#also i know people will come at me and say that dddne DOES have a meaning its a signal that the reader knows what theyre getting into

[themoonking]

when people bring up the racism, homophobia, transphobia, romanticization of domestic abuse / rape / pedophilia / incest, literal actual written porn of literal actual real life flesh and blood children, et cetera et cetera on archive of our own, one of the ao3 stannies’ main defenses is “you can just filter out the tags if you don’t want to see that!” when that defense has no fucking legs to stand on.

ao3 is not an archive, it is barely even a website: a rant <3 (very long)

ignoring the fact that it’s a problem that all of that is permitted on the site in the first place (i guess child porn and racism are fine, and the people who allow it on their platform are fine, as long as i, personally, do not see it), that defense literally means nothing. it’s assuming that every little thing on ao3 is tagged properly and it absolutely is not, and if you think it is you are dumber than rocks. i mean for fuck’s sake, just touching on archive warnings and not tags, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is literally a valid option for fic authors to use when it should fucking not be.

if someone is a freak who thinks that pedo shit is hot, they might not tag it as “rape” (archive warnings OR tags). i’ve literally seen underage father/son rape porn with no trigger warning tags but “child abuse if you squint”. IF YOU SQUINT. if someone thinks that domestic abuse is actually cool and sexy when attractive people do it, they might not tag it as “abuse”. if someone is a freak who likes incest, but bends over backwards to justify it by only shipping adopted family members, then they tell themselves that they don’t view it as incest, and might not tag it as “incest”. if someone is a racist, a homophobe, a transphobe, et cetera and they wrote bigotry into their fic (or else wrote a deliberate troll fic to trigger people on purpose), do you really think they’re going to tag it as racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera? and some people get kicks out of writing purposefully triggering content and either leaving it untagged or mistagging it so that people will read it unsuspectingly.

even for just general content tags, it’s a mess. people just forget to tag things all the time. people deliberately won’t tag the endgame ship of their fic because “it’s a spoiler heehee”. people use the romantic or sexual “x / y” tag instead of the platonic or otherwise “x & y” tag, sometimes by mistake sometimes on purpose. it’s a joked about issue how people will tag characters or ships that appear in their fic for two sentences.

there’s no standardization of tags, which is a pretty obvious problem. what first comes to mind is the “dead dove: do not eat” tag which should just not be a tag at all because it just has no meaning. depending on the individual fic writer using it, it could mean anything from “literally the most sickening and depraved thing you’ve ever read in your life” to “horror w/ gore”. but it applies to other vague tags too - different fic writers will have different ideas of what the tag means.

in addition to that, what is and isn’t made a filterable tag, what tags are made synonymous, et cetera, is entirely up to the whims of the site staff. as an example, if you’re trying to look for fanfiction of a singular animated disney movie, the infinite crossovers with other disney movies will not actually be counted as crossovers (which they are) because they’re classified as the “disney theatrical animated universe” (which isn’t a fucking thing), so you can’t filter them out the “exclude crossovers” way. if you try to filter out the fandom tag “disney theatrical animated universe”, it’ll show up with zero fics because that tag is synonymous with every disney animated film (regardless of if the fic author actually used the tag “disney theatrical animated universe” or not), thus also filtering out the one you actually wanted to find.

and do not get me fucking started on the “all media types tags”, which also just shouldn’t be a thing because it makes it fucking impossible to find the specific fics you’re looking for. some people use it in place of tagging a specific canon / adaptation when their fic very clearly draws from one specific canon / adaptation, and you can’t filter it out because it’s synonymous with every fandom tag under its umbrella.

as an example of the issues of both the “all media types” tag and mistagging in general: as a fan of the witcher books, it used to be a fucking ordeal to find fanfiction specifically for the books (post netflix show release). some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag their fics with the book fandom tag in addition to (or even in place of!!) the show fandom tag when their fics were unquestionably show-specific, meaning i could not simply search only in the book fandom tag. i could not simply filter out the show tag, because some show fans would, for whatever reason, tag as fucking “all media types”, when their fics were unquestionably show-specific. and alas, i could not filter out “all media types” and the show tag, so that i see only those fics which have been deliberately and exclusively tagged as the book, not only because as mentioned some show fans would tag their show fics with only the book tag, but also because the fucking all media types tag filters out the book tag as well, leaving me with zero fucking fics REGARDLESS of if the author actually used the “all media types” tag. now, thankfully, i’ve thankfully seen this issue in this specific fandom lessen, but it still occurs in other fandoms and i guarantee that it didn’t lessen in the witcher fandom because of any fixing of the site on the part of ao3 staff.

another common defense of ao3 freaks is that it’s an “archive”, and therefore can’t get rid of anything anyone posts, and disregarding the fact that that is not how archives fucking work, they don’t just allow anything and also ao3 DOES get rid of fics... when they say that they don’t like proshippers, apparently, archives have... you know... archivists. they have someone or a team of someones making sure that everything in the archive is *properly fucking categorized*. they have someone or multiple someones making sure that everything they recieve (1) belongs there and (2) is properly labeled and organized. same for libraries. meaning that if ao3 really were an archive and not a sub par fanfiction website, they’d have something like that in place. something as simple as a report button for fics with a review team that will see if something’s been mis- or untagged. they’d have some kind of standardization of tags (especially the warning / trigger tags) and have proper tagging enforced in some way. and then they could also do something like stop being spineless racists, queerphobes, and pedos have the barest minimum of content guidelines saying that you can’t post fucking hate speech.

