Sean, Arthur?”

He pressed his lips together as he stroked Ophelia’s neck before turning to her, murmuring, “Ada—”

“Just tell me.”

He gazed at her, the obstinate fire still burning in her eyes.

“He didn’t make it,” he murmured after a moment. “Bill buried him somewhere.”

She stared at him, her features unchanging, though her breaths had quickened slightly.

“Where?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ll ask him.”

She made to pass him, her eyes already fixed on Bill, and he gripped her bicep, pulling her to a halt and around to face him.

“Ada, not now,” he implored, keeping his voice low. “He ain’t showin’ it but he’s torn up about it and now with all this with Jack—”

She pulled her arm from his grip and straightened, trying to pass him again. “I need to see him—”

“Ada—”

“I want to see him, Arthur.”

Taking hold of her arm again as she tried to stride away, he glanced around to make sure no one was looking before he led her behind Strauss’ wagon, the older man nowhere to be seen.

“Let go of me, Arthur,” she hissed as he pulled her along, turning her to him a moment after.

“Ada...” He held her by both arms to keep her eyes on his. “He’s dead, Sean is dead.”

She inhaled a sharp breath, trying to keep her voice calm. “I just want to see him, that’s all—”

“He’s dead, Ada, he was shot in the head, he died instantly.”

Her jaw was clenched tightly but he could see her eyes beginning to shine.

“I just, I want, I need to see where he is and then—”

“Ada...” he murmured gently.

She took in a shuddering breath and finally dropped her gaze.

“All right.”

It was so quiet, the way she said it. He watched her, waiting for how her grief would reveal itself. He straightened as she shrugged his hold off.

She opened her mouth then closed it after a few moments.

“Good night, Arthur.”

For the second time, Arthur opened his mouth as Ada turned away. He watched her walk away, silent. 

What else could he do? 

If she hadn’t been trying so hard to keep her composure, Ada would have been grateful that he didn’t call out to her or try to stop her again. Pushing through the flap of her tent, she then came to an abrupt halt at the centre of it, her jaw moving. Her hand swiftly came up to cover her mouth as her eyes closed.

Don’t cry. Don’t let them hear you...

He was shot in the head... he died instantly... he was shot in the head... he was shot in the head...

She didn’t know how or when she ended up on her knees, her face buried in her hands.

He hadn’t deserved that. He hadn’t deserved to end like that.

Or maybe he had. Maybe he had done terrible things that he hadn’t told her about, why would he. Maybe he’d done awful, vile things to other people.

Then again, maybe he hadn’t.

She didn’t know.

Whatever kind of a man he was, he was now dead.

From one day to the next, people here were hurt in one form or another.

It was another cold reminder of the kind of life she was trying to adapt to, that she was trying to make work.

Because what else did she have?

They’d spent all night trying to plan, Arthur, Dutch, Hosea and John.

Should they return to Braithwaite Manor, or what was left of it, and find any other Braithwaite’s to try and get more information? No, that would be too dangerous. Greys would probably be out looking for them, too, or perhaps a miraculous event had happened and they’d partnered with the remaining Braithwaites, just for now.

Should they go out to Saint Denis to find out what they could? Yes, but where to start? Was it wise to leave the camp unguarded after all the mess they’d created? Should they move?

They were, each and every one of them, tired, frustrated and shaken. But what to do?

John was growing ever more impatient and, as the sun rose, Abigail had risen from a restless sleep, her cheeks still wet with tears and her eyes blazing, demanding what they would do next. After no clear answer was given, she stormed away and they let her. John turned on Dutch, his anger keeping his weariness at bay.

“We have to do somethin’, Dutch, and soon.”

“It’s gonna work out, John,” Hosea soothed him. “It’s gonna work out, listen to Dutch.”

Dutch fixed his gaze on the younger man, nodding slightly. “I don’t expect you to understand this, but I have never been more proud of you than I am right now, brother. You’re doin’ the right thing by not rushin’ in to anythin’.”

“If I don’t get that boy back safe, I’m...” John shook his head, his eyes briefly closing. “She... She’ll kill us all.”

“I know, but, lookin’ at this logically? That boy is fine. They took him to scare us. Nobody takes a boy to harm him.”

“He’s right, John,” Hosea added.

“What do you think, Arthur?” Dutch asked, turning to him as he rolled his shoulder.

He nodded, trying not to sound as weary as he felt. “That boy’ll be fine, but of course Marston’s scared rotten. We killed all those people, we stirred up all that trouble...” He scoffed. “For nothin’.”

Dutch’s eyes narrowed a fraction. “No, no, not for nothin’. For livin’. Now we get that boy back, and we go.” He looked to all of them, then. “Trust me.”

“Hey, Dutch!”

Lenny’s call had all of them turning, Arthur straightening and squinting his eyes against the low morning sun.

“We got a problem.”

“Not a problem...”

All the men but Dutch suddenly rose to their feet as two Pinkertons approached, one with a gun resting against his shoulder. Lenny moved close behind them, a gun trained on them. Arthur recognised them immediately; he’d encountered them once before when he’d taken Jack fishing.

Shit.

“... Visitors. A solution.” The agent without the gun smiled at Dutch as the camp began to gather around after hearing Lenny’s call, circling around them, most carrying guns. Only Abigail and Mary-Beth weren’t there.

Arthur rested his hands on his guns as his gaze darted about above their heads, checking the treeline for anymore agents. Nothing... yet.

How the hell did they find us.

As his eyes moved back to the man who spoke, they fell across Ada. She stood beside Sadie, a shawl wrapped around her shoulders, her arms folded, her hair slightly unkempt. She must have just woken. Her eyes were red. She’d been crying, possibly all night. His chest ached.

The agent, his face pockmarked, glanced at them all, his smile lingering. “Good day, fine people, Mr van der Linde...”

Dutch was looking away, still sat down, his thumb and fingers rubbing together.

“... Mr Matthews, I presume,” He nodded at Hosea who didn’t move, before his attention turned to John beside him. “... and who are you?”

“Rip Van Winkle,” John answered blankly, his hand resting on his gun.

“Huh...” He looked him over. “... good day, sir.” He then looked at all of them. “Agent Milton, Pinkerton Detective Agency. Agent Ross,” he finished, gesturing at the other man.

Arthur had begun to move closer, putting himself between them and Dutch, who still hadn’t looked up, his back to them.

“Ah, Mr Morgan, nice to see you again,” Milton smiled.

“And to what do we owe the pleasure, Agent Moron?” Dutch suddenly said, sounding rather weary, his head moving slightly in their direction.

Milton seemed to have waited for this moment. “I don’t know if you’re aware but this... this is a civilised land now. We didn’t kill all them savages only to allow the likes of you to act like human dignity and basic decency was outmoded or not yet invented. This thing...” He gestured around. “... it’s done.”

Dutch rose to his feet. Arthur didn’t take his eyes off of Milton.

“This place...” Dutch began, finally turning to the Pinkerton. “... ain’t no such thing as civilised.” He began to step towards him, Hosea moving with him. “It’s man so in love with greed, he has forgotten himself and found only appetites.”

In her grief, Ada could have laughed.

What a pretty line.

“And as a consequence that let’s you take what you please, kill whom you please and hang the rest of us?” Milton countered incredulously. “Who made you the messiah to these lost souls you’ve led so horribly astray?”

Ada’s stomach twisted. She’d thought almost the same thing the night before.

“I’m nothin’ but a seeker, Mr Milton.”

“You ain’t much of anything more than a killer, Mr van der Linde.” Milton’s voice suddenly rose a little. “But I came to make a deal. It’s time. You come with me, and I give the rest of you three days to run off, disappear and go and live like human beings someplace else.”

Some of them shifted slightly.

Take it.

Ada eyes were fixed on Dutch now.

Take it. Be the benevolent god you’re so desperate to be.

“You came for me?” Dutch actually sounded humorous. “Risked life and limb enterin’ this den of lowlifes and murderers so that they might live and love? Ain’t that fine...”

Quiet laughter arose from some in the group.

Take it.

Milton’s jaw moved. “I don’t wanna kill all these folk, Dutch. Just you.”

Dutch looked at him. Then, he lifted his hands and stepped forward. Her heart stilled.

Oh, my God. Oh, my God, he’s going to do it.

“In that case,” he was saying, “it’d be my honour to join you.”

Her heart was now pounding, staring at him. This was it. This was finally it.

“Excuse me, friends,” Dutch continued lightly, stepping closer to Agent Milton, “I have an appointment to keep with...”

She jumped slightly as the clicking of hammers being drawn back on guns sounded as they were lifted or removed from their holsters by every single person in the group who had one besides her.

She’d been a fool.

“I think your new friend should leave now, Dutch,” Susan said firmly.

Their loyalty to this man was astounding.

Agent Milton seemed to think so, too.

“You’re making a big mistake,” he warned them, staring between them. “All of you.”

Dutch chuckled. “Yeah, dreadful.” Lowering his hands, he smiled. “We have got somethin’, somethin’ to live and die for. How awful for us, Mr Milton.” The smile vanished.  “Stop followin’ us. We’ll be gone soon.”

"I’m afraid I can’t,” Milton retorted, “and when I return I’ll be with fifty men.” He pointed at them all, his voice rising. “All of you will die. Run away from this place, you fools! Run!”

Lenny tutted and stepped forward, grabbing him by the arm. “Come on.”

Milton snatched his arm away, glowering. “Get your damn hands off of me, boy.”

Without another glance at them, Milton turned and strode away, Ross following close behind. Lenny and Javier followed after them at a little distance. They all watched in silence as the men left the camp, lowering their guns only when they were out of sight.

“What now?” Arthur was the one to ask, with a faint sigh.

“We get outta here,” Dutch answered, his voice low, “and quick.” He glanced at Arthur. “Any ideas?”

People stayed where they were, looking to their leaders.

Arthur nodded a few times. “I know a big old house, hidden in the swamps outside Saint Denis. I’m sure they’ll find us eventually but it should buy us a few days.”

“A few days is all we need.”

Lies. More and more lies, and still loyalty.

“It’s a spot out by Shady Belle,” Arthur was continuing, “Lenny and I got into a dispute with the previous occupiers. Place is well hidden.”

Dutch nodded, then looked to John. “You and Arthur ride out and make sure no one else has moved in.” John was already turning away as Dutch added, “And, John, we’ll get Jack back and we’ll get gone.”

John just nodded silently, moving with Arthur to their horses.

“The rest of you,” Dutch shouted, “Get packing!”

Ada turned away.

How could they all be so blindly loyal to this man?

Alone with her thoughts the previous night, she’d wept as silently as she could into her hands and pillow. Grief twisted to anger, then back to grief, then anger again at the cause of all of this, of all the pain that had occurred in her twenty five years of living. It all came back to Dutch. Why had he meddled with these two families? Why, now that a child had been taken, was he still not seeing how delusional he was? Then again, she knew children had no sway over Dutch van der Linde’s decisions. 

