[intolerablexsacrifice, for Abigail] 💥 Try to calm my muse during an overwhelming emotional moment

“Stop,” She could not bear yelling, even now after so long and far away from how she was raised, it rankled against everything that felt proper to raise her voice any higher than it was now – and maybe that was the problem. Maybe if she did let herself yell – maybe if she did opt to exorcise her demons in some unholy scream of fury she might feel better.

But the last woman to do that had ended up dead on a dining room floor, so maybe it wasn’t propriety that chained her voice after all.

Taking a shaking breath, she eased herself farther away from him – needing space, needing to breathe without feeling as though each fill of her lungs was taking in more poison than clarity. “I don’t need you to tell me how to feel.”

Was she really addressing him? Or the ghost inside her mind that still sounded ever like her father? Opening her eyes, she made herself take in the man before her. A wide, mismatched gaze that did not beseech as much as it insisted, an abortive motion of a calloused hand that sated itself by furling and unfurling it’s fingers at a side that was too still by contrast. A beard that did nothing to hide the twisting twitch of his lips, but rather framed them in a way that made each flicker all the more notable. He was nothing like her father – and that alone was enough to banish the last lingering whisper of the man’s ghost, for now.

“There is nothing that I can say right now that won’t be hurtful in some way. You understand that, don’t you? That you’re the last person I can talk to about this? About missing him? Regardless – regardless of everything he did to you – he was still my father.” And there were days when she hated admitting it. Hated that such a man had raised her – and how much she still loved him.

Worse – there were days when she hated the felt like she felt she should have to hate him. Days when she wished she had never gone with Eleanor Guthrie, and had just waited for her ransom to be paid, because then she could have gone on seeing pirates as blackguards with no interests beyond their own personal gains, rather than human beings as flawed as any other – and more willing to show the truth of their ugliness. She would never know the kind of man her father truly was – and it would be terrible, but blissful, in a manner only ignorance could provide.

“Please – just. Go.” She just needed some time today. It would pass. It always did. Birthdays only came once a year, and all the memories and regrets that came with them would fade in the light of tomorrow.

🥪 Set a plate/tray/bowl of food down for my muse | TF’s Cutler to Theo- you know he’s come a long way when he’ll run small errands for Adella like this.

{ Nonverbal Starters }

It was becoming more and more familiar to notice his guest in the corner of his eye, going about some menial task with an odd sort of focus. Adella had spoken with him about it at length, feeling as though Cutler was learning to find some sort of meaning in life and that providing him tasks would help him to settle better.

Theodore had not been so certain at first, thinking as he did of the man who had not too long ago commanded the seas with an untouchable aura about him – but he supposed with all that stripped away, Cutler Beckett was no more than a man who had lost track of his purpose.

There were times when he could see a hint of the old Lord Beckett – but in moments like this, he was simply Cutler. A man welcomed by his sisters, and even accepted by the most discerning member of the Groves family – their admittedly very fat cat, Bumble.

He had long since stopped doubting in his eldest sister’s wisdom on the topic of tasks, though he found himself amused to note that this one was very much a silent scolding. “I did say I would be down when I was done my correspondence,” He remarked, leaning back to smile at the man, “I had not meant to make her so impatient.”

😉 Pull my muse in by the hips | TF’s Joji to Tom P cause apparently we’re here right off the bat jfc

{ Nonverbal Starters }

He’d fallen away again – lost in the memories of a life that was no longer his own. It was the sensation of a firm – and now familiar – grip upon his hips that dragged him back as surely as he was drawn forward. The ghosts of long ago fell away for a time as he looped his arms around Joji’s middle, leaning forward to press his forehead against the other’s shoulder.

“Was I gone so long?” He wondered, worried that he had allowed himself to wither in a dangerous way – he liked to think he had not drifted to a point he could be caught unawares when he found himself torn between what he used to be, and who he had become, but something told him Joji would have something else to say about that – without saying anything at all. And wasn’t that a gift?