if something is mistagged or untagged, the most you can do is leave a comment politely asking that the author fix the issue, and then hope and pray that they do that. and if that person thinks [insert form of abuse] is hot, or if they’re just straight up a bigot that wrote bigotry into their fics to be bigoted, or they’re a troll that gets kick out of deliberately traumatizing people by tricking them into reading their mis/untagged fics, they might not! AND if you see a major tagging issue on an orphaned work, or a work that has an inactive author / hasn’t been updated in forever, good fucking luck getting even a negative response.

you can’t permanently block tags (i mean even tumblr.hell has that), meaning that if you would like to search for fic without coming across something troubling, triggering, or just something you don’t like, you have to either (1) do a work around by having a bookmarked link for every fandom you’re in or every character you like with all of your tags already blocked, (2) download browser extensions that do the work for ao3 because they can’t be bothered themselves, or (3) input every individual tag every time you search ao3 and don’t forget that all of those options only fucking work at all when everything is tagged properly, and we’ve already established its not. you also can’t actually block people (you can only prevent them from commenting) meaning that if there’s a specific person you’d like to stay away from your fics or a specific fic author that you don’t like and would like to stop seeing their fics clogging up the tag, you’re out of luck (though for the latter you could insert “-[username]” into the “search within results” box, but then uh oh we’re right back around to having to input that every time or have a bookmark)

their archive warning system is shit. first of all it’s functionally useless because, as mentioned, “creator chose not to use archive warnings” is an option. what’s the fucking point of special required archive warnings if you’re going to allow people to opt out anyway. second of all, aside from “chose not to use warnings” and “no warnings apply”, the only warnings are “major character death”, “graphic depictions of violence”, “rape/non-con”, and “underage”. disregarding the fact that they shouldn’t be allowing porn of underage characters in the first place (but i’m talking to a brick wall on that issue) and that “non-con” (and “dub-con”) as terminology needs to die, it’s just fucking rape lets not use weasel words... this is a paltry list of possible warnings. there’s no official warnings for depictions of: domestic abuse, animal abuse, depictions of racism / homophobia / transphobia / et cetera, suicide, self harm, et cetera et cetera. and we return to the issue of standardization of tags. in your required archive warnings at very least, there should be a standardization of what these mean, but ao3′s own faq is just like “ehh... you decide. we’ll leave it up to you”. what qualifies as graphic depictions of violence? two people may write the same level of violence, but qualify “graphic” differently, and make different decisions regarding their warnings. and we also return to the issue of: if a freak doesn’t see something that is clearly rape as rape, they might not tag it as such.

this website gets a disgustingly large amount of money every year that it doesn’t fucking do anything with. it’s been over a decade and they’re still in fucking beta. features that would actually be useful, like an actual block system, don’t exist. they technically have a report system for abuse and harassment and such, but apparently what they qualify as abuse and harassment is fickle. ao3 defenders seem to be very proud of the legal work they do for fandom / fanfic authors, but they set aside a very small amount of the money they get every year for legal advocacy, and they actually use even less of that, because it’s not the early 2000s “anne rice hates fanfiction” era anymore - you aren’t going to get fucking sued for writing fanfiction in the first place. based on their own self-reported yearly cost of upkeep, they literally already have enough money to run the site as they are now for the next twenty years.

once again: ao3 is not an archive. it is not a library. it is barely a even a website.

[insomniac-ships]

hi! i have a few questions about proshipping.

what is it, exactly? most of the stuff i've found is from an anti perspective and i want to hear from a pro perspective

also, is it kind of like pro-choice where you can respect peoples right to do something while not doing it yourself? so like respecting people for reading/shipping whatever they want while you might not ship those kinds of ships/engage in the content?

like for me, my trauma definitely impacts the content that i engage in, but i understand that people deal with trauma in their own way and that can come in proshipping (not that everyone who is a pro shipper has trauma)

sorry if any of this is worded wrongly and/or offensively. thank you for taking the time to read this and if you answer this :)

Hello there, Anon! ♡ Questions are always welcome!

(Any instances of "you" are intended as a general "you", not directed at you in particular, anon!)

Proship is, at the very core, very simple!

Ship and let ship -> a similar enough idea to pro-choice, yes! It just means that you're allowed to ship things I personally dislike, and vice versa, as long as no one is being harassed or directly, intentionally, and maliciously harmed in the process.

