y’all know whats fucked? star’s hit rock bottom. Not literally, but emotionally. Yeah, she has a family, and a home, and safety, but she lost her spellbook, magic tutor, half her wand and now (feels like) she lost her best friend/crush/someone extremely close. Star’s hit a low, and the svtfoe crew did a fantastic job making it absolutely chilling…
Shifted prompt: I would love to hear more of baby William. Just common daily activities, maybe Jamie helping take care of the fussing baby so Claire can get a job done.
In the Shifted AU, can we have something where Bree bonds with baby William. Something when the kids are young. :) Thanks!
For the next few weeks I’ll be writing one-shots in the Shifted
universe, filling in the blanks that we don’t see in the main story,
before we resume the main action with Part 7 - The Visitor.
If there is a particular scene you’d like to see, send me an ask and I’ll see what I can do!
In Shifted, the premise is simple - what if Claire had gotten pregnant with
Brianna a month or two earlier in the story, and she and Jamie had
re-evaluated their priorities and decided that the cause was lost, and
they were able to slip away from the army and quietly return to
if the wound continues to be all red and puffy in the next few days, add water
to this powder and apply it generously to the area. And don’t hesitate to come
back for more, if you need it. All right?”
MacNab, married to one of Grannie MacNab’s army of sons, enthusiastically
nodded her head in understanding. “Aye, I understand. Thank ye so much, milady!”
please. And I’m not the milady, you know that – ”
that doesna matter to me!” Rosie’s kind, yet weather-lined face creased into a
smile, flashing a set of teeth that (despite Claire’s best efforts) had already
started to decay. “We all ken weel just how much yer husband has had to
sacrifice, just to keep us all safe on the estate. It doesna matter that it’s
Young Jamie’s now – yer Jamie will *always* be the laird to us. As long as my
mother-in-law walks the earth, anyway.”
pressed her lips, still so uncomfortable at such outbursts of praise. Even
seven years after Culloden, some wounds still felt so fresh. Jamie had never
regretted deeding Lallybroch to his nephew – but she wondered if that choice
ever grated on him. Especially now that he had his own son.
son chose that exact moment to squawk awake in his basket at Claire’s foot.
That must be the wee laddie!”
flashed her own smile as she bent to gently lift four-month-old William Fraser
to her shoulder. His cries immediately stopped, and he looked around her surgery
with wide, bright eyes.
there. You just *had* to join in on the conversation, didn’t you?”
he the most handsome wee bairn! Looks just like ye, too!”
wrapped William’s blanket – knit so lovingly by his aunt – tighter around his
tiny shoulders, smiling as he shoved his fist into his mouth. “Well – since my
daughter is the spit of my husband, it’s only fair that my son can take after
me a bit, hmm?”
impulsively bent to kiss William’s soft hair, before pocketing the handkerchief
in which Claire had wrapped the dried herbs and then standing. Claire rose as
well, and the two women exchanged a quick hug.
ye again! I can see myself out – no need for ye to give the lad a chill!”
poked her bright, inquisitive head around the corner just as Rosie departed. “Is
jerked in excitement at the sound of his beloved sister’s voice, squirming
against his blanket.
Yes, sweetheart – Bree is here!” Claire cooed, turning so that he could watch
his sister skip into the room.
I take him?” Brianna, aged six, doted on her brother like nothing her parents,
aunt and uncle, godfather, and the Lallybroch staff had ever seen. Caring for
him gave her a great sense of responsibility – and she never tired of showing
him off, either.
course. But – ”
be gentle and keep him warm. Aye, Mama – I ken fine,” Brianna huffed, extending
her arms. Claire carefully lay William against her shoulder, swaddling him in an
extra blanket from his basket, and Brianna lay a steadying arm against her
brother’s small back.
