#and honestly? great sense of whimsy i wish i remembered to do that more

[magentagalaxies]

touched grass today!! was very delightful 10/10 recommend

[setaripendragon]

I don’t know if anyone remembers my silly little Narnia fic where the Pevensie kids all get meet-cutes with their future partners, but I’ve been working on a silly little sequel ever since, and I finally finished it. So, here’s the Pevensies finally getting together (sort of) with their partners, from the partner’s PoV, because I figured t hey deserved to get a say.

Jane had crushes before. A couple of really childish ones that were more her playing at mimicking the concept before the war forced her to grow up too fast, and then a few more serious ones after her little jaunt to Neverland as puberty dug its nasty little claws in. Peter was different.

Her Peter, not Peter Pan, even though Peter Pevensie wasn’t really her Peter at all. He was her best friend, sure, and had been since the day he’d let her flatten a couple of bullies by herself before he leapt in to de-escalate the situation, but he wasn’t hers. Not like she wanted him to be. Because not only was he kind of ridiculously handsome, and just carried himself with the sort of confidence and poise that could steal anyone’s breath, but he was also just an incredibly good person.

Which, Jane had found, was kind of rare, in boys. And maybe part of that was because Peter – her Peter, not- whatever – was a lot more grown up than the other boys her age, but she didn’t think so. He could be verygrown up when he wanted to be – which was awe-inspiring in it’s own way – but even when he was being silly and playful and ridiculously childish, he was still good. He was never horrid, never unkind, not even in jest. He never looked down on her, never held back if she instigated a bit of rough-housing, but he also never pushed her too hard, or gloated when he won, or sulked when he lost.

Jane had felt strangely alone after she got back from Neverland. She’d gained a new appreciation for the joys and wonders of childhood, but she hadn’t lost her understanding of responsibility and duty. She could get along with kids and adults, but she always felt so out of place. Like she was hiding half of herself just to fit in. That, and, she’d never been particularly lady-like to begin with, and living with the Lost Boys even for a few dayshad ruined her for any sort of delicate dignity and grace, so she didn’t really fit in with the girls her own age.

Peter – not-really-her Peter – was the same as her. Too grown-up for his age, but with a strong sense of whimsy and fantasy that would have most grown-ups giving him the same odd looks Jane got. He told the best stories, and her temper never seemed to throw him, and if he was sometimes a bit overbearing, like it didn’t even occur to him that she might, possibly, have a different opinion or a better idea, he never acted like she didn’t have a right to call him out on it. When they argued – and they did, fairly regularly, even – it was never with intent to wound, just with passion and ideas spilling out too fast and too loud and too important to hold back.

Jane was pretty sure she loved him. Her mother had warned her to be careful, not to hang all her hopes on one boy when she was still so young, and Jane tried, she really did, but she honestly couldn’t imagine a better man than Peter Pevensie.

Not that there was anything happening. Because the problem was that she and Peter had been best friends for years. Peter didn’t have quite her problems with his peers, he got on well enough with the boys in their year, but it was clear – to Jane, at least – that he was also holding a little of himself back, when he was with them. Not with her. And that was good, that was great – it was amazing, quite frankly – but it was also a little bit painful.

Because, of course, they got teased. A lot. A boy and a girl spending that much time together? Everyonejust assumed they were ‘together’. And Jane got flustered, and that made her angry, and that made her even more flustered. She yelled at the other girls who wouldn’t stop asking about her ‘boooyfriend’, and she punched the boys who wouldn’t stop making lewd commentaries, and blushed ridiculously at any mention of the notion.

Peter was phased at all. ‘Hey, Pevensie, is that your girlfriend?’ was invariably answered with the sort of stern-disappointed stare that would put any parent or teacher to shameand a bland ‘Jane is my friend’. Which, of course, Jane really did appreciate, because being Peter’s friend was just about the best thing that had happened to her since Neverland. It just… would have been nice to see even a hintthat he might possibly have even once thought of her as more than that.

Still, she’d thought, they were still young, they had plenty of time. Only they didn’t. Because then Jane found out that Peter had enlisted. He was too young, technically, but Jane wasn’t surprised that that hadn’t stopped him. He was pretty big on duty – a bit too much, sometimes, but Jane really kind of loved him for that, too – and on fighting bigotry anywhere and everywhere he found it, so it really, really wasn’t a surprise.

It wasscary, though. A little bit terrifying, because he might not come back. He might go out there to fight, and he might dieinstead. That would tear her apart no matter what, but it alsomade her think that she might not have another chance to ever tell him, to ever knowif maybe…

And if there was one thing Neverland had taught Jane, it was that sometimes the amazing things didn’t happen unless you believedthey would. Sometimes you had to jump off the damn cliff and just have faith that you would fly, instead of fall. She kind of wished she had a little pixie dust right now, though, just to give her that extra boost.

Because Peter was standing in front of her, and sometime while Jane had been fretting, they’d managed to walk all the way to the god damned train station, and he was literally minutes away from leaving. He looked kind of dashing in the uniform, but he also looked – hilariously – uncomfortable. She would have expected him to look at home in it, with how he was about duty and fighting and all, but no. He kept tugging at the sleeves and shifting his shoulders and grimacing.

And she loved the stupid face he pulled when he really just wanted to stick his tongue out in disgust but won’t because he was trying to be polite. She loved his stupid face no matter what expression he was wearing, and she needed him to know thatbefore he left. Just in case.

So she grabbed him by the front of his uniform – uncaring that she was interrupting whatever his little sister was saying, because if she cared, then she wouldn’t be able to go through with it, and then she’d neverget around to it – and told him “Don’t die.” in as stern a tone as she could manage before she yanked him down as she went up on tiptoes to press her mouth against his. Thatshould get the message across.

It wasn’t, exactly, the world’s best kiss. It wasn’t exactly even a proper kiss at all. Jane just held there for a long moment, not moving, eyes scrunched shut, her lips against his, until her courage faltered, and she dropped back down onto her heels and opened her eyes to stare up at him belligerently.

