#final chapter today | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

moonshine-nightlight · 3 months

Text

Courtship Confusion: Part One

You’ve been working with your siren partner for a couple years now. A consummate flirt, you’d initially been put off by his whole charming deal, somehow he's become your best friend. You’ve been wanting to see if he’s still interested in dating, but unfortunately he’s not picking up your hints. A pair of visiting cubi remind you of the cultural differences that come with interspecies dating. Maybe you’ve both been misunderstanding each other. Maybe it’s time you set the record straight.

Modern Fantasy, friends to lovers, siren/harpy, male monster x reader, Part 1 of 8

Ao3: Courtship Confusion Chapter 1

Part One

“Start blocking the exits, people. They’re making a run for it. Team Lure, you’re up,” the static-y voice says from your radio.

“Confirmed. Lure moving into position,” you answer for yourself and your partner before clipping the walkie talkie back onto your belt. You glance over to your partner who, per usual, looks far too unconcerned and cheerful for the mission of stopping a crew of smugglers. “Where do you want to set up?”

Morgan grins at you, sharp white teeth flashing even in this dim warehouse. “You know where.”

You stifle a grin of your own, knowing one of you needs to remain professional, and roll your eyes instead. “Wherever you can be the center of attention, right.”

He preens as he fluffs out his feathers. You only asked once how exactly his wings can go from resting comfortably and unobtrusively on his back, hardly seeming to take up any space at all, to a full wingspan that was enough to carry him. The highly technical arcane answer he’d given had been enough to serve as a reminder that, despite his carefree attitude, he was a fully licensed arcanist and make sure you never asked again. You’re the investigator and rules side of your inspector partnership—Morgan was the technical and social side. You liked it that way.

A career as an investigator of potentially illegal arcane workings isn’t nearly as glamorous or exciting as most people think it is. Most of the time it was just about handing out fines to people dabbling in things they shouldn’t and accidentally flooding their apartments or conjuring too many hamsters. But, sometimes, like today, you end up having to bust an illegal coven.

When containment spells failed and the criminals scattered, it’s your job to pull them all back. Well, mainly Morgan’s job.

From his high quality suit to his expertly applied eyeliner, he didn’t look the least bit like an inspector. Even the other department arcanists didn’t have his flare. Lively and cheerful where most were bored and weary, he breathed life wherever he went. And he loved to show off.

As you enter the large open area of the warehouse, you quickly begin setting up the broadcasting equipment—probably not needed, but protocol—while Morgan picks his spot. Within a few seconds, your carefully managed set up, ready to unfold for fieldwork in record time, is ready to go. You’re long practiced after being partnered these last couple of years.

Looking up, you find Morgan spreading his gorgeous black and white wings to alight on a stack of old pallets the cult left in this warehouse they’d been using as their base putting him several feet above everyone else.

“Careful!” you call despite knowing it's a lost cause.

Morgan flicks his wings in a careless, shrug-like gesture. “Worrywart,” he teases. You only have to give him a look to remind him of the incident with the ice for him to pout, the dark red of his lipstick making the expression obvious even with the height and distance. “That was one time! Are you set up?”

His voice is easily audible, as always, but you have to raise yours to reply, “Yeah, ready to go.”

He looks at you expectantly.

You put your hands on your hips to communicate ‘really? Do we need to do this every time?’ and he grins in response.

“Let the show begin!” you grudgingly prompt.

He’s no longer a performer by profession, but you can’t deny that's who he is in his heart. It’s hard to begrudge him the little bow he gives. Not when his eyes glitter with simple glee as he does so. “Thank you, darling.” Morgan clears his throat and closes his eyes, thankfully keeping him from noticing the effect the endearment had on you. Regrettably, the effect of him calling you “darling” to you has only gotten stronger with time.

Before you can dwell on it, Morgan makes a sort of clicking noise in the back of his throat. He’s tried to explain to you once why all of his songs started that way, but you’ve never truly understood. Not that it really matters because it’s always followed by him opening his mouth to sing.

A beautiful wordless melody begins to flow from him.

Haunting and alluring on its own, you know his siren song must be far more potent to the criminals he’s purposely luring back here. Every member of the team was introduced to Morgan before the operation began, so Morgan was able to exempt them. His control is impeccable, but they’re still liable to get distracted. Nothing magical about that. It’s hard not to when a master like Morgan sings.

Morgan primarily sings in the siren’s language when he performs spells such as this one. He says that for spellwork there’s simply more nuance and specificity in Soprety than in any other language when it comes to the subject of things such as lures, madness, lullaby and so on.

