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vegasisthinking · 1 month ago

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this one too… Lee and Julia keep me up at nigth

Sanguinis Coagula - II

Not published on Ao3 yet. Post game fic, 20ish years following a Legion ending, centered around Six's kids and Boone's son. NCR has retreated back to California. There’s a ballet revival happening and it’s become kind of like a culture-arms-race between the Legion and NCR, just like the cold war! Postwar Courier x postwar Vulpes mentioned but it’s not the focus, Courier x Boone previous relationship during the events of New Vegas mentioned. Kind of experimental on my end.

Chapter CWs: Mention of war, mentions of trauma, mentions of parental abandonment, broken home, an adult situationship who have been fooling around since they were teenagers mention it but it's really a passing comment and not depicted at all, Lee is kind of a fuckboy.

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Lee likes a lot of things about Lorelei. He likes her eyes, the way she laughs (and how often she laughs at his jokes,) how soft she is to touch. He likes the way she seems to find a way to wear those summer sun dresses all year round, and how much she knows about fixing up old cars. He likes how soft she is. He likes that she has huge boobs that she lets him touch. He likes that she has sex with him.

What Lee doesn’t like, though, is this new ‘boundaries’ shit she seems to be all about.

“Sure you don’t wanna change your mind?” She asks as she reaches behind her back and hooks the closure of her bra closed. “Could do it right here, right now,” she offers.

“Lori—“

“And if you do it before you leave, you won’t have to worry about me running off with someone else.”

Lee closes the clip-buckle of his belt, staring at her as she flashes her big, beaming smile at him. She’s framing it as a joke, some playful teasing, flirtation — but Lee knows her well enough to know it’s a veiled threat: propose to me now or I’ll find someone else who will.

“If getting married is that important to you, then by all means,” he shrugs, reaching down and picking up his undershirt from the floor. “Run off with someone else who’ll do that for you.” He pulls the undershirt over his head, tucking it into his pants.

Rolling her eyes, she takes her sun dress (fuck, he loves her in those sun dresses,) from the end of the bed and gets to her feet. “C’mon, why are you so… allergic to it?”

“Lori? We aren’t even dating.”

She scoffs at this as tosses her dress over her head, stretching her arms up inside and shimmying it down her body until she’s dressed again. “Oh come on, yes we are—”

“I asked, remember?” He pauses to follow suit with his t-shirt, a plain, white one. Old NCR kit, apparently, but the rules on how to dress for this thing were clear. “At that fourth of July party when we went out in the truck to shoot mole-rats and you ended up giving me a—”

“That did not count!”

“I’m not talking about that, I’m talking about how I asked you after, remember?” He laughs. Lee feels like he’s had this argument with her before, but even so, he can never seem to believe what he’s hearing when she does this. “And you said you didn’t want to make it weird.”

She scoffs again, jutting her head forward like he’s stated the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, because it would have,” she insists. “All our friends are dudes, Lee.”

“And all our friends have girlfriends, Lori,” he fires back. “And they come with us to everything anyway, everything would have been fine—“

“We’ve been dating,” she interrupts, “we just haven’t been calling it that.”

He opens his mouth to tell her what he wants to in the moment — that it’s the dumbest thing she’s said in a long time (and she definitely says a lot of dumb shit) — but he stops himself just short. There’s no point. Lorelei’s probably the most stubborn woman he’s ever met in his entire life, which is saying something given that own mother was too fucking stubborn to raise him. “See, this is why,” he finally exhales, tucking his dog-tags under his t-shirt and shrugging in exasperation. “Because you never say what you actually mean.”

“But—“

“Now, if we’d actually been dating because you had a conversation with me about that so I knew? Then maybe I’d consider it. But far as I’m concerned? Either we haven’t even dated yet and getting married without dating is skipping an entire fuckin’ chapter, or you’re saying you wanna get married but you actually mean something else — and I’m fucked if I know what it is.”

Lorelei drops her shoulders, crossing the space between them and bringing her hands to either side of his face, gently holding it as she smiles warmly at him. “I’m telling you what I mean, Lee,” she says, her voice deliberately softer now in an attempt to bring back the intimacy they were sharing an hour or so ago. “I promised myself I’m gonna start setting my own boundaries and stickin’ to ‘em, and one of ‘em is that I wanna find my husband and I’m not going to waste any more time on men who aren’t interested in marriage.” She leans forward, planting a slow, tender kiss against his lips. “So either make your intentions known now, or so long.”

Lee searches her face for a moment, taking a deep breath as he brings his hand to the small of her back, carefully guiding her body against his as he kisses her again, taking his time with her, not stopping until he hears the tell-tale sound of Lorelei inhaling slowly as her shoulders relax. “Well, then,” he whispers, before planting a peck on the tip of her nose and suddenly stepping away from her entirely with a smile. “So long!”

He grabs his duffel-bag from the floor and gives her a wave as he heads for the door of his room, Lorelei staring at him with wide, shocked eyes. “Wait, w-what?”

“You heard that horn,” he laughs, “dad’s outside, I gotta go, ship out!”

She follows him out of the house, standing on the porch as she watches him toss his duffel-bag into the back of the beat up, rusted-as-fuck-truck unceremoniously. “I mean it, Lee Boone!” She calls out over the engine. “I’m not gonna wait around for you!”

