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iliveiloveiwrite · 3 years

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Pain in My Heart // Benedict Bridgerton

Request: Could I please request a Bridgerton imagine where Eloise or Daphne are trying to matchmake Reader with one of their brothers (you can pick which one) but Reader actually hits it off with another brother who's in love at first sight (again, your choice!!). - @libraryoffandomsuniverse

A/N: I am so sorry for how long this has taken!! I hope I have done your request justice. I had a lot of fun writing this, I’m pretty proud of what I’ve come up so I hope you like!! Thank you for requesting! Title: Pain in My Heart - Otis Redding

Pairing: Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader (Platonic), Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader (Romantic)

Warnings: pining, mutual pining, awful flirting (I can't write it for the life in me), unrequited love (?), a pride and prejudice moment, love confessions, fluff, very very light angst.

Word count: 4.7k

There wasn’t a lot that Daphne and Eloise Bridgerton had in common. It was thought by their mother that due to their closeness in age, they would get along swimmingly. However, by the time that Eloise could speak for herself, it became increasingly clear that there were to be no two people different than that of Eloise and Daphne.

However, whilst the two did not share the same tastes in music or literature, they were united in the hope that they would see their elder brothers happily in love.

It is on a Wednesday in the middle of February when Daphne decides that it is time for her eldest brother, Anthony, to find a wife.

Her decision is made when Anthony stalks into the family drawing room. The only sign of his anger being the blazing of his eyes. Dramatically, he throws himself onto the closest couch, his legs stretching across the pale blue fabric as he laments the meddling of mothers.

Daphne barely represses the urge to roll her eyes. She could tell that Eloise was having a hard time not telling her brother how easy he had it in comparison to rights of women and marriage.

Thankfully, however, Anthony is saved from such a lecture by the announcement of a beloved friend. (Y/N) (Y/L/N) had known the Bridgerton family for as long as she had been alive. The same age as Daphne, the two had fallen into an easy friendship that grew more cherished the more time passed.

Upon her announcement, Anthony sits up with keen interest. An action not missed by both Daphne and Eloise – they share a look, one only understood by sisters with masses of brothers.

“Dear (Y/N),” Daphne greets, standing from her chair to greet her lifelong friend, “How have you been?”

“I’ve been very well though it has only been a couple of days since you saw me last.”

Daphne laughs; a light and airy sound. “I can still miss you in that time. Come, sit by me and we can catch up.”

The two women are soon joined by Eloise who places her book down on the table, spine up so she does not lose her page. From where they sit, neither Anthony nor Benedict can hear what the women seem to be whispering about though it seems to be of a serious issue with grave looks on their faces.

Benedict decides that he doesn’t like the look of frustration on her face; the furrow of her brows. If it wouldn’t raise questions of his sanity, he would press his thumb to the furrow, smoothing out her brow so not a trace of the worry remained.

“(Y/N),” Anthony calls, interrupting the conversation currently taking place between the three women, “Would you be attending Lord and Lady Hopton’s ball later on this week? Lord Hopton has done nothing but discuss the expense being put into the event.”

(Y/N) swallows her small sip of tea, placing the cup and saucer down on the table before answering the eldest Bridgerton. “I do plan on attending,” She smiles, fiddling with her gloved fingers.

A pleased smile breaks out across Anthony’s face as he nods. Turning away from her, Anthony walks back to the pale blue couch that only mere moments ago he had thrown himself across in vexation at his dear mother. Now, he sits down gently, making sure every ounce of his nobility is on show.

Benedict cannot help but roll his eyes at the antics of his elder brother. As if on a covert mission for the crown, Benedict’s gaze slides back to her – runs over her figure, taking in the way her dress sits on her form and the way her smile lights up her whole face. He’s a fool in love, he realises, but he would rather be a fool in love with her than a fool in love with anyone else.

It’s as if he finally understands what the poets write about; how the artists never paint more than their muse. As Benedict peers down at the sketchbook in his hands, he comes to realise that he has been drawing her for months. He has found his muse and it’s close to breaking him when he sees the plotting glance shared between Daphne and Eloise.

(Y/N) sits at the table, utterly unaware of the plan being concocted between his sisters. He has the urge to scream, to yell but he keeps quiet. Benedict becomes the very definition of decorum; smiling politely at her when their eyes meet from across the room. The very moment sends his heart skipping a beat before picking up a rhythm he isn’t certain is compatible with life. He has to stop himself from reaching up to grab his chest to ensure his heart doesn’t beat right out of it.

All too soon the moment is over, and she returns to laughing with his younger sisters, but even she knows that something has changed between them. (Y/N) wasn’t one to believe in love at first sight; the very notion belonging only to fairytales, but she, herself, could not deny the thrill that overtook her body when she met the blue eyes of Benedict Bridgerton.

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Lord and Lady Hopton owned one of the last remaining Tudor residences in London. Many had fallen during the reformation, but in some strange stroke of luck, the Hopton’s home had remained largely undamaged. From there, it passed down the male line as all properties and titles were wont to do in such a society.

The current Lord and Lady prided themselves on the tracking of their lineage, dedicating themselves to the conservation of their home. It was rare for them to throw a ball such as this one, but with the favourable weather, Lady Hopton was able to convince her husband it would be well enough for the courtyard to be used to entertain their nearest and dearest.

There was no set theme; an idea many were grateful for. As much as (Y/N) loved the dress up, the competitive nature between eligible ladies wasn’t something she was in the mood for.

The atmosphere is much more relaxed as (Y/N) takes a turn about the room, smiling politely at the women she has grown up with in London society. They would be civil towards each other, but there was no real friendships forged. (Y/N) was quite content with the Bridgerton brood.

Though they had arrived together, (Y/N) found herself wandering from the comforting presence of the family. She could feel Anthony’s eyes on her, and she thinks of Daphne’s suggestion from the other day; the eldest Bridgerton girl had all but suggested that (Y/N) marry Anthony.

Whilst the suggestion was flattering, (Y/N) hadn’t stopped thinking of the moment she shared with Benedict. She thinks of the moment often; remembers the way his stare felt, as if he was staring into her very soul and he liked what he found. She thinks of the way her body responded; the shiver sent through her and how she realised that she liked the way he looked at her. As if she hung the moon and stars in the sky for him, and him alone.

(Y/N) loses herself in the crowd. She wanders and wanders, watching new love form and old love strengthen as she catches sight of couples beginning their night. (Y/N) continues her ruminating until she bumps into something hard. Another body.

(Y/N) cringes when she finds herself face to face with the chest of Benedict Bridgerton. “Benedict!” She gasps, “I’m sorry.”

He steadies her with a gentle hand to her elbow. “You have nothing to apologise for. You looked to be deep in thought, I’m only sorry for interrupting you.”

(Y/N) feels her skin begin to flush. I was thinking of you, she wants to cry at the man, but she only just manages to refrain herself.

Benedict laughs before he can stop himself. “If you’re reacting like that, I have to know what you were thinking of.”

“Nothing for nosies,” She responds, a coy smile crossing her painted lips.

Benedict gasps, pressing a hand to his chest in mock hurt. “You wound me, (Y/N).”

“I’m sure you’ll recover,” (Y/N) laughs, patting Benedict’s arm in mock pity.

“I don’t know,” Benedict expresses, his eyes running over her face and outfit. “I think I’m going to need someone to nurse me back to health.”

(Y/N) feels her skin once again begin to heat at the insinuation in his words. She had encountered banter before with the Bridgerton brothers, but she had never encountered such overt flirting. Benedict’s eyes glittered with mirth; his smile crinkling the corners of his eyes – this was him. This was Benedict in his element; he was an artist, a gentleman, and a man that could render her speechless with a simple line of speech.

She finds it hard to respond for a moment; finds it hard to string two thoughts together in his intoxicating presence. She flounders for a second, watching Benedict continue to smile widely as if he had nothing better to do than waste time with her.

Eventually, she collects herself enough. She peers up at the man from under her lashes, fluttering them to the best of her ability as she whispers, “Such requests may make the recovery period a lot longer and a lot harder.”

Leaving the man speechless, (Y/N) pats his arm once more before taking her leave. Feeling hot and bothered by her encounter with Benedict, (Y/N) ambles over to drinks table. Daphne and Eloise stand there nursing their own drinks; they smile widely at their friend as she approaches the table.

“Have you given thought to what I suggested the other day?” Daphne asks; watching her best friend over the rim of her lemonade glass.

“Courting Anthony?” (Y/N) clarifies, reaching for her glass of the tepid drink. She frowns absentmindedly; it was one of the main issues with balls, they never could keep the drinks cold enough to be refreshing throughout the night. They almost always turned sour.

“The very suggestion,” (Y/N)’s dearest friend states with a smile.

“It wouldn’t work,” (Y/N) protests, urging her friends to see the truth. “We aren’t suited for each other.”

“Anthony disagrees,” Daphne chimes, looking and feeling all to superior in the conversation. “He confided to me only yesterday that he wants to court you.”

The ground is close to swallowing her whole; the walls becoming far too close for her liking. Her mouth is dry when she tries to swallow around the lump in her throat. “That wouldn’t be fair to him,” She croaks, feeling all too close to tears.

“Why not?” Daphne demands, making her vexation known by placing her hands on her hips.

“Daphne,” Eloise interrupts, glancing warily between the two women. “(Y/N) isn’t in love with Anthony. She’s in love with someone else.”

The fight leaves her beloved friend in an instant; she brings a hand to her mouth to cover the shock of Eloise’s words. “I didn’t know,” She whispers, “I wouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“I know you wouldn’t have,” (Y/N) appeases, “I’m rather new to this.”

“Do we know who it is?” Daphne asks, unable to keep the excitement off her face as she thinks of the handful of men worthy enough to love her dear friend.

(Y/N) sighs, deciding whether to come clean and tell her longest friend that she has found herself hopelessly in love with her brother. She hadn’t even expected it. “It’s Benedict,” She eventually confesses, feeling pressured by the investigative gaze of Daphne Bridgerton.

“Benedict?” Daphne asks, confused, “As in my other brother?”

“The very same,” (Y/N) comments lightly… too lightly as if ready to be on the defence for her feelings for Benedict.

Daphne blinks once, twice before her face breaks with the most beautiful smile. “Oh (Y/N)!” She cries, “This is wonderful!”

“He might not love me back,” (Y/N) whispers, doing her best to keep a light spin on the situation but the idea that Benedict may not return her feelings hurts far more than it should.

“And Anthony still wants to court you,” Eloise reminds her, her voice close to pity.

“Speaking of the devil,” Daphne murmurs with a smile on her face, “Anthony is heading this way.”

“He is?” (Y/N) asks, pivoting on the spot to the find the eldest Bridgerton making his way through the crowd. He smiles at his sisters, briefly checking their glasses to ensure they were sticking strictly to the lemonade offered. When he is suited with what he finds, he turns to (Y/N) and holds out his hand. “Would you care to dance?” He asks her with a confident smile.

She nods her consent, taking his offered hand and allowing herself to be led to the floor. Anthony leads her expertly across the floor; lessons as a child and years in the London society forging him to be an impressive dancer. He makes her laugh as they continue dance, and whilst (Y/N) has a good time with the eldest Bridgerton, she cannot see herself falling for the man like she can see her entire future with Benedict.

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The ball had wound down naturally; families and lovers beginning to make their way home through the early morning London streets. (Y/N) travels with the Bridgertons, having arrived with them in the first place. Daphne focuses on the streets of London, doing her best not to fall asleep before getting home to her bed.

“How are you getting home?” Daphne asks, not removing her gaze from the darkened streets of the capital city.

“I’m not sure, I don’t want to have to wait for another carriage,” (Y/N) complains, holding a hand to her mouth to cover a yawn that had slipped out. The tiredness was clinging to her bones now; she wanted nothing more to crawl into her own bed, sink into the pillows and fall into a dreamworld where Benedict climbs into the other side of the bed.

“Stay with us,” Eloise invites, meeting Anthony’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t be an imposition?” (Y/N) asks smally; the last thing she wanted was to be burden on her friends.

“You never could be,” Anthony smiles, “You’re always welcome to stay the night.”

“Thank you, Anthony,” She whispers, reaching for his hand in the dark and squeezing.

Silence falls for the rest of the ride; the weariness of each of them punctuating the air, creating a warmer atmosphere that leaves (Y/N) blinking away sleep. Eloise does her best to remain awake, but her head soon winds up on Anthony’s shoulder to which the man looks the surprised. He recovers quickly, adjusting his younger sister to make her more comfortable.

The Bridgerton siblings and (Y/N) all sigh in blessed relief when the carriage rolls to a stop outside Bridgerton House. The door opening lets in a cold blast of air, making her shiver as she reaches for the handle to help herself down.

“Here,” Benedict’s voice sounds in the dark light of night, “Let me help you.”

His hand reaches for hers; it clasps hers gently as he helps her down from the carriage. All too soon, his hand falls from hers and (Y/N) is left feeling bereft from the absence of his touch. “Thank you,” She whispers, taking a risk and glancing up at the blue eyes already fixed steadily on her.

“You’re welcome,” He murmurs. Benedict glances back to the carriage to find the rest of his family descending on them. “Goodnight,” He whispers, ducking his head in a bow and leaving her on the steps of Bridgerton House.

(Y/N) watches the man depart in somewhat of a daze. If she focused hard enough, she could still feel his hand in hers. She could feel every fingerprint, every crease, every line in his palm. She could feel it all; she wanted to feel more. She wanted everything with that man; would happily offer up her everything for a single glimpse at what it could be like to wake up in his arms and be happy.

Sighing heavily, she touches a hand to her forehead, pausing in the grand entryway of the Bridgerton family home. She felt so keenly for the man that she knew she would suffer the worst fate to man should he not return her feelings: heartbreak.

“(Y/N)?” Anthony calls from the door, his arm around Eloise’s waist. “Would you meet me in my study? I need to talk to you.”

“Of course,” She allows, smiling at the sight before her. Anthony whispers something to his sister to which Eloise offers her goodnights and begins to climb the stairs to her room, Anthony following behind her with a worried look on his face that only a beloved brother could master.

Anthony’s study smelled of wood polish; the mahogany desk sitting by the windows being the main feature of the room. It’s dark wood providing the much of the fragrance in the room; it’s a comforting scent. (Y/N) smiles when she realises that it’s comforting as it reminds her of the Viscount; the scent of his spicy cologne intermingled with the wood, becoming one and the same.

“Thank you for waiting,” Anthony whispers, closing the door behind him, “I know how tired you are, but I really wanted to speak to you.”

“Whatever’s the matter?”

Suddenly, Anthony no longer holds the prowess of a Viscount but rather, looks like the eighteen year old boy handed a peerage all too soon. He runs a hand through his hair out of nerves, pacing back and forth behind his desk. Eventually, he comes to a slow stop, resting his hands on the back of his father’s ageing chair. “Have you given any thought to your future?”

“It’s been on my mind more and more these days,” She answers honestly. It’s all she has thought of since her eyes met Benedict’s across the room and she got a glimpse into what her mornings, afternoons, evenings with the man could be like.

“I think we could be good together,” Anthony argues, offering up a slice of his heart for the taking, “I think we work well together.”

“Anthony, may I be honest with you for a moment?”

“I’d hope for nothing more.”

She takes a deep breath; steeling her nerves before smiling at the Viscount. “With all due respect, I don’t think you do love me.”

Anthony moves to interrupt her; a flash of anger and upset in his eyes. He quietens when she holds up a single hand; begging him to let her continue. “Anthony, I think you were looking for someone to stop your mother from pestering you about marriage. I just happened to walk into the room at the right moment.”

Anthony frowns; he takes in (Y/N)’s words, letting them roll around his mind as he thinks back to the first day when he realised he could truly love the woman sitting in front of him. Violet Bridgerton had been on him from the moment he walked through the front door; producing yet another list of eligible women in London that he could find a potential match in. He had taken the list from his beloved mother and in the privacy of his study, he had ripped the list to tiny pieces making sure that none of the names were legible.

On some level, he has always loved her. (Y/N) had been in his life from the very day she was born; mother being friends, Violet able to offer (Y/N)’s advice as she was her firstborn. At this point, Violet was a seasoned expert on motherhood. Anthony had always known of the girl that was best friends with Daphne; he had watched her grow up. On some level, he has always had some feeling for her.

He knows know, though, that those feelings could never broach romance. There was too deep an affection between them.

“You’re right,” Anthony states, “It wouldn’t be a love match.”

“It wouldn’t,” She affirms, taking a seat in front of the large, wooden desk. Silhouettes of his parents and siblings decorate the space; it brings a fond smile to her face. Anthony presented a strong front, but in private, he was as much the adoring son and brother.

“But you think you have found your love match,” Anthony declares, wanting to clear the air.

“I’m not sure,” She laughs mirthlessly. “I have no clue as to whether he feels the same.”

“He’d be an idiot, not to,” Anthony compliments, “Do I know the lucky man?”

(Y/N) looks sheepish as she stares at the Viscount. She had already confessed to Daphne and Eloise – what harm could one more person do?

“It’s Benedict.”

“You love him,” Anthony whispers; not an accusation, not an ounce of anger in his voice. A simple fact stated for the room.

(Y/N) nods. “I do. I love him with all that I am and all that I know I could be.”

A sad, bittersweet smile crosses Anthony’s face; he won’t speak of how the words hurt him. He reaches for her hand and clasps it tightly between both of his.

“Go to him,” He whispers, “You have my blessing.”

(Y/N) stands. Her intention is to leave the room and find the Bridgerton who had so readily taken root within her heart, but first she crosses to where Anthony stands behind his desk. He watches her with curious eyes as the silk of her glove brushes his cheek; his eye flutter closed when he feels the featherlight press of her lips and the whisper of her gratitude.

Anthony keeps his eyes closed when she pulls away from him; he keeps them closed until he hears the tell-tale click of the door. It is only then that Anthony allows himself to open his eyes and peer into the heartbreak now cracking open his chest. Not for the love he though he felt, but for the utter want racing through his body. He wants a love like that; he was going to find a love like that.

They would be happy together; he thinks to himself as he breathes in the floral scent of her perfume. They would be happy together, perfectly suited to the point that Anthony craves such intimacy. One day; he promises, one day he would hold such a treasure within his hands.

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Bridgerton House remained warm and inviting even after the family had long retired for bed. The sconces lining the walls still lit; their warm light easy on anyone’s eyes should they need to traverse the hallways for whatever reason.

The path to Benedict’s room isn’t one she has taken often. Thinking on it, (Y/N) realises that save for being shown the door on her first ever visit to the London home, she has not stepped foot close to the room since. Until tonight, that is.

Her skirts swish delicately underfoot as (Y/N) makes her way to his room. She doesn’t dare utter a single breath for the fear of being caught; all around her slumber her closest friends. If she were caught by a member of staff, her reputation balanced on being ruined.

Her hand trembles as she clenches it into a fist, raises it to the plain white door and knocks twice. She waits on the threshold, twisting her fingers into her skirts – a nervous habit she’s had since she was a child. She was thankful that she no longer bit her nails down to the bed.

“Come in,” calls his quiet voice and her nerves only heighten. Taking a deep breath, she pushes open the door that could reveal her future.

“(Y/N),” Benedict gasps, the deep v of his shirt falling open, revealing far more of his bare chest than (Y/N) had expected to see tonight.

