# I thought I would let everyone know I have a mass effect verse

[freak1ish]

 ❛ You talk to much. ❜ 

[crackinglamb]

OC Name Meanings

Tagged by @pikapeppa, thank you! 🥰

Tagging @ir0n-angel, @lilbittymonster, @bogunicorn and @espressocomfort. No pressure!

Rules: Search and post the meaning of your OC's name (if you made their name up or they go by a nickname, post an explanation of how it came to you)! bonus if you can find something for their last name too.

Right, so...I have a lot of OC's. Holy crap, did this get long. I'll go by fandom to keep them organized, and listed here are just the main player types, not background characters. And if you want to know more about any of them, they can all be found here.

Fallout 4

Nora Howard (Junkyard 'Verse series): My first SoSu. Nora is the default name and I struggled for a long time to come up with a last name for her. At the time, I thought it would be funny for her to share a name with Todd Howard, and then it stuck.

Valara Thorsgaard (Set to Repeat, Subject to Change): Lamb the Younger gave me the first name and I liked it. Val, for short. The Scandinavian last name was just...I dunno, it felt right?

Honoria Wilcox (No One Knows): 'Honoria' is a version of Nora. Her maiden name was Beaufort, because it was slightly pretentious and so was Honoria's mother. Wilcox was her late husband's name and she was glad to take it.

Eleanor (Nights series): Another Nora variant, no last name.

Joan Whitfield (The Bargain): I wanted something different for this OC since she ends up with Kellogg. (All my Nora variants end up with Hancock.) The first name comes from my extended family, and the last name sounds lawyerish. 😆

Tien Xu (Unexpected): Ahh, the SoSu from my first real AU. She's a Chinese prisoner of war who ended up in the Vault. No real reason for her given name, but 'Tien' was my favorite chemistry professor's last name back when I was in college.

Alice Monroe (Amends to the Dead): My most recent SoSu. From the get go I wanted her to be a badass, because let's face it, you get pretty OP'd with some of those skills in-game. 'Alice' is a nod to Resident Evil. 'Monroe' is just because it sounded good.

Mass Effect Trilogy

Jayne Shepard (Soldier, Spectre, Savior series): It's the default FemShep name, but I changed the spelling. That's really it.

Jehanne Shepard (Some Kind of Resolution): Henna, for short. Jehanne is a phonetic variant of Jane.

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Aya Batra (Little Things): Batra is one of the surnames you can choose when making your Detective, but Aya was my own invention. It's a variation of an old D&D character (Aeo, who in turn is a variation on Io). Someday I want to write more for her.

Dragon Age

(oh boy, here we go)

Da'Fen Carlisle Mayers Lavellan (Until It Squeaks series): Carly, to her friends. My first MGIT. When I created her I wanted her to be a 'just some person' kind of character, so she needed a name that didn't stand out much. Tbh, I don't even like it. I think I was halfway through writing Twist when I decided it was short for Carlisle, which eased my meh a little. Then as time went on in the story, she earned the rest. Abelas was the first to call her 'Da'Fen' because she was the Consort of Fen'Harel, and she was formally adopted into Clan Lavellan after the events of the main game.

Imogen McLean (Wicked Things series): My ex wouldn't let me name Lamb the Younger Imogen when she was born, so I decided I would save it for a character someday. And so I did. 'McLean' because she's of Irish descent, and I knew a girl by that family name when I was a kid.

Eliana Hawke (Wicked Things series): I tend to give my F!Hawkes unique names, I guess. But this one was for the purpose of Imogen getting to call her Elly and Elly getting to call her Genny. It was a deliberate 'the names you use denote intimacy level' kind of thing.

Terisin Mahariel (Wicked Things series): It means 'Flint-like'. I wanted something hefty for the HoF, something that would give the impression of gravity and determination. And then everyone in the fic shortens it to 'Ter'. 🤣

Mira Foret (Driftwood series): This is actually a nickname, her full name is Almira. Her family name on Earth was 'Wood', and upon being transported to Thedas, she changed it to 'Foret', which is the Orlesian version of the word. There is actually a reason she has these names in particular, but that gets into level 40 IRL stuff, so I shan't say.

Carmilla Hawke (Maker Damned Fools): Cara, for short, and only if you have her permission. Back when I first wrote MDF, I had a notion that Leandra wanted to give all her children names beginning with the same letter. "How'd Bethany happen?" Varric asked. Because they didn't know they were having twins and had to come up with a name on the fly and Malcolm had a twisted sense of humor. It makes more sense in the fic. Anyway, she hates the name, and thus goes mostly by Hawke.

Hera Trevelyan (No More My Heart Beats Without You): I just liked it. Didn't even know it was the default name of F!Adaar. ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

Ellisora Lavellan (Flowers For Fen'Harel series): Everyone uses Ellana. It's the default. I don't like defaults (usually) and will twist them around any which way until I find something I do like.

Sa'vir Lavellan (No Strings): It means 'the First Path' or, more precisely for her character, 'the Only Way'. It was both to give some backstory to her and was a nod to her being inspired by The Unending Wake's Vir.

Lahalaan Lavellan (My Blood On Your Hands, Your Teeth In My Skin): Ahh, my poor Laani. She kicked around as an OC for a long time before I finally was able to write something for her. She was always meant to have a longfic, but it never happened. It means 'Like the Foxes', and it suits her as a redhead and a rogue class.

La'Vise Lavellan (Just Like Fire): The title of the fic is the definition of the name. She is my one canon story. I am utterly unsurprised at myself for not finishing it.

Lark Cadash (All the Earth and Air series): Again, default is bleh. Malika > Lika > Lark. Then I leaned into the bird symbolism.

Shae Cadash (Destiny Is Just In the Timing): This is apparently a popular name for a Cadash, lol. In order to set her apart (both in fandom and in my head), it's actually a nickname. Her full name is Shaelgat, meaning 'Unto Shale', and it has Lore(tm). A daughter of every generation is named this, and will be until they find the golem they're named after.

Banal'ras Nydha, the Twice-Born (Hope Is a Fragile Thing): She's actually a MGIT, who was given the name 'the Shadow of Night' by Solas in the Fade before she became corporeal in Thedas. She has a shtick that goes with it, the ability to use Fade cloak even though she isn't a mage otherwise. Ya know, like Cole. Her story and name are part and parcel with each other and mostly because I wanted to make an OC who was Deeply Mysterious(tm) without ever explaining it. The legend-mark comes from the Avvar, among whom she lives at the start of her fic.

(we're almost done)

Virlas Lavellan (I'll tell you my sins (and you can sharpen your knife)): Default, bleh. Symbolically fitting name, yay. It means 'the Way That is Given' or something like that. This was a giftfic turned treat for the Solavellan Hell Exchange, and I didn't think too hard about the name other than something that would fit for a post-canon Lavellan.

Rinna Cadash (What Lies Beneath): Another giftfic OC. Dwarven names tend towards being short and this one just felt right.

Eshali'nan Lavellan (A Wolf Named Vengeance): This fic is a modern AU collab with my beloved Angel, and someday we'll finish it, lol. Esha, for short, was another OC that kicked around for a long time like Laani. She has quite a backstory that will likely never get told because frankly, I'm tired of writing DA retellings. Originally she was a Sentinel in Arlathan, who spent most of the intervening years in uthenera like Solas, but woke a generation ago. She lived with the Lavellan clan and was chosen to go to the Conclave. The name means 'Daughter of Vengeance' and was chosen for her at her elevation to Sentinel status.

Great googly moogly, I have too many OC's...

[kueble]

Let's Use Them Up 'til Every Little Piece Is Gone

This started out as @justhereforeskel​ and I yelling at each other on Twitter about what Jaskier would look like in the Mass Effect verse.  Turns out the answer was Aria’s outfit, and this super fun collaboration was born.  There are two amazing pieces of art inside the fic.  I hope everyone enjoys our project!

18+, no warnings. 6200 words.

---

Jaskier knows the minute Geralt Rivia steps foot on Omega.  

They’d obviously been tracking the Normandy as it approached the station, and he’s had eyes on the ship since it landed.  It’s ridiculously easy to get word to the Commander - mercenary? - whatever the fuck he is now, and all Jaskier has to do is sit back and wait for him to arrive.  He’s had his run-ins with Earth’s military before, and he’s not about to let anyone waltz into his domain and think they’re calling the shots.

Sipping his cocktail, he looks down at the crowded floor of Afterlife.  He smirks as he watches people flowing together, eager to get drinks, hit the dance floor, or hit on the Asari dancers working tonight.  To think that a few short years ago he was up on one of those stages, shaking his ass to get his foot in the door.  Not bad for a kid from the slums.

His head guard, Garka, signals him, and he throws back the rest of his drink before sauntering over to take his place on his couch.  He crosses his legs and stretches his arms out across the back of the couch, doing his best to look unimpressed.  And honestly, he’s sure he won’t be.  As fucked up as Omega is some days, it’s his, and he’s not about to let some cocky fly-boy strut in here and think he has anything to hold over him.

Years of schooling his face and turning every interaction into a performance quickly come in handy, because Jaskier is completely thrown when Earth’s glory boy walks up the stairs to his private room.

Jaskier tilts his head back and takes in the trio before him through narrowed eyes.   Miranda Lawson is as beautiful as her docket said, and he knows there’s a biotic goldmine flowing through her veins.  Jacob Taylor is a typical military man, and he falls into a parade rest at Rivia’s side.  But the pair of them might as well be invisible, because Jaskier is already drooling over their leader.

Apparently humanity’s savior is a fucking wet dream.

The armor detracts from it a bit, but there’s no doubt the strength in Rivia’s form.  He’s slightly taller than Jaskier and has the thickest thighs he’s ever seen.  He has white hair, but it works for him, and it’s pulled back, a few strands hanging down to frame his face.  The undercut doesn’t seem to fit military regulations, but he supposes the commander doesn’t exactly work for the military anymore.  Fuck, the man is gorgeous, and Jaskier has to fight to keep a strait face.  How long has it been since he’s let a person affect him like this?  Years.   Decades even.

Without standing, Jaskier tilts his head at his second in command, who quickly starts a bio scan on the man.  Word around the galaxy is that Rivia is back and has been pieced back together again, but one must be sure.  He’s handed a data pad and studies it, honestly impressed at the medical miracle standing in front of him.  The DNA confirms that he really is who he says he is.  Jaskier tosses the pad down on the couch next to him and slowly rises to his feet.

“Thought you were dead,” he says dryly, and the man in front of him just chuckles.  It’s deep and low and goes right to Jaskier’s gut.  Fuck, he’s not going to be able to settle down until he has this man, and he’s equally filled with anticipation and dread over it.

“Turns out I’m not,” he spits back, and Jaskier offers him a smirk.

“And who do we have to thank for that little trick?” he asks, stepping closer to his guests.  Taylor shifts awkwardly, obviously trying to figure him out, and Jaskier sends him a friendly wink that has him coughing and looking at his feet.

“Cerberus.”

Oh and if that doesn’t piss off Lawson.  It looks like she’s used to keeping her associations on the down-low, but that’s not a game Rivia wants to play.  Jaskier thinks about how easy it would be to have them bickering, but he has different goals in mind for once.  It’s highly unlikely they’re here to take over his station, and his sources have mixed but disturbing news on the fabled Collectors.  Though looking at the ex-Commander in front of him, Jaskier has a hard time believing he’d foster a lie that big for some ulterior motive.

Which means life as he knows it is at stake, so he’d best make good use of his resources.

“Remind me to send them a fruit basket, because you truly are a fine specimen,” he says as he saunters over to them, stopping in front of Rivia.  He’s frowning at him, but Jaskier can see the interest in his eyes.  He’s not vain, but he’s well aware of the way he looks.  His shirt - if you can call it that - is a scrap of black fabric and a series of complicated straps, framing his broad chest and narrow hips perfectly.  The white and purple long-sleeved crop top jacket might be a bit overdone for some, but Jaskier thinks it suits him.

Why become a crime overlord if you can’t look the part?

“Here for some information,” Rivia says, ignoring his teasing.  And fuck, if that just doesn’t make him want to push his buttons even more.

“And what, pray tell, makes you think I’m in the business of providing free information?” Jaskier asks, quirking an elegant eyebrow at him.

“Look, cut the bullshit,” Lawson finally jumps in, “We have a job to do and I know you can help.  All this male posturing is boring me to death.  Can we talk details?  Or do I have to get creative with you?”  She flashes him a predatory grin, and Jaskier can feel the energy pulsating off of her.  

“Oh, that’s not a fight you want to pick.  Trust me,” Jaskier warns her, because this is his world - his bar - and no one is going to come in here and try to think they’re better than him.  He’s fought hard for everything he owns and some company’s kept bitch is not going to make him feel worthless.

“Can’t see why not,” she presses back, and Jaskier has had enough.  He’s about to open his mouth when Rivia jumps in, barking at the both of them.

“Look, I don’t have time for this.  I have a team to put together, and I need info to do that.  Believe what you will, but the threat to the galaxy is very real and is coming closer as we stand around bickering.  So let’s get out the rulers and measure our dicks later, ok?  Besides, I’d have to put my money on Miranda here,” he growls out, nodding towards his companion.

“Oh, I always measure up, Darling,” Jaskier says, laughing as he gathers his energy.  He can see Lawson start to move, but he’s quicker, more powerful, the best on this fucking space station, and he doesn’t lose.   Not anymore.  A quick flick of his hands unleashes his biotics, flinging lift at the trio.  They all float motionless above him, shocked looks on their faces.

He lets them hover there for a few moments, just to let them know how very much in charge he is, and then drops them not so gently to the ground.  Lawson doesn’t say anything, just rubs at her elbow and glares at him.  Taylor looks about ready to piss himself, but Jaskier’s only interested in one opinion here.

“Neat party trick,” Rivia says as he climbs off the floor.  “Where’d you learn it?”

“It’s funny how decades of practice and boatloads of money can help hone your skills," is all Jaskier offers.  No one deserves his backstory, certainly not during a first meeting like this.  Maybe - just maybe - Rivia can learn more, but tonight’s not the time for it.

“You barely look like you’re pushing twenty five,” Rivia tells him, brow furrowing.

“Yes, well I moisturize,” he chirps back before patting the seat next to him.  “Now that we all know where we stand, let’s get down to business.  You want info, and that normally costs more than you can afford.  However, I’m inclined to offer a freebie just because you have such a pretty face.”

“Fuck you,” he grumbles, but Jaskier just laughs.

“Oh no, other way around, I think,” he winks again and then snatches up the data pad and starts scrolling through it.  “Here are the coordinates of the clinic you’re looking for.  They’re currently under quarantine, but something tells me you can charm your way through that.”

“I don’t like how much you already know about my plans,” Rivia tells him, glaring slightly.

“Information is my job.  All this,” he gestures to the club around him, “is just for fun.  So take the coordinates for free, out of the goodness of my heart, and once you track down the good doctor, maybe we’ll meet again. You know where to find me.”

Rivia clearly isn’t a man used to being dismissed, and he just stands there in shock for a moment.  He’s adorable almost, and Jaskier nearly breaks character, his pulse racing as he tries to ignore the lust coursing through his veins.  Lawson steers the group down the stairs and back through the club towards the exit, and Jaskier leans over his balcony, watching them until they’re out of sight.

Jaskier doesn’t usually allow himself to get this worked up.  It’s been ages since he’s had to prove himself to anyone, and maybe he’s gotten softer than he thought.  He damn near offered Rivia the pathetic story of his past, but that’s not for him to know.   All the experiments and the pain are his alone to bear.  It’s going to take more than a pretty face riddled with bright scars to bring that up to the surface.

He’s pent up, his body buzzing from show of his biotics and Rivia’s heavy gaze.  He takes the rest of the night to situate himself, to get back into his own head.  He drinks more than he probably should and lets one of the dancers ride him right on the couch while the music blasts around them.  He comes with Rivia’s name on his tongue, but she knows better than to call him on it.

He’s never been this fucked before.

---

The next time Rivia shows up, he leaves Lawson on the ship and has Mordin Solus with him.  The salarian looks twitchy and harmless, but Jaskier knows better, knows more than he probably should about his days in the Special Tasks Group.  Jaskier ignores his companions and focuses his energy on Rivia himself.

“I see you’ve recruited the good doctor,” Jaskier says with a pointed look at Solus.  He taps the weapon in his holster and stares right back.  Jaskier shrugs it off, because they’re probably not here to start a fight.

“Your info was good,” Rivia tells him, already looking like he wants more of it.  But that’s not how things are going to play out this time.  One gift is nice of him, but two would be overkill.  Jaskier doesn’t need to get into his pants that badly.

Which is a complete lie, but he tries to keep up the illusion of having standards.

“Everything I provide is good,” Jaskier tells him with a wink.  The blush that spreads across Rivia’s cheeks is worth it.  The lazy warmth of arousal settles in his gut, but Jaskier pushes it aside in favor of running his criminal enterprise.  Business after work, even if it’s more fun the other way around.

“Was hoping you’d say that,” Rivia says before shooting him a smouldering look.  “Got anything on the Archangel?  Word on the street is you’re the man to come to for anything in Omega.”

“Oh Darling,” Jaskier stands up and laughs as he throws his arms wide, because he’s always been a dramatic little fuck.  “I am Omega.  But sadly I didn’t take charge by giving away things for free.  You’re pretty, so you got one favor.  Now I need one in return.”

“I’ll pass your compliments on to Cerberus seeing as they patched my face back together, but I don’t make deals,” Rivia grunts back.  Jaskier desperately wants to hear that rough voice in another context, but he has to focus on business right now.

“Just a simple little task and then all the data I have is yours,” Jaskier tells him with a waive of his hand.  “I have a krogan issue and I think you’re just the man to handle it.”

“I’m not an assassin.”

“Never said you were.   It’s actually a protective detail.  Grizz can pass on the details, seeing as I’ve got a club to run,” Jaskier nods at his bodyguard and the group seems to get the hint.  Rivia knows he’s been dismissed but shoots him an appraising glance over his shoulder as he walks away.   Jaskier looks down at his nails and pretends to ignore him, even though he’s itching to get his hands on the man.

And if he gets his hands on himself later on, mind full of images of the ex-Commander down on his knees, that’s nobody’s business but his own.

---

Rivia and his crew take care of his krogen situation, because of course they do.  They’re a bunch of do-gooders and thrive on shit like that.   Jaskier would love to be a bit more benevolent, but that’s not exactly how things work around here.  He does what he can behind the scenes, but he never takes credit.  For example, the clinic Solus left to go play hero of the galaxy recently received some anonymous support.  It was a very generous donation, enough to get the slums back up and running, probably.

But Jaskier wouldn’t know anything about that.

He sighs and looks out over his club.  The dance floor is bustling and his patrons are happy - not a care in the world - and he envies them.  Gone are the days when he can be a mindless face in the crowd, blending in and easily forgotten.  His power is well-deserved, and he’s not about to let go of the hold he has on Omega, but sometimes he longs for a night off.

What he wouldn’t give for the time to get lost in those golden eyes that have been haunting his dreams lately.  He tightens his hold on the railing he’s leaning over, knuckles going white as he imagines how well Rivia and he could take each other apart.  It’s been ages since he’s been on equal footing with one of his partners, and the need in his gut intensifies each time they run into each other.

But as much as he wants to indulge himself, they’re both busy.  He has a club and an underworld to run, and Rivia is apparently saving the galaxy from the Collectors.  So he shoves it out of his head for now and focuses on the business on tonight’s agenda.  The Blue Suns have been making too much noise and he needs to find out why.

---

His sources are normally fantastic, but even they couldn’t peg Archangel as Garrus Vakarian.  Jaskier is honestly impressed that the turian managed to keep his identity secret for so long.  He looks a little worse for wear, but a rocket to the face will do that to you.  Rivia looks steadier, and he’s sure it’s because of the old friend by his side.   Still, it would have been nice to have known this beforehand and not when they rolled into his private booth tonight.

“You seem surprised,” Rivia says with a small smirk.  Cocky looks good on him, and Jaskier ignores the way his chest tightens at the sound of his voice.

“Turns out even my extensive network couldn’t unmask the infamous Archangel,” Jaskier concedes.  He’s curious though, because Rivia has his crew.  He shouldn’t even be on this station anymore.  So why is he still here, let alone pestering Jaskier?

“Not the only thing that slipped through, apparently.  Found this during the rescue mission,” Rivia grunts out as he tosses a data pad over to him.  He catches it and looks down at the screen, jaw clenching as he reads the message.

Apparently Archangel isn’t the only thing that can unite the station’s rival gangs.

He takes a steadying breath through his nose, but it does fuck all and he jumps off the couch, flinging the data pad towards Garak.  “What the fuck is this?” he shouts at his guard.  He can’t help the blast of biotics that shoots out of him, and there’s a strange sense of satisfaction in the way the table flies across the room and crashes into the low wall of his viewing area.

“We didn’t know,” Garak mumbles, and Jaskier just glares at him.  Fucking moron.  He’s surrounded by idiots.

“Obviously.  So what else don’t we know?  Fuck,” he runs a hand through his hair, tugging on it to ground himself and remembers belatedly that he has guests.  He flashes a sheepish smile at Rivia, who seems more amused than anything.

“You need help with them?” he asks, and Jaskier considered taking him up on it.  It would be smoother - and probably a little more humane - if he did, but no, he can run his own life.

“You’ve done enough.  Here are the coordinates to one of my caches,” Jaskier types into his omni-tool and sends Rivia the coordinates of one of his better stashes.  “That should help you on your mission.  I have a long couple of nights ahead of me, but if you’re still here in a few days, I’d be up for a visit.”

“We should probably head out,” Lawson starts, but Rivia waives her off.

“Still have a few things to wrap up here.  You know I hate loose ends.  Good luck,” he says, catching Jaskier’s gaze and nodding sharply.  Jaskier nods back, but he has to ignore whatever this is between them for the time being.

The Blue Suns, Blood Pack, and Eclipse gangs have teamed up to take him down?  Fuck.

---

Jaskier comes out on top, because of course he does.

Still, a fight between his supporters and three rival gangs isn’t something that he could just delegate to others.  No, he’s tired.  Drained and run ragged from pushing himself and probably overdoing it with his biotics.  But he’s securely on top of the food chain in Omega again, so life carries on.

He takes a couple of days to rest up, only makes brief appearances at the club, but now he’s back and ready to rule again.  No one is going to take Omega from him.  It’s his station and he’s fought hard to get here.  He’ll fight to keep it until his last breath.  He grits his teeth and forces another fake smile down at the club below him.