*a bhailach*. All comfortable, no? Let’s go see what Da is up to…”
carefully Brianna padded out of Claire’s stillroom and toward Jamie’s study
down the hall.
heart soared – so happy to see further proof of the profound love between her
children – and happy to finally have some time to herself. She opened her
journal to a fresh page and began entering the details around Paul MacNab’s
injury – and just how dedicated Rosie was to fix him.
perhaps? Of course we’ll have the potatoes, but I’m thinking we get that fallow
field back into production now, so that we can harvest in the late winter?”
Murray settled a bit deeper into his high-backed chair, rubbing the stump of
his leg, thinking. “Aye – I suppose we could. It’s always good to have the
variety – and Young Jamie is old enough to really help you out this time.”
crossed his left leg over his right, balancing a ledger on his knee, forefinger
tracing down a long column of figures scrawled in Ian’s spidery hand. “The last
time we planted there, the yield was fifty bushels. I think we could definitely
Da! What are ye doing?” Brianna burst in, William cradled to her chest, his wee
dark head resting comfortably on her shoulder.
a tha thu, mo nighean ruaidh*?” he greeted her, extending his free hand.
Mindful of her brother, Brianna gently settled against his side. “As happy as I
am to see you, it isna verra considerate of yer uncle for ye to just barge in
it’s nae bother,” Ian kindly insisted, already reaching for his wooden leg to
strap it into position. “Might as well let Jamie ken he’ll be expected to help
ye till the field. Canna have him grumbling like a bairn to his Mam again.”
stirred a bit. Jamie closed the ledger, set it on the floor, and in one smooth
motion picked up Brianna and set her on his lap. She snuggled, her back to his
front, and he lay a gentle arm around them both.
will I be old enough to help Jamie wi’ the planting?”
his stump into the wooden leg and looked up at his niece. “Are ye sure ye want
to help, then? It’s no’ an easy job. And ye’d have to do *exactly* as yer Da
love for ye to help me, but ye’re too small to guide the horses.” He felt
Brianna inhale a deep breath to protest, but lay a hand on her wee knee. “No –
dinna say ye ken how to make them work. It’s verra different than when we go
riding – the horses need to focus. And ye must ken what to ask them to do.
Otherwise it’s a lot of work and ye dinna get anything out of it. And we dinna
like anything to go to waste, aye?”
sighed against him, but nodded, resigned.
stood – shaky for the first few seconds, but then slowly regained his balance. “It’s
verra kind of ye to ask. But does yer Mam no’ need help wi’ the surgery? I
thought ye liked doing that.”
does need the help – but she doesna let me do everything yet!”
need to be patient. Enjoy being a girl. Dinna grow into a woman quite so fast,”
Jamie said quietly. Thoughtfully. “And did ye no promise to care for yer wee
brother? To see him grow safe and strong?”
nestled her brother closer, feeling him go all boneless with sleep. “Aye, I
did.” Her voice was soft – dreamy – far away.
nodded and quietly took his leave of the three Frasers.
held his miracles – his world – in his lap.
ye tell us a story, Da?” Brianna whispered after a while, turning to rest her
face against his shoulder. “I think William enjoys the one about the laird and
lady who were living in Paris.”
shifted in his chair so that Brianna and William – sound asleep now – could get
course. One day, the laird and lady were invited to the most fancy dress party
you could dream of. The laird wore his plaid, of course, but the lady wore a
red dress that was so beautiful, all the other men at the party couldna help
but stare at her…”
You know the Lads would be a fucking nightmare if they were kidnapped. Not the irritation of Geoff’s sarcastic drawl, the disquieting politeness of Jack’s unerring calm or the terrifying menace of Ryan’s entire existence, but a full blown regret all your choices, please god take them back nightmare.
Ray not so much; he shoots off a few snarky comments then closes his eyes and settles down, for all intents and purposes appearing to go to sleep despite the chains on his wrists and the cold concrete cell they’ve been locked in. Just sleeps and refuses to stir, limp and unaffected by anything from physical pain to the yells of his crew-mates. It’s an infuriatingly difficult reaction to combat and eventually their captors just give up and ignore him.