Peter looked… stunned. Which was at least better than disgusted. Or pitying. His eyes were unfocused, gazing off into nothingness somewhere a little above her head, and his jaw was slightly slack, lips just a tiny bit parted. “Oh.” He said, like it was a prelude to something, only that was it, he didn’t say anything else, just kept staring, and blinking, and staring some more.

Someone – probably Lucy – tried to pretend a snicker was actually a cough, and the noise seemed to knock Peter out of his trance. He shook himself, frowning for a brief moment before his gaze refocused on Jane, and- and everything just sort of stopped. Jane’s breath turned syrupy in her lungs and the rest of the platform just faded into fuzzy nothingness, because Peter was looking at her like he was really seeingher, like he was looking at something deeper than her damned bones, and was awed by what he saw. “Oh.” He said again, this time with a whole heap more emphasis and an entire world of meaning behind it.

It sounded infinitely better than the last one, so Jane tried for a smile. Peter grinned back, and Jane felt like she could possibly just float away without any helpful pixie dust at all. He reached up, curled a hand around the side of her neck – his hand was so warm – and leaned in. Then he hesitated, tilted his head, tried again, and finally managed to fit their mouths together. It was awkward, but also really endearing, and Jane didn’t care either way, because Peter’s – herPeter, and he really was hers– lips were on hers and moving and sliding and kissing, and her entire world narrowed down to that one sensation.

“I promise I will do my very best not to die.” Peter told her as he drew back.

“You’d better.” Jane snapped, letting go of his collar to poke him in the chest. “Because if that was all I getfrom you, Pevensie, I will drag you back from the land of the dead just to kill you myself.” Peter laughed, unfazed, and kissed her again.

---

The war was over, and Jack was finally home. Or, well, sort of home. He wouldn’t really feel like he’d made it home until he was back in America, but the Kingsley estate was close enough, the site of enough childhood misadventures to count. It was close enough, and if he was being honest with himself, he was putting off his return to the States, just a little. He could have been through the mirror and back home in a trice, without having to worry about boats or planes or travel time, but instead he was lingering about in London.

He made up excuse after excuse as to why he was staying, but the truth was, he was still hoping that he might run into Susan again. It was stupid, he knewit was stupid, she was a beautiful, clever, gentlewoman, and there was absolutely no guarantee that she’d even rememberhim, even if he did manage to find her again.

Everyone he’d asked from the pub where they’d met knew her, knew ofher, but no one knew any more about her than Jack did. Not even her last name. It was depressing, and made Jack feel like a stalker, so he’d stopped asking about her. He did not leave London, though, stupid hopeless romantic that he was.

Dwelling on it was even more stupid, he thought as he made his way back from a grocery run for Sunday lunch tomorrow that Lynn had forced him to go on to get him out of her hair for a while. He was being a pest, he should just go home, but the Underlandian in him insisted that home was where the heart was, and right now, his heart still hadn’t managed to let go of Susan.

Jack stopped dead on the sidewalk, staring, because there was no way- He was seeing things because he’d been thinking about her too much. Susan, walking with a younger girl at her side and arguing good naturedly with one of the boys a little ahead of them. “Susan?!” Jack called out before he could help himself, and jogged across the street towards her.

She looked up, eyes going wide with shock on spotting him. She looked so painfully youngin that moment, almost frightened, that Jack slowed uncertainly before he’d even reached her. Still, he pulled his most charming grin on, the one that she’d never been fooled by, but had seemed amused by, nonetheless, and swept her a gallant bow like he would if he unexpectedly ran into Lilibeth. “Jack.” Susan greeted, and that was definitely not the open, pleased greeting he’d been hoping for. She sounded reserved, wary, and worst of all, uncertain.

Jack let his smile dim a bit, and told himself it was ridiculous to feel disappointed. It wasn’t as if they had anything more than one evening of interesting conversation. But it had been the most genuineconversation Jack had managed in years, it had been so Underlandian, like a breath of fresh air in amongst the choking smog of the war.

“Su? Who’s this?” One of the boys asked, frowning at him.

“This is Sergeant Jack Manchester.” Susan introduced. “Jack, these are my brothers and sister, Peter, Edmund, and Lucy.”

Jack offered his hand to Peter, then to Edmund, and then to Lucy. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all.” He said sincerely, and then returned his attention to Susan. “I was hoping I’d run into you again, maybe get your permission to buy you a drink, this time?” He asked, and it came out a little tentative, because she still didn’t look nearly as at ease as she had when they’d first met.

“You mean you didn’task permission the first time?” Peter demanded, glowering.

Definitely a big brother, that one, Jack thought with a grin. “I asked forgiveness, instead.” He replied cheerfully.

“Oh, thatJack.” Lucy said wickedly. “I should have known when you bowed.” She added, nudging Susan, who was going ever so slightly pink. “Mum went ballisticwhen she heard Susan talking about you, you know.”

Jack blinked. Would parental disapproval account for how wary Susan seemed right now? Not that he could imagine whythey wouldn’t like him, unless they were some of the people who hated Americans. He could whip out his ‘noble’ English lineage if that would help. “I’m not that scruffy, am I?” He asked, playfully looking down at himself as if checking for dirt or mis-buttoned clothes, and then peeking back up at Susan, looking for a proper answer.

“Not at all.” Susan assured him, and therewas that bright, sharp lady he’d met last time. She was trying to hide her smile, and the appreciative look she cast him, but she wasn’t trying that hard, and it made Jack beam at her in hope that maybe he hadn’t blown this before there even wasa ‘this’.

“No, I think she was more upset about your age.” Edmund interjected, earning himself a truly fierce glare from Susan. He smiled back innocently.