It doesn’t take long for Rivia to show up.

“You look like shit,” he says as he brushes past the guards and looks Jaskier up and down.  He flushes under the gaze but lifts his chin up and grins back at him.

“Only one of us has been declared dead, so let’s not talk about looking like shit, huh?” he asks, giggling when Rivia rolls his eyes.

“Point taken,” he mumbles and crosses his arms over his chest.  Jaskier’s eyes nearly bulge out of his head when he realizes he’s not in his armor.  His frankly impressive forearms stand out in a stark contrast against the black tee he’s wearing.  He also appears to be in some kind of ill-fitting pants with cargo pockets.  The only good thing about the whole outfit is the way the thigh holster pulls the fabric tight across his thighs.  It’s almost enough to make him ignore the pistol strapped inside it.

Still, he looks adorable and Jaskier hates him for it.

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks, standing from the couch and slowly walking towards him.  He can almost see Rivia’s pupils dilate as he stalks over and makes sure to put an extra sway in his hips.

“Figured we’ve danced around each other long enough.  Maybe we could, I don’t know, dance with each other instead?” he shrugs and then moves into the most awkward shuffle Jaskier has ever seen.  He quickly covers his face with a hand, snorting into it as he fights a fit of giggles that threatens to overtake him.

“You know I used to dance down there?  Used to be up on the platforms for entertainment.  Thought somehow you’re far more amusing than I ever was,” Jaskier laughs out, and Rivia finally grins - really grins - at him.  His eyes are gorgeous as the corners crinkle up and he barks out loudly, laughing at himself.

“Don’t dance much in the service, but maybe you could show me a few moves?  If there’s any actual privacy at this club?” he asks, wetting his lips slowly, and Jaskier is nodding and grabbing his hand before he realizes it.

“I don’t actually live here, and there’s plenty of privacy at my place.  Let’s get out of here,” he doesn’t bother dropping his hand as he leads him out the back way.  His security can hold down the fort for the night.

He has better plans for once.

---

As soon as he shuts the door, Rivia slams him up against it, mouth eagerly claiming his own.  It’s rough, all teeth and tongues as they grasp each other and fight for control.  But then he bites down on Jaskier’s lower lip and Jaskier lets out a long whimper, the whole pace of the kiss slowing down to match.

“Rivia,” Jaskier whispers, almost in awe when they pull apart, but the other man growls and shakes his head at him.

“Geralt.  I’m Geralt here,” he says quickly and Jaskier can’t help darting forward to kiss him again.

“Geralt,” he draws out the word, reveling in the deep blush that spreads across his cheeks.  He traces his thumb down the large scar cutting through Geralt’s left eye, realizing how harsh it looks up close.  There’s a faint glow and it looks almost superhuman.  “Do they hurt?” he asks, because he needs to make sure he’s free to touch, free to explore this amazing man without the threat of unwanted pain.

“Not anymore.   Just another reminder that Cerberus owns this body, not me,” Geralt scoffs it off, but frowns and adds, “Another reminder that there’s more than skin and bones holding me together right now.  Not too late to back out.”

“Oh Darling, none of that.  You think I was born with the biotics that hold this frankly stunning form together?  We both lost a bit of our humanity along the way, but it ended up alright, didn’t it?   That said, not too late for you to back out, either.”

“Nah, I’ve already died once.  My new motto is to give myself what I want, and what I’ve wanted most for weeks is to suck you off,” Geralt laughs as he slides down to the floor and winks up at him before starting to undo the fly of his pants.

Or he would, but apparently Jaskier’s fashion choices are too advanced.  He watches for a moment, hands held high in the air and a smirk on his face as Geralt fights with his wardrobe.   “Need a hand, Sweetheart?” Jaskier finally asks, chuckling as Geralt doubles down and tries harder.

“How do these straps even work?   Can’t you just have normal fucking pants?” Geralt growls as he tugs at the buckles keeping Jaskier’s pants closed.  He rolls his eyes and reaches down to undo them, fingers expertly flicking them open.

“We can’t all look like undercover military brats in our off time,” Jaskier says, laughing down at him.  Geralt sits back on his heels and reaches down to pull his shirt over his head, leaving him clad in just those hideously tight pants.

“Better?” he quips, raising an eyebrow at him and clasping his hands behind his back.

He should look ridiculous, but the way they cling to his thick thighs while he’s kneeling is making Jaskier’s mouth water.  His pistol is still strapped to his leg, and it’s dangerously sexy in a  way Jaskier has never really considered before.  Apparently he has a thigh holster kink.  Who knew?  “Much better, now back to it,” he says, smirking when Geralt grabs the fly of his pants and tugs them down, freeing his half-hard cock.

“Oh shut up and let me suck your dick,” Geralt grunts out, taking him in hand.  Jaskier’s snappy comeback dies on his lips as he watches Geralt lap at the head of his cock.  His eyes flutter, threatening to shut, but he wants to - needs to - see this, and he forces them open.

Geralt sucks the head of his cock into his mouth, teasing it with his tongue, and Jaskier whines deep in his chest.  He’s glad the door is behind him, lets himself sink back against it as Geralt swallows him down, slowly taking more and more of him into that gorgeous mouth of his.  It’s hot and wet, and it’s been ages since Jaskier denied himself something for this long, and he already feels himself falling apart, unraveling at the seams as Geralt works him over.

Geralt looks amazing on his knees, his pouty mouth stretched wide around his prick, and Jaskier can’t help bucking his hips a little, just testing the water.  He’s met with a low groan and Geralt’s fingers on his ass, pulling his hips forward, and that’s all the permission he needs.  He keeps one hand on the door for leverage and cups Geralt’s head with the other, wrapping his ponytail around his long fingers.

Jaskier slams his hips forward, fucking into Geralt’s mouth, and tugs on his hair, loving the way the strong man is unraveling at his feet.  He’s a mess, eyes wet with unshed tears and mouth covered in drool, and Jaskier thinks he’s never seen someone look so damn gorgeous before.  He knows it won’t be long, so he doesn’t even try to slow down, just rolls his hips and fucks Geralt’s slack mouth with sharp thrusts.

He bumps the back of Geralt’s throat and feels him swallow thickly around him, and that’s it - game over.  He cries out, pulling back enough not to choke him, and comes across his eager tongue.  Geralt drinks him down like a desperate little thing, all moans and whimpers as he takes all that he can, lapping at him to clean him up after he rides out his orgasm.

“Fuck, look at you,” he mumbles as he pulls out, tapping his spent dick against Geralt’s messy tongue.  Geralt whines again and looks up at him, eyes damp and lips ruddy and swollen, and Jaskier is dragging him up to his feet and kissing him harshly before he even realizes it.

Geralt tugs at his cropped jacket, but Jaskier knows it’s too complicated - because style is a choice some people make - so he shoves him back and slides out of it, leaving him in just his shirt.  Geralt rakes his fingers down the sides of his chest, tugging on each black strap on the way down, and tilts his head questioningly at him.

“You own more of these?”

“A whole closet full, why?” Jaskier asks before he’s roughly slammed back against the door.  There’s a flash of orange light and then he realizes Geralt has his omni-blade out and is holding him steady with one hand as he slices through the straps with his blade.  His eyes go large and he loses himself in the feeling of the hot blade next to his skin.  The way his shirt falls off as it’s sliced away is mesmerizing and he doesn’t realize he’s breathing hard until it falls to the floor next to them.

“I hate your clothing,” Geralt shrugs as he turns off his omni-blade and leans forward to kiss him again.  He tastes bitter and Jaskier licks into his mouth, chasing his own flavor as he starts to move them backwards towards his bed.  He’s never been more thankful for this studio apartment than right now, glad he doesn’t have to navigate hallways to get them to the mattress.

He stops before they fall onto the bed and pulls his own boots off, both of them scrambling and desperate to shed their pants.  It’s a race Jaskier wins, and he throws himself down on the pillows and taps his chest, grinning as he looks over at Geralt and says, “Sit on my face and tell me that you love me.”

“If I did that, I’d never leave Omega,” he chuckles, but climbs onto the bed and turns to settle with a knee on either side of Jaskier’s shoulders.

“Don’t see the issue there,” Jaskier points out slowly as he palms Geralt’s ass, digging his fingers into the muscles hovering above him.  His body is a work of art, and he deserves to be worshiped.

“Universe ain’t gonna save itself,” he offers, which is unfortunately true.  No matter, he’s done more with less.

“Then let’s have tonight,” Jaskier murmurs as he pulls him down and spreads his cheeks.  He leans up and licks at Geralt’s furled hole, loving the way he gasps and shoves back at him.  Geralt bends down, resting his forehead against Jaskier’s thigh and rocks back against him as he laps at him.

Jaskier flicks his tongue over his hole, teasing as Geralt falls apart on top of him.  He lets out a low growl, whining again as Jaskier eats him out.  He pushes his tongue inside, fucks him slowly while he rocks his hips into him.  Every bit of broken praise that tumbles from his lips is music to Jaskier’s ears, drives him to work harder to earn more.

He sucks at Geralt’s rim, drags his teeth over his taint and slides a finger inside along his tongue, fucking into him with both at the same time.  Geralt’s dick is dripping on his chest, and Jaskier lets a hand drift down to circle it, giving him something to fuck into as he rolls his hips between Jaskier’s mouth and his slender fingers.

“Jaskier,” Geralt cries out, his body going taut above him, and Jaskier just grins into his skin and keeps working him through it, curving his spit-slick fingers inside of him as he comes in long bursts across Jaskier’s chest.  His thighs are shaking, his whole body trembling as he collapses onto the bed, Jaskier helping to guide him down so he’s not crushed along the way.  He leans up on his elbow and reaches out to run a palm over Geralt’s side, stroking him slowly as he comes down from it.

“Your mouth is a fucking gift,” Geralt pants out, laughing when Jaskier shrugs at him.

“I may have been told that before, but tonight’s about you, my dear,” Jaskier says, laughing as he rolls over and helps manhandle Geralt so they’re both laying on their sides, heads on the pillows.

“Really need you to fuck me,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier is reaching for the lube in his nightstand before he finishes speaking.  He coats his fingers and hikes Geralt’s leg over his hips, spreading him open.  They have time, so he doesn’t rush it, just wipes his mouth on the back of his hand before pulling Geralt into a lazy kiss while he rubs circles against his already loosened hole.

They slow things down for a bit, trading easy sighs and languid kisses while Jaskier works his thin fingers inside of him.  He’s so responsive, arching into each touch and gasping beautifully against Jaskier’s mouth when he curls his fingers, and Jaskier wishes they could stay like this forever.  But if tonight is all they have, he aims to make it one to remember, so he shoves those melancholy thoughts aside and twists his fingers in Geralt’s ass, making him cry out and bite down into Jaskier’s shoulder.

“Ready for me?” he asks softly, and Geralt nods as he rolls onto his back, legs falling open so Jaskier can crawl between them.

Bending down, he kisses him - harder than before - and lines up, rubbing the head of his cock against his eager hole before sliding inside.  He takes his time, sinks into him slowly, both of them shaking by the time he bottoms out.  Geralt reaches up and threads his fingers in his hair, pulling him down as he rocks his hips up, just begging to be fucked.

Feelings might not be his forte, but Jaskier knows this dance, knows how to use his body to make someone scream in pleasure.  And so he does, pulls Geralt’s leg up and starts a relentless pace, slamming into him as he keens and digs his fingers into Jaskier’s forearms.

He’s hot and tight and they fit together so fucking perfectly that it’s almost overwhelming.

Jaskier loses himself in the feel of Geralt around him, in the musky scent of his neck when he bends down to lap at the hollow of his throat.  He nips at the sweaty skin, grinning when Geralt grunts beneath him and bucks his hips up.  He slams into him, their bodies slotting perfectly with every rough thrust.  Jaskier bites down harder, wants to leave his mark on this gorgeous man, and Geralt just tugs on his hair and growls in his ear in response.  He worries the bruise with his teeth, pleased that even for a few days he’ll have this reminder of their time together.

He really is turning into a sap in his old age.

Geralt rakes his fingers down Jaskier’s back, scratches welting up as he pleads for more.  Jaskier gives him what he wants, leans back on his heels and grabs him by the hips, plowing into him.  He cries out - back arched and eyes wild - and comes in thick bursts across his own stomach.  Jaskier hisses and keeps fucking him through it, even as his body clenches impossibly tight around him.

He chases his own orgasm, hips stuttering and rhythm faltering as Geralt cries out beneath him.   He looks stunning, his hair half out of his ponytail, golden eyes dark and wild, and Jaskier leans down to kiss him one last time before letting himself fall over that ledge.  He spills inside of him, his body burning up as he comes for what seems like ages, spurt after spurt filling Geralt as they keep moving together.

His heart is racing when they collapse together, and it takes him a moment to realize the low whine he hears is coming from his own chest.  He whimpers and lets himself be held, lets the gentle warmth of Geralt’s hands caressing his back bring him back to himself.  He shivers under the touch and presses closer, wanting to capture this feeling for as long as he can.

Because he knows this isn’t someone he can keep.  Not yet.

He lets himself be lazy, lets Geralt take the lead in cleaning them both up even though it’s his apartment.  He doesn’t bother getting dressed, but watches Geralt put on his clothing like he’s putting on his armor again.  What he wouldn’t give to keep him here, but he knew going into this that it wasn’t an option.

Still, there’s a softness in the way Geralt leans over him and presses their mouths together; a sweetness that he wishes he could hold onto for a bit longer.  “I suppose I can’t convince you to spend the night?” he asks, because he’s always been good at making things worse for himself.

“Crew barely let me have a couple hours to myself.  They wanted to leave the second we got Garrus back on board.  But what’s the point in saving the fucking galaxy if you can’t carve out a few minutes for yourself?” he asks, smiling as he brushes his thumb across Jaskier’s lips.

“Try not to get killed.  Again,” Jaskier offers, already pulling his persona back around himself.  It gets easier every time.

“No promises, but if I survive, I’ll come back to this hellhole again sometime,” Geralt tells him with one last kiss before standing up and turning towards the door.  He sighs and pulls his shirt over his chest before giving Jaskier one more longing look.

“You say the sweetest things,” Jaskier tells him, hiding his feelings behind a wink and a pout.

“Just make sure you’re here to greet me,” Geralt tells him, and they both try to ignore the way it sounds like a promise.  Because this universe is fucked, and no one gets their happy ending.  But a night, maybe a handful of them?  That seems more reasonable, more reachable, more real.

“Of course,” Jaskier nods sharply, sealing whatever deal they have.  And when Geralt walks out the door, it’s with the shared understanding that he’ll be back.  In his own time.

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes aka the 1940s installment of The Soulmates Verse, Sign of the Times

A/N: Bringing this back from AO3, hope you guys enjoy! I wanted to create a series of ‘soulmate’ Harry/Y/N where they try to make it work each decade, and fate hasn’t seemed to get the memo. Here’s my Tumblr masterlist, and my AO3 hub! Thank you for reading, hope everyone is staying safe.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard..

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[cinanamon]

ticket to hell — ml (m)

pairing | mark x reader

genre | fluff, smut, church!au

word count | 4.3K

synopsis | You knew he couldn’t be perfect because all humans sin; you just wanted to know how he did.

warning | smut: fingering, penetration, loss of virginity, unsafe sex

“Oh my God,” Mark gasped as he mouthed at your thigh, his lips glossing over the heated skin as he traced his way up from the limb and over your abdomen till he reached your lower neck. He sighed gently as he trailed butterfly kisses along your throat before kissing under your jaw sensually.

You smirked and let your hands wander over his forearms and snake under his open button-down to explore his torso. “Taking the lord’s name in vain now, I see,” you cheekily teased, quirking your brow at him.

He raised his head and chuckled as he kissed the corner of your mouth. “You’re acting like you haven’t said the same thing like ten times by now.”

You shake your head gently and linger your lips above his by a fraction as you look up into his eyes with your own lidded ones. “Well you’re just good between my legs.”

You see Mark go red before he presses his lips to yours firmly in retaliation. You feel his hands snake behind your back and you move your hands down to his belt, unbuckling it to release—

Your gaze snaps up to the stage where the priest was as everyone around you began to sing Hallelujah and stand up, leaving you to hastily copy their motions.

With a quick glance around your vicinity to make sure no one noticed your mental absence from the priest’s sermon, you realize you’re in the clear and become relieved, yet you’re annoyed that your daydream was interrupted. Sure, maybe church wasn’t the best place to have such dirty thoughts (you’d be the first to admit that), but this was also the only place you see the object of your dream’s affection. You let your gaze wander over the faces of the churchgoers before you finally see him with his parent’s in the set of pews to your right.

Mark Lee.

You had known him all your life; seeing as how his dad was choir director and your parents were the charity organizers, you’d come in contact quite often.

From playing in the church yard as children to having to sing together in the pews, he was there. Picture perfect; whereas you would try to be a good example of a child—damn, you always tried your best—Mark was always better. The lead male in the choir, the first to volunteer for the offerings or to help at the charity events.

You remember distinctly how much you hated him in middle school, the rivalry you believed you had with him (he never noticed) that caused your blood to boil whenever he was praised as the best child in the church, the most virtuous.

By now, that feeling of anger and dislike was nowhere near as strong or without reason. You weren’t as religious as you were back then, and Mark wasn’t actually that dislikeable. Quite the opposite, actually. Mark Lee was kind, helpful, responsible, funny—to anyone on the outside, he was picture perfect. But you knew one thing for certain, one thing you would prove if it was the last thing you did.

Mark Lee was no angel.

His eyes were always set on the pastor every mass, mindfully flicking to each bible verse. But you never missed how his eyes would unfocus, how’d he bite his lip, the way he’d readjust his pants. Picture perfect, they’d say. Was he? You knew he couldn’t be perfect because all humans sin; you just wanted to know how he did.

You knew you committed a sin—a heavy one at that—every time you came to church just to get lost in the idea of fucking him. Your deadly sin had to be lust, but you weren’t just going to stop fantasizing about him now; you were too far gone to be saved. Even if you did harbor a crush on the poor boy, it did nothing to lighten your sentence of a deadly sin.

And to think that you were still a virgin thinking like this? Then Mark definitely had to be. Because if you were still so frustrated even after letting yourself indulge in these thoughts, then Mark had to be close to a breaking point if he preached so much about leaving sexual urges and thoughts till marriage.

And sometimes you thought that maybe your assumptions are wrong, or you’re just reading too much into it. But, truly, Mark made eye contact with you a lot. Paired with a quick smile, but not too long after the quick interactions, a little “problem” would arise for him. And since you didn’t have as high of a reputation to maintain, you’d let your eyes linger.

Sometimes he’d catch you and he’d flush, settling the Bible squarely on his lap and bending his head deeply to read it intently. It’d cause you to smirk and your assumptions about him to gain traction which would only fuel your desires for him. You knew he still had humane urges like you, and your goal was to crack through his saintly disposition and make him yours.

But after some time of these quick suggestive looks, exchanges of smirks and raised brows, Mark finally did begin to crack.

It was subtle at first; at your simper, he’d hesitate and try his best to ignore you, forcing a frown as he faced forward and tightened his grip on his bible. Soon enough, even that resolve crumbled and he would glance at you often nervously, a smile playing at his lip and a rising fiery blush crossing his cheeks. And finally, Mark began to tease you too.

It was a few months of these fleeting moments of flirtation before Mark grew confident in returning the affections, in letting his hands linger on yours during greetings, how he’d ghost his lips over the shell of your ear during hugs, or how he’d stare at you during church, waiting for you to meet his gaze. He was into you too; you could see it. If he wasn’t ready to crack before, he was now.

Mark was more than willing to reciprocate your seductive motions and partake in your sexual, flirtatious faces and after any risky lip bite or lidded eye, he’d always look back up at you excitedly for a reaction. And if you were honest, you liked it. You liked that the star church boy wasn’t as pure as they thought, and he seemed to realize this; he only had eyes for you. It was obvious that Mark liked it too; he got a thrill out of falling from God’s grace to enjoy the worldly pleasures with you.

You began to convince your parents to sit with his family, so when you sat together, his hand would subtly linger by your thigh, gracing over it quickly— over the edge of your skirt, slipping under it briefly—before he’d snatch it back to his bible. If anyone were to see, he’d flush terribly and quickly retract, but you got a thrill out of it that you were able to get past his good boy image, as you’d stealthily meet his gaze with a secretive smile.

So the next Sunday was no different. Quick shake of the hand with the deacons then into the church you went, sitting in the pew across from Mark. You sat a few seats back, but he was in the front; only the stage was separating you. Your families smiled at each other across the distance, and Mark’s eyes glimmered as they met yours. You jokingly quirked a brow, pairing it with a playful smirk and he chuckled under his breath, sending you a knowing look as you both sat.

It’s what he did that made the service torturous. His eyes rarely left you, and you only wondered where this bout of confidence came from. You crossed your arms, ignoring the priest before you in favor of challenging him; take it farther than what you have before. He quickly glanced to his parents beside him, to the others in the row, but thankfully he was on the far end, hidden from the view of others if you didn’t look to the side of the priest.

You saw him hesitate, bite his lip, and then he looked up at you. That boyish energy vanished and he furrowed his brows, drawing his lip in farther and, with only a fleeting thought of warning, he placed a hand over his crotch. Your eyes bulged and your jaw dropped in a quiet gasp. A shiver shot down your spine, and you couldn’t believe the Mark Lee, son of the music director, was posing so lewdly in a church pew, where anyone who looked would see him. He was only in such a position for a fleeting moment, sitting back up quickly with a clearing of his throat, no evidence of what he’d done to show. The only reason you knew it happened was because of the quick smirk he shot at you; you glared, but couldn’t deny the effect it left on you.

After service ended and you entered the entrance way with your parents, your eyes instantly locked on Mark and his family coming up to you. He stood with them properly; no crease in his shirt, a belt around his pants, a polite open expression of his face, not a hair out of place. And when his eyes slid to yours, you felt a burning urge to make a mess out of him; you wanted to take it further. His pupils dilated and he seemed to have the same thought as you as he faced your parents.

“Would it be alright if your daughter came to confession with me?”

