#no but Rosalind curling up on his chest listening to her own heart beating and stroking his chest hair like a pet

[lootzest]

from @fuchsiamae, for that bird based WIP meme: 🦚 (a sexy quote)

Do I have a document simply called filth that is twice the length of any of my finished fics about the first time the Luteces do it? Yes I do. And here is some of it, in which I learned that maybe I have a thing about men's chests? Choosing to rationalise it as a) it's part of their bodies that is very different and b) Rosalind knows her own heart is beating under it and that's nice and c) chests are hot!!

“Of course you have the advantage here, dear sister,” he said, unbuttoning his shirt. “Given I woke up in this world wearing pyjamas in which I did not enter it -” he shrugged off his braces and removed his shirt “- one assumes you have seen a lot more of me than I have of you.”

“I may not have much experience but I do not imagine that mopping blood out of someone’s chest hair is a usual part of…erotic proceedings.”

He joined her back on the bed. “It was much appreciated all the same.” He kissed her on the cheek. She paused, then returned it.

“And it was a very nice chest. Once I’d got the blood off it.” He took her in his arms and kissed her, an unspoken thank you for all she had done.

“I suspect your chest is even nicer.”  

“Robert.”

“Erotic proceedings indeed,” he muttered into her cheek. “And why are you still wearing so many clothes? It’s an outrage.”

“You should complain to the authorities,” she said, finally unbuttoning her blouse.

“In this house, darling sister,” he kissed her newly exposed shoulder, “you are the authorities.” With a newfound sense of urgency, Robert pulled off his socks and shoes, while the rest of Rosalind’s outerwear and petticoats made it to the back of the chair with an increasing lack of care. He knelt before her, reverentially taking her calves in his hand and unlaced her boots in turn, sending lightning bolts of desire up her legs, and he grinned at her and pulled his undershirt off over his head, mussing his usually immaculate hair. She ruffled it gently, then moved her fingers to stroke his chest hair, her fingers tracing the freckles across what felt like acres of exposed skin.

[atlas-of-a-human-soul]

I just read your Riven fics and ommggg they are so good!! Idk if you are making a part three but I will definitely look out for it! I haven’t started the sly ones but I can’t wait!

Come back to me // part 2

Pairing: Riven x light!fairy

Breath caught in her throat, she felt her hands tremble as her eyes lingered on the envelope on her pillow. The handwriting is in the kind of black that speaks of nighttime dreaming. The letters are so typically Riven - messy and yet she could see the effort behind each and every word - To my Sunshine - .

It’s been a long time since he last wrote her a love note, far too long for her to truly remember what it said. She remembers how it made her feel - hopeful, elated, giddy. That’s all Riven needed to win her over - love notes he’d slip in her books whenever she wasn’t looking.

This time it felt different. The note brought anxiety, fear of what the envelope may hide inside. They barely speak nowadays and when they do, Riven is crude and too often she finds herself crying herself to sleep because of how convincing he is with his act. Sometimes she wonders if he’s acting at all or if that’s who he is with everyone but her and it makes her feel guilty. How can she still be questioning his loyalties?

Shaking her head, she releases a heavy sigh before her shaky fingers pry open the envelope. The paper inside is barely ink stained, a few words written for her aching heart.

“Still Your Asshole”

Chuckling, Y/N covers her mouth with an open palm, glancing at the door to make sure no one is nearby. It wasn’t a chuckle that seemed to stop as it turned into a cackle and that cackle turned into a sob. She didn’t know where the sobs came from, she just knew she couldn’t stop. As if the soul could bleed an ocean through the eyes, that was the enormity of her sobbing.

Screaming into her pillow, Y/N felt the rawness of her pain fully. It had revealed its ugly head and she couldn’t breathe. 

Riven may be hers but he isn’t. It takes a moment, a single mistake for him to be uncovered by Rosalind or Beatrix and he’d be taken from her. She’d never get to run her fingers through his brown hair, she’d never get to kiss his lips again or feel his hand in hers. He’d never tease her again, he’d never write her a new note or insist she needs him to teach her to fight. All of it would be gone in a blink of any eye and the severity of that realization choked the light out of her, even if for a little while.

She can’t always be the Sunshine. Clouds will eventually clear, but she needs the little bit of darkness and the sweetness it brings. Even if she’s in pain, even if the sadness threatens to suffocate her, she craves it. 