He opens the door, stopping half-short of climbing into the back seat, very mindful of the fact his father is sitting behind the wheel, his ‘Uncle’ Hsu is in the passenger seat, and both are no doubt listening to everything being said. “Well, that’s a real shame,” he calls back. “Wouldn’t be fair to expect that of you, though, what, with how long I’m gonna be gone!” He gives her a smile and a nod, trying to not just outright laugh at the look of outrage on her face. “If I even come back alive!”

True to form, Lee’s dad doesn’t wait a second longer than he needs to, pulling the truck into reverse the second the door’s closed and taking off down the road, clouds of dirt and sand rolling into the air behind it.

“Didn’t know you had a girlfriend,” his ‘uncle’ says after a brief period of silence, turning his head a little to try and get a glimpse at Lee in the back.

“I don’t.”

“Seemed like a girlfriend to me,” he says with a shrug. “Probably for the best, though. You were right. Could be gone for a long time.”

“You tell her what we’re doing?” His dad asks.

Lee glances up to the rear-view mirror, where he can see his dad watching him in the reflection, even through his sunglasses. “No. Just told her I’d enlisted.”

“Good.” Like most of his dad’s speech, it comes out as a semi-grunt. “She talks too much.”

“Oh, so you know her?” his uncle asks. “So she is a girlfriend, then?”

“Not my girlfriend,” Lee insists. “Just a…” he takes a breath. “Just a friend.” It’s a lie. He knows it, his dad absolutely knows it, and if ‘Uncle’ Hsu can’t clock it’s a lie? His dad’ll probably tell him it is, anyway. “A close friend.”

It’s Hsu’s turn to eye Lee through the rear-view mirror now, although unlike Lee’s dad, he’s grinning, clearly finding this funny. Really funny. “A close friend, huh?” He repeats. He turns his attention to Lee’s dad, the grin still on his face. “Guess the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree, huh?”

His dad grunts in response, but Lee’s curiosity is piqued. “What’s that ‘sposed to mean?” He asks, smirking, eager to hear what he assumes is dirt on his dad.

“When we were deployed in Nevada back in the day, your old man had some pretty close friends, too.”

Lee’s grin now match’s Hsu’s, and he leans forward, bracing both his arms on the back of the front seats as he leans forward to be closer to the space between them. “Reeeeeally?” He laughs. “Is that right? My dad? Popular with girls?”

“Oh yeah, they loved him,” Hsu confirms, making sure to keep his eyes on Lee’s dad, drinking in the discomfort this is obviously causing him. “Something about that red beret on that bald head. Drove ‘em wild. Had women throwing themselves at him even though he was coupled up most of the time.” Hsu laughs to himself. “There was this one time at McCarren,” he recalls, “we had some time to kill while we waited on word from Shady Sands, so we decided to head to the mess hall. Well, I don’t know who lost all their beer rations in a bet, but it was obvious who won them, because this Ranger— ah, shit, what was her name?” He asks Lee’s dad. “You know, red hair? Nearly lost an eye at Spillway?”

“Miller?”

“That’s right! Ranger Miller,” Hsu seems genuinely excited to be having this discussion, to be remembering all this. “Well, Ranger Miller was drunk off her ass and I guess she decided to shoot her shot — must have been feeling lucky, too because Six was sitting right next to—“

Hsu stops suddenly, the smile vanishing from his face, his shoulders dropping as he realizes what he’s just said, who’s name he just dropped in front of Lee’s dad.

“Shit,” he exhales. “I’m sorry, man. I know it’s been twenty years but I guess it’s still habit—“

“It’s fine,” his dad cuts in, his words (somehow) blunter than usual. “Is what it is.”

“I know, but I know it’s still—“

“Is what it is,” he insists. Hsu drops it immediately.

Lee, knowing the vibe is effectively dead, reaches forward and flicks on the radio before flopping back into the back seat. The radio’s held together with wonder-glue and wishes, but it still works, even if the signal is dog shit and crackly this far out from Shady Sands. It’s enough for the music to fill the awkward silence that always follows whenever anyone mentions her in front of his dad, even though it’s been two decades or something now since his dad was running around Nevada with the Courier.

Everyone else seems happy to talk about her, especially when the Legion come up in the news for whatever reason. In fact, debating if the Courier is a prisoner of war (which is the NCR’s version of things) or if she willfully defected and became a traitor so she could shack up with the guy in the dog’s head from the posters they show in history class (which is the Legion’s version of things) is something of a Californian pastime.

Despite everyone’s opinions and theories, though (and everyone has one,) no one brings it up in front of Lee’s dad. At least not on purpose, anyway, and if they do it accidentally? Like Hsu just did? Then it’s usually followed by an immediate apology and an awkward silence.

As a kid, Lee knew something was weird about it, but the answer he got whenever he asked anyone about it was ‘your dad and the Courier worked together before the incident at Bitter Springs.’ And, for a while, that worked. Lee’s dad was there, after all. Helped hold the Legion off from raiding the Bitter Springs refugee camp and taking the refugees as slaves. Got a medal for it, actually. He and the Courier had actually held them off together, but the Legion managed to route them and separate them before falling back and eventually retreating. Depending on who you ask, they knocked the Courier out and used the opportunity to drag her back to Caesar as a prisoner, or the Courier used the chaos as a cover to make her exit with them and defect.

Either way — his dad never talks about it. Ever. And it wasn’t until Lee was old enough to start discerning your run-of-the-mill grown-ups from the grown-ups that knew his dad during the war that he figured out how to ask the right questions and ‘Uncle Manny’ let it slip that ‘I think your dad doesn’t like talking about it because the Courier was very special to your dad, and your dad had already lost someone special to him not long before that.’