“I wanted to talk to you,” She whispers, hovering between the doorway and his room. She does her best to not stare at the defined muscles on display but loses the battle. Her eyes run over the parts of his muscular torso and the strong forearms shown with the sleeves of white shirt rolled up. She didn’t think it was possible to be attracted to the forearms of a person, but here was Benedict proving her wrong.

“What if you get caught?” He whisper-asks, worry lacing his tone as he glances at something behind her. She turns on instinct only to find an empty hallway and three lit sconces.

“Anthony knows where I am,” She retorts, stepping further into Benedict’s room.

“Anthony?”

“He gave me his blessing.”

“To enter my room… unattended… late at night?”

“Essentially, yes,” She smiles, thinking back to her conversation with the Viscount.

“Why were you talking to Anthony?” Benedict asks before he can stop himself. He doesn’t like the simmering jealousy he feels that the picture of (Y/N) alone with Anthony in his study. He clears his throat to chase away the hollow ache of envy; he doesn’t want to picture the conversation. He doesn’t think he could handle it.

“He asked me to court him.”

“Oh,” Benedict responds, feeling his heart begin to crack in his chest. “What did you say?”

“I told him I couldn’t. We wouldn’t suit each other and one other thing.”

“What other thing?”

“I don’t love him. I love someone else.”

“You do? Do I know them?”

(Y/N) laughs, stretching her arms out as she gestures to Benedict’s bedroom. “I’m stood in your room in the middle of the night, Benedict, with full knowledge that if I were to be caught by any of the staff, I would be ruined. What does that tell you?”

Benedict frowns, refusing to let himself fall into the hope growing in his chest. He feels like Icarus; too close to the sun, too close to thing he wants most in this world.

“Stop this pain in my heart,” She commands weakly. “Stop this pain and tell me if you feel the same. If you don’t, I understand but I’d ask you not to tell anyone of this midnight visit.”

His mouth runs dry, and he finds it hard to answer. He’s falling, falling, falling for the woman stood across from him and he cannot find the words to accurately describe the depth of his feelings for her. That day in the drawing room – he’s known her for years, always been aware of her, but that day, it was as if he was finally seeing her for the pure beauty that she inhabits. She could rival Aphrodite herself.

Upset shutters across (Y/N)’s face as she nods twice, trying her best to keep the burn of tears at bay. “It’s okay, Benedict,” She whispers, turning for the door, “Thank you for listening.”

At the last moment, Benedict reaches out and snatches her wrist. “Don’t go,” He pleads, “Don’t leave me. I don’t think I could live with myself if you left me.”

“I don’t understand,” She whispers; confusion lacing her voice. Her eyebrows furrow as she stares at the man before her, “You didn’t say anything. You stayed silent; I took that as my cue to leave.”

Benedict shakes his head. “Don’t go,” He whispers, bringing a hand up to card through the loose strands of hair framing her face. He almost preens as she leans into his touch. “I feel the same, I love you just the same,” Benedict confesses; feeling the weight leave his chest.

“You do?” She asks; her voice small but hopeful.

“I do,” Benedict smiles, brushing her cheek with his finger, “I think I always have, but I didn’t realise until recently.”

(Y/N) sniffles as tears threaten to make an appearance. She laughs wetly, unable to stop the giggle from leaving her mouth as Benedict wipes away the tears. “I hope those are happy tears,” He murmurs wryly.

“They are,” She answers, throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him down to her level. “They definitely are.”

“Good,” He answers.

Their faces are so close now it would only take a fraction of a movement to press their lips together; to seal the promise of their union. “Kiss me, Benedict,” She whispers; need lacing her voice as she stares into his famously blue eyes.

Benedict doesn’t need to be told twice; it isn’t often he gets to kiss a goddess.

********

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hlizr50 · 3 years

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Labor Day Bonus Update: The Raven and the Songbird

Nothing like a holiday giving me an excuse to post the next chapter early. It's one of my absolute favorites.

Read on AO3

Chapter 5

Gwyn yawned, her entire form stretching and tightening. She knew it wouldn’t go unnoticed by Nesta and Emerie, but she just smiled serenely. She had needed this – time to talk and laugh and enjoy good food with her two closest friends in the world. The fae lights were dim, casting the private library in dusky shadow. Book spines were barely visible on the shelves, but she was content to sit and enjoy the conversation. She sighed before turning her focus to her Valkyrie sisters sitting on the floor, finding Nesta with a skeptical eyebrow raised.

“What?”

The eldest Archeron patted her hand on a tufted woolen floor pillow, green like a spring meadow. “Sit, Gwyneth. We need to talk.” Unease coiled in her stomach, but she slid down from the couch, clutching another throw pillow to her chest.

“What do we need to talk about?” Gwyn’s voice was tinier than she’d intended, and she knew the question was ridiculous as soon as she asked it.

“You’re tired. You’re sad. Nesta knocked you on your ass today,” Emerie answered, concern glowing in her dark gaze.

“That doesn’t mean something is wrong with me,” Gwyn giggled, but she knew her mirth was unconvincing. “You both are skilled fighters. Maybe Nesta has just gotten better than me.”

“I haven’t and you know it.”

Gwyn turned her attention to a very interesting tassel on the pillow she held. She could feel the pressure stinging her eyes and tried so hard to push down the tears that had so quickly threatened. She felt gentle fingers at her chin, pulling her gaze until she met Nesta’s gray stare.

“Gwyn. Talk to us. You are our sister. We love you. We’re worried about you.”

Her sisters. The knowledge that she had Nesta and Emerie had kept her going these past weeks, kept her stubborn heart and eyes from giving up. And now it was that care and comfort that unraveled her. She felt the hot trickle down her cheeks as Nesta’s calloused fingers brushed tendrils of hair away from her face. But she couldn’t say the words. She wasn’t one of those females that needed a male to be happy and thrive. She was a powerful warrior, strong and skilled.

“Is it Azriel, Gwyn?” The voice came from her other side, along with a feather-light brush of fingertips down her back. Emerie. Gwyn blinked and took three steadying breaths, allowing the patience and care from her sisters wash over her. It took a few moments before she felt she could form the words she needed.

“He started avoiding me, after the necklace,” her face cooled when Nesta removed her hands and reached down to grasp one of her own. “I let it go on for a few days, but I missed him. We were friends, and he… he helped me when I couldn’t sleep. Sometimes we would talk, most times we would train. After we found out about the necklace he stopped coming out to the ring at night. He would come to the door, and when he saw I was there he would leave. So I cornered him one day after training. It was all so stupid and I just wanted things to go back to normal.”

“What did you say to him?” Emerie asked, her voice soft as velvet.

“I told him that the necklace was a stupid thing to do, but we all do stupid things. I said that Elain and I had both deserved better, but I knew he would be better. I told him that I missed him, that all was forgiven, and then I asked if things could go back to normal.” Gwyn looked back up to Nesta, then turned to Emerie. “He said we were friends, and that everything would go back to normal.” She took a shuddering breath, earning a squeeze on her hand.

“And then he just… disappeared.”

She felt the burning return to her eyes and her throat, recalling that night in the rain when she had desperately wished he would come to her.

“That’s when you started zoning out at training. And punching the post until you were bruised and bleeding,” the Illyrian female realized.

“I knew it was bad when Cassian made you stop,” Nesta mused.

“Twice,” Gwyn confirmed, tears welling again. “I trained hard during the day, harder at night. The effort and pain helped distract me from the loss of his friendship… and from the nightmares.” She stared down at their interlace hands, noting how the low light made Nesta’s and Emerie’s skin contrast so deeply to hers and letting the tears fall in earnest.

“I thought they were better, Gwyn.” The worry lacing Nesta’s voice was thick, and suddenly the priestess felt guilty for keeping it from her… from them. She couldn’t look at them, but clutched their hands.

“They were, but now… it’s been really bad these last few days.” Gwyn sniffled and pulled her hands away from the comfort of her chosen family, opting instead to clutch the tasseled pillow to her chest again. She needed that grip, as if it were the only thing that could hold her together. “Almost a week ago I was in the training ring at night. It had been a difficult day, my hands were throbbing, Merrill was being… well, Merrill. It was raining when I walked out the door, but I needed time and space so I went out and sat in the middle and just let the rain wash everything away. Azriel came to the doorway, the first time since I’d cornered him that day. And… he barely spoke to me. I even said I’d had nightmares almost every day. And… and he told me I should go inside and then he just left.”

Gwyn tucked her knees up to the pillow against her chest and covered her face with her hands. Her body shook, much like it had that night when he’d left her – when something had shifted. Her throat felt so tight around her words. “It’s like something broke then. I stopped going to the training ring, and started working extra to distract myself. And the nightmares,“ she sobbed. She wasn’t ready to admit the terror of her changing dreams, but she was also desperate to tell someone how she had been suffering. “I have the same one every night – of that day at Sangravah. But… but when the general is done, when he tells the other males to continue taking from me…” Her breath sawed in and out of her and she could feel herself tremble. She could barely make her voice work as she uttered the terrible turn that her dreams had taken.

“He doesn’t come for me,” she whispered. The air was so still that she could feel Nesta’s sharp gasp stealing it from the space. “That moment when Azriel slaughtered them – when he saved me – no longer exists. And I have to face the terror of knowing what is coming. The fear and the pain and the horror and the desperation… it all feels just as real as it did that day.”

A pair of strong arms crushed her, and then a second embrace. Gwyn let go of the pain and the fear of those nights alone, afraid of sleep and unable to seek comfort from the only person who had helped keep those dreams at bay. Fingers combed through her hair, stroked up and down her back, soothing her as she cried.

That was all there was, for how long she didn’t know. She just knew heat in her cheeks, trembling, comforting hands at her shoulders, on her back, and in her hair. Then fingers gripped her wrists to pull her hands away from her face. She was sure her skin was red and splotchy, but she looked up to find Nesta’s own watery gaze.

“Gwyn, we will always come for you. All of us, including Azriel. You know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” the priestess answered with a nod.

“Good. As for the rest of this,” Nesta wiped her eyes and donned an expression not so unlike the days when she was brimming with the power of death. “Azriel is a fucking idiot.” Emerie burst out laughing, causing Gwyn to join with a chuckle of her own.

“I’m so glad I don’t prefer males.” The winged Valkyrie’s eyes glittered with mirth and concern, earning a nose-crinkling smile. Nesta pulled Gwyn’s attention back, pushing her jaw with a finger.

“Azriel is an idiot, but he cares for you. I’m certain of that. I haven’t known him too terribly long, but Cassian has. He’s different with you.”

“Maybe that isn’t a good thing.” Gwyn shrugged. She had thought so, too. But now he seemed to treat her with the same brooding aloofness that he reserved for practical strangers.

“No, I don’t think you understand,” Nesta insisted, reaching up to brush the wetness away from her cheeks. “Cassian and I have had this conversation more times than I can even count. ‘Berdara made Az laugh today’. ‘He couldn’t stop grinning today’. ‘I’ve never heard him banter like that’.”

“Why do you have so many conversations about that?” Gwyn couldn’t help but laugh at the strangeness of that thought, that Nesta and the general would be so invested in her interactions with the spymaster.

“That’s not even the point, Gwyneth,” Nesta huffed. Gwyn stuck her tongue out, still feeling Emerie’s hands softly at her back. “I’m going to kick Azriel’s ass back into line, but…” The priestess could see that Nesta was trying to choose her words, lips pursing and eyes staring above her. Then those icy eyes came back, full of determination.

“Do you care for him, Gwyn? Or, I suppose, how do you care for him?”

She just stared into Nesta’s eyes for a long moment, trying to find the right things to say. How to express what was churning in her heart. “Of course I care for him. He has become a dear friend.” Her friend’s gaze didn’t falter, daring her to say what she hadn’t admitted to anyone, not even to herself.

“And?”

Gwyn jerked her head, surprised that Emerie also seemed to know that there was more. The Illyrian’s countenance held that same caring determination, waiting with barely concealed expectation. Gwyn could only sigh.

“I… I don’t know. I trust him. Implicitly. He’s the only male I’ve never feared. And he’s beautiful, of course.”

“Yes, he certainly is,” Nesta sighed wistfully. Gwyn giggled and swatted her friend playfully on the shoulder.

“I feel… drawn to him, like we understand each other’s darkness. I should be terrified of him, theoretically, but I can’t be. And if… I don’t know what romance is supposed to be, what a relationship looks like. But I think, if he wanted to try, I would say yes. Without hesitation. Even after what happened at Sangravah,” she admitted. “But first and foremost… I just want his friendship. If that’s the only thing I can have then I’ll be happy.” And that was the truth. She would have him in her life, in whatever capacity. His absence was far too difficult to bear.

An enormous yawn pushed out of her lungs and she clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes wide. Nesta and Emerie laughed, Nesta pushing herself to her feet before offering her hands to Gwyn.

“You need to sleep. Hopefully tonight will be more restful,” she said as she pulled Gwyn to her feet and swiftly gathered her into a hug. She felt Emerie at her back, enveloping her as well. Gwyn could only smile and release a contented sigh, reveling in the love of her chosen sisters. She felt lighter, relieved to have shared the struggles she’d been facing. But then she yawned again, the exhaustion in her bones suddenly the only thing she could feel. Her eyelids drooped and she felt herself losing her battle with sleep even as she stood there, still wrapped in that Valkyrie embrace. As her body became heavy, yet weightless, she couldn’t comprehend the words she heard.