Despite knowing very little of the language, you still understand the message the song is trying to convey: where are you going? Come back, join me, this is where true happiness lies. Such is the power of a siren’s song. It’s hard to articulate the difference between the magical pull of a compulsion and the mere auditory pull of Morgan’s smooth voice. He’s never truly tried to compel you, but each time you hear him you have to put effort into focusing, into not simply basking in his voice. That’s only gotten worse the longer you’ve known him too, the more times you’ve heard him.

You don’t think it's that his singing is better, it’s only that it had seemed in the beginning, despite it’s obvious beauty even that first time, somewhat generic. Artificially or distantly beautiful. Now, his voice is so clearly entwined with who Morgan is, you can’t fathom how you thought it generic initially. His coaxing nature, always ready to persuade you to follow his lead, is woven through the words he sings as clearly as it is when he tries to convince you to take a coffee break. His promise of something better, something more fun and entertaining, if you only would listen. Of course, in this case, the outcome will only be entertaining for him. His seductive way of complimenting those he wants so that they will make the best choice by choosing him.

The music he makes is all very compelling is the point. You huff and focus back on the messages from the team—text since they’ve all got ear plugs in and don’t want to interfere with Morgan’s spell. You don’t need the plugs, as his partner he can exempt you easily and you’ve practice functioning while he sings. Besides it's always good to have someone who can hear him in case he does need help. You check again to confirm how many you are nabbing. Seven, natural for a coven, even a criminal one. That means the rest of the operation didn’t manage to catch a single member.

Usually illegal covens are more subtle, caught due to smaller disturbances or the wrong people stumbling upon them on the wrong night. This crew has been smuggling truly nasty ingredients for dark magical spells, bewitching or killing anyone who tried to interfere. They’d been making a big enough splash despite their travels and have caught major heat by now.

The National Investigatory Agency has been tracking them. They followed the trail of memory loss and death they left in their wake. That’s not even mentioning the longer term problems that would impact a community after they’d traded their illegal and dangerous wares—increases in love potions, poisoning, and general curses. You’d managed to catch a break locally. Someone had lost their nerve about this year’s shipment in your city and your department was coordinating with the NIA for this capture. Well, at least your team was—truthfully most of the local office was just providing backup.

Morgan, as always, had a habit of disrupting the usual with just his presence. His skills had been enough to catch the head NIA officer’s attention and your captain had vouched for your effectiveness. As such, while NIA coordinated a wide-spread tracking net, your team would try to simply pull them back. It was a common enough play you two ran and this was no different.

There was some worry a witch might have protection, but most aren’t prepared for a siren song, not given how rare sirens are and especially inland. Besides, you’d unclicked the safety on your tranquilizer gun, that’s why you were here to watch Morgan’s back. He’d be pissed if you let someone interrupt his song.

Movement on your left draws your attention. A woman stumbles out from between to shipping crates, her expression muddled but searching, urgent. You check for the signs she’s ensnared as she walks closer. You’re only supposed to handle the ones who weren’t, so you let her approach once you’re convinced. When she spots Morgan, high on his perch and singing his heart out, a look of joy and greed takes over. She hurries towards him.

You wait a second before nudging a fellow officer with your boot. A transfer from another precinct, he’s not been involved in one of these operations before. He shakes himself, tearing his eyes away from Morgan to look at you. You jerk your head at the coven member and he blushes. Hastily pulling out his handcuffs, the orc goes to secure her while you train your tranq gun on the man darting out from a different doorway. This time an NIA member snags him before he can press up against the base crate Morgan’s on, for which you’re grateful.

Technically, Morgan should have crafted his spell so that the listeners won’t be too desperate to get to him, despite how he was enticing them. People will still react differently than each other so there’s no guarantee when trying to pull in a group like this. Morgan said that the more people, the less control he had over anything more than the base aim of the spell. A lullaby could put ten people to sleep, but they would likely all end up sleeping for different amounts, whereas if it was just one or two, he could control how long they slept for.

Similar thing here. He can pull them in and do his best to keep them calm, but there’s more margin for error. And Morgan’s one of the best there is. Arcane workings are always more complicated and nuanced than most people assume. If they weren’t, you’d be out of a job making sure any mistakes or malicious workings didn’t hurt anyone.

There’s a text that the NIA agents caught a pair on their own, meaning three more to go. It’s not long for them to join the others. The officers who are familiar with these types of stings are efficient, cuffing the ensnared with practiced ease.