She wanted to ask him, so desperately, what had caused him to carry out such a vicious attack on Colm’s, her, family. Did he remember two small children? One black-haired and screaming, the other red-haired and silent? She’d tried to quell the thoughts because what could she do to him? Seeing the gang’s loyalty to him now only confirmed that they would all turn on her in a moment if she tried anything at all or even revealed herself.

Ada moved automatically as everyone else did, knowing what they had to do, familiar with the routine. It wasn’t until she was in her tent that she realised she had nothing to pack. All she had was the clothes she was wearing and an extra skirt and blouse. The blouse Sean had stolen for her. And the knife he had given her. She had nothing else.

‘How many rocks have you got there, darlin’?’

‘Ten!’

‘Ten! Goodness, that’s a lot. Where are ya gonna put them?’

‘In my bed.’

‘In your bed?’

‘Yeah, so they can keep warm.’

‘I don’t think your Ma’s gonna like that.’

‘She doesn’t have to know, Daddy,’

‘You’re most certainly right there, darlin’.’

A wagon rumbling past the tent made her head lift.

Christ, that was fast.

Did she take the tent down? It wasn’t even her’s. John had allowed her to continue using it even after she’d insisted he could have it back, and now either slept with Abigail and Jack or against a tree if he’d annoyed Abigail, which was often.

“Annie?”

Turning, she smiled lightly as Miss Grimshaw entered, in her element.

“There you are, sweetheart. Why don’t you come and help the girls pack the supplies away? The boys can take this down, they can do it quick and we gotta move on quick.”

“Of course, Susan, I’ll be there in a moment.”

As the older woman ducked out of the tent, Ada took a breath.

Don’t lose your head. You adapted to here, you can adapt to the next place.

With tired eyes and a weary soul, Ada lifted the two garments from the barrel and exited the tent.

John had left moments before, riding back to gather the others and lead them here to their new home. Arthur had been left the unenviable task of clearing the bodies from the camp. It had been too easy to clear it, the men unprepared and Arthur and John better shots then all of them combined. They’d discovered a wagon to the right of the house filled with food and ammo, and there was room aplenty in the house and on the ground which, all in all, would no doubt lift spirits.

And, Christ, did they need lifting.

On the ride out here, John’s despair was unsurprising but worrying. He was nearly echoing things he’d said before he’d left the gang, though now Arthur could barely argue against them. It shouldn’t have come to this, yeah, they shouldn’t have gotten involved in those families, they should have left by now. It wasn’t just John either. He’d seen the way Ada had looked at them all, particularly Dutch, when the agents had arrived at the camp. He had seen the hate and disbelief smouldering in her eyes, could practically see what she was thinking. It was all things he, too, had been thinking, but he had to trust in Dutch. And he did, he always would.

The rumbling of wagons drew his attention to the window; he’d pushed the last body into the swap to the back of the house a short time ago and had taken the opportunity to take a seat in the front room, resting his boots on a stack of books. Getting to his feet, he headed to the front doors.

Ada brought up the rear of the group, keeping herself occupied as a look-out; a caravan this large would most likely attract attention, but John had led them down quiet paths and she was surprised they didn’t encounter anyone. The wagons pulled off to the right of the house and she drew Faithful to a halt as Arthur emerged from the house, stepping out onto the porch with his arms out wide.

“Welcome home, everyone, to my humble abode!” he called, smiling. “It’s fine livin’, ignore the corpses and the alligators, it’s paradise.”

Dutch laughed, shaking his head. “I love it! Miss Grimshaw, Mr Pearson, would you two kindly work your magic?”

She couldn’t believe it. Not a day ago one of his men had died and a child had gone missing. Yet here he was, smiling at their next great adventure. Dismounting, she turned away and her gaze landed on John. He was looking, too, a frown set across his features. She wasn’t the only sane one, then.

“Arthur, take a ride with me,” Dutch continued as people scurried about, turning The Count back towards the main path.

“Sure.” Stepping down from the porch, Arthur looked to Ada as she handed her reins to Kieran with a faint smile. He wanted to ask how she was, tell her that they were safer here, that he understood what she was thinking but—

“Come on!” Dutch called.

Sighing, Arthur gathered Ophelia’s reins from where they’d been wrapped around the porch railing and mounted her.

Following after Dutch, Molly suddenly appeared, playing with her hands.

“Dutch?” she asked uncharacteristically gently, hopeful, even.

Dutch looked at her, not slowing The Count. “Yes?”

“Could I have a word with ye?”

Dutch pressed his lips together, then looked away. “Not now. Come on, Arthur.”

Molly paused, slightly taken aback, then clenched her jaw and strode away past Arthur, her fists clenched. 

“Can you believe that girl?” Dutch scoffed as Arthur caught up to him. “All I’ve got goin’ on and she wants to talk.” He scoffed again as they broke into a canter, heading through the tree. 

Ada watched them ride away, torn between relief and unease. She could breathe a little easier when neither men were around, but she wanted Dutch within her sight and Arthur... She wanted to talk with Arthur. She felt it was safe and not too bold of her to admit that they were friends. With Sean gone she could only talk to him or Sadie, but Arthur was the only one who knew everything about her. But... No, she couldn’t talk to him about this. She already knew what his thoughts and feelings were; it would be Dutch and the gang every time, no matter what. 

Turning away, she raised her eyes to the building. It was the kind of grand house her mother would have loved to live in, probably could have lived in if she hadn’t disobeyed her parents.

It was less closed in than their previous hideout, with a river on one side and swampy fields on the others. The heat was verging on oppressive, though, much more noticeable than back at Clemens Point. Trenches lay on either side of the wide path leading up to the house, a few dirtied guns lying within them.

“Dutch and Molly have got the big room upstairs,” she heard Miss Grimshaw call out as she emerged from the open doors of the house, directing the men to where crates and boxes should go. “Abigail, you’re up there with John, too, room first on the left with the bit of wall missin’. Arthur can go up there, as well, in the smaller room. Hosea’s got the room downstairs and, ladies, you can take the rest...”

Ada’s gaze drifted away from her as she continued on. She moved towards the white bandstand to her left, moving around a dry and cracking fountain. Stacks of sandbags lay within it, as they did in the trenches, and leaves and dirt covered the floor. It had space, though, enough for a person to lie down.

Moving up the steps into it, she dropped to her knees and began to brush the debris out with her hands, pushing it down the steps to her right. Soon, the floor was clear, and she rose to her feet. Moving one sandbag at a time, she then rearranged them, blocking off all the entrances but one. Deciding she needed more, she headed to the nearest trench, taking two and moving back to the bandstand.

“Do you need a hand?”

Raising her head as she dropped the bags, Ada met Charles’s gaze.

“No, thank you, Charles, I’m fine.”

She could feel him watching her as she returned to the trench, but she ignored him, carrying out two more trips. On the final one, he had gone, and she stacked the bags.

Taking her bedroll from Faithful’s saddle, who grazed nearby, and her blouse and skirt from the saddlebag, she spread the bedroll out on the floor of the bandstand, placed her clothes at the foot of it, then stood back to assess her work.

It would do. It was hidden, protected. The bugs might become an issue but she could deal with those.

Wiping the sweat from her forehead, she raised her head. It must have been nearing noon. Most of the wagons had been set up as had some tents, people were milling about, resting or exploring the land. Good, they’d all have space here, somewhat.

Moving down the steps, Ada found herself heading to the small jetty. She’d identified what it overlooked as a river, however the water was so slow moving it might as well have just been part of the swamp. Standing at the edge of the not-entirely-safe jetty, she looked down into the water. She saw indistinct shapes, various kinds of fish, most likely. Maybe even a water snake or two. She’d have to watch for those, as well as the bugs. She could deal with those.

Before she realised it, she was sitting down, leaning her head against a wooden pole. It was quieter than Clemens Points. Perhaps it was the rising, stifling heat that muffled sounds, or the warmth sapped the energy from beings that would make noises. She certainly felt drained.

Steps sounded behind her. She didn’t look up.

“Hey.”

Sadie sat beside her, balancing her rifle across her lap.

“Hey.” Ada watched a small fish slowly swimming in circles.

Sadie blew out a breath, leaning back on her hands. “I can’t stand the heat.”

“Me neither.”

The fish suddenly went one way, then started to circle again.

“Your stand looks nice. I’m sure someone might have some candles so you can perhaps read at night.”

“Someone probably does.”

The fish disappeared from view.

“Annie.”

Ada’s gaze rose, but not to Sadie. She looked instead to the far bank, watching the unmoving grass.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Sadie.”

“I know. And once upon a time, I didn’t. I understand, Annie, you know I do... But goin’ through it and watchin’ someone else go through it ain’t the same.”

Ada knew she was right, but she was so tired of talking. So tired of trying to rationalise everything and justify it.

“Annie, say somethin’.”

“I have nothing to say.”

“Don’t say somethin’, then. Shout, scream, shoot somethin’—”

“Sadie—”

“You can’t keep it in, Annie, I know that now—”

“I don’t know what to do, Sadie.” She finally looked to the other woman, finding Sadie’s gaze imploring. “I don’t... I don’t know what to do with all this pain.”

Sadie gazed at her, her lips pressed together. Then, she pushed herself up to her feet.

“Come on.” She held her hand out to her.

Ada frowned now, staring at her hand.

“What?”

“Come on.” Sadie waved her hand. “We’re goin’ into Saint Denis, see what we can find out about Jack.”

Ada stared at her. Then, after a few moments, she took her hand, and allowed her to help her up.

Saint Denis was... It was big. And loud.

From the moment they passed under the ‘Saint Denis’ sign, Ada could only stare. People were everywhere, racing about, milling about, laughing, shouting, talking, buying, selling, music was playing from what sounded like nearly every street. Police officers seemed to be on every corner and street, too, she noted. It was almost overwhelming, in the most delightful of ways. She followed close behind Sadie as they moved along the cobbled streets, happy for her to lead the way as she just stared and stared.

“Over here,” Sadie called, having found whatever she was looking for, guiding them towards a quieter street.

Dismounting and tying their reigns to a post, Ada arched an eyebrow at her. “What brings us here?”

“Best place to find answers about the underworld.”

Ada followed Sadie’s pointed finger to a house across the street, the porch a foot off the ground. Various women stood or sat on it, chatting, smoking and drinking. She breathed out a laugh, glancing at her.

“And how would you know that?”

“It’s just common sense, ain’t it?”

“Not to me.”

Crossing the street, Sadie cleared her throat. “Ladies...”

The women glanced at her, some instantly returning to their conversations while others just looked.

“You both looking for work?” asked a scrawny, pale, blonde woman with a thick foreign accent that was unfamiliar, an eyebrow arched, a cigarette in her hand. “Or a good time?”

Some of the women chuckled and Sadie smiled, stopping at the bottom step with Ada.

“No, thank you, we’re lookin’ for answers.”

“Get him to touch the thing at the top that looks like little lump, you will come very hard.”

The women laughed again and Ada’s lips twitched.

“No, thank you, we know about that,” she said as Sadie chuckled. “We want to know about someone called Angelo Bronte?”