“Ready to crash boys night, Em? I might actually kill him.”

~~~

Azriel, Cassian, and Rhys lounged in the study, each nursing crystal glasses with varying amounts of amber liquid. Azriel studied the cut angles in his glass, the firelight reflecting kaleidoscopes of brightness off the liquor. He’d already had more to drink than usual, not typically one to lose his wits from alcohol. But tonight he had partaken in a bit extra, perhaps in the vain hope that the libations would settle his mind. The roaring thoughts still stormed through him from earlier in the day – guilt, stubbornness, anger, shame.

Of course, the alcohol staunched none of it.

“You seem particularly broody tonight, Az.” Cassian’s amused voice broke through that cyclone and Azriel fixed him with a narrow-eyed glare. His brother just smirked victoriously at him, knowing the truth in his observation. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that sleepover at the house, would it?”

“Sleepover at the house?” Rhys turned his starlit gaze toward the shadowsinger, but Azriel didn’t have any intention of answering. Cassian, however, so enjoyed irritating him.

“A certain redhead priestess has been acting strangely and Nesta is determined to figure it out,” he drawled, pointed amber gaze fixed on the spymaster. “I think it has something to do with our tall, dark, and brooding brother here.”

“Gwyneth Berdara?” Azriel flicked his eyes toward the High Lord whose brows were arched in surprise. “Why would that have anything to do with you?”

“I’m pretty sure,” Azriel groaned when Cassian began to answer, sinking deeper into the velvet tufts of the oversized armchair, “that the two of them want to be friendlier than friends.”

“Gwyn and I have a professional, platonic relationship. Nothing more,” Azriel growled. He wasn’t in any sort of headspace to deal with Cassian’s ribbing, or to explain it away to Rhys. He looked up to find the Illyrian general had set down his glass and was leaning back casually, crossing his arms.

“Is that so?” Azriel wanted to slap that smug grin off his face. “Is that why you can never keep your eyes off her at training? Is that what’s happening when you grin at her when she gives your shit right back to you? When she makes you throw your head back and laugh?” He could feel the heat rising up his neck and into his cheeks.

“Laugh? Out loud?” The High Lord balked and Azriel rolled his eyes.

“I laugh, thank you very much.”

“Not like that, you don’t,” Cassian countered. Azriel just shook his head as his brother turned to Rhys. “You should see it, Rhys. I never thought I’d see the day – “

“WHERE IS HE?!” A female voice echoed from down the hall.

“Nesta?” Rhys wondered aloud.

“Where is that idiotic overgrown bat? I swear on the Cauldron I’m going to kill him.”

“Yup, that’s Nesta,” Cassian confirmed with a groan. “What the fuck did I do now? I wasn’t even at the house –“

The study doors burst open as Nesta pushed through, gray eyes shimmering with rage. Azriel leaned forward as her gaze fell on him.

“YOU.”

“Me?”

“Him?” Cassian gawked, but then grinned wickedly. “Oh, this is a nice change. I could get used to this.”

“Keep your mouth shut or you’re next,” Nesta snapped as she strode in front of Azriel’s chair. “Azriel, would you care to tell me why I just spent an hour comforting one Gwyneth Berdara while she sobbed in my arms? Any ideas?” His eyes grew wide and his face went slack, unable to comprehend exactly what was happening.

“Nothing to contribute, Shadowsinger? How fucking convenient. Maybe you could tell me why you avoided her even after you told her that things would go back to normal and that you were friends? Or perhaps you could explain why you left her alone in the rain the one time you did actually talk to her, even after she told you her nightmares were bad again?”

“I –“ He didn’t get a chance. Nesta stepped closer.

“Not done, Az. Not even close. Maybe you have an explanation for her working herself into exhaustion at the library to avoid time alone? Or the reason she doesn’t go to the training ring at night anymore?” Azriel just stared, dumbfounded at what she was saying. He pressed himself back into the chair as the honey-haired female placed her hands on the armrests and leaned in so far they breathed the same air.

“Tell me, Azriel,” she whispered, voice thick with emotion and ice, “why every night for the last week she has dreamed of Sangravah. And in that nightmare when that general is finished hurting her, she has to feel the soul-crushing terror of watching the next soldier take his place because you don’t come to save her.” And Nesta pulled a hand back and slapped him.

Azriel knew his eyes were wide as saucers as the breath punched out of him. He barely registered the tingle of pain in his cheek, absorbing what she had told him. Gwyn’s nightmares. Every night. And they had twisted into something even more horrifying.

How could any part of her think that he wouldn’t come for her?

He looked back to Nesta who had backed away. Cassian had risen to comfort her, brushing tears away from her cheeks and murmuring into her ear. Azriel got to his feet and took a measured step toward them.

“Nesta, I –“

“You care for her, don’t you?”

Azriel knew they could see the wetness in his eyes, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He had been wrong to leave her, wrong about so many things. And he was done denying.

“Of course I do, Nesta. More than I think I can explain right now.”

“Then fix this.” Her voice was colder than his could ever be, a warning that he wouldn’t like what would happen if he didn’t make it right. But he had every intention to.

He was miserable without her.

Azriel gave Nesta a curt nod, turned on his heel, and stalked out of the study. He kept his surprise masked as he passed Emerie, who was leaning in the doorway, also wearing that expression – promising violence for hurting one of their own. He nodded to her, too, acknowledging his part in all of this. Then he practically ran down the hall and through the entrance of the river house, only taking three steps in the night air before taking to the sky.

Straight to the House of Wind.

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#gwynriel supremacy #gwynriel #gwynriel fanfiction #gwynriel fic #fanfiction #AO3 #gwyneth berdara #azriel shadowsinger #gwyn x azriel #acotar fanfiction

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cwnhyunsu · 3 years

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hello everyone! i have never been so excited to join a new rp, and now that the wait is over i am shaking with excitement! in case i have not bothered you in dms, my name is mali ( she/they, 20 almost 21, est ), and i am here to ruin everyone’s day with my beloved muse, han hyunsu. if we haven’t plotted yet, or i haven’t replied to your dms, feel free to interact with this post and i’ll come and bother you!

such a charming, young prince, but don’t be deceived. a look into his story and you’ll see han hyunsu is not all he is cracked up to be.

STORY. ( tw: mentions of death and murder )— STATS.— VALUES. — PLOTS.

ONCE UPON A TIME . . . hyunsu was born into a noble family; his father is a honorable military official in the kingdom of clovers, and his mother is a well-renowned seamstress who owns her own tailor shop in between the three kingdoms. being the eldest child of his family, hyunsu always carried the burden of being a good example for his siblings and honoring his family name.

from a young age he studied hard to even have a chance at being a royal. this was partially due to his parents ( more specifically his father ) pushing him to be the best he could be, and partially due to the fact that he wanted praise from his parents. of course, all his hard work paid off, and hyunsu was able to become as a royal at the age of sixteen.

IN THE KINGDOM OF . . . clovers, hyunsu quickly began his training in hopes to become a prince. at the time, he fell in love with one of his competitors, lee seonwoo. the two often met in secret, as they did not want to ruin their chances at becoming princes. they never had an established relationship, yet the feelings were real, especially to hyunsu. and when the two became princes, things quickly began to change.

THERE WAS SOMETHING IN THE AIR . . . but it wasn’t love. lee seonwoo became a second-tier prince, loved and cherished by everyone around him, while hyunsu remained in the shadows of his own lover as a third-tier prince. it did not help that hyunsu found himself alone, as the person he used to spend most of his time with had now left him in the dust. nothing compared to the pain and jealousy hyunsu had felt, and even now he still is left feeling angered by his past.

SO HE BID ADIEU TO THE BELOVED PRINCE . . .( tw: murder ) and after a lot of thought, hyunsu decided the best way to move on and live his best life was to murder his lover via poisoning. no one knows he did it, not even those closest to him. it is a secret hyunsu will carry for the rest of his life, a burden that is a weight on his shoulders. yet now, despite being shackled up by his own sins, hyunsu lives freely as a second-tier prince.

personality.

although he is haunted by his own past, hyunsu has a pretty bold personality. resilient, open-minded, and flexible are a few words that could describe the prince, though he is also cunning, impulsive, and vain. he means well, but often times finds himself butting heads with a lot of people.

most of his time was spent learning the politics and society of the kingdom of clovers, so it’s a not a shocker that hyunsu tends to be slightly misogynistic ( boo, let women be women! ). this can be viewed more in his page about his values, but for now let’s just say he does not vibe with the queen-- even if he sucks up to her.

if you are his friend, he will spend every day supporting and loving you. if you are his enemy, he will spend every day pushing your buttons until you surrender.

sentence starters.

“you look like a ghost. like you just came back from the dead.”

“well if you know so much about me, you should write a biography.”

“felt like i had to rescue you from that situation.”

“you just have to suck the joy outta everything!”

"nothing goes over my head! my reflexes are too fast, i would catch it!"

“i look around, and you know what i see? losers, but life's given us a chance.”

misc.

inspiration: dark red ( steve lacy ), scar ( the lion king ), loki ( marvel )

psd credit.

#cwnintro #will add tags later #value and plot pages are still being updated i am so sorry

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morwensteelsheen · 3 years

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I struggle with figuring out what the expectations are for aristocratic marriage in Gondor and Rohan. One thing I’ve toyed about with in my head is treating LOTR as not just unreliably narrated, but as super unreliably narrated, and taking ‘the Steward and the King’ not as gospel, but essentially as a bit of PR/marketing. Because wow, isn’t it really, really convenient that the Steward of Gondor/second most powerful man in the realm gets married to the most powerful woman of the Riddermark, Gondor’s closest ally? Isn’t that a little too convenient? What if Frodo just copies down the press release given to him by Faramir and instead of being this stunning high romance, he and Éowyn are basically just a run-of-the-mill political marriage?

(Obviously I don’t believe this fully, but it is an interesting thought.)

Here’s where it becomes harder to justify though, and here’s why I’m really confused about how marriage works for both Gondor and Rohan’s nobility.

If political marriage were a thing in either of them, it stands to reason that it’s quite strange that neither Boromir nor Théodred are married with kids. The appendices say that Denethor ‘married late’ for having married Finduilas when he was forty-six, but when Boromir dies he’s forty-one. So he’s not far off at all. Théodred is the same age as Boromir, and we know that Théoden was married to Elfhild at least by the time that he was thirty, though he probably married her before that. So Théodred’s really late.

So not only do neither of the heirs have kids, they’re not even married. Even if they didn’t have kids, you would think that, if political marriages were the norm, they’d be shipped off post-haste, right? Dol Amroth was secured in its loyalty to MT through Denethor marrying Finduilas (and obviously the whole happy go luck proto-nationalism shit that’s going on), and it seems like the rest of the major provinces are mostly in line, so why not use a marriage to secure the alliance with the Mark? I would have Boromir married off to Éowyn ASAP since there are no women to marry off to Théodred. But the fact that that doesn’t happen is interesting, I think. And also really complicates my HC that Éomer/Lothíriel is mostly a political thing, tbh.

It’s all even more interesting in light of Faramir’s line in TTT where he’s explaining why the Kings of Gondor fell apart:

Childless lords sat in aged halls musing on heraldry...

Because, like, buddy, you are a childless lord sitting in an aged hall. And not only that, but since his brother was unmarried and childless before his death, he was probably always going to become the Steward at some point anyways, even if only briefly. So it’s not like he gets to claim amnesty via spare-status, because until the moment Boromir had kids (which he never did), he was constantly in secondary heir mode. So??? why wasn’t Faramir married off either? My dude was THIRTY-SIX during the war. He could’ve had fuckin hunners of kids by that point, but you’re telling me everyone was just gucci with him maintaining bachelor status?

Also, Faramir pointing it out does have the effect of politicising marriage somewhat. We know that Faramir’s somewhat out of step politically with the rest of Gondor, at least that in he appears to be very, very obsessed with bringing back the Númenor stuff and criticising Gondor over the last five hundred or so years. So if he’s diagnosed this childless lords problem as a problem that led to Gondor’s decay, he’s probably doing it because others don’t really see it that way. ‘Others’ here could be either Boromir (see the bottom of this post) or it could be Gondorians generally, we can’t know. Either way, Lord Faramir, thirty-six years old and unmarried, seems to think that lords not ensuring there were heirs to their houses was a problem. That contradiction/incidental hypocrisy is noteworthy!

I’ve typically taken this in my fics as an indication that the war was quite an intense and cataclysmic thing even before the official War of the Ring starts, and that all of these guys are way, way too busy dealing with that to consider marrying, but that opens up the question — when did things get so dire that securing the future of the ruling houses got deprioritised? Sauron openly declared himself in TA2951, but twenty-six-ish years later both Denethor and Théoden get married, so marriage is still at play in ~TA2976. Not a huge amount happens between 2976 and 3018 in explicit canon. We know that Elrond recalls Arwen from Lórien in 3009 because everything east of the Misty Mountains is becoming dangerous. By this time Boromir and Théodred are 31 and Faramir is 26, which made me wonder if it would be reasonable to have expected any of them to be married at that point. I did some quick math to see how old the title-holders were when they were married, stopping at the fifth generation back to accommodate Thorondir, who was the first Steward to not crack a century of life. Here’s what I’ve got:

(Where an actual wedding year wasn’t given, I based it on the year their eldest child was born.)

(Worth noting that Denethor’s not that much older than Ecthelion likely was when he married, so the ‘married old’ remark could instead be a reference to when Gondorians got married generally, not specifically to the Númenórean lot.)

There’s a chance all these guys got married way, way earlier and just spent ages childless, but… I sort of doubt that. Also I’m doing this based on what I can access from my laptop, so both HoME and PoME might contradict me or give more specific dates. If that’s the case — sorry!

It is interesting that if we accept HoME’s dating of Faramir and Éowyn’s wedding as TA3020 as canon, then Faramir (married at 37) is actually younger than the average for the previous five generations of Stewards. So is Éomer, because by marrying Lothíriel in 3021 he’s actually just getting in early by a a year or so.

Regardless, it makes statistical sense that neither Boromir nor Faramir are married by 3009, though Théodred is sort of pushing it. Certainly by 3018 when he dies he’s really taking the piss, but Boromir is still sort of in the clear (but getting up there), and Faramir’s kind of fine.

We know, at least, that there’s a canonical acknowledgement of Boromir’s bachelor status, per Appendix A:

Rather he was a man after the sort of King Eärnur of old, taking no wife and delighting chiefly in arms.

No accounting for Théodred, though based on Faramir’s bitching about Rohan and Gondor becoming more alike, you could probably chalk it up to the same thing as Boromir. I note, however, that Théodred’s need is slightly more urgent because in absence of an heir from Théodred, the throne would then pass to Éomer. I think we might reasonably assume that he wouldn’t have a problem with this (Théoden might have, given how effective Wormtongue’s manoeuvring was), but we can’t know for certain.

Worth pointing out as well that Elphir’s son Alphros is born in 3017, so it’s not like nobody is getting it on.

I was interested in what the numbers for the ladies would look like, and obviously this is complicated by the fact that there’s like twenty named human women and even fewer with birth dates/marriage dates, but here’s what the table looks like:

(Because so many of the women we know of are women who crossed between Rohan and Gondor, I put them in columns based on their birth culture, not where they married into.)

Also here’s some fuel for the age gap discourse:

(Can you tell I’m procrastinating my dissertation???)

Anyways, outside of some apparent liberalism towards the ol’ begetting of heirs, there’s not a huge amount of information floating around to help us understand how or if marriage was understood politically in Rohan and Gondor. You get bits and pieces (Aragorn’s ‘no niggard are you, Éomer’ comment at Éowyn and Faramir’s trothplighting, for example, Wormtongue being after Éowyn, for another), but nothing extended or particularly explicit.

Just one of those things, really…

#just having some Thoughts really #lotr #long post #also lmao just realised that alphros being born in 3017 buggers my AFTA timeline for fuck’s sake

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ktheist · 4 years

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saving grace | 3

muses. duke!yoongi x lady!reader

universe. arranged marriage / minor traces of magic in history

concept. driven into a corner with the new king, seokjin, offering to marry you off to a prince in a foreign land and a persistent mother who would seize the chance of a lucrative marriage for her daughter, you’re forced with the only other option to secure your freedom ‒ enter into a beneficial agreement with the man who reaped the seeds of war, the duke of cralon, yoongi min.

words. 5.3k

warnings. mentions of war, it’s cliche and cheesy all in one package

index. 1 / 2 / 3 / 4 / 5 / finale

yoongi doesn’t explicitly say it - and you don’t dare inquire as to the reason he’s accepting the circumstances forced into his hands but the more you ponder on it, the more the plausible answer seems to be the cause of your palpitating heart.

“we’ll attend the party together,” his breath had felt warm against the back of your hand but its the callousness of his touch that rooted yourself to the ground.

yoongi is doing this because he can’t let you ruin yourself. call it the gentleman in him. nothing more. nothing less. and because of that, you couldn’t allow yourself to be the one to rope him into a loveless marriage in the name of politics when it’s been clear that he wants no part in this game of chess.

“leslie,” you speak into the darkness, fingers pulling on the strings that tie the cloak together.

“yes, my lady.” a figure steps out of the shadow in your periphery.

“i need you to pay a visit to the other informant guilds and see if they have something on what the nobles that are to attend my party, have been doing in the last three months.”

not like they’d have anything you don’t but you can’t rule out the possibility that they’d have even the littlest detail that could be of great help.

“three months, my lady?” leslie quizzes, you can’t see her face in the dark but you can just picture her blinking and cocking her head to the side at your prescribed timeline.

three months is a gamble but enough to establish a routine. whether it’s walking by the park everyday and then stopping to chat with a man in black from head to toe once on every 25th. or whether it’s for attending gatherings, only to keep the 16th fully empty.

“yes and prepare a carriage to go to the royal palace today.” with that, the shadow shifts as though bowing.

“i shall let felix know promptly. since you’ve just returned, would you like to take a short nap first?”

your gaze slants to the slightest gap between the curtains that you just slipped through, amber light pouring in a sharp stripe over the floor, “no, i’d like to take a bath and prepare for the day - did anyone come to my room while i was gone?”

“the madam came last night,” the maid informs, hands folding the cloak that she helped took of your shoulders, “but i told her you were sick and wanted to rest.”

“did she believe you?” walking over table, you plop into the chair with a sigh.

“she left after i told her you were asleep.” she disappears into the closet after you wave a dismissive hand, possibly to store the cloak in the secret compartment within the innermost corner of the walls.

knowing your mother, she probably saw through leslie’s lies but it’s not as if it’s the first time nor will it be the last. as long as you made sure to hide your face and avoid any rumors of count ___’s daughter’s sightings in the middle of the night in the rougher part of town, it’s fine.

a panting and disheveled jungkook bursts through the towering doors engraved with intricate carvings of a roaring lion and a crown. his eyes widens when they met yours like they usually as though seeing a ghost. you thought his timid nature would go away over time but that doesn’t seem to be the case.

“lady ___!” he calls in a hurry after you walked past him and down the familiar hallway lain with blazing red carpet, “h-his majesty is busy! you have to give the palace a month’s notice for an audience before-”

“jungkook.” the abrupt twirl almost sends the boy smashing into you but he manages to stop just inches away, sighing a sigh of relief that only lives for a split second at your words, “his majesty ordered for the rumors to be spread.”

when you take one step forward, he takes another backwards, “you’re his closest aide so he must’ve told you to do it and not some ordinary maid-”

“n-n-no! i-” he sputters, eyes glancing over his shoulders as though seeking for a knight to call for help but the goddess must be in your favor today because no other soul can be seen.

you’re not sure what kind of face you’re making but you doubt it’s a smile but the fact that all colors seem to drain when he looks at you again must mean something, “it was lady jung! his majesty called for lady jung and after that, the rumors started spreading!”

“krystal?”

a sigh escapes the black haired boy when your feet roots itself into the ground. the jung family had been part of the aristocratic faction who tried to push for their daughter and krystal’s eldest sister to marry the crown prince, seokjin’s brother and heir apparent.

but only those who secretly swear allegiance to seokjin could attain an exclusive invite to the palace and jungkook had explicitly mentioned that it was seokjin who called her over, not the other way around.

“lady ___! please!” jungkook’s cries echo somewhere behind you, almost drowned by the series of questions that begin to flood your head.