Jack blinked again. “My… age?” He asked. “I’m only twenty-eight.” He pointed out, cautious and bewildered. Susan might be a little younger than him, but not by more than four or five years. He’d thought as much in the pub, particularly when she laughed, that she was maybeon the wrong side of twenty, but he doubted it. Only, he realised, looking at her now, that she stilllooked like she was maybe on the wrong side of twenty.

Susan wasn’t quite meeting his gaze, and she looked… unhappy. Lips pressed into a thin line, and expression carefully neutral in a way that Jack didn’t believe for an instant. “Ten years.” Edmund murmured thoughtfully. “That’s not quite as bad as Mum was afraid of, I think.”

Ten years. That meant that when Jack had met her, when Jack had teased and flirted and fallen just a little bit in love with her, Susan had been fifteen. It made him feel dizzy. After all, he’d started fights with the sort of creeps who would leer after his little sister that way, and Susan was the same age as Ruth.

That brought Jack’s train of thought to a screeching halt. Because trying to put Susan and Ruth next to each other and thinking of them as the same age just… didn’t seem to want to workin his mind. Susan had notbehaved like a fifteen year old in that pub. Not even a little bit. He wondered, giving Susan a slightly closer look, just how old she’d be on the other side of a mirror.

“At least I’m not as bad as Great-Uncle Tarrant.” Jack said, and then snorted, because, wow, that was an understatement, even if it was hard to gauge the exact age difference when some days he was actually younger than Great-Aunt Alice.

“How bad is Great-Uncle Tarrant?” Lucy asked curiously.

It was a bit of a struggle to do the maths. Underland didn’t really agreewith things like maths. “I’m pretty sure that, chronologically, Great-Aunt Alice is more than twenty years younger than him.” Jack answered, because that was as exact as he could get, and then he brightened as an absolutely brilliant idea occurred to him. “If you wanted, you could come meet them? We’re doing Sunday roast tomorrow, and the whole family’ll be there.” He offered to Susan, who looked just as shocked as she had when he’d called out to her earlier.

“You want me to meet your family?” Susan asked cautiously.

Jack nodded, smiling warmly. “I think they’d love you.” He told her, entirely honestly, and didn’t add the follow up that was sitting on the tip of his tongue; I think I could love you, my gentle queen.

“That sounds like a great idea.” Peter said, which startled Jack a little, since Peter didn’t seem to like him very much. The clap on the shoulder Peter then gave him was a little too rough to be called friendly. “We’ll be there.”

Ah, Jack thought, amused. Not letting his sister go off with a strange man into foreign territory alone, that’swhat that was about. “The more the merrier.” Jack assured him, and only realised just how right he’d been to say it when Peter wasn’t the only one who relaxed. Besides, it was true. If he was bringing Susan, then a good portion of the guest list from Underland probably shouldn’t come, and that meant that Lynn was going to make far too much food for just the ordinary human-like people. Three more mouths to feed would barely make a dent.

He gave them his address, promised them again that everyone would be delighted to meet them, bowed again to Susan and pressed a kiss to the back of her hand in farewell, and jogged off home with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there before.

---

Tavan was finding it increasingly hard to sit still. Lynn reached across the table and put her hand over his, and it was only then that he realised he’d been fiddling with his cuff to the point of fraying it. Sheepishly, he tucked his hands out of sight under the table, and Lynn rolled her eyes at him. “I don’t know why you’re fretting so, Tavan. Edmund’s already proven he’s not going to baulk at a bit of Underlandish magic.” She pointed out, going back to doing the household accounts.

Edmund had done a lot more than that, Tavan thought. Edmund had proven to be brilliantly sharp-witted, curious, and adaptable. Tavan didn’t think he’d ever once heard the phrase ‘but that’s not how that works’ or any of the derivatives from him, and he’d thought up as many of the more shocking things about Underland that he could, just to make sure. Edmund had figured him out in a hot second, of course, because Edmund was brilliant, but he hadn’t been upset. He just looked sneakily amused in that way he had, and asked drolly if he’d passed the test.

Tavan had kissed him.

It was only after, when Edmund had crawled into his lap and quite thoroughly marked up his neck, and rumpled his shirt, that Tavan remembered that he was in Upland, and the belated panic hit. Edmund had taken one look at his poleaxed expression, and said, in a fond murmur; “You’re fine. I don’t think bigotry is the natural order of things, either.”

Tavan had beamed at him. “Yeah, ye passed the test.”

So now, Edmund had an invitation to Underland. Which would be fine, it would be great. Except. Except Tavan had thought he’d be taking Edmund to see Iplam, to see the flower fields and show him Tavan’s study. Maybe to meet Grandma. And sure, Grandma was scary, but she was still family. He hadn’t counted on Her Majesty The White Queen insisting, all wide-eyed innocence, that Edmund “simply mustcome to Marmoreal and meet the wholefamily.”

Which meant that Edmund was going to be subject to meeting the Queen of Underland on his very first trip there. And, yes, Queen Lilibeth was like an aunt to Tavan, but that didn’t change the fact that she was the very literal heart and soul of the land, and that was intimidating no matter how sweet and gentle she, of course, was.

The doorbell rang, and Tavan jumped to his feet, nearly knocking the chair over in his haste, and rushed to get the door. Edmund was, as always, a lovely sight, and his shy, sly little smile as he stepped over the threshold was as charming as ever. He was unfailingly polite to Lynn, and if Tavan didn’t know him, he would never have been able to tell that Edmund was actually quite eager to get on with things, he was so cordial and patient.

Still, he did know better. Quite a lot better, actually, so he gave his cousin an apologetic grin and said; “So sorry tae rush off, Lynn, but we’ve an appointment we just cannae be late for.” while dragging Edmund not too subtly towards the stairs. Edmund laughed, and Lynn waved them off with a roll of her eyes, calling after them that Lilibeth would never be so crass as to be impatient.

Which was true, but still, her disappointment if you caused her to considersomething as uncharitable as impatience could be crushing. “Lilibeth?” Edmund questioned as they made for the spare room.