It’s impossible to ignore their other three captives though; they’re fucking loud, for one. Michael is throwing insults around left and right from the moment he opens his eyes, from the state of their lodging to the intelligence of their captors and everything in between; no threat works to shut him up and hurting any of the others only makes him exponentially louder. Michael calls out every ridiculous statement and every ineffective torture technique as though he’s merely watching a bad movie rather than living through one.
Jeremy is nearly as vocal as Michael though not nearly so straight forward about it; Jeremy drips sarcasm as he pushes every question back against his asker, inviting them to share where they stole their ideas from, who they thought they were kidding with this whole big bad act, if they’d chosen their last words yet. He and Gavin goad each other into increasingly absurd conversations whenever things are getting too tense, and Jeremy repeatedly acts like he’s broken and is ready to talk only to whisper another dumb pun into the interrogator’s ear; cackling wildly at his own jokes even as he spits blood.
Gavin flips back and forth between antagonising and commiserating, endearing himself to their enemies only to pick on their weaknesses and instigate in-fighting. He critiques their captors like they are on even footing, scathingly judgmental and haughtily unimpressed, identifying soft spots for Michael to tear into. For all his ability to deflect the anger of other people Gavin’s never been great at sitting back and watching his boys get hurt, so when things get a little too heated his comments tend to get more vicious and offensive. He twists deep into every insecurity, grinning wide enough to show all his teeth as he carefully pulls everyones attention back to himself. This honestly only pisses Michael and Jeremy off - Gavin you are a twig alright, just shut up and let the brawlers take the bruises - so soon enough all three are fighting each other as much as their captors, bellowing so loud and incomprehensible that the cell doors rattle and their interrogators are forced to take frequent breaks or risk going deaf.
Another strike against the Lads is their combined impatience; never content to just sit back and wait for the Gents to collect them, no matter how dire or trivial their situation may be. It’s not like the Gents won’t come, it’s not like their arrival wouldn’t be one hell of a show, a firestorm of possessive rage and righteous fury. It’s just that the Lads have never been passive, have always been threat. It’s just that they’re smarter than anyone gives them credit for, and nastier than most could ever imagine. It’s just that the Lads never could let anything slide, lean full force into everything they do and what they do is devastate, what they do is destroy.
The end begins, as most ends do, with a regrettable mistake. With a guard cocky enough to come in on his own, to taunt and jeer and rile them up. A guard green enough to let them see the keys he drops into his pocket, to think himself safe in their shackled presence. He’s clearly not well versed in the art of breathing menace, his efforts are rudimentary and uninspired at best, an embarrassment to the craft, and the Lads play him like a fiddle. He’s frustrated when Gavin lays on the mocking flirtation too heavily, circling behind in a clumsy attempt at intimidation and failing to notice to moment his pocket grows lighter. He rises to the bait when Jeremy sneers out a cutting commentary on his skills, completely missing the flash of silver flicking from Gavin’s hands to Michael’s in the blink of an eye. He turns his back on the three of them to aim a petulant shove at Ray, whose eyes pop back open for the first time in hours, snapping into motion as quick and dangerous as a snake. Ray uses his chained hands to pull himself up and deliver a solid kick, propelling their guard right into Michael’s waiting arms.
It’s unsalvageable after that; not quite quick, by no means clean, but hopelessly unstoppable; something akin to watching a man being torn apart by wild dogs. The rest of the mysterious crew have no chance to intervene, left watching in shocked silence over the security feed, their horror unnervingly acknowledged as the Lads bare their teeth at the cameras, chilling mockeries of real grins, full of promise. It doesn’t get better, the restless energy in the cell only growing as the four efficiently free each other from their remaining binds, laughing and crooning out childish singsongs as they destroy the room; Ready or not here we come.