Riven makes her weak, he makes her vulnerable. She never dreamed she could care for a man like Riven, she certainly didn’t wish it, but she does. It’s more than caring for Riven, she’s way past that. Whatever wicked game he played to make her feel that way for him, it worked. She fell in love with Riven and now it’s consuming her.

Wiping her tears, she stashes the letter under her mattress before walking out in the sun. If she can’t be the light, she can at least get the warmth of another’s light.

She lays down on the damp grass, looking up at the sky. She looked at the sky like a man would look at a withered flower in which he no longer sees the beauty he plucked it for, thus destroying it.

This noble heart that beat only for the most tender of emotions had to be subjected to pain to learn the secret of life:

Love has to come at once, with thunder and lightning like a hurricane that wrecks havoc on your life, to shake you up and break the the heart like leaves off trees, to drag it into the abyss.

She’s in the abyss now.

“You can’t be here”, and then she hears his voice, pulling her away from the darkness. “Come on”, he whisper shouts as he takes her by the hands and helps her to her feet. 

She’s a little dizzy, disoriented by the sudden change in position. His eyes are on her, his face inches away and yet she feels like they’re a thousand miles apart. She doesn’t fight him as he drags her to the greenhouse, closing the door quickly so no one would see them.

“I got your note”, she’s the first one to speak. Riven turns to her with a small smile only for it to fall when he truly looks at her - puffy, red eyes and dry lips aren’t easily mistakable. 

He let out a slow controlled breath, “Is that why you cried?” Riven’s eyebrows furrow as he steps closer to her, his hands on his hips.

“I cried because I miss you!” She shouts, her fingers flickering alight and she knows she’s losing control. A shuddered breath passes her quivering lips, “I miss you and I’m worried about you and I hate you.” She says through gritted teeth and Riven can’t help but stumble back, confused.

“Me?” He raises his eyebrows, pointing his right index finger at himself, “What did I do?”

Scoffing, Y/N shakes her head. “YOU MADE ME LOVE YOU AND YOU’RE NOT EVEN HERE!” Covering her mouth, she turns away from him. She never told him that she loved him before and he never uttered anything close to it either. She feared looking at him and not have him say it back. After all, why would he?

“You love me?” Riven breathes out, still trying to collect himself. Crossing the distance between them, Riven wraps his arms around her. Pulling her back against his chest, he folds his hands over her abdomen. He’s holding on tightly, like she’s a dream he’s afraid to wake up from. 

“You love me?” He repeats in a whisper. Knitting her eyebrows together, she frowns and bites into the soft flesh of the inside of her bottom lip as his lips brush her earlobe.

“Yes”, she leans her head back on his shoulder, relaxing in his arms.

“Good.” Riven whispers and she snaps out of it, slapping his hands until he lets go. 

“Good?” She exclaims, her glare deadlier than a blade. 

“Yeah?” Riven chuckles, scratching the back of his neck.

“I tell you I love you and all you have to say is good?” She deadpans, before throwing her hands in the air, “Unbelievable.”

“Yeah. It’s good, because I’ve been in love with you for about a year now and it’s good to know you finally feel the same way.” Riven shrugs, “But go on. I like it when you’re angry.”

Rolling her eyes, she playfully slaps his chest, “Don’t fucking do that to me!”

“Did you just say a swear word?” Riven’s eyes widen, a grin much wider making Y/N blush.

“You’re really going to nitpick at my language instead of kissing me now when we finally got a moment alone in months?” She raises an eyebrow, tapping her foot nervously.

“I’m actually running late”, Riven wets his lips and yet he doesn’t move away, but closer to Y/N. All he can taste is the cherry chapstick she wore the first time they kissed. That was on a constant loop inside his head.

“We could run?” Y/N tries, but Riven only shakes his head.

“I spent my whole life running. I can’t betray Sky like that. He’s my brother.” 

Struggling to inhale, Y/N whispers, “And what am I to you?”

“The love of my life.” Riven blurts out without a second thought as his hands cups her cheeks, “You’re the only reason why I’m never going to give up.”

“You’re saying all the right words and my heart still hurts”, she sniffles, hoping she doesn’t cry again. She’s had enough of crying for a lifetime.