“Ah…” Tavan grimaced. “The White Queen.”

Edmund flinched perceptibly, and Tavan faltered a little, concerned. “Sorry. Bad memories. Why is she the WhiteQueen?” He asked cautiously.

“Tha’d be because she’s the moral center o’ Underland. White for purity, open-mindedness, compassion.” Tavan replied thoughtfully, and then looked at Edmund again, checking on him, because his reaction had been unusual, to say the least.

Edmund was nodding, though, expression the same intense curiosity he always got about all things Underlandish. “Some cultures associate white with death and winter.” He pointed out.

Tavan laughed a little. “Well, don’t tell Lily that. Not that the Queen can be anything but hospitable tae any o’ the seasons, but I think she might do something un-queen-like if you suggested she was supposed tae represent winter. She loves her roses far too much for that.”

Edmund relaxed properly at that, and just in time, too, because they’d reached the mirror, and Tavan paused to take a bracing breath before stepping through. Lilibeth, of course, hadn’t listened to a single word of Tavan’s request for a modicum of privacy, and had invited what looked like half the court to come meet Tavan Hightopp’s beloved.

Exasperated, but not surprised, Tavan turned back and stuck his head and one arm through the mirror, holding out a hand in invitation. Edmund grinned as he took Tavan’s hand and allowed him to pull him gently through the mirror. But as he passed through the rippling surface, something strange happened. Edmund Pevensie stepped into the mirror, but the man who stepped out on the other side into the White Queen’s court was no London school boy.

Edmund was almost as tall as Tavan, now, with a touch of dark stubble over his jaw and a silver circlet gleaming in his dark hair. His clothes, too, were different. They looked like they belonged here, a fine tunic with a crest in the shape of a lion on his breast, and leather breeches tucked into high boots, and a sword on his hip that his other hand fell to perfectly naturally.

Tavan quite lost his breath at the sight of him.

Edmund’s breath caught a beat later, and he looked down at himself, even as his free hand left his sword to touch cautiously at the circlet – the crown, it was definitely a crown– on his head, and then ghost down over the corner of his jaw. And then he smiled, so beatifically that Tavan’s breath caught all over again, and he actually felt a little weak-kneed when Edmund turned that smile on him and offered him his arm. He took it, of course, and subtly guided Edmund over to where Lilibeth was rising to her feet. The crowd of familiar faces parted before them like they never would have if it had just been Tavan. Or if it had been Tavan and Edmund as he’d looked on the other side of the looking glass.

Lilibeth rose to the occasion magnificently, despite the confusion, and was all smiles as she greeted Edmund. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of a properintroduction.” She lilted curiously.

“Your Majesty.” Edmund greeted, inclining his head respectfully, but notably notbowing. “It seems I am, once again, King Edmund the Just, of Narnia.”

---

Benji loved it when Lucy came to stay at Pemberley. Somehow, she lit the place up, and made everything that was familiar to him new and exciting again. She ran barefoot through the woods and taunted him into going skinny-dipping in the lake with her and taught him new dances under the watchful gazes of his ancestor’s portraits in the gallery.

She never stayed for long. That wasn’t her way, and Benji didn’t mind. Sometimes, he went with her when she left, whether that was travelling to far-flung places to meet new people and learn new languages, or to meetings and charities and projects closer to home, watching her throw her considerable will against any and all problems she came across, but sometimes he didn’t. And they both liked it like that.

That, Benji thought, was the thing he loved best about Lucy. Loving her was never a trap, never a cage, never a duty. She was a wild thing and she would not be tamed, and in turn, never once tried to tame him, and never asked for more than he could give.

He got a little caught up in it, caught up in herand her way of life, riding the high of being known, so clearly and effortlessly, by someone who shared his feelings and values. Which is why it came as a complete shock to him when, on the first evening of Lucy’s third stay at Pemberley, when his father leaned forwards a little and said; “I’ve been meaning to ask you, Benji, what the hold up is.”

“With what?” Benji asked.

“The engagement, of course!” Father replied, and reality crashed back onto Benji with a feeling like being submerged in ice-water. At his elbow, Lucy went suddenly still. An alarming thing, given she was usually always so full of movement.

“What engagement?” Benji asked, half genuinely bewildered, although he had a creeping sense that his family had gotten the wrong idea, because they never had understood when he tried to explain what it was about the girls he stepped out with that put him off so badly every time, and half stalling for time.

“Benji, darling, please.” Mother said, fondly exasperated. “You haven’t exactly been subtle.”

“Don’t mistake us, we’re very happy you’ve found someone!” Father added. “But your mother is right, you’ve been very obvious about how much you like Miss Pevensie.” His lips pursed with something that was half way between amusement and disapproval. “A little tooobvious, sometimes. You’d better hurry up and make an honest woman out of her, or people will begin to gossip.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lucy said, before Benji could shake the feeling of a noose tightening around his neck and find the breath to speak for himself, “but I’m afraid you’ve all got rather the wrong idea.” She said it in her High Society Voice, which was a sure sign she was sharpening her metaphorical claws. “I’ve no intent to marry. At all. Ever.”

“You’re young yet, my dear.” Mother said, looking a little concerned. “I know marriage can seem intimidating. Lord knows you and Benji are very alike in that regard, but it’s a wonderful thing to find the right person to support you through life.” She shared a loving look with Father. “You shouldn’t let something like that, with someone who understands you, pass you by just because you’re nervous.”

Lucy closed her eyes for a moment. Benji suspected she was praying for patience. “I’m not letting anything pass me by.” She said sharply, a flash of fire in her eyes as she opened them again, the smile on her lips a challenge more than any sort of expression of happiness. “I appreciate having Benji in my life very much.”