See, the worst thing about taking the Lads hostage, the very worst part, isn’t their volume or aggression, isn’t the indifference and blatant disrespect. It’s not the looming danger of retribution from the rest of their crew, not even the way they will eventually, inevitably, break themselves free from any restraints. No.
The worst thing is the fact that even when they get out the Lads will not leave. There is no stealth, no mad rush for freedom or careful plans to storm the exit; they won’t escape, at least not until there’s nothing left to escape from. When the Lads break loose they don’t look to regroup, aren’t interested in taking a moment to recover before coming back with support. They want their vengeance and they want it immediately; want compensation for every injury, want to fulfil every promised threat, make good on every nasty laugh and hungry smirk, watch the terrified realisation in the eyes of their prey. When the Lads break loose they want to play.
“Are you all right?” I stretched up on tiptoe to feel his forehead. I wasn’t surprised, but was somewhat alarmed, to feel how hot his skin was beneath my palm.
“You,” I said accusingly, “have a fever!”
“Aye well, everyone’s got a fever, Sassenach,” he said, a bit crossly. “Only some are hotter than others, no?”
“Don’t quibble,” I said, relieved that he still felt well enough to chop logic. “Take off your clothes. And don’t say it,” I added crisply, seeing the grin forming as he opened his mouth to reply. “I have no designs whatever on your disease-ridden carcass, beyond getting it into a nightshirt.”
“Oh, aye? Ye dinna think I’d benefit from the exercise?” He teased, beginning to unfasten his shirt. “I thought ye said exercise was healthy.” His laugh turned suddenly to an attack of hoarse coughing that left him breathless and flushed. He dropped the shirt on the floor, and almost immediately began to shiver with chill.
“Much too healthy for you, my lad.” I yanked the thick woolen nightshirt over his head, leaving him to struggle into it as I got him out of kilt, shoes, and stockings. “Christ, your feet are like ice!”
“You could…warm them…for me.” But the words were forced out between chattering teeth, and he made no protest when I steered him toward the bed.
He was shaking too hard to speak by the time I had snatched a hot brick from the fire with tongs, wrapped it in flannel, and thrust it in at his feet.
The chill was hard but brief, and he lay still again by the time I had set a pan of water to steep with a handful of peppermint and black currant.
“What’s that?” he asked, suspiciously, sniffing the air as I opened another jar from my basket. “Ye dinna mean me to drink it, I hope? It smells like a duck that’s been hung ower-long.”
“You’re close,” I said. “It’s goose grease mixed with camphor. I’m going to rub your chest with it.”
“No!” He snatched the covers protectively up beneath his chin.
“Yes,” I said firmly, advancing with purpose.
In the midst of my labors, I became aware that we had an audience. Fergus stood on the far side of the bed, watching the proceedings with fascination, his nose running freely. I removed my knee from Jamie’s abdomen and reached for a handkerchief.
“And what are you doing here?” Jamie demanded, trying to yank the front of his nightshirt back into place.
Not noticeably disconcerted by the unfriendly tone of this greeting, Fergus ignored the proffered handkerchief and wiped his nose on his sleeve, meanwhile staring with round-eyed admiration at the broad expanse of muscular, gleaming chest on display.
“The skinny milord sent me to fetch a packet he says you have for him. Do all Scotsmen have such quantities of hair upon their chests, milord?”
“Christ! I forgot all about the dispatches. Wait, I’ll take them to Cameron myself.” Jamie began to struggle up in bed, a process that brought his nose close to the site of my recent endeavors.
“Phew!” He flapped the nightshirt in an effort to dispel the penetrating aroma, and glared accusingly at me. “How am I to get this reek off me? D'ye expect me to go out in company smellin’ like a dead goose, Sassenach?”
“No, I don’t,” I said. “I expect you to lie quietly in bed and rest, or you’ll be a dead goose.” I uncorked a fairly high-caliber glare of my own.
“I can carry the package, milord,” Fergus was assuring him.