The women went silent, all amusement vanishing. 

Well, shit... That says it all.

The blonde woman took a long drag of her cigarette, glancing between them. “Why do you want to know?”

“A little boy’s been taken from his family, we’d like to get him back to them,” Sadie said, leaning her boot against the first step.

A dark-haired woman with brown skin exhaled a breath, her arms folding across her thin body. Another woman, almost identical to her, narrowed her eyes at her.

Sadie looked between them all, some not meeting her eye. “He’s just a little kid. Any information would help.”

“We can—” The dark-haired woman started to speak, her accent different but also unfamiliar.

“I like you two so I’m going to tell you truth,” the blonde woman cut in, flicking her cigarette aside. “You should stop asking questions. It’s not safe.”

“Why?” Ada asked, glancing at the woman who’d tried to speak.

“I just said, it’s not safe,” the woman repeated, “Listen to me and look after yourselves, ladies, you both seem very nice.”

“Oh, we ain’t nice,” Sadie chuckled lowly. “We can handle him.”

“It’s not just him.” The woman stopped herself quickly, pressing her lips together.

“He has men, then? A gang of some kind?” Ada pressed gently.

“Please stop asking and go,” the woman said firmly, folding her arms. “It won’t just be trouble for you.” Looking from Sadie to Ada, she then turned and went inside, a few of the women following after her.

Ada looked to the dark-haired woman, smiling lightly. “Look, we just want to know what we’re up against. Is there anything that could help us, anything at all?”

The woman swallowed, then stepped forward. The woman identical to her, a sibling most likely, caught her elbow but she shook her off, speaking rabidly in another language, French, Ada realised, seeming to plead with her. When the other woman just shook her head and tutted, she turned to them, leaning over the porch railing and spoke in a quiet voice.

“He has many men, he practically owns this city so please be careful. If his men found out we were talking to you then we would get in trouble, too, that’s what Jane meant so that’s all I can say.” She glanced around the street, then looked back to them. “Please stop askin’ us questions. I’m sorry about your boy but unless you got an army then you ain’t gonna get him back. I’m sorry.”

Pushing away from the railing, she made to go inside when Sadie called in a low tone so as to not draw attention, “Where is he based?”

The woman paused in the doorway then turned. She hesitated. “East, a house on the river.” Then, she vanished inside.

Her sibling shot them a cold look before she went after her, pulling the door shut.

The remaining women on the porch had already turned their backs, engrossed in their conversations. Sadie straightened and turned, pressing her lips together.

“This is bad,” Ada murmured as they moved back across the street to their horses. “This isn’t some other gang hiding out in the middle of nowhere that we can just confront.”

“We faced the Braithwaites,” Sadie answered as she surveyed the street.

“Again, they were isolated. This is a civilised city with police everywhere, there’s no way we’d get out alive.”

Sadie sighed as they stood between their horses, shaking her head. “Bronte’s got quite a reputation, too, if even whores don’t wanna talk shit about him. What do you wanna do, shall we check it out?”

Ada took a breath. “Well... It is on our way out.”

Sadie grinned, taking the reins and mounting her horse. “Look at you, gettin’ a taste for danger.”

“It won’t be dangerous,” she corrected matter-of-factly, gathering Faithful’s reins and pulling herself up into the saddle, “We’ll just ride by and have a short look.”

“Whatever you say.”

They rode idly through the centre of Saint Denis, pointing out various shops to each other, telling the other to remind them it was there. They could buy new clothes, get a haircut, buy decent food, there was a bakery, and what seemed to be a well-stocked bookshop.

Life would be so easy if I lived here, Ada thought, everything I could ever want only a short walk away.

Easy and safe.

They were waiting for a tram to pass, a tram, she wouldn’t even need to walk anywhere, when a small commotion caught their attention. Turning their heads, they watched a man chase a boy, possibly a teenager, out of an alleyway, across a street, and into another alleyway, shouting after him. Ada’s eyebrows rose, then her eyes widened.

Turning to Sadie, the other woman also looked surprised.

“Was that Arthur?”

Sadie chuckled. “I think it was. There’ll be a story there.”

“Should we go and help him?”

“With a kid?” Sadie laughed. “I think he’ll be fine. Come on.”

Well, I can’t wait to hear about that one.

There were only three houses in the eastern area of Saint Denis that sat on the river, and it wasn’t hard to guess which one was Bronte’s. Riding past the wide, iron gate, they glimpsed men standing guard with guns, more men beyond them.

Blowing out a breath, Sadie redirected her gaze ahead. “Well, shit... It’s gonna take a hell of a plan to get in there.”

“What the hell are we gonna do?” Ada murmured, her heart sinking. She couldn’t bear to think of how afraid Jack must be.

“You wanna get a drink?”

Ada arched an eyebrow. “You know I don’t drink, Sadie.”

“You wanna get a book and a cake, then?”

“... Okay.”

—

Arthur rubbed at his face as he entered the camp.

Those fuckin’ kids...

Well, fuck all that, at least they knew where Bronte was now, the bastard. All he had to do now was get John, go back to Dutch, then they’d be closer to Jack and this would all be over.

And I can get some fuckin’ sleep.

Dismounting Ophelia halfway down the path, he patted her before heading down the rest of the way.

“Hey, Karen?”

She looked up at him from where she was sat on a crate, cleaning a gun. “What?”

“You seen John?”

“Turn around, you fool.”

Doing as he was told, he saw the very man coming round the side of the house, striding towards him.

“You got anythin’?” he asked before Arthur could speak as they neared each other.

“Yeah, we know where Bronte is,” he answered. He quickly continued as John turned and strode towards Old Boy, falling into step with him. “Dutch is at the east park in Saint Denis, we’ll meet him there and go and see Bronte.”

“All right.” John pulled himself up into the saddle, his features set. Gathering the reins, he looked to Arthur expecting him to have moved to Ophelia. Instead he’d remained where he was, frowning at Annie who, a quick glance told him, was stood a little way off, pushing a Repeater into the holster on Faithful’s saddle and mounting him. “You comin’ or what?” he asked the other man, Old Boy shifting beneath him, feeling how unsettled his master was.

“Yeah, I just...” Arthur sighed, looking up at him. “You go, I’ll catch up to you.”

John nodded and moved around him, heading away and nudging Old Boy into a gallop.

Running a hand down his mouth, Arthur cursed himself as he moved towards Ada.

What the hell am I doin’.

“Where you goin’?”

She glanced at him as Faithful began to walk. “Out.”

He resisted the urge to grit his teeth. “I can see that.” He stepped in front of them, gently gripping at Faithful’s bridle to get him to stop. “Out where?”

She pressed her lips together and exhaled a breath before looking at him. “Bill told me where he buried Sean. I’m going to pay my respects.” She paused, then her features softened a fraction. "Can you let go, please?”

Watching her, he released Faithful and stepped back. His mind was made up in seconds.

“You ain’t goin’ alone.”

“Arthur—”

“I ain’t gonna hear it.” Mounting Ophelia, he turned her towards the entrance of the camp and inclined his head towards it. “Now, c’mon.”

Hissing out a breath through her teeth, Ada followed after him.

—

At any other time, Arthur would have snorted. Clemens Point? Bill had buried him so close to camp? Well, what had he expected.

Dismounting as Ada did, he followed her through the trees, glancing about in case someone else had decided to use their old camp.

“Bill said he was around here...”

He nearly knocked into her when she halted suddenly, his hand instantly going to his revolver, but then he saw it too. Two thick branches tied together to resemble a crucifix, stuck into the ground before a pile of rocks. SEAN MACGUIRE RIP, the horizontal branch read. They stood in silence, staring at it as a gentle breeze blew the green leaves on the branches around them.

Suddenly, she made a sound which he thought at first was a sob, before he realised it was a laugh. She was laughing.

“He was so irritating,” she said through it, a smile pulling at her lips.

That’s a damn understatement.

He couldn’t stop a smile himself, though. “Yeah, he was.”

She hummed, a laugh trailing off, her smile lingering. “Bill did a nice job.”

“Yeah, it’s quiet here,” he nodded, his hands resting on his belt. “It’s nice.”

“It is. Very peaceful.”

They fell silent again, lost in their own memories.

“Say some words about him,” she finally said quietly. “You knew him better than I did.”

Arthur shifted, rubbing his jaw. “Well, I don’t know about that. I think he was a good friend to you.” He glanced at her as he dropped his hand; she just kept looking at the grave, her amusement nowhere to be seen now. Clearing his throat, he clasped his hands together before his belt. “He was like an annoyin’ little brother to me, but we had fun ridin’ together. He was a good an’ loyal friend when it came down to it, an’ that’s what matters.”

She inhaled a breath, clearing her throat. “Amen,” she murmured. Wiping at her eyes, she shook her head. “Damn you, Sean.”

“Yeah,” he sighed. “Camp’s sure gonna be quiet without him now.”

“It sure will be.” Wiping at her cheeks, she turned away.

She moved out of the trees and across the grass. A rock jutted out of the small hill and she sat on the edge of it, her legs swinging a little as she looked out at the lake, water gently lapping at the shore, the sun making it sparkle. He joined her a moment later, standing beside her. It was damn peaceful around here. Birds trilled and chirped, fish splashed about in the water, and out on the lake a couple of boats and canoes moved idly. He should’ve taken advantage of it more when they were here, but there was always something to be done.

“Arthur, I...” she began quietly, hesitating, playing with the finger where a ring should’ve been, then she looked up at him suddenly, frowning. “Are you meant to be somewhere? Weren’t you looking for John?”

“Yeah, but...” He waved his hand dismissively. “It can wait.”

He couldn’t tell her. She be damn horrified and probably hit him for being with her rather than trying to get Jack back... but Dutch and John could handle it without him for a short while.

What the hell are you doing here, you idiot, a voice hissed to him.

You know what, another voice whispered back. 

“Are you sure? Arthur, are y—”

“You were gonna say somethin’?”

She huffed out a breath. Would she ever be distract him from anything? Looking back at the water, her hands fell into her lap.

“Dutch should be here, too, saying something.”

There it was, dangerous waters again. Shrugging, he folded his arms. “Dutch don’t do so well with losin’ people. Hits him hard ‘cause he feels responsible for us all. He’ll probably come, in his own time.”

He caught her faint smile. “You have a lot of faith in him, you all do, all of you really do love him.”

His tone was gentle but reproachful. “Ada, you don’t—”

“No, sorry, I’m not trying to...” She paused, licking her lips. “I don’t want... Oh, I don’t know what I want.” She continued on after half a second, frowning slightly. “Something is screaming at me inside, Arthur, that I should want him dead, I should want to kill him, but I... I just don’t know what I really feel anymore these days.”

He watched her his chest tightening even as he kept his tone light. “I think all that just means you’re a good person.”

This was getting dangerous. Dangerous and complicated.

She snorted as she slid down from the rock, brushing dirt off of her hands. “No, more likely hopeless.” Smiling lightly at him, she headed back up the small hill. “Come on, I’m sure you have something to do.”