Lee was a kid, but he could put two and two together. He knew about his Dad’s wife, how she died because of the Legion and that’s why growing up all the doors and windows had to have bells on them so that everyone in the house knew when they were being opened. His dad could talk about her, but not a lot, not beyond how she got taken. It’s the same with the Courier. And now that Lee’s an adult? It’s completely obvious to him that they were fucking. Every history book he had to read in school that mentions his dad always has her attached. ‘The Courier and Craig Boone.’ Never one without the other. Even if his Uncle Manny hadn’t accidentally spilled the beans, Lee would have worked it out eventually based on that alone.

You don’t spend that much time with a woman (one who’s pretty good looking going off the few old photos from the war he’s seen, even if she is a Legion mattress gladiator now and is probably more like a MILF than a smokeshow nowadays,) and go through all the shit they went through together without at least a little adrenaline sex, surely. Hell, Lee and Lorelei couldn’t even keep their hands off of each other after a near run-in with a Deathclaw that had wandered a little too close to a bonfire party they were at once — and that thing was blind and so old that it was missing an entire arm. No way the Courier wasn’t basically jumping his dad after the Correctional Facility siege—

He scrunches up his nose. Now he’s picturing his dad having sex with the lady he had to write an essay about for 10th grade history class. Ew.

“Not to uh,” Hsu pauses to clear his throat. “Not to risk making it more awkward, but have you heard from your Mom lately?” he asks Lee.

He nods. “Yeah. Called a few weeks ago her to tell her I was ‘enlisting.’”

“How’d she take it?”

“Asked if it was ‘cause I was broke.”

Hsu laughs. “Fair question, really. Not exactly the most cushy gig. Never was. How’s she doing?” He asks. “Always wondered what Boyd got up to.”

Lee shrugs. “Ehh. Not a lot. Didn’t re-enlist. Had another kid — her name’s Sierra.” His half-sister, who he’s never met and probably won’t. “Her and her husband run some kinda’ gun store now or something in Arroyo.”

He catches a glimpse of Hsu’s eyebrow lifting at the word ‘husband,’ clearly a little surprised that Lee’s mom managed to keep her marriage together despite getting knocked up by his dad during a post Hoover Dam victory party one night stand. “Civilian life, huh? Really had Boyd pegged as an NCR lifer.” He nods to himself, thinking it all over. “And Arroyo, too? That’s a trip and a half. Hear things are good up there, though.”

“Yeah, she likes it. Says it’s what Shady Sands used to be like.”

“Went up that way once when I was a kid,” Hsu says. “Was a pretty small town back then, smaller than Junktown is now. Can remember it being real nice, though. Good soil. Nice people. Not surprised people made their way there. My mom used to tell me that when she was a kid, it was all tribal land,” Hsu adds, clearly trying to steer the conversation somewhere a little more comfortable. “Crazy how quickly things change, huh?”

He’s not wrong. When Lee was a kid, he felt the opposite. He’d sit around the house or wander around Junktown and feel like nothing ever changed. Sure, new faces would come through every now and then, some new stuff might come through on a caravan, but nothing that mattered ever seemed to change. He’d go to school, dick around with his friends until dark and then make his way home — the most difference he’d get would be who was waiting for him. Sometimes it was his dad, sure. But sometimes it’d be one of his ‘Uncles,’ or one of the neighbors, or one of the seemingly endless women in town that wanted to fuck his dad so bad that they were willing to look after his kid for free for days at time while he was off ‘doing veteran stuff.’ Hell, even as a teenager it didn’t really change. Only thing that was different was that he got old enough to care for himself and he started to look forward to his dad’s little trips away because it meant Lorelei could stay over without him having to sneak her inside.

But then it did change. All of it. All at once. His dad took him into the half-dilapidated barn they used for storage on his 18th birthday, told him he was old enough to make the the decisions that knowing the truth would force him to make, and told him just that: the truth. ‘Veteran stuff’ was the MRF, the Mojave Resistance Front, and his dad had been quietly helping them fight the Legion occupation. The war never stopped for his dad — it had just changed. And, if Lee wanted to, he could join him.

And now, two years later, Lee sits in the back of the beat up truck that he and his dad have been keeping alive against its will for almost as long as Lee has been alive, his dad’s old army buddy sitting in the passenger’s seat. It’s probably the last trip the truck will make — if it even makes it all the way there in one piece, given how far the drive to New Rome is.

And even if the truck does, somehow, manage to survive, there’s no promise that anyone else will survive long enough to drive it back, because they’re heading to New Rome for the Lupercalia festival — the biggest festival in the Legion, kind of like their New Year, so big that even Caesar himself will be there. Everyone who’s anyone will be there, in fact, including the shiny new Legates, his ‘magister equitum’ (better known as Vulpes Inculta, because what the fuck is a magister equitum?) and Vulpes Inculta’s wife — who happens to also be the ‘Champion of the Mojave’ — The Courier.

And once they arrive in New Rome for Lupercalia, should everything go according to plan, the MRF will assassinate one of the Legates and (if they pull off the tricky part) end up holding the ultimate bargaining chip to negotiate close to anything they want, from the liberation of occupied territory to the release of prisoners.

They just need to capture the Courier.