You wait for the confirmation, all using sign language to confirm the criminals are secured. That’s your cue to whistle, two fingers in your mouth and loud enough to cut through Morgan’s song—you’ve had to practice. The whistle lets Morgan know you had them all and he flips his hand to show he’s heard. He’d never just cut off the song—for specific arcane reasons, but also because he considers it poor etiquette from a musician’s perspective. He carefully and artfully wraps up and slows down, gentling the song until it fades out.

You can’t help but feel as enraptured as the criminals are, although you try to hide it. It's too hard not to when you’re in love with him.

224 notes · View notes

moonshine-nightlight · 1 year

Text

Nothing's Wrong with Dale: Part Thirty-Two

It’s been a week, but you’re fairly certain your fiancé accidentally got himself replaced by an eldritch being from the Depths. Deciding that he’s certainly not worse than your original fiancé, you endeavor to keep the engagement and his new non-human state to yourself.

However, this might prove harder than you originally thought.

Fantasy, arranged marriage, malemonsterxfemalereader, M/F

AO3: Nothing’s Wrong with Dale Chapter 32

[Part One][Part Two] [Part Three] [Part Four] [Part Five] [Part Six] [Part Seven] [Part Seven.5][Part Eight] [Part Nine] [Part Ten] [Part Eleven] [Part Twelve] [Part Thirteen] [Part Fourteen] [Part Fifteen] [Part Sixteen] [Part Seventeen] [Part Eighteen] [Part Nineteen] [Part Twenty] [Part Twenty-One] [Part Twenty-Two][Part Twenty-Three] [Part Twenty-Four][Part Twenty-Five] [Part Twenty-Six] [Part Twenty-Seven] [Part Twenty-Eight] [Part Twenty-Nine] [Part Thirty] [Part Thirty-One] Part Thirty-Two [Part Thirty-Three] [Part Thirty-Four]

While the luncheon was laid out in the great hall and the guests were encouraged to enjoy the grounds and gardens, you and Dale are tucked away in the administrative wing of the estate.

After the knot tying you together was carefully burned, you headed to grandmother’s public office, where she receives officials and conducted business with the many administrators that were needed to keep Northridge running.

With the sacred ceremony complete, there is still the matter of the legal one.

“Thank you, Mr. Murray, Miss Adir,” Dale says to his valet and your maid. “My spouse and I will wait for my grandparents and you may return to supervising the packing of our belongings.”

A small smile graces your face at Dale’s words because they drive home that he is no longer your betrothed, but your spouse. Your husband. Yours.

“Yes, my lord,” the servants chorus, enough amusement in their eyes that you’re not certain they entirely believe in the necessity of Dale’s request. Well, the reasoning is sound, but so is the idea that two newlyweds might want a few moments alone together. They depart without any fuss.

Dale immediately looks around the room, his expression intent enough that it pierces your light mood. You frown and ask, “Is everything alright?”

“Yes, of course,” Dale says. “I was only—there it is.” He strides behind Grandmother’s desk for a pitcher of water. “Just thirsty.”

Watching how he swallows nearly a whole glass with a grimace, you frown. Cautiously, you ask, “Are you certain that is all?”

“I—,” Dale starts to brush off your concern, you can see the dismissal in his body language before he pauses. “Oh, I, everything is fine. My throat is simply sore. This water is more than adequate to soothe it.”

“The holy water did hurt you,” you say—it's not a question.

Looking almost sheepish, he nods. “I was very diligent in my preparations this week, very pious.” He sounds a little defensive, likely due to you telling him you figured out what he was. “I visited the monsacrin every night for a blessed drink. The sanctif let me take them away with me. I wanted to ensure I would not be overcome today. However, my throat is still sore.”

Tolerance or practice? is your first thought. Was he doing something to his throat to mitigate contact, as you think he might have when the sanctif demonstrated his detection lens on Dale’s hand? Or did he merely practice drinking holy water in private until he could do so with a straight face? Neither are cheering thoughts, although you feel guilty at being reassured that this morning was not a plan developed in advance. That he’d in fact been doing the opposite. “Is your throat burned in some manner? Or are the muscles in some way affected?”

Dale blinks at you before he grins. “Are you certain you are not a true physician, sana?”

“Dale,” you warn despite his flattery, not wanting to be easily diverted from your question.