Arthur immediately started walking with her, grateful for the change in subject. “Yeah, I should get goin’. I’ll take you back to Shady Belle.”

“No, it’s all right—”

“I’ll take you, it’s on the way.”

He heard her mutter under her breath, probably curses, as they mounted. “Fine, fine, all right.”

Heading back to the main road, she looked to him, amusement having suddenly returned. “Did I see you chasing a child earlier?”

He frowned, narrowing his eyes at her. “What?”

“Did. I. See. You. Chasing. A—”

“No, well, yes, what the hell were you doin’ in Saint Denis?”

She lifted her chin slightly. “Sadie and I were asking questions, what were you doing?”

If his eyes could’ve narrowed any more, they would have. “Asking questions about what?”

She had the decency to look a touch sheepish. "Angelo Bronte.”

“You were both asking questions about Bronte?”

“Yes.” Sheepishness turned to defensiveness. ”We wanted to be useful. Sadie wanted to tell Dutch what we found out when we got back but as you know he hadn’t returned.”

Arthur harrumphed. “Well, Dutch and I were askin’ questions, too, so tell me what you found out.”

She arched an eyebrow. “I’ll tell if you will.”

“Yeah, all righ’, fine,” he muttered. “But it ain’t a long ride so be quick.”

“Yes, sir.”

— 

Ada wrapped her arm across what she could of the thick trunk, swinging around it to avoid wetting her boots in the swampy water. Sadie had been ghoulishly delighted to tell her about the sinking graveyard at the back of the property when she’d returned, Arthur having departed from her before they got near the camp so he could continue on. It must have been quite old, some of the gravestones having decayed from the constant assault of the water and she could barely make out some of the names on them. How many generations had lived in this house and been buried here? Who had been the last and what circumstances had led to the place falling into ruin?

It was something else, something occupying, to think about rather than what she’d said to Arthur, because she didn’t know why the hell she said it. In a moment of vulnerability perhaps, created from grief. She’d realised on the ride back that that was the first time she’d been able to grieve properly, that Sean was the first person she’d been able to grieve properly for, with full understanding and complete with an occupied grave.

She’d been too young to really understand when her father had died. The only real memory she had of it was her mother and brother weeping, and how, in her innocent, kind, child’s mind she’d vowed to be strong for them as they both held her hands tightly at his funeral. Then when she and her mother had accepted that Thom had died her mother couldn’t bear the thought of a funeral or even a memorial. 

Ada hadn’t wanted to cry around her mother either; she would have got no comfort from her because she was too busy grieving herself, so Ada had had to look after her. Not that she resented her for it, God, no, she couldn’t imagine the pain she was going through of losing a child, but... sometimes comforting yourself just wasn’t enough.

“Hello, dear.”

Looking up, Ada smiled warmly as Josiah Trelawney approached, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Hello, Josiah,” she answered, stepping away from the swampy graves.

The odd man was just that, odd, but she liked the tales he told of different cities and worlds, though they’d never spoken alone so this was a surprise.

“Bill said you and Arthur visited young Sean’s grave.” He smiled sympathetically. “Were you close?”

She folded her arms, a slight pang in her chest. “I suppose we were, yes.”

“Sweethearts?”

She laughed softly. “No. Fond of each other, yes, I think, but not sweethearts. More like brother and sister.”

He nodded, his smile widening a little more as he rocked on his heels. “Yes, well, we are all an odd little family, aren’t we.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” She didn’t feel it quite right to include herself in it. Not that she wanted to, actually.

“And you are a part of this family.” It was as if he’d read her thoughts. “Whatever troubles you, troubles the pack.”

She maintained her own smile. “That’s comforting to know. I’m very grateful for everyone’s generosity.”

“I’m sure you are.” If his smile hadn’t been so kind she would have been unsettled by his gaze. ”Sean’s death troubles you, of course?”

She frowned slightly. “Of course.”

“The event or the cause?”

She looked at him. “I don’t quite know what you’re implying, Josiah.”

He waved his hand, chuckling. “Forgive me, my dear. My wish to be mysterious and interesting sometimes runs away from me, as does my thirst for knowledge.”

She didn’t return his smile just yet. “If you wish to know something, just ask it, Josiah.”

He shook his head, that smile just lingering and lingering. “No, Miss Sawyer. Mystery. Mystery so intrigues me, it would almost break my heart to hear truth.”

—

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Tagged: @belfry-bat​​​​​​, @sistasarah-sallysaidso​​, @ntlmundy​

[dusk-realm]

Chrysanthemum [Chapter 12: Pariah]

Tagging: @featurelengthfics​ @thedungeonsbat​ @severussnapesupporter​ @southsiderepresent @pan-lokistan @gbatesx @a-slytherin-sin @wangmangagavroche @theblackdeath87

Masterlist

A/N: Pls don’t let this flop I really struggled to write this one

Harry, Ron and Hermione hurriedly walked to Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom on the first floor, trying hard not to look suspicious after the brief encounter with their current first person on the suspect list, (Y/N) (Y/L/N).

‘Oh my, my…’ Hermione’s voice came out with anguish once the bathroom door closed behind them.

‘It has to be her!’ Exclaimed Harry, looking frenzied as if all the pieces of the puzzle had just fitted in all together.

‘Let’s calm down,’ Hermione started, although she was obviously the first one who needed to relax, ‘we don’t know for sure yet.’

‘She could have used that book to do that to Mrs. Norris!’ Ron jumped in.

‘We need to find out first,’ the girl began, ‘there has to be a hint, we need proof. We can’t simply go to Dumbledore and accuse someone of doing such a thing without evidence. Can you imagine what Snape would do to us if we accused someone from Slytherin without being able to prove it?’

‘I’ve got an idea.’ Said Harry firmly. Having caught the attention of his two friends, he spoke:

‘I can use my father’s Invisibility Cloak to follow her around, and if she tries something, I’ll stop her.’

‘Harry you’re crazy! It’s too dangerous!’ Said a very concerned Ron.

‘We don’t have any other option…’ Hermione sighed.

‘Unless,’ Ron raised his eyebrows and motioned the two closer, ‘you, Hermione, can approach her.’

‘Me?!’

‘Yes, you come closer to her, pretend to be her friend, and in the first chance you get, you flick through the book and see if you can find something she could’ve used! Or the Polyjuice Potion recipe!’

Hermione looked first at Ron, and then at Harry. She was really, really worried, as she was a mudblood herself, as Draco Malfoy had made clear over and over again.

‘It could work…’ Harry muttered, ‘if you can’t find anything on the book, it means it isn’t her.’

‘Very well…’ Hermione let out some air through her mouth and bit her lip nervously, ‘Let’s do this.’

Hermione, Ron and Harry spent the following week chasing (Y/N) around, at a distance they considered safe, although it did not ensure they wouldn’t be caught.

They discovered that the Slytherin spent most of her time in the library, and she always carried everywhere that thick moldy book under her arm.

Hermione gathered her books from the Gryffindor dorm, rehearsed some sentences in front of the mirror, and, plastering on her best smile, she approached the other girl in the library and tapped her shoulder lightly.

‘Sorry (Y/N), is this seat taken?’ Hermione whispered, pointing at the seat in front of them.

‘No’, she answered equally as softly, soon lowering her head again and returning to her book.

A few days later, Hermione found herself being stuck in the Potions classroom with (Y/N) and Professor Snape, and stirring with sweaty palms wasn’t very helpful for her situation.

Hermione had made a huge mistake. As her two friends had been growing impatient, she had attempted to catch a glimpse of Moste Potente Potions and its contents, but the Slytherin caught her red handed. The Gryffindor had quickly put together an excuse about needing some help with Potions, to which (Y/N) selflessly offered her help with some pre-class brewing practice.

She was mortified, and couldn’t tell if (Y/N) was aware of their attempts to weed out the culprit, Slytherin’s heir, and that was the reason why she had taken her to Snape himself, or, on the contrary, she was genuinely trying to help her with the best of her intentions.

Severus discreetly watched the girls from his desk. Judging by the ingredients (Y/N) had picked from the cupboard, they should be brewing a Wiggenweld Potion. 

That potion in particular wasn’t in the Second Year programme. It wasn’t strange for (Y/N) to simply pop up in his classroom and just start brewing whatever thing crossed her mind in the moment, but Miss Granger, however…

The professor decided to take a look at the potion when he heard a little bit of a squabble going on between the two girls. He stood up and walked toward them smoothly and quietly, not willing to interrupt their discussion just yet.

‘I’m telling you, it needs more salamander blood.’ He heard (Y/N) say.

‘No, it can’t be, we’ve added what the book says is the right amount. Let’s just continue with the instructions.’

‘Hermione, it’s not even the colour it says it should be!’

Severus had already reached their desk before Granger could further argue.

‘Is there any problem, girls?’ He asked softly.

‘Yes!’                                    ‘No, professor.’ They answered at the same time, almost making the professor crack an ironic smile. (Y/N) looked a little bit heated up.

‘Wiggenweld Potion, I suppose?’ 

‘Yes, Professor. W-well, I think it still needs some more salamander blood to get it right but Hermione thinks otherwise.’

Hermione gaped, staring wide-eyed at (Y/N) as if she had just committed treason. The Gryffindor shuddered as Snape leaned over the cauldron with a grimace of disdain.

‘I just think we have already used enough blood, Professor. T-the book specifies the amount to be used, sir.’

‘Tut-tut. As your… -oh- so beloved book indicates, Miss Granger, this particular concoction should be showing a pink colour, not this... deviant violet. You would be wise to listen to those who are more competent than yourself, Miss Granger. Five points to Slytherin.’ 

Hermione lowered her head in embarrassment. Her cheeks were visibly flushed pink, so (Y/N) didn’t say anything as to not rub salt in the wound, but she had a rather hard time trying to suppress her smile.

It had been three days since (Y/N)’s last proper meal when she decided to show up in the Great Hall for some supper. It had also been a while since the attack, and everyone had calmed down about that topic.

The Slytherins, however, didn’t take well her newfound friendship with a Gryffindor, especially a muggleborn. 

Some shot at (Y/N) really nasty looks, letting her know that she wasn’t welcome near them at the table.

Somehow, she ended up being pushed around until she could find a spot to sit down, opposite to Draco Malfoy. She could hear some muffled giggles, but she tried her best to not lift up her head, until a ball of parchment hit her head.

Vincent Crabbe found it hilarious, and Draco Malfoy looked really amused.

‘(Y/L/N), how does it feel?’ He asked with a stupid smile plastered on.

‘How does it feel what?’ She asked moodily.

‘Being the next one on the monster’s list.’ Answered a feminine voice behind her. Pansy had just arrived together with Millicent Bulstrode.

Fucking amazing.

Both girls sat down at each of (Y/N)’s sides, Pansy to her right and Bulstrode to her left, as they always did.

(Y/N) frowned slightly and slipped away from Bulstrode and more toward Pansy. Her side was still plagued with the small bruises Millicent did with her constant pinching, even after three days without coming across her at all.