Your father smiled and patted him on the shoulder. “Of course, my boy! Rub off your good qualities on her, would you?” He laughed at that, and the other adults quickly joined in. But Mark didn’t care, neither did you, as he quickly grabbed your hand and hurried down the hallway away from the front room. You knew you weren’t really headed to confession—though you probably needed it, with the thoughts you’d been having—but it still surprised you when he made a sharp turn in the wrong direction, passing the small room. Your head was spinning; after several months of sexual innuendos and interest; were you and Mark actually about to act on it? “Mark, where—“ And he pulled open one door and pulled you in. It took your eyes a few seconds to adjust to the dark before you took notice of the tables and whiteboard. “Bible study?” You hadn’t been in here in years. You turned to look at him incredulously, causing him to flush but he didn’t let go of your hand.

“What, would you rather do it on the altar?”

He managed to quip back. It was your turn to blush as you pressed at his chest.

“That’s not what I meant!” Your confident demeanor waned as you took another glance up at his face; you tried to ease the sudden dryness of your throat. “Are you...are you serious though?”

He hesitated and you caught a glimpse of his ears turning pink, his hot breath fanned over your face as he tried to form a response. “I-Isn’t that what you meant? With all the looks, I thought...”

You nodded vigorously, heat rising to your own face. “Y-yeah! But I just.. aren’t you a virgin too?” Where was the old, vixen-like you from before?

He groaned and dropped his head onto your shoulder. “Look, I’m just going to say it but I’ve liked you for a while and I really didn’t think I’d confess to you when we’re about to have sex, but—“

Your eyes widened; so he did like you too. You felt like a teenager again; nervous, awkward, giddy. You managed to clear your throat and find a response. “You like me?”

Mark’s eyes widened and he raised his head. “Yeah? I thought you’d guess because you know I wouldn’t just do this because I could…”

You shook your head, a chuckle rising in your throat as your nerves began to dispatch. “Please just kiss me.” With a sharp intake of breath, he nodded and connected his lips with yours.

It was explosive. His lips were tentative at first—you almost wondered if he had never kissed anyone before—but he quickly took ground, adding force into the kiss and tilting his head, his hands coming to anchor your hips. You locked your arms around his neck, letting him lead the kiss at first, to get a feel of how this would go. He backed you up as you kissed, shuffling your feet till your back hit the edge of the table.

Mark disconnected from you to hoist you up, placing his hands on the edge as he dove for your neck. You instantly reached for his hair again, tugging at the dark strands as he kissed down your jaw to the curve of your neck, stopping where your skin met your blouse. This was definitely better than anything you could have imagined before, and your body began to buzz with a dull sense of pleasure.

His hands came up to the bottom of your shirt, shocking you when his hands crawled under the material and circled around your bare waist. You blushed and lifted his jaw to kiss him again; he happily obliged. This time you led, opening your mouth and conjoining your tongues. It was sloppy, granted, since neither of you had much experience, but it was a comfortable pace. You parted for air, meeting his eyes in the dark as you panted before his hands ran over your hips a couple times.

“Can I.. can I take off your shirt?” His voice was timid. You hesitated—this was real now—but nodded slowly, waiting with baited breath as the material was lifted from your torso and over your head. His breath caught as he stared at you, and you held back the urge to cover your chest. He glanced between your breasts and your face multiple times. “Can I touch you?” Your hasty nod beckoned him forward, his hand softly cupping your bra before dipping under the lace. He let out a shaky breath and you bit your lip as he played with your nipple. “Does it feel good?” His hesitance was lowering once more, instead looking at you curiously, arousal evident in the depths of his eyes.

“Y-yeah,” you managed, still not wrapping your head around what was happening. “It’s fine.” He pulled his hand away, the material slipping back into place over your breast and you almost missed the warmth of his hand.

“What would feel better?” He asked the question so openly, and it left you completely red. A fleeting question of whether he enjoyed seeing you tongue-tied now like how you did him crossed your mind, but it left just as soon as it came. You glanced down at your skirt and he seemed to get what you meant. He cleared his throat, his hand coming to squeeze his neck before he ghosted a hand over your thigh. This wasn’t like how it was in the pew; the tension was beginning to eat away at both of you. He glanced up at you for any sign of discomfort and slowly lowered to his knees.

“Getting on your knees for me now?” You stuttered a jibe.

He looked up at you in surprise before he recovered and smirked; he regained his confidence quickly, didn't he? “Just like how I do at church.” You choked and lowered your hand to tug at his hair. He quietly gasped and lifted his head towards you and before you could stop yourself, you raised him to his haunches so you could kiss him hard, biting at his bottom lip as you dragged his head away from your own. His gaze was hazy as he finally settled back down in front of you.

“Just do what you said you were going to do.”

“Of course.” He replied, coming back to his senses and with renewed confidence in both parts, he pulled at your skirt. It came off your hips as you lifted yourself, watching for his reaction at the sight of your revealed panties. He bit his lip at the sight, curious hands coming up to pet at the exposed clothing. You whimpered at the sensation, grasping at his hand before slowly letting go, letting him explore your body. He glanced up at you briefly, and since you didn’t object, he slid your panties to the side.

He seemed to hesitate, bringing his mouth close before his face flamed and he leaned back, studying your core as his fingers thumbed at it. “I’m...not sure what to do.” You relax your shoulders and chuckle at him lightly, picking up his hand tenderly. He grinned at you bashfully, and you tried not to get embarrassed and retract into yourself.

“Um, s-so this feels best, if you just flick at it, I guess?” You directed his hand to your clit, and he automatically did as you suggested and reveled in your sharp inhale. Your hand went lower and it felt harder to talk. “And here is where…”

“I got it.” He smiled at you, sensing your nervousness. He held his breath and let go of your hand, carefully placing one of his fingers on the edge of your folds. After a second, he pressed in slowly. You gasped again and he paused, looking up at you anxiously. You nodded him on, bringing a hand up to your mouth to stop yourself from scaring him again; he seemed nervous enough as it was.

When he got one finger in all the way, he waited a few seconds before trying a second. You gripped the table with your other hand and he seemed to know what to do; pulling his fingers out and pushing them back in a few times before he scissored them. You let out a mewl and you swore you saw his pants twitch from his place on the ground. That’s when you remembered he still hadn’t taken off any clothes.

“H-hey,” he slowed his pace to look at you. “Stand up.” He followed your orders cautiously, but you were surprised by the fact he still hadn’t removed his hand from inside you. Without a word, you unbuttoned his shirt, pulling it off his shoulders and over his arms, his fingers’ temporary absence leaving you feeling empty. They returned quickly and with a quick kiss to his newly exposed skin, you let your hands run over his stomach to palm him through his dress pants.

He grunted in surprise, his hips jerking into your touch and he whined in embarrassment. You giggled against his chest as you finally undid his button and zipper, the material dropped down his legs and he stepped out of them. You could see how he grew confident by touching you; by pleasuring him, that vixen in you was beginning to renew.

You tried to ignore his continuous efforts to your core as you settled a hand over his boner, evident now that the only restricting article of clothing was his black boxers. He dropped his check against your head as he watched your hands work at each other’s respective parts. You could hear his pants in your ear as you ran your hand over his clothed erection before abruptly drawing your hand under and pulling him out. He squeaked and almost backed up, but your slightly tightened grip silenced him with a whimper. He let you give him a handjob for a few seconds, watching with an open mouth as you circled your finger over his tip.

It was only when you lowered his member so it rubbed against his fingers in you that he moaned. Your eyes snapped to his and he blushed but you quickly kissed him again, even more turned on now by his voice. Pulling away, both of your gazes dropped to where his fingers left you and his member greeted your opening. “I’m guessing you don’t have a condom?” You inquired shyly, the realization beginning to make you uncomfortable.

He shook his head regretfully, a wince crossing his face. “I don’t think I would’ve been able to get away with it.”

You bit your lip, and debated it in your head. You sighed, steeling your nerves. “It’s fine, just pull out. I’m trusting you.”

He nodded and positioned himself in front of you. You felt his breath hitch as the tip slid in. “T-tell me if it hurts, okay?” And he slowly sheathed himself in you. Your hands dug into his shoulder as you hissed. He paused, biting back a moan of his own as his head dropped over your head and into your hair. You took a deep breath and gave a curt nod, and he smiled briefly as he started to move. He groaned at the feeling and maintained a slow pace as you both adjusted. After you reopened your eyes to meet his gaze, something in him snapped and he suddenly gripped your thighs and picked up speed, albeit sloppily.

You squealed, your hands blindly grasping at his chest.

Mark chuckled and winced, picking up his head, a smirk starting to play on his bruised lips as he diverted his attention to you than his pleasure. “You’re such a vixen, getting me to do this.”

You managed to lift your head and scoff. “You’re really questioning my morality as you’re fucking me in a church? You have no room to talk.”

He chuckled into your neck, kissing the skin. “Yeah, well,” You tried to ignore his hip movements as to focus on his words. “I think I’m fucking you pretty good right now.”

You tried to ignore how him cursing sent another jolt through you, instead hitting his chest. “You’re—you’re so shallow.”

“You say that,” he snapped his hips and you gasped, your grip tightening on his shoulder. “But I’m only getting deeper.”

You tried not to laugh and forced a glare at him. He looked so good like this. For a moment you felt tender, and you brushed his sweaty bangs away from his face. He met your gaze briefly and his gaze was filled with something different too as he kissed your palm, trying to maintain the faster pace while maintaining eye-contact. The moment passed and the room filled with your pants and moans until a coil started to build in your stomach.

“M-mark,” He grunted in question, too transfixed on where your body’s met to spare you more than a glance. “Mark, I think I’m gonna c-cum.”

“God I see heaven every time you say my name.” He moaned in your ear and if he didn’t give you sass earlier, you wouldn’t have managed a smirk.

“Well that makes for an awkward encounter with God, now doesn’t it?” He laughed into your ear—a sweet and airy sound compared to the atmosphere—as he pulled your sweaty torso closer to him, and you laid your head on his shoulder and kissed his throat as both of your climaxes built. He brought one of his hands down and clumsily searched for your clit and rubbed it to the best of his ability to match the pace he’d set.

It wasn’t long before you felt yourself tense and sigh in pleasure into his neck, your grip tightening subconsciously as you dragged your nails down his shoulders. He whined at the sensation of your climax, but in his haze, he managed to pull out and release onto your stomach. It took a few seconds, watching each other in complete admiration as you came down from your highs before he jumpstarted, his boyish side coming back out.

“I-I’ll go get some tissues, I’m so sorry—“ he rushed in all his naked glory over to the desk where he picked up some tissues and came back over to you, wiping at his release on your abdomen.

You giggled and delicately placed your hand on his jaw, gently lifting his head so you could kiss him.

He pulled away and blinked, leaving you to grin lovestruck. “I never thought I’d lose my virginity in a church, much less the Bible study room.”

He flushed again and disposed of the tissues in the trash can before he came back to you to readjust your undergarments. “I know it’s not very romantic…”

You shook your head and ran your fingers through his hair. “It was nice. I’m glad I lost it with you.” He smiled his dorky smile, and if you didn’t know better, you wouldn’t have believed you just had sex with him. You shakily stood up and you both redressed. He helped you over to the door before you stopped him in the threshold. “And for the record, Mark, I like you too.” His eyes gleamed and he leaned down for another kiss, this time not driven by a lustful want.

On your way back to the front, you both tried to fix each other’s hair and clothing while giggling, but maintained a respectable distance when your parents came in view. He watched you leave longingly to your parents side but quickly hid the look.

“How was confession?” His father asked you two. Your eyes snapped to his and he offered a knowing smile.

“It went fine; we definitely had a lot to say.” You didn’t break eye-contact with Mark as you dismissively made up the excuse to your father, and it made your heart swell that the boy was trying his best not to smile.

Both of your parents continued their conversation about how proud they were of both of you, and you couldn’t help but sneakily slip your hand into his as you followed your parents out of the church.

And as Mark covertly pressed a kiss to your cheek with a barely-contained laugh, you couldn’t help the giggle that rose in your own chest as you tried to push him away. This was surely better than any dream or anything you could’ve asked for.

Mark Lee was no angel, but you surely tasted heaven on his lips.

[let-me-perish]

We've got some dreams

For @mindfulmagics who came up with a tangled themed AU.

No idea where this would fit in, probably after whatever angst anyone else writes, but I choose to believe this started off as a joke when Marinette meets Red Hood while at another low point and asks him to take her somewhere where she won't have to worry thinking about her class.

I choose to believe he had no idea how much of a lightweight she was going to be when he egged her on into trying alcohol for the first time. Anyone else has full authority to mess with how it happened any way they would like, I just like the idea of angry, petty, but still shockingly oblivious and accepting Marinette. Like, your tie's not on wright or you bring up HW or Lila and the gloves are off. Anything else though and she's all 'hello there~ I love your hair, where did you get it?'

Enjoy

Somehow, at some point, through some dramatic twist of fate, Marinette Dupen-Chang made it into the iceberg lounge. Not only did she make it into the reasonably decorated(it could be better) villain hot spot, but she did it with the one and only Red Hood next to her. Not only was he with her, he had gotten her to try alcohol too.

And if the thought of a slightly drunk heroine in a fancy bar full of villains and people with questionable backgrounds wasn't horrifying enough, she had heard the owners name, took one look at his outfit as he stepped outside of his office and scoffed.

"Is that really what he's wearing?"

It had been in French since her mouth had been moving but her brain had not. Regardless of that fact heads swiveled as the room went silent. Red Hood had gone still beside her.

Marinette had gotten up off of her stool and headed towards him with the expression only a determined, drunk teenage girl can have.

"You don't even have a real Penguin motif, " she complained as she gestured at his outfit. "You're just black and white."

Either he knew French or she was slipping between French and English enough that he could understand.

The Penguins voice was cold and laced with fake amusement. "And what changes would you suggest I make?"

"More than a tuxedo for one, " she snapped "add some feather embroidery or put a penguin head on your cane. You have a theme so stick with it, " she stressed. "Even a silver penguin pin would add more to this."

Red hood placed a hand on her shoulder and pulled her back "alright then, we'll just be going now and-"

"I think you'll be staying here actually." Red hood was blocked from going any further back by a large muscled chest of one of the many mercenaries that attended the lounge. Villains that had previously been sitting and quietly watching the pair were now standing and circling around them.

"I've heard there's a nice little prize on your head thanks to the Joker."

Red Hood pulled Marinette closer to him as he frowned inside his helmet. "And you think he'll actually pay any of you?"

There was a shrug "maybe not but at least we're down one of the bats."

Marietta was frowning. She opened her mouth to say something but was cut off by her own squeak of surprise as someone threw the first punch. It quickly turned into a fight and Red Hood lost his hold on the young girl and she was shoved and pushed to the outer edges.

Marinette turned to try and get back to Red Hood "wait- no! Stop it! Give my guy back!" Her tipsy and drunk mind was racing and with no thought for what would happen afterward her eyes landed on the Penguins cane.

She had stolen the cane from the lager mans hands a moments later and slammed it onto the shoulder of the nearest villain "give him back!"

The cane snapped and the lounge went quiet for the second time as all eyes turned towards her. "What is wrong with all of you? Can you be civil and act like adults for once! Dear Kiwami, I am so tired of dealing with children! For once, just once, I want people to actually use their brains and act like adults. I have been dealing with idiots who believe some lying fox over me for years and he is one of the first people to believe me outside of Paris! I was hoping you would all be different! I had dreamed for weeks about an escape from the glares and the hate and none of you can give me even five minutes of that!?"

There was a moment of perfect silence in the lounge as masked and unmasked faces stared at her in a mix of shock and surprise. Someone sat Red Hood down in a chair and a bartender snapped a set of handcuffs on him while staring at the girl.

Penguin was the one to break the silence as he picked up the broken half of his cane off of the floor. Marinette stood her ground as he walked up to face her, looking at the head of the cane as walked.

"I had a dream once, " he mused aloud before dropping the cane to the floor. "I'm malicious, mean and scary, some say my near could curdle dairy. I'll admit my hands are not the cleanest. But despite my evil business, and my temper and my goons, " he snapped his fingers and the Iceberg Lounges pianist finally began playing again "I've always yearned to be a ballroom dancer."

He grabbed Marinette by the wrist and pulled her closer. He had a grin on his face like he dared her to make and kind of comment as he pulled her alone is clumsy and staggered steps, in part to his limp and normal walking pattern.

"Can you see me on the floor dancing a flawless tango? Listening to all the people who mocked me can cry and scream. And yes, I love to be called deadly, and have everyone respect me!" The last part was a hiss in her face but Marinette was smiling back.

There was no animosity, just genuine encouragement, and kindness from this random girl who had walked in with a vigilante, gotten drunk, insulted his fashion sense by saying it wasn't enough, and then broken his cane while going off at a room full of criminals.

He found himself grinning wider. "But I can still accomplish that and have a dream." He spun her clumsily under his arm and she had to bend to fit under(but not by much since they're both fairly short). "Yes, I've got a dream." The next bit was whispered but it felt like an announcement "but I'm just as cruel and vicious as I seem."

"I order my goons to break some femurs, but I can be counted with the dreamers. Like everybody else I've got a dream." He let her break away as he spun her once more and she ended up in the arms of Two-Face.

He started off by stating possibly the most obvious thing in the room. "I've got scars and burns and bruises, and maybe something else that oozes, and let's not even go any further. But despite the bits of hair-"

"And your two-tone fashion sense." Was this girl going to insult all of their suits?

Two-Face continued with a chilling grin in the face of her teasing smile "and the bone, I really want to make this city better. Can you imagine all the corrupt political officials having their fates decided while their secrets are let out for the world to see? While I'm one disgusting bugger, I'd still rather be a lawyer, not a fighter. And right here and right now I've got a dream!"

Red Hood watched in stunned silence as almost all of the criminals we're somehow pulled into this. Baring bits of their soul to each other and this girl but still not letting weakness show for more than a second, reminding themselves and each other what they had done, and still could do every few verses.

Everyone except for the shockingly uncaring and happy Marinette.

Two-Face kept going as he grabbed Marinette and twirled her in his arms "I know one day my kind of justice will reign supreme! Though my face leaves people screaming, there's a lawyer inside me screaming. Like everybody else I'm working on my dream."

Marinette was turned to face Poison Ivy. Red Hood wasn't sure who was chiming in anymore.

"Ivy would like to quit and be a florist-" the redhead ran a hand over the rim of one of the large decorative vases and smiled as it was filled with simple white flowers to match the decore.

"Riddler wants to write a riddle book for kids-" the green-clad man gave a bow as a way to avoid the critical look his bright green suit got. That was just to much bright green of the wrong shade in one spot to look good.

"Harley's into zoos-" there was something yelled about 'those poor animals' before Ivy shut her up so things could keep going.

"Deathstroke's cocktails are divine-" the assassin had stayed near the edge of the encounter the entire time but didn't seem to mind having the attention momentarily shift to him for this.

"Catwoman sings, Freeze makes carvings-" now where was the casual threat?

"Firefly likes to burn abusive parents to a crisp-" there it was.

The group of criminals had somehow gathered around Red Hood again. "What about you?"

Red hood stared at the shorter man "I'm sorry me?"

The Penguin made a gesture and he was unhandcuffed. "What's your dream?"

The vigilante scoffed "I don't think so. I don't sing." That was a lie, he wasn't above singing along to a musical at top volume while driving just to annoy Bruce and the demon spawn.

The sheer mass of lasers, guns, knives, and other assorted weapons pointed at his face had him standing on the bar top as he continued this absolute insanity.

"I have dreams like you, no really, they're not all touchy-feely, " there were amused looks of doubt. "They mainly happen somewhere warm and sunny." There were some scoffs and chuckles at his awkward motions but Red Hood was quickly gaining confidence.

"On an Island that I own, " he snagged a bottle of expensive alcohol "well tanned, rested and alone, " the bartender snagged it back just as he went to drink it. Red Hood gave a small shrug but was grinning under his helmet now. "Surrounded by enormous piles of money!"

There was a cheer after that. This kind of mood was somehow infectious. There was no way he could not go along with this with a smile on his face. Especially when he thought about demon-spawns face if he ever found out about hid beloveds effect of Gotham's criminal population.

Marinette was tossed up onto the bar with him "I've got a dream! I've got a dream! I just want to hear that filthy liar scream! And with every passing hour, I'm so glad they left me in that hotel! Like all you lovely folks I've got a dream."

Red Hood laughed along with the villains, and here they had though little miss Marinette Dupen-Chang was an innocent cinnamon roll. If only Demon Spawn could see her now.

Part of him was worried her class was going to be 'accidentally' running into more villain activity than normal.

Regardless he sung on with this button of a girl and hoard of criminals.

"She's got a dream! We've got a dream! Our differences don't seem all that extreme! We've got a dream!"

Red Hood was pulled from the bar as Marinette danced on her own. Nothing they did actually hurt him but this was a clear display of control as they pushed, shoved, and teased him. A sharp reminder that he was alone in the territory of a man that may not have a deep-rooted personal vendetta yet but some of the patrons certainly did. And the only thing keeping any of them from violence was a drunk preteen from Paris dancing by herself on top of the bar.

"Call us brutal, sadistic, and grotesquely optimistic, but way deep down we've got a dream!"

One of Penguins goons had picked up Marinette as they were skilfully taken towards an exit(in Red Hoods case, shoved, lightly kicked, and otherwise moved) as they chorused one after another 'I've got a dream' until it reached Marinette.

Red Hood was shoved out of the back doors and the girl dropped into his arms to the sound of their laughter.

"It's time for you to leave, " the Penguin told him with a wide smile that offered no negotiation. "But, if the girl would ever like to come back she is welcome to. As long as she comes with an actual argument for why I should change a look that has served me so well through my years."

"She might just make you a new one, " Red Hood muttered, "she is a designer."

The smile grew "then I guess I'll have to look into her work to see if her advice is even worth listening too."

Red Hood chose then to leave while he could still do so semi-gracefully. Not that the laughter of the villains and criminals behind him made it easier.

The possibility of her class having a criminal run-in was almost a certainty now. But this was probably his own fault for taking her to the ice burg lounge as a joke instead of literally any other bar.

[bluesunsdusk]

--// Muses who aren’t exactly evil or Daedric Princes, but watch out: 

King Logan: During his reign after Aurora, he will be a dick. So, RIP to you. He lets other people do his dirty work, though, so you won’t see him be hands-on cruel. He has called for mass executions, he has sent people on suicide missions, he has done public executions, he has forced his sibling to choose between the life of a friend and the lives of citizen protestors. Some may wonder why he is listed as not exactly evil after all that... but I make the rules. He is trying to save Albion and is driven to extremes by the Crawler’s torment and Theresa’s vision of the future of Albion, so there’s at least that, I guess.