Don't like? Don't read. (DL;DR) -> if you know you don't like a trope/ship/character/etc., don't go out of your way to search for it, and certainly don't go around leaving nasty comments on stuff you don't like. Just close the tab, or hit the back button, and be on your way.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat (DDDNE or just dead dove) -> similar to DL;DR, but with emphasis on tagging. Essentially, it means "read the tags and don't be surprised when you encounter said tagged topics in this particular work". This goes both ways, for author/artist and for reader/viewer. Authors and artists have the responsibility to tag their works accurately and thoroughly, and provide content or trigger warnings when necessary. Readers and viewers have the responsibility to fully read the provided tags, filter out topics they find upsetting or triggering, and to know their own limits. In the event that someone is triggered or squicked out by something they didn't realize would be an issue, it's also their responsibility to take a step back and practice some self care while they calm down. ♡

The Golden Rule -> simply, treat others how you would want to be treated. This should apply to everyday life, as well as when interacting with folks in fandom spaces.

A few more things!

× Proship, as a stance, is also inherently anti-harassment. No one should be harassed, ostracized, or abused because of their likes and dislikes regarding fiction. (However, I'm also not naive enough to believe that no proshipper has ever harassed an anti. No community is flawless, and I don't doubt we've had our share of dirtbags.)

× Not all proshippers like "problematic" ships. We all have different limits and boundaries when it comes to what we enjoy and what we are squicked out by.

× Creating or consuming dead dove content as a tool for coping with trauma doesn't work for everyone. But for those it does help, it can provide a sense of control over traumatic situations, offer a safe and controlled means of catharsis, assist in recontexualizing trauma, and help people connect with other survivors and find a sense of community. Sometimes it's nice to know you aren't alone in your experiences. ♡

× I have never personally seen a proshipper say with their whole chest that "fiction doesn't affect reality". What I have seen said is "fiction is not reality, don't treat it as such" and "fiction does not impact reality on a 1:1 ratio". Reading, writing, drawing, thinking, or creating something fictional is not the same thing as actually Doing The Thing in real life.

Also, just to clear it up: proship does not mean "problematic ship", despite what many antis like to say. The prefix "pro-" is just the opposite of the prefix "anti-".

This, uh... got longer than I intended. Sorry about that! I hope this answers your question, and if you have anything else to ask, don't hesitate! ♡

And if other proship folks have anything to add, please do!

[notasapleasure]

Also can I hear abt the Marthe/Kiaya band AU thing?

Well first, thank you for reminding me it was all in the file named 'bad very bad no good' and just comes after the already published horrible Jerott/GRM (cw rape, dddne!!!). Haha yes, Jerott's my favourite character, why do you ask? This is now uhhhh a 78 page document.

As for Marthe/Kiaya, there's nothing concrete written really, just allusions to it, and I think I was probably gonna follow canon in that way and not go into direct pov on them.

I've just pasted the couple of scenes with Kiaya below to go with my uhh minimal commentary/thoughts! They hopefully demonstrate my idea that she's quite happy to take any favours or gifts going, whether they're offered by Marthe or Lymond, but she keeps her cards close to her chest regarding what, if anything, she intends to offer in return. She sees an investment opportunity in the form of Lymond, as discussed with La Dame (named Thomasina Durand in the AU; also reminder that the Aga Morat is 'Baron Morgan'), but unfortunately Marthe is not viewed in the same way. We're too early for Tori Amoses and Fiona Apples - Marthe's too abrasive and too stubborn, too 'difficult' to market at the scale Kiaya deals in, too threatening to be a Kate Bush, too fierce to be a Toyah, too normal to be a Siouxie Sioux, etc. But Kiaya won't say no to a pretty woman offering to take her to bed *shrug emoji*

Marthe is mad that Francis is trying to muscle in on her tactics - she tries to persuade herself of the belief that anything he does to Kiaya she can do better, but she's been round long enough to know that men always get the contract deals first. It does mean that Kiaya can pick and choose just exactly what kind of nice time she gets to have. She is living her best life :)))

I don't know that Marthe falls *in love* with her, but she absolutely yearns for the power and influence Kiaya (appears) to have, and she imagines that the two of them would be unstoppable if Kiaya would just stop being some kind of gender traitor and back her and her music. She's grown up with her foster mother/grandmother telling her she'll never be enough, but never really understanding *why* (beyond 'misogyny') and never fully internalising the message, so she's always in a state of believeing/not believing it. Rationality about the sexist world she inhabits is constantly warring with ego - she's seen enough 'exceptions to the rule', women who are extraordinary enough to break through, but she's also seen the flip-side and knows no-one ever makes it on their own, they're always a product of a certain kind of marketing and industry support, and so there's a kind of love/hate relationship to the idea of Kiaya and what she can offer. She's always hopeful she can persuade her to take her side, and Kiaya will never be moved.

Kiaya has an open relationship with Dragut, though they'd never be such vulgar hippies as to describe it like that. They make their influence and power work for them wherever they are - fear, lust, money, whatever is most appropriate. She does have a genuine appreciation of music and what will go down well with the public, though she's probably personally rather condescending when it comes to what's popular - away from work Kiaya won't listen to anything younger than 200 years old, because that's the stuff that's truly impacted the world. Marthe playing an antique instrument to her in the privacy of her hotel room is an utter treat, a delight, a morsel of ambrosia - but it's not going to make her any money!