Father chuckled, while Mother went a little pink at the rather salacious tone Lucy said the last two words in. Joan snorted, derisive, drawing everyone’s attention. It was a very unkind sound, and Benji startled, because he’d thought Joan and Lucy got on. They were of a similar age, and a similar temperament, and had had many a passionate argument about one subject or another, sparring with ideas in a way that Benji was entirely unsuited for. “He’s not the only person you’ve been appreciating, though, is he?” She asked pointedly.

The whole table went still. Benji’s other two sisters turned to stare at Lucy, suddenly resembling nothing so much as hyenas staring down prey. But Lucy couldn’t be preyif she tried, and met the sudden threatening stares with a complete lack of shame. In fact, her chin kicked up a little in stubborn, fierce pride. Benji almost smiled to see it, but the flicker of admiration was quickly dampened by the thick tension in the air. “Joan?” He asked carefully. “What’s this about?”

“You didn’t tell him?” She asked of Lucy. “You swore to me you would.”

Lucy raised her eyebrows, then smiled. “Benji?” She called, and Benji hummed an acknowledgement, wary of opening his mouth again lest he be talked over. Again. “Joan walked in on me kissing Viscount Cranbrook’s son at that wedding last weekend.”

Benji blinked, startled by that reminder and a little uncomfortable at having such things discussed at the dinner table, with all his family sitting nearby. Then, he began to realise why Joan was looking so very upset. Why everyonewas looking so very upset, actually. “Yes?” He said, deliberately playing obtuse. “You already told me about that.” He paused to smile faintly. “In vivid detail.”

Joan dropped her fork. Father choked on his wine.

“Benjamin Percival Fitzwilliam Darcy!” Mother snapped, putting her own wine glass down with a very inelegant thump. “Such things are notappropriate dinner conversation!”

Benji felt veryindignant about being scolded for something that wasn’t his fault. At all. “Why am Igetting scolded? Joanie’s the one who brought it up!” He paused, feeling a little guilty, because Joan had been trying to be a good sister, to protect him, even if she had been making assumptions., and it felt a little unfair to throw her under the bus after that. So before Mother could start scolding again, he turned to his sister. “Thanks for worrying about me, though, but it really is fine. Lucy did tell me what she was about. She always does.”

There was another one of those stunned silences. Benji was really getting tired of them, and this time he couldn’t even tell what had prompted it. “You mean she’s done this before?” Joan demanded, sounding more bewildered than scandalised, which at least cleared that up.

“Yes?” Benji offered, looking around the table. Everyone else looked significantly more scandalised, and a bit insulted, whether that was on his behalf or the family’s, he couldn’t tell, and it made him feel a stranger in his own home all of a sudden. “Why are you all so damn surprised?” He blurted out. “I told youhow trapped it all makes me feel, with girls who are all thinking of marriageand one and onlyand forever. I can’t even tell what I my favourite foodis going to be on any given day, never mind who my favourite personis going to end up being next year, or the year after that!”

Joan was the only one who had the decency to look a little shame-faced. The others just looked vaguely appalled.

Except Lucy, of course. Who washis favourite person, and might even stay that way for the rest of his life. But still, the idea of trapping her in that role, of binding her to him and him to her in any way more than a simple question asked every day they happened to be together – ‘do you want?’ with no demand upon the answer being yes – was abhorrent.

Lucy just giggled, and reached out to lace their fingers together. “Why not everyperson?” She suggested cheerfully.

“I haven’t met every person.” Benji pointed out as solemnly as he was able, with his lips persistently trying to twitch up into a smile.

“Yet.” Lucy countered brightly. “And on that subject!” She declared enthusiastically, banishing the weight of the previous conversation and his family’s judgement as easily as a spring breeze scattering morning mists. “I was thinking about going to help the relief efforts in Morocco, and I thought you might like to come this time?”

[tough-bit-of-fluff]

Alyona Amariyo

Alyona Amariyo, energetic, expressive, enthusiastic, and extroverted adventurer. Chatty, curious, witty and upbeat. Emotional, easily distracted, more than occasionally perplexing, with an overly-developed sense of whimsy and a penchant for leaning on the fourth wall. Newly-hired navigator for the up-and-coming airship crew of The Four Winds. Smarter than she looks - but then, she’d almost have to be.

“As long as there have been people sapient and thought-thinkin’ enough to start a fire or to fight over who gets the shiniest rock, we’ve been asking big big questions. Who am I? What am I doing here? What is my purpose? For me, answering those inquiries isn’t a philosophical thought exercise. To me, it’s waaay more real. 

You ever go to a real banger of a party, then wake up the next day wondering what the heck happened? Yep, that’s me all over, and it must’ve been a doozy. Because I can’t remember anything! Not from the gathering, and not before it. Not super convenient, I gotta tell ya! I wish I could remember, because Something Went Down at that shindig, big and destructive...and I’m not 100% sure I didn’t have something to do with it. 

Not to mention, every so often someone greets me like they know me. Sometimes it’s nice, (“Thank you for finding that medicine for my sick mother when no one else would, she’s much better now!”) and sometimes, not so much. (“You framed my master for embezzlement, I thought you were just some floozy but I know it was you! He’s ruined and now I’ll ruin youuuu!”) And then I have to fight and that’s like A Whole Thing. On the plus side I’m really decent at it? Which honestly only raises further questions. Who WAS this lady? I don’t know if I feel like some saintly nurturer of orphans and puppies, and I definitely don’t feel like a secret government assassin-spy. I just feel like...me. 

So! With that in mind….whooooo am I?

Name: Alyona Amariyo - That’s the name that was on the party invitation, so that’s the name I go by. There’s no record of this person having existed like ANYWHERE so it’s almost certainly an alias, but it’s what I’m workin’ with here. Aly for short. Like an Alley Cat. Because I’m a stray? Get it? It’s super clever and original. Feel free to clap. (Clapping is fun!)

Age: A youthful thirty? A mature seventeen? Man, I dunno, how old do I look? I’ll guess early to mid twenties and call it good.

Height: 5’3” - a straightforward answer! Yay!