“You will do nothing of the kind,” I said, noting the boy’s flushed cheeks and overbright eyes. I put a hand to his forehead.
“Don’t tell me,” said Jamie sarcastically. “He’s got a fever?”
“Yes, he has.”
“Ha,” he said to Fergus with gloomy satisfaction. “Now you’re for it. See how you like bein’ basted.”
A short period of intense effort saw Fergus tucked up in his pallet by the fire, goose grease and medicinal hot tea administered lavishly all round, and a clean handkerchief deposited beneath the chin of each sufferer.
“There,” I said, fastidiously rinsing my hands in the basin. “Now, I will take this precious packet of dispatches across to Mr. Cameron. You will both rest, drink hot tea, rest, blow your nose, and rest, in that order. Got it, troops?”
The tip of a long, reddened nose was barely visible above the bedclothes. It oscillated slowly back and forth as Jamie shook his head.
“Drunk wi’ power,” he remarked disapprovingly to the ceiling. “Verra unwomanly attitude, that.”
I dropped a kiss on his hot forehead and swung my cloak down from its hook.
*flips chair around and sits in it backwards* ok y'all here’s my 2 cents on… 2doc. Bad pun
phase 1-3 it’s bad. it’s flat out abusive. phase 1 has a little wiggle room I guess but it’s really bad in 2 and 3. (it’s AWFUL in phase 3) there is no way it would end up good. despite that, there’s definitely…. tension. 2d being completely infatuated with murdoc (doyathang newspaper comic, assuming it’s repping what 2d wants from murdoc for example) and looking up to him even after the bunch of shit murdoc gave him. I am in no way excusing what murdoc does to 2d, mind y'all. he’s still an asshole. and when murdoc isn’t a major asshole, he actually acts pretty gay. like calling him “pretty” multiple times and I’m pretty sure once he said “I just like tall things” then stared at 2d for deadass 3 seconds or sumthin. I think it was the NY interview, look it up smh. But that tension in no way overlooks how shit murdoc was to my lad 2d and no room for any relationship at all is there.
phase 4, different story so far. I haven’t gotten any abusive vibes from ye olde murdoc yet. The only weird thing is “I take 2d on walks to the park” but it sends weird signals as a whole. Murdoc seems to have gotten most of his shit together and treats the whole band with respect. I can get behind that. That and the official art 2D playing the piano wearing an apron the wrong way while Murdoc is just. laying around in the piano is pretty chuckle-worthy and gives off “we’re chill now lads” vibes. Some other art pieces do that too I guess but I think most of the speculation was over reading into things (i.e. Murdoc giving 2d the 👀 eyes in that one where they’re all sitting on the couch but I’m 99% sure it’s Murdoc looking at the entire band. I mean, they’re all to his right.) Although I doubt it would ever be a “thing” as putting 2 band members together in something as “individualistic” as Gorillaz would be fucking weird imo. It would be a loooooong stretch. The only reason I can think of that would fit along with the plotline of humanz would be to push that “love is love” message that Ol Fat Trump cries about but. that’s just objectifying them TBH. Too far fetched.
Anyway TLDR it’s bad phase 1-3 and great 4. Unlikely to happen at all but at least you aren’t trash for liking it this phase.
edit: this is a contradictory callout and support post for 2doc shippers. if you acknowledge that it was abuse in the past, and don’t create content of it being abusive, I support you! Good shit! but if you don’t and shove all the things murdoc has done under the rug, fuck you!
edit: ‘twas revealed that murdoc practiced “torture” on 2d but has since stopped doing that. i’d normally start hollering and delete this post but it’s implied he did it in earlier phases. save my boy 2d
edit: it’s less bad now? i mean that moscan ad has 2d just kinda standing there behind murdoc, scratching his head and smiling and just generally being Uncomfortably Close™ to him. not to mention it being set in muds’ bedroom. whoever writes this shit is going down a slippery slope and I’m not sure whether to help them the fuck out or just accept fate and go along for the ride