Eventually, I think Oonagh is a helpful person to give Marthe some perspective on band AU Kiaya. Oonagh has met women like this, power-brokers like this, people who take and take and take but simply never give anything of themselves back. Oonagh understands Kiaya with one glance at their first meeting, and when Marthe overhears her assessment of her something probably clicks and she's able to restore perspective on the 'relationship' that never was. She has a new strong force of a woman to learn from and admire :))

--

Intro to Kiaya in the bandverse (as it currently stands, but of course she meets Philippa in New York before then).

The following day, with Jerott pacified by the diazepam Onophrion had brought and administered - after assuring Francis that one calming dose would not render him addicted to a new drug - Francis managed to sleep through the hot afternoon. He almost felt refreshed, almost felt hungry enough for one of Morgan's enormous steaks, when he made his way to the bar that evening.

He found, however, that Morgan already had company, and stopped in the middle of the room when he recognised the woman sitting next to him.

Her back ramrod straight, her suit and make-up immaculate, talent scout and agent extraordinaire, Kiaya Çalışkan smiled at Francis and there was mischief in her eyes.

He'd never met her, but everyone in the industry knew her. Though she moved in different circles to Margaret Douglas, her reputation for unearthing talent was no less remarkable, and her track record for securing deals with the big labels was formidable. If Margaret was a king-maker in the British post-punk scene, Kiaya Çalışkan was handmaiden to the globe-straddling empires of artists whose work transcended local or national scenes and matched the invisible, unpredictable zeitgeist of the youth from Tokyo to New York to Berlin. She was even rumoured to have contacts working behind the Iron Curtain, subtly chipping away at the soundtrack of Communist repression on behalf of global capitalism's need to discover new markets.

In short - she was not the sort of person Francis expected to encounter in a barn lying well off the beaten track, in a state not known for its wild creative scene.

Morgan beckoned him over. "Frankie, come and join us!"

He moved stiffly, all the while trying to read what was in Kiaya's expression, as Morgan changed nothing about his own habits, pawing at Francis' leg beneath the table when he sat down.

"It seems I've done you a disservice, boy," Morgan beamed at him. "You are a real rock star..."

Francis didn't take his eyes from Kiaya, whose smile broadened, her white teeth echoing Morgan's.

"Mr Crawford," she said warmly. "It's so good to meet you."

"Did your car break down on the I-70 too, Kiaya Hanım?"

Kiaya turned her smile to Morgan - all condescending business politeness. Her dangling, jewel-speckled earring glittered against her thick mahogany hair when she spoke; the angle she displayed for Francis showed off the profile of her handsome, curved nose. "You tell him, Baron," she purred.

Morgan wore a smug expression. He swilled the bourbon round in his glass, and Francis wondered what time their business meeting in the bar had begun. He was drinking like this wasn't his first of the night.

"Miss Caliskan is a regular at my establishment, Frankie. She knows where to find talent. She's even signed up some of the bands she saw here - big fat contracts and advances to match." He raised his brows significantly.

Kiaya Çalışkan offered to get Francis a glass and share the bottle of wine before her, but he shook his head.

"Coke is fine, thank you."

"I keep tellin' him it'll rot his teeth..." Morgan cajoled.

"You know my partner Dragut, don't you?" Kiaya watched his response carefully. "I believe the two of you worked together in New York, earlier in the decade?"

Francis managed to keep his expression mild. He did indeed know Dragut, or he had known him - as to whether they could have been considered colleagues was another matter, however. As Francis recalled it, he had been considered a possession of the mob, while Dragut had been in their employment as a bouncer at the club Francis was compelled to play at.

He inclined his head. "Indeed? Yes I do know him. It appears we live in a small world, Kiaya Hanım."

Her eyes widened, glittering with ambition as she gave him a feral smile. "Growing smaller by the day, Mr Crawford. As our empire grows - Dragut runs his business out west now. He heads security for a casino in Vegas. It's a wonderful place for acts to get their big break. But he likes to know I'm staying somewhere safe when I travel across country alone."

Morgan beamed with pride. "She doesn't fly, because she might miss the next big thing out here at the Oasis..."

"And I thought it was because she was afraid of heights," Francis accepted the glass of soda he was handed and prepared to hear Morgan make his usual order on his behalf. But tonight, Morgan gestured, palm up, and invited Francis to choose.

Supposing this was some kind of acknowledgement of Francis as a 'real' musician, he picked a burger and then froze in surprise as the chair next to him was pulled out.

Marthe looked down at him with a cool smile. She'd applied the red lipstick of the Doña María costume and her black lace turtleneck and miniskirt had been cleaned of dust. Her hair fell in a blonde cascade over one shoulder and she extended a hand to Kiaya Çalışkan.

"We met in New York briefly, I believe you're a good friend of my foster-mother's."

Kiaya took Marthe's hand and raised her brows, a polite smirk on her lips. "Yes. Marthe, isn't it?"

Francis saw Marthe's neck flush pink as she sat down, hastily calling the barman back to place her own order.

"And I'll have...what wine is good here?" she looked at Kiaya Çalışkan.

"Oh! You're drinking wine? Just bring a second glass for her, please. She can share mine," Kiaya waved a hand to dismiss the man.

Baron Morgan chuckled and his fingers massaged Francis' knee beneath the table. "Well well. The little lady has decided to join us. I hope all this raw masculinity hasn't been puttin' you off, darlin'?" He was definitely tipsy, Francis decided.