“your majesty!” your hands ache from having to push through the oak doors after jungkook orders the knights to stand down at your arrival, which meant they had no obligations to announce your presence nor push the doors open for you, “you’re throwing yoongi and i into a cage full of wolves!”

“oh you two are calling each other by first names now?” the way seokjin's eyes glazes over you does nothing but pour oil to the flames burning inside your stomach, “regardless, i thought we agreed to cease this act of prancing around in the palace like you own the place.”

a thud echoes off the walls as your barely recovering hand slams down on his desk, but judging from how the stack of papers stood still, you doubted it’d made the desirable impact, “if you knew i was lying, why didn’t you call me out?!”

“i can’t say i didn’t fall for it in the beginning but weren’t you the one who told me that information can be gathered and used like a sword?” seokjin’s steel gaze settles on you like a blanket of winter snow.

“that...” thrown off by the your own words used against you, a pause lapses before you manage to speak again, “i may have made a mistake by involving yoongi but this ends here. call off the party i- i’ll marry the 12th prince.”

a scoff.

“to think you swore to be the shield you’re now holding against me because of that brute cousin of mine.”

“my promise remains the same,” you stand straighter, hit by the reminder of your ordeal, “i'll support you for as long as you stay a just ruler but not if you start a war within cearis by this reckless action of yours.”

his eyes bore into you for the longest moment, searching for a hint of your faltered promise.

there is none.

to think it would come to this. when you agreed to help seokjin become the king, you knew you have vastly contrasting ideals but the end goal was the same. to bring peace over cearis and end the previous king’s tyrannic reign.

the previous king hadn’t directly committed murder but the increasing tax rate had slowly caused the economy to be sucked dry. the people couldn’t even afford basic necessity and the rich buying wheat and grains and storing them with the intention to resell them once the price sky-rocketed. up until last year, only nobles were able to still live comfortably.

the thought of the hollowed cheeks, tattered clothing and skin and bones of the people in the streets whenever your carriage passed to get to the tea parties and gathering, still sends your body shaking with rage.

and if a civil war broke out between the two factions, history might repeat itself.

“i’d wanted you to rule by my side as my queen.” seokjin’s blunt confession causes you to almost stumble backwards, as though hit by an invisible brick.

“what-”

“but that’s simply absurd.”

he gingerly chuckles at your apparent reaction, “at least pretend to be disappointed ___, i didn’t want it too- the thought repulses me but since we’ve always been so much alike, we could at least make a political marriage work, right? but when you rejected me so directly, i couldn’t help but want to push you a little. i wasn’t going to go through the marriage with the 12th prince.”

“so all that trouble to get the duke to become my fake fiance... was because your fragile ego couldn’t handle being rejected by a woman?” you force through gritted teeth.

“i-i didn’t say such a thing,” the king’s eyebrows furrow in undue frustration, face reddening, “plus it’s you, we’re talking about. how could i be-”

“your majesty...” a hiss slips out of your mouth, causing the man to physically flinch at the realization of how dire the circumstances are for him. for one there are no windows to avoid assassination attempts but also means he can’t escape you through any other way but the door - assuming he could get past you at all, “you’ve caused duke min and i a great deal of hardships. it’s something money alone cannot fix, do you not think so?”

“c-calm down, ___,” he begins to sputter whilst the table begins to turn, gaze thrown over your shoulder - perhaps, he’s calculating his chances of survival if he made a beeline to the door,“jungkook! jungkook, let him in!”

almost as if on cue, the muted thud of footsteps fill the air before the door swings open. you have absolutely zero interest if it was an assassin he’d prepared beforehand, knowing that you’d barge your way to the palace. with this distance, even an assassin couldn’t get-

“the house of min greets the sun of the kingdom.”

your heels twirl on their own before you even manage to register the deep voice that echoes off the falls, eyes landing on the owner of the silver locks that begins to straighten up after a bow.

“yoongi.” the man’s name falls off your lips involuntarily as he spares you a chiding glance. almost as though he’s not pleased with your rash decisions of meeting with seokjin without consulting him.

yet despite that, he comes to stand next to you, his hand brushing the back of yours. and in his own way, it feels as though he’s saying i stand with you.

the sound of someone clearing his throat brings you back to the matter at hand. seokjin seems to have regained a semblance of his composure. though, he fails to hide the rise of his eyebrows for the briefest moment at the unusually close proximity for two people who claim to feign being lovers. “as you know, the the min lineage has extraordinary senses. i summoned yoongi over to wait for me in the next room but your crassness has delayed the duke’s audience. and since the walls are thin, i don’t know how much he’s heard.”

your lips twitch in contempt.

it doesn’t take long for you to piece two and two together. no noble family has expressly supported seokjin and with the two aristocratic and royal factions’ internal division, you suspect another faction would rise in support of seokjin, the son who the late king never even spared a glance at.

having aided seokjin in the shadows since his time as an outcast prince, you were never told of the other families that shared the same shoes and chose to support him until the time is right to step into the light. you swore to be his shield and the min family had always been known to be the crown’s loyal sword.

you catch yoongi’s deep eyes before meeting the king’s,“so the min family is one of the noble families who supported you as well.”

it isn’t a question but seokjin nods anyway, his eyes now hold a sort of burden that ages him ten years, “i know your reason for supporting me are too far glaring and what i’m asking you requires a great sacrifice that’ll affect your children, but can i count on the two of you for this?”

seokjin meant you might actually have to get married to yoongi legally. at the engagement party, you’ll be showing up as supporters of the king and shift the unending feud between and within the factions. those who have been supporting seokjin in the dark will be your allies while those neutral, like what your house had appeared to be, will not need much convincing to join the new faction - the king’s. though, those who are against his forceful succession won’t stand still.

“it’s getting late so we should stop here but i’ll be visiting soon to finish our little talk, your majesty,” you didn’t miss the king’s shoulder line jolting as you shot up, letting a few seconds stretch in suspense before dipping into a formal bow.

“um, that’s quite fine. you don’t have to-” the man’s mouth clamped shut at the glare you shot over your shoulder before trudging out of the room, the click clack click of your heels bouncing off the walls while you faintly caught seokjin stammering out a plea for help to the only other person left in the room and receiving a ‘you dug your own grave with this one, your majesty’.

yet you couldn’t deny the agreeable course of direction you should take to single out the wild flowers from mere weeds being through a garden party. that’s where politics takes place and where one would usually work out connections. halting in your steps, you found yourself letting out a sigh, the chin you’ve kept so high now lowered to the ground.

after this, there will no longer be an aristocratic and royalist factions - only those who opposes seokjin and those who supports him. the first bunch would no doubt go after you and your family since they can’t touch the duke, if you got divorced within five, no - ten, maybe even twenty years of your marriage. though there have been politically arranged marriages that lasts for a lifetime. while some of the couples seem civil to each other, there would always be speculations of their happiness lying in the arms of their lovers outside of their marriage.

your parents are no exception. though they never quite opened up to you about their past or even present. the only time you ever recall your mother’s heart breaking was when the bells of the palace rang across the capital, signaling the previous queen’s demise.

“how could i not have noticed which faction he’s in...” you trail off, staring into the darkened ceiling where the chandelier would have been and the paintings of a great tree that symbolizes the foundation of your house.

“my lady,” leslie’s fluttery voice chirps from somewhere next to you “get up! today is the day for the duke’s formal visit!”

it’s been a week since your visit to the palace and having been driven to a corner yet again by seokjin. for some reason it didn’t bother you as much as the revelation of that the house of min had always been by the king’s side as a loyal supporter.

yoongi had escorted you to the carriage silently. and you would have left without exchanging a word if not for he gloved hand that grasps onto you tightly and the eyes that bores into your soul. almost imploring you to please, say something.

“since we’re pressed for time, i’ll have the contract sent to you to be reviewed in three day’s time,” was all you said.

your ankles are shackled with invisible cuffs. it takes everything in you not to drag your feet as you strut down the hallway with your chin high and shoulder line dignified.

“right,” you murmur to yourself, pushing yourself up only to have your hand dragged by the maid all the way to the bathtub where warm water has already been filled and waiting for you.

the other maids are already waiting for you with dresses in their hands and jewel boxes littered on your otherwise neatly kept vanity, chattering to themselves about how exciting it is for the only and eldest daughter’s official engagement. granted, your mother has been bugging you about the lack of rock on your finger when every other noblewoman would be showing off their engagement ring as soon as the news breaks out in high society.

but when you step out of the room, donned in an extravagant but elegant dress, you did not expect the overflow of people you’ve never seen before walking towards the main parlor that’s much larger than your mother’s and reserved for entertaining guests. the servants who seem to be carrying boxes and wrapped dresses bow at the sight of you.

“leslie, what’s all this?” you quiz the ever smiling maid on your side even though you have a good hunch already.

“these are the duke’s gifts to you, my lady.” there’s a certain tilt in her voice - the closest indication you’d get of leslie being excited.

“gifts?” you echoe.

the plan was for you to review the other’s contract, make necessary amendments and exchange them in secret.

that is, until yoongi sent a letter to your father, to notify his visit and ‘entourage’. but then again, the duke has always had a knack for downplaying important matters. otherwise, you would have caught on to where his loyalty lies.

before the maid could elaborate further, you’re already in front of the parlor and whisked away by your mother as soon as she sees you.

“___!” she grasps your hands tightly, “how i was mistaken about the duke. his grace was waiting for the siren’s heart to arrive from raefetia!”

colored diamonds are especially hard to get due to the different component and temperature required for its formation. the siren’s heart is said to be a rare jewel that was lost after the siren’s lover was killed on land and the diamond that was with him got sold in the black market.

how yoongi got a hold of it, is not entirely a mystery but the impact of the entourage he brought to your manner and the two jewelers who confirmed it to be the real siren’s heart will, without a doubt, spread throughout the kingdom within a week.

“are these all bought by the duke?” you manage to pull one of the workers who you’d confirmed to be from whitlace, into a corner when your mother is busy salivating over one of the many boxes of jewels that seem to sparkle and call for her.

“th-the duke ask for the jewels to be sent to my lady’s manor and pick whichever my lady’s heart desires,” the slight tremble at the mention of yoongi shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you yet it does. he just hasn’t been looking at you with eyes that could kill.

“is your manager here?” you don’t plan to let the woman be ridden with worry any more than she already is.

as soon as she leads you to a tanned woman with an elegant air around her and the finest jewels adorning her ears and neck, you know that it isn’t just the manager but countess wyvner herself who’d come here.

“lady ___, it’s an honor to meet your acquaintance,” she smiles, her deep brown eyes gleaming with a sort of observance fitting for a woman who runs one of the most high end jewelry store in the kingdom alongside her husband.

“countess,” you say after bowing, “thank you for preparing this on such a short notice.”

a slot itself needs booking at least for one month prior, you can’t imagine how much trouble and setbacks in their schedule they’d have to suffer because of yoongi’s whims. you’d only come to a realization that you’d have to legally marry each other last week. let alone have enough time to prepare for such grand proposal.

“on behalf of my husband and i, it’s an honor to serve the duke and future duchess,” she has a sort of pleasant tone that makes the lady in you listen to anything and everything she says.

you let out a low chuckle, “my, that does put me in a difficult situation.”

the countess blinks in surprise, “how so, lady ___?”

“you see, countess, i specifically asked for the duke to not spend so extravagantly for me,” you lament, a sigh escaping your lips, “as the money could have gone to charity work and helping those in need.”

“ah yes, the house of ___ has been well-known for their generosity since your father’s time,” she agrees, as though recalling a long-lost memory.

it takes several more praises and teetering over the fine line of offensive and modest before you can finally convey your wishes for the jewels to be brought back and as a compromise, the countess will leave only the best, hand-picked diamonds for you to at least look at.

not even five minutes after your conversation with the countess ends, the butler approaches you, informing yoongi’s arrival.

“alright, thank you aiden,” you dismiss the butler, eye skimming the mannequins and dresses piled into the room. whichever store these are from, you’lll have to deal with them later, “bring him to mother’s parlor.”

“your grace, thank you for coming,” you greet the man with a bow, noting how his eyebrows threaten to pull together at the title yet only silence follows your greeting.

neither of you say anything as the maid sets down the baked goods you requested to be made for this meeting. the smell of lavender fills your senses as you pour the drink into the white teacup with deep violet flowers engraved around them.

“your grace,” that is possibly the last straw when you see the man’s heavy frown, as though the first time might have been a mistake, but the second time couldn’t have been, so you let out a soft sigh, “i shall address you formally for what i’m about to say involves the state of affair of the kingdom.”

when no word of protest seem to come from the duke, you continue, “i trust your grace has read the contract and made the desired amendments on your part?”

as though recalling the purpose of his visit, the man’s eyes flit away from you. it’s expected for him to behave so, especially when all you’d agreed on at the beginning was a simple hoax to trick the eyes of the beholders.

out of the frying pan and into the fire.

“that... yes.” he mindlessly mumbles, pulling out the contract from the inside pocket of his jacket and placing it in front of you in a manner that told you he couldn’t be bothered with it for a minute longer.

yet if that was truly the case, he could have sent someone to deliver the contract after the review instead of a notice informing you of his visit. the letters on the contract almost seem to blur together as you mull over his reasons for sitting through a one hour ride just to get here until you catch the insignia of twin dragons and a shield.

“your grace,” your heart almost jumps in your throat when you look up from the paper only to meet a pair of crimson ones that seem to already be staring, “none of the content seem to be modified. is there nothing you wish to add?”

contracts are made to give both parties an equal standings. you’d only included your terms which you made sure weren’t excessive but not potentially harming to you in an event there would be a talk of divorce in the future.

“no, there isn’t.” he answers simply, eyes reverting to the brownish golden liquid before hey flutter close just as he nears the cup to his lips.

all of a sudden, you’re brought back to the sunlit office of his. your hands had trembled and your heart had felt like a dead weight was pulling at its strings until the duke pulled you out of that darkened crevice and kissed the back of your hand.

the act alone had been reserved for lovers who’d sworn their souls to the other. but it’d also been done by noblemen in respect for noblewomen of higher ranking. but the fact that you were a mere count’s daughter and he was a duke rendered the latter interpretation null.

yet he’s acting so indifferently to you now.

“your grace, i implore you to take this matter seriously as it concerns not just the ducal house and ___ house but also cearis.”

no matter how prepared you are, there’s no telling what would happen once seokjin’s plan is set in motion. but even if you’re both nothing but chess pieces, your lives worth something. perhaps, yoongi hasn’t much to lose - but you’ve held out this long to avoid being tangled in an arranged marriage. you need a guarantee for your future and if yoongi refuses to pay his due attention-

“___,” the familiarity of your name rolling off his tongue is unsettling yet comforting at the same time, “isn’t everything that caters to your needs and wishes all in there? why are you displeased?” though the color of his eyes reminds you of burning flames, his gaze sends icy shivers down your spine. as opposed to the way he used to search for the secrets beyond the windows of your soul, this time, he seems as though he’s studied every crevice of it.

it takes you a moment to register that he’d read every line of the terms. and it isn’t a question needing mulling over nor do the flood of memories from your first meeting up until now, is unforeseeable. and you couldn’t help the little prick of betrayal that buries itself to the hilt in your heart,“did you know?”

his stare doesn’t falter. almost like a culprit brought to trial and knows of his innocence even though others don’t, “no- you know how secretive the king is but with the way you’d been behaving at the mention of him... i thought you’d been lovers instead of just subject and monarch.”

in other words, if yoongi knew - which he did have his suspcicions, it was because you’d exposed yourself. the realization hits you like a brick as you recall the many times you almost called seokjin by his name and the one time you actually did.

you figured he’d believe you when you said it was because of your house’s just upbringing but suspicions couldn’t just be shrugged off just like that.

“we’re not.” is all you say, your shoulders threaten to sag with the lifted weight yet the noble blood in you forces you to keep your chin up. those deep eyes bore into you. it’s no secret that even the seemingly indifferent duke of cralon would be curious of how you came to be acquainted with the king when he was just a prince.

truth to be told, it isn’t so much as a mysterious tale as it seems to be. your family’s territory doesn’t harbor fertile lands nor is it strategically situated near the shores for a harbor to be built and attract merchants. it’s a bit far off from the capital but not entirely suitable for planting corps either. and because your family’s refusal to join the royalist faction, the previous king had cut off the supplies and funds for your family’s territory.

your father had to buy food from merchants at a high price while you were in charge of distributing them all to representatives of each family. in the midst of it, at the age of 16, you’d met seokjin. every time you’d see him, he’d donned the same tattered clothes that didn’t seem to fit his smooth, honeyed skin and noble mannerism.

you didn’t question his motives for always being there to lend another hand to distribute whatever supplies your father could get and leaving without accepting so much as a slice of bread. it was some few years later, after you’ve talked to too many people and remember too little of their faces, did seokjin finally told you about his lowly maid mother and the parents she’d left in pursuit of a job in the capital. it took another year for you to realize his high official dad was the king and by then, you’d sputtered far too many insults at the second prince in your fits of rage.

but if you’re being honest, it possibly had something to do with your mother’s tens of hundreds of letters addressed to the palace, pleading for the king’s good graces. she’d attended social gatherings to obtain funds for charities that went to orphanages, managed to allocate budgets for the supplies and still maintain an appearance fitting for a noblewoman. you did help with pointing out which house had the disadvantage you could use and which could be recruited under your fold but it was mostly your mother - a useless information that yoongi didn’t need to know.

“we started getting more supplies and to shift the suspicion of our family’s support leaning towards the new crown, seokjin started distributing more supplies to noble families of neutral standings,” the thought alone warrants a well needed pause as you sip on cold tea, “after he proposed to me and promised to make me queen, i tried my best to avoid letting the two meet especially at banquets held in the palace.”

“that bastard...” a sharp cracking sound hits the air as you watch the tea ripple within the small confines of the now cracked teacup within the duke’s grasp, “...really had the nerve to propose to you, huh.”

“well,” you set the cup on the saucer gently before standing up and walking over the man who watches you with a mix of curiosity as to what you’re doing and subdued rage for the king.

sitting down, you place your hand on his gloved one. it takes a moment for him to realize the damage he’d done before he releases the poor ceramic and allow you to twine your fingers together. when you meet his gaze, it’s already soften with something you can’t pinpoint as you suppress the rising heat on your cheeks, “i believe seokjin was telling the truth when he said he was doing it because he had to. at that time, he most likely didn’t know of any other young ladies around his age though there’s no telling for sure just who and how many people was already under his folds,” the hard crimson stare does little to unnerve you though they still make your heart restless for a completely different reason now.

yoongi laughs dryly, almost like a swords mater defeated in his own game, “so we’re merely tools for his disposal.”

that, you can’t deny but no matter how deep you’d pondered on the man’s actions and how much you’d have to sacrifice-

“yet we still trust him like blind fools.” you say.

“fools won’t know what they’re getting into before it’s too late,” he rasps.

words of protest bubbles in your throat as his hand falls away from you but the way he stands up only to fall on his knee, makes your breath hitch.

“we’re no fools, you and i,” his eyes that capture you in a garden of red are glaringly contrasting to his fair complexion and naturally soft features, “___, i do not wish to be married to you only on paper.”

note. that’s all for the third chapter, hope you guys enjoyed it!

taglist: @ayujmi