“I wish I could make it better, I do.” Closing his eyes, Riven leans his forehead on hers, “I love you with all I am. With all I’ll ever be.” Drawing in a sharp inhale, he holds his breath for a moment to stop tears from forming. “If I were a better man, I’d have let you go.”

“Don’t be the better man”, she croaks, her fingers curling his hair at the back of his head. “Be the bad guy. Just be mine.” And she kissed him. With a devastating sweetness, an innocence - as if this were the first time. Strong fingers curved about her jaw and warmth seeped into her bones, her skin, her soul.

The lips held to hers, reassuringly alive. Riven had reassured her by the strength of his arms surrounding her and the steady wilderness in his chest, beat of a heart not her own. 

She was no longer alone in misery. Someone was there, keeping her warm, holding the memories at bay and dangers of the world could no longer get to her. Her lips softened; tentatively, she returned the kiss with all her heart.

Breaking the kiss, Riven’s arms leave her, the warmth going with him. She stumbles, catching her breath. 

Riven glances at his phone only to swear under his breath and she knows something’s happened.

“Listen to me”, Riven swallows thickly, “Stay with Stella and the rest tonight.”

“Why”, Y/N frowns, folding her arms across her chest.

“Don’t ask questions, please.” Pecking her lips, Riven takes a few steps back, “If you love me as much as you say you do, go now and stay with the girls. I’ll try to contact you as soon as I can.”

“Riven”, Y/N raises her voice, unnerved and anxious about his behavior. 

“Sunshine, please”, his voice softens and she nods, licking her lips. Before she can say a word, he manages a smile, “I’ll come back to you. I will.” 

And that’s when he leaves and Y/N does as he asked. But the nagging feeling inside her chest is relentless - something bad is happening and someone is going to get hurt.

Part 4 

[rhetoricalrogue]

One of this week’s WiPs: DONE! For @alittlestarling, in the AU we’ve been yelling about where Vincent is a Warden Amell, Roz was raised in the Wilds alongside Morrigan, and their firstborn Bryony holds the soul of an Old God. 

Fast forward ten years post-Blight and two years after Vincent leaves his family to go look for a cure for the Wardens. Morrigan, Roz and Bryony have been rubbing elbows with Orlesian elite and are on loan to the Inquisition.  Instead of sending a letter with “hey, I’m cured” news, Vincent decides to break the good news to his family in person.

The Inquisitor was the first one to spot him. The man was tall, yet he walked with a slight hunch to his shoulders that spoke of years of habitually trying to make himself smaller to better blend in with crowds. It wasn’t unusual to see people dressed in cloaks as they moved from place to place in the fortress, but it was odd that this man still had the hood of his cloak over his head, obscured his features save for the tip of his nose from view.

“Who’s that?” she asked, her focus now completely on this stranger. He had a beaten up looking staff in his hand that he was using as a prop to lean against as he spoke with someone who pointed in the direction of the gardens and judging by the arm exposed from under his cloak as he held onto the gnarled wood, it seemed as if he were wearing Warden armor.

“Him?” Leliana had made time to come down from her rookery sanctuary more and more, spending time in the gardens with Roz and her daughter Bryony now that they had joined up with the Inquisition. It was something else to see the newcomers interact with the usually stoic Spymaster, the edges of her personality that grief and duty had honed to a razor sharpness softening into something gentler. There were even reports of hearing her sing once or twice, usually at the request of Rosalind’s daughter.

Standing on the dais, she wore that same soft smile the Inquisitor had heard of, but not yet seen for herself. She seemed years younger, her eyes shining in the light of the hall’s candelabras. “He is no threat. I am sure that we’ll speak with him in due time, but not at this moment.”

Leliana smiled again and wiped at her cheek. “He has far more important people to speak with first.”

Vincent was exhausted. Traveling non-stop when not gifted with the stamina reserves he had gotten so used to was taking its toll, but he’d made good time as a crow, traversing the bulk of the distance between where he’d been at to Skyhold by air instead of on foot. Even though he was ready to drop on his feet at any moment, there was a barely contained excitement that bubbled in his chest. Roz and Bryony were somewhere in that fortress. After two achingly long years of not seeing them, they were so close.

A lot had changed in those years apart. He’d picked up new scars and more silver had threaded its way through his hair than had been there the last time his little family had seen him. The biggest change, however, was the fact that now he was a Warden in name only. The ritual to cleanse himself of the darkspawn taint had been a huge risk, just as the Joining itself had been, but he felt lighter than he had in over a decade. His dreams were no longer plagued by nightmares and although he had come across small pockets of darkspawn on the surface, he hadn’t sensed them at all.