Marthe gazed at him without expression. "Not at all. But if there are business deals being made, I shouldn't like Francis to have the only say."

Morgan laughed again. "Oh darlin'. You have no idea," he moved his hand higher up Francis' leg, his arm visibly stretching, and Francis jerked his thigh to shake him off. Morgan's laughter repeated itself, his gaze on Francis unperturbed as he took another drink.

Marthe's blue eyes absorbed it all, and she smirked at Francis. "No, indeed. It's far too subtle for me."

Kiaya Çalışkan had been generous with her information. Baron Morgan now assumed he knew all of Francis' troubles and desires, and quizzed him in ever more prurient detail about his life. Meanwhile, Marthe seemed to be doing her best to get a contract signed then and there, though Kiaya Çalışkan appeared unmoved by all her achievements and ambitions. Francis grew ever more frustrated as the other three drank and boasted and plotted and he realised he wasn't going to get to talk directly to Kiaya that night.

He believed that she did pass through Morgan's Oasis regularly, but the coincidence of meeting the mistress of his old acquaintance, Dragut, here still made him suspicious. Yet she acted like she really was just stopping in for a night, and was delighted to find a diversion as amusing as Marthe along the way.

After eating, when Francis was starting to feel tired and heavy, the other three were boisterous with drink. He didn't remember which one of them had suggested it first, but Marthe was looking at him fiercely.

"We should play."

"Yes! Play!" Morgan clapped his hands and then clapped Francis' shoulder.

Kiaya Çalışkan inclined her head and raised her glass. "It would be a pleasure, Lymond, if you chose to play for us."

So he blinked and drew a breath and summoned the energy to stand. He and Marthe helped themselves to instruments displayed on the wall near the stage, but brought their guitars back to perch on the table nearest to Baron and Kiaya.

Tuning up, Francis fought the heaviness in his eyelids, yawned, and listened to Marthe's murmured suggestions.

The first song, she insisted, should be one made famous by Francis Rankin Crawford.

"Really? They won't know that here," Francis grumbled, bending an ear to his instrument as he twisted the tuning pins.

"They will. They do. I used to play it with my band all the time. People loved it."

"In New York."

"It's not another planet. Kiaya will know it. Morgan, if he's half the judge of talent he claims, will know it."

Francis said nothing. He struck a chord and looked at her, and Marthe nodded and double-checked her own tuning.

Together, they played the song that Francis' grandfather had popularised - a French ballad reworked for the English-speaking masses. Together, their riffs wove in and out of each other, their voices were uncannily matched. To their audience they looked angelic: two fine-boned blonds leaning their heads away from one another, their legs crossed in opposite directions, their talent exquisite and their unison innate.

They played a few more songs: the Wayfaring Stranger, a folk ballad familiar to Marthe for its American roots, and a cover of Heaven by Talking Heads. A hint of competitiveness crept in and they ended with another folk song, The Old Man Came Courting: they embellished it with call and response, duelling guitar and voice, the tempo building to a breath-taking gallop.

It was more than enough to woo their audience.

"My, my..." Baron Morgan said as he applauded. "To think I came across real, genuine treasure at the roadside."

"They are golden, aren't they?" Kiaya agreed, her appraising smirk roving over both of them.

Marthe smiled back and Francis rubbed his forehead - he just wanted to go and sleep.

It wasn't permissible though, not yet. Morgan stood and drained his glass. "Great chat, as always, Kiaya," he slurred the name down to two syllables, so it sounded like Kee-ya, but she didn't seem to mind. "You really are a fount of wisdom."

Kiaya poured more wine out for her - and for Marthe. "I wouldn't want you to miss out due to a lack of information, Baron. Information is money," she gazed steadily at Francis, though it was Marthe who approached her.

"As is time," Morgan said profoundly. He took the neck of Francis' guitar and lay the instrument down on the table. "The staff will put it back," he said, looking heavily down at Francis' face.

It was a summons, much as Francis had suspected was coming. He levered himself off the table and lingered a moment, feeling Marthe's scornful stare as he and Kiaya locked gazes. "Are you staying long?"

Kiaya Çalışkan shrugged. "Perhaps I'll stay to see you perform. Perhaps not." She glanced at Marthe. "There isn't usually much to do out here, comfortable as it is."

Morgan chuckled and turned Francis by the arm, indicating he should walk ahead. "Enjoy the amenities, ladies," he put his hat on, touched a finger to the brim in a salute, and then prodded the small of Francis' back.

--

And the other Kiaya section that's written:

Outside the shower, he put the past - near and far - away, and bent to the rucksack Morgan had salvaged from their broken down car. In it, precious little of Francis' belongings remained - all that they could pawn they had got rid of, and he was left with one spare set of threadbare clothes and a fat, broken-spined paperback collection of contemporary poetry.

He pulled on the other clothes, the shirt of pale-checked cotton, ran his hands hastily through his wet hair, and left again in search of Kiaya Çalışkan.