Weight: 140 ponzes, and prooobably looking to pack on a few more. I like my soft cute curviness, and I like food, okay?? I almost, ALMOST feel guilty doing it to whoever-this-is. Like I’m trashing a rental place or something, you know? But for real, the proportions on this gal when I woke up. What did this chick eat? DID she eat? Did she like, subsist on dewdrops and starlight? That sounds so poetic, but I think I’d rather have a sandwich.

Hair: At first I thought I was blond, but it turns out, nope! Hair dye. I’ve dyed it black, then red, then black and red, then pink… It took forever to notice the brown roots. Who knows what color or style it’ll be tomorrow?

Eyes: Gray. They look kinda boring and washed out to me. At least they’re big and expressive? If I could dye ‘em like I do my hair, I probably would.

Relationship Status: I have a boyfriend who is small and cute and smart and smells nice and his hair goes “floop” over one eye and also everything annoys him and that is really funny to me because he makes the grumpiest faces! He has another girlfriend I don’t know too well. She seems nice and polite, if a little shy. If I find another boyfriend or girlfriend, maybe we can all go out together! And make even MORE friends!

Likes: Cool hats (wearing, acquiring, observing), weird animals (acquiring, observing, hugging), delicious food, ADVENTURE, fighting big rampaging beasts (and winning!), music (Live! Orchestrion rolls! Singing! Dancing! If someone doesn’t like music that’s probably a Villainous Red Flag, right?), finding lost Things, kissing my boyfriend, flirting with sexy people (and maybe kissing them later??), MAGIC STUFF, ear rubs, playing in dirt, telling stories, looking up at the sky. And an honorable mention to naps!

Dislikes: Bad...stuff. I dunno, likes are way easier. Not getting my way? Oh! Cultists keep coming after me to start stuff i.e. attack while yelling really cliche bad guy phrases so I ultimately have to come down pretty firmly anti-cult. “Hate the cult and not the cultist,” is certainly a phrase that could hypothetically be said. Ah! And bossy people! Bossy people are not great, although they THINK they are, but who wants to be told what to do unless it’s in like a “rrrr!” sexy way? It’s that little bit of extra effort that shows you care. An effort certainly not made by the boring Brass Blades who crashed my awesome pool party. It’s called a public fountain because it’s open to the PUBLIC, hellooo. If I was gonna be that rude and snarlygross I’d at least try to learn what words mean.

So, that’s it! I like my life how it is. I like the people I’ve met and the cheeses I’ve tasted and the cool hero stuff I’ve done. You seriously can’t walk twenty yalms without tripping over a situation that needs adventurer-level capabilities to resolve. So, job security yay? This world is kind of a mess. But...it’s also real beautiful. I want to experience as much of it as I can. I like feeling things, and the world makes me feel SO MUCH I can hardly stand it sometimes! Do you feel that way sometimes too? Maybe we can travel together for a while. But c’mon, let’s hurry! That road isn’t gonna travel itself, and these ears aren’t gonna pet themselves, hint hint, so let’s go! Adventure awaits!”

[ask-the-crimson-king]

😌 main go to theme song & 🙂 secondary theme song for magnus (although I'm curious for Kazakh too tbh)

[Muse theme song]

[Each have their own unique reasons, and some are less apparent than others. If you wish to know of them, they will be under the cut (plus I got into a bit of Kazakh’s lore too for the last one). If not, then there’s your answer, anon.

Magnus main theme – The Magician by Aether Realm

Kazakh main theme – Veil of Elysium by Kamelot

Magnus secondary theme – The Warlock’s Trail by Bloodbound

Kazakh secondary theme – Roads Untraveled by Linkin Park

The Magician - Aether Realm

No, this is not because of the title. Well, okay, a little bit because of the title. However, there are various other aspects of the song that strike me as being Magnus-esque. First of all, the lyrics. Notably among them; 

Stray not from the Path you’ve chosen,You may yet find what you seek.You will learn to command the Aethereal Realm,And fulfill your Destiny!Cast out of his Land for reachingFor that which lies out of Mortal Sight.Like a Beast he is feared and hunted,Like a Beast he intends to fight. […]Take hold of Strength divine,Shape the World to your Design,And release the Power you keep inside your Heart!

This has deep Magnus vibes for me, precisely about his discoveries and how he started investigating his powers connected to the Empyrean. Now, this is more of a song that I feel reflects a young, very naive and extremely arrogant Magnus who was eagerly learning all he could about the Great Ocean without heeding warnings about it. Plus a small bit about how he was kind of hated for being a psyker (among other things). Also, the last three lines I included I associate a bit with Magnus encouraging his sons to explore their powers, to not shy away from them.

Another thing about the Magician – this little bit right here;

I am the Light when a Life’s at its End,The still burning Candle when Darkness descends.I am Desire, Warmth from the Fire,Fueling your Steps when your Journey began.

I am the Fear twisting tight round your Throat,The Life giving Spark hiding deep in your Soul,I am your Aura, Hunger for Honor,I hold the Power you seek!

The meeting with Tzeentch. The pact to try and save his sons from the Flesh Change. That is what this reminds me of the most. Especially the ‘the Life giving Spark hiding deep in your Soul/I am your Aura, Hunger for Honor,/I hold the Power you seek’ – very Tzeentch-y to me, and something he would convey to a young primarch who wants to save his Legion. In addition to lyrics, instrumentally, this also just… fits. In ways that I can’t quite describe. It does have a bit of a mystical sort of feel to it throughout, from the intro to the guitars, to even the singing. 

Veil of Elysium - Kamelot

Alright. Why Kazakh? Why is this song about a brightly colored birb daemon who collects and hoards shiny things? And possesses knives. One – the chorus. From how the synth-symphonic bits swell, to how Tommy Karevik sings it. It sounds very grand, very loud, flashy, even. To me, anyway. The rest of the instrumentals sound a little more… subdued. Which is a part of Kazakh that isn’t often on display, due to many reasons but I won’t put them here.