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vegasisthinking · 1 month ago

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Had to reblog this bcs its so good, i’ve been re-reading it ever since it came out… its like a drug to me…

An excerpt from a post Legion ending New Vegas fic I've been writing on and off for like a year and have never published on Ao3 because it mostly revolves around the Courier's kid meeting Boone's kid and they're on the opposite sides of a rebellion and i don't think ao3 readers would fuck with that blah blah

Edit: I'm calling it Sanguinis Coagula and I have a tag for it now.

idk if this has meat to it but you guys can read it if you want and tell me. this is from the first chapter which is all about introducing the Courier's kid (Julia) but the second chapter is all about introducing Boone's son so idk man. This is experimental, please be kind.

context that is given later but im not posting the whole thing here: post legion ending, courier and boone travelled together before the courier bailed and ended up with the legion, NCR has retreated back to California. It's been like 20 years and the NCR and Legion have signed a non-aggression pact at some point but tbh it's a lot more like a cold war. there's a ballet revival happening and it's become kind of like a culture-arms-race between the Legion and NCR. Postwar Courier x postwar Vulpes mentioned but it's not the focus. CW: typical legion misogyny that the POV character has been raised in and kinda believes as a result I guess, mentions of teenagers getting married from 16 and up

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Sanguinis Coagula - I

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“Well, I must say; these summer fashions, en Greek or not, are a vision on young Julia.”

Julia almost fails to catch her own name when it’s spoken, her fingers absentmindedly scratching away at the stone surface of the balcony that overlooks the Flagstaff vista, her attention focused on the workmen cleaning and polishing the great glass dome on top of the library. There’s a wing in the library named after her mother. Julia hates going there. It echoes and the floors are cold and unwelcoming, unmoving, sterile.

The name of one of the wings isn’t the only thing it has in common with her mother, she supposes.

However, she recognizes the voice, and it catches her curiosity enough to bring her back into the moment, dragging her consciousness all but kicking and screaming back to one of her mother’s salons — a room full of old, married women, going on and on and on about the most boring topics; books and philosophy and literature and politics.

Well, they’re all married except for the woman who just brought her up in conversation. She, by rights, shouldn’t even be here. But who is Julia’s mother to shy away from scandal? Not like Julia’s already pushing spinsterhood or anything, why not sully the Inculta name further?

“Julia,” her mother says in a tone that’s gentle on the surface but ice cold the second you hold it long enough to feel it, a cup of tea in her hands as she smiles at her from the lounges where the rest of the salon sit around. “Flavia has paid you a compliment, did you not hear?”

It’s a warning. Behave. Do not embarrass me in good company.

As if being on the cusp of eighteen and unmarried isn’t embarrassing enough. As if being forced to sit around in a salon and make pleasantries with a concubine isn’t downright humiliation. Julia wonders if her father knows about this. Of course he does. Her father knows everything. Part of his job is to know everything that might effect Caesar, so there’s no way he doesn’t know that Caesar’s favorite concubine is currently sitting in his home with his wife and daughter, drinking tea with the other wives as though she has any right to.

For him to allow such a thing — it surely must be political. Julia wonders what her father’s play is, in that case. How much closer to Caesar could the Inculta family possibly be?

Julia sits upright, offering the most genuine smile she can, one that’s just a little apologetic. “Thank you, Flavia,” she says, bowing her head ever so much — enough that it pleases Flavia and her mother, but not so much that the other wives in the room think Julia ready to humble herself before a concubine. “That’s most kind of you to say.”

Her mother speaks again, her lips only inches from her cup. “I must say, I wasn’t a fan of them myself — what, with how they conflict with Praxis Romana and everything… but I’ll admit,” she says with a smirk, “it’s grown on me. And besides, even the word ‘Praxis’ comes from ancient Greek. What’s wrong with the youth borrowing a little of their fashion, too?”

There’s some soft laughter and chatter of agreement in the room as her mother sips smugly at her tea, giving Flavia a knowing look that she soon shares with her daughter, although Julia does not return it. She hears a woman nodding and audibly agreeing with her mother as though the woman wasn’t just arguing that the ‘new style’ of ‘Grecian’ fashion was ‘immoral.’ If it were up to half of the women in this room, everyone would still be wearing those thick and almost shapeless stola they’ve all been wearing since before New Rome was founded. At least the toga lets them breathe a little, especially in the Flagstaff heat.

But her mother has influence. Her father, does, too. So does her brother, Catullus — and Julia can assume that his wife will be influential, too, once Catullus is named a Legate (which is only a matter of time.) Julia had influence. Once. Back before she and her friends started turning sixteen. Before she watched all her friends get betrothed and married, one by one, until it was just Julia left. Sixteen and unmarried. Seventeen and unmarried. Soon to be eighteen and unmarried. Maybe she could have had influence if she’d been allowed to marry one of the seemingly hundreds of men who’d come calling to seek permission for her hand, if her father hadn’t turned every single one away, not even entertaining them, not even hearing them out. But no, she will be a spinster. What man will want her now? Most of the good ones are already married…

What she can’t understand is why, though. Her father is so vocal so often about the importance of women, how they’re the heart of the Legion, how important a good wife is to a glorious Senator or a heroic Legate, or even just the loyalest of Praetorians. Julia has spent her whole life knowing what’s expected of her, how her life is meant to be; obey your father’s word, follow your mother’s example, dance in the Ballet until you marry, be the perfect wife and mother, uphold your legacy through your blood, nurture the strongest of tomorrow’s Legionaries. And yet, he refuses to let her marry.