If Morgan was going to cover the county with posters announcing their performance as 'Lymond and band' there would be no chance at all of arriving stealthily at Graham Reid Malett's ashram one state over - even if the Rajneeshees were sheltered from the outside world, Swami Geetesh would not allow himself to be ignorant of events so close by. It had set Francis' mind: they needed to get away sooner rather than later. He was relying on being able to strike a deal with Kiaya Çalışkan that would get them out of the Oasis and back on the road.

Standing outside his room, peering at the vehicles on the other side of the car park - Morgan's truck, a van used by the ranch staff, a collection of motorbikes glittering with chrome, and a two-seater red soft-top that had to be hers - he was debating where to start his search when a door to his left, over by the pool, opened and he heard Marthe's laughter.

She loitered on the lintel, her Doña María outfit rumpled, her lipstick long gone, and her boots in her hand. She leaned forwards and murmured something that didn't carry, and Kiaya Çalışkan's ringing, plummy laugh answered it.

Francis stepped back into the doorway of his and Jerott's room, but saw that Marthe was already aware of him. She stalked along the decking that fronted the row of rooms like it was a catwalk, her eyes fixed on him and a challenge in her smile.

"Don't tell me you didn't get breakfast in bed, Frankie?"

"No, some of us have actual business meetings to conduct..." Francis circled around her and saw Marthe's eyes spark with annoyance as she realised that he was heading in the direction she'd come from.

Her lip curled as she turned to face him. "And does your roomie know where you've been spending your nights?"

Cold, commanding, Francis took a step back towards her. "I believe he's had his own share of troubles to concern himself with," he said in a tone of warning.

There was that uncanny, funfair mirror feeling again: her eyes, that were so like his, narrowed with an echo of his own dislike; her long mouth curved without mirth, and she raised her chin haughtily. "He doesn't know the half of it, though, does he?

"He doesn't need to," Francis said firmly.

"Oh come on," Marthe said scornfully. "He's more repressed than a citizen of Cuba - it might do him some good to get the five star guest treatment…"

He felt himself turn chill as the blood drained from his face, and Marthe took in his white fury and moved away uneasily. Francis remembered, viscerally, the sensation of being pinned up against Morgan's kitchen counter - he'd braced himself against the marble slab as Morgan stood between his legs, his hips flush with Francis', while Francis tried to keep up with his sloppy, impatient kisses. He remembered each time that week when Morgan had forced himself beyond Francis' generous boundaries, had slapped aside what was offered and grasped for more instead. He remembered cleaning handprints off the piano in the studio at St Mary's and he remembered the blood on Jerott's face, the small, hunched, astonished look about him as he had struggled to come to terms with what Graham Reid Malett had done to him there.

His hands were balled fists, trembling with fury. "And while we're at it, shall we all request some electro-shock therapy to fix our own damaged minds?" he hissed.

Marthe blinked and grimaced. "Excuse me?"

"It's no different, is it?" he raised his brows. "You can't change someone by holding them down and telling them they're wrong."

Still a little ruffled, made standoffish by Francis' tone, Marthe looked him up and down. "Does Morgan play rougher than you like, then?"

"He's a perfect gentleman," Francis backed towards Kiaya's room. "I merely prefer not to share..."

She shook her head, her mouth curled in disgust as he turned to try his own hand at seducing Kiaya Çalışkan and her contracts.

"Fuck you, Francis," she spat and stalked away.

Francis stood outside the end room, straightened his back and stretched his shoulders and neck. He let out a sharp breath - and with it any extraneous, irrelevant feelings about what he was doing.

This was necessary, he told himself. It wouldn't always be necessary - he had to make himself believe that - but it was now, in order to allow him to protect the people he cared about, the people he'd put in danger. And he was wiser than he had been, he knew what he was dealing with. He knew now how to make sure that no one got all of him, the way it had been with Margaret Douglas. How to draw up the terms that would allow him to endure the signing away of autonomy, that would guarantee he wasn't going to let anyone down again, because he still retained just enough of himself - just enough - to arrange their freedom and safety.

Kiaya opened the door at his knock. She was wearing a fine robe of white cotton that, held loosely together by a knotted cord, revealed her black, lace-embellished slip beneath. She tossed her glossy hair back over her shoulder and smiled at her guest. "Good morning, Mr Crawford."

She was professional enough not to act coy or naïve: she stepped aside and gestured for him to enter. "I had some breakfast sent over from the kitchen and there is still coffee in the pot."

Her room was larger than the twin he shared with Jerott, and had a small counter with a kettle on it and shelves above for crockery. There was a tray with fruit salad and a half-empty plate of pastries on it, and Kiaya poured him a coffee and handed it to him enriched with cream and sugar.

"I would ask how you knew, but your acquaintance with Thomasina Durand explains it." Francis leaned his hip against the counter and smiled coolly over his mug.

Kiaya's brows raised in polite acknowledgement. It might have been said that she was impressed at his observation from the previous night regarding her contacts - but he didn't expect her to know everything about his history with Marthe's foster-mother, writer of the industry-leading column 'Doubting Tom'.

"Perhaps I simply saw a tired man who has not yet had breakfast, and made a good guess?" Kiaya suggested, raising her own drink, black as her hair, to her lips.

Francis met her playful gaze and his eyes narrowed. "It's said by many an average agent that this industry runs on hunches and gut feelings alone - but you and I know better. It's about who you know, and what they've decided the future will be."