👕 Tug on my muse’s sleeve/shirt/skirt | Cutler to Theodore in the Willing Home verse

{ Nonverbal Starters }

The gentle tugging drew his attention as he straightened from putting on his boots, expecting Eudora and her imploring looks for him to stave off his adventures for one more day ( never understanding the difference between the ones he went on by choice and the ones dictated to him as a man who had sworn to the crown to serve! ) and found himself surprised to see it was his guest.

“Ah, Cutler – I was actually about to come and look for you,” He smiled warmly, “Everything is alright, I trust?”

[intolerablexsacrifice, for Weatherby, from McGraw] 😱 Make a silly face at my muse [ lbr it’s literally just his ‘you said something that confused/startled me’ expression ]

{ Nonverbal Starters }

Goodness, what an expression! It was actually quite the challenge to maintain something of a neutral one himself in the wake of it. Weatherby would never forgive himself for laughing outright at a misfortunate fellow, but it was a very near thing when he found himself fixed a look that for all the world declared more confusion than a noblewoman’s lapdog tilting its head just so.

“I appear to have lost you, lieutenant,” His amusement was carefully refrained, which was just as well considering the topic of their discussion. “The Hamiltons are attending as well – I thought perhaps you would appreciate being extended an invitation from me, personally.” Otherwise, doubtless, he would get one from Thomas and feel stuck between his duty to the admiralty and politeness toward that idealistic young man, or sticking to propriety and declining on account of the fact the host had not invited him!

[intolerablexsacrifice, for Jane, from McGraw] 👉 Point to something for my muse to see [ context is for people who aren’t awake at 5am okay shh ]

{ Nonverbal Starters }

His arrival had been unannounced, and were it not for Diego chances were he would not have made it to her at all. The guards were on high alert, and to say there was little tolerance for his kind ( be it pirate or be it English ) was putting things exceptionally mildly.

This venture that they shared was delicate, to say the least – it was not in de Bac’s interests to be consorting with either pirates or Englishmen in these trying times, but there were things a pirate could do that a privateer would never be able to justify. Among thieves, James was perhaps the only man she could trust to undertake those particular duties – and if he required more than finances every now and again, who was she to turn him away?

Glancing back at him when he made his gesture, she took a moment to look out toward the harbor. Understanding his intention, she nodded and made a motion to her man in the shadows – she had nothing to fear from James McGraw, regardless of the monster he was fashioning by the name of Flint.

“It will be done,” She assured him quietly, gathering the last of what she needed before urging him to sit. “Let me take a look at you – if it was one of the locals, that wound may fester swiftly. Few here work without poison on their blades.”

🤗 Pull my muse into a hug | lbr Cutler can’t stop hugging Jane. He see her he hug, I don’t make the rules.

{ Nonverbal Starters }

Clutching his shoulders, Jane barely managed to restrain the sob that threatened to wrench itself out of her. It was the most ridiculous thing – to be so terrified, so troubled by something innocuous and harmless as a mere dream! But she’d woken so startled, and found herself surrounded by the unfamiliar, racing through halls she’d barely memorized in chase of someone her mind was convinced had never been there at all.

It would be a wonder if they didn’t come out of this with bruises, for the force in which she collided with him, and how tightly she held on to convince herself he was real, and she hadn’t lost him all over again.

“Oh this is dreadful,” She muttered, face still pressed into his shoulder, “I must look a fool, crashing in here like this!” But she knew he understood. The ease with which he guarded her told her as much.

⛈ Find my muse after some kind of trauma | Joji to Mr Darcy cause why the heck not

{ Nonverbal Starters }

In the natural order of things, there were two matters alone which were certain. All that existed was in some way alive. By extension, all that existed was bound to be destroyed. There was no telling when – only that the death of all things was an inevitable truth that none could escape. That which marked a man’s worth in life – that which made a man truly accomplished – was not in what he owned or acquired, but rather in what he built and designed that could sustain itself without him.