Another is the whole theme of a sort of childlike innocence, of remembering good times while one weathers the bad. The lyrics don’t really fit Kazakh in any specific sense, save for:

One day I know we will meet again,In shade of a life to die for.Watching the world through the eyes of a child,In Elysium.Will I find you there?In the darkness of the shadow that comes over allDear friend, will I know you then?Will I know you then at all?

Why? Well… maybe the explanation for his secondary theme will help. But know that Kazakh is a bit more than just a brightly colored birb.

The Warlock’s Trail - Bloodbound

Okay, listen, it is NOT just because it has warlock in the name, this one actually is based on lyrical and instrumental content. 

Yes, I know, ‘oh but redundancy’, hush. Honestly any of these songs can change on a given day, and Wrong Side of Heaven by Five Finger Death Punch and Rise of the Dragon Empire also by Bloodbound were good contenders as well (although the latter is more of something I associate with all primarchs.) Citizen Zero by Kamelot is also a song I associate with Magnus at the Siege of the Fenris system but I already have Kamelot on here and I wanted to be variable with my bands.

If anyone reading wants an explanation of Citizen Zero or any of the other two, go ahead and send an ask.

The main reason why this song fits – The Burning of Prospero. Lyrics:

When we summon the legion of fire and flame,And open the portal of fear.When the quest is so long and the silence is all we hear…

In the mist of the morning a winters day,Came a man in robe from far away.Out of ashes and clay of the magic vale,Cause sorrow sail on the warlock’s trail.

The ritual leading up to Magnus projecting himself to Terra. The first three lines are more Legion-specific, what they were kind of going through, and then the chorus itself is Magnus emerging through the Webway. ‘Sorrow sail on the Warlock’s trail’ can be used for many things – that Prospero will burn, Magnus’ folly, and Horus’ betrayal. The other lyrics, notably the two verses, also work for the battle of Prospero. The first describing daemons and the gathering of the Host to Kill Magnus, the second more of the actual battle itself.

Sorcery, Enchanted by the spell,A stone is magical, Becoming like the gods,Elements,Gathering into the holy light,In life we burn!  

Magnus quickly doing the spell that unmakes his physical form and spirits his sons to Sortiarius. Plus the ‘in life we burn’, kind of the whole Thousand Sons are damned to being dust for eternity. So this can also work for the Rubric

Instrumentals – listen. Just listen to them. They work. That sort of cheesy, cherry sort of whimsy? The bridge with ‘sorcery’? It works. It is aesthetic to Magnus, even if it’s not the ‘I-fucked-everything-up’ Magnus. To me it works.

Roads Untraveled - Linkin Park

Okay. I hear you asking, ‘what sorcery is this?’ A Linkin Park song for a colorful daemon birb with kleptomania? Are you sure you don’t want to add another happy, cheery, cheesy power metal song? Something like that?

Yes.  I am sure.

One of the reasons why Kazakh exists, and one I haven’t really been able to touch on – he’s a companion for Magnus. Kind of like a familiar. An Emotional Service Bastard. Or Birdstard. Or Birbstard. 

That was the intent behind making him, initially. When I originally picked up Magnus as a muse, circa May 2018, pre-Tumblr, I knew that he was sort of a strong, stoic-ish character. As I learned more and more about him, I started to see that regret and sadness were beginning to leak in. Magnus was becoming a bit depressing.

So, to counter this, I made a brightly colored daemon birb to keep him company. Also, something to balance out Magnus, and something for others to have fun with while interacting.

A few people have picked up on the fact that Kazakh is a good companion, one who doesn’t mind being held or hugged when someone is feeling sad. And that is his original intention, he’s supposed to be like that. And yes, I did also originally make him hoard shinies. The knife thing was an addition that came on later, something I didn’t intend to make a mainstay for his character, but other people enjoyed it. I was having fun with it, so I kept it.

There’s the sort of meta-explanation. Now, with this all in mind, look at the lyrics:

Weep not for roads untraveled,Weep not for paths left lone.‘Cause beyond every bend is a long blinding end,It’s the worst kind of pain I’ve known.

Give up your heart left broken.And let that mistake pass on.'Cause the love that you lost, wasn’t worth what it cost,And in time you’ll be glad it’s gone. […]

Weep not for roads untraveled,Weep not for sights unseen.May your love never end and if you need a friend,There’s a seat here alongside me.  

It’s Kazakh speaking to Magnus. I have not yet penned down exactly how they first met, but this did factor into it.

Let’s just say Kazakh has been with Magnus for a pretty long while, and has seen him go through some… things.

So long as Tzeentch doesn’t obliterate him, he’ll be staying for a pretty long while too.]

[jedimasteramell]

Backbeat

M!Ortega X F!Sidestep // Post-Date Night // SFW

Wrote to the Dagny song by the same name on literal repeat. Siona is mine.

If you haven’t played Fallen Hero: Rebirth, I can’t recommend it enough.

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

There's something about the way he kisses her.

Siona never expected nostalgia to have an actual taste, especially not tasting like Ortega. Burning… longing… a dozen wishes on shooting stars. A thousand promises, and a thousand and one suns to fulfil them. She didn't expect it smell like the cinders of car fires, his mother's tamales, sweat on metal mods, that same damn musky cologne he’s been wearing for decades.

She didn’t expect it to feel like warm blankets and crashing waves, like the first breeze of spring, and the vacuum of air pulled from a falling airplane. With hands tangled in her hair, the reassuring and stirring press of a well-muscled machine sandwiching her to the wall, anchoring her to the rest of the world.

Didn’t expect it to sound like soft acoustic, the rumble of distant traffic and thunder across the sky. How could she have known nostalgia would sound like breathy kisses, low rumbles of affectionate laughter, and Ricardo’s warm breath against her ear calling her lovely in English, Spanish, and every other way he could?