#bts smut #yoongi smut #yoongi scenarios #bts scenarios #bts fic #bts fanfic #yoongi fic #yoongi fanfic #yoongi imagines #bts imagines #bts fanfiction #yoongi fanfiction #bts au #yoongi au #bts x you #bts x yn #bts x reader

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tsarisfanfiction · 4 years

Text

Too Far

Fandom: Thunderbirds Rating: Teen Genre: Family/Hurt/Comfort Characters: Virgil Tracy, Scott Tracy

So I was rewatching some episodes, minding my own business, when this muse blindsided me out of nowhere. It’s a lot of Virgil, specifically delving into Virgil’s head and motivations, and this is a playground that is normally locked and barred to me so I have no idea at this point how well it’s ended up from a characterisation standpoint. Who knows, maybe one day I’ll understand this boy.

It’s not normally Virgil that Scott has to pull up for misconduct. Episode tag for 3.06 Life Signs.

“Virgil, can you come to the den, please?”

Scott’s voice emerged from his comm with no warning, not even a greeting, and he looked down at his wrist in surprise.

“Is it a rescue?” he asked, eyeing the task he was halfway through and already starting to calculate the fastest way to finish it. “I’m doing some maintenance on Two, so it’ll take me a couple of minutes to get her ready for launch.”

“There’s no rescue.” Scott sounded… off, but not in any of the ways Virgil was used to hearing. It was, at least, partially familiar, but he couldn’t place it. That was concerning, but he couldn’t just leave Thunderbird Two with her dashboard strewn across the cockpit. Rescues had a habit of cropping up at the most inconvenient times, and that certainly qualified.

“Then… can it wait until I’ve put the panels back?”

The weighty pause on the line gave him the answer even before Scott spoke. Whatever Scott needed, it was urgent.

“Five minutes, Virgil.”

But not so urgent it couldn’t wait? Thoroughly mystified and more than a little worried, Virgil hurried through putting his girl back together as quickly as he could whilst still being sure he wasn’t messing anything up. It was lucky he could do it in his sleep, because his mind was firmly fixed on Scott’s odd request.

Except it wasn’t a request, was it? As he screwed the last panel back in place, he realised where he knew that tone of voice from. It was the tone Scott used on Gordon and Alan when they’d done something big brother didn’t approve of. He hadn’t instantly recognised it because Scott hadn’t directed it at him in…

Virgil couldn’t actually remember. Normally when Scott was preparing to lecture him, he was laid up in the medbay with an injury Scott thought could have been avoided and there was a strong undercurrent of thinly veiled worry. That undercurrent was missing, this time, and despite himself Virgil hesitated.

What had he done to get Scott on his back like that?

Reluctantly, he left his girl to answer Scott’s summons – and that was what it was, just like Dad used to summon them if they were in trouble; after Mars and the high of Captain Taylor saying Dad would have been proud of them, the reminder of Dad’s stricter side nestled unpleasantly in his chest. Scott had even gone so far as to wait for him in the den, rather than seeking him out.

Just like Dad.

Virgil wasn’t scared of his brother, but the little brother in him was scared at the idea of disappointing Scott, and it was that part that dragged his feet along the ground, reluctant to face whatever was waiting for him in the den.

Scott was sat at Dad’s desk, glowering intently at a hologram in front of him. Virgil couldn’t see what was on it, barring a lot of text, but that wasn’t important. What was important was the strong, imposing figure at the desk, distinct from his memories of Dad only because Scott was leaning forwards, elbows on the table.

Dad had never sat like that. Sometimes, it seemed like that was the only difference between Dad and his big brother. Today, with a heavy atmosphere and otherwise empty den – no doubt cleared on purpose for this talk – was one of those times.

But for all that they reminded Virgil of each other and memories threatened to overlap reality, it was still Scott at that desk. Virgil trusted Scott with every fibre of his being, and it was that trust that shoved his reluctant feet into the den to face whatever Scott wanted to talk about.

“You called?”

Muscle memory – old, old muscle memory that hadn’t been exercised in eight years – led him to stand in front of the desk. With Scott sat in the chair and him still on his feet, he was taller. He didn’t feel taller.

The desk did funny things to perception, skewed them away from reality.

The blue eyes that suddenly pinned him in place left him feeling a foot tall, and he didn’t even know what this was about, yet. There was love in them, because it was Scott and there was always love in his eyes, even after Gordon had poured itching powder in his bed when he was ten and the sheer amount had him reacting so badly he’d had to see a doctor, but it was overshadowed by other, darker, things.

Anger. Frustration. Disappointment.

Disappointment had a way of affecting the colour that no other emotion could quite replicate. It was the only shade of blue that made Virgil feel ill to look at.

Scott didn’t say anything, making solid eye contact that Virgil wanted to break but couldn’t.

If the disappointment was heart-breaking, the silence was nerve-wracking. Virgil didn’t like silence at the best of times, and took to filling it with whatever he could, whether it was music, the sounds that accompanied engineering, or simply lingering in earshot of whichever brother was the liveliest at that moment.

But Scott knew that, and no matter how upset or disappointed he was, he wasn’t cruel. The silence lingered for barely a few seconds before he jabbed at something on his tablet.

An awful choking sound emitted from the desk’s built-in speakers, as though someone was trying to breathe but just couldn’t. It was one Virgil had heard many times before – too many times before – but this one was different.

A wave of cold – icy, Antarctica-cold – swallowed him up with the creeping inevitability of realisation, dousing him until his organs felt like they’d all stopped working and the blood had drained from his body.

He didn’t need the sound of Alan’s panicked “Virgil!?” to identify it, and his entire body cringed as he heard his own voice, too full of adrenaline-packed amusement, reply.

The finger that jabbed the pause button was full of judgement.

“I-” he started, trying to find words – an explanation, an apology…

Those blue eyes gave him a look and he quailed into silence. An excuse. That’s what he’d been leaping to, but there were no excuses. Not for that.

“Our communications lines are supposed to be used for mission-relevant information only,” Scott finally said. The disappointment Virgil had identified in the initial summons had nothing on what was dripping from his big brother’s words now. “Strictly speaking, there should be no jokes or banter while we’re on a mission, but for the sake of boosting morale, I let that slide.”

He did more than let it slide – Scott was almost as bad as Gordon and Alan for it sometimes, but Virgil knew better than to pedantically correct his eldest brother when he was like this. Hell, even John tended to let Scott say his piece without interrupting if he got this bad.

“Still,” Scott continued, “there are some jokes that go too far, Virgil, and quite honestly I can’t believe I’m having to remind you, of all people.”

He winced involuntarily. “I know, Scott, I’m sorry. That was out of line.” It hadn’t seemed it at the time, not with the adrenaline rushing and a sudden desire to lighten the mood in the collapsed tunnel, but in hindsight, Virgil could see exactly how stupid a prank that had been.

And to do it to Alan, of all people. His youngest brother who had just admitted to him that he was forgetting Dad and worried about them dying on a mission. For them to have one of their closest calls to date was bad enough, where it had been a very real possibility that not all of them were going to make it out alive, but then he’d gone and compounded it…

“Virgil.” Scott pulled him back to the present, and Virgil never wanted to hear his big brother say his name like that ever again. His admittance had done nothing to dilute the disappointment. “I’m not the one you need to apologise to.” Scott at least had enough mercy not mention Alan by name, even if it hung unspoken and heavy between them. “But we need to talk about this.”

Need to talk? Virgil knew he was in the wrong, and normally when Scott knew he knew he was in the wrong, he let it rest after pointing it out. Actually having to talk about it – worse, having to stand there and face the disappointed shade of blue – filled Virgil with something not too dissimilar to shame and apprehension.

The thought crossed his mind that he was going to be grounded. Punished.

“Virgil, why did you do that?”

“I-” he started, but broke off. Why did he do it? Adrenaline wasn’t the reason, even if it had played a part in him actually doing it. Fear, too. Fear that he really was going to die; that he’d just killed himself and abandoned Alan to dig out his dead body. But that still wasn’t the reason, was it? Not really.

Scott didn’t push him. For all he was disappointed, and other displeased emotions swirled around behind the disappointment, he gave him time to answer. But then, perhaps Scott knew he didn’t know and was waiting for him to work it out. His eldest brother could be a mind reader at times.

Virgil swallowed. “I… I wanted to be like Dad.”

The words surprised him as much as they did Scott. Blue eyes widened, and finally Virgil saw something else, something he was used to, flicker in there as well.

Worry.

“Like Dad? But, Virg-”

“Captain Taylor’s always going on about Dad, and how Dad never let fear get in the way,” he interrupted his brother, words tumbling out with no conscious thought behind them. “How Dad always had a plan, and the scrapes they’d get into. How they always got out of them by the skin of their teeth – writing the book on lunar survival and the asteroid belt’s buckle and landing on Mars in the first place.” He took a deep breath, considered looking away but Scott’s wide, rapidly changing eyes locked his gaze in place. “And Alan was talking about Dad on the way, all the little things he used to do.” He didn’t mention what Alan had told him – that had been said in confidence, and there were some things he couldn’t break, not even for Scott.

Instead, he paused to get his rushing thoughts under control. Scott’s disappointment had faded into astonished disbelief, and that hurt in its own way.

He also still looked like Dad.

“Captain Taylor was talking about Dad, and everyone knows you’re Dad’s son. And John, and Alan. Hell, even Gordon. I just wanted Captain Taylor to see I am, too.”

He knew everyone looked at him and saw Mom. Even if they didn’t look alike, he’d inherited her temperament and love of music. They never looked at him and saw Dad.

“I just wanted to be Dad’s son,” he admitted. “I wanted to do what Dad always did in the stories and lighten the mood, keep the morale up. It was stupid; I know that now. I terrified Alan. It was unprofessional and Dad would never have done that at anyone’s expense.”

His cheeks felt cramped, and his vision blurred.

“Virgil…” There was movement in front of him and then a weight on his shoulder. He knew that weight – he’d felt it time and time again.

“It was stupid,” he repeated, the words thick in his throat. “I shouldn’t have done it. But… Captain Taylor said he’d be proud of me.”

The hand on his shoulder shifted, and then there was a firm warmth around him.

“Of course Dad would be proud of you,” Scott said, mouth a little way above his ear. Virgil let his head fall forwards until it was resting on his brother’s shoulder. “Don’t ever think that he wouldn’t be. You don’t have to be like him, Virgil. You just have to be like you.”

On another day, in another conversation, Virgil would turn that back around at Scott, who had spent the last eight years trying to emulate Dad.

But Scott had him in a warm, comfortable embrace and the little brother who had been terrified of those disappointed blues lapped up the reassurance that was being offered in their place. This wasn’t about Scott; this was about him and his stupid spur-of-the-moment idiocy.

And the brother he had no doubt terrified more than he’d realised.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled into the blue shirt. “I messed up.”

“You’re only human,” Scott reminded him. “We mess up, and we learn from it.”

Slowly, Virgil nodded. That was certainly a mistake he was never, ever going to make again.

Scott’s embrace was still comforting, but with the little brother no longer terrified, it was the big brother’s turn to make an appearance. He couldn’t put this behind him, lesson fully learnt and absorbed so intently it was imprinted on his brain for all eternity, until he soothed it over with Alan, too. Reluctantly, he pulled back, out of his brother’s hold, and Scott let him. Hands lingered on his shoulders just a touch longer, before they fell back to Scott’s sides.

Now that Scott was standing, not sat at the desk projecting Dad, he was actually taller than Virgil, and yet Virgil didn’t feel quite so small anymore.

“I need to talk to Alan,” he said, hoping Scott didn’t notice his voice cracking on their youngest brother’s name. Blue eyes – no longer disappointment-blue, but back to their default love-and-concern shade – looked him over, before Scott gave him what could almost be classified as an approving smile.

It was definitely approving, even if the twitch of his dimples wasn’t quite enough to qualify it as a smile, and that alone lifted a weight from Virgil’s shoulders.

“You should,” he agreed. “But you should probably clean up a bit, or you’ll scare him.” It was light-hearted, almost back to the teasing banter of a big brother rather than the Dad-mirage, and Virgil took it for the olive branch it was.

Nodding, he turned to leave the den.

“And Virgil?” There was something slightly melancholy about that tone, and he turned half back around again. Scott was looking at him, with a small smile on his face that wasn’t really happy, even if it wasn’t sad. Just honest. “Even Dad was only human.”

#thunderbirds are go #thunderbirds are go fanfiction #tsari writes fanfiction #virgil tracy #scott tracy #too far #thunderangst #thunderfluff

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chstart · 3 years

Text

okay so i’m gonna end up adding my poe pc to this blog because i’m predictable, but i’m going to hold off on fully adding him until i get to at least act iii or its latter half, maybe keep him as an on request muse for now. anyway, here’s info on my beautiful baby boy :

ferdinand blakesley, vaguely in his mid30s by the time poe1 starts.

was a fighter up until around the end of act i, after which he’s become a cipher.

death godlike, born in the aedyr empire, to human nobles, second eldest son in a family of five children.

the blakesley family is one of the oldest noble lines in the empire & has supported the monarchs since its rise, as well as the empire’s military. they are thus highly respected & esteemed, & they used this massive clout to dissuade those that would insist they get rid of the deathspawn of a child that was ferdinand.

they’ve expended a not insignificant sum of their funds in keeping mouths quiet & swords in their sheaths, & they’re known for throwing lavish parties fairly frequently, thus they recently spent the last of their disposable funds, though obviously they cannot let the public know.

ferdinand left home when he noted the family’s funds decreasing without any returns, hoping to find a way to solve this issue before their wealth, or lack thereof, was discovered, whether that was to be through sought out favors with foreign nobles or work that would lead to treasure that could be used to repad the treasury.

in contrast to his horned, scaled, & smoking appearance, ferdinand’s a gentle touch, taking to heart his tutors’ lessons to be as model a nobleman as he could be while godlike, if perhaps softer & kinder than the true typical nobleman. he’s more often than not soft-spoken or mostly silent, preferring to let others speak while he listens.

because scales cover his eyes, transparent only to himself, meaning no one can truly tell what he’s looking at, if anything, he tends to compensate for this by tilting his head as an attentive puppy might. portion of his facial scaling & one of his horns fractured & broke apart at the end of the prologue, revealing his right eye, but he maintains the habit.

he’s optimistic at heart about the goodness of others & gives benefits of the doubt where many others would stab without question. in an effort to not be a hypocrite, he tries to be as honest as he can, telling only white lies that wouldn’t harm anyone undeserving or omitting things he feels would offend the other while still telling as much of the truth as possible.

he is primarily a diplomat, preferring battles to be verbal or mental over physical altercations, but in battle he holds back nothing.

he forms attachments really quickly so, by the time the party arrived at caed nua, ferdinand already considered aloth & edér two of his closest friends. because he’s known them the longest of his companions, & met them so early after losing his former travel party, he is highly protective of the pair & tends to prioritize them when making decisions.

#i cradle him so sweetly #tbt.#ig ksjfdghs #anyway it's 1am i should sleep oops #▐█ ▌ ◇ — ( butterdog. the dog with the butter. )

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hecatcd-archived · 3 years

Note

The Narrator + 🏠👪😱

The Narrator (semi-accepting)

🏠 - My Muse will describe their Home or current Living Arrangement, what their lifestyle is like, do they live with anyone or live alone, what are some things that would always be found in their home, where in their home is their comfort space

"Oh I live in a modest three floor walk-up, one bed, one bath, kitchene- Ha! Sorry couldn't keep a straight face on that. No, I live in a two level penthouse with one of the best views in all the Underworld. Only the best for Underworld Corp's power behind the throne after all~."

"It's pretty spacious, a good couple thousand square feet on both floors including a scrying pool on the terrace. A far cry from the cave I used to live in before I helped Hades spruce up the Underworld. I'll gladly take a plush queen bed over bare rock any day!"

👪 - My Muse will describe their Family members, who are they closest too, who would they like to be closer too, what family life is/was like for them, how often do they see their family, or what it is like spending time with their family

"Family is a... tricky subject. I have a few kids, to the surprise of most. Seriously it's always the tone of surprise when people hear that. 'How can a sadistic bitch like THAT have kids'?"

"There's Circe, my eldest and... possibly the most resentful of me. I wasn't the best mother to her admittedly and she did her best to distance herself from my presence when she had the chance. Last I heard she set herself up on Aeaea, using the herblore I taught her to create herself a menagerie of wayward sailors-turned-animals. So long as she's happy I suppose..."

"Medea, my second oldest, is somewhere in... Colchis, I think? Bewitched some demented old king into thinking she was his daughter, and is currently 'biding her time'. At least that's how she put it. I get the feeling she knows something I don't... And I never like that feeling."

"Empusa and Scylla are around, though I see the former more than the latter. Both seemed to get the more sadistic side of my nature, content to play the role of monsters to the Mortal Realm. Empusa considers herself a bit of a succubus, going around and preying on young men 'at my command'. Scylla, on the other hand, hangs around Charybdis picking off unwary ships."

"I love them all in my own way... Just wish I could see more of them than I do. A mother can't help worry after all..."

#;ic #;please i know everything (ask)#karisa-the-golemancer #;about muse #//in which mun plays fast and loose with greek mythology

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sustraiii · 4 years

Text

TEAM ZRCN ARC 4 - CHAPTER 2

Well, that definitely wasn’t planned...

XANTHOS

Xanthos grumbled for the third time in the space of ten minutes. “I should be out there helping - I feel useless being forced to stay in here.”

Wren smiled weakly at his left - he wouldn’t have been surprised if she was sick of his complaining by now. “If it makes you feel any better, think of yourself as mine and Cala’s protector in case anything goes wrong, rather than being cooped up in here due to not being hundred percent yet.”

Xanthos didn’t want to repeat that he felt fine, so smiled back. After his run-in with Belleza and Miho three days prior, Zelde had been the one to insist he stay with Calantha and Wren instead of patrolling for Belleza like the rest. Though he had protested, Zelde understandably wanted to be cautious after being caught out by the eldest Rossi again, and claimed he was not yet fighting fit.

“Thanks, Wren. But I’ve seen what you did to that Karkadan, I’m pretty sure you can handle yourself with or without me.”

“Don’t be so harsh on yourself, Ravi,” Wren assured him. “I’ve seen a marked improvement in you and the rest of your team since you joined us; those lessons are really paying off. I’m sure James will be glad to see how much you’ve all improved in person when you return to Atlas Academy.”

Xanthos smiled back appreciatively. Whilst he knew Wren was partly saying that to reassure him and make him feel better, Xanthos knew they were getting better. He had seen it in the way he and the rest of his teammates were fighting, how they all used their weapons and semblances more effectively, and how they all communicated better in and out of battle.

Wren turned away from him, responding to a report from Cherry through her earpiece. Though he nor any of his teammates - nor Helia - had been given an ear piece they had all been split off into small teams to ensure there was still something of a clear line of communication. Parson was with Zelde and Cordovan, Cherry with Helia, Elio was by himself, and Morgan was paired with Neela.

To avoid eavesdropping, Xanthos stepped towards Calantha who was seated in an old plastic chair. Though her expression appeared neutral, her juddering leg betrayed her.

"You good?" He asked, resting a hand upon her shoulder in an action that made her flinch ever so slightly.

"Yes, I'm fine." She answered, turning her head to him and giving him a wide smile. "Why do you ask?"

"Your leg’s bouncing." He said simply, glancing down at her still bouncing leg. Calantha followed his gaze, and caught herself.

"I didn't even realise," She said, looking almost apologetic as she spoke. "Maybe I am a little nervous."

"I'd be concerned if you weren't." Xanthos chuckled. "My sister does the exact same thing, you know."

"I didn't know you had a sister. Is she older or younger than you?"

"Younger," Xanthos replied. "...Though she likes to think she's older sometimes."

"I bet you haven't spoken to her for a while due to the CCT going down," Calantha mused. "You must miss her."

"Sure do," Xanthos confirmed with a nod of the head. "But Marisol is a strong kid, and even though I can't speak to her, I know she'll be safe with our mom."

Calantha smiled at him softly, and a part of him felt sympathy for her, realising she was probably missing a sister - at least one of them.

"You must miss yours too."

Calantha seemed a little surprised by the comment - perhaps not expecting him to bring her sisters up - but after a moment she nodded. "I miss Bianca," She confirmed, "I know Belleza only really said it to try and goad me when she said that Bianca was missing me... but I don't think she was too far off the mark."

"Are you close with her?" Xanthos asked politely. "She doesn't treat you like Belleza does she?"

"Oh no, Bianca is nothing like Belleza," Calantha responded, and despite an awkward laugh that followed her words, she seemed a little hurt at Xanthos implying Bianca was anything like their elder sister. "I won't deny they have similar goals, but Bianca would never stoop as low as Belleza to achieve them. She was the only one I was ever really close to at Olympia, always looking out for me and ensuring I was happy, or at least as happy as I could be given what our home was like. After our mother died and our father retreated more and more into himself, she was really the only family I had left in a sense. Belleza always saw me as an inconvenience, a weak link, rather than a sister. But Bianca...she was and still is my closest friend."