“Some of each,” he tells you easily enough, although not until after a second long drink from his water glass. “The muscles are a bit stiff, the lining a bit damaged. I did need to continue to breathe and swallow so I could only pull back my physical influence on this body so much.”

Good to know. You had been wondering. You reach into your pockets, glad your full-size pockets had still been able to fit unobtrusively under even this fine gown. “I have a tea blend with me that soothes the throat, although it will work better with honey.” You join him at the cart with tea supplies, taking the kettle and settling it boil. “Grandmother occasionally enjoys some as a sweetener, but we could also send for it. That shouldn’t provoke any notice.”

“The licorice tea?” Dale sounds hopeful as he peers over your shoulder. The feeling of him so close is more distracting than you wish it was. You want to focus on making him feel better, not on how you can sense his body behind you and how you want to lean back just enough to touch. “I used it the third night to great effect.”

You stop what you're doing, turning to frown at him. “But it didn’t help the other nights?”

Dale shrugs, reaching around you to pluck a small jar from the other side of the sugar bowl. He sets the honey next to the cup you’d selected. “I only had the one bag.”

“Why did you just ask for more?” You’re more confused than offended. “Even if I didn’t know, I’d happily have given you more tea.”

Dale holds very still, still enough you notice, at your words. His eyes darken, pupils expanding just enough to make them look inhuman. You wait him out, now able to recognize when he needs time to think. He blinks only a few seconds later and he merely shrugs helplessly. “That did not occur to me. I’m rather used to being on my own.”

“Well, you’re not anymore,” you say, unable to think of anything else. You swallow down all your questions about what part of it didn’t occur to him or questions about his solitary past. “So next time, ask me for help.”

His smile is indulgent and pleased. “Yes, sana.”

The kettle whistles causing you both to jump. Dale reaches around you, taking half a step towards the hearth. You turn back to the cup you’re fixing for him, pulling the honey jar closer, when Dale lets out a quiet noise of surprise. Before you can turn to see what’s happening, his large hand lands on your waist. You barely keep from letting out a surprised yelp as his grip tightens just enough to make it clear he’s using you to steady himself from his position, half leaned down to reach the kettle.

“My apologies,” Dale says as he straightens and lets go of you. You can feel the ghost of his touch and you’re surprised by how much you want it back. “I lost my balance for a second.”

“You should set the kettle down and fetch your cane,” you say, pointing to the heat resistant mat for the freshly heated kettle. You do not want him to trip again while holding it.

“Yes, I should,” Dale says to you as he does just that. He rejoins you at the serving cart with his primary cane, the one with the jade sword in it. He adds, almost to himself, “And I thought my balance memory had been improving.”

You add the appropriate amount of honey and stir it for him. Usually, you let such comments slide, and you’re fairly certain this one was only said because he knows you know now, but perhaps because you do know you, and the two of you are alone, you can ask, “Balance memory?”

“Memory to balance is perhaps more accurate,” Dale replies absently as he leans on the newly gotten cane and accepts the cup of tea you prepared for him. He inhales appreciatively and takes a sip, not bothering to attempt to blow on it to cool the hot tea. Whatever the holy water did to his throat, it must not be a normal burn—temperature never seems to bother him. “Delicious,” he rasps after finishing half the cup at once and with an appreciative smile at you.

You feel the heat rise in your cheeks, but it must not be too obvious as Dale appears to notice your confusion over his words more than anything else.

He clears his throat, looking a bit more nervous, as he says, “I, well, typically—that is, prior to being Dale, my form was amorphous and adaptable to my needs to a far greater extent.”

He’s watching your expression closely, clearly ready to stop talking if you…if you what? Look afraid? Or bored? Angry? You don’t know so you try to look neutrally curious as best as you can.

He continues, “If there was a dip in the ground or someone bumped into me or I leaned over too far, a limb would simply… adapt.”

You desperately want to know more but the moment feels fragile, Dale so cautious about talking openly about himself so you try to keep your words soft and simple. “How?”

“Growing longer, short, thicker.” Dale shrugs. “Whatever would be helpful to keep my balance. In physical activity or altercations, I would have been maintaining tight, conscious control over my form as a matter of course and so it is now. However, when not paying it much mind, during routine movement…”

Of course, you realize, it's no different than how you think of such things—you pay attention when stairs are steep or you’re wearing a particular item of clothing that you need to move differently in, but you don’t think about how to walk when nothing is unusual. It’s beneath your general notice. “You didn’t have to give it any attention.”