I can put Set here again, seeing as some aspects aren’t evil and Overwatch is doing a bad thing by putting an extremist activist group for a marginalized people as main antagonist we are not supposed to feel ambivalent or conflicted about killing, because it will be used by already messed up people as justification to look down on irl activist communities when they display outrage or have bad apples. It’s done far too often in media. It happened with the Faunus in RWBY. At least the Equalists in the Legend of Korra turned out to have been misled, but it is still a questionable decision, and I wonder whether Blizzard will decide to hold onto the idea that Null Sector is an extremist Omnic rights group or if they will make them have been betrayed by Talon and used as pawns. It would be a poor choice of them to keep going with their current narrative for Null Sector, considering certain events in which justified parties are demonized as being extremist despite that not being the case. I may not have worded it as well as hbomberguy in his video “RWBY Is Disappointing, And Here’s Why,” but I hope my point is clear.

Frankly, I can put Akksul here, too, if I am considering putting Set here. Akksul has the added issue of Mass Effect Andromeda’s story being essentially about colonization, in which the narrative bends over backwards to try and make out the Initiative to be the “good” colonizers, despite having just gone to Andromeda to take over planets with little regard for native species. They seem surprised when they run into the Angara, which is pretty silly. They seem to feel some kind of way about the Kett, who they previously thought the natives, attacking them upon arrival. Really? Really? It’s understandable that they can’t go back to the Milky Way and now are forced to settle on worlds that the Angara already live on in some cases, but a colonizer is still central to the story and made out to be special and able to control native technology better than the natives, which calls forth many harmful tropes. It also hinges fully on the “white savior” trope (though white is replaces with human here), because the Angara were effectively doomed until Ryder showed up with their special AI that can somehow control Remnant tech perfectly. It also has an oddly exoticezed look towards the Angara, wherein everyone is in awe of how “emotional” and “open” the Angara are. It’s just short of having people ask if they can touch the flaps on the sides of their heads within a split second of meeting them. Jaal, along with the males of the angaran species as a whole, was specifically made to be appealing to female players as well, which just makes things even more awkward.

Samson, in his canon verse: He is evil, but also... I don’t want to go back to that post just to change it. Man infects people with red lyrium and works with Cory to destroy the world because Templars were treated poorly... (and also he’s stuck in the sunk cost fallacy which makes him be a complete idiot and continue to help the guy despite knowing in his heart of hearts that he is wrong to do so.) 

Captain Nadine: She’s a smuggler and cares about some people, but also she will keelhaul someone and not feel bad about it. 

Xarthrahn: He is a Dremora and was on Mehrunes Dagon’s side during the Oblivion Crisis, but he really doesn’t care if you’re a mortal or not. He will treat people and even let people stay at his place if he knows them, but strangers may be left outside to die unless he’s feeling exceptionally generous. More likely that you’d be stashed in a cave or something. Last thing he needs is mortals being that close to him and risking his cover. 

Luceras: Luceras can and will stab someone with their bladed staff to cast a spell inside them. This can cause someone to combust from the inside-out or have ice spikes grow out of them. It is very painful. Luceras doesn’t care. 

Maoren: Maoren also fought on Mehrunes Dagon’s side in the Oblivion Crisis and also was aware and a part of the cruel things Mehrunes’ army did, with little care in how that would feel for mortals. It helps that daedra can’t exactly grasp what’s so bad about dying nor really grasp the concept of family and loss, since they are reborn without loss of memory or past self. Anyway, he can be nice and some may argue that he is nice, but he is more likely to run someone who sees him without disguise through. 

X3-28: He’s just a fucking tool. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing. That being said, he can be pretty cruel to some people, and once out of the Institute, it takes some kind of self control to not make Institute members suffer. He doesn’t always have that self control. He will break people’s bones to keep them from fighting or running away. 

[umbraastaff]

I’ve just been thinking--it’s about time I make a proper index for my TAZ fics, huh? Also contains: mini-series, ficlets, goof posts, and lyric comics.

(All of the fics are rated G, or T at most for McElroy-appropriate language.)

FICS

I Saw Seven Bounties | Canon Compliant, Enemies to Friends, Complete | Mostly lighthearted, episodic recounting of Kravitz and Barry’s rivalry throughout those first twelve years on Faerun. 24K. -->Extras: Lich Eyes, Fantasy Starbucks, Alt POV for Chapter 1 & Chapter 5, Sorry

They Say Fire Took Phandalin | Small-town supernatural/sorta-haunted-house AU |  Fresh out of grad school, Barry Bluejeans takes a job and a house in the rural nowhere-town of Phandalin. And it’s not like he thought fitting in would be a walk in the park, but the people there all act really weird, and it’s almost like they’re expecting something of him, too. 11K/~20K.

What Can’t Be Done Alone (Detective Squad) | Canon Divergent, Found Family, Fluff | AU where the voidfish works a little better, and Angus never finds the Bureau. Instead, he finds a strange lich in a cave, and he most certainly continues to work this case and not gradually get adopted instead. 18K/~22K. -->Extras: Drangus AU Oneshot

If I Wanted to be Funny I’d Name This Fic “The Time Belt” | Futuristic sci-fi AU feat. time travel | Taako meets the only people in years who recognize the Institute’s name. Known time criminal Barry Bluejeans continues to evade law enforcement. 2K/??.

Overgrowth / Undercurrent | Roleswap AU, Johnchurch, Pining, Twoshot, Happy ending optional | Overgrowth is a oneshot that follows John, the Starblaster’s chief diplomat, through a series of parleys with Merle, the center of the plane-consuming mass of plants that’s been chasing his crew. Undercurrent is a sequel about their post-canon reunion. 4K + 6K. --> Extras: PLAYLIST by @merle-casts-zone-of-truth

Davenport Remembers | Post-canon, Oneshot | Davenport meets with his crew members to try to reconcile his anger with Lucretia, or to decide whether he should. 1.5K.

MINI-SERIES

AU Where Taako is a Lich - Pretty much what it says on the tin here, folks!

Baritz (ask series) - A fusion of Barry and Kravitz, who took over my blog and answered asks for a while. (He originated in the Gallows/S&S lyric comic.)

Good Adventures (Good Omens crossover) - The Antichrist’s wishes summon the wrong boatful of aliens. Thankfully, it seems they’re apocalypse experts. [with plot-ideas help from @avijohann​.]

Omen Zone (Good Omens crossover 2) - Barry is a demon. Kravitz is an angel. Kravitz probably won’t ever admit that they’re friends.

Pokémon: Century Version (Pokémon crossover) - Stolen Century AU where they’re all pokémon trainers. Faerun spin-off: Double Trouble

Till Death, Don’t Let’s Start - Barry fucks up. Kravitz is present.

Very Normal Blog Posts (ask series) - In which Garfield is not at all dangerous, and I am perfectly fine. <alt: chronological link - desktop only>

COMICS & ART

Gallows/Steady and Stronger (Double lyric comic) - Canon-divergent AU where, as the world is ending, Barry gives up to Kravitz. [Image description version]

[Lyric Comics] - Other, shorter lyric comics based on single verses of songs.

Dear Scientist’s Log (series) - Illustrated ship logs from Barry J. Bluejeans.

Movie Madness (Comic) - Barry obsesses over the unforgivable.

Palette Prompts (Arts) - Art from art meme prompts.

Pregananant (goof comic) - You know the one.

REAPER (Comic) - Baritz fuses with Lup.

These Jeans? (Animatic) - Barry advertises jeans.

They’re Both Tessa Thompson (Comic) - Lucretia has a nightmare. Barry reassures her.

War (Goof comic) - prompt: "taakitz with CAT”

What’s bigger than this? - The Red Robe.

FICLETS

Back Soon - Kravitz leaves a note with unfortunate wording.

Bodyswap: Barry & Davenport - During Wonderland.

Casual - AU where the red robe talks like a normal person.

Command - Barry misuses his magic.

Davenport - There’s something unsettling about that butler.

Hangin’ Out - Lup and Magnus.

Harvest - Roleswap AU: Barry is the Hunger.

Healing Necromancy - Merle tries to teach Barry some tricks.

Hope - Barry knows she’s still out there.

How Long? - Taako is frustrated.

In Pieces - The staff.

Liches Forget Too - AU.

Lucretia Forgets - In which there was a mistake with the voidfish ichor.

Lup’s Robe - Gifts from Taako.

Mourning Glories - The flowers in Merle’s beard.

New Years - Celebrations and fears.

Parole - Barry and Kravitz bonding hours.

Phone a Friend - Baritz (the fusion from Gallows/S&S) meets Angus.

Raising the Dead - Barry has to use his crew members’ corpses. [sequel]

Robbie...? - Magnus breaks into the brig immediately after Petals to the Metal.

Second Apocalypse - Based on that one party liveshow. What was the rest of the crew doing, again?

3 Sentence Fics - Pairing + AU prompts.

Smartstone - Lup gets stuck in a Stone of Far Speech, instead.

Stir Crazy - Barry waiting for a new body to grow. Thoughts of Lucretia.

Writing Things Down - In case you forget (again).

You Remember - Taako remembers.

PROMINENT GOOFS

Barry’s Dead - But he’s fine! Calm down!

Character Development - Joke’s on you, DM!

Crystal Kingdom - An absolutely bonkers arc.

Dealer - Merle pun.

Decapitate Me - for making this post

Don’t Care - Taako during the finale. [bonus]

Epilogue - Bracer struggles. [bonus: 1, 2]

Explain the Hunger (Good Omens crossover) - Magnus explains the hunger to Aziraphale and Crowley. They react in varying ways. [with cursed art contributions from @avijohann and @mspainttaz]

Fifteen Dollars - Plus interest. [Bonus]

Fullmetal Kingdom - They’re the same, right?

Gender - And lack of roles.

Gnomes Don’t Exist - They’re all aliens, actually.

Hot Diggity Shit - Been a while.

Icon Confusion - The saga of people thinking my icon is a carrot. [chrono link - desktop only]

Incomprehensible Denim - Jeff Angel’s illegal pants.

In Case it Changes Anything - Taako, Kravitz, and lies.

Irresponsible Teens - Magnus and Lucretia get into trouble.

I Saw Seven Nerds - That’s the post.

Gogurt - Taako’s crimes.

Learning to Drive - i.e. Barry & Davenport Bonding(?) Hours.

Live Shows - The general mood.

Lucretia’s Efforts - A proper meme? On my TAZ blog?

Lup Said No Thanks - That time Magnus was in a tree.

Magnus’ Death - So many close calls.

Nearest Middle-Aged Woman - Clint’s characters’ friends.

Necromancy? - You must be mistaken!

Ned’s Aliases - The Truth.

Pirate Debt - Davenport during that one liveshow.

Punch Squad - SQUAD!

Reaper Cloak - Thoughts.

Relic Names - She probably changed them.

Responsible Necromancy - Good and bad ideas.

Resume - It’s not like they thought it would be relevant.

Schools of Magic - And the Sash was what, again?

Self Care - Respect the dead, please.

Server Shenaniganry (art) - TAAKO THE CAT, NO!

Soulmate AU - Where your soulmate’s greatest enemy is on your wrist. [alt]

Stern’s Truth - You Know.

Taako’s Last Name - Taako’s last name.

Team Composition - The post where everyone wants to argue with me about what qualifies as a wizard.

Third Option - Taako saves the day.

You’re Laughing - End of Suffering Game.

THEORIES/MECHANICS/THOUGHTS

Aloof - Holes Taako refuses to fill.

Barry’s Lucky Possessee - Graphic novel theory hopes & dreams.

Catpiling - Stolen Century thought.

Davenport’s Deaths - Sucks when you always wake up driving.

Death Leaves a Mark - Stolen Century AU concept.

Everyone Else - Some people didn’t get perfect endings.

Fantasy Nonsense - lore about the word “fantasy,” as in “Jesus Fantasy Christ.”

Fragments - Magnus’ memory.

Forgiveness - Old post about the crew’s thoughts on Lucretia’s actions.

Forgot to Erase - Lucretia’s errors.

FULL TIMELINE POST - the Balance timeline.

Gauntlet - (disproven!) Theory about the final relic, from before it was confirmed in the show.

Gnome Nicknames - Thoughts on Cap’nport.

High School AU - Some old headcanons.

Home World Names - The pattern in surnames (or lack thereof) on the IPRE’s homeworld.

Hour - This isn’t a thought so much as an Actual Thing That Magnus Said before the time loops had started, which is absurd.

Idiots in Love - The IPRE’s collective braincell was lost for all of Legato. [2]

Liches, Alone - Being stuck as raw emotion for an awfully long time.

Losing Julia - And subsequent developments.

Love - What was remembered and forgotten.

Love Without Fear - Thoughts on bonds during the Stolen Century.

Memory - Barry actually shouldn’t have remembered anything.

Nickname - Memory of Lup.

Paladin Barry Theory - Converging evidence on Barry’s multiclassing.

Paradox AU - blueprint for 8th, 9th, 10th, etc. Bird AU of your choice(s). (Extra)

Phylactery Mechanics - How liches differ.

Produce Flame - Mechanics of John killing Merle.

Recklessness - THB’s actions recontextualized.

Relic Schools of Magic - They don’t have them!!!

Relicswap AU - Where all the birds get swapped out.

Seven Birds as Gods - Ask-prompt thoughts.

Staring at the Sun - The birds and their light sensitivity.

Story, Song, & Sorcery - Effects on the young population.

Sword Tornado - Magnus Mechanics. [bonus: Time Warlock]

The Good Place AU - A series of crossover thoughts.

Tree Climbing - Davenport shenanigans.

Unique Magic Types - [and combo styles]

What Killed Maureen - hint: it wasn’t Fisher.

[hopeandharmonizing]

RP Plotting Sheet : Briar Rieka

Want new-and-exciting plots for your character? Long to reach out to more of your followers, but don’t know where to start? Fear not! Fill out this form and give your RP partners both present and future all the of juicy jumping off points they need to help you get your characters acquainted.

Be sure to tag the players whose characters YOU want more cues to interact with, and repost, don’t reblog! Feel free to add or remove sections as you see fit. Template here.

tagged by: stole it from an old blog

Mun name: Rachel or Teceraca OOC Contact: Start with tumblr IMs. I have discord as well. Talk in the tags.

Who the heck is my muse anyway: 

Creeping up on middle-age, part-time Happy Huntress, part-time musical performer, wolf faunus lady who occasionally plays with gender presentation, mostly on stage. She has a painful past, but it only hardened her into a stronger, kinder self who wants to help everyone else to never hurt that badly, or at least not have to shoulder the pain alone. All she wants is to empower people, and yet all she seems to do it make them weaker and intimidated in her presence. Regardless, she continues to try and inspire through words and music, and protect through fists and claws.

Points of interest: 

black and white wolf tail, thorny vine tattoos wrapping most of her body, a semblance which cancels out others’ semblances, skilled in Aikido, guitar, keyboard/piano, and vocals. Graduate of Sanctum and Atlas Academies. Her huntress license lapsed after its first expiration date and remained that way for ~10 years until she reinstated at the behest of Robyn Hill. She will love you if you love yourself, and likewise do her best to truly scare the shit out of you if you mistreat others.

What they’ve been up to recently:

In mainverse, she’s living her best life in Mantle city, trying to bring hope to the masses and occasionally going on stake-outs for Robyn Hill or acting as entertainment or security detail for her rallies.

If you want to meet her somewhere in the past, you can find her either just looking to survive, mastering her music, or completing combat training followed by huntress training. then, trying but failing to work effectively as a licensed huntress, and slowly feeling like she’s lost herself before she finds music again.

Where to find them: 

In chronological order:

Morkmani Village Anima forests Argus Sanctum Academy Atlas Academy Mantle city  - wherever the work was   - performances at nightclubs, bars, street venues, coffee shops, etc  - libraries, cafes, anywhere she can sit and work on her stuff  - her apartment  - supporting other people’s shows! having fun in the crowds.  - out shopping, especially to add to/update her wardrobe with cool shit

Current plans:

make the world better! or at least feel like less of an oncoming storm. continue to be a badass? love as many people as she can. from a distance, usually.

Desired interactions:

WHEEZE. A lot of this is similar to the associations bit in my page but here we go.

Robyn recruiting her to join the huntresses, any and all shenanigans that may follow. Fraternizing with fellow huntresses in general, or missions together.

Qrow and/or Clover semblance shenanigans and training. Also her and Clover generally giving each other shit bc it is just So Much to have those two egos in one room.

Bitching at Ironwood about what trust and loyalty REALLY means or maybe just her venting to someone about him, but this requires her getting to know him somehow in the first place, or at least to hear from others what he is like. idk. this muse has meta feelings about micromanagement, I would love to thread them.

Giving Weiss vocal training classes when she was a lil’ girl. and/or catching up in current verse. 

Briar getting to meet Blake and absolutely gush about her speech at Menagerie bc she saw it from some scroll recordings.

Basically anything with Jaune. I still have no idea what is going to happen when these two semblances meet each other. I do know hers can basically act like a spiritual resistance weight to help his get stronger. It probably goes both ways. Semblance arm wrestling is what I’m sayin’. But also she just.......... she has a lot of feelings. It’s like a Qrow/Clover thing too where she looks at him and sees everything she could be, but isn’t. She’s too proud. Help her work through this and question herself a little bit so she can come out better for it, and realize they are both different yet who they are supposed to be.

Silver eyes training with Ruby!!!! She doesn’t know anything about them besides what she’d find out from the crew, but she does have plenty of skills and pep talks that can probably help Ruby focus and/or project her power. Briar's semblance color is silver for a reason.

Semblance/aura training with anyone in general. But when I say that I also mean “learning not to rely on your semblance” training. She’s good for that. She may get being a professor for it added to either her history or her future, idk yet.

This also leads into being able to have a discussion with Oscar/Ozpin about a different take that can help her fully realize her semblance abilities. If you’re interested, we can chat mun to mun so I can let you know my ideas and you can decide how your muse wants to guide her through it.

Other OCs idk who what where when why how but that’s exactly the point. the whole verse is our oyster, let’s see what happens. come @ me. let’s let our muses help develop each other.

Offered interactions:

Briar’s actually pretty easy to have interactions with villains? She probably won’t know any better if she runs into them and they aren’t immediately stirring trouble. For better or worse, she’ll give them the benefit of the doubt if they are trying to confide in her about something or just chatting.

Also I haven’t made one yet but she’d be damn good for a villain herself AU.

She will listen to you! She will sing to you!! She wants to make you happy and help you grow, plz come to her with whatever. (Or vice versa! She’s not difficult to get to open up and she will talk with you about her own doubts and demons if u want).

Anyone can watch one of her performances and/or come find her hanging around the venue afterwards. I’ll probably make some opens for this kind of thing.

Are you another performer character??? Duets??? duets.

Faunus mentor!! Music mentor!!

Sanctum or Atlas Academy student days can be a thing. Likewise for her more interspersed street performances during those times.

future volume interactions if you’re comfortable with hcs of what goes down until we find out canon. She can go after Robyn/Qrow in the immediate timeframe, or run into any of the kids in the process. I like to think she joins up with the main cast to head to Vacuo when that happens. Whether to just bring her music along for them and/or to start spreading it to more reaches of the world bc hopefully Atlas/Mantle is under control at some point and in good hands with Robyn and however that leadership shakes out, and damn the whole world needs hope right now, so it is... Time To Dream Even Bigger.

Current open post/s: 

here’s the open starter tag!

Anything else?:

I thought there was a shipping section on here but uhhhhhh i’m too much of a wuss to make one myself right now. maybe a bias list in the future. I feel like I should get some general interactions going first. 

Tagging: I’m not making anyone commit to this beast. If you want it, take it and most certainly blame me and tag me so I can read it.

[lowkeyhockey]

accIdents (how we went from friends to this) - sidney crosby

Title: accidents (how we went from friends to this), part i

Pairing: Sidney Crosby/Female Reader

Mentions: Taylor Crosby

Warnings: Pairing is not endgame, mentions of underaged kissing 

Word Count: 2.2k

  Summary: How many friendships start with a book? (In which someone is always way too hyper, someone kisses two boys because it's easier than talking, and someone leaves because he's genuinely too good to stay.) 

Writer’s Notes: This is Part I of a story that’s a part of a bigger verse titled Can I Go (Where You Go) featuring [Y/N], a not-very single mother, Lila, your very opinionated daughter, and Freddie Andersen - a man very happy to be dragged along for the ride. But in the beginning, there had been Sidney Crosby.

Each story in the verse can be read as a standalone. Thanks so much for reading, and please hmu if you have a prompt/request/critique!

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

A shriek pierced through the air with the volume and intensity of at least two or three feral wildcats, and you turn around with half a grin already formed on your lips, waiting to catch sight of her to complete it. And when you do, you drop to your knees on instinct, heedless of any grass stains that might show on your pretty floral dress - besides, grass and flowers go together, don't they?

 And you go with Taylor, would never say no to a hug from her, ignore the way your friends stand in a small huddle waiting for you to rejoin them because they're so used to this. Never mind that the elementary and middle school buildings were on the same campus, and that you run into Taylor maybe five times a day on a good day. 

Whenever you see Taylor, you hug her. That's it. One time, you'd pretended not to see her just to tease her, and she'd climbed onto a water fountain to leap onto your back. And that was only one of the ways she'd lost her baby teeth around you. 

 All things considered, it's really safer when you greet Taylor like a semi-normal human being, letting her leap into your outstretched arms and almost tumbling over backwards anyway just from the force of her enthusiasm, wrapping your arms tight around her and pressing a kiss against her silky blonde hair. She smells just a little like lavender, and you smile even wider at that, because you knew you hadn't just misplaced your favourite bottle of perfume. 

You suppose you should scold her for the thievery but by now, it's labeled in your head under ‘something that reading buddies just do’. Especially considering neither of you have actual sisters to steal or get things stolen from. 

 The two of you had met six months ago, when Tay's first grade teacher had marched her class over to your waiting class of sixth graders, and before either your or her teacher could divvy your two classes up for the reading buddy programme Taylor had simply collapsed into your lap, foot nudging the copy of Roald Dahl you had by you on the floor with an expression that said that she's going to practice her reading with you only if she has to. 

 She tells you later, eyes wide with earnestness, that she only liked you because you'd been sitting on a blue beanbag, and you're still grateful for the fact that blue's your favourite colour, too. 