"At least one of your sisters has a shred of decency." Xanthos mumbled quietly. As an older sibling himself, he felt a sense of anger at the treatment she had endured at the hands of Belleza.

"It's kind of pathetic isn't it?" Calantha suddenly said, forcing a tired laugh.

"What is?"

"I'm eighteen years old and my two closest friends are my sister and Rosie - a child."

Xanthos looked at her with a sorrowful expression, and gave her another squeeze on the shoulder in a way of reassurance. This time Calantha didn't flinch away.

"You have us now too," He said, giving her a warm smile. “Don’t forget it.” She returned the gesture with an appreciative nod, and reached up to give his hand a gentle squeeze in return.

A sudden urgency in Wren’s voice drew Xanthos’s attention back to her. He shared a glance with Calantha, before moving back over to the veteran huntress.

“Keep me updated as soon as you know.”

Xanthos looked at her questioningly, silently gesturing for her to tell him what was going on.

“Elio thinks he saw someone matching Belleza’s description,” She explained in a hushed tone. Her gaze drifted beyond Xanthos and over to Calantha whose fidgeting had since resumed. “Is she alright?” Wren asked, her voice tinged with concern.

“Just a little nervous,” Xanthos responded. “Can’t say I blame her really.”

“No... neither can I.” Wren nodded in agreement, a small sigh parting her lips.

Xanthos was suddenly aware of a muffled voice through the Huntress’s earpiece, and she jumped back to attention. She spoke briefly with Elio, before thanking him for keeping her in the loop. “False alarm - it wasn’t her.” Wren informed him.

They both breathed a sigh of relief at this, but it was short-lived as not moments later a call came through Calantha’s scroll. She jolted at the noise, and fumbled to get her scroll out of her pocket.

She stared at the screen for a few seconds, frozen.

“It’s Belle.”

“Answer it.” Wren encouraged softly.

Calantha nodded hesitantly, before answering. “Hello, Belle. I’m- What? Yes, she’s here with me right now.” Calantha looked up at Wren warily. “She wants to be put on speaker. Should I do it?”

Wren considered this for a moment. “Do it.”

As Calantha put the call on speaker, Wren quickly spoke into her earpiece to let the others know she was about to speak with Belleza.

“You’re on speaker, Miss Rossi,” Wren said. “Where are you? We’ve been waiting.”

“Miss Rossi? My, isn't that formal!” Belleza laughed. “Is it just you and my sister I’m talking with?”

“I’m here,” Xanthos said abruptly, the words falling out of his mouth before he had a chance to even confer with Wren about whether he was allowed to talk.

“And who exactly is that supposed to be?”

“Xanthos Ravindra,” He said coldly. “You know, the boy whose arm you nearly dislocated before shoving into a broom closet.”

“You got off lightly, ‘Xanthos Ravindra’,” Belleza mocked. “Consider yourself lucky - had Miho and I not been interrupted you might have been sitting with the rest of my prisoners right about now.”

“Where are you, Belle?” Calantha inquired. “I’ve been waiting to do our trade off.”

“You’ll be waiting for a long time I fear.” Belleza said. “They’ve already been moved.”

Wren tensed a little beside him. “Let’s not play games here, Miss Rossi,” She warned. “We arranged a trade, let’s get it over and done with.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”

“Belle, please,” Calantha attempted to appeal to her sister. “Don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.”

“Oh, ho, ho, you’re one to talk, little lamb,” Belleza responded, her voice full of malice. “I know what you and your friends have been planning. I know that even stepping foot within the grounds of Astrolabe would be like signing off on my own prison sentence.”

“H-How?” Wren stammered. “How do you know this?” She added in a more demanding voice.

“Well, you just confirmed it for me, dimwit.” Belleza stated, using that falsely sweet tone of voice that set Xanthos on edge, her grin almost audible. It reminded him of his encounter with the eldest Rossi sibling three days prior.

“You might have taken Wisteria, but I’m guessing you haven’t asked her for any information?” Belleza continued. “Maybe if you had, you might have known about the little present a certain Ulysses Crest left us.”

Calantha suddenly seemed to understand the point her sister was making. Her free hand went to cover her mouth, as a look of realisation began to dawn on her face.

Her voice trembled. “No…”

Wren and Xanthos shared a nervous glance.

“I’d advise you to hand yourself in now, Miss Rossi,” Wren advised. “Things will be easier for you if you do so.”

“I already told you I can’t.”

“Damnit!” Wren snapped, her frustrations beginning to bubble over. “Stop playing games, Belleza! Where are you?!”

“I am going home,” Belleza said simply. “For now at least. If you wish to continue our little game you are welcome to come to Olympia and fight me on home turf. If not...well, I suspect we’ll see each other soon when the reckoning comes for you Atlesian nitwits.”

Wren’s eyes widened and Xanthos was more keenly aware of her shaking. “Rosie…” She said the name so softly, that had it not been for the fact he was standing so close, he might have heard her. Wren took a moment before speaking again. “Callaway. Mira. Rosie. You promised. If you don’t have the decency to show yourself, at least tell me that they’re safe!”

But rather than a civil response, all Wren got in response was bone-chilling laughter.

“You all wanted me to jump but you should have been the ones asking how high.” Belleza sounded gleeful as she said that. “Enjoy the little gift I left for you.”

A small click signalled Belleza had disconnected from the call. The three of them did not have time to process what had just been said to them, before the thunderous roar of an explosion sounded nearby, and Astrolabe University went up in flames.

#team zrcn fic #team ZRCN #Xanthos Ravindra #wren honeycutt #calantha rossi #belleza rossi

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fanficimagery · 5 years

Text

Imagine Charlie taking you to his family's home for hols.

Charlie X Reader

When Charlie had told you exactly how many Weasley's stayed under one roof during hols, you decided to rent a room in muggle London closest to the Leaky Cauldron. And wanting to let his brothers, sister, and their spouses to have as much room as possible, Charlie decided to stay with you.

You had been fretting for the passed hour to decide on what outfit to wear while Charlie flicked on and off every light switch he could find, he still marveling at what muggles were capable of.

"I don't know why you're so amused by electricity," you huff, walking around in nothing but one of his shirts and underwear. "One of the bars we floo to is in a muggle village that I'm pretty sure you chased me through when I got drunk and unruly. You've played with electricity before, Weasley."

"Those were some good times," he muses, momentarily distracted by your drunken shenanigans. Laughing, you chuck a balled up t-shirt at him. He catches it and plops down on the bed, laying down and tucking one hand behind his head while crossing his ankles down by the bottom of the bed. "Will you just choose something already? We need to leave in the next thirty minutes."

"Shut up, Weasley! I need to look like a decent witch. I can't look sloppy or like I'm trying too hard." Charlie rolls his eyes before standing back up, he walking over to your suitcase and rummaging through it. You squawk as he tosses pieces of your clothing carelessly over his shoulder, and then frown at what he's chosen. "Seriously? You want me to wear that?"

"I told you earlier jeans and a jumper would do just fine. Not a single Weasley or Potter witch will be in a dress, skirt, or wizarding robes."

"I thought you were joking," you say, snatching your clothes from his hand. Charlie grins down at you before hugging you gently to his chest, you resting your forehead against his sternum. "You sure I'm going to be welcomed? I don't want to intrude."

"Trust me. Mum's going to be ecstatic. She's always nagging me about not settling down and now-"

"Now you've got yourself a witch who works at the same dangerous dragon Preserve she loathes. Your mum's going to hate me."

Charlie chuckles. "She's not." Pushing you lightly back, he then nudges you towards the bathroom and swats your bottom. "Now get dressed. We need to leave within in the next ten minutes."

"Prat."

"Love you too, witch."

You wink at him from just inside the bathroom, swinging the door shut with a laugh.

Landing outside the Burrow, you stare up in awe at Charlie's childhood home. He had warned you that house was only standing because of all the magic put into it, but it hadn't truly prepared you for seeing it in person. He was nervous about what you would think, and still is apparently given his head is ducked and he keeps fidgeting, but you think the Burrow is absolutely lovely and looks very welcoming with the smoke billowing from it's chimney.

"Will you stop being a knob and get us inside? It's cold out."

"Oi!" Charlie huffs, and then snorts as you reach out to grab his hand. Smiling, you squeeze his hand in a reassuring manner and he seems to relax at the gesture. Sighing, he asks, "Ready then?"

"As I'll ever be."

Charlie grins as he leads you through the back yard gate that's knee-high, he chuckling as he sees who appears to be the Weasley matriarch bustling about through the kitchen window. You smile at the red headed woman who's swishing her wand to and fro, cooking utensils stirring and flipping all on their own. On the back door step, you and Charlie knock your boots free of snow, and Charlie enters with an exuberant shout for his mother.

You don't know what makes you do it, but you end up stalling just outside the door. You can hear Charlie's mother happily greet him and then cover your mouth to keep from laughing when he introduces you, only to then realize you're not there.

Peeking your head through the door, you smile and wave sheepishly at Charlie's mother when she spots you. "Umm. hi. I'm Y/N. Charlie's girlfriend."

Mrs. Weasley blinks owlishly before her entire demeanor seems to perk up and she bustles around the kitchen table towards you. She's beaming and urging you to step into the kitchen, and you do so only after vanishing the snow from yourself with a brief flick of your wand.

"I apologize for intruding on your family's time together, but Charlie-"

"No worries, dearie." Mrs. Weasley finally reaches you, she grabbing both your hands within hers and kissing each of your cheeks in greeting before stepping back. "You are more than welcome. Oh I've been waiting for this day for so long," she exclaims cheerfully. "Now all I need is for my son to cut his hair."

"Mum!" Charlie groans, coming around to stand by your side. "Can you not?"

You chuckle at your boyfriend's discomfort, but before anything else can be said the other kitchen door is swinging open and two identical Weasley's are stepping through.

"Does my ear deceive me or did we hear Charlie brought home a girl?"

"The ear does not deceive you, brother. Charlie has indeed brought home a bird."

"Boys," Mrs. Weasley admonishes.

"Oh dung bombs," you quietly curse and Charlie snorts. "Double trouble."

The one twin with both ears gasps. "Whatever our brother has said is lies. All lies!"

The other shrugs. "Well, mostly."

"Charlie's warned me about you, boys, so fair's fair. I feel I should warn you that I grew up with two older brothers. If something happens to me tonight, then after gaining permission from your mum I will chase you down and make you eat dirt. Do I make myself clear?"

Charlie chuckles as the twins seem to puff out their chests. "Sweetheart, they just took that as a challenge."

Molly huffs, her hands finding purchase on her hips. However, she's grinning as she says, "So long as nothing inside the house is broken, chase away, dear. Fred and George deserve a dose of their own medicine."

"Mum!" The twins gasp, eyes wide. "How could you?"

"Hush now, boys, and go wash up. Dinner's almost ready."

Mrs. Weasley goes back to tending to the food and you stare across the kitchen at Charlie's brothers. They stare back, sizing you up, and Charlie drapes an arm around your shoulders. "Come on. You still have to meet the others."

Meeting the other Weasley's is like a weight lifting off your chest, every redhead and their significant other are more than happy to meet you. Bill, Charlie's eldest brother, was most ecstatic- right after their father Arthur- to see his brother with a witch on his arm and you were stoked to meet the brother Charlie looked up to for most his life.

The twins' wife immediately apologized for anything their husbands said or did, or might do in the upcoming hours, but you merely shrugged it off and told them the same thing you'd told Mrs. Weasley. Angelina and Katie were more than happy to let you do whatever to their husbands should they act out.

Percy was the only quiet Weasley, he greeting you politely and moving on. Ginny and Ron, however, were more interested in immediately getting to the interrogation. Every Weasley was apparently interested in knowing how you and Charlie met.

"I work on the same Dragon Preserve, only I work in the dragonette nursery."

Ginny's eyes light up. "You get to handle the babies!?"

"Yes. Cute little buggers, but when they learn to breathe fire at will it starts to get tricky. I think I lost my left eyebrow a couple times now."

Charlie chuckles. "And a few inches of hair. I remember you chugged a hair growth potion because you couldn't stand the uneven strands."

"It's a price I'd pay every day if it means I can keep doing what I love."

"Right on." Charlie fist bumps you and his siblings all snicker.

"Merlin you're perfect for each other," Harry muses.

Mrs. Weasley is then hollering for everyone to finally go and eat, and you can only smile as the entire family scrambles for the kitchen. It's a tight fit, but the atmosphere is alive with good humor that you let yourself get carried away in it.

Even sitting around the table is a tight squeeze, but again it's not a bother. Elbows and knees are knocking into each other, and people are reaching and talking over one another.

With several conversations being carried on all at the same time, it's no wonder you completely miss when something is dropped into your drink. You should have realized something was up with the way the twins kept staring and grinning at you, but you realized too late that they'd tampered with your drink.

The second your throat starts tingling you narrow your eyes on the twins. Their grins widen. "..Woof!" The table goes eerily silent and your eyes widen at the bark that's come from your mouth. "..woof?"

Slowly but surely the table's occupants start to snicker, all except Mrs. Weasley who's frowning at her sons. Your gaze darts from one twin to the other and apparently your death glare is still up to par. George's smile slowly fades, he gulps, and then he rats out his twin. "It was all Freddie's idea!"

"George!"

"What? I'm not going down for 'ya, mate. Twin or no twin. Y/N is surprisingly scary."

You whip out your wand from beneath the table and point it between Fred's eyes. Wordlessly you cast, the words Guilty Idiot blossoming on his forehead. Ginny guffaws, followed by George, and then wordlessly casting again you accio Fred's wand.

"Bloody hell." Fred scrambles up from his seat, his eyes darting to and fro to determine which escape to take.

Handing over Fred's wand and yours to Charlie, you slowly stand. Smirking, Charlie stares at Fred. "Run."

Fred bolts out the back door and you're immediately on his heels.

"Should we be worried?" Hermione asks, smiling.

"Nah." Charlie laughs. "I have their wands. Worst thing that can happen is Fred's ego being bruised.

"Ow! Bloody hell, witch, not so hard."

Fred's yelp startles everyone into motion, everyone scrambling for the door or window to peek out of.

"Woof. Woof, woof, woof!"

Looking out at the scene, every Weasley and Potter have gone speechless. Because out back, Y/N has tackled Fred to the ground, she sitting on his back and occasionally shoving his face into the snow.

"Woof. Woof, woof?"

"I don't know what you're saying. It'll wear off any moment now!"

Molly is the first to break, her laughter ringing out as she watches with fond amusement etched into her expression. Slowly but surely the others finally break, and Charlie beams at his girlfriend as she seems to finally get her voice back. Her annoyed expression melts away and then she's poking Fred in the back of his head, teasing him.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder and Charlie looks over to meet the gaze of Bill. "You did good, brother. Y/N will fit in just fine."

"She will, won't she?" Charlie grins and glances back over at his girlfriend and brother now wrestling in the snow, the ring in his pocket not feeling so heavy anymore. "She's going to make a fine Weasley one of these days."

#fanficimagery #charlie weasley x reader #charlie x reader #charlie weasley imagine #hp imagine #harry potter imagine #charlie weasley #molly weasley #fred weasley #george weasley #bill weasley #harry potter #ginny weasley #hermione granger #ron weasley #imagine

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scattered-irises · 4 years

Text

LONG AWAITED CONCLUSION TO THAT ZEXAL PHILOSOPHICAL CHAT I POSTED A YEAR (or two) AGO

Part i

Basically, the theory is: Tron is a figment of the Arclights’ imagination and it’s actually just Byron going around messing everything up. Tron is a symbol of the corruption of the Arclights.

****

And so, I pose you this question, Phosphorous. What if Tron never existed and was just a metaphorical representation for Byron's hatred and anger? What if the Barian World hadn't done anything to him and instead, just made him an angrier old man? So instead of this creepy, laughing child, we have this creepy man who goes around ruining people's lives for the sake of his revenge.

The child is just something the Arclight brothers made up because they couldn't stand the fact that their father had become like that. But that was why they still followed him. Because he was still their father.

I see your point there. It has plausibility, muses Phosphorous.

The reason why Tron erased their old names was because it was a way for all of them to disassociate their current selves with their past selves. They have changed too much to be considered Byron, Christopher, Thomas and Michael anymore. Christopher has turned extremely cold and calculating compared to his happier, gentle brother attitude when he was younger.

And Thomas...the poor child. He used to be a happy boy that teased his younger sibling but as IV, he masks himself as a happy celebrity loved by all in the world and underneath that mask is a sadistic monster and underneath that mask is a son that just desperately wants his father back and will do anything to get it and underneath that mask is a lonely young man who wishes to be understood.

Arguably, Michael is the one who remains closest to his original self. He's still the beloved younger brother and like when they were younger, still has a close relationship with Thomas. But he's cracked beneath his placid smile and gentle nature. When angered, he lashes out terribly and like Thomas, will do anything, even murder, to achieve his family's goals.

And so, one could argue that Tron is basically just an overall representation that their family has changed for the worse.

“How much autonomy do the brothers have? and how do they relate to others as they attempt to fulfill their families goals?” poses Phosphorous.

Ah, ah. An insightful query, my friend. They are pretty much never seen doing things of their own free will. Even when it seems like they are enjoying themselves (I.E III sneaking into Yuma's house to eat lunch and meet him. It actually was just a scouting mission on his family's next target), their actions are meant to serve ulterior motives. In the end, all of the things they do is in the name of serving the family.

A somewhat random note, Christopher looks at Thomas with contempt. They're basically polar opposites (But not really. Once Christopher gets emotional, he's just as broken and destructive as Thomas).

Thomas has a grudging respect for Christopher because a part of him still recognizes him as his older brother.

Christopher seems to care a bit more for Michael, but when Michael was being tortured, he watched the scene at the insistence of Tron. At the end of it though, he turns away, hinting at a bit of a conscience.

It's Thomas and Michael that are more of a sibling relationship. This is most likely because they have spent all of their lives together while Christopher had been absent for 5 years from their lives. He was gone when Thomas was 12 all the way to when he turned 17 and Michael was 10 and is now 15

Thomas genuinely cares for Michael, going as far as to shout at Tron for treating his brother like that. Christopher immediately silences him.

Michael also returns that gesture, although less because he ended up falling into a coma before we could see more.

“Yet all three are, at least at times, willing participants in Tron's schemes?”

Yes, my fellow thinker. Christopher is the most loyal one. He never questions Tron’s orders. Michael will go with his father in hopes that he will get his family back. He is Tron's favorite because he is a "gentle and obedient child." I find it quite sad how, although Christopher is the most loyal one to the cause, he isn’t the favorite. I suppose it is also because I am the eldest of three, yet am not as favored as the youngest.

“The youngest seems to be favored most of the time,” muses Phosphorous as they look out at the tumultuous Barian sea.

It's Thomas that sometimes goes out of line. He's the strongest of the brothers, but Tron is always saying that he is the weakest. It is most likely the fear of Thomas realizing that he's actually powerful and could turn on Tron. Hence, that is why Tron says he trusts no one.

Phosphorous stands, overlooking the gloomy landscape of crystals.

“So each and every one is then beholden to this idea of what? A happy family? Or just something different than their current state of affairs? Do all the brothers truly share this idea of a return to a happy family? Or do they don't even know that that looks like and just want something to change?”

In short:

Tron: Kill my murderers and I'll become your happy ol' dad again and we can go back to England and do happy British people stuff

Sons: Uh sure okay

Personally, I think they all know to an extent that they're deluding themselves

They're just ambling down this path of lies because the brothers are desperate to have a place to belong to after being separated for so long

But you might have a point that they might not even know what a truly happy family is anymore.

“So it's like they're chasing something that doesn't exist then?”

Exactly. Much like the couple that was running to the end of the rainbow. They are chasing a boat that has already long passed by. After all of the things Tron did to them, I'm sure they all know that they will never be "normal" and "happy" again.

“So under your theory, Tron doesn't truly exist, or at least is highly metaphorical, which makes all of their struggles self-inflicted and their delusions even more deep.”

Quite perceptive of you. Tron does exist, but he's basically Byron but meaner. They merely use the child with the ruined face to cover up the fact that their father has turned into a monster.

"Hey so dad's gone nuts but let's pretend it's a weird little boy who's nuts so it takes a bit of the pain away."

“Ah, so then they could say "Tron" instead of ‘Father.’”

Yes, exactly. They almost never address Tron as father. They only talk of their father in the past tense.

“But then,” proposes Phosphorous, dramatically turning back to me. “Why would they care so much for the new names they received? Or do they not care for them?”