She couldn’t have imagined. Couldn’t have known. And somehow she forgot, until each time he kissed her again.

They broke apart to furiously flushed faces. Ortega’s grin from ear to ear at the sight of her mussed hair.

“What are you smiling at?” She shot at him, hiding her frazzled state and erratic heartbeat behind sass.

“You, obviously.” How was it possible for so much emotion to be stored in the corner of someone's eyes? For his earnestness, Ortega earned a sharp jab to the ribs. His ‘oof’ for her benefit only.

“Idiot.” She grumbled, massaging her knuckles. Next time she wouldn’t aim at the repair work. A sick jerk tugs her navel. Repair work she caused.

His grin remained, it had been far too long since he’d taken any insult of hers seriously. He mistook the wince as one of pain and not guilt, brushing her knuckles against his lips, the barest of static charges between his hands and hers. “Im glad you agreed to our date.”

His expression is too open, too warm, genuine in a way that turns her stomach and heart into gymnasts. “Yeah, well all we've done is made out in this alleyway so its not been much of a date yet.” Heat betrays her flushed cheeks, and the off kilter rhythm of her heart is not something she could ever possibly fake. He just has this way with her, and she just let it happen. Willingly even.

If smirks could be illegal, his most certainly should be. Especially since he shaved. Older face, younger eyes. Kiss-flushed lips cocked in the most infuriating teasing curl. Ricardo looked straight of a dream and he goddamn knew it. Bastard.

By his or her direct, Siona spun back into his arms, fingers splayed across his proud back. He stole her sarcastic retort along with the rest of her breath. She’d have let herself go flying along with it, if the tease of his thumbs, just under the waistband of her leggings hadn’t grounded her. Surprisingly soft, terribly tender, ripe with the memories of the intimacy they shared just days ago.

Ortega must have sensed her shit, the pause for air a polite time for her to disengage, to fiddle with her hem and curse the need for and the lack of contact.

“Let's go dancing.”

He said it with such ease and whimsy it took Siona a moment before she processed that he was indeed serious. Balking at him, she shook her head, only adding to the mess of her hair. “What no, I don’t- I can’t- and in public.”

Heavy comforting hands cupped her cheeks, a lid on the anxious angry flare. “Siona, hey, I know you by now.” No you don’t. “I'm not going to push you out there, not when your comfort matters so much more. I should have specified back home.”

“Home?” She queried speculatively and finally he appeared as abashed as she’d been feeling all night. Rose blush darkening his already bronzed cheeks and the tips of his ears.

“I mean, my place. Guess it just feels right to say home when you're there.” And once more, with that disarming smile he turned that fluster back around on her.

Ricardo Ortega was damn lucky she loved him.

Shit.

That wasn't the intrusive thought she wanted. Nor the hot rush that flooded her tip to toes at the very ludicrous notion she could even feel that.

Ortega’s pull on her was gentle and guiding, a comforting hand on the small of her back. The trip only a few blocks back to his apartment went by in a flutter of butterfly-feelings and far too many smiles. The presence of his hand pushing back the static void of his mind beside hers. They were two joined bodies here, even if not two joined minds. The doorman remembered her, she wished he didn't. Ortega had this way about him that made too many aspects of this, of them, bright, and shining, and grounded, and real.

Thank the devil, he’d left the lights down low. One glance on the couch and Siona’s whole face got five degrees hotter, and Ortega didn’t need any more reasons to be so smug.

Maybe he was the telepath then as he leaned into her, nuzzling into her dark hair. “I'm thinking about the couch too.”

A pout on her round lips, Siona twisted and shoved over-dramatically at the flat plane of his stomach. She couldn't budge him. Figures. “I thought you wanted to dance.”

He had no right to look so doting, no right! “I do.” The sheer magnanimity folded in the creases of his eyes and his smile was truly overwhelming. “As long as you still do.”

“I do...” She muttered, subconsciously leaning towards him as he stepped away to find the insulated remote that controlled his stereo system. A deep-beated R&B song, just fast enough to warrant dancing, filtered out from the speakers. Siona arched a heavy brow. “Your music's changed. What happened to all that club stuff you liked?”

“Tastes change. And I still like some of that ‘stuff’ you know. Just not tonight.” He lifted her arms to drape around his neck, hands finding purchase just above her hips. Goosebumps rose everywhere the faint static charge pulsed.

The song was catchy, or at least of quality artistry by Siona’s limited opinion. Music hadn't really ever been a thing for her. Too much else going on, too many other sounds and places to focus rather than engaging with the rhythms and lyrics of the radio. Her body didn't quite know how to move, every shift awkward and hesitant. “You can go ahead and say it.” She huffed, primarily at herself, mouth pulled to a cornered grimace. “I really suck at dancing.”

Ricardo hummed with a laugh, like it was really that easy. “You just need practice, Siona. It's not that different than a fight. In fact you can honestly just” Oh no, that grin meant he was about to say something exceptionally ridiculous. “sidestep.”

It took several pregnant moments, the song changing in the background, before Siona met his devilish smile with a disbelieving scoff. “You did not just make that joke.”

“I did and whatever are you going to do about it?”

“Smug asshole.” She swore, standing up on her tiptoes, and dragging him down into deep and abiding kiss.

There was something about the way she kisses him.

Ricardo doesn’t expect it to smell like shea and chocolate, like new clothes and hand rolled tobacco. He doesn't expect it to sound like an old favorite song restored to an unheard clarity, like the silence of the air before a great storm, like a prayer-hymn in pre-quake temple. He doesn't expect it to feel like melancholy, impatience, hope. Like fluttery stomachs, the wind while on his old bike, like taking off his costume for a well deserved shower and an ache so profound he’s not sure he could bear it. An ache and a love and a promise.

He couldn’t have imagined. Couldn’t have in his wildest, most heart-wrenching dreams. And yet, somehow, he forgot, until each time she kissed him again.