“Correct.” Dale looks relieved you understand. “And so in such circumstances, even now, my instinct is to flex my form, but I should not—and cannot to some extent now. So I falter instead. The cane is helpful as a reminder and as an aid.”

You ponder this as Dale drinks. What other instincts must he be fighting or controlling? You’d thought him careless, and perhaps he was at times, but in retrospect, his more obvious missteps seem to be when he was new to Dale or when he was particularly distracted or hungry. Thoughtless, but not careless actions.

“Thank you for the tea,” Dale’s voice interrupts your thoughts and you see him setting the empty cup back on the saucer. He seems a bit subdued, or cautious, but perhaps he’s only attempting to be gentle with his voice on his throat.

“You’re certain you don’t need anything more? Nothing else burned you?” You scan his features for hints of holy water or sacred wax burns. You try not to get caught up just looking at him. His face is more his than the original Dale’s now, at least to you, and it's more attractive for it.

“No, no, the wax wasn’t pleasant, or minimizing my influence wasn’t, but it's already removed.” You look down and see the white wax, which still sticks loosely to the back of your hand, has already fallen off his, without leaving a mark. Or perhaps Dale had subtly flicked it off once out of the monsacrin.

“Good, good. While waiting for the ceremony to start, I’ll admit I began to worry that even the amount of light might be too much.”

“No, no. I’m not abyssal, I’m a sort of shade.” At your look of continued confusion, Dale carefully elaborates, “Shadow, not darkness. Shadow needs light to exist, it’s why we’re close to the surface even in the Depths and why we’re more able to handle the Surface, even if we need a vessel. I could suffer some negative effects if left exposed in strong direct sunlight, but to my understanding, so can humans.”

You're startled at the comparison, but he’s correct. “Yes, no one appreciates being sunburned.” Your mind spins with new information, is it going to be this easy to discuss such matters now? Will you finally be able to get to know all the things he’s kept hidden?

“Quite.”

The sound of the door opening is surprising enough you both turn quickly towards it. Dale’s hand goes to his sword without thought, only for Grandfather’s voice to be easily heard as Steward Bilmont walks in.

“…not a cloud in sight,” he’s saying, “the best sort of luck.” You think there’s an underlying irony to Grandfather’s tone that’s more humorous than worried now that this morning’s events have been resolved favorably. It reminds you of when Dale says things you thought were asides about his nature to you but evidently were only to himself.

“It was beautiful,” your mother answers, satisfaction in her voice that reminds you of when she finishes negotiations on a particularly favorable trade contract.

“There they are!” Grandmother announces as the group enters the room. Any wonder regarding if she’d been informed however briefly that the wedding had been called off is put to rest. There’s no chance Grandfather even hinted at such a thing. She pulls Dale into a hug, placing a kiss on his cheek, before tugging you over as well. She has a surprisingly strong grip.

“Congratulations, I am so happy for you,” she continues, joy evident in her expression. She focuses on Dale. “My grandson, married.”

“Grandmother,” Dale says, fondness evident in his voice.

“Yes, yes,” she pulls back, straightening his jacket. “You are not here to listen to your Grandmother’s pride. You are here for your own.”

“Grandmother,” Dale repeats, sounding a little more exasperated.

Grandmother just winks before turning to her desk where her secretary has begun to arrange the paperwork required for officially swearing in yourself and Dale as the reigning couple running Northridge.

“My child, you did well.” Your mother pulls you into an embrace as well, her flowery perfume overwhelming, but the hug is appreciated as is the sentiment. Asher does too, the only sibling present since he’s the one inheriting Portsmith, while your father works with his secretary on arranging the Portsmith paperwork.

Callalily had to do something similar, sign the contracts clarifying her and her descendants' place in the inheritance order since she’d also married an inheriting lord. You’re not sure what Marigold had to sign. It was likely just a formality given her intention not to have children and her spouse wasn’t likely to inherit either. Douglas remains where he is, no marriage plans in sight—and nothing you’ve seen of him these past few days changes that impression, his sacrifice to distract mother aside.

“Dale, this is for you,” Grandfather presents him with a new, exquisite pen which Dale accepts with appropriate gravity and gratitude.

The actual signing of the paperwork is rather boring, but you appreciate the continued respite from crowds. The Northridge charters are the more complex and there are a lot of them. The various papers solidifying what it's yours solely, what authority Grandmother and Grandfather maintain, what would cause any changes to that, Northridge’s succession line. That document does prompt a significant look from Grandmother as after Dale, the fief would go to Dale’s cousin Ferdinand and his child. Luckily she doesn’t actually say anything about heirs—yet.