Or at least that’s how it looks. The only person in the world who has more influence on her father than Caesar himself is her mother. She knows the stories about her mother, about what a hero she was during the war, and she knows that her father is still deeply in love with her in a way that allows her mother to wield her wiles in ways other good women would not dare. Julia’s mother has always been vocal about her opposition to her marrying young, so stuck in her ways from her profligate life. Julia honestly thinks her mother’s dogmatism when it comes to the old ways borders on treason, but for whatever reason, her father listens. And so he refuses her callers. And his word is law until he finally permits her a husband.

“You must forgive my daughter,” her mother says quietly to Flavia amongst the chatter. “She’s been busy with her dancing, and around this age they’re so irritable when they’re tired.”

“Mmm, yes,” Flavia half-laughs, giving Julia a knowing look. She knows how busy Julia’s been dancing. Of course she knows. Flavia’s the patron of the damned thing. “Will you be leaving for tour soon?”

“Two weeks, although Vulpes mentioned he would like to leave sooner should his Senate schedule permit.”

“I see…” Flavia’s voice lowers, the other women chatting eagerly behind them, still on the subject of Grecian fashion. “I’m glad to hear that. I’d worried that you’d stay behind… you know…” she pauses. “With it being in New Rome?”

This pique’s Julia’s interest, and although she slouches back into her seat, she watches her mother and the Concubine carefully. “Oh, that?” Her mother says with a smile and shake of her head. It’d be a scoff if the coins that hung from her earlobes didn’t jingle so loudly. “Flavia, darling, that was all so long ago it feels like another life now!”

“And you’re not worried?” She asks. “I’ve heard that the Profligates took Novac.”

Julia sees a hint of something in her mother’s eyes, and it’s so subtle and quick that she’s positive she only noticed it because it’s her mother. However, it’s gone in a flash, her mother setting down her cup and smiling serenely. “Caesar would not have invited us to take such a tour New Rome if he worried it was dangerous. Besides,” she says, reaching out and resting a hand over Flavia’s. For anyone else, this may be a kind gesture at most. But Flavia is a concubine, and Julia’s mother is the wife of a Senator. ��My husband is the mighty Vulpes Inculta, and my son is Catullus Inculta, who’ll be named a legate before we’ve even stepped foot in New Rome. Anyone who’d dare lay hands on myself or my daughter surely has a death wish. …Although,” she pauses, “with her attitude lately, she might just murder any would-be assassins herself.”

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Try as she may to better herself in preparation for her husband (if that day even comes to pass — which is increasingly unlikely as time moves on,) there are some unseemly habits that Julia has struggled to drop.

She struggles, at times, to not curse to herself under her breath. Not that she’d dare ever speak that way in company, of course. But when she’s alone and struggling to arrange her hair properly, or when a pair of shoes simply refuse to soften before a rehearsal? The words may slip out under her breath. A habit caught from her mother and her profligate upbringing, no doubt.

There are times where she catches herself rolling her eyes when out of view, which isn’t a problem in itself as to do it alone is to do it without hurting anyone. But is it good for her soul? No. It’s not how a good woman should operate. Yet another habit she’s sure she learned from her mother — although more due to conditioning than anything, something that comes from years of rolling her eyes because of her mother’s frustrating ways. She’s never rolled her eyes because of her father. She’s never needed to.

The most harmful of her bad habits, however, is eavesdropping. This is a habit she is keenly aware comes from her father — who, through all kinds of thwarted attempts at rebellion growing up, she has learned is a true master at it. Ironic, given that he’s one of the people Julia finds herself eavesdropping on from the next room.

“How were things?” Her mother asks, having just greeted her father on his return from another day in the Senate. More than twenty years and two children later and she still greets him in the atrium every day. If her mother has ever felt a shred of resentment towards him (as many a vocal profligate from the NCR has claimed she must, unable to reconcile that her Mother’s defection to Caesar’s Legion was of her own choice,) she’s never shown it.

“Unremarkable,” he responds. “Mostly administrative matters today.” He sounds disinterested, which is unusual for him. Her father lives for his work, and even when he’s unable to be specific about the happenings of the Senate with her mother, Julia can’t say she’s ever heard him become dismissive of it. “Did she come?” He asks. A pause — perhaps a non-verbal response from her mother. “And?”

“It went well,” her mother says. “She had a good time.” Julia raises an eyebrow as she hears this, stopping mid page-turn of the book she’s pretending to read. Are they talking about her? Why does it matter if Julia had a good time or not? It’s never mattered before. If it did, her mother wouldn’t make her go to those things.

“She was made to feel welcome, then?” he asks.

“I mean, the others weren’t about to give her a hug and a kiss or anything,” she clarifies, “but I made a show of treating her like an old friend and they fell in line pretty quickly.” Julia frowns, taking a quick mental inventory of everyone who attended the salon. The answer comes quickly: Flavia, the concubine. So, her father has some kind of investment in Flavia being there, despite the scandal? Interesting.

“And our proposal?” he asks.

“Enthusiastic,” her mother replies. “She said she’ll write to Caesar in support of it tonight, but,” she adds, “she’s off to New Rome herself in a few days. Should arrive way before we do—“

“And she’ll have his ear in person?” he finishes.