 The programme lasted just three months, with the two of you meeting every other day to sit in the small, glasshouse reading nook attached to the library, but neither of you particularly cared about letting a teacher tell you that you didn't have to hang out. 

 You didn't even let your parents do it - Taylor was sleeping over at your house every other weekend just three weeks into the programme, and you had dinner at the Crosby's whenever you had basketball practice, because it always ended around the same time as Sid's hockey training did and it was always easier to feed two hungry student athletes at the same time than just one, when said student athletes have dinner so much later than most people. 

 Of course, Sid eats enough for at least three people, and you kinda hate how easily he seems to convert food into muscle mass. He wouldn't have let Tay bowl him over so easily - and you look up over Taylor's shoulder to see him grinning down at you like he's thinking the exact same thing, reaching out to tussle first Tay's hair, then yours. 

 Dumb Sid. Dumb, cute, athletic, nice Sid, who laughs like a honking goose and has never minded having to share his little sister with you because you didn't have any siblings of your own. You think you'd maybe hate him if he weren't so cute and athletic and nice. 

 Or maybe not - Taylor would probably never let you, was already unhooking one arm from around your neck to reach for the hand her big brother still has resting in your hair, as though the three of you could really walk home attached together like this. 

 "Don't you have training today?" you ask him, managing to stand up with your arms around a squirming seven year, freeing a hand to wave goodbye to your friends before they walk away. You know that  two of your friends - Sara and Anaaya - would probably have liked to stay and talk to him too, but you girls had a pact that Sidney Crosby was too big a potential sore point for your U-12 girls' basketball team, and that meant that no one was allowed to date him. 

 Not that you'd want to, even though he's dumb and cute and athletic and nice. 

 He's been pretty grumpy lately and you're pretty sure you know why, but if he's not going to bring it up you won't either. Especially not with Taylor now on the ground between the two of you, swinging both of your arms as she looks around for a new way to make mischief on your way home. 

 You'd have thought that Tay would have ran out of new ways by now. But you also think that Taylor would never run out of new ways to make mischief, wherever she might be.

 Sid lets out a small grunt and you grin as you used your linked hands to nudge Taylor, which had a (totally expected) domino effect of her nudging (punching, really) Sid's side, as high as she could reach and as hard as she could do it. 

 You burst out laughing instead of scolding  her for trying to push her brother off the sidewalk and onto the street - what a way for the great Sidney Crosby to go - and he gives you the admonishing look he really should be giving Taylor instead. Your puppy dog eyes are almost as good as hers, though, and he's shaking his head a moment later and starting down your normal route home again without taking any sort of vengeance. 

 "Nah, I think they're making me play with Dartmouth again," he says, sounding just a little sulky about it, and you wince in commiseration as though you understand even though you don't, not really. 

 You've only ever played for your school, basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring. You used to do a little figure skating, a little hockey in mites, because didn't everyone? But you'd never been like him. No one expected you to be amazing, not at sports, and Sid's only fourteen and already dealing with the whole country calling him the next something. 

 The next great hero, or the next great villain - he's way more than good enough to play with the Bearcats for real and everyone knows it, and that's why they hate him. They won't let him play even though he's just a little bit too young, and even though he's a lot too good for his actual age group, and even though the players and parents in the national midget 'AAA' league shout and boo and hit him so hard he barely wears any of his sweaters or team shirts outside of a game anymore. 

 The assholes have made Taylor cry, at some games, watching what they do to her big brother. They've made you cry, too, but you don't like talking about that.

 You let go of Taylor's hand to cover her ears instead, keeping up your pace so she doesn't protest too much, telling him with an expression more serious than you knew you could manage, "those dumb jerks don't know what they're missing out on." 

 (But I do, I will, if you go, you want to add, but you don't like talking about that either.) 

 He gives you a grin, though, probably to make up for your seriousness, probably because Taylor's trying to squirm extra hard now and neither of you wanted to upset her. "It's whatever, you know? Winning the Air Canada Cup's going to be pretty okay too." 

 And you laugh, dropping your hands from Taylor's ears to push him again, this time doing it directly. His t-shirt's soft against the palm of your hand, and you kinda want to curl your fingers into it instead. 

 "Watching you win it's going to be pretty okay, if my mom lets me go," you agree, as though you and Taylor didn't already have outfits and facepaintings planned. Taylor's "87" painting on her cheeks are going to have hearts in the holes of the '8', and your "Croz" painting's going to be done in Tay's best handwriting. 

 You wouldn't let Taylor cry listening to and watching those assholes alone. And besides, god, it really was beautiful to watch Sid play.

 Sometimes he lets you practice shooting with him in his basement. He doesn't make you stand in front of the goal, because padding or no it still hurts when the pucks hit you, but he lets you choose the music as you guys race to get pucks in the net - because he's older, because he's Sidney Crosby, he has to make ten shots before you make five, and usually he wins anyway.

 But this time he and Taylor drop you off at the mailbox in front of your house. When it's just you and Taylor you usually walk to her house first, then go back to yours, and you can walk alone when Tay has her big brother to walk with because it's a little out of the Crosbys' way but they never make you do that.

 So you kneel down again, let Tay wrap her arms around your neck again, but you stand before Sid could ruffle your hair in goodbye - leaning in, not even having to stand on tiptoe, to kiss his cheek instead. "They're so dumb, but we're not, so keep playing for us, eh?" 

 He looks a little like a prince then, thoughtful and distant even with a faint blush traced across his cheeks, eyes that gorgeous shade of hazel and hair dark and lightly tussled by the wind, and you think that this is how Sara and Anaaya might see him. He's here but unavailable. Here but so different from you, even though he's just three years older than you, so much more mature than the other fourteen year old boys in his class. 

 You should know. Mike Wallace tried to shove his tongue down your throat that one time, when you admitted to him that you wouldn't mind kissing him, and all Sid's doing to you right now is just stare. 

 You're blushing yourself before you even know it, reach a little blindly to ruffle Tay's hair the way Sid always does, calling out a goodbye to them before Sid could say anything else.

 *** 

 You ask Sid to go to the Winter Formal with you, because Mike Wallace asked you and you refuse to make yourself do that again, but he has extra practice and you spend the evening with Sara and Annika instead. 

 Sara's in a kinda hippie phase where she pretends she can cast magic, pretends that there's magic in the night and that she's feeding off it, and Annika pretends she's not desperately in love with Sara. 

 You kiss Mike Wallace again and it's not bad, this time, even though it feels like pretending, even though he told his friends after the last time you guys kissed that twelve year old girls kiss way better than eleven year old girls, like it's bad that you’d skipped a grade. Idiot. Not too bad a kisser, though. 

 When you get home, Sid's there in a game day suit even though he didn't have a game that day, you know he didn't, you'd have gone to the game instead if he did. 

 He's a really bad dancer, but he's an okay kisser, and he lets you choose the music again even though you're in your basement now and not his. 

 When he finds out you'd kissed Mike Wallace already that night, he makes a sound like he's going to throw up, and you punch him as hard as Taylor would have punched him, and burst out laughing right as he starts letting out those stupid honk-laughs of his. 

 *** 

 "I trust you, y'know. I would leave Taylor if I didn't know I'd be leaving her with you." 

 And you do know, and you trust him too, but he's still going all the way over to America and he's stronger than you still - you can't lift up Taylor and threaten to throw her into the bushes on your way home from school the way he can. 

 But you suppose that if he's going to Shattuck-Saint Mary's, the way you knew he would, his way home from school's going to be looking really different anyway. 

 "Don't tell her that," you say instead, with an eyeroll that somehow makes the tears gathering in the corners of your eyes more likely to fall instead of less. "I don't want her to hate me too," you say, and it's a little mean, but he winces and you know it's a direct hit. 

 And Sid always appreciates accuracy, doesn't he?

  "I'll miss you too," he tells you, instead of rising to the bait, and you let him pull you into burying your face against his shoulder before the tears could fall. If he questions whatever wet spots you leave behind on his t-shirt you'd tell him that his permanent hockey player-stink made your nose run

 but he doesn't ask

so you don't say it. 

 An "I miss you too"s not the worst thing to end a goodbye on, you think later, even if you never told him that you'd miss him. He's dumb, but you're not surprised that he figured it out. 

[eldunea]

So You Want To Run Through Preuzien?

i’ve received a fair few messages from people interested in having their muses go through prussia, with one person even being interested in making a preuzien OC, so i thought i’d do this post setting up some necessary boundaries and limitations for any character who intends to challenge the prussian league and make a name for themselves in my fakémon region. this applies primarily to muses who wish to start their prussia arcs before lotor became champion, although some of these points still apply to a certain extent even after he won the position.

without further ado…here we go. >:3

[TW: Mentions of death, animal abuse and human abuse. If these topics trigger you, do NOT have your muse do a run through pre-Lotor Preuzien.]

First Things First: Your Muse Probably Won’t Be Champion Anytime Soon

i’ll be blunt. unless your character 1) is willing to kill lotor and all of his pokémon, most of whom are sapient, 2) is willing to risk their life and the lives of all their partners in the championship battle, and 3) can also singlehandedly defeat a five-core complete forme/ragnamax zygarde that has world-ending capabilities and is comparable in power to eternamax eternatus, they don’t stand a chance. for #1 and #2, though lotor has dismantled most aspects of the fight to kill clause, he still keeps the part that says all official championship battles must be fought to the death. he does this as a deterrent to challengers--and he is not afraid to slaughter his opponents in their moments of hesitance should they express any reluctance to kill. and while he doesn’t own ragnamax zygarde, he has definitely single-handedly defeated it, as it’s how he became champion in the first place.

i want to make it clear that this doesn’t mean he’s unbeatable in every scenario. he can still be defeated in a less high-stakes setting where he isn’t allowed to kill or cripple his opponents, or destroy everything around him in a 5-mile radius. one of his big weaknesses is that ever since his championship battle in kalos against diantha he’s gotten real rusty in traditional 6v6 style battling; this is because he has spent all his time perfecting the prussian style of battle, and because if any criminals are stupidly polite enough to do a traditional 6v6 against him, his unprincipled bitch self will just bring out his entire team to gangbeat their ass. but in an all-out campaign match where he gets to use deadly force and unleash the full apocalyptic extent of his pokémons’ power, he is not going to lose to any muse who 1) is not as fully psychologically ready to shed blood as he is, 2) is not psychologically able to handle seeing their pokémon get killed or the mere thought of their pokémon being killed, OR 3) could not also pull off what he did. that is a FACT.

i do hc that lotor stops being champion eventually, but i haven’t figured out when would be a good time for lotor to lose his spot, or even whether i’d want him to lose it rather than stepping down. there are many different possibilities that can be explored and i may make different verses for them, such as the possibility that he loses/steps down from the championship some time in the near future (5 - 10 years) when he feels that his work is done/feels the pressure is too much, or the possibility that he feels his work will take literal decades and he steps down as an old man once he is satisfied that the region has finally reformed. if you are interested in lotor’s championship spot though, please know that as of writing this, i am IFFY about any plot where a muse defeats lotor and then returns prussia to its original ways. this is because despite my love of “ow the edge,” as the creator of preuzien i do want to write a happier ending for a region whose people have seen nothing but suffering. if this does end up happening, it will have to happen in a separate verse.

Be Prepared for a Long and Potentially Traumatizing Haul

the prussian league is a thirty-six-badge-long, MULTI-YEAR ordeal. there is no way around that. i hc other leagues usually take about a year to complete. the prussian league, on the other hand, takes a MINIMUM of 4 years to finish for trainers who start their journeys in preuzien, 3.5 years for trainers who have already entered the hall of fame for a foreign league, and 2.5 years for trainers who have entered the hall of fame in more than one foreign league. for some perspective on its difficulty--lotor, the guy with the 200+ IQ who beat ragnamax zygarde and stopped ragnarök during his championship battle, STILL took multiple years to complete his league challenge. can your muse clear the league in, say, half a year or a year less than the time it normally takes? yes, but i will be selective about who gets to have that honor. please don’t be “that person” and say “well my muse is capable of doing it in less than a year”--no. they can’t. why? because i said so.

another thing to note about the prussian league is its difficulty. this is part of why it takes such a long time for any trainer to get through preuzien: your muse will not have an easy time going through it, NO MATTER WHAT. yes, even if your muse has legendaries…joke’s on them, preuzien’s entire culture is geared toward beating the shit out of legendaries, and i daresay they’re damn good at it. yes, even if your muse is “really, really strong”…everyone in preuzien is also really, really strong, and not to mention, strength in preuzien is different from strength in most of the pokémon world because historically, the prussian league has put its trainers through situations--both on and off the field--approximating WAR. again, for perspective: lotor has one of the highest IQs on planet pokéarth and literally saved the world from the previous deity champion, and preuzien still had times when it PUSHED HIM PAST HIS LIMIT. so if you state that your muse is somehow able to just breeze through every gym and the national tournament like it’s nothing, that’s something i’m going to have a real hard time believing.

as to the trauma part of this section, prussia is a much friendlier place now that lotor is champion…provided you’re not an abuser or a member of a corrupt ruling class. but if your muse is entering the league pre-lotor’s championship, when the region was still under the rule of wilhelmine von hohenzollern, your muse WILL suffer some sort of trauma. there is also no way around that. if they started in preuzien, they would have started in mandatory trainers’ school, where they would have been both physically and emotionally abused by their teachers. the only ways to avoid this abuse are to 1) be a junker’s child whose parents are the rare prussian unicorns that do not support child-beating or 2) become a total kissup to the teachers and other authority figures of the school, screwing over your fellow students to save yourself, and i doubt most peoples’ muses would want to do that. if they started outside the region and came in…they still have the below section to deal with.

Your Muse Will Lose Pokémon

this is no longer a guaranteed if your muse is joining the prussian league under lotor’s rule. but in the time of wilhelmine, under the fight to kill clause, you may be ordered to kill your opponent and their pokémon for the entertainment of the crowd. and you can’t back out from this either, because if you do, you will be publicly executed for failing to provide the audience entertainment. this aspect of the fight to kill clause is no longer in effect, but when it was, it was responsible for so many young peoples’ deaths that the region’s age dependency ratio went completely out of whack. what’s more, the fight to kill clause also states that gym leaders can choose whether they wish to kill you without warning and/or your pokémon at any point during their matches, which only adds to the danger. in a region where the league literally requires you to fight for your life, it is NEARLY INCONCEIVABLE that anyone could get through this without losing at least one of their trusted partners. there is only one person in the entire history of wilhelmine prussia who managed to go through all the gyms and the prussian national tournament without losing a single one of their pokémon (and his name, by the way, is not lotor). i am going to keep it that way.

what’s more, if the brutality of the battles don’t get to you, the lack of healthcare will. preuzien in its pre-lotor days was infamous for the shortage of both human and pokémon healthcare that plagued its system. healthcare was only guaranteed to junkers, the military, and those who are deemed “victors,” aka those who fought long and hard enough to get the government’s attention and be seen as worthy. for the rest, they have to struggle through long and potentially life-ending lines at pokémon centers and doctors’ offices, all of which come from the fact that preuzien glorifies pokémon training and militarism to the point that almost every other profession is suffering a shortage in professionals and that includes healthcare. even if we go with the fanon that nurse joys are always in abundance because they’re actually ditto spawn that can be mass-produced, preuzien would deliberately make it so that there’s a lack of healthcare so they could force people to kill each other over who gets treated. so yeah. under wilhelmine, this is a region in which losing at least one pokémon is a 99.99999% certainty.

Your Muse is More Likely to Fail than Succeed

i’m gonna be straight up right now: i won’t let more than a handful of muses succeed in winning the prussian national tournament--at least, in proportion to the rest who fail. why? because if i as preuzien’s creator let too many people have a successful run through prussia, the difficulty of the league will lose its meaning. it’s not “the hardest league in the world” if every muse and their mother is capable of receiving all 18 type specialist badges, receiving all 18 other strategic badges, and clearing all four stages of the 256-person prussian national tournament. by having too many muses being able to achieve this extraordinarily difficult feat, it cheapens the accomplishment of the few who did. i might be more lenient on this for muses that enter the league after wilhelmine is deposed, seeing as the fight to kill clause is abolished and that explains a big chunk of the prussian league’s difficulty. but even so, given the unique demands that prussian-style battling foists on its trainers, they’ll be hard pressed to rise to the challenge--especially if they were not raised like most prussian trainers are to take it on.

if you want your muse to succeed, i will be tough about this. i will play devil’s advocate and come up with every single possible way in which your muse could fail, whether psychologically or strategically. even the best strategists which basically every muse seems to be can crumble and be broken by a league specifically designed to mentally shatter its participants in order to “weed out the weak.” and even the strongest-willed people which basically every muse also seems to be may lack the particular intelligence needed to handle strategic situations that require one to think less like a trainer and more like a MILITARY COMMANDER. this applies mainly to wilhelmine’s preuzien, because her league is brutal on a scale that is unseen anywhere else in the world and what’s more, it’s not afraid to play dirty. if doing a run when lotor is champion i will be less exacting, but i still want to keep the success to failure ratio low. please don’t take it personally when i start grilling like it’s a BBQ--i just want to be realistic and a hardliner about whether your muse really has what it takes. like the officials of the prussian league itself, i want to make sure that ONLY THE BEST OF THE BEST make it through. 

i will, however, say this: just because your muse fails to get to/through the prussian national tournament, doesn’t mean it’s the end for them. they could join tournaments for the badge level at which your muse stopped, or join the coordinating scene that has gained new life under lotor’s leadership. they could move on to another region and enjoy their newfound capacity to beat the shit out of almost everyone they come across, because sometimes even the people who fail in preuzien are leaps and bounds stronger than those who succeed outside it. or they could divert their efforts from trying to climb to the top, thank their lucky stars that they still have their mental health mostly intact, and start taking care of pokémon who were abused by the system. there’s still plenty to do after an unsuccessful prussian run--your character’s story will not necessarily end there, and even in prussia’s darkest days, it would not necessarily end in disaster. to sum it up, failure to complete the league is still a plot point that you may find worth exploring.

in closing, i would like to say: your muse will have it extremely rough going through prussia but honestly…the struggle is half the fun of writing it. >:3

[derangedhyena-zoids]

You know what there doesn't seem to be a preponderance of on Zi?

Kids.

fair warning: this is a goddamn mess of a horseshitpost about history, population and reproduction dynamics, and chucklefucking about character genetics that I have unfortunately have actually spent time thinking about because my brain literally doesn't accept "idle" as a state. 

this probably gets a little weird and also contains mention of sensitive topic (tagged) so please be aware of that

Ok so

Compared to say, the society pictured in Fuzors (which doesn't comply with the xCentury-verse sufficiently and thus gets ignored by me), NC0 seems equally prosperous but a lot more resource-strained. Not "at that time" but simply as a way of life.

Nobody thinks of themselves as resource-poor, but nothing is terribly robust except in the largest cities (eg the modern day rebuilds of the old capitals, Guygalos and New (Helic) City.)

This isn't a secret. It's more or less been the case for the entirety of humans' colonization of the planet. That's why locale self-sufficiency is so important and why there's huge stretches of nothing everywhere. You simply cannot live wherever you want. The environment is fucking hostile and You Will Die.

So first off, let's be real: when you first colonize a planet and want to establish yourselves there, there's going to be rules/procedures in place regarding reproduction to make sure nobody ends up genetically representing too much of the population. It'd take a bit to get to the point of non-directed (and/or non test-tube) reproduction even being allowed.

Basically, space humans colonizing alien planets gonna have hella birth control tech available. There are no "oops" offspring. I'm inclined to think it's actually something that's been modified on a very base level (read: likely genetic modification, is heritable) level, that would require outside intervention of some kind (eg chemical) to make reproduction possible.

The point of "safe to naturally mingle" would likely correspond with the eventual, initial tech-dip as the stores of things from initial arrival were finally depleted (because it was probably planned out that way), and tech that was arrived with started to go offline permanently.

They'd have to be settling into what they could do and make with the resources available on Zi, meaning that avoiding uncontrolled population growth was still a huge priority, because the let's-successfully-establish-civilization mindset would still be thoroughly ingrained at that point.

There'd be hundreds of years of "danger zone" population levels where large adverse events could've easily wiped them all out if they weren't mindful. But, they were, and humans colonized Zi successfully (...again), good job, hooray

The overarching society-level birth control was well-codified in the various cultural groups that arose. But these inclinations did change over time as larger and more friction-prone groups formed (read: the Empire, over time, became large and in charge, discontent developed and huge chunks of people kept trying to detach. Eventually the Republic cropped up. You need more people to be a bigger thing.)

Any desire to handle the population with kid-gloves all but went out the window as the first conflicts started and people were killed. These conflicts eventually escalated into the long-standing wars between the Empire and Republic, and restrictions on reproduction basically went away. (+depending on who was in charge things may have even Yikes'd in the other direction)

(just a canon-fyi I'm not following the Battle Story in the slightest, I'm only trying to make the xCentury anime(s) function. Zoids' various canons are like Transformers' canons - A MESS)

Before these wars started happening, not much besides the occasional natural disaster, accident, or simply old age killed anyone. People can live a long time on Zi! Much longer than usual.

Why? Because a lot of human common human pathogens from Earth simply *wouldn't exist* there (space humans are gonna be really careful to not tote that shit around), so there's only really lifestyle-related issues, latent or new-mutation genetic problems, and any micro-organisms on Zi that mutated sufficiently to be able to affect people. (which is not really a stretch if we're going by the thought that Zoidians were long-evolved humans. The Zoidians were there a LOT longer than humans have been)

so. modern day. I have NC0 a few hundred years after CC/GF. As a whole I think the human race on Zi is relatively young, but a lot of the oldest information (like "exactly when we fucking got here") was lost in Imperial/Republican wars.

Those went on for hundreds of years themselves, enough to establish mass Zoid manufacture as The Way Of Things(tm) and otherwise entrench what became the norms for human society there. (I STRONGLY suspect there's still a lot of residual Imperial/Republican tension in places/families and that Backdraft was founded by, for lack of a better word, Imperial sympathizers with a longstanding grudge against a unified GF-run government *coughhh Alteil cough* but... I digress)

Humans are at a perfectly serviceable population. I actually hesitate to put a number on it because I don't know what # value would properly represent "a sustainable amount of people on a barren planet with very limited resources" but it'd be a sizable population (I'd guesstimate tens of millions). I imagine the GF, being the unquestionably-global governing body*, is relatively authoritarian as far as the core population and major cities go. They obviously can't tightly police the whole planet, but they can certainly keep an eye on it.    