Those names have become a part of their identities. They use it to cope with the fact that they've all gone south personality-wise. Thomas even uses IV as his celebrity name, perhaps as a sign that he does not recognize his celebrity persona as his true self.

Phosphorous takes in a deep breath, the acidic breeze rustling their toga. Their eyes meet mine own with a sharpness that I had always so admired.

“So these new names, they're basically masks, but do they disassociate themselves from their new identities the same way they do with Tron and their Father, or do they still think of themselves as fundamentally themselves, just forced to do things they wouldn't normally do? Though I would assume each brother is affected differently by their mask,” says my friend as they begin to pace.

Ah, they still view Tron as their father (A leader) but deep down they probably don't want to put two and two together. So it's a superficial belief of "We fight for Tron (our father but let’s not think about that.)"

Either that or,

They are fighting for their Father,

who is basically just an idea of a happy family now whilst Tron

represents a bad family.

Onto your second point, the brothers fit into their masks to different extents.

Michael doesn't seem to mind III for they appear to have the same personality, save for III's destructive tendencies.

When Christopher is reunited with his student that he abandoned and is called Christopher, he sadly smiles and says.

"It's been a long time since someone has called me that"

And Thomas probably has an extremely difficult time taking off his mask after wearing it for so long in front of so many people

“So then do their numbered names also represent a bad family? also why do they start at three, like why not 1,2,3 instead of 3,4,5?”

I still don’t understand why it’s 3 4 5 (Nor does anyone else, for that matter.), however, their numbers are probably how Tron sees them. From his scientific background, he probably just sees his son as pieces of useful data he can use to his advantage.

“Hm, the only thing I could think of for the numbers was that Tron was somehow including him and the boys' mother in his count, like their the first two so that's why it starts at three, which is something you probably already thought about,” theorizes Phosphorous futilely.

Perhaps the numbers are used as place holders. They are not Christopher, Thomas and Michael. They are merely placeholders for when Christopher, Thomas and Michael return. When their family is whole again...

“But if the numbers are place-holders then so is the name ‘Tron,’” concludes Phosphorous.

Indeed.

“But I wonder if the brothers associate the numbers with Tron, like the numbers aren't really them, just a means to an end that will be removed when they get their father back, or if they're deluding themselves,” muses my friend.

Yes, the numbers are most likely temporary to them. Christopher is deluding himself.

He knows that he’s Christopher under V’s cold exterior. Same for Thomas and Michael. They are a family of delusions, united under the promise of a better tomorrow that will never arrive.

And so I thank you, for bearing with me.

Without ceremony, Phosphorus walks away from the crystal cliff, leaving me. I stare into the depths of the sea of ill intent and allow the sounds of the waves crashing against the crystal to overtake me. Closing my eyes, I begin to meditate.

Thus we conclude our bout of philosophy and ardent beard stroking.

#zexal #analysis #zexal analysis #long post #Christopher Arclight #Michael Arclight #Thomas Arclight #Byron Arclight #Tron Zexal #Iris thinks hard

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rebelwithacausesolveig · 4 years

Note

Time Warp! (Matty)

Let’s do the time warp again! Send me “time warp” to meet a younger or older version of my muse!

@matthias-meijer [I couldn’t decide between past or future, so you get a 2 for 1! yay~ lol. Also, special honorable mentions; @katrienmeijer , @margaritaxromanova , plus a couple un-named] Obligatory disclaimer, I own none of these characters and this isn’t cannon unless unanimously decidedly so.

The Past

Solveig’s hands trembled slightly as she looked at herself in the full length mirror. She’d been training her entire life to asses and take down threats but somehow talking to her best friend had her nerves frayed beyond repair.

The king will be there.

Of course he would, she remind herself. He couldn’t risk the girl saying anything to his son that he didn’t want him to hear. Turning to the side Solveig lifted her shirt enough to show her abdomen. Still flat, lean, and muscular; she wondered how long it would take before she started showing. Another month would put her at the beginning of her second trimester, is that when? How long until she could find out if it was a little boy or girl? She could have easily found these things out online, but somehow Googling it made it too real to handle. No, she’d just wait until she got to Norway to ask her aunt about it.

Putting on her most convincing smile she walked through the halls, doing her best to act like it was just another day. Maybe she wouldn’t even find Matthias in the palace and she could just leave without a word. That sounded easier, and it wasn’t forever, right? Just one year.

A familiar voice pulled her from her worries and she had to pause to gather herself before turning to face him with a grin. “Little prince... I was wondering if I was going to be able to find you before I had to leave.” He didn’t look thrilled, but admittedly not as upset as Solveig expected. Then again, he didn’t really know the full story, just that she was spending a year abroad.

It took everything Solveig had to keep her face passive as the king stepped out of the office behind his son. With Matthias’ back to him his eyes bored holes straight through the teenage girl. She hated the man with every fiber of her being. For threatening her family. For forcing her to lie to his son. For making it so that her own child would barely know her and never meet their father. As much as she hated him though, her fear of him was so much greater. Men like him were the reason she’d joined the rebellion when her father had told her about it months before on her sixteenth birthday. One day he’d be taken down a notch, and she hoped she got to personally see to it.

“It will only be a year, and we can still text and face-time or whatever,” she added with a grin, pulling her attention back to Matthias. Standing on her tip toes she wrapped her arms around him. ‘Little Prince’ had been an ironic moniker for years now. “I promise to bring you back some cool souvenirs.” With that she pulled away before quickly pinching his cheek with a chuckle. “Maybe by the time I get back you will have gotten rid of some of this baby fat.” She was teasing of course, but whether he knew why or not, she needed something to lighten the mood.

Giving a small wave and a lingering glance she left him there in the hall. Even as she re-treated she could feel the king’s eyes on her and it took everything she had not to run from him as quickly as possible. This was only one of the first battles in what would turn into a lifelong war of glares and veiled threats, but she wouldn’t let him win it.

“Ms. Trulson.” Solveig stopped dead in her tracks and took a deep breath before wordlessly looking back at the monarch that had addressed her. “Have a safe trip.”

Solveig had to swallow hard, glad they were far enough away to not see the lump in her throat. He’d managed to make the phrase sound like more of a curse than a payer. Nodding in reply, she didn’t dare speak knowing her voice would be shaky.

---------

The Future

Solveig had to bite her tongue as the small girl tugged on her dress.

“Mama! Maaaaamma~ Asy needs help. Maaaammaaaaa~ You have to come now! Asy needs help! C’mon, Mama! Mammaaaaa!”

Solveig loved the six year old with all her heart, but damn she knew how to be obnoxious. A trait, the blonde was adamant, that she got from her father. Not to mention today was already a whirlwind of stress and emotion to begin with and her youngest child’s constant talking wasn’t helping.

“Okay.” Solveig finally caved, kneeling down to her daughter. “Shh, less volume please, Klara, and take deep breaths.” She waited a moment for the small child to calm down and catch her breath. “Okay, now tell me calmly, what does Astrid need help with.”

“Um, there’s lots of buttons. And, um, she said something about pictures with you helping with her dress and, um, finding Matty....ummmm.” The small child’s eyes seemed to wander as she tried to remember. Solveig knew her daughter well enough to know she wasn’t getting anymore information out of her. Klara’s attention was gone for good. “Mama, I’m hungry.” Yup, there is was, she’d moved on to food. As was usual.

“Your papa is through that door,” she said, spinning the girl to face the double doors to the sanctuary. “He has snacks in his pocket, go find him.” With a pat on the butt she watched the girl run off with a grin. There was still an hour until the ceremony, no need for Klara to sit around in the dressing room bored.

Heading back to where her eldest child was she turned a corner and if she hadn’t been so light on her feet, would have run straight into Matthias. “Oh good, I was just going to come look for you. I am told you are needed, though perhaps my six-year-old is not the best source of reliable information,” she added with a grin.

Taking a moment she looked him over. It was hard to believe they were both in their forties now, their accidental daughter only an hour away from getting married. The last eleven years since he’d found out about Astrid had been somewhat strained, their relationship had never fully recovered, but it had gotten better. She’d seen him a number of times after leaving Russia, especially after the then teenager had decided she wanted to split her living time between her mother and newly found father. He looked older now though, or perhaps just wiser. It seemed the stress of taking over the kingdom the pervious year had aged him some. His hair now speckled with gray and the lines in his shallow though prominent. He still had the same kind eyes though and she couldn’t help but return it as he smiled at her.

He had children with Maggie now, and even Katrien had her own family. Though Solveig was still certain the girl had more adopted pets than children. It seemed like a lifetime ago that they’d all lived under one roof. Pushing the door to the room her daughter was holed up in open she nodded at Matthias. “After you, little...king? That will still take some getting used to,” she mused, following him in.

Seeing her daughter made Solveig gasp. Of course she’d seen her in the dress at the fittings, but here with her hair and makeup done, she looked truly regal. Astrid was kindly directing her bridesmaids around the room though stopped as soon as her parents walked in; her eyes lighting up.

“Mamma! Pappa! I wasn’t sure if Klara would actually relay the message.” The woman wrapped her arms around the two of them together. Solveig couldn’t help but notice it was the closest she’d been to Matthias in a while. “Okay, Mamma, we’re doing pictures with you buttoning my dress. Pappa, I want to get some with you too. Can someone please go find my little sisters, we need getting ready pictures. Then Pappa, I need you to take the photographer to where the boys are getting ready and make sure your son is with you. We need one with the groom and ring bearer.” Just like that Astrid was off on a whirlwind again before pausing as a thought occurred to her. “Is Maggie not with you two? I want one of Maggie doing my buttons too.” She turned to a bridesmaid. “Anita, can you go find the Dutch queen please? And bring my little sisters back while you’re at it, all of them. Thank you.” Without another glance at the woman that was already moving Astrid started for the other side of the room.

Solveig looked to Matthias, his brows raised as he took it in. Men weren’t usually privy to this part, though Solveig had to admit, Astrid was being much nicer right now than she’d been on her wedding day. “Come on,” she said with a grin, tugging him through the fray of moving women to an adjacent room that had been staged for pictures. --- Solveig bent down, smoothing out Klara’s skirts. Not that they were in disarray, she just needed something to keep her busy. She heard the music start to play though and quickly took her place once more at the front of the processional. The groom was to escort the mother of the bride. So with Solveig back on one arm and Maggie on the other he took off. Glancing back quickly she tried to give Matthias a reassuring smile; he looked nervous.

It had been last minute, but Astrid had decided to switch to Matthias escorting her instead of Solveig. A decision she’d backed entirely. He’d spent too long not knowing his daughter existed. Something Solveig still felt terrible about. The man waved back though just before she turned away and she felt tears sting the back of her eyes. No, things weren’t the way they had been growing up, but they were getting better.

#Anonymous #meme answered #Matthias #AEJT #alterego #You Always Find the Best Part of Me || Matthias #Margarita #Where Are You? And I'm So Sorry || Maggie #katrien #I Love Your Precious Heart || Kat

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eruden-writes · 5 years

Text

Pride & Prejudice & Orcs - Ch. 1

I’ve been working on this for a couple days. I may go back and rewrite this chapter, if I decide to continue this project.

The night had been long awaited. A ball at Lucas Lodge! Precisely, the first ball the new residents of Netherfield would attend. As much as the populace of Hertfordshire attempted to go about their business, making acquaintances and sharing gossip with old and new friends alike, there was an anticipatory buzz in the air. Eyes often drifted to the entryway, hoping for the first glimpse of the newcomers arriving. Even the dancers upon the floor seemed to find their attention drifting toward the door.

Or, perhaps, that was merely Elizabeth’s interpretation. Between her mother and Mrs. Lucas nearly constant chatter on the subject, sharing tidbits they’d learned from their respective husbands, and the rumors brought home by Lydia and Kitty, intrigue had certainly been piqued. The amount of new embellishments - lace, netting, and ribbon - on old gowns seemed more than a coincidence.

“He shouldn’t be hard to spot,” sighed Elizabeth as she stood amongst her sisters. “I heard he’s bringing quite the platoon of gentlemen and ladies.”

“Four men and six ladies, I hear,” came an excited giggle from Kitty who, moments earlier, had been sizing up potential dancing partners.

There was a quiet smack as Lydia elbowed the Kitty, her voice taking on an almost annoyed tone, “I heard it was six men and twelve ladies.”

“Either way, too many ladies,” remarked Mary, whose voice dipped low with sarcasm as she turned the page of her book. She, along with her sisters, knew the main delight in the newcomers were the prospective bachelors. Not that she cared much for such trappings. However, the more women there were, the less likely one of the new men were available.

Her words were lost as Kitty and Lydia both gave soft squeals of joy, pushing forth toward a group of friends not far away. Already, the thought of newcomers was forgotten by the two.

“However many he brings,” Jane cut in, her voice soft and filled with a delighted excitement, “I’m certain they will all be well-mannered and lovely.”

Elizabeth hummed in reply to Jane, her lips pressed together in a smile. She didn’t wish to put a damper on her sister’s unerring sense of optimism. It was part of Jane’s charm, so different from Elizabeth’s own demeanor.

Charlotte Lucas, a homely young woman with a pleasant smile and long-time friend of the Bennet sisters, scuttled through the crowd, an excited smile barely contained on her lips. “They’ve arrived. Three men and two women.”

“Promising,” laughed Elizabeth, sharing a look with the two sisters who remained near her.

Seconds later, the strangers entered and, with them, came a renewed slew of conversation in the room. So many suddenly animated conversations, so many people enjoying their night and paying the strangers no mind! Attentive eyes followed the party as Sir Lucas greeted and welcomed them.

A man with dark skin - reminiscent of purple calla lilies - and long pointed ears parted from the group, a brilliant smile splitting across his lips. Adorned in well-tailored clothes, that showed off his lanky, streamlined figure, and accessorized with silver jewelry, he carried himself with an air of grace and regality while maintaining a warm smile. With long white locs that fell to his hips and a tattoo of silvery swirls along the right side of his face, the man certainly stood out among the mostly human populace of Hertfordshire.

Charlotte leaned close to the Jane and Elizabeth, her voice dipping quietly, though her eyes lingered on the contingent. “The drow is Mr. Bingley.”

“And the ladies?” Jane’s soft voice barely carried over the renewed conversation around them. Her eyes had flickered to the fashionable women with him, one baring long pointed ears while the other appeared just as human as the rest of Hertfordshire.

“His sisters, I understand. One is married to the elven man behind them, a Mr. Hurst.”

Behind the drow woman, a well-dressed elven man did, indeed, stand.

Elizabeth minutely inclined her head toward the final newcomer. “And the last?”

Standing ramrod straight with his arms folded behind his back, and taller than the rest of the room, he cut quite a figure. Broad shoulders and musculature pulled his tailored clothes taut, drawing the eye along enticing arcs of his arms and legs. Ice blue eyes contrasted against his laurel green skin, face marked by one long scar along his right cheek. Filed down tusks jutted from his lower jaw, capped with silver adornments. His dark hair pulled into a low bun, his ears hidden beneath the locks.

“That is Mr. Darcy. I’m told he’s one of Bingley’s closest friends.” Charlotte managed to say no more, as her father - Sir Lucas - waved her over. Elizabeth and Jane nodded politely after her, as she skittered to greet her father’s guests.

When compared to Bingley’s sunny disposition, Darcy’s sobriety appeared detached and standoffish. He gave only the slightest incline of his head and the briefest smile in greeting to Charlotte as Sir Lucas introduced his daughter. Bingley, on the other hand, shot her a smile that could cleave a cloudy day in twain.

The two men were, in a way, a very visceral depiction of night and day, thought Elizabeth.

“Quite a pair, the two make,” she mused, a smile curling at her lips.

“Yes, a very rich pair!” The words announced the arrival of Mrs. Bennet, a stout and soft woman whose gaze could shrewdly size one up in an instant, as she elbowed through the crowd. After the last few days, Mrs. Bennet became a font of knowledge all things Bingley related. From his newly bought estate - Netherfield - to his wealth of five-thousand, you could hardly go an hour without her mentioning something pertaining to the man. This before he even introduced himself to Hertfordshire society!

She leaned close to Jane and Elizabeth, her whisper not quiet enough, “Lady Lucas has told me of Mr. Darcy. He’s of a mighty fortune, twice that of Bingley, and owns a great estate in Derbyshire. Such a handsome man, too!”

“Mamma, please,” Jane pleaded, her voice quiet yet firm in her discomfort of the subject.

Mrs. Bennet gave out a gasp, standing a bit straighter and completely ignoring Jane’s soft spoken reprimand. “They’re coming over. Smile, girls, smile!”

“Mrs. Bennet! Mr. Bingley here expressed an interest in becoming introduced to you and your daughters,” chuckled Sir Lucas, his face ruddy with the heat of the room and delight.

“Sir, how good of you!” Mrs. Bennet gave a curtsy, her daughters following suit. Mr. Bingley bowed deeply, that eternal sunshine of a smile still lighting his features, while Mr. Darcy remained behind him, expression stony.

“Here, we have my eldest, Jane,” Mrs. Bennet motioned to her blonde daughter. Among the Bennet sisters, her beauty and angelic countenance had always been talk of the town. Even now, among the swaths of people, she was a beacon. Mrs. Bennet’s hand flicked toward her oldest brunette daughter, who shared her mother’s shrewd gaze. “And my second eldest, Elizabeth.”

“Mary is seated in the corner. Such a well-read little thing.” Indeed, Mary had re-positioned herself in a far corner, eyes locked to a book, utterly disinterested in the world around her.

With a final flourish of her gloved hand, Mrs. Bennet indicated toward the dance floor, where a lively jaunt and giggles arose. “My two youngest, Kitty and Lydia, are occupied with dancing.”

Mr. Bingley’s smile never faded, his gaze flickering from Bennet sister to Bennet sister.

Not one to let the situation teeter away, Mrs. Bennet - a bit louder - inquired, “Do you like to dance, Mr. Bingley?”

“I find it one of the best joys of life, madam,” laughed Mr. Bingley, attention drawn back toward Mrs. Bennet. Somehow, his smile broadened as his lavender eyes moved toward Jane. “If not otherwise engaged, would Miss Jane do me the honor of the next two dances?”

Jane’s expression rippled with pleasant surprise, before she replied, “I am not engaged.”

“May I take that as a yes, then?” Mr. Bingley raised an eyebrow, his lips curling with an almost teasing smile.

“You may,” Jane said with a slight nod, her own lips twitching at the corners.

“And you, sir? Are you fond of dancing, too?” Mrs. Bennet turned her gaze to Darcy, her eyebrows raised and eyes gleaming.

Darcy shot a look at Bingley, eyebrows furrowed and lips pressed tight.

Bingley started at the expression, embarrassment coloring his cheeks as he motioned toward Darcy. “Oh! Forgive me. Mrs. Bennet, may I present my friend, Mr. Darcy, to you and your lovely daughters?”

“You are very welcome to Hertfordshire, sir! Do you come with the same eagerness to dance as your friend?”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Darcy inclined his head to Mrs. Bennet, his voice deep but tone detached. “I fear I rarely dance.”

“Well, I do hope that changes tonight!” Like a bird, Mrs. Bennet seemed to puff out her chest with pride, looking over the merrymaking. Elizabeth’s gaze followed her mother’s, a warm smile breaching her lips as she found all her neighbors clustered and smiling or dancing to the happy, trilling music. “I daresay you will not find music as lively nor partners as lovely.”

A beat of silence fell between the two and, without another word, Mr. Darcy gave a nod and moved away.

Mrs. Bennet blinked, shocked at his sudden departure from the conversation, her pleasant countenance dropping slightly.

“Pray, pardon my brief leave, ma’am,” Bingley gasped, giving a brief and polite smile before darting after his friend.

As soon as the two were far enough away, Mrs. Bennet sputtered, “What a disagreeable man!”

“Mamma, he may hear you.”

“And what if he does?” Mrs. Bennet turned to her eldest, shooting her a righteous look of annoyance. “His friend is everything charming. Who is he to believe he’s so above us, he may excuse himself from our presence without a word of warning?”

Elizabeth sighed, knowing better than to argue with her mother in this mood. She’d be lying if she didn’t feel the same prickle of irritation. Who simply walked off, in the middle of a conversation?

As she turned, to survey potential dance partners, cool blue eyes caught hers from across the distance of the room. Her heart stuttered, realizing Darcy seemed to leer right in her direction. More precisely, the distasteful gaze was upon her mother who had continued her tirade, unaware her daughters were not listening. His attention shifted slightly to Elizabeth, no doubt drawn to her movement.

Unable to do anything else, Elizabeth simply gave a slight nod and uncertain smile. He stared at her, face stony, before Miss Bingley beckoned his attention away. Whether Darcy had truly been focused upon them or not, she couldn’t determine. However, Elizabeth breathed easier as his attention shifted.

If she hadn’t known better, she’d think he could hear their conversation, in spite of the general chaos of the dance. That was silly, though, wasn’t it?

#monster boyfriend #exophilia #exo #orc #pride and prejudice #wip #dry run #not entirely sure I'll continue yet or not #sfw