Pansy was glancing at Draco with the same stupid smile as him, and then, she turned around to look at (Y/N) eat.

‘«We’ll teach just those whose ancestry’s purest.»’ Parkinson quoted, ‘maybe you’d do well avoiding all that scum, considering your own status.’ She teased. The Malfoy boy looked amused, like a kid that is seeing a fair for the first time in his life.

(Y/N)’s eyebrow twitched at the word scum, but she said nothing.

‘As much as I know, Parkinson, my blood status could be as pure as yours.’

‘You wish.’ Malfoy spat.

‘Go dine with your new House, traitor.’ said Bulstrode, as she tried to bury her finger below (Y/N)’s ribcage, where the more tender flesh started. 

(Y/N) curved in a C shape, trying to protect her side from the bully.

Pansy joined from the other flank, poking her side too, to which (Y/N) responded slapping her hand away.

‘Watch it, mudblood,’ Pansy hissed. The girl grabbed a fistful of (Y/N)’s hair and pulled toward her, ‘you dare talk to me like that again and you can consider your little mudblood friend and yourself dead.’

(Y/N)’s blood was rushing through her veins, making her ears boil with rage and her heart thump against her chest at a speedy rhythm. Some other students let out some daring Oooooooh!’s, hoping that the scene would explode, laughing and howling like hyenas.

The next thing that happened was cloudy in her mind.

She couldn’t see much, as tears warped and blurred her sight.

She couldn’t hear either, because her ears buzzed intensely from inside.

WHAM

In less than a millisecond, Pansy Parkinson’s face banged hard against the wooden surface of the table under (Y/N)’s hand, making all the dishes around clink and tremble.

'DON’T CALL HER THAT, YOU FILTHY INBRED SWINE!’

[shannaraisles]

Could You, Maybe?

A commission fic for @queen-kass-the-writer​, with Steve Rogers and her OC, Helena, set in a Princess Diaries-esque AU.

Could You, Maybe?

“Okay, so what do I do now?”

Princess Helena Emeline Nepheros of Eprana glanced toward her tablet, on which was displayed the face of her best friend. Priya was still laughing at her friend’s inability to crack an egg successfully on the first go, so it took a moment for her to compose herself.

“Now you pour half of it into the pan,” she explained, still fighting to keep a straight face. 

“Can you not laugh at me while I’m doing this?” Helena complained, though her own face was covered with a smile. 

“Nope,” Priya responded. “This is hilarious to me. Why did you decide to make him dinner in the first place?”

Helena rolled her eyes. 

“You know why,” she said, carefully pouring the beaten egg mixture into the pan to watch it begin cooking. “He does everything. I mean, I know it’s his job, but he doesn’t have to cook for me or wait outside my classes to walk me everywhere. He could just watch me from a distance. He even does the laundry!”

“You could have just bought him dinner,” Priya pointed out in amusement. 

“That doesn’t seem like enough,” was Helena’s counter. “Okay, this looks like it’s kind of cooked on the other side. What do I do now?”

“Put one of the tortillas on top of it, and flip the whole thing over.”

Priya was then treated to the sight of her royal best friend concentrating fiercely as she did just that, as though cooking what was a really simple meal was somehow the hardest thing she had ever done in her life. To be fair, it probably was. Helena was the real deal; a princess from a foreign land, come to America to attend college, but only allowed to do so on the proviso that the captain of the king’s guard, Steven Rogers, also came with her for her own protection. Not only that, but he had been ordered to live with her in an apartment provided by her father, as though they were a couple. It had originally seemed as though the idea was to make it appear as though Helena was in an established relationship, and therefore keep her from being taken advantage of by rude, crude American boys, but Priya knew her friend well enough by now to know that, while this had never been the plan, Helena was hopelessly in love with her bodyguard. It was adorable, but kind of sad, in a way. After all, she was royalty. The chance of her ever being allowed to have that kind of normal with a guy who was employed for her own safety was next to zero. 

Of course, Helena was too close to be able to see what everyone else around her could see - that Steve was just as hopelessly in love as she was. But he showed it in the care he took doing his job. It was there in the way he walked her to and from classes, never intruding on her social group but always close by; in the way he took care of the apartment they shared under orders, keeping the place clean and tidy, making sure she ate regular meals, that she had clean clothes; in the way he forced her to take breaks from her studying to go out and enjoy herself a little from time to time. He looked after her in a way that made every other girl she knew, and some of the boys, swoon with envy, setting the bar for their own future relationships high enough that they would never be taken advantage of by anyone undeserving of their attention. 

“Now what, I put the stuff on it?”

“Yup, whatever you decided on, you put it in a line down the middle.”

Helena nodded, carefully lifting up her slices of inexpertly sliced tomato and ham to arrange them artistically in the pan on top of the egg and tortilla. She then sprinkled the cheese on top, scowling a little at it as though holding it personally responsible for the fact that she had managed to grate her own knuckles in the process of grating that cheese.

“Okay, now you fold it over one side at a time, and lift it out onto a plate,” Priya told her. “And voila! You have cooked a meal!”

“Seriously?” 

Helena was absolutely delighted, surveying her handiwork with a strange sense of pride. She had never cooked more than a slice of toast before today, and while she knew this was an incredibly simple meal Priya had talked her through, she couldn’t help that feeling of accomplishment as she looked at the food on the plate.

“Seriously! You cooked, girl, be proud!”

She laughed at Priya’s encouragement, belatedly remembering to put the plate in the oven to stay warm while she made a second hot wrap and waited for Steve to return. 

“And you think he’ll like it?” she asked worriedly, starting over with the rest of the egg mixture. 

“Honey, you’re cooking for him,” Priya pointed out. “I think he’ll be bowled over. And if he isn’t, I’ll come over there and kick his ass with my new heels.”

Helena snorted with laughter at that mental image.

“As fun as that would be to watch, please don’t,” she said. “I don’t want to spend the night in the ER with you and your broken toes.”

“Oh yeah, I forgot that man is sculpted out of marble,” her friend commented. “Did you remember to get the wine?”

“Yes, it’s in the fridge cooling,” Helena assured her, flipping over her egg and adding the tortilla. She glanced up at the sound of a key in the door. “He’s back, I gotta go.”

“Smooch him real good for me!” Priya managed to get out before Helena disconnected the call, the tablet going dark as she returned to her cooking. 

The door to the apartment opened, revealing the man in question. Steve was doing his best to stay as incognito as possible, but when you’re over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, built to lift bridges, and none of your t-shirts are loose enough to hide that, it’s a little difficult. He was also carrying the laundry bag, proof positive that he had done all their combined laundry for the week in one go. Helena bit her lip, trying not to blush at the thought of him carefully folding her panties, but it was hard not to. His hands were quite often on her mind; that was a step too far, even for her inbred composure. 

“Laundry room was heaving,” he said, setting the heavy bag down. His eyes skated over the little kitchenette, surprise flickering obviously in his gaze. “What’re you doing?”

“I cooked!”

Despite her best attempt to be calm and composed, Helena was just too pleased with herself for her achievement, offering up a bright, happy smile as she lifted the two warm plates for him to see. Steve’s face broke into a smile she could have sworn was actually shy, apparently pleased with the surprise she had put together. 

“I just have to get the wine, and we’re ready to go,” she added, putting the plates down to turn and open the fridge.

There was only one problem - the corkscrew was on the top of the fridge, and she was just that little bit too short to reach it. 

“Need a hand?”

He sounded so close behind her, and indeed, he was, turning his attention from the contents of the plates to offer her a cheeky grin as she strained for the utensil that was put out of the way so she wouldn’t attempt to open any bottles by herself in the first place. Helena huffed, feeling her face heat up.

“Could you, maybe?” she asked, gesturing toward the top of the fridge.

He stepped forward, eyes on hers the entire time, warm and big and filling her world as she leaned back against the appliance, reveling in the sensation of being utterly surrounded by the one person she felt safest and most wanted with. He reached up, lifting down the corkscrew, that half-cocked grin still there on his face. 

“As you wish.”

[paradoxcd]

@rvmovrhasit​​  cont. 

        After  the  FIGHT  in  her  home  had  ended,  Allison fell on  her  living  room  chair,  exhausted,  facing  the  corpse  of  her  assaulter.  Five  had  come  to  see  why  she  hadn’t  shown  up  to  go  home,  but  honestly who  could  even  worry  about  that  with  two  giant  men  in  your  living  room  ready  to murder  you  and  your  family ? And  even WORSE, she  had  used  her  ability. In  an  awful  way.  She  was  still  deciding  whether  to feel  bad or relieved  when  Five  asked  her.  Was  that  CONCERN  she  was  getting  from  his  tone  of  voice ?  ( she  must  have  imagined  it  )           

        “  I  think  some  assassins  or  something.  You  mentioned  some Swedes ?  I  think  they  were  from  East  Europe, but  I’m  not  sure.  You  can  check  for  yourself. ” she  gestured  at  the  dead  body  right  in  front  of  her,  lying  in  the  middle  of  their  couch.  They  had  to  take  care of  it  soon,  but  she  needed  to  breathe  first.  She  also  needed  to  make  sure  Raymond  wasn’t freaking  out  too  much,  but  her  brother  demanded  her  attention.

it had been a simple task; “get to the alley, don’t be late”. this one thing. just this one fucking thing--- but there’s something like worry, sharp and bitter-tasting that touches every fried nerve ending, and settles into the lines of his frown. you can relax your shoulders now, but you won’t. allison is fine--hurt, and with a dead swede on her floor, but fine. allison can handle herself. but that doesn’t levy the responsibility on his shoulders--the fact that he’d pulled the keen focus of the commission’s wrath on his family. the fact that he’d scattered them through time because he couldn’t harness his own abilities. the fact that for the second time in two weeks, he’s going to have to solve the apocalypse somehow. or stumble head-first into it, like their family often does.

he’s only barely aware, or interested, in the singular living, non-hargreeves in the room.  pleasantries with his siblings’ personal attachments rank low on the priority list on a good day, non-existent when the world tips in the balance of them meeting one simple deadline. anyway--he’s not known for his impeccable first impressions--hopes the vaguely forced smile in raymond’s direction will suffice. “hi. allison’s brother, a pleasure. i hope you didn’t like this carpet.” he’s just as soon back to business, giving the blood-spattered area rug a harsh tug from under the coffee table.

“yes--” he mutters, “blonde, inbred-looking, dumb as bricks--you know. like him.” shoe nudges the leg of their motionless goon--no doubt another commission lackey. surveying the corpse with a frown, he carefully tugs sleeve up--prospects how much heavy-lifting he’s about to do. “you didn’t happen to kill the--” pause as he begins dragging the body down to the carpet--at his present stature, an embarrassingly difficult feat. there’s a distinct thud of dead-weight hitting living room floor. “--last one, did you?” there were three--at least, he thinks so. and one was recently toasted. and this one is in the middle of being carefully rolled in a carpet. “...because if not, we’ve got one more problem.”