"Intuition and observation still play a part," Kiaya replied robustly. "Why would I waste a meeting with Ms Durand discussing your rider, Mr Crawford?"

He laughed and allowed her the point, pausing to drink the sweet drink in his cup and experience the sensation of being revitalised. He accepted a seat in one of the two small armchairs that her room was provided with, and managed a grateful nod when she placed the fruit and pastries on the coffee table between them.

Unselfconscious about her scant outfit, Kiaya crossed one long, olive-brown leg over the other and combed her hair idly with manicured nails. She watched Francis and smiled. "Of course, during our meeting, Madame Durand and I did talk about you. She truly has high hopes for your career."

Francis put down the fork he had held poised above the fruit bowl. He laced his fingers in his lap. "Indeed? I thought I must have disappointed her by now? If not, it wasn't for lack of trying."

"Madame Durand has faith in you, Mr Crawford. Faith can't be shaken by a few petty squabbles in the press, nor, you should know, by any level of proximity to another's...tragic misadventure." She raised a brow and took an engraved silver cigarette case from the pocket of her robe.

Francis sat stock still, determined that she would not see him react to the implication in her words.

"Indeed, she was quite impressed at what you achieved on behalf of that Libyan boy. A shame that he seems to have had to resort to farm labour after the success of his album. It can be hard to find an audience for world music."

Still Francis didn't move. His mind was whirring into frantic action though, trying to determine what she might do with the information that Salah was on site, and whether she also knew about Archie and Onophrion; whether she had learned about them from Morgan, or whether she planned to tell Morgan.

Finally, he shook his head when she offered him one of the long, slim cigarettes as she lit one for herself.

"How did you know?" She had compelled him to ask it anyway, it seemed.

Genuine amusement cupped her eyes as she watched the ash fall from her cigarette into the ashtray. She considered how honest she was willing to be and then shrugged. "Dragut knows I'm safe when I stay here. He keeps his own contacts among Baron's staff to ensure it remains that way. All sorts need to visit an Oasis in the desert,  after all - predators can get...mixed up with prey."

Francis felt his lips pull into a smirk. "And which are you, Kiaya Hanım?"

She eyed him from below heavy lashes and her mischievous expression echoed his. "I am merely here on safari."

Francis barked a laugh and picked up the fork again, spearing a grape and a cube of melon. "And as such, you must not interfere with the ecosystem? Or is it a hunting safari?"

"If you are asking whether your friends are in danger of exposure on my part - the answer is no. Their plans do not interest me," Kiaya smoked with the vigour and speed of a steam train, yet each clipped, decisive gesture remained elegant.

She added nothing more, and once again it was Francis who was forced to ask, "Then what does interest you?"

"Ah," she grinned. She seemed pleased that he had asked, that he was willing to play along with these little games. "What interests me is how a man with a golden path laid before him spends more of his time in the gutter than pursuing this path. How, with each new album, though the sales increase and the fans multiply, he ends up poorer and further from the act of creation than he has ever been. How a man whose music could change this messy world instead shuns the platforms from which he could use it to do so and pursues dead ends in the desert."

As he gazed into her knowing expression he felt his skin prickle with goosebumps. He moved his hands, gripping the arms of the chair to stop them quivering. "I have found that music is less effective as an instrument of change than I once hoped."

Kiaya's smile was unmoved. "That is because you are focussing on the little things. Take a broader view - imagine what your music sounds like to those who have never heard it before. Imagine hearing lyrics in your own language that arrange the world in a way you had never realised was possible."

He allowed his brows to rise at this and let out a snort. "The little things?"

"Your destiny is not with a bastard child born in the desert, Mr Crawford. It is not with the child's mother - she is a husk, she has no more to give to the public sphere, and her art could not stand alongside yours." Kiaya's lips still curved, but her eyes were cold and hard as brass.

Francis felt something hysterical flutter in his chest and he laughed at the ceiling. "No. Of course. Destiny is always impersonal. What are destiny's thoughts on theft, however? On music that might change the world, as you'd say, being repurposed to fund a cult?"

"I understand that cults can change the world, too," Kiaya replied. "Are you telling me you have unreleased material to recover?"

He smiled crookedly, knowingly at her, though the bile rose in his throat. "And if I did? What would it be worth to you?"

Kiaya carefully extinguished her cigarette and toyed with the lace trim of her slip. "If it is already out of your hands, there is nothing to prevent me from recovering it myself. Is that not so?" she raised a brow in challenge.

It felt like acid inside him, his hatred of this bargaining - it was even more loathsome, somehow, than simply bargaining with his body - and it seemed like the feeling might dissolve through the front of his chest and neck, exposing a gaping, red ruin: the need of the man behind the musician. "All I ask," he said as steadily as he could. "Is for a ride to Salina. From there, I can arrange finances, I can ensure my people are safe. I will go to Nevada and finish what I came to do, and then you will have what I can recover from the man who stole from me; you will have those master tapes and more. I will sign a deal with you, and - " the words stuck in his throat.

Kiaya watched him mildly, amusement in her expression. "And?"