This doesn't mean it's a dystopia or that the GF is evil or that it's anything bad, really. I sort of picture it being run by Committee, likely made up of various descendants of powerful families ([insert 10 tons of political intrigue here that I'm picturing, it's amazing, ANYWAYS]) Zi's government is definitively a plutocracy.

There were plenty of people on the planet who were ambivalent towards the Empire and the Republic's nonsense and just carried on what social norms and culture that had been established by the early colonists. Many didn't LIKE that all the fighting was happening because innocent, uninvolved people kept getting killed, and that sucked because they just wanted to live quiet lives in secure towns and be left alone.

There was also a desire for more law enforcement in general, since gangs, bandits, and the Zi equivalents of sovereign citizens kept causing problems. So when the Guardian Force was established initially to wrestle peace into place, it was largely welcomed and people were very, very glad to get rid of hundreds of years of war.

This also meant a lot of people had kids because things became markedly more stable. In fact what led up *to* New Century was probably several solid centuries of strong population growth, establishing additional stable strongholds in habitable areas (new cities were established and built up), modernization and other general signs of prosperity.

So, all this blah blah blah leads up to several key realities for New Century:

-There isn't a strangehold on population growth, nor are there formal limits. However, the chemical-whatever that causes the inbuilt birth-control to fuck off is under the purview of - or at least monitored by - the government. So... there's that. It's also overwhelmingly likely that people have figured out other sources for this over time, if for some reason they're distrustful.

-This inbuilt bc is in effect for everyone. Both folks involved have to be on board. I mean, it'd technically be possible to surreptitiously slip some of the chemical-whatever to an unwilling partner? But it's not like that would be difficult to figure out.

-Family units range from what we'd recognize as a 'family' to entire towns sharing children/parenting responsibilities. Monogamy is the norm but polygamy isn't weird. People can be pretty sexually loose and it's not frowned upon at all - because let's be real, NC0-society is at full-on bread-and-circus levels of operation. There seems to be a moderate anti-intellectual bent and Zoid battles are the height of achievement. People are chasing highs as a way of life.  

Topically relevant individuals' headcanon:

I think Steve's wife died in childbirth (having Leena.) It neatly explains what happened to her and Layon's unhealthy obsession with Leena.

Feel like Bit and Brad both were raised in the more "communal" type of settings.

Harry's family comes from old Republican money.  

Stoller came from a family that's the equivalent of a house in the south that has confederate flags everywhere. Except they're Imperial.

ARE YOU STILL HERE? GOOD LORD WHY. WELL NOW THIS IS A SHITPOST ABOUT ZOIDIAN HYBRIDS AND OTHER ANCESTRY FUCKERY

Remember in some other post I wrote I said that when you start to hybridize Zoidians in, reproduction becomes more difficult? That's IN PART because of the bc thing, and in part because general genetics fuckery. But once you *had* a hybrid you had very robust individuals, who initially lacked a fully functional version of the inbuilt bc. Over time that was mixed back in, but there were at least a couple janky generations.

Literally every hybridized line in existence is either from Hiltz or Ryss. Fiona didn't reproduce (wasn't for lack of trying. Both her and Van being bonded to the same Organoid caused problems in that department.)

Ryss had two kids with Raven. The reality of Raven aging and dying sucked. The reality of her kids, grandkids, etc aging and dying sucked. Though her immediate offspring lived a lot longer than progressive generations did, as the bloodline became more diluted, a slightly-improved human lifespan became the norm. This was incredibly depressing to Ryss and is a large part of why she fucked off to the middle of nowhere to live with things that wouldn't age out and die on her. It's also why she didn't continue to have children.

Hiltz... Hiltz fucked (and well, raped) a lot of people (50% as a power/hate thing and 50% because he's from the Feed-Fuck-Fight club) and some of the people that lived to talk about it had offspring. The same aging issues were in effect for these offspring, but unlike Ryss's family they didn't have the benefit of anyone explaining what the fuck was going on. So they had a strange time.

Remember that these direct hybrids would've been of age squarely in the aforementioned, post-GF "everyone is having kids" time, so a fair number of distinct new lines were created and persisted. There was also a weird range of ages involved, because the direct hybrids lived A WHILE and could have offspring for most of that time.

Now, in the context of "many years later", this means a fair number of people carry these genes in varying dilutions. It's not a large amount in the context of the entire human population. It's a handful of family lines with increasingly baffled histories. But family groups frittered a lot in the aftermath of GF, so a lot of that knowledge was functionally lost.

Basically no one has any idea anymore, what little idea that they had in the first place. The only families with distinct and traceable genealogies are the rich/old-money ones.      

So, in the NC0 cast I officially headcanon 5 folks as these dilute-hybrids. You know most of them; Sara, Vega, and Brad, but I'm impolitely adding Stoller and Iyaga (Ehga?) to that mix because reasons.

Brad and Iyaga are from Hiltz's line. Sara and Stoller are from Ryss's. Vega is unique in that he draws from BOTH; Ryss from his mother's side and Hiltz from his father's. Sara had a *really* hard time actually having a kid as a result of that particular genetic fuckery. IMO this explains some of her behavior towards Vega - by the time she had him she was so emotionally estranged by both the loss of Vega's father and the loss of numerous pregnancies (and by that time was more involved with her 'backdraft career'), she struggled with BASIC AFFECTION.

anyways, thanks for coming to the world's most useless ted talk  

*ZBGF is like world-police, GF is world-gov, ZBC is a branch of ZBGF that keeps battles in line (and monitors usage of things). The GF is "background", in that it's using the more-friendly-seeming ZBC as its eyes and ears while keeping track of things on a higher level.

p.s. the bc thing is actually adapted from another story of mine's background, so don't worry I didn't spend ALLLLLL this time thinking about that for this only sdhgfjdfdf

[grayson-dolans-dangly-earring]

Bible Study (E.D.)

THIS IS SO SMUTTY PLEASE BE AWARE OF THAT ALSO IM SORRY IF ITS NOT THAT GOOD OR THERE ARE SOME ERRORS IM NOT WELL VERSED IN CHURCH RELATED THINGS SO PLEASE FORGIVE ME ILY ❤️

@e-g-d-8 @hexagonaldolans @dolanswhore @deluxedolans @hmmmethan

ETHAN’S POV

My parents last ditch effort at making me a normal respectable teen was bible study. It’s a well known fact that my parents were bible thumpers and it irritated them to no end that my life goal was to be the exact opposite. My twin brother Grayson and I were both against our parents strict rules but Grayson obeyed most of them just to shut them up. I however, relished in making people squirm and pissing off my parents was my favorite hobby. I only agreed to bible study because it was either that or get a job, and an after school shift at the diner would really cramp my style.

I flicked my cigarette into the parking lot and crushed it with my boot before making my way to the door of the church. Once inside the building I followed the posted signs that directed me to the bible study room in the basement. Folding chairs were arranged in a circle and a few other teens were already there when I walked through the door. Heads turned and voices quieted as they all noticed me. I had quite the reputation at school so the people here already knew who I was and what I’d done and they seemed afraid of me. Good. That’s the way I liked it.

I found a seat and the rest of the group did the same. It was still quiet and I was not enjoying being gawked at, so when the door swung open and everyone’s attention shifted I was grateful. Until I saw her. The girl who entered the room was none other than Y/n Y/l/n, the local pastor’s daughter. I’d seen her around school before but only in small glimpses as she was usually hurrying away from wherever I was. Now, I could see her fully and up close. She made her way to a long table against the back wall of the room to set up some pamphlets.

She had a skirt on that was just a touch too short to be as modest as I’m sure her father would have preferred, her blouse was tight and I could see the buttons straining just a bit and she had a cardigan over top to keep the attention off her amazing tits. She could do whatever she wanted to hide them but I could tell what was underneath. She had wedge heels on that made her legs look amazing and I made a mental note that she was clearly not a girl who enjoyed wearing stockings. Her hair was thrown up into a messy bun on the top of her head and strands poked out all over the place, framing her face. Her glasses were thick rimmed and sliding down the bridge of her nose and she had to push them up with a delicate finger. A gold cross necklace hung around her neck and she fiddled with it often. Her lips were soft and pillowy and pink, and when she sucked the lower one into her mouth while trying to concentrate on her pamphlet set up, I almost came in my jeans. Fuck, my pants were so tight and all I wanted was to throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of here. I swore to myself that I’d go to this meeting and then never return but if she was gonna be here, I might have to stick around.

READER’S POV

Ethan Dolan was sitting in my class. He was sitting in my fucking bible study class. Why on earth do strange things always happen to ME?! How was I supposed to concentrate? Ethan Dolan was sex on legs and I don’t know if you know this but, as the pastor’s daughter I’m expected to steer clear of boys like that. But god he makes it so hard to do that. I continued setting up the back table and took a deep breath before turning to face the group.

Ethan had a smirk plastered to his gorgeous face like he had x-ray vision or something and could see through my clothes. My eyes scanned the group for an open chair but there wasn’t one as no one had prepared for another person to join us. “You can sit right here if you’re looking for a seat babydoll.” Ethan’s gruff voice rumbled from across the circle. I turned my gaze on him and watched as he ran his big hands up and down his thighs, grinning like the cheshire cat. “N-no thank you Ethan! But that does bring me to this weeks t-topic! Okay!” I managed to stammer while setting up a chair for myself. “This week’s topic is abstinence, chastity, and virginity. Now it’s okay if you’ve already lost your virginity. Yes, it’s a sin but if you ask for God’s forgiveness and vow to never do it again until you’re married, you will be pure again.” I recited from my father’s usual speech from mass. “Don’t really think I can un-ring that bell if you know what I mean.” Ethan’s voice sounded from across the circle. My breath caught in my chest and I swallowed down my nervousness. “Ethan, you can still be pure if that’s something that interests you.” I said. I decided to be a little daring and ask him a question. “Why don’t you tell us what's stopping you from having your virginity reclaimed by God?” I crossed my legs and waited for his response.

ETHANS POV

That little vixen. She really was egging me on! I was shocked she had the nerve to ask me what she did. But I wasn’t about to lose this little game we started playing, trying to push each other over the edge. “Uh, hard to say, exactly. Sex has always felt, I don't know, good, you know? I mean, really, really good. So what's the big deal, right? I mean what’s not to love about sex? There's the touching and the feeling all of each other, my hands everywhere, tracing every inch of her body, the two of us moving together, pressing and pulling...grinding. Then you hit that sweet spot, and everything just builds and builds and builds until it all just...explodes.” I said, clearing my throat. The girls in the group looked starstruck and the boys looked jealous. I noticed Y/n’s breathing had sped up and she was crushing the pamphlet in her hand. She quickly uncrossed and crossed her legs and I could tell I had gotten to her because when she uncrossed her legs, I could see up her skirt and a wet patch was just barely visible on her baby pink panties. I was fucking rock hard in my jeans and I wanted her more than anything. Everyone else in the room faded away when I locked eyes with her. God I’d give anything to fuck her right in this room in front of everyone.

READERS POV

Ethan’s little speech had quite the effect on me. I was extremely warm and dizzy. If sex was really as good as the way he described it, how could it be a sin?! Whatever. It wasn’t my job to question the Lord and his rules, so I brushed him off as well as I could and continued with the class.

After about an hour I dismissed the group and everyone made their way out of the basement, Ethan included. When my group ended it was usually around 7 pm and I was the only one left in the building so locking up was my job. I felt like I should say a prayer and confess my sinful thoughts before leaving so I made my way upstairs to the chapel. The lights were dim so I didn’t see the Ethan sitting in the back pew and I went to kneel in front of the altar. “Dear God, please forgive me for my impure thoughts and please protect me from the temptation that is Ethan Dolan. Amen.” I whispered. “Oh so I’m a temptation now?” a deep voice rumbled from behind me. I attempted to turn around quickly but just ended up further embarrassing myself by falling on my ass. My face was burning with guilt and I couldn’t bring myself to look up at him, and I feared that if I did look at him, I’d do whatever he asked.

ETHANS POV

I couldn’t help but grin as she stared down at my boots. I knew she wanted me now and she knew that she’d made a mistake letting her true desires slip. I reached out a hand and brushed her cheek and lifted her face. “Look at me Y/n. Come on baby. Look at me. Look at Daddy.” I said, catching her attention. Her eyes met mine and I swear to God my knees buckled. I ran my thumb over her lower lip and tugged on it just a little. She locked eyes with me as she sucked my thumb into her mouth. She looked so innocent and the thought of being the one to fuck her brains out was so so exciting. Was it wrong to tempt her and reel her in this way? Maybe. Did I care? No.

“Oh sweetheart, you look so beautiful. But you’d look so much better with my dick in your mouth don’t ya think?”

READERS POV

I must have died and gone to heaven. That could be the only explanation for this situation. Ethan Dolan wanted me and all reasonable thought had floated out of my brain. He wanted me to suck him off and that’s exactly what I was going to do.

My hands scrambled to pull his belt free and unbutton his jeans and he reached down to grab my wrists. “Baby slow down. We’ve got all night. I promise.” Ethan chuckled above me. “I-i I’ve n-never done this before.” I whispered, looking at him. His big hand cradled my chin before he spoke, “Oh baby, I know. But I’m gonna teach you.” He unbuckled his belt and pulled it free from the loops of his jeans. He then unbuttoned them, pushing them to pool around his ankles. He then grabbed my hand, pressing it to the front of him. I could feel his member pulsing beneath his black calvin klein boxers and it excited me. I gently pulled them down to join his jeans and his length sprang up, finally free from its confines. All I could do was stare. It was so big and intimidating but my mouth watered with anticipation.

“Open up beautiful.” Ethan gently urged and I did as I was told. He fed his cock into my mouth inch by inch and I moaned at the taste.

ETHANS POV

She was taking my cock like a champ and if I wasn’t so caught up in the pleasure, I would have been shocked. She started sucking on her own and bobbing her head back and forth, slowly but surely. “God damn sweetheart. Yeah just like that. You’re doing so good for me baby. So so good. Ugh fuck yes.” I moaned, my hand coming up to cup the back of her head. I managed to pry my eyes open to look down at her and the sight was beautiful. “Come on baby. Remember what I said? Look at Daddy.” I groaned. Y/n looked up at my through her this lashes and I could see tears welling up in her eyes. She looked so fucking pretty. “Okay take me in as far as you can...yup just like that baby, just like that…now try to swallow.” I instructed her. She did what I said and a litany of curses spilled from my lips as her throat constricted around me. I began sliding in and out of her mouth at a quick pace and she did her best to accommodate my speed. “Yes! Fuck yes! Good girl...oh god…” I cried. I was a panting mess and I couldn’t bring myself to give a shit. I withdrew myself from her mouth and she sucked in a large lungful of air, throatfuck spit gathered at the corners of her mouth. God she was so fucking sexy. “Get up baby. Come on.” I demanded. Once she stood, I pulled her body flush with mine, kissing her full on the mouth. My hand reached down slowly to lift her skirt and I ran a finger over her soaked panties. She hissed at the contact and I grinned against her lips.

READERS POV

He was touching me in my most intimate place and I was shocked that the sparks flying between us didn’t catch the whole church on fire. Oh. My. God. We’re in a church! My father’s church! What is wrong with me?! Ethan’s lips trailed down my neck, making me shiver. “Sweetheart I wanna fuck you over one of these church pews. Is that okay? Huh? Do you want that? Tell Daddy what you want.” His honey sweet voice whispered in my ear. I couldn’t lie, I did want him to fuck me. I didn’t even care that we were in a church anymore. I wanted him and he wanted me and I wasn’t about to stop this. I nodded before whispering back “Daddy, I want whatever you want.” He groaned and his hands that were resting on my hips, gripped my flesh tight before he grabbed his discarded belt and led me to a pew. Ethan spun me around so my back was facing him and he ran a hand down my spine signaling me to lean forward. He pulled the zipper down on the back of my skirt until it fell away. I heard the click of him opening his pocket knife and I shivered as the cold blade came in contact with my skin. In a swift motion he cut away my panties and I looked over my shoulder in shock. He grinned at me, shoving my torn panties in his jacket pocket. “A momento baby. They’re mine now.” He smirked and delivered a smack to my right ass cheek. I moaned and let my head fall forward. “Are you ready for me sweetheart?” He asked, just to be sure I wanted this. I bit my lip and shook my head yes. He slapped his dick against my clit a few times making me gasp and clench around nothing. “Please…” I moaned. “Well since ya asked so pretty…” He murmured before lining himself up and sliding in to the hilt.

I couldn’t help it, I just screamed. It felt so damn good having him inside me and the pent up need from the teasing all night completely masked the pain that should have occurred. Ethan stilled inside me, making what seemed like a choking sound. “I just...I uh...I’ve-fuck…I’ve never been with a girl this tight before. Jesus Christ. I uh, I just need a second.” He said through clenched teeth. I smirked to myself and wiggled my ass, giggling a bit after hearing him hiss.

ETHANS POV

Her pussy was like a fucking vice around me. I didn’t want to embarrass myself by cumming so soon so I had to take a second to collect myself. She was so warm and wet inside. She let it slip that she was on birth control during sharing time in group so I didn’t use a condom. This was the first time I’d ever been inside someone raw and it was amazing. I could feel everything, every ridge, every pulse.

After a few moments I began to pull out and Y/n whined. beneath me. I pulled out and pushed back in over and over at a slow but steady pace, all the while she moaned and whimpered below me. “Faster…” She cried. Her wish was my command so I planted my hands on her hips and began to slam in and out of her slick channel. My hips slapped against her ass and the sound echoed through the church like some kind of sick depraved hymn. “Oh my god! Yes Ethan yes! Please don’t stop!” Y/n moaned, slumped forward over the pew. Her hands gripped the bench seat and her knuckles turned white from how tight she was holding on. I had been fucking her so hard, her hair had fallen out of her bun and was now waving around her face. My left hand gathered her hair into a makeshift ponytail and yanked her head back while my right hand slithered between her legs to rub her clit. She tightened around me and I gasped at the feeling.

READERS POV

Between the stinging of my scalp where Ethan was yanking my hair, and the immense pleasure of him rubbing my clit while thrusting into me, had me in a fog of bliss. He used my hair to pull me backwards so his chest was against my back and his teeth sank into my shoulder. I cried out and I could feel the coil of heat in my belly tightening. “You’re doing so well sweetheart. You’re so perfect for me. Ughhhh yes. I’m close. Cum for me baby. Cum for Daddy.” He growled in my ear. After hearing his words I exploded around him, juices flowing down my thighs and all over him. My legs felt so weak but I was determined to stay upright until he came. “Oh fuck! You’re squeezing me so tight! I’m gonna cum! Can I come inside you baby? Please?” Ethan begged. He sounded so sweet I just couldn’t say no. I nodded yes and moments later I felt the hot splash of his seed inside me. It felt so good to share something like this with someone. The warmth spread all over my body and as he jerked inside of my with the aftershocks, he hit my g-spot, triggering another orgasm for me. Tears spilled down my face at the overwhelming pleasure and I felt him wipe them away. Ethan pulled out of me slowly and laid down on the seat of the pew, pulling me on top of him. I laid there in comfortable silence as he stroked my hair. “You did so good for me baby. I’m so proud of you. You feelin okay?” He asked. “Yes I’m good. I’m more than good. That was…amazing.” I sighed. “I think we should keep doing this Y/n. I’ve never been with someone that makes me feel the way you do. The chemistry between us is insane don’t you think?” He asked in a serious tone. “It is. I’ve never been so open and willing to bear myself to anyone else. I’d love to keep seeing you Ethan.” I murmured into his chest. “Come on baby. Let’s get outta here.” Ethan said sitting up. “Wait! I have to go erase the tape in the security office before anyone sees us fucking in the chapel! Oh my god I forgot about the cameras!” I shrieked. Ethan’s laugh reverberated through the room before he spoke, saying “Don’t erase it. I’ll take it with me. I’m gonna be replaying this night in my head over and over again for a while anyway. I’d like to have video evidence that this isn’t a dream.”

THE END

[ivyveil]

Mary Me

the one where he proposes

OR:

The 1940s installment of a Soul-Mates verse.

The room was swathed in a deep maroon. Curtains draped against the windows, curves forming around the sills and down the gold columns on either side.

It was a nice restaurant, with expensive-looking candles and fresh-cut flowers on each table. The bar wasn’t fully stocked enough for the crowds milling about, having yet to find its balance of supply since Prohibition ended a few months ago. It was a rough adjustment for everyone, with the prices taking a jolt and the people having to remember what a drink tasted like without poison.

While the idea of a fancy restaurant would allude towards privacy, this dinner was anything but. Granted, it was a personal room but the numerous crowds of friends and family around the table led the mood towards something more lively than dim lights and slow jazz. Tables were pushed against the walls, only a handful actually sitting down, and the band had taken its land near one of the corners, setting up an orchestra to dance for.

It was a gathering, a party.

Nerves were knotted against the floor of your stomach, and despite having a glass of champagne in one hand and hooch in the other, nothing was easing the clench. Perhaps it was residue from hardships that had only ended a few years ago, or it could be the more instinctive nerves - holding alcohol without needing to look over one’s shoulder was still new for everyone. Even now, you saw Nick stealing a glance at the waitstaff, as if sussing out which was the cop.

“‘lright, love?” Harry spoke low, his hand briefly resting against your back as he came around from behind. It wasn’t far into the party, enough time having passed for his entrance to be marked by everyone already feeling tipsy, but not raising an eyebrow at his late arrival.

His suit was understated, a black with minimal design. His mother would tailor all of his suits, resulting in most of them being the absolute extravagant pieces for all the parties he threw - the magnificent ones where the moon grew twice to try and be an inch closer, where the ocean glittered around his villa and you could strain to taste the rose-colored smoke in the air. They were alive with people and spirits and spirited people, and the types who would disappear in the morning and you’d question their existence, but never their stories.

His suit was fine, but his hair was a proper mess. Harry had insisted to you a few days ago, a dopey smile on his face as he leaned against your shoulder, that it was a rebel of the highest degree.  You knew the words were bullshit, but the way he spoke sounded like a home you’d never known, so you listened.

“You need a haircut.” The words came out before you could properly hold them back, the liquor having moistened your throat and disconnected your mind from your choices.

Harry broke into a smile, this time shaking his head slightly so the curls danced, delighted, in the dim glow.