[jonsameta]

Hi, me again!

jesuiscommejesuis: Haha, I’m on that GoT grind and probably won’t stop until the premiere 😂. I trust your opinion so unfortunately you have to endure another ask from me. Anyway…I think that most of us have considered the possibility of Jonsa not being canon. (RIP me if that happens). But my question isn’t about whether Jonsa will be or won’t be (I’ve come to terms with the fact that GoT will end how GRRM always intended it to end) it’s about what that possibility means for all of the evidence, clues, foreshadowing, etc that we’ve gathered. In your opinion will Jonsa not happening render those clues and meta meaningless and we were all crazy after all? Or do they take on a new meaning and point us in a new direction? Idk if that even makes sense. Maybe I’m just afraid that Jonsa wont happen and I’m afraid for no other reason other than that I will have looked and sounded insane to all of my GoT friends and had nothing to show for it. Also do you know of any interviews or blog posts from GRRM possibly supporting Jonsa? Same for D&D? Or any other people on or working with the show? Thank you so much!! 💙

—-

Hi there, 

The thing about theories is they’re like Shrodinger’s cat. If you try to be objective, you have to entertain the possibility that it won’t happen, but it can’t completely be false until proven otherwise. That said, some theories are more probable than others because there’s material within the text that thematically undoes something. This is because a story’s themes (which differs depending on the adaptation but it can’t be completely divorced from the original source either) define its boundaries because they essentially make up “the heart of the story”, not the plot. They give the main characters a moral dilemma that drives their journeys. Considering the themes of the story - both bookwise and showwise - Jonsa is very probable because it answers a lot of long standing character arcs that go beyond these characters and provides a bookend that Jon/Dany cannot considering R+L=J. 

I think anything in this story has to be considered according to the politics - even the fantasy part because the personal is political. With such a spread out story only the themes and the morality dilemmas of politics that the smallest moment can have is what holds it all together. And I think the strongest argument for the probability of Jonsa comes from a structural level of gauging the politics. 

Jon’s parentage is a political game changer and the way it’s been built up it cannot just be for personal angst - especially when the element of his parentage revealing him to have a higher claim than Dany is brought up. It doesn’t just affect him or his relationship with Dany. It affects Westeros and Dany’s own longstanding goal.

Jon may not want to be king, but Dany is walking in as a very unpopular figure into the North and the way she has gone about her campaign hasn’t improved her reputation and only worsened it. And Jon himself will lose popularity after having 1) bent the knee to a Targaryen, 2) consorting with a Targaryen and 3) being a secret Targaryen. 

Dany doesn’t realise that although Jon claims to have pledged his allegiance to her, it doesn’t mean the North has fallen into her hands. He’s only lost their faith from this move so no Targaryen by themselves could claim the North. Not to mention the Vale and Riverlands are more allied to Sansa than they are to Jon. To regain faith, he’d have to separate himself from Dany and the Targaryen identity a bit and yet he would need a political statement that only a marriage alliance to Stark could give if he were to remain in power. There’s also the pesky issue of how unknowingly Sansa and the Starks have more allies than Dany (or Jon without the Starks) does as everyone comes into Winterfell. So Sansa’s constant label as “key to the North” and the importance of marriage alliances becomes very important here. He can’t become king or even gain the faith of the people (back) without Sansa. So in that case, the whole notion of the Pact of Ice and Fire being fulfilled through Dany and Jon falls apart because Jon will be seen as an outsider. @thelawyerthatwaspromised has even written a post with infographics to make it easier to understand. It’s like R+L=J resets the chessboard. Ironically, what the audience thought Jon/Dany’s union would do politically is far more possible through Jon/Sansa. 

As it makes sense as a political match, the possibility of it happening and impacting the narrative increases a lot more. The original outline also matters here because clearly the pseudo-incest tag didn’t stop the author. However, as the characters haven’t interacted in real time in the books and aren’t close, there’s not much people have asked him about it nor has GRRM has said about it unless you count his vague reply once (”I won’t say more than I’ve already said in the books”). I’d say there’s more to be gauged from what he has to say about other ships that fandom roots for, that isn’t as positive as they make it out to be - whether Jon/rya, San/San, San/rion or Jon/Dany. It’s not obvious because he hardly shuts down possibilities but there’s reading between the lines. It becomes more obvious through a process of elimination. It’s also because Jon/Sansa as a ship tramples over so many ships that fandoms have banked on that people are inclined to dismiss it rather than re-evaluate the pre-existing ships. 

On the show, people have been coy too but there’s more content to gauge as the characters have already reunited and their dynamic has become pretty pivotal to the story. Where D&D shut down Dany and Yara ever happening, in the same panel they evaded a question about Jon and Sansa being developed as a romantic relationship. Aiden Gil/lian commented on how Jon’s parentage opens up possibilities for Jon and Sansa’s relationship romantically at the end of season 6. Sophie was asked about it post season 6 and she said it was possible because it’s GOT and they’re cousins. Also, there’s Liam Cunnin/gham who once liked a Jonsa fanvideo lol and he barely has any likes. Sophie has said it’s possible, even as she joked about how it would be embarrassing to film an intimate scene. Kit has somehow avoided all questioning, but he has some pretty interesting reactions regarding Jon and Sansa’s relationship - either in the words he chooses (”She twists him like no one else”) or how over the top his reaction to Sansa is when he talks about how annoying she is to the point where he’s flushed and red and laughing while saying “I’ve gotten really animated now that Sansa has come into the story”. Bryan Cogman has a lot to say regarding this dynamic too, that he even wrote Jon leaving Ghost behind to watch over Sansa when he left for Dragonstone. 

What helps regarding the show is that it’s not just the actors or the political sense, but the camerawork and visual framing that makes their scenes very confusing because they’re shot as a romantic couple about to happen, as @trinuviel has explored in her series “All is Subtext”.  This notion that it was “framed” or “shot” that way was echoed by multiple reviewers and podcasts through season 6 and even into the beginning of season 7. 

A huge part of this was because it very subtly visually paralleled more positive romantic ships on the show like Ned/Cat, Jaime/Brienne, Robb/Talisa, Sam/Gilly, Missandei/Greyworm and even Jon/Ygritte to some extent. This is over a course of 7 episodes under 5 different directors. One of the most telling scenes for me was when they did two back to back parallels to Ned/Cat and Jaime/Brienne after Jon chokeholds Littlefinger over Sansa and they go on to give a Jaime/Brienne-esque goodbye. The same director Mark Mylod directed both the season 6 Jaime/Brienne and season 7 Jon/Sansa goodbye. Bryan Cogman even confirmed that the Littlefinger chokehold was meant to parallel Ned doing the same over Cat. 

But in my opinion, what weirdly cemented it was how Jon/Dany contrasted Jon/Sansa’s dynamic and framing. There were a lot of structural decisions made that undercut the Jon/Dany “romance” and made Jon/Sansa look more compatible and romantic, which is something I explored in my “Undoing Romance” series. Again, this is looking beyond the actors. The biggest tell for me was that they never got a first kiss so romantic tension was never released but just dissipated over plot exposition. Moreover, how is it that Jon and Sansa have more parallels with romantic ships than Jon/Dany do? Why do Jon/Sansa have more Robb/Talisa framing through season 6 than Jon/Dany through season 7 if that’s what’s happening? Why was there no passionate first kiss like theirs? We just skipped to the sex in between a montage that told us how related they are. 

Why didn’t Jon look back at Dany when Jorah did, while he looked back at Sansa? Why does Jon react more violently to Sansa’s suitors than to Jorah? Why are these characters caught in triangle with interlopers, who pose a political threat but are also interested in one romantically? Why is this dynamic given so much importance where there’s tension but also there’s emotional vulnerability that pours out contrasting Jon/Sansa’s and Sansa and Arya’s season 6 and season 7 battlements scenes respectively. Why did they reveal R+L=J at the end of season 6 - the season in which people questioned what the hell was happening in the Jon/Sansa dynamic and a whole season before Jon met Dany. Both season finales also teased conflict because of political claims that change because of R+L=J. Where his parentage reveal, relieves Jon/Sansa of the direct incest factor because it biologically distances them, it makes Jon and Dany biologically more related - especially because she’s heavily inbred herself. 

So it is a situation of “will they/won’t they?” but even more subtly because the cast and crew always skips past discussing it and with Jon/Dany happening people take it as accidental chemistry. There’s no heavy dismissal from the TPTB though when there could’ve been or laughing at it like Tormund and Brienne, which is totally for laughs and a show ship. What they do keep saying is that this relationship is key to watch and you have to wonder: why is it so important? To me it’s not about the actors chemistry or singular scenes. It’s about the story’s intrinsic narrative structure and the camera framing that makes the visual subtext convey more than the text does. 

The show frames Jon and Sansa’s relationship is odd because we know they weren’t close and Arya was his favorite and yet they take up quite an important part in each other’s arc at this point, where they both want to trust each other completely but don’t and yet their vulnerability comes out most around each other in these last two seasons. They’re being built up more slowly than Jon/Dany and more subtly so while people expect a full blown romance, I expect something more subtle, more quiet and thus emotionally rewarding for these characters individual and collective arcs. If it happens, D&D are building it up as a plot twist/game changer because it’s related to politics. But it’s not to say there can’t be emotional catharsis too because these characters have a lot of issues that they answer pretty well. 

Hope that answers your questions. 

- lostlittlesatellites

[stories-tales-myths]

Fairytale: König Drosselbart / King Thrushbeard

A German fairytale that I grew up with. It's supposed to teach a lesson, but it's actually really fucked up.

.characters: Princess [vain], King [her father], suitors [various], King Thrushbeard, Beggar

---

1. Enter beautiful young Princess. [Let's face it, she is a teenager. There are different versions with her age 14-18] King wants to marry her off.

2. King invites suitors [really just an assortment of inbred creepy old guys with titles and money] and because he is soo kind and progressive and loves his daughter soo much, he wants to let her choose who to marry

3. Suitors line up, Princess judges. [It's supposed to feel like that scene from "The Emporers new groove", but Princess actually has some good points] 'You are like four times my age' 'You smell as if you have never taken a bath in your life and I'm supposed to touch you?' 'I think you killed your last wife because she only had daughters. Did I hear that rumor right?' 'You look like a pig.' 'You're drunk.' 'Your parents were siblings and you only want to marry me because you don't have any sisters.' 'You live several weeks away and I don't want to leave my family and home like this:' [Add to your heart's content. Some good points, some shallow points. Seriously. The tale always gets told with shallow and reasonable criticisms, but the audience is always supposed to feel as if all points are shallow. I told you it's creepy. I have never heard a version without at least the age-thing and some reference to alcohol. But SURE, Princess just needs to suck it up. ] and finally: 'You have a funny beard. You look like a thrush. I shall call you King Thrushbeard.'

[This is a thrush. What a cute little birdie.]:

4. Somehow, this pisses the King of. [Maybe he used to sport this style in his youth]

The King throws a tantrum:

'You, my beloved daughter, are an ungrateful brat. You refuse to marry any of these wonderful suitors, these noble noblemen that would actually be perfect for you. And now you make fun of this handsome fella.