Vincent tightened his grip on his staff and leaned against it as he walked down the hallway a courtier had pointed him towards.  Roz had always loved the outdoors, so he had taken a gamble on asking if Skyhold happened to have a garden.  It made the most sense to him to begin his search for her there.  He took a breath: so much time had passed since they had been together, would his family still have need of him?  With all his changes, would they even still want him? It was a preposterous doubt, yet it was one he couldn’t shake.  He knew his heart: Vincent loved his daughter fiercely, and he loved Roz with every ounce of his being.  He just prayed that they felt the same towards him.

He felt a little lost as he walked the halls, the most recent injury he was still healing from making his left leg drag a bit as fatigue set in, lending him a slight limp. He had to stop several times to ask a random person if they’d seen a redheaded woman and a young child, but thankfully, everyone had pointed him in the same direction.  Normally, if he wanted to quickly find Bryony, all he had to do was listen to the song that resonated within his little girl: a song that was similar, but not quite the same as the harsh tune he remembered hearing in Denerim all those years ago as he struck down the Archdemon. The song that echoed within Bryony was lighter, sweeter, something a little girl would sing as she skipped and played. It never pulled at him the way that the darkspawn had, with claws sharp in his chest and a twisting in his gut. Rather, Bryony’s tune had felt like small hands gently pulling at his own, laughing pleas of Papa, come play! and bright sunshine warming him from the inside out.

Vincent bit at his chapped lips. If there was one thing he would miss from shaking loose of the shackles of his Warden vows, it would be the ability to sense his daughter wherever he went.

His thumb rubbed against the ring he wore on his right hand. The rosewood band was a comfort, the surface worn smooth from years of running his fingers across it, much like the worry stone Alistair used to carry with him at all times. While he may not be able to sense their daughter any longer, Vincent was certain that Roz was close. She wore the match to his ring and although she had explained that it would enable them to always find the other, his grasp on the magic infused into the bands had never been the strongest. The closest he ever came to locating her was a slight warming sensation whenever they were near but out of visual contact, almost as if she were holding onto his hand.

His already ragged nerves frayed some more. Maker, but he had missed her. All he wanted to do was draw her into his arms and never let her go, but what if…

Vincent stood up straighter and squared his shoulders. What-ifs did nothing productive. Heart in his throat, he rounded the last corner and entered what seemed to be an open inner courtyard, the smell of green growing things heavy in the air.

He saw Bryony first. She was in the center of the gardens, playing with a tall, thin looking boy wearing an oversized hat. Vincent’s chest grew tight and it took everything he had not to run to her. Oh, but how tall she had gotten! Her face still held the childish roundness that he had all but memorized before leaving, but her hair was longer, curled and styled in a manner he had never seen before. It made sense, seeing that Roz had written to him about seeking refuge in the Orlesian courts, but to see his little girl who often ran dirt-smudged and barefoot in their home with leaves in her hair and skinned knees now wearing a dainty looking dress and shiny black shoes pulled at him. She looked as if she were the daughter of some nobleman, not a weary ex-Warden apostate with far too many miles on a body that felt older than his actual years.

“Don’t turn away.” Vincent jerked back in surprise when the boy who had been just playing with Bryony showed up at his side. “Please.”

“Spirit,” he said simply, recognizing the boy for what he was now that he was closer. “Might I ask what you are?”

“Compassion,” the spirit replied. “Though everyone here calls me Cole. I like it. Don’t worry, I don’t want to hurt your family, they like me and I like them.  You haven’t seen them in some time.”

“No, I haven’t.” He relaxed a little, but Vincent’s eyes remained glued on Bryony, who had quickly transitioned from playing with Cole to quietly singing to a potted bunch of elfroot, making him wonder if she were used to the spirit’s sudden disappearances. The sight made him smile.

“She sings to the plants because she thinks that it helps them grow quicker,” Cole explained. “Leaves stretching to the noise more than to the sunlight, flowers blooming for her enjoyment.  She doesn’t know it, but the plants like hearing her song. It’s an old tune, far older than she will ever be, but it’s changed, becoming a song of creation instead of destruction.  She has changed. Her body is home to her alone.”