Instead, she presents Dale with his signet ring—from one Lady of Northridge to her heir. Grandfather gives you your own too and the smile on his face as he does so convinces you that any suspicion he once had for you is in the past.

There is a new formal inheritance list for Portsmith that’s officially signed too, placing yourself and Dale properly in the order along with any future children you might have—the typical rules that Northridge’s heir could not also inherit Portsmith are laid out. Some wish to combine fiefs, but those tend to be people who are particularly ambitious, new to nobility, or neighbors. Most wish to keep traditions and holdings separate. Not to mention the combination of certain fiefs is severely scrutinized by the Crown.

Of course, most of this is hypothetical and not expected to be needed. Asher has plenty of children to carry on the Portsmith line. Still, your family likes to be thorough and the Northridges have had enough surprises in recent succession to agree.

Since all the details had already been worked out, and no one tries to throw last minute spanners into the works, the whole process goes smoothly if a bit long. You sign the Northridge paperwork first, allowing you to sign the Portsmith ones with your new Northridge title. All the witnesses sign as well and it’s done. You’re now officially of Northridge and Dale is the reigning lord.

As soon as celebratory drinks are in everyone’s hands, Grandmother escorts the group to their family hall. It's clear this is the portion of the inheritance tradition she was looking forward to. “Right this way, we have had everything prepared, but even I have not laid eyes on the new additions.”

Your country home had something similar, but far less official—all the portraits are from different eras and hopelessly outdated. You think yours is from when you went off to schooling at fifteen, which perhaps isn’t too long ago, but Marigold’s is when she was that age too. There are other more recent portraits throughout the manor, but a family portrait gallery isn’t particularly important to Portsmith traditions. The city estate at the port doesn’t even have that—gifted portraits or those bought to curry favor with different interests are what decorate its halls.

Northridge’s family hall is large and organized, with multiple portraits for family members at significant stages in life going back generations. With Dale’s marriage and inheritance, Grandmother has commissioned new portraits of him and you together. You sat for the painting when you first arrived, most of your figure had been completed before Dale arrived home, with only a session or two sat together. It had been a quiet, stiff affair and you’d been grateful when you could leave the painter to his work. You had stopped by his studio in the city, allowed him to make the adjustments and touch-ups he felt necessary, but they had not been terribly long.

When you finally come to a halt, there are not one or two portraits covered in sheets for a dramatic reveal—Grandmother insisted—but three.

You’d been shown around the gallery when you first arrived, paying most attention to Grandmother and Grandfather’s as well as Dale’s parents and only coming back for a refresher when more of Dale’s family had begun to arrive. It is still grand and intimidating, more so with yourself being added now.

“We are going to have a new portrait commissioned as well,” Grandmother says as they walk by her and Grandfather’s most recent portrait from at least twenty years ago. There’s a severity to them and a grief that tells it was only a few years after the loss of their son and daughter-in-law. They deserve to have a happier portrait hanging. The Northridge coat of arms, which used to hang above their portrait, has already been moved to hang over the unrevealed portrait of yourself and Dale. The wall above them looks strangely bare with its removal.

You gather around the unrevealed paintings in a half circle and Grandmother waits for everyone’s attention. “To commemorate your rise to Lord of Northridge and your marriage, there are three portraits to reveal. Firstly, I am delighted to reveal the official portrait of Dale Tiberius Archibald Remmington Quincey, Lord of Northridge.”

Bilmont pulls back the blue cloth to show the portrait of Dale in his black, white, and blue suit, the one which mirrored the Northridge colors on the crest now a few feet above the still hidden joint portrait. It too had been started when Dale first arrived, before the current Dale had taken over, and some of the original Dale’s arrogance and haughtiness is evident in his posture and the line of his back.

Still, the artist had seen Dale since he’d changed and there are hints of that throughout. His stare is direct but less condescending, the blue of his eyes more vivid, but also kinder. He looks, not older, but more mature—the youth in his fearlessness tempered. It’s a masterful blend of both Dales and you’re relieved that it leans towards the new Dale without making the contrast between this portrait and the one prior to his travels too stark.

“It is lovely, Grandmother,” Dale says, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

“Of course it is,” she preens. “I was certain your travels and return would help you to grow into this responsibility. This portrait makes it obvious, how much you have matured into the man I always knew you could be. I am certain your parents would be proud of you.”