Obviously, I [mis]understand you perfectly: You don't want to marry a nobleman, so I guess you don't want to be a princess anymore. And you embarrass me in front of my old friends and drinking buddies, so I guess you don't want to be my daughter either.

You shall get your wish: The next beggar I see shall be your husband. You won't ever see this castle or me ever again.

Now go to your room, I will have a drink or two with these WONDERFUL men.'

5. Princess does not believe her father. Nevertheless, the next morning comes. There is a beggar. The beggar asks for a few coins. Instead, he gets a 14-year-old [or whatever age you picked] child bride [Child, yes. Even if she's 18, he's like twice her age at least] They have a very small wedding and then leave the castle. Princess cries the entire time. [reminder. The story usually gets told with the emphasis that Princess deserves this and is just being an ungrateful brat right now]

6. Beggar and Princess on their journey. Because she is now severely dehydrated, she stops crying. And she fucking scared. [Because her father just GIFTED her to a strange man without her consent and even went so far as to tell her, that whatever happens, she CANNOT come back and ask for his help. And she has no idea where the strange man lives or what he will do to her.

To clarify: The 'noble' suitors would have been pretty bad too. But she would still be a princess and have at least some protection. There would be a court and she would never be completely isolated. There would never be even a risk of her being forced into prostitution or sacrificed to some heathen god or many being eaten alive.

Most of that does not happen, but she can't know that for sure. Just imagine how you would feel in her situation. ]

To distract herself she starts to make light conversation:

"Who does that pretty meadow belong to?"

> "Oh that. It belongs to King Thrushbeard."

"Who does this lush forest belong to?"

> "Oh that. It belongs to King Thrushbeard."

...

[She always asks about something rich or pretty and it always belongs to King Thrushbeard. It's a day-long journey, so just do as many repetitions as you'd like. ]

7. They arrive at a really small, sad little hut.

Princess: "Who does that shabby hut belong to?"

Beggar: "That belongs to me. And because you are my wife now, it's your home as well. I expect you to cook and clean for me and tend to the garden, and I expect you to do well because I don't have time for a lazy wife.

[EWW]

[8. She probably gets raped. This part is never explicit because today's versions of any fairytale for children are rather tame. And the older versions don't NEED to say anything, because they originate in a time when OF COURSE you just casually raped your wife, especially on your wedding night.]

9. Princess has to deal with chores and fails, because of course she does. And Beggar is pissed and yells at her a lot. [He might also hit her.] But at least he is only at home at night, although she has no idea where he goes every day.

Options include

-basket weaving (She has bloody hands after this)

-pottery

-cooking (she doesn't actually fail at this, the soup is just a little bland. Beggar yells at her anyway.)

-cleaning

-laundry (almost drowns in a river)

-selling things at the market (she fails by being run over by a horse in this one.)

10. Beggar is fed up with his permanently 'mopey' [traumatized] and useless 'wife' [underaged slave]. So he sends her away to work at the castle as a kitchen girl.

Nobody recognizes her. [There are several possible reasons as to Why That Is. One worse than the next:

a) King may have ordered everybody to pretend to not know her. Just to make her feel miserable.

b) Princess is now malnourished and possibly sleep-deprived. Possibly her trauma manifests in severe nightmares. She isn't clean, her hair is different, she may have lost weight. Possibly her demeanor has changed too. Gone is the confident and playful girl. This girl speaks quietly, walks quietly and hunched over, and flinches at sudden movements.

c) Princess might be older now. We have no idea how long she lived in the hut with Beggar. A week? A year? Five Years? Who knows?]

11. She is actually relatively happy. She makes friends, learns skills from the other servants (who are actually patient and don't just yell at her). Maybe she gets to say hello to her horse again.

And Princess gets to steal small pieces of the exquisite food her father eats. [don't worry everybody does it] She picks these pieces up and puts them in a small pot under her skirt to eat them later. [Don't ask me about the logistics here. This is one of the big mysteries of my childhood. Why a pot? That must be uncomfortable. How inconspicuous can it be to do this? What if the King eats soup? ]

12. One day, there's a big banquette. King Thrushbeard is there, spots Princess, and says something like 'What a pretty girl. I don't care that she's working right now. My dick says I wanna dance with her, so I'm gonna.'

[In other versions he only notices her because the weird pot shatters and THEN decides to dance with her.]

13. Up-close, Princess realizes something:

King Thrushbeard IS the Beggar

14. King Thrushbeard officially introduces his wife to the world, Princess reconciles with her father. There is a second wedding, big this time.

[In some versions the King knew all along, in other versions he doesn't and just finds this hilarious.

In all versions this counts as a happy ending btw.]

---

Now the lesson here is that girls should always be kind and just do what their dads say. I guess. It's a terrible lesson.

[selfproclaimedunicorn]

In which I am against House Targaryen (part 4)

part 1, part 2, part 3

“Queen” Daenerys I*

She’s as self-important as Rhaegar. Refuses to listen to reason, advice, criticism, or damn history. She wants change and she wants it now, everything must align with the amalgamation of morals formed from The Free Cities and what she thinks Westeros is and it needs to align right this minute because all change is instantaneous and people readily accept it.

She has the most black-and-white thinking, like, if any culture does one single wrong thing then it’s all wrong.

She keeps adding titles and I’m fully convinced it gets longer each time she tells her name to people.

Down with torture, not just of the wine seller’s daughters, but her treatment of the Great Masters. She didn’t directly tell anyone to torture those girls, yes, but she knew it was going to happen the minute she okayed the torture-happy Shavepate to “interrogate” them. And, while I am in no way excusing slavery, you don’t need to all but crucify the Great Masters. That is literally the worst death that can be inflicted on someone and I don’t wish it on anyone. Regardless of what they did. And let us not forget that she fucking demolished Astapor. Yes, the city still stands, but Daenerys destroyed their infrastructure and left them defenseless against anyone who wanted to attack them. Her campaign in Slaver’s Bay killed God knows how many, destroyed one city, and nearly destroyed a second…she then named herself queen of the city she almost destroyed.

She, somehow, still has the gall to call herself a khaleesi when she hasn’t been one since Drogo’s death. Khaleesis don’t work like queens, you don’t get to just keep being one when your Khal is dead. You have to join the Dosh Khaleen, I don’t make the rules, that’s literally in the lore and it’s a rule**.

Now onto a little discussed topic about our dear Stormbrat–her treatment of her dragons. Daenerys is basically abusing them. She has no idea what she’s doing with her dragons, no one would have any idea what they’re doing with dragons because no one has had them in centuries, but Daenerys pretends she knows what she’s doing. What she’s actually doing is using her dragons as currency so she doesn’t have to actually pay anyone for anything. She just dangles Drogon*** in front of people, says “I’ll trade you,” and then banks on her ability to say “dracarys” and burn someone alive**** so she can get her dragon back. But, honestly, the dragons would probably be better without her. When they get too big for her to easily control and start acting like dragons (particularly dragons who don’t have a competent dragonlord) she just locks them up in Meereen and opens the door every so often to feed them or have them burn someone alive. This is not how you treat animals, particularly not if you call them your children BC that raises all kinds of implications for how you’re going to treat any actual human babies you potentially have*****.

Honestly people, this is not someone you want in charge of a city, let alone an entire goddam Empire of kingdoms that didn’t want to be united in the first damn place!

I will give Daenerys this though: she is a perfect representative of what House Targaryen has to offer. Whether she likes it or not, she lives up to the legacy of her House and it is not as good a thing as she likes to think.

Said it in part 1 of this rant, and I’m going to say it again. House Targaryen is the literal worst.

*#notmyqueen

**let’s not forget what happened in season 6 either. You know, when she burned down the Dothraki’s holy city and declared herself Ultra-Khaleesi

***who she pretty obviously plays favorites with

****I haven’t addressed this “burning alive” thing, but honestly do I have too? Can we all agree that’s a bad thing? Please? Like everyone has been desensitized to it happening in the show and books but imagine if you saw that IRL. Like, my God woman.

*****not that her inbred ass is going to be having children that will survive infancy anytime soon

[tatooine92]

Homeward, ch. 4 (POTC OC)

Synopsis: Eleven years ago, Adonia Barbossa was abandoned as a child by her father for no discernible reason. Now a pirate captain in her own right, she seeks him to finally demand answers.

Rating: T for language and any various and sundry innuendoes.

A/N: I will have you know that writing chapter 3 made me cry at work (because I was writing it at my desk, shhh). Usual shout-outs to @soulventure91 and @and-will-nice-hat because Reasons.

Present day.

Adonia stepped out of her cabin with the sun's rising, twisting her auburn hair into a thick braid. Tortuga had grown quiet as its population of carousing scallywags slept the day away, though a few people had begun to mill about. For her, it felt later than it already was. She had already been up for hours, plotting their course and mapping their heading. Soon, soon they would be underway. Thom had already come back from socializing and was climbing the lines, inspecting them and hard at work at his bosun duties. He whistled as he climbed; not a man for words most days, that one, but he did love a good song. Adonia had never been raised to sing aboard a ship (though she’d picked up songs along the way), but she figured Thom could do what he liked as long as he got his work done.

Footsteps on the ladder up from the lower decks made Adonia turn in time to see Jim emerge. He gave her a nod and an easy smirk as he stretched in the sunlight.

"Men are stirrin', mon capitaine," he told her. "We'll be ready to cast off soon."

"Good. I'm more'n ready to be away from this pestilent cesspit."

"And how d'you really feel about it, eh?"

Adonia arched an eyebrow at him and turned for the hatch leading belowdecks. She could hear the men moving about, but she whistled sharply.

"On deck, you pack of insolent wastrels!" she yelled at them. "We were to be away an hour ago!"

Immediately, her crew stepped to, scrabbling up onto the main deck and to work. Jim quirked a brow at his captain, amused.

"An hour ago?" he said.  

Adonia just smirked and said nothing, turning to go up to the wheel and pulling her hat down low over her brow to shade her face. Jim faced the men and paced the deck, calling orders for castoff. Before much longer they were underway, and Adonia hummed a tavern tune under her breath as she turned the massive wheel and guided her Lass out to open sea. She couldn't help the broadening smile on her lips as the sails filled with wind and the keel sliced through the waves, seafoam hissing up the side of the hull like steam. Like any captain worth his salt, she knew her heading and set her course for Cuba. Ship and captain moved together as if the rudder chain joined their souls, as if the seawater splashed along the hull and, in doing so, splashed into Adonia's veins. Days like this, maybe she hadn't been born with a line in her hand so much as the ship's wheel itself.

The thought raised an interesting question, though. Would she even be here, boots solidly planted on the deck, undaunted by the crest and fall of the waves, if her father hadn't abandoned her? She couldn't honestly tell herself it was worth it, not right now. Would she have been happier aboard the Pearl with him than on the Lass? Was the courage and ambition she had developed worth the clawing, lonely silence at night? She glanced down at her compass to check the heading even though she didn't need to, cupping her hand around the engraved gold. When she closed her eyes, the metal almost felt warm with her father's body heat it had absorbed in his pocket before he pressed it into her tiny, shaking hands. But she knew that wasn't so.