“What do you mean by that?” Vincent carefully asked, hand tightening on his staff out of habit. Had something happened?

“A soul willingly separated from its host. Her grandmother is very fond of her; she says Bryony has your eyes.” Cole held out a hand to stave off the questions that burned in Vincent’s throat. Grandmother?  But Flemeth had met her end at his own hands, he’d done it to ensure Roz’ safety.  “Don’t be scared.  She cannot take what isn’t willingly offered. She has never meant your family harm, and none will ever befall them, should she have any say in the matter. She’s been lost for so very long, a mother who forgot what motherhood was about, but she’s finally remembering.”

“Have you been with them long?” Vincent asked, eyes finally leaving Bryony as she skipped from flower pot to flower pot in order to scan the gardens, breath held as he searched for a familiar splash of red hair. Roz had always been a little overprotective of their daughter, never letting her out of her sight for long. There were too many people milling about to see her, but his heart beat quicker at the thought of being with her again.

“The three of them came from Orlais a few months ago.” Cole’s eyes went from Vincent to Bryony and then away, his attention centered on the far end of the garden. “She speaks of you often, you know. Fear, sharp and bright catching her throat, is he safe, is he well? Questions eager to spill forth getting caught against clenched teeth. She doesn’t dare speak them out loud, afraid of what the answers would be. Will he love us as much as we love him? Will he love me like he did before?”

Vincent turned to face Cole. “Where is she? Please, I must know.”

Cole pointed towards the gazebo at the opposite end of the garden. From his vantage point, he couldn’t quite make out who was sitting under the shade, but he could see two distinct figures at a bench, heads down and a book between them.  He must have made some noise, because Bryony’s attention turned from the Prophet’s Laurel she had been picking dead leaves off of to him and she shaded her eyes with her hand, squinting to try to make out his face.

“Papa?”

Vincent couldn’t stop his feet from moving even if he had wanted to. Staff and satchel clattering to the ground, he bent down just as Bryony launched herself at him, a happy shout of “Papa!” ringing in his ears. The impact sent him sprawling backwards, his hood flying back and baring his face.

His latest scars were less than a year old: long, jagged scratches from a shriek who’d gotten a lucky hit in that ran up his right cheek and over his eyebrow. He’d been fortunate that he hadn’t lost the eye in the fight. The wounds had been deep, and he was well aware of how people in villages he had traveled to reacted to them. It had become a habit to wear his cloak’s hood or make certain his longer hair shielded that side of his face.

Yet at that moment, he didn’t give a damn how frightening they may look. All that mattered was the fact that his daughter had her arms around his neck in a tight hug and that she was real, not some daydream brought about from missing her so much his chest ached. He peppered her cheeks with kisses, one hand curling through her hair and the other gently holding onto her. Exhaustion and lingering soreness in his leg forgotten, Vincent got to his feet and easily lifted Bryony up to spin her in a circle, belatedly realizing they had something of an audience. Still keeping her close, Vincent overheard whispers of Warden and is that him? The hero of Ferelden? Panic started to build as he set Bryony on her feet, her hand fitting easily into his as she tugged at his arm, insistent that they greet her mother and aunt.

The commotion they’d caused had not gone unnoticed. The two figures sitting at the gazebo had stood up, and Vincent’s heart all but stopped at the sight of Roz, her hands covering her mouth, hair shining in the sun like a fiery beacon. The ring on his hand seemed to pulse to life as his long legs ate up the distance between them. They silently stared at the other for what felt like a lifetime before Vincent reached out to cup her cheek in his hand, bending until he could press his forehead against hers.

He wasn’t certain who moved first, but the next thing he knew, his arms were around Roz and her lips were on his.  He sank into the kiss, all his cares cast to the ground at his feet. Dimly, he felt Bryony press at his hip, her arms stretching around both his and Roz’s waists. He let go of Roz with one arm to encircle their daughter, and he felt Roz do the same, their hands linking together at Bryony’s back.

Vincent pulled back first, his thumb wiping at the tear that had spilled out of the corner of Roz’s eye.

“Hi.”

Roz laughed and rubbed her nose affectionately against his. “Hello,”she replied, her hand sliding through his hair to pull him in for another kiss.

Vincent smiled against her mouth as he held her closer. It didn’t matter if they had an audience or that they were in an unfamiliar place.