Dale is obviously at a loss for words and so are you, feeling a pang of pity for Grandmother, who could not see what her grandson had become nor that he is gone. Neither of you have to say anything because she continues before you can.

“And I have not overlooked your influence, my dear.” Grandmother’s cloudy eyes still manage to narrow in on you without difficulty. “Each day you have been here, you have solidified my knowledge that you were the perfect partner for my Dale. As you can see from the halls, traditions vary, but for you I knew we would want a portrait of you in your own right. Your parents were so understanding when I wrote to them.”

You turn in surprise to see them giving you a knowing smile. “We came to a most equitable arrangement. A copy of our most recent portrait of you,” you mother says with a pleased smile.

“In exchange for a copy of the portrait of you and your husband,” your father finishes. He nods to Bilmont and the steward obligingly reveals the portrait your parents had commissioned of you.

For a second, you’re concerned that they’ll have merely replicated the one of you at fifteen. You do not mind that portrait—you had been immensely proud of standing for it at the time under your own power and looking wonderfully adult to your young eyes—but even after your first return from school, you had been struck by how young and frail you’d looked in it.

This is a new portrait of you in a favored blue dress—not quite the vibrant Northridge blue nor Portsmith’s blue-gray, but somewhere in the middle. You’d worn it to a number of balls, including the one you first met Grandmother and Grandfather at. The painter must have attended a number of those galas because their skill in capturing your appearance is evident. You’d seen portraits painted that resembled the subjects very little and it was most common among those painted without formal sittings.

Your mother is saying something about the painter and his methods, as if hearing your thoughts, but you’re not really listening to her, you’re too busy studying the portrait.

The you in the painting is more flattering than the one you see most often in the mirror, today perhaps as an exception, but you can recognize yourself with ease. You are more clearly the age that you are now, a grown adult rather than a sickly child in the former painting. This you has thicker hair, less of your bones are prominent. You look less on edge and of course, your frame is fuller. Mother must have instructed the painter to give you a solidity you still don’t believe you have, always pushing for what she wants you to be rather than what you are. But it’s not egregious, even if there is more conviction in the set of this you’s jaw than you’ve ever truly felt. Again, except perhaps this morning when you sought out Dale to confront him. Overall, you find the expression pleasant, even if you think there’s something a bit off with your nose.

It’s the other details in the portrait that hold your attention. There’s a banner with the Northridge coat of arms behind you, but a book with Portsmith’s coat on the cover in our hands. The spine of the book is for a medicinal textbook, and the tea on the high table you're positioned next to even seems to steam. The vase is full of plants you recognize from your tea blends—and each of the flowers from your siblings’ namesakes are present as well.

“It’s lovely,” you say, glad your voice is soft enough that it doesn’t betray that you abruptly feel close to tears.

“You’re welcome,” your father says, with a comforting squeeze to your shoulder.

Soon, Grandmother quiets you all down for the final reveal. “Lastly, allow me to present the Lord and Lady of Northridge.”

Dale’s outfit, his black suit and red waistcoat is so obviously one the original Dale wore, although to be honest, this Dale is drawn to bold colors too. You’re in your white and blue with black accents Northridge dress. The two of you are posed in front of the large windows in the south hall, the ones that lead to the gardens. The clothes and the pose are of the past, but the expressions are clearly from recent sittings. So is the way you’re turned toward each other, not dramatically, but more than before. You look together instead of just standing next to each other. Even Dale’s greater presence and more forward position has been rendered far more protective than attention-seeking.

The signet rings of Northridge glitter on your fingers in the painting, even though you’d not put them on until a few minutes ago. You look married in that portrait and it helps solidify in your mind that you are.

Dale reaches over to clasp your hand in his and you smile up at him, proud to be here, in this moment, with him.

-/-

In the end, the wedding luncheon is remarkably similar to the other galas and balls that you’ve been hosting for the past few weeks, baring the high sun. You make it through being announced without tripping. You make small talk with everyone who wants to—which is everyone. You manage a few additional moments with your family. You’re grateful your dancing is with limited partners as it’s considered ill luck for the newly weds to dance with any other than each other or their immediate families.

Unusually it drags as time passes, until it is time to leave at which point you feel as if only a few moments have passed since you entered. As the married couple, you do not have to stay hosting until late in the night this time. You’ve never felt as if you were sneaking away, as if you were getting away with shirking your duties, while such a large group sees you off. It’s very peculiar.

The other servants and your packed belongings likely left over an hour ago. Only your personal servants are leaving at the same time. You find yourself outside, bidding goodbye to your family, as you stand in front of your carriage with a suddenness that almost makes you dizzy.