“You like it?” he asked, and you made a sour face in response. He took one of the drinks from your hands, making the low noise in the back of his throat to signal disapproval. Where Harry managed to gather his rebellious streak of societal indignity, but still manage to believe that women should be held up on pedestals and protected, eluded you.

But you were still dizzy with him. Drunk in the way he said your name, caught up in his eyelashes, a fatal swoop in your chest that felt like laying in bed after a long day’s work. You were simply infatuated, but insistent on the fact that the feelings drifted no farther. Infatuation could be controlled, but love.

Love would be an entire beast that you couldn’t battle. It would include leaving him, leaving him because Mary was cemented down in his roots. Not that you’d agree with it, but she was, and it was a reality you lived with.

They’d been sweet on each other for the first couple months. You hadn’t kept up on the details too much. But time had worn their feelings thin, wafering holes poking through in the way they loved. Which was a wrong, horrendous source of comfort to you - but it terrified you, as well. Harry was the embodiment of love, with how he danced and moved and swayed into the moonlight, and yet there was something off in the way he loved Mary. It felt like a commitment for the sake of, rather than motivated each day, and the failures of love haunted you.

“Where’s Mary?”

Harry shrugged, taking a swig of the drink and looking against the crowd. The two of you were propped against the wall, as if only existing in the plane of the party by the physical constraints. If you had your way, your souls would fall through the wallpaper and into something more exquisite.

Harry had a way of making the dullest parties exciting, and you wondered what he had up his sleeve. But his face showed no signs of telling, a crease along his forehead denting in his sudden gloom and moodiness.

“Dunno. Was gonna find her, thought she’d be with yeh.”

That was his mistake, his constant mistake, of seeking his love around you. It was there but not where he expected - it was manifestation he sought, the woman he called ‘darling’ on late nights out, not the friend he called ‘love’ because it meant nothing.

Words didn’t quite fit your mood, so you merely shrugged and shifted your weight between legs. The music had picked up but your feet had been worn to the bone by running all over town the previous night, so you prayed Harry’s stance next to you would dissuade any men from approaching.

“Think I’ve got to end things with Mary, yeah?”

It was a loaded question, especially with Harry’s eyes staring into yours. It was a rush, how the lights cascaded down the side of his face and his hair was a horrible mess, an unsightly vision for anyone in town, but he was utterly angelic nonetheless. It was a weird sensation against your throat, seeing him tragic and sad, and not knowing how to respond that wouldn’t be an attempt to benefit your own tragic and sad.

“Why’d you say that?” you asked.

“It was never right, was it?” He spoke thoughtfully, scanning your face for agreement, and apparently finding some, for he continued. “It’s reached an end.”

Silence befell the two of you, yet it was heavy with the implication of further words against his tongue. They weren’t spoken yet, but you felt with one more moment-

“I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh. After it’s done.” His eyes had swept to his feet, the dirty tips of his shoes from the soil around the town.

You both were misplaced, you felt it in your soul and the way you two would wrap in each other’s auras, clasped at the hands and promising you’d escape this hellhole of a town one day. And it only was proven in how Harry’s eyebrows sloped together, a defiance in the order of things prominent in his pursed lips.

“Okay,” you drawled it out, but Harry didn’t seem to find anything humorous. With a tilted neck, his Adam’s apple bobbing and drawing your eyes in like flies to honey, he downed the rest of your champagne.

“See her over there,” he mumbled, slipping back into the throngs of the party. He was still incredibly visible, a mess of hair and clunky shoes passing through the sea towards his girl. She was sat, pretty and prim, but you could tell she felt only half. Mary had an odd sense about her, a jealousy towards you for sure, but a feeling around her sphere of influence that she wasn’t full unless Harry was there. Half-dazed without, only focused on him with, there was seemingly no win.

The pair of them slipped out into the night together, with your eyes trailing behind. Mary was oblivious as to how the conversation would go, and for that, you were conflicted.

It must have made you an awful person, how the nerves crashed against giddiness. The drinks may have kicked into effect, because before you knew it - you were swaying and dancing against the moonlight, around the tables with the rest of the folk, pained heels clipping against the floor as they did every night, dancing out the mundanity of a town life crippled with the distrust of life. It would be a conversation for the rest of the night, how Harry would retell the dramatic discussion with fire in his eyes and a sadness plunging into his heart, because he always felt guilty and you’d never understand why.

——–

You glided out of the mass, panting with how the dance took your breath away, feeling the redness built up in your cheeks and the sweat on your brow. You passed Nick with his wide eyes and bursts of laughter, and noticed how he winked at you when you left the room. The restroom was calling.

The main hall of the restaurant was bustling with normal activity, waiters dashing around with massively weighed trays balanced against their shoulders. There was a coat rack near the entrance, huddled with pounds of jackets, hats, and scarves, and a lone Harry Styles squatted next to it.

He looked up when you passed by, the hollows of his cheeks straining purple in the grotesque lights.

You paused next to him, almost dashing around to head and pee, but his expression caught you off guard.

He looked in another world. His eyes, blue with morose, opened to look at nothing. Eyelids heavy with almost boredom, but his posture offered enough to let you know his demons were free once more.

“What’s wrong?” you asked, and once he shifted to the side, you took the cue to sit beside him, crossing your legs and ignoring your body’s protests.

His mouth open and closed, his fingers spread wide in front of him to grasp onto his senses, but they were nowhere to be found. His lips were glistening, perhaps from him licking them continuously, but a small streak against his cheek made you think otherwise.

“Was she upset?” It was all you had to offer, but it seemed like you hadn’t struck gold. He continued to mime whatever words that were escaping him, but your attention had been caught elsewhere.

In one of his hands, you had thought he was holding onto his pack of cigarettes. At second glance, however, it wasn’t. It was terrible.

The fact it wasn’t, and the fact his mouth was gaping, and the fact his eyes were glassed and that his shoulders were quivering – it all accumulated into a story you never expected.

A blue velvet box, iconic in its time, holding only one thing inside.

“Harry, is that-”

“She’s pregnant,” he managed to choke out, not glancing at the box, his voice cracking in its sudden revival, “Mary’s pregnant.”

“She’s what.”

“Couldn’t break it off, would she gonna do? Can’t go back to live with her parents, the town’s too far off-” he continued to speak, words that made sense when combined but gibberish with how he stringed them. It was a rant that had been built into his lungs and found a small stream to blow off, with only your collection of stammers breaking through the dam.

“Did you–’re you–is that–”

“Proposed. Bit rushed, didn’t get on a knee, but it did its duty. I did mine, anyhow,” he said, a desperate gloominess clutched your dress as he presented the box. His fingers fumbled against the velvet, nubbed fingertips and signs of bitten skin surrounding the nails.

Opened, the box was empty. The contents were stuck on Mary’s finger, presumably back at the party showing off the latest development in her life.

“Congratulations.” It didn’t feel as if it were you who said anything, the voice too breathless and at ease to have come out of your body, with its thundering heartbeat and screaming mind.

“Gotta get a job, gotta call up Howard ‘n see what’s not ‘n the papers. There’s gotta be something, yeah? Need a crib, now, too.” It was clear his mind was far off, into what he needed to do, in the adult-life that neither of you had never quite fit into, but was now thrust upon him.

All your mind was on, was the trip you two had been planning for the past year. Harry had promised train tickets across the country, down towards where the sun always shone and the waters were constantly warm around your ankles, even in the dead of night. Maps and notebooks had cluttered your office for months, with strings attaching your future endeavors in a maze of findings. It had started out as an escape from the Depression, the one that had seemingly ended but never quite had, the one where your throats were aching for more than speakeasies could offer.

It wasn’t going to happen. It simply couldn’t. You’d never see how he would look, dozed off across from you on your hundredth train, his backpack used as a makeshift pillow. You’d never feel the brutal mountain winds with him. You’d never be able to wander around the greatest cities of America, you’d never explore all the lives you could’ve lived, in towns you never knew existed.

The realization brought you to another moment, another question, one out of place with Harry’s rant but in tune with how your blood ran cold.

“Where’d you get the ring?”

That snapped Harry’s attention, and his bloodshot eyes managed to find you in their blur. Perhaps it was an expectation, for you to ask, but the surprise against his lips, how they parted with a slacked jaw and a sharp inhale, said otherwise.

“Wha’?”

You repeated yourself, and he staggered into a motionless statue of himself, a final shake of his shoulders until he ceased to move. Just stared at you, haunted.

I’ve got somethin’ I need to say to yeh.

“Harry.” To your surprise, it almost sounded admonished.

His eyes were pleading for you not to speak. For speaking would bring it into existence, and he could never juggle it all. Neither of you could, it was a mortal flaw that ran deep into your flesh, and now against your heart, where it felt it would stay forever.

You felt compelled to speak anyway, motivated slightly by the intoxication and the exhaustion and the bitterness in which life was taking from you continuously, without ceasing, and this was the one chance to take something back for yourself. To give a bit of yourself back towards him, to offer a glimpse of the life that could’ve been.

“I would’ve said yes.”

It was quiet.

You thought Harry was being quiet, as well, but his hands reached up to wrack against his scalp, collecting at his hair and his head went between his knees.

He gave a nod, a gentle movement from your perspective, and a choked cry. It was stifled by the sudden uproar within the restaurant – perhaps another fight, perhaps another birthday, you didn’t care – and your arm went around his shoulder, bringing him into your chest.

You cried. Tucked away, hidden behind swaths of clothing that had belonged to the rich and now hung off the poor, surrounded by lights and glamour that suddenly became cheap and instrumental, compared to what you two had deserved. He felt warm against your skin, his forehead now pressed against your shoulder as his body pushed forward in distress. Time stretched to allow for you both to have one moment, a solace against the blazing sun of normalcy. It was one minute until Anne would burst through the party doors, searching for her son, perhaps having caught a glimpse of the truth and knowing where his heart truly was.

But for that minute, his heart was in your chest, the beats matching up, the pair united for a last breath.

The box slipped from his fingers and landed on the floor, half-open and completely empty.

It was a reality you’d have to live with.

[daemon-knight]

So I guess I’m going to be doing these Off the Cuff/State of the Community things yearly. For those new, apparently once the year starts to end I do a massive essay/opinion piece on the general state of things I see in my little corner of the RP community. I usually do this due to let out some of the built-up of emotions in me just dying to let out, and also to collect my thoughts in a more civil way than just spewing it out angrily in the middle of January after an impulsive mass-unfollowing spree. Also, if I’m going to have to deal with a bunch of anon hate, mass exodus-ing of my blog, and relentless vague-bloggings on the subjects I talk about for the rest of the week, it might as well be at the end of the year so I can start the coming new year fresh.

Ideally, I’ll end this one on a more positive note if I organize everything properly, but we’ll see.

And so, with that said... 

Notes from Last Year

I might as well start by making some quick notes and comments from last year’s little blurb and talk about what’s changed and what’s remained the same in terms of my opinion and general disposition. 

And honestly, little has really changed. 

However, just so everyone knows my current opinion of things from last year...

People are still promoting half-finished blogs and it needs to stop. Gonna’ say it again, don’t give people who don’t put in enough effort to finish the damn thing attention. I’d rather not see half and quarter-efforts be rewarded, as cruel as that sounds. 

Dash Commentary is still a thing and it... bugs me. It’s going to get its own segment after this, but just know I'm less than apathetic about it.

I still see RPing as more of a character building experience more than anything thing else. I’ll go into more detail later, but the short of it is that it requires work on your end just as much as your partner’s.

I still look at canon divergence with raised eyebrows, but I’m slowly softening my stance on them, if only due to the fact that Claudia is an OC and not affected by a canon character’s position in the grander scheme of things.

My opinions on shipping and multi-muse blogs haven’t changed much either... That’s all I have to say for now, read the original post for more details.

Okay, that’s everything of importance from last year, let’s talk about some new stuff. Starting with...

Dash Commentary

Might as well rip the bandage off and get to the hard-hitting topics first. 

Alright, I’ve said this before to some extent, but I’ll say it with a little more clarity here: Dash commentary, by all technicality, is meta-gaming. It is your character commenting on situations and events they would not have experienced first-hand nor were a part of as if they did and they were. I tend to tolerate this because it’s usually done for comedy, and usually a form of crack RPing. However, I’ll also say that the act of someone else commenting on events they weren’t a part of for sake of giving their two cents is very rarely perceived comedic or funny. And if it isn’t funny, it just comes across as juvenile.

It feels like weak excuse to be a part of an RP thread without actually replying to it. That, to me, is cowardly and it does more to infuriate me than anything else. Maybe I’m just being an old man complaining about the new way people RP now, but it really doesn’t feel like people want to be involved in conflicts and struggles anymore. It feels stale to me. I see it as a bigger problem in the state of things, and... I don’t know, it might be a problem larger than the RP corner I’m in. 

Okay, that was a lot more depressing than I expected, we’re moving on.

To something even rougher.

Profiles/Blogs

For the sake of brevity and keeping things somewhat in order I’ll try and keep this to bullet points to not go too off-topic. But in terms of profiles and blogs...

Actually finish the damn blog before promoting it. This was an issue last year, I’m still seeing it, and it’s still annoying. It’s actual flash over substance and as someone that’s been doing this for over ten years, it irritates me something fierce.

A bit of repeating advice, but try and keep the actual profile short. About two to three short paragraphs for the bio, and for the personality section either a short paragraph or a quick list of the top five or six aspects of your character will do. I’ll say it again, as of this post I’m actively following over 60 people, anything to make it easier to get through your profile and plot things helps.

One that note, a short rules page helps too. If you’re over the age of 20 and you’ve been RPing for over 5 years you already have a decent grasp on grammar and general RP etiquette as far as I’m concerned. The main thing I look for in rules pages nowadays are for passwords and triggers, as those are the most important things to me as your partner.

Thankfully, I think passwords have either been phased out, or I’ve just blocked enough blogs that have them to not see them anymore. Either way, I’d still advise against having them. They do nothing but tack on extra work for a partner that, frankly, might not even be around long enough to actively write with.

I’d recommend not making a sideblog for RPing unless it’s specifically for NSFW RPing. It makes things like starter calls, asks, and general data-keeping difficult for both yourself and others... mostly others.

I don’t know why dash-only blogs are becoming a thing, but unless someone can explain to me the actual advantages of having them aside from avoiding the actual work behind making a full blog I’m going to advise against it.

And that’s really it in terms of profiles/blog advice/opinions I have. Moving to something a little more... divisive.

Musings/Galleries

To me their are two types of musings. The actual definition where a character speaks, thinks, meditates, or discusses on a specific topic at length. Or the type where people reblog quotes and aesthetic posts revelant to their character. I’ve talked about this before, but to summarize I think the latter kinds of musings weakens you as a writer, as you depend on outside sources to explain your character instead of your actual writing. That’s the nicest I can put, but that link I gave definitely doesn’t. Same thing for reblogging fanart of your faceclaim. I’ll probably do a rambling on that topic in the future, but the short version is those picture just fill a queue and that's really it. This is moreso aimed at OC blogs than Canon ones, but... eh, I got similar feelings on it.

Okay, moving to some actual advice now.

Advice and Miscellaneous Opinions

I think I’ve shown enough teeth, so now I can talk about the fun stuff in a nicer tone and really relax you with some advice.

Okay, I’m lying, I’m still going to be a little mean about this.

Really, it’s your blog, write however and whatever you want. In terms of honest advice I have very little. It’s a lot easier to explain what not to do than what to do. That said...

Something I’ve said in the past, but keep world-building to a minimal on your blog, or at least to things that directly effect your character. This usually means their powers, magic, weapons/equipment, and what’s relevant to their immediate background. To use Claudia as an example, I have an idea of what the social and political landscape of Ivora lands are, their economy, their reputation, and general army/militia is like, but I’ll only go into depth about it if a character asks Claudia herself about it. It’s not an immediate relevant part of a tomboy lesbian knight that stabs and punches people for fun, it’s just background information to help ground the character when needed.

I’ve got a draft on writing fight scenes in my drafts that I’ll be posting at a later date, but I’ll give the short version of my advice here. In short, fight sequences should have a back-and-forth rhythm to it. In terms of RPing it’s a lot like a turn-based RPG, you do a move, then your partner. One action leads to another, and another, and another. Have you character do nor more than two consecutive actions per post, as any more than that tends to ruin the flow and forces/pressures your partner to taking unnecessary hits. Much like professonal wrestling the goal is to sell the fight. Again, things to discuss on a later date, but that’s the gist of it.

Use alternate universes with care. If you can slot the original verse into a world without changing too much of your character, do it. I think the only series/worlds that are popular and widely-used enough to maybe need a alternate universe of its own (as of this post) would be My Hero Academia and Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure. Most other series/worlds already allow for some semblance of the supernatural and uncanny that can easily slot in a random element or two without breaking it, but My Hero Academia has a lot more grounded rules in place for how powers work as a whole and the laws (both physical and societal) work around them, so it’d be harder to logically stick random elements of someone else’s story in them without contemplation. JJBA has only two main ways to get superpowers as far as I’m aware, so trying to slot a random OC like Claudia in there would be difficult unless they followed the rules of the world. Most other series I thought of adding would allow for some amount of wiggle room for most characters. But just to be thorough...

As far as I’m aware Demon Slayer Yaiba is honestly just samurai killing demons with not-hamon, that’s not too hard slot in random characters that just happen to not be samurai/swordsmen so long as you mind the time period.

One Piece has a ridiculous among of wiggle room in terms of powers and abilities. Cursed Fruit is a thing, but I’ve heard there’s some leeway here and there.

The only real world-building done in any particular Fire Emblem is surrounding the immediate continent/country of that specific game, and they recognize that foreign nations are a thing, so not much work needs to be done there to slot some other medieval-based character in there.

I didn’t mention Fate/Stay Night, namely because I have mixed feelings about the series as a whole, some very conflicted opinions about Nasu’s writing style and themes, some pretty hot takes on F/GO as a concept, and a general revulsion towards gacha games... however, Fate/Stay Night is basically the modern world with magic and mages, which is pretty easy to slot in a character or two, Servants aside.

Also said this last year, but multi-muse, try and keep the number of muses in the single-digits, it’ll help you and your partners keep a little order in the long run.

Honestly? Queue/schedule your ask memes, it just looks nicer on everyone’s dash.

I was seeing people open themselves up for commissioning icons a few months back... I’m no lawyer, but I’d recommend commissioning icon psds frames instead. There’s a lot less worry of copyright shenanigans that way since most of those assets would be either your own making or through (ideally) sites and places that allow those assets free for commercial-use. Just saying.

Okay, I think that’s everything I wanted to get off my chest, at least everything I can think of at the moment. Let’s all do this again next year.

Or the next time Allen gets triggered by some fresh hell that taking over my corner of the RPC, whatever comes first.

[anghraine]

pro patria, chapters 15-21

“Ascalonian, eh?”

“Our father was from Ebonhawke and our mother’s a Langmar,” I said, and he looked surprised all over again.

With a quick laugh, he said, “Then get out there, little sister, and make our ancestors proud.”

title: pro patria (15-21/?) stuff that happens: Althea and Logan take on Zamon in court, and Logan recruits Althea into a new investigation—one that touches her own family.

verse: Ascalonian grudgefic characters/relationships: Althea Fairchild, Lord Faren, Logan Thackeray, Countess Anise, Julius Zamon; Minister Caudecus, Ailoda Langmar, others; Althea & Logan, Althea & Faren, Althea & Deborah chapters: 1-7, 8-14

-

FIFTEEN 1 I could always depend on Faren’s loyalty. But even beyond him, everyone I needed looked to be present. Cin Fursarai had arrived to complain about his business losses. Lady Madeline kept me at arm’s length, but indicated she still meant to testify. My friend Corone was ready to identify his stolen chalice, recovered from Zamon's mansion by the Seraph. Reth told me that he’d been fired from the Ministry Guard, but hoped I’d pull this off. “Just tell the truth,” I said, clasping his shoulder, “and Zamon won’t be able to do any more damage.” 2 Beneath my easy assurance—what I hoped looked like easy assurance—my blood pounded. This could go horribly wrong, and I had no clever tricks left, no clones to conceal myself among, nowhere to run or hide. I could only present the truth, and hope it convinced the ministers. I couldn’t look at my mother. Anise and Captain Thackeray quietly joined me on either side. “Proving Zamon’s guilt won’t be easy,” he said, “but I have every confidence in you. Now get out there and convict that maggot.” 3 I nodded, appreciating both the support and pressure, willing my pulse to slow. It didn’t seem particularly accommodating. “You look calm, but I can tell you’re worried,” Anise said softly. “Don’t be—you’ve done all of the necessary preparation and the facts are on our side. The case is yours to win.” “Thanks for the vote of confidence,” I said, and forced myself to breathe evenly. “Now I just have to win it.” 4 Zamon, of course, sneered and denied everything. “You’re a fool, you know. You’ll never convict me—I’m as innocent as a babe in arms.” I, too, had noticed the tendency of infants to try bribing extremely wealthy aristocrats. Gods, what an idiot. I shrugged. “Let’s see who the courts believe.” 5 “Hear ye!” called the judicial scribe, and the hubbub dutifully dwindled. “The trial of Minister Julius Zamon is hereby called to order, Legate Minister Caudecus presiding. Who stands for the prosecution?” “I do,” I said, and forced myself to add, “Lady Althea Fairchild.” Just before, the scribe had explained that I would be on trial for slander, if Zamon were acquitted. I thought of my family’s unstained name, and just repressed a shudder. “Your Honour,” I declared, “we have evidence proving Minister Zamon conspired against the citizens of Divinity’s Reach!” 6 I couldn’t turn back now. “He abused his authority to commit thievery, murder, and treason. We will present incriminating documents and sworn testimony from respected members of the community, including the sister of the accused!” Madeline blanched, but met her brother’s glare steadily. Minister Caudecus studied me for several long moments. Then he turned to Zamon and said, “The prosecution seems to have prepared quite a compelling case.” My head swam with relief. 7 “Minister Zamon, can you refute these accusations?” Zamon simply laughed, and all relief faded. He was an idiot, but one who knew his own interests. Well, sort of—all my witnesses now eyed him with intense dislike, even Fursarai. “Refute?” he said scornfully. “Why bother? My lord Caudecus”—and now he stood upright, back to his old arrogant height—“in accordance with the most ancient tenets of Krytan law, I invoke my right to trial by combat!”