Adonia opened her eyes and looked out across the sea. The wind grabbed her braid and tugged like a child holding his mother's hand. I'm a fool, she thought, hauling my crew across the tides for my own resolution. But she would not turn back, not this time. This time, she wasn't jumping off a dock into open sea. She had a ship. She could catch the Pearl.

Around twelve hours later, maybe an hour or so out from sundown, Jim yelled to her to announce land in sight. There lay Cuba, and Adonia's brows furrowed. Cuba was a large island with a lot of open water. She'd known that, of course, but it suddenly dawned on her that she had not bothered to ask Avery where in Cuba her father had been seen. Damn it. That scared and lost little girl living in her psyche had got the better of her. Shit.

To all outside eyes, nothing was wrong. Adonia twisted her lips as she adjusted course to sail northward along the coast to Havana. But Jim knew. He came up to the wheel and saw her lips pursed and her shoulders tensed. She didn't look at him, save the briefest glance from the corner of her eye, as Jim waited in silent question.

"We're not like to make Havana by nightfall," she said. "Best find a place to drop anchor somewhere along the coast."

"He's in Havana?" Jim murmured within only her earshot. Adonia let out a slow, tense exhale.

"I have no earthly idea. Keep a lookout, aye? It's a black galleon with black sails. Won't be hard to spot."

"C'est ça, but this is a big ocean."

"...and I suppose he could've already come and gone."

Or was never here. Uncertainty froze in her gut as the Lass continued more northerly. Her mind raced, and everything she looked at seemed sharper, clearer somehow. Aye, Avery had only said Cuba. He hadn't specified where. Maybe he hadn't received that information himself. Or maybe he'd withheld it. But why would Avery keep that from her? It didn't make sense. What could he possibly hope to gain by sending her up here with no real leads—by preying on her need for answers? Unless—

"Cap'n!" Thom, her bosun, yelled up to her from the main deck in his heavy brogue. "Ship approachin', starboard aft!"

Adonia whirled. For a split second her eyes widened with the hope of seeing black sails and her father's skull-and-crossbones flag, but no—white sails and—oh God. When she saw the colors of the East India Trading Company floating on the wind, her gut dropped into her boots. She'd almost prefer the Royal Navy. At least they'd be polite about her hanging.

"Company ship!" she yelled. She threw her whole body into a sharp spin of the wheel to head more northeast, away from the coast and out to open ocean. "All hands to battle stations, guns at the ready! Step to, you verminous inbreds—we'll not be dyin' today!"

Her crew leaped to action, scrambling for the guns as Jim and Thom barked orders to them. Adonia spun back for a quick look at the pursuing ship, eyes scanning it. Ship of the line. Big, heavy, slow. They'd outrun it. Didn't have to run far, just beyond the reach of its guns. But her swift little brig, lightened from its last cargo haul, would make it. She had to. She wouldn't be—

The crack of cannonfire, rumbling like a distant thunderclap, put ice and fire both in her blood.

"God dammit, Jim, load the stern chasers, return fire!" she screamed down. "Buy us time!"

Jim yelled back either assent or complaint in such stressed, rapid-fire French that Adonia had no idea what he said and frankly didn't care. All she knew was he'd shifted a couple sailors back to the chase guns to try to keep the Company vessel at bay.

Too slow, though. A split second after Adonia ordered fire returned, the shot from the other vessel careened through the air over her head. She recognized it by its end-over-end spiraling. Chain shot. With a dull thunk and a sharp crack, the chain wrapped around the mainmast, the balls at either end of the chain clanking together. The mast didn't crack entirely, but it listed slightly, making her throat turn to cotton.

"Brace the mast!" Thom yelled below her, rushing forward with hastily collected equipment. "We'll not let this lassie down!"

He was scrabbling up the ratlines to reach the damage when a second cannon shot shattered the air. Adonia sucked in a sharp breath as she muscled the wheel back to port, trying to dodge it. But her spirited and spritely Lass was not that quick on her feet. The second chain shot collided with the mainmast, and this time the crack was much deeper and more sickening.

"Mother of God," Adonia breathed as the mast wobbled. Then the split in the wood widened, cracking like a felled tree. "Thom, get down, get down, damn ya, she's comin' down!"

Thom leaped down from the ratlines right as the mast split. Adonia's eyes widened and her grip froze on the wheel as the mast toppled, lines splitting and sails fluttering like the feathers of a bird spiraling into the ground. Sailors leaped out of the way as it crashed through the deck rail and into the water. Adonia's heart pounded so fiercely she couldn't hear anything but its tempo. She realized a moment or two later that Jim was standing next to her, yelling at her.

"Orders!" he barked.  

Think, Addie, think, damn you!

"We'll not abandon this ship!" she yelled back as the Lass floundered, crippled without her mainmast. "Whether or not we do, they'll be upon us, so we will not. We stand our ground!"

Unable to do much else, she stormed down to the main deck, sharp blue eyes a fevered fury of hate and steel. Her gaze swept over her crew, huddled at their various battle stations but watching her, their eyes alight with fear, all fixed on her. Adonia drew a deep breath. She was their captain, and she had yet to let them down. She heaved herself onto the fallen mainmast as the Lass drifted. Jaw set, she drew her cutlass and pointed it at the closing Company ship.  

"The bastards aboard that ship want to ensure the likes of ye are wiped from the seas! Now, I've been your captain for three years; have I ever once let ye fall into such ravening clutches?"

"No, cap'n!" her crew called up to her, a little weaker than she'd hoped. Then again, fear was the most powerful paralytic.  

"Aye, and I'll not see that happen today! So I ask ye all—who is your captain?"

Her crew cried out a cacophony of "You are!" and "Adonia Barbossa!" and her favorite, "Naught but you!"

"And which ship do ye call your home?"

"Dainty Lass!" they bellowed.

"And not a one of you would be here if I didn't think you had balls enough to stand and fight for her, or for me, or for your own lives! So when Beckett's bastards come aboard this lovely Lass, I'd best see ye fight like the devil himself was at the end of your blade!"

Drawing arms, her crew roared assent, and Adonia turned with a fiendish grin toward the Company ship as it pulled alongside the Lass. No, she would not sit at home with a fight to be had, not today.

[gosagacious]

Max Ride: The Ending of Nevermore

There are two cardinal sins a writer can commit when writing an ending.

Reveal that it was all a dream. 

Bring in some insane, game-changing twist at the last minute with no foreshadowing, and kill everybody with a meteor from space.

Nevermore does the second one. And it was supposed to be the final Maximum Ride book, the last one ever, which made it even worse. It was constantly set up, again and again, that Max’s quest was to save the world. And then, out of nowhere, the world ends. There’s barely even enough page space to cope with this plot twist.

True, in real life sometimes things happen like that. You can’t predict the future and sometimes everything just goes pear-shaped. But unlike real life, stories must follow rules and make sense. You cannot lay out one plot and follow it for hundreds of pages, and then toss in another, totally unrelated plot in the last ten.

And there’s the indignity of the world ending, the ineptitude of Max’s failure, after all these books building up to it. 

Actually, this could be an amazing concept if fleshed out. The Chosen One is constantly pressured and questions herself. As a teenager, she is sort of unqualified to save the world, but she stays determined, holding out hope that there’s some way to beat the odds . . . and she fails miserably. Reality ensues. There is no time, there is no way for her to combat it. She doesn’t even get off her front porch before the world explodes. 

That premise could become a fascinating plot. There are so many directions you could go with it. But in this series, it falls by the wayside. At the end of Nevermore, Max is more concerned with touching Fang’s face than with protecting others. When she wakes up in the ruins of the world, when she learns that countless people have died, it doesn’t matter. Let me stress that - EVERYONE IS DEAD AND/OR DYING. But who cares? Max and her buddies are okay! 

“It’s not selfish. We’re here. We’re alive. I’m not going to apologize for surviving.” That might sound harsh, but through the grief and the devastation, I can’t help feeling hope, too. If you could choose between life and death, wouldn’t you leap toward living with everything you had?

This paragraph comes IMMEDIATELY after the end of the world. Mere minutes have passed. And yes, it is selfish - because Max has lost NOTHING. Of course she doesn’t weep; she has nothing to grieve for. Instead, she marvels over the ruins of the world. She claims it as her home. It has to be read to be believed.

. . . somehow, this new world makes sense in a way that the old one never did.

The sky . . . feels familiar, somehow. Like I’ve been dreaming about it every night of my life, but I’ve just forgotten my dreams each day on waking to the life in which I have been trapped.

. . . in this postapocalyptic world, on this tiny, wrecked island, I have a feeling we’re going to excel.

. . . “It’s almost like we were meant for this world, and not that other one. Like it’s finally our time.”

It’s a dark thought, but one I can’t turn away from. This is an environment that requires a little something extra from its inhabitants . . .This place is primal, and it’s raw. I was made for this.

. . . It is my time.

The time of Maximum Ride.

She has failed - but now, as we slowly realize, she never had a reason to want to succeed. 

We are told that there’s grief and devastation, but we are shown none of it. Instead we see her reunited with Angel and Fang and Dylan, and reassured that the rest of her friends are safe. Dylan seems more confident, Angel more mature. Angel and Max are at peace with each other. Max and Fang declare their love.

At no point does Max bring up anything good about the old world. She doesn’t remember friends she’s made or beautiful sights she’s seen. Instead, she remembers the bad side of it, the torture and the whitecoat experiments.

Like, jeez. If you’re going to pick someone to save the world, at least make sure they feel some attachment to it. 

I have to say, it makes sense for her to be bitter about how she was treated in the old world, and it makes sense that she’s primarily concerned with the safety of her immediate family and not with untold billions of strangers. That’s realistic. But this drives home that Max was never off to save the world because she cared about it, only because that was what the Voice in her head told her to do. And that makes you question why she even listened to the Voice in the first place, why she seemed to accept this quest when she has only a fleeting attachment to it. She always seemed primarily concerned about the environment more than the general population.

The writer has walled himself into a corner with that meteor and is desperately trying to reassure the reader that no, this is good, this is great, this is a happy ending. Sure, I just killed you and your whole family in the book, but still -

Maximum Ride Forever backtracks from this. The new world is not beautiful, it is hellish. Sure, they’re survivors like Max boasted, but just barely. Max watches a friend die in the first few pages. Her family is gone forever. Nuclear winter is approaching. The threats are still out there and worse than ever. In Nevermore she bragged of the Flock that "There’s no leader now, no power. We’re all working—quickly, efficiently—together.” In Maximum Ride Forever, the struggle for power is back and the Flock falls apart almost immediately.

Anyway, back when Nevermore was the official ending, I looked it up for some reason and then I described it to Brother #1. I was full of righteous indignation. Brother #1 was, as usual, very serious.

"You realize what this means,” he said.

(I can’t always predict how his mind works.) “...What does it mean?”

"Their descendants are going to be really inbred.”