Indeed, the value of a man was quite limited beyond the scope of the legacy he left behind – for most, the greatest achievement they could attest to would be the reproduction of themselves – another body to carry their name and perhaps build some meaning behind it that the progenitor could not devine. For Fitzwilliam, his position was one that was markedly better and simultaneously worse than that of other men, for his name already had legacy behind it.

A legacy of failure and scandal, uprooted by a father who refused to be disdained by the failings of his own, transformed into a story of improbable success and impossible kindness. His memory lived on through Pemberley in the same lingering notations of a saint – but none had forgotten the colors that came before. Colors that, up until today, Fitzwilliam had managed to rise above, untouched by their tainted hues but far from impeccable.

His saintly father had shadows too, that were for Fitzwilliam to manage and to bury, that none could know for fear of tearing away the veil of a success story and turning up a hideous underbelly. Yet he had persevered – and above that, he had overcome those shadows, and his endeavors had bourne such fruits as to forge a legacy of his own for Pemberley that would surely last generations.

If only the ship had not sunk, taking with it not only the lives of those who had become his companions for the months he had been upon the horrid shores of the New World, but also the better majority of assets that would have secured to Pemberley the lands his father had been forced to sell in order to clear the debts set by his grandfather. That he survived was a miracle – but oh, what a bitter kindness it was!

Stumbling forward, he caught himself against a tree, the harsh bark scraping at his hand as he leaned against it and struggled to make sense of why he had lived to see the shore. Behind him, the waves crashed loudly against the rocks, pounding against his ears as though he were still tossing about in their wake like so much splintered wood.

Glancing up, he caught sight of a form – and for a moment, he thought himself washed upon a savage island, saved only for crueller intentions. As the man came closer, however, the marks of civilization became more clear. A sword at his hip meant little – any pirate could bear one of those – but there was something or other about the Orient he remembered reading that indicated some import to that weapon. The man’s bearing, too, was refined in a way he would not have attributed to a vagabond. It was too soon to consider the arrival of him anything other than a threat, but these signs, at least, indicated there was hope that his survival was not a complete waste of effort on the Lord’s part.

Sighing, he straightened a little and waved the man over, or tried to – no sooner had he raised his arm did the sea’s kind numbness dissipate, reminding him of the violence his body had endured with a sharp relief. Gasping, it was all his pride could manage, not to collapse to his knees as the edges of his gaze tinted grey from the pain, the nausea that struck him low, and the ferocity of the waves still pounding inside his head.

🤨 Sit down across from my muse | William to Mr Darcy

{ Nonverbal Starters }

The abrupt arrival of the lieutenant startled him, though he endeavoured to grant no sign of his discomfiture as he glanced across and attempted to ascertain what the meaning behind this impromptu company might be. The man bore no letter or designation that he could observe, nor did he seem to be particularly mournful – meaning this was not anything that held official or personal capacity. What, then, had driven the man to interrupt his reverie?

Unable to suss it out on observation alone, he raised his brows in an inquisitive fashion – less because he was curious and more because he knew that an expression of curiosity was expected in such circumstances. Doubtless the man had business of some sort, whether it was official or otherwise, and there was little in that to be altogether intrigued by.

“Can I help you?”

😊 Sit down next to my muse | William to Andre

{ Nonverbal Starters }

It had been a long and most trying day for all parties, of that Andre held no doubt. The sting of betrayal hung heavy in the air, as acrid and bitter as the gunsmoke the sea breeze had yet to wash away. For him it was one in a long line of them – but for the Englishman, he supposed it was a new flavor to swallow.

After a moment of considering that, Andre shifted – not much, but enough to call to mind another sting as his arm protested the motion vigorously. Enough, too, for his shoulder to press against the other man’s and provide a sense of solidarity to the fellow who had been such a steady companion on a journey none of them could have predicted to be so damned.