SIXTEEN

1 I didn’t even have time to hope that Minister Caudecus would restore some sense of order to the proceedings; he immediately accepted the invocation and announced that Zamon would have to nominate a second, and I both a principal and a second. “I will be the principal, Legate Minister,” I said promptly. Caudecus granted a short recess to choose my second—my second, in a trial by combat, as if we’d jumped back to the days of the guild wars. I hadn’t really meant this when I hoped for it a few days ago, I’d meant—I’d been angry, frustrated, but I thought of it as a long-dead custom, not a possibility. What did prowess in battle have to do with truth or justice? Well, I thought, at the least it could be an outlet for justice; I felt not the slightest doubt of his guilt, and very little doubt of defeating him in combat, backed by a decent second. The only difficulty was finding one. 2 In fact, I had no difficulty narrowing the field to possible candidates. As soon as I turned about and considered the gathered audience, I dismissed virtually everyone. There was Reth, who had been a Ministry Guard; he must have some fighting skill. There was Anise, a better mesmer than I’d ever be. Captain Thackeray, of course, if he really meant what he’d said. There was even Faren, who had (however ridiculously) held his own in the bandit caves. But which? 3 I drifted among my friends, not wanting to give Zamon and his massive Norn retainer any chance at preparing themselves. Fending off their inquiries after the case, I saw Faren waving his arm and swivelled about to reach him. Instead, I nearly slammed into Zamon himself. With one of his most unpleasant smiles, he said, “It’s not too late to abandon this farce. Recuse yourself and I’ll see to it your honesty is rewarded. You don’t want to face the alternative.” Very quietly, I said, “Don’t threaten me, Minister.” 4 I ducked into the crowd before he could try anything else—I wouldn’t put much past him—and strode up to Faren. “Ready for action, old friend!” he said brightly. Tension faded from my shoulders and temples, for all that I’d resolved nothing. Faren could be theatrical, posturing, careless, but somehow he always seemed to soothe my nerves. And no woman could ask for a truer friend. “I’m sure you are,” I told him, with a quick embrace. To my surprise, he returned it tightly, his sharp chin digging into my scalp. 5 Faren released me, looking nervous and awkward in a way I hadn’t seen in years. “And let me add,” he said, his voice far removed from his usual vain cheerfulness, “I’m truly flattered you’re even considering me as your second.” Oh. Well, I was, though I hadn’t thought of it as flattery, just pragmatics—but perhaps that was all the more flattering in its way, especially for someone like Faren. In all probability, I wouldn’t choose him, but I was touched anyway. “Glad to know you’re willing and able,” I replied. “I’ll let you know when I’m ready to decide.” 6 I tracked down Anise—or rather, Anise’s vibrant hair, but happily, the rest of her remained attached to it. “Trial by combat?” she said, with all the incredulity that I felt. “Who’d have thought it? I’m surprised Zamon even knows it’s an option. There hasn’t been one in over fifty years … or, at least, that’s what I’ve been told.” I shot her an amused glance; she’d been a family friend in my mother’s youth as well as mine, if not before. “Then we ought to make this as memorable as possible,” I said. 7 Captain Thackeray was the easiest to find; he stood a head above everyone else and was encased in heavy armour, with a bright sword strapped to his side. He grinned at my questioning glance. “As a Seraph captain,” he told me, “I can’t really jump around saying, ‘pick me, pick me!’ But I can certainly think it.” I laughed. That resolved the first question. More soberly, he said: “I’m ready to go if you need me.” ---------------------------------------------------------------

1) the guild wars: a bloody war between actual guilds that took place shortly before the first game, Guild Wars: Prophecies.

2) Anise’s vibrant hair: Anise has very long, beautiful red hair.

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SEVENTEEN

1 “There’s nothing I’d like better than to personally dish out some of the punishment Zamon deserves,” added Captain Thackeray. I could easily believe it of him—both the sentiment and the approach. As I left him and moved among very-definitely-not-nominees, I did my best to calculate my chances without betraying any sign of doing so. Reth seemed to be some sort of brawler, eager to rough up a traitorous noble with his own hands. Captain Thackeray, between his bulk and his armour, could effectively shield me and absorb Zamon’s and Eitel’s attacks while I lashed out spells. Faren was—Faren. And Anise would duplicate the confusion I depended upon, multiply it into mass chaos. 2 I returned to the scribe, expression carefully blank, the observers and guests staring in near-silence—all but my candidates, whom I’d quietly informed. Zamon and Eitel-the-Unlovable looked guarded, but unprepared for any specific approach. “Have you decided who will serve as the prosecution’s second?” asked the scribe. In a loud, clear voice, I said, “I’ve chosen Captain Thackeray.” Logan already knew, but he still seemed like he might nearly punch his gauntleted fist into the air. He, Anise, and I turned cheerful smiles on Zamon, who eyed us all with intense dislike. He didn’t look afraid, but he didn’t look relieved, either—whatever he thought of me, he must know it wouldn’t be an easy fight against a captain of the Seraph and a mage. 3 “An interesting choice,” remarked Minister Caudecus, almost dourly. What had Logan ever done to him? “If Lord Zamon proves victorious, he is innocent. The case is thrown out and these charges against him may not be brought again. If you win, then Zamon is found guilty of the crime.” “I understand,” I replied. I understood that Zamon was going to rot in prison or the grave. 4 In the grave, as it happened. Captain Thackeray and I planned our approach with a few words and expressions; he would rush forward, keep them off me, and I’d make sure he had a dizzying array of clones and illusions alongside him to keep things interesting, between shooting Zamon and Eitel full of chaos magic. It worked beyond my most fanciful dreams. Eitel went down quickly; he seemed to have no resistance to my magic, and no interest in dodging it. Zamon screamed that we were nothing—really, who did he think he was?—and then that our skill didn’t matter. I only drew near at the end, when Zamon lay groaning and wounded under Logan’s sword. “I only … did … as I was told …” he mumbled, and died. 5 What? Now we had some other scheming traitor out there? “Victory is declared!” announced Minister Caudecus, with absolutely no enthusiasm. “According to the dictates of Krytan law, Minister Zamon is found guilty.” Captain Thackeray—Logan—guessed that Caudecus disliked the proceedings purely for the disruption of normal order, not that it was our doing, but Anise shook her head. “How do you think Zamon knew about the ancient law in the first place?” she murmured. Logan and I glanced sharply at her. 6 “If Zamon won the battle,” she continued, “he’d be declared innocent—no more investigation. Now he’s guilty, but he’s also dead. No loose ends.” Of course—but Caudecus himself? I could hardly believe it, and Logan looked shaken as well. Anise didn’t move closer, but the sudden intensity in her face made it feel as if she had. “Never underestimate Minister Caudecus,” she told us. 7 Anise slipped away, always quick to avoid unintended notice, and Logan gave a brisk nod. “Go and celebrate a well-earned victory,” he said. “I was genuinely hoping for a conviction based on a preponderance of the evidence … but this works, too.” That was Logan, all right. The ambivalent expression on his face then vanished, replaced by an unusually cheerful resolve. I’d expected him to return to his own business, like Anise; instead, he gave me a comradely clap on the shoulder that nearly knocked me to my knees. Then, Logan—Captain Thackeray of Divinity’s Reach, heir of Gwen Thackeray, hero of too many battles to count—looked straight at me, a woman who’d been indistinguishable from any young noble until a few months ago, and said, “I’m starting to think there’s no problem we can’t solve if we tackle it together.”

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

1) Eitel-the-Unlovable: Zamon’s retainer is a Norn, a member of a species of giant, vaguely Scandinavian shapeshifters. 

--------------------------------------------------------------- EIGHTEEN 1 “Now get some rest,” Captain Thackeray ordered. “There’s sure to be more work for us soon.” “Thanks, Captain,” I said, at once overwhelmed and determined. “I’ll be ready.” The compliments didn’t end there. Anise half-jokingly offered me a place among the queen’s lawyers; Corone laughed and said that he’d be sure not to run afoul of the captain and me; Lord Benjamin lit up when I suggested he should join the government himself; even the scribe said she was impressed with the trial. Truthfully, I told her, “I just hope that such proceedings remain rare.” 2 Faren, of course, swept a low, graceful bow, and then pretended to nearly swoon. “Another fine day’s work—on your part, that is,” he said. “Frankly, I’m exhausted just watching you.” I managed not to snicker, but only because I stood among the pillars and arches of the Ministry itself, not to mention under the eyes of some of the most powerful figures in Kryta. With a grin, he went on, “I hope you know I’ll be toasting your success later this evening, with damsels yet to be determined.” “I know,” I said dryly, and raised a brow. “Just spare me the details, and I’ll toast you for your discretion.” 3 Gladly leaving Faren to his own devices, I made my last farewells to everyone still loitering around the Ministry. To my relief, I had no immediately pressing duties, although Captain Thackeray—after congratulating me again and urging me to celebrate my victory—assured me that he’d be in touch. I didn’t doubt it, but for now, the best celebration seemed sleeping for three days. It wasn’t quite three days, but I did ignore everything else to crawl into my bed for hours, only waking for meals and a few dimly-remembered conversations. When I finally emerged, I had to assure my mother, “I’m not hurt, Mama, just tired.” Mother looked at me with anxious eyes—only more anxious after, well, watching me duel another minister to the death while unable to do anything, and while her other daughter lay dead and probably mutilated in some lost grave. I hated that she’d seen it, hated the fear that lived in her eyes these days, but more than that, I hated the idea of turning my back on our people. 4 After I spent a few days with my mother, alternately sleeping and consoling her, I headed back into Queensdale. I didn’t have a clear destination in mind, but I’d often heard Deborah talk about how people out there needed more help than the Seraph could supply, and how much more she wished she could do. I meant to help wherever I could, in whatever ways I could. Wherever I could took some peculiar shapes over the next few weeks. I made my way to Claypool and helped the Seraph captain there train the militia; in return, she wrote frankly, I wasn't sure someone of your reputation would stick around to help my militia. I'm impressed and honoured that you did. I re-read the letter four times, not smiling, just—I hadn’t expected either the surprise or the gratitude; if anything, I counted it an honour to serve the Seraph. 5 Then there was a lumber mill under perpetual threat from a) skritt and b) extremely oversized wasps. I helped the labourers fight them off as often as I could, and received another letter, though it took awhile to find its way to me—probably because it was addressed simply to “Ly Althea of Rurikton.” The leader of the workers was Ascalonian, and had been more deeply impressed that I had a home in Rurikton than that the home was a manor. Your reputation, she wrote, doesn’t exaggerate your heroism and skill. All of us at the lumber mill thank you for your time. That time, I did smile. I wasn’t patrolling Queensdale for praise, but neither was I so pure that I didn’t like getting it. 6 When I heard that Claypool had fallen under attack from centaurs, I returned as quickly as I could manage, and helped fight them off. These seemed even fiercer than the centaurs at Shaemoor, but somehow it was easier to drive them off. The centaurs were shaken, one of the Seraph told me. “Demoralizing the enemy is key,” he went on, “and you made that happen.” I’d helped, no more; but if my help had turned the tide for Claypool, I was glad to serve. Perhaps Seraph Elmder saw that, because he clapped my shoulder just as Captain Thackeray would have. “Thank you, soldier,” he said. 7 I ended up wandering all the way to Beetletun, doing everything from convincing children to work at their chores, to fighting off even hardier, more aggressive centaurs, to slipping inside their encampments to sabotage their equipment and free their slaves. There were pests in the village to eradicate, and farms throughout the shire to protect or salvage. And I fought alongside Seraph at their outposts, which I preferred to just about anything else. It wasn’t just Deborah or Logan; as I saw just how much the Seraph needed to do, and how thin their resources ran, I’d come to admire them for their own sake. I’d never met a Seraph I didn’t respect. Of course, there was Deborah’s memory; wherever her spirit might be, I hoped she knew what my life had become. I might not be much for taking orders from anyone I hadn’t chosen, but I was following her steps as closely as I could. NINETEEN 1 I was in Godslost Swamp, helping historians fight off nightmares from the Underworld—long story—when a letter from my mother arrived. It had been written weeks earlier, passed from courier to courier along the increasingly dangerous route, then left at the last outpost until someone brave enough to dare the swamp delivered it to the Priory camp. Thankfully, it contained nothing urgent, only accounts of Ministry machinations, the doings of my friends—she dedicated an entire paragraph to Faren, who appeared to be doing a great deal of nothing—and some visits from her own friends. Anise seemed in poor spirits, she wrote, or rather, irritated ones. Apparently, that nice Captain Thackeray has a bee in his bonnet (can you imagine him with a bonnet?) over something entirely disconnected from his duties in Divinity’s Reach. My brows rose; that didn’t sound like him at all. Mother concluded with an unsubtle wish that she would see me again soon, or at least hear from me, and I winced; although I dutifully wrote whenever I had paper and couriers available, this had not been one of those times—and if she’d known where I was, she would have good reason to fear for me. 2 Frankly, after fighting a massive, hellish nightmare creature that took a good hundred adventurers to bring down, home sounded decidedly appealing. I could soothe my mother, see my friends, get some decent meals and rest, and put on unstained clothes—and check in with ‘that nice Captain Thackeray.’ (Mother’s feelings towards him had always been vaguely positive, but seeing him protect me in trial by combat had raised them to eternal devotion.) I didn’t bother with a letter; thanks to some of my favourite spells, I could travel faster by myself than any series of couriers. And she plainly did not expect an actual arrival; I could surprise her this way. Sure enough, Mother gave a strangled shriek when she saw me in the street, and disregarded the curious people around us, the state of my clothes, everything, to rush forward and clutch me to her. I would never turn back from the path I had set myself upon—but though I cared for many people and places, I didn’t think I could ever love anything so much as my family. 3 Doubtfully, a woman I’d never met said, “Isn’t that the hero of Shaemoor?” Another replied, “No, it’s Minister Ailoda.” We ignored them to make our way back to the manor. To her credit, it took Mother a good five minutes to wrinkle her nose. “What have you been doing? Let me draw you a bath, darling.” I was only too happy to remove the accumulation of dirt and swamp water I’d never quite managed to scrub off at the Seraph outposts—but I had no intention of telling her just what I’d been doing. 4 I emerged from the bath with a pleasant sense of pristine cleanliness, and a silk robe that had never felt finer against my skin. After I dressed (the clothes freshly laundered, because Mother thought of everything), I supplied a severely edited version of my adventures since she’d last seen me. Even that much was enough to make her shudder. “I know you’re following your conscience, but—” “I am,” I said firmly. I did spend the next few days with her, amusing her with stories of (safe) quirks and mishaps, letting her show me off at the Ministry, staying beside her during the regular courtesy calls she received. Then I headed to Seraph Headquarters. 5 When I walked through the doors, Logan’s face lit up. He abruptly concluded the discussion he’d been involved in and strode right over to me. “Good to see you again, my friend,” he said, looking so pleased that I couldn't bring myself to doubt it. “You have excellent timing!” I had no idea what tangential preoccupation could have irritated Anise. But nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for what he said next. “Have you ever heard of Falcon Company?” 6 For a moment, my mind went entirely blank. The voices around us faded, my ears ringing. My face and hands felt cold, but my lungs burned. “Of course I have,” I said, proud that my voice remained even. “One of the most decorated units of Seraph, wiped out by a centaur ambush.” Taking a deep breath, I added, “My sister was a soldier in that command.” Captain Thackeray looked stricken. 7 “Your sister?” he exclaimed, clearly oblivious. Falcon Company had fallen under a different command, I told myself, unrelated to his own—that was why Anise disapproved of his interest—and that interest was frankly more than I would have expected. Still. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, turning somber. “I—I didn’t know.” I nodded, goodwill restored, and remembered myself enough to wonder: if he hadn’t heard about my connection to the Falcons, and didn’t have one of his own, why was he asking me about them? And why now? TWENTY 1 Gravely, Logan said, “You'll be even more interested in this information than I thought.” The chill lying over my skin flashed hot. Information? What—maybe—was— He lowered his voice, more conscious of our surroundings than I could manage. “Scouts in the Queen’s Forest discovered pages from an old journal. They were apparently written by Willem Harrinton, a member of Falcon Company.” A member of Deborah’s company. 2 Had Harrinton known something? Oh, he must have, for Captain Thackeray to consider it ‘information.’ He must have written it down. But— I waited, some approximation of composure returning; I could hear the low murmurs and pen-scratchings of Seraph business around us, though Logan had drawn us away into a corner where we wouldn’t be easily overheard. “The writing on the pages is rough,” he went on, “hasty. But it describes survivors of the battle taken prisoner by the centaurs.” 3 Damn composure, anyway. “Survivors?” I breathed, feeling the rush of blood all through my veins. Survivors. No body, no presence at the grave, nothing—was it possible? I’d never imagined it. Never dared imagine it. “My sister could be alive?” 4 Desperate hope sparked through me, and I seized his arm without regard to the layers of plate over it. “Logan, you’ve got to let me investigate!” I burst out. No, no, I had to stay calm, force myself into some semblance of self-control; friend or not, I’d be left out if I seemed too overwrought for the investigation. And I couldn’t sit back while others took on the danger, while Debs perhaps laboured under centaurs’ whips (great Kormir, I couldn’t even imagine it), while—I had to find out for myself. In a quieter voice, I insisted, “I need to know what happened to Deborah.” Instead of eyeing me doubtfully, as I half-expected, Logan gave me a sympathetic smile. “I thought you’d feel that way.” 5 “Let’s update my records,” he said briskly, reverting to his usual determined competence, “and then you can head to Eldvin Monastery and speak to Captain Tervelan.” I nodded, aiming for the same level of professionalism. “Though he’s been promoted to Captain of Queensdale, Tervelan once commanded Falcon Company,” said Logan. “He might be able to tell us more.” I remembered the abrupt letter we’d received, simply signed J. Tervelan. Now I was going to see its author at last. “Good,” I said. 6 Logan led me over to his desk, which was covered in papers and parchment in various conditions, along with the Seraph roster that I’d seen before. “Falcon Company’s records were largely destroyed by centaur raids,” he explained. “I’m trying to get a complete roster.” He dipped a quill in ink, then gave me a quick glance. “Your sister was of Krytan descent?” I lifted my chin. “Ascalonian, sir,” I said, “and proud of it.” 7 His eyes widened, a smile creeping back. But he confined himself to an indistinct noise of approval, dragging his finger down the faded roster until he reached Fairchild, Deborah. My chest hurt, but something in me thrilled at the quiet addition of Asc alongside her rank, which I affirmed, and age and place of birth, which I supplied. After he cleaned and capped the quill, Logan shook his head. “Ascalonian, eh?” “Our father was from Ebonhawke and our mother’s a Langmar,” I said, and he looked surprised all over again. With a quick laugh, he said, “Then get out there, little sister, and make our ancestors proud.”

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1) Ascalonian, sir, and proud of it: the line that inspired the whole fic! It solely (as far as I know) determines Deborah’s appearance in the cinematics, but Deborah and the PC being proud Ascalonians seemed something that would profoundly influence them, given the dynamics at play in GW1/Eye of the North/GW2.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------- TWENTY-ONE 1 I nearly tripped on my way from the Seraph headquarters to Dwayna’s gate. A Charr was strolling through the plaza right before headquarters, easy as you please—a Charr, in Divinity’s Reach! It looked like he’d come from the gate to Lion’s Arch, which was … legal, but I hadn’t seen any here in years, and—and he couldn’t mean anything good. I paused long enough to glance back suspiciously; was he scouting out weaknesses? “That Charr is back,” someone said behind me, not bothering to lower her voice. “He makes me nervous.” She wasn’t the only one. 2 But I had more important concerns than Charr, at least right now. Logan and Anise could protect Divinity’s Reach; I had Deborah’s fate to uncover. I jumped from waypoint to waypoint, stumbling out of the last with a few copper for the gatekeeper and the breath nearly knocked right out of me. But I recovered after only a moment, and with a burst of concentration, took off running towards Eldvin Monastery. I slowed down as I approached, letting the air cool the sweat and flush on my skin, then wiping it with a cleansing handkerchief that I returned to my belt pouch. I might not be Faren, but I didn’t care to confront unpredictable circumstances at anything less than my best. I brushed a few blades of grass off my sleeves and, after a single deep breath, marched up to the main entrance. 3 The Seraph at the gates to the monastery clearly recognized me, by either description or reasoning. They immediately straightened up, and one of them—who seemed to be the leader—saluted me. “The hero of Shaemoor is finally here, everybody!” she cried. To me, she said, “The captain’s expecting you—he’s up on the wall.” Well, that should make things easier. “Captain Thackeray sent a message that you were going to visit,” she said, and looked me over with evident, un-Seraph-like fascination, her eyes wide. “We’re all very excited to meet the hero of Shaemoor.” 4 She was, at least. I thanked her and got directions to the captain, then paused. I had no way of knowing what any of them had seen or guessed, if anything. “Have you heard of the Screaming Falcons?” I asked. “Of course!” she said. “They’re legendary, especially around here—the best company in the Seraph, but then … well, you know.” Yes, I knew. 5 “Did you ever meet any of them?” I pressed. “They were before my time,” she said, sobering, “but I’ve heard stories about that week, laying out the bodies for burial.” Her jaw tightened. “They say some of the bodies were missing. It sickens me to think what the centaurs did with them.” My chest clenched, a sick, sour taste rising in my throat. I swallowed it down and replied, “Me, too.” 6 Inside the walls, the abbey brothers and sisters seemed cheerful enough, concerned first with their ale and secondly with their faith. But I quickly realized that the first Seraph’s enthusiasm was not shared by all. “Another ‘hero,’ huh?” said a lieutenant. “I’ve met your kind before—you’re brave enough, inside city walls.” I thought of saying I don’t have a kind, but I couldn’t quite believe it. At any rate, he clearly hadn’t met a map if he thought Shaemoor lay within city walls. “Out here,” he added, tone even grimmer, “you’re just a walking corpse waiting for your time to come.” 7 “Stiffen your spine,” I said coolly. “You’re representing queen and country. Petulance doesn’t befit your station.” Lieutenant Gordon laughed. “Queen and country? Yes, they do deserve better—better than this.” At once irritated, offended, and peculiarly impressed, I told him, “Keep that in mind.”

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1) the gate to Lion’s Arch: there’s a sparkly Asura gate/portal to Lion’s Arch (the central city of the whole game) from the human home district of Divinity’s Reach.

2) jumped from waypoint to waypoint: waypoints are location markers that let you teleport between them for a price (varying by distance between them).