Her mother hums in the affirmative. “She was excited, too. Already making plans for it. Think she’s a bit of an empty-nester, honestly.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” her father admits, “especially if the speculation that she’s barren is true.”

“Oh, trust me — it is.” Her mother suddenly laughs to herself a little. “You owe me a reward for pulling this off.”

Her mother squeals a little, the sound of her metal adornments jingling, and Julia rolls her eyes knowing that this means her father has likely pulled her into an embrace. If the senate saw how the ‘almighty Vulpes Inculta’ turned into a lovesick teenager around her mother when out of the public eye, the damage to his image would be irreparable — even if making him feel like that is, unfortunately, her mother’s duty as a wife. “You ask for a reward as though I have ever dared to make you want for anything.” Julia can hear the smile in his voice.

“I mean it!” her mother laughs, a full laugh this time, genuinely delighted as the audible smacking of lips can be heard — a kiss. Ew. “Julia was in a mood today and it’s a miracle that Flavia didn’t think I was trying to slight her.”

Julia frowns. What? What does this have to do with her?

“Have you discussed it with her yet?” He asks.

“No.” Her mother sighs, the lightness vanishing from her voice. “I thought it best for you to.”

There’s another pause. “Has she said something to indicate that she might be—”

“No,” her mother interrupts. “But you know how she’s been when it comes to this kind of thing. She’ll have questions, and as the head of the house of Inculta…”

Her father sighs, but it doesn’t sound like one of frustration or dread. He’s relenting — agreeing. “You’re correct,” he admits.

“Besides — this whole thing was your idea,” her mother adds. “And I don’t think she’ll be upset. Opposite, actually. You know how long she’s wanted this.” Another smacking of lips. Foul. “It should be your moment.” There’s another pause. “I’ll be getting Catullus’ room ready,” she says. “His men sent a scout this morning. Should be here by late afternoon tomorrow.”

Julia listens to her mother’s adornments jingle as she seemingly walks away, the sound fading more and more until they can barely be heard over the sound of the her father’s footsteps as he approaches the open courtyard where Julia lounges in the shade, pretending to be deep in her book instead of eavesdropping.

He pauses for a moment when he sees her, smiling with what almost looks like pride as she glances up at him from her book. “I must say — this studious turn of yours is very becoming,” he remarks. “Most fathers have to beg Mars to grant them with a daughter who prefers books over circuses.”

She eyes him as he sits beside her. From anyone else, this could be an insult, of course. But her father… well, he’s never actually resented her interests, even when she was asking for coin every second day so she could go to the circus with her friends. “I have no one to go with anymore,” she sighs, unable to swallow her bitterness regardless of her father’s good intentions.

“No one?” he asks with a frown. “What about Scipio’s daughter?” he asks. “With the red hair? You used to go out to see that Gladiator—“

“Tauria,” she answers.

“Yes, Tauria,” he recalls. “That was her name.”

“Married in the Fall,” Julia explains, albeit a little bluntly. “Husband took her back to Denver.”

“Ah.” He takes a second, nodding to himself. “Well… what about Clodia?” He asks. “From the ballet?”

She sighs, turning the page in her book even though she’s clearly not really reading it. “Married.”

“Well, there’s no reason that a married woman can’t visit the circus with a friend if—“

“Delivered a son a few months ago,” Julia interrupts.

Her father nods, pursing his lips. “Ah. I see.”

A silence falls over the two along with the cool, late afternoon breeze. Julia considers giving her father some reprieve, going easy on him, changing the subject herself or trying to lighten things up — she is, after all, being a little harsh on him. He probably means her no ill will. Usually, she saves this kind of icy demeanor for her mother, who never seems to know how to talk to her. Her father, on the other hand, seems to understand Julia entirely.

They get along well. He treats her with respect and speaks to her like an adult, like an intellectual equal — even though she can’t be an actual intellectual equal because she’s never had to deal with things like war, or the senate, or negotiations and never will. It’s an inherent truth, but it’s one her father has never seemed to acknowledge. Her mother is often touted as an exception, as an anomaly, an unusually intelligent woman (which is why she stood out to Caesar in the first place.) Julia often wonders if this has had any influence on her father. It’s a ‘chicken or egg’ situation, really: did her mother’s exceptional intelligence grow on her father and lead him to have an affinity for unusually smart women? Or was that exceptional intelligence what led her father to find her mother attractive in the first place?

There’s no denying, though, that he’s always wanted Julia to be as educated and learned as can be possible for a woman. She’s never been able to work out why, though. It’s not as though being especially smart or educated is taken into account when making a match — if anything, most seeking wives for their sons find too much of an education to be a turn-off, a sign of a woman who might consider herself superior, or who might become distracted and forget the importance of a wife’s role within the Legion. (And, if she’s to be honest? Most men hate it when they feel dumber than a woman.)

But, at the same time, Julia is the daughter of Vulpes Inculta ,the greatest of Caesar’s frumentarii, and Sabina Inculta, the champion of Caesar’s settlement of New Rome, two people who have been minted on coins and had songs written about them because of their intelligence. Her older brother, Catullus Inculta, is renowned for his gift for strategy and his cunning, a Centurion at nineteen and predicted to be named a Legate within the year. So, there is, most likely, an expectation that Julia Inculta will also be something of an exceptional intellect — a woman who will pass that down to exceptionally intelligent sons.