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mo-nighean-rouge · 5 years

Text

Where You Lead- XII

Canon Divergence AU: Faith survived and stayed at Lallybroch when Claire returned through the stones before Culloden. An accidental trip to Craigh Na Dun turns life upside down for the Frasers once again.

Chapter 1 and Chapter 10 artwork by the wonderful @cantrixgrisea

Chapter 1/ Chapter 2/ Chapter 3/ Chapter 4/ Chapter 5/ Chapter 6/ Chapter 7/ Chapter 8/ Chapter 9/ Chapter 10/ Chapter 11

AO3

Shout out to my brilliant betas, @whiskynottea and @isitgintimeyet for helping me figure out what I was even trying to say here.

Thanks to all who have continued to ask about this one.

Chapter 12

Claire wrestled the dripping bed sheet – fresh from the hot, soapy water of the wash basin – into the wicker basket to hang dry in her small yard. Momentarily, she regretted declining Mrs. Graham’s offer to use the new machine at the manse, wearily purchased by the Reverend after a slew of hints from the persistent housekeeper.

Still, at-home handwashing was more convenient than dragging the entire load to the steamie in town. Especially today, with Jamie spending the day at his job-training (Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!) and unavailable to lug the wet things back home for her.

Claire had returned to work in the past few weeks, starting with just a few days to give Jamie a trial run of keeping the girls and house in check. While the stove’s modern controls still baffled him a bit, he could manage a few of Claire’s simple emergency recipes for lunch.

“Ye keep calling it ‘SOS,’ Sassenach,” Jamie had mused as he hesitantly flipped one more piece of toast in the pan. “What about it minds ye of saving ships?”

Claire pursed her lips in amusement, impressed that he had remembered that particular call signal from her stories about the war.

“Actually.” She smirked. “In this case, it stands for ‘shit on a shingle.’”

Jamie blanched as he stared down at the browning meat in the other pan. “Christ,” he muttered.

“The Americans taught me that expression, and later showed me the ‘speedy’ recipe.”

“Weel, I mind Mrs. Crook creaming beef a time or two, but I dinna recall hearing such crass language cross her lips.” He leaned down to kiss the offending feature and blinked at her slowly, expertly switching the burner off.

“Mama?”

Claire startled, turning around to find Faith’s blue eyes searching for hers, bare feet shuffling across the kitchen floor. It had been weeks already with her daughter back in her arms, and yet she still wasn’t reacquainted with Faith’s light footsteps and silent approach. While Bree babbled to her pile of blocks on the quilt spread across the floor, Faith had kept herself studiously occupied at the kitchen table with one of her sister’s books, worn out after ‘helping’ – which had amounted to her splashing the bubbles around in the basin.

“Yes, Lovey?” she knelt down to her daughter’s level, pausing to admire the flush that had come back to the girl’s cheeks along with the gradual return of her figure, belly promising to become a delightful pooch.

“Could I… hold the bairn?” Faith’s eyes were wide and hopeful, anxious of a request not previously made.

Claire’s chest swelled, another abundant occurrence in the last month. She stroked downward from Faith’s shoulder, then offered her hand. “I think she’d really like that.”

Claire knelt to greet her 10-month-old with a sloppy kiss as she lifted her into the air. They walked through the house together, laundry postponed at present.

Claire directed Faith to sit up against the arm of the sofa, then lowered Bree into her waiting arms. Nerves wound tight, Claire scooted close to her eldest, ready to intervene should disaster or conflict occur.

Bree squirmed in Faith’s hold, hips twisting as if she would throw herself onto the floor.

Claire registered Faith’s heart-wrenching little intake of air as she watched with bated breath.

Brianna must have heard it too, as she pivoted her upper body once more to study Faith, who stared back with frozen features. Suddenly, Bree pitched back into Faith’s middle, damp fist seeking Faith’s closest curl.

Faith sighed in relief, meeting Claire’s eye before stroking her sister’s back tentatively.

Claire lost herself in the sight, her daughters closer than they’d ever been, something she’d only expected to see in her imagination.

“A nighean ruaidh,” Faith whispered, the words rolling off her tongue effortlessly, drawing Claire out of her own thoughts.

“What was that, Baby?”

“Just something I’ve heard Da say to her,” Faith shrugged. “Almost like he calls us.”

Claire’s lips twitched into a smile, overcome. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I dinna have enough Gaelic yet,” Faith continued, brow scrunched in contemplation. “But I think it means that he loves us.” She paused in thought, then lifted her chin to meet Claire’s eye. “Mama, will ye have more bairns verra soon?”

Claire felt her cheeks flush. From the mouths of babes, indeed. While she and Jamie hadn’t discussed the idea of more children, she knew it was a surer possibility in their hopeful future. Meanwhile, they’d plenty of practice of late. The temptation was hard to resist when every morning they woke tangled together from the previous night.

She shrugged as she stood to cross the room, keeping a careful eye on the pair. “I think we’ll have to see what God has in mind, my love,” she said gently.

Reaching the corner desk, Claire easily found what she had in mind. She brought the large format Rolleiflex to life, pointing it toward her girls. She captured one shot just as they were – studying each other curiously. “Smile,” she called before snapping the second photograph. Bree looked up at the sound of her voice, while Faith looked startled before baring her teeth in an awkward grimace in response to the command. While the camera had been present in many of their daily moments of late, both were still becoming accustomed to the expected behavior in front of the device.

As soon as she had clicked the shutter, their pose shifted at the scratch of a newly minted key in the front door.

Claire glanced down at her watch. Five o’clock on the dot meant that she still had a number of chores to complete, but at least one more willing helper to get them under way.

________________________________________

Faith leapt from the sofa as soon as Mama had lifted the baby from her lap, bounding to the door.

She’d been greeting her mother every day when she came back to the house from seeing her patients. Faith wasn’t allowed to go with Mama when she made calls to the sick tenants anymore. She still didn’t quite understand her parents’ explanation that these patients could be sicker and more gravely injured than Faith was used to seeing. What could have happened to them that was more dangerous than at Lallybroch?

Either way, she was always excited and a bit relieved when Mama got home in the afternoon. After all their time apart, it was hard when she left even for the day. Mama didn’t usually notice, but Faith always woke to the sound of the creaking door when her mother tiptoed in and kissed her cheek in farewell. She didn’t want to miss those moments together.

But this was the first day that Da had gone anywhere by himself in a while, so Faith thought he must have been nervous. She knew how hard it could be to meet new people and learn new things, especially in this strange place where they had found Mama. So she wanted to be sure to welcome him back just in case he hadn’t had a good day.

Faith jumped high as Da closed the door behind him. He noticed just in time to kneel and catch her in the air, like she knew he would. He laughed, his voice deep with joy.

“Good even’ to ye, a leannan.” Da drew her close to him, a big hand grasping her back. “Have ye been helpin’ yer mam today?” They crossed the room in only a few large steps.

Faith was glad that he seemed happy, so his day must have been better than she thought.

“Aye, we did the laundry. ‘Twas verra heavy, Da.” Faith sighed, remembering the mess she’d made as she pulled her new dresses out of the wash basin. But Mama’s thankful smile and compliments had made it worthwhile.

Mama chuckled as Da gestured for her to pass Brianna to him, as well. “And to think there’s still more of it left!” she teased.

Bree grabbed for the collar of Da’s new shirt as she settled in his arms and made wee noises to him. He nodded back to her as if she was using real words, something Faith remembered him doing with Michael and Janet, not long ago.

Da sat on the couch, making room in his lap for both Faith and Bree.

Faith remembered something from earlier. “Mama, Da, I knew all the letters in the book I read today!”

They spoke at the same time, then chuckled together. “Show us!”

As Faith ran down the hall to retrieve her book, she turned just in time to see Da place Brianna in her swing and stand up to face Mama, whispering to her. Mama chuckled deeply as they reached for each other.

She couldn’t help but notice Mama’s silly little smile as their faces came together, nor Da’s hand finding its favorite place on Mama’s bum.

________________________________________

Jamie exited the lavatory wearing his new pyjama bottoms, steam from the hot bath following him into the bedroom. He paused to watch Claire as she sat at her dressing table, wrapped in her dressing gown and combing through her still-damp locks. The scene was so reminiscent of their everyday life in his time – at Leoch, followed by Lallybroch and everywhere else his duty had taken them.

She startled as they made eye contact in the mirror before her face slipped into a wide smile.

His breath caught. He’d surely just witnessed her remember their reunion for the hundredth time, each ever sweeter than before.

Jamie crossed the room in only a few steps, reaching for the comb to take over her task.

Claire’s head lolled back and her eyes slipped shut as his hands worked into her curls, squeezing out a few more water droplets. “So, how was the first…” she paused her inquiry to make a breathy wee noise that nearly drove him to distraction. “… day?”

“I must say it was a bit overwhelming at first, Sassenach,” he muttered. “I’m grateful once again that ye drove me in, though I almost couldna find my way inside the hospital itself.”

She hummed. “You’ll figure out the way of it by the end of the week, at least. But the job itself?”

Jamie smiled. “The director and the other lads I met were all verra kind, and if I did anything out o’ the ordinary they didna point it out.” He hummed to himself. “Felt a bit braw to recognize all the wee defense tactics they showed me, even if they were a bit tamer than one might actually find in the face of battle.”

Claire nodded, but quickly stopped when the motion pulled the comb too tight against the last knot in her hair. “Well, I am proud of you.” Their eyes met in the mirror again, connected.

He kissed the top of her head and offered his hand to let her know he was done. She stood up to face him, but then arched a brow as she took him in. She guided him down to the stool by his shoulders and took up the comb again, pulling it gently through his towel-dried waves.

Jamie was glad that his hair didn’t take as long, since his wife’s gentle motions pulled him into a pleasant drowsiness. And that was hardly what he had in mind for their night.

As soon as he heard the slap of the comb hitting the table in front of him, he turned to face Claire. As he prepared to stand, he put his hands behind her thighs to lift her.

“Wait, I wanted to show you something!” Claire shimmied out his grasp and reached for the table behind him before taking a seat next to him, hip snug against his.

She presented an envelope to him, identical to the one she’d brought home just the week before.

“More photographs?” he asked, settling his arm over her shoulders.

“I stopped to pick up the new packet on the way home today,” she told him, cheeks flushed with excitement.

She unwound the seal gently and slid the portraits into his open palm.

It still gave him a bit of a shock to see his likeness printed so neatly on the surface of the first sheet. He grinned to see the tenderness on his face as he gazed down at Bree while building a lazy tower out of her blocks. Faith could be seen climbing onto his back to look over his shoulder in the black and white shot.

Jamie flipped through, starting to notice a pattern. Nearly every picture was a combination of himself, the lasses, or all of them together. There was naught of Claire to be found. Come to think of it, the only likeness of her he recalled seeing was hanging on the wall in Bree’s nursery – the blurry shot taken moments after the bairn’s delivery.

“You’ll have to teach me to use this wee thing,” he said determinedly. “I’d like to see your bonnie face in one of these photographs.”

She blushed prettily. “It’s a deal.” She kissed his chin sweetly. “Come to think of it, I’ve hoped to get us into town for a portrait sitting one of these days when we’re both off. We’ve no pictures of us together, either.”

“If you’ll lead the way, my lady.” He stood and stretched, then bent once more to gather her into his arms.

Claire smirked. “You don’t always have to carry me, you know.” Nevertheless, she tightened her arms behind his neck as her legs twisted around him like vines.

“Perhaps no’,” he leaned in to kiss her once, leaving a smacking noise as he did so. “But you’ll find that I will as often as you’ll let me.” He hesitated as he lowered her to the end of their mattress, then knelt in front of her. He placed a hand over her belly gingerly. “Until it’s mebbe a wee bit too difficult?”

She startled, eyes leaping to his, then harrumphed. “Watch it, lad.”

Jamie grinned at her cheekily but didn’t let her stray from his implication.

Claire’s hand gripped the back of his neck, then slipped under the collar of his shirt. “Your daughter asked a strikingly similar question earlier today.”

“Mmphm,” he uttered. “And did ye have an answer for her?”

“There was only so much I could think of to say.” Her blunt fingernails scratched his shoulder.

Jamie swallowed deeply as he looked into her eyes, searching her glass face as he crossed his arms over her knees.

“Maybe after the divorce process is complete,” she whispered.

He took her hand and nodded, remembering the thick envelope on their kitchen table, still unopened amid their adjusting routine. “Aye, of course.” He kissed her smooth palm.

“Besides,” she chuckled. “Bree isn’t even a year old yet.”

“That may be so, Sassenach.” Jamie rose to his feet before her. “But we’ll have to put in some extra effort for that even dozen.”

Claire’s mouth fell open, several moments lapsing before her body shook with laughter. “You’re ridiculous.”

He struggled to speak through his own snickers, his voice not quite sounding like his own. “But in the meantime?” His eyebrows rose.

“Please.” She laid back as he crawled over her, easing the robe over her shoulders.

________________________________________

[Several weeks later]

Claire felt like cackling in delight as she took in the details of the postcard in her hands. Their family portrait had arrived in the post just that afternoon, but she had delayed opening it until the girls were asleep. She hadn’t been sure of the results of their outing, and wanted to keep it to herself until she was. She would show them when they were older, of course, preferably once they’d gotten the hang of a portrait sitting.

So the Frasers had gone through their evening ritual together, a joint bath for the girls – quicker when it wasn’t made to be more chaotic – then she’d combed the tangles from Faith’s curls while the nebuliser ran, and cuddled her to sleep as had become customary.

Jamie had just slipped out of the sitting room with a freshly burped and rocked Bree, and would be back any second. She still wasn’t sure when she’d show him the family memorabilia, as his reaction seemed to have tipped the scale for the most priceless.

It had been a drizzling afternoon as the Frasers had filed from Claire’s auto and into a corner shop in Inverness. Campbell Portraits boasted a proud lineage, their circulars advertising their establishment in the 1880s. The family-owned business had serviced the highlands amid the changing technology of photography, evidenced by the display in the waiting room.

Claire had gone to great lengths to make everyone look presentable after lunch that day – teasing curls, straightening collars and pressing skirts until she finally resolved to leave well enough alone and herd everyone into town.

As she had signed them in for their appointment time, she had felt a tug on her skirt. She had smiled at the receptionist, taken Faith’s hand, and walked them back to sit with Jamie, whose free hand had tapped a rhythm against his thigh. He had bounced a fussy Bree, who had been teething once again, in his opposite arm.

“Yes, lovey?” Claire had asked as Faith patted her hand.

“Ye said you would go with me again, aye?” Faith had asked.

Claire had pasted on a smile and answered patiently, for the third time. “Yes, darling, we’ll all be together.”

Her eldest daughter seemed to have conflated the foreign concept of the studio with her recent experiences at the hospital, unsure of her role in this new environment.

Almost as soon as they had settled down, their name had been called. Claire had led the way into the little room, Faith’s hand tight in hers. She had noticed both Jamie and Faith eyeing the surroundings of the dark room suspiciously.

Claire had wondered at what they might be able to compare the tight quarters and dim lighting to from their own experiences. The priest hole at Lallybroch? Damn it.

An almost too-cheery man had greeted them at the door.

“Welcome, Frasers,” he had declared. “My last appointment of the day.”

The short man – Archie, as he had introduced himself – had quickly displayed his frustration as he tried to arrange the Frasers in a posed position. Jamie had begun to show his full range of stubbornness at Campbell’s brisk directions, while Faith had become drawn into herself.

At last, they had settled into an arrangement with Jamie and Claire side by side, angled diagonally. Faith had been seated on a platform just in front of them, while Bree had been propped up on Jamie’s lap.

The frustrations of the afternoon were clear in the final product. Claire’s curls were frizzed from the rain, while Jamie had adapted a complacent glare from trying to sit still for so long. Faith looked plainly startled from the bright flashbulb, her teeth bared unnaturally. And poor Bree’s fingers were in her mouth, Claire’s earlier pain-relieving methods worn off.

Chuckling over the image once more, Claire rose to tuck it away in an album at the back of her bedroom closet for now.

________________________________________

Christ, but it had been a long first official shift, Jamie thought as he re-entered the sitting room. He hadn’t expected for a large part of his job to involve fielding questions from incoming patients and visitors as they entered the hospital. He’d found himself running back and forth to get answers to those questions just as often as he’d stood at his post.

His supervisor, a man named Duncan, had assured him once again that this was one more aspect he’d grow accustomed to, soon memorizing the answers just as well as his other duties.

Come to think of it, Duncan had mentioned that he still needed to add a few of Jamie’s records to his employee file. He dragged himself up again and to Claire’s desk, where he had last seen the documents before they were sorted away. He scratched his head as he wondered which drawer Claire might have slipped them into.

Jamie hadn’t heard her moving through the house while he’d put Brianna abed, but perhaps she would be back soon to help him locate the documents that the Reverend had procured for him.

Taking a cursory glance over the desk’s surface, he noticed that their collection of printed photographs had grown. There was a third envelope, that appeared not to have been opened.

He looked back toward the doorway of the sitting room. He assumed Claire was planning to show him this set when she returned, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a wee keek at them. He’d practiced taking a few shots of her in the last week or so, and was anxious to see how they’d turned out.

Jamie slid the stack out carefully, but then nearly dropped the entire set at the first image he encountered.

Taken on a bright day, the portrait proudly displayed Leoch. Or, at least he could still recognize a few features of the castle. Stones were missing from its great walls, while several windows were broken and overbearing vegetation grew up its sides.

But most startling was the man stood in front of Jamie’s ancestral home. Randall – not Black Jack, as he’d originally feared – but Frank, dressed in a proper three-piece suit and matching hat.

Jamie swallowed deeply, stunned at the juxtaposition of this part of Claire’s history and his – theirs -- unexpectedly converging.

With shaking hands, he flipped through the next photographs. The castle by itself, an auto in front of the castle, then like a shock to his system, Claire in front of the auto, Leoch in the background.

He ghosted his finger over the likeness of Claire’s apple cheeks in the photograph, careful to heed her previous warning about smudging the surface.

Examining the image, Jamie recalled the other-worldly, shivering lass that had tended him on a cold and damp night, then compared her to the fearsome woman he’d since shared two lives with.

She’d been more slender then, her present curves having filled in as she carried each of their wee miracles. But there was something he couldn’t quite put into words, as if the last vestiges of her innocence still existed in this single captured moment. All that they’d faced together had honed her into the unstoppable force that continued to surprise and challenge him every day.

“I found one more undeveloped roll, tucked away in a drawer.” Claire’s voice carried softly.

Jamie looked up to find her studying him from the doorway, a wistful smile on her face.

His cheeks burned. “I didna mean to– “

She shook her head, then offered her hand, head tilted toward the sofa. “Let’s look together?”

Jamie took a seat cautiously, perspiration slickening his palms.

Claire followed close behind him, footsteps soft on the carpet. She lifted the stack from his hands, then arranged herself in his lap, her back braced against his sturdy arm.

“What do you think?”

He drummed his fingers against her hip. “’Twas a shock, to see him there.” He paused. “But ye… Lookin’ so happy.”

She sighed. “Getting there, perhaps. I didn’t want to acknowledge it at the time, but things weren’t quite the same.” Her fingertips caressed his neck. “We both knew it.”

Jamie breathed out. “Suppose things did no’ turn out quite like ye expected?”

“No.” Claire twisted to face him, forehead pressing against his. “Better.”

They flipped through the small batch of photos from the unfinished roll, Claire giving him space for any questions or clarifications.

While shots of the clan markers and open spaces of Culloden Field robbed him of breath, what truly puzzled him was a portrait of a village square in Inverness.

“I don’t think you and I have been back that way,” Claire insisted when he asked. “That’s in front of the inn where we – Frank and I – stayed during our trip.”

But something about the location struck Jamie as familiar, sending a shiver through his very bones. “Suppose it doesna help to dwell on it. We’ll be busy making new memories, you and –"

Claire’s lips swallowed the end of his question as she twisted in his lap to straddle him, her calf-length skirt gathering between them. She guided him in a subtle rocking motion, her eyes never leaving his. One hand gripped his jaw, thumb sweeping over his bottom lip. The other lost itself in his hair.

Jamie’s hands slid from her knees to her arse and held on. “Dhia,” he panted into the gooseflesh of her neck. He quickly forgot about Frank and any other bloody Randall.

Perhaps not exact, but this is pretty close to my mother’s SOS recipe, credited to my grandfather’s time in the U.S. Army in the 1950s.

#Jamie Fraser #claire beauchamp #faith fraser #brianna fraser #Outlander #canon divergence au #Where You Lead #Outlander fanfic #My fic

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