"And the terms will be as you wish," he forced himself to say.

"Mm..." she looked down at the lace on her thigh, at her glossy nails plucking at it. "It is a nice offer, canım. But I can't let you leave here like that."

"Excuse me?"

"You've made a commitment to Baron Morgan. You want to make a deal with me, while you say this is how you will honour that commitment?"

Francis released a disbelieving breath of laughter. "I didn't think you would be subservient to him..."

Kiaya's smile was now a little patronising. "It is useful for me to stay here. Why would I jeapordise my relationship with him?"

"With my material to your name, you'd never need to stay here again," Francis cocked his own, challenging brow.

"Hm," Kiaya moved decisively to light up another cigarette. "That will be up to me, Mr Crawford. In the meantime, if I sign you, it will be after seeing you perform."

"You could be waiting a while," he said sourly. He felt doubt begin to nag at his assumptions regarding this conversation and what Kiaya Çalışkan truly wanted.

She shrugged. "Then perhaps in the meantime I will make a visit to Nevada. I know who it is you have business with there."

Francis' fingers curled tightly against the arms of the chair. "Graham Reid Malett is a dangerous man."

"My partner is a dangerous man, as you should well remember."

"Dragut is honourable - as you tell me you are. Honour won't stop Reid Malett."

Her eyes sparked with - excitement? Francis suppressed a shudder.

"I think, Mr Crawford, I am beginning to understand something of what Madame Durand sees in you. You are ruthless, and ambitious. I cannot wait to see you play."

"You don't need to. I'll play for you now." Francis twitched a shoulder, acting like the change of topic suited him, even as he reeled from the imagined damage Kiaya Çalışkan and Dragut Reis could do to his plans. Should they thunder into Graham Reid Malett's Nevada ashram without a care, the victims and hostages Geetesh had tucked and woven into the fabric of the place would be in direct, mortal peril - of that Francis was certain.

He made to stand - "I'll get the instrument I played last night from the bar. A private concert, Kiaya Hanım..."

"Sit," she cooed. "Eat your breakfast. There is no hurry, Mr Crawford."

He was already on his feet and she rose to join him, standing close so that he smelled her perfume beneath the cigarette smoke.

She shifted the balance of her weight so that her hips tilted towards him. "Sit," she repeated, her fingers pressing to his chest.

He stood there, looking into the canopy of her eyes and trying to see beyond the cool imperviousness. He allowed one hand to rise to her arm, smoothing over the thin, rumpled cotton of her gown from her elbow to her shoulder. She didn't move as he lowered his gaze from her eyes to her mouth.

"Of course," he looked at her again. "I could perform any other way you choose..." She was watching him with a closed, amused expression, her fingertips still on his chest. So he leaned forwards and murmured, "Sit? Or would you prefer me to kneel?"

The way her brows raised and her lips curved seemed to give him his answer, so Francis sank to the carpeted floor as gracefully as his tired body allowed. He touched his hands gently to her hips and then moved his fingers to the bare skin of her legs, softly running his touch up the outside of her thighs beneath the robe, working his way up to the lace hem of her shift.

Kiaya smiled down at him. She tucked her hair back behind her ears and then reached for him, raking her fingers through his curls, tilting his face up to her.

He tried not to flinch as he recalled Morgan's grip tugging on his scalp.

"How nice, canım," she purred. "But I've had my fill of such gifts this morning. You may return in the evening, and we can continue our...negotiations."

He let out a harsh laugh as she drew his head back, and leaned his jaw into her palm. Privately, he cursed Marthe and her own selfish agenda, her untrustworthy, libertarian approach to her career. "That won't be possible, my lady, not if I am also to keep my word to our good host."

"Not at all," Kiaya beamed, running one thumb over his lower lip. "Baron has some business to take care of - I believe he intends to source some of your records. He won't be back from Salt Lake City for a couple of days."

Francis did all he could not to let the hope these words sparked show. If Morgan was away it was the best chance he'd have of getting out of here - he could be in Salina that very day, get a car with Gaultier's money, and be back to pick up the others before Onophrion's kitchen shift was even halfway done. No more bargaining: he'd be able to leave Jerott and Marthe, Salah, Archie and Onophrion somewhere suitable and safe and make his own way to the ashram for the reckoning he was due.

"In that case," Francis said smoothly, "I shall be only too delighted to return later."

"I am pleased to hear it," Kiaya Çalışkan smiled and turned away. "I haven't enjoyed business quite this much in some time," she added over her shoulder when Francis had got to his feet.

He blinked back dizziness - he was still hungry, still tired - but caught her wrist before leaving, pulling her close again.

She was warm and soft against him, scented with jasmine and sandalwood, leaning her hips readily into him as she pulled back to smile at his expression.

"A down payment," Francis's lips curved in something like a smile, and he moved to kiss her, recalling the taste of Margaret Douglas' lipstick and her moans of pleasure at knowing the power she had over him.

Kiaya Çalışkan smiled before she opened her mouth and then returned the kiss, filling his senses with the buzz of caffeine and nicotine.

"How nice," she repeated in a murmur as he released her and turned to leave. "You'll go far, Mr Crawford. Just as Madame Durand predicted."