“How much did you hear?” her father asks, Julia’s breath freezing inside her chest in response. She considers playing coy, maybe even outright denying it — but there’s little point to that. Rarely in her life has she ever been able to get a lie past her father. He knows her too well… not to mention that he’s the Vulpes Inculta, after all, a man who helped take the Mojave for Caesar using espionage.

“Pretty much everything,” she admits, lowering her book down on to her lap, giving up on the performance of pretending to read it. “Although some context would be preferable.”

He takes a long, drawn breath and nods. “You are aware of Legatus Lanius?” He asks. Julia nods. It’s a rhetorical ask, a set up for what he’s about to tell her. Of course she knows of the Legate Lanius. He’s the Legate that took the Mojave during the battle of Hoover Dam. He was Caesar’s sword. When her mother was kidnapped and held prisoner by the NCR, it was the Legate who rescued her using her father’s gathered intelligence and planning. She’d even met him a few times before his death, although Julia was young at the time and can’t remember it too clearly. “And, of course, you know Brutus.”

“Brutus?” She asks. “I haven’t seen him in years, though. Not since Catullus left for training.” Brutus is the only son of Lanius. His only legitimate son, anyway, born to a wife that Lanius only took out of political need — if longstanding rumor is to be believed. Result of a political union or not, though, Brutus is still his father’s son, and he was named a Legate not even a few months ago. His mother had died delivering his sister, and Lanius had dropped dead after complaining of a headache a few years later, so in gratitude for his father’s service, Caesar himself took him in.

It was an adoption in all but legal terms, and the close proximity to Caesar meant it was only a matter of time before Julia’s father was doing all in his power to foster a childhood friendship between Brutus and Catullus. Brutus would stay at with them in their villa for long stretches while Caesar toured or saw to campaigns or just didn’t want a child in the palace, and Brutus and Catullus became best friends. Still are to this day. And when Catullus is eventually elevated to a legate? Mars help whoever the Legion may march on next. Between her brother’s wit and Brutus’ reputation for carrying on his father’s command of combat? There’ll be no limit to the Legion’s expansion if that’s what Caesar wishes.

“Yes, he’s been quite busy with the spats on the New Mexico border, as has your brother,” he concedes. “However, he’ll be in New Rome for the Lupercalia celebrations, which our tour will also take us to.” Julia raises an eyebrow, unsure where her father is going with this as he continues. “I have written to Caesar and proposed that, should he find it agreeable, you and Brutus be married.”

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vegasisthinking · 1 month ago

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More Grouptale/Seventale stuff

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vegasisthinking · 2 months ago

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PEAK!!!!

sneak peek

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vegasisthinking · 2 months ago

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Right Thing To Say

small fic to get into writing for bg3! Starting off with a fic idea thought of by an anon and fleshed out by @cringecannon ! thank you for letting me work a little bit off the idea :D

WARNINGS: pretty obvious manipulation, intended as yandere! Gortash x reader but its just toxic at this point, reader is not Tav, murder mention and explicit violence

"Oh, and dearest?" Gortash motioned in your direction with the back of his hand while keeping his eyes on the papers in front of him. You'd come to know this as the maximum amount of attention he'd give you during the daylight, oftentimes even after. Once upon a time, you'd tried to show interest in what he was working on, but he'd shut that down rather quickly, not intending to involve you in whatever kept him so busy all the time. Perhaps it was for the best. "I arranged a fitting for you at Figaro tomorrow at two. Do try to be on time."

"Fitting?" You looked away from the painting behind Gortash that you'd dutifully stared at to pass the time, the book on the small table next to you having lost your interest a while back. The brushstrokes were no longer interesting you now that you reckoned you'd actually get a reply if you spoke to the man the painting portrayed. "What's the occassion?"

The reason for your confinement to his office, as you called it internally, was a failed murder attempt that happened a few weeks ago. You'd been walking home, arms locked in your fiancée's while you were discussing some horrid play he'd dragged you to, and a man had jumped from the top of a nearby house, dagger drawn. You could still clearly recall the sharpness of the blade, the threatening way it was thrust close to your face, even though you could barely remember the face of the cutthroat.

Gortash had saved you, pinning down the man and disarming him, before allowing the guards that had arrived in the meantime to drag the assassin away. At the time, you'd thought it to have been an attempt on Gortash' life, him being much more controversial compared to you if you believed the lies your family were telling you, but later questioning had apparently made it clear you had been the target.

This made no sense, but he'd promised that's what the flaming fist had said. You'd asked to meet with the cutthroat, to ask them yourself, but you'd been silenced with a kiss and a breathy 'do you think I'll ever allow you within five feet of him ever again?' and that marked the end of that investigation. Statements like that, even if a bit corny, made you feel quite wanted, even if the smug look Gortash held after convincing you of anything made you feel anything but.

You did end up seeing the cutthroat again, in less fortunate circumstances. In the midst of the street, whilst you had been planning to post some letters, you'd seen his corpse hang off the rafters. The missing fingers and shallow cuts across the body made you believe he'd either been maimed post-humously, or he'd been tortured heavily beforehand.

The fist that you desperately approached for answers just shrugged, stating that real criminals were hung up to deter others, especially liars. You'd prodded a bit more, but she had just sent you off, ending the conversation with a nonchalant 'Eh? I don't know? He apparently kept claiming some fancy noble had paid him to kill some girl.'

You'd apologized to Gortash after this of course, feeling guilty since you'd objected so loudly to the idea of you being the target.