Then Dale is holding out a hand for you, which you take, allowing him to help you into the carriage. You carefully adjust your skirts before and after you sit down on the comfortable plush bench. A carriage for two, only a few trunks sit opposite you giving more ample room for legs and skirts. You make space on your left for Dale and he soon joins you, folding himself into a seating position as soon as he can so as not to bump his head on the ceiling.

“Are you settled, my spouse?” he asks as the door shuts. He pulls up the window nearly as quickly so as to ensure the air does not get stifling.

You wonder if you’ll ever get tired of hearing him call you that. Somehow you don’t think you will. “Yes, I’m comfortable.”

“Lovely,” he replies, giving a quick smile which flashes the whites of his sharp teeth. He leans forward to wave cheerily at Grandmother before he knocks on the front wood separating yourselves from the driver and footman.

It only takes a minute for the driver to set the horses off and you pull away from Northridge estate to the sound of falling grain thrown by guests before they return to enjoying the festivities without you.

You do your best to wave goodbye to your family, but looking out the window for too long begins to upset your stomach. They’re out of sight before long as it is.

You settle back down in your seat and try to orient yourself, catching your breath in practice if not necessity.

“Water?” Dale offers, holding out a flask and wiping the back of his mouth with his free hand to indicate he’d just taken a sip himself.

You take the flask gratefully and drink some water to clear your mouth and throat. You pass it back to him with murmured thanks. The silence, the first in hours, fills the carriage.

Dale is the one who breaks it. He reaches for the basket on top and pulls out an apple. “I had them pack some foodstuff for us, given you tend not to eat much at these events—”

“And you are nearly always hungry,” you finish, accepting a grape. A mix of embarrassed and flattered that he knows you so well.

“Quite,” Dale says with a crooked smile.

You get caught in his gaze, like you haven’t since the very beginning. Perhaps instead of you becoming accustomed to it yourself, Dale had merely gotten better at controlling the way his presence could reel you in. Perhaps he isn’t trying so hard now that he knows that you know. Now that you’re finally alone.

“So I suppose we should—” Dale is cut off by a loud bark of laughter from the front of the carriage. Whoever made the sound, driver or footman, is quick to shut their mouth, but the reminder is well served. Dale smiles apologetically. “We should talk once we arrive at the lodge of any matters of import, perhaps not now.”

“No, you’re correct,” you sigh, feeling the day’s events weighing strongly on you. You adjust your seat, grateful you had insisted on Grandmother storing your veil for you here and not taking it on your travels. Your neck bends at an awkward angle when you try to rest it against the inner frame. A bump in the road, still being worked on, causes you to sit straighter and give up on the idea of leaning against the carriage side.

“We can speak of other matters,” you say, though you’d actually like little more than to stop talking and nap. The day had begun so much earlier than usual, in order for you to be ready before the mid-morning ceremony, and had been so busy that you’re exhausted.

“Of course,” Dale says. “We’ll have an entire week at the lodge, before we go on to Riverton. It’s been many years since, em, I’ve been there, but it’s an industrious city, with a river that has hopefully enough water for you to feel at home…”

You listen as Dale elaborates on some specific memories he has of the city, more than the names of officials, and where you would visit as discussed with Grandmother and Grandfather. He isn’t explicit, in case either servant up front can hear, but you can read between the lines far more easily now that he isn’t pretending these are his own memories. He’s careful to keep his voice lower to minimize the others' hearing, but loud enough for you to pick out above the clatter of the carriage on the road.

The overall effect is soothing and comfortable. It’s easy to close your eyes, to sway a little in your seat. Dale’s hand ends up in your lap at some point, and your hands cover it without remembering having done so. The day hadn’t been overwhelmingly hot, but it's warm and you’re so tired. Not just from today, but from the whole past month. From before that when you were anxious to meet the original Dale and dealing with him once you had. From the weeks and months spent searching for a spouse. It all seems to be catching up with you at once.

You drift off with the motion of the carriage, and the sound of Dale’s voice in your ear, his strength and presence comfortingly close by.

[Part Thirty-Three]

#my writing #story: nothing's wrong with dale #story part #nothing's wrong with dale #terato #exophilia #monster romance #osha compliance #arrange marriage #slow burn #monster bf #reader #finally done with this chapter #idk where yesterday and the day before went #glad today is a late start #need to practice my presentation now #hope you like it!

239 notes · View notes