Ever since, your fiancée kept a close watch, and you allowed his protectiveness, even if at times it felt overbearing. It was a sign that he loved you and the fact that he'd saved you meant that you couldn't really object. Someone wanted you dead, and a man had already died to make it happen. Sitting in front of a painting for a while to calm both your nerves was a small sacrifice to make.

A fitting, though. That would take up all day, especially with Figaro involved. Gortash spent quite a sum on his wardrobe, and ever since you'd gotten involved, that fund had stretched to include you. Your entire house was already full of unecessary gowns, was there really a reason to get another?

"A birthday party, if you can believe it." He sighed and looked up for a mere second, dark eyes fixing you in the moment. "There will be some people there that I need to speak to, and parties in the name of Lord Herdwack, frugality himself, tend to be dreadfully boring, so don't look forward to too many festivities."

You didn't want to incite the disapproving gaze you could already feel on your skin were you to ask if you really had to attend. No matter how neutral you'd bring the words, you knew a whining tint would hang on your tone. Instead, you decided to broach an entirely different subject, one that you found much more important than some boring party where you'd wander along with a drink in hand while Gortash spent his time in back rooms, doing whatever he'd need to do to secure whatever he wanted.

"I guess I'll clear the agenda." You joked, knowing that if you weren't being sent away to some fitting, you'd sit here in the exact same place tomorrow. Gortash scoffed but seemed amused. You sat up straighter, emboldened by the tiniest smile you saw on his face. "By the way, I've been intending to ask you something."

He penned something and replaced the papers in front of him, done with the current batch. "You have my attention."

Not as undivided as you'd want it, but on second thought, that wouldn't do either. Enver's full attention on you was quite intense, the man dominating in a way that wasn't outright aggressive. He had a penchant for making you barely able to follow your own line of thought, instead more often than not, ending up agreeing with whatever he proposed instead. If he was fully committing to your conversation, you were sure he'd get your mind twisted to other matters within mere sentences. Mere words if he stepped closer.

"I was thinking, tomorrow after the fitting, to perhaps visit some old friends down in Rivington."

He picked up a page to hold it closer to his face, the fine print living up to their name. "The circus is hardly worth visiting, dear."

"No, just some old friends." You repeated, knowing he'd heard you full well the first time. "It's been a while since I went down there."

"I don't see how that's a problem, but why are you asking me? You are a free woman, able to go wherever she wants. I appreciate you telling me beforehand, but there's no need to depend on my approval." The sincerity of his words made you hesitate, not wanting to upset him with the matter at hand.

You swallowed some nerves, sat up straigher and forced the words out. "So that's the thing. The last time I went down to Wyrm's crossing, I wasn't let through. According to the guard, there were orders not to let me through."

He blinked, put down his pen and sat up straight. "That's ridiculous. Who would issue an order like that?"

You blinked. Someone else? Didn't it seem pretty obvious that he'd be the only one with even the slightest interest in that? "Well, I assumed it to be you, so I just wanted to ask if you knew anything about that."

"I did no such thing." He said, just a tinge outraged. "Why would I ever order such a thing?"

"I don't know? Just seemed obvi-" A disappointed look on his face made you swallow your words. "No, sorry, of course not. I didn't mean to accuse you of anything, I just wanted to make sure. Do you think I can go down to Rivington tomorrow then, or do I need to talk to someone else first to clear things up?"

"Don't you worry your head about that. I'll get to the bottom of this." He stood up, and placed his fingers on the table, leaning over it for just a moment before walking around the furniture, reaching you in a few determined steps. "And for the vermin that thought fit to turn you away, I'll make sure they receive ample punishment."

"There's really no need for that." You said softly as he stood next to you, not bothering to bend down to meet you at eye level. Looking down at people suited him much better, even you had to admit it. "Either it was a mistake or they were just following orders. No need to make a big deal out of it."

"I will decide that, dear." His thumb traced your jaw, and after a soft pat to your cheek he bent down to grab your hand, encouraging you to stand up and follow him. "If you really were confined to the lower city, that would be a grave violation of your rights. I will make sure that if there is a perpetrator, they'll be flayed by the gates, that sort of thing. I cannot just let a slight like this pass by. Now, let's get some dinner. i'm sure you're starving."

"Enver." You called out as he basically dragged you along, repeating yourself more loudly when he didn't pay you any mind again. "Enver!"

He turned around partiallyin the hallway, a teasing smile on his face. Seeing him so relaxed made you feel a bit silly being so nervous. He didn't let go of your hand, instead pulling you closer. "Yes? There's no need to shout."

"I'm only shouting because you're not listening to me." You tried. "I don't want anyone to get hurt. It really isn't that important."

Last time had been bad enough.

He nodded seriously.

"If you say so." The fact that he agreed filled you with relief, thanking whatever god was listening that you didn't have to force the issue any longer. "Still, I will have to research it somewhat, but how about I promise you that if I find a perpetrator, I'll make sure that after justified punishment, they'll know they owe you their life."

You'd spoken a bit too soon, it seemed.

"Ah- I- that's still-"

"Shh, dear, I know you mean well, but trust me, this is the best I'll be able to offer you. Any less and I wouldn't be protecting you, and you cannot convince me to jeopordize your safety by staying inactive." He trailed an arm around your waist, and pulled you close to him. "Don't ask something so cruel of me."

"I didn't mean to."

"I know, dear." His eyes, always dark with ambition and amusement, lit up. He pressed a kiss on the edge of your lips. " I know you wouldn't."

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