He was finally home.

[unfortunate-rp]

Congratulations, LIV! You have been accepted as your desired character, AVA COLEMAN. I especially loved in your app the amount of detail you went into the Anything Else section to show what makes Ava Ava. Please be sure to complete the steps listed on the NEW MEMBER CHECKLIST and send in your account within the next 24 hours.

Well, young lady, have you been good to your mother?

OOC        Your Name: Liv    Your Age: 21    Your Pronouns: She/Her    Time zone: EST    Activity Level: 5; I’m in grad school-enough said there. I can be on pretty reliably a bit each day though.      Tumblr account (for contact purposes): ooopsydaisy or thatparkinsongirl    (If applying for second character) Characters played: NA    (If applying for second character) Will you be able to handle a second character?: NA    How did you find us?: The lsrpg tag I think.    Triggers: None IC    Character you’re applying for: Ava Coleman    Why did you choose this character?: Before I even knew if Sybil’s wife would be a playable char I was fascinated with the idea of her. Right out of the gate, there’s so much potential for her. Ugh the angst, the character development, the mystery sh’s now caught up in.    Secondary character preference: Ruby Cohen! If I have time I’m apping her too.      A sample in character: The cats, Rosalind and Aslop, were crying in their carriers in the back seat and eventually Ava started too. With every mile, every turn she drove further and further from home; no, that wasn’t right, 667 Dark Avenue wasn’t home, not really. Home was Sybil. The truck was packed full of their life together, at least; every scrap of paper, every trinket, Ava didn’t dare get rid of anything or even place it in storage. Anything could be a clue, a message, an answer. She’d been around enough grieving families though by now to know that answers were a bandaid on a gaping wound and it was a gaping wound. Days after the funeral, but before the whispering of her own guilt began, Ava had woken in their bed to a noise in the kitchen, just the cats, but for a moment, sleep still clinging to her, it was any other morning, Sybil puttering around the kitchen as the coffee brewed. The car crash impact of realization, of remembrance, knocked the air out of her lungs, left her gasping alone in a bed for two, knees drawn up to her chest, trying to lessen the stomach deep pain. No one had ever explained to her how physical an emotional wound could hurt you. Pulling into the driveway of her new house, Ava tried to see it with Sybil’s eyes. It was charming enough with the view of the lake, butter yellow door, shutters, and creeping ivy. Some of that was detracted by the perpetual gray skies and the mist rolling in off the lake. It would’ve been a nice place to get away for a vacation but Sybil had always liked being in the city, in the bustle of things. Ava’s only instructions to the realtor had been for a small place out of the city, anything to get away from the whispers about her guilt. She’d have to endure it still at work, particularly where the motto was, it’s always the spouse, but at least here she was far enough from any neighbors. She slid out of the truck, grabbing the cat carriers first, Rosalind had finally settled down, having given in to her circumstances, but Aslop had switched from mournful meows to low hisses. Sybil had always joked about how each cat took after them. “We’re gonna be all right,” she murmured quietly to them, praying it wasn’t a lie. She shoved her way through the door, stopping just inside. It was so horrifically empty, bare walls, nothing but open space. The room opened straight to the living room, hard wood floors everywhere, and the kitchen tucked in the corner beyond her. At least here where Sybil had never been, she didn’t see phantoms of her everywhere-laughing over the stove as the pot of spaghetti boiled over everywhere, on the couch, cello laid out before her, carefully tending to the strings, at the desk in the study, poring over her commonplace book, a small wrinkle between her eyebrows. Ava wanted to cry, to just give into the sadness. Instead she knelt down carefully and opened up both of the cat carriers, letting them both slink off to explore. One box by one, she dragged everything in, leaving them all in haphazard stacks against the wall. She’d carefully labeled each and every box to ensure the smoothest unpacking but even still, it would be a long process. The boxes with Sybil’s name on them glared back at her. The only piece of furniture she bothered with for now was the disassembled bed, the wooden slats deposited in the one bedroom and the mattress on the floor in the living room until she could find the energy to get it down the hallway. Collapsing onto it, she rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Her heart ached for home, fruitlessly, uselessly. Eventually, as day faded away around her, the room growing dark, she felt the pressure of small cat paws against her chest. Eyes still on the ceiling, she reached a blind hand out, expecting to meet Rosalind’s furry head; instead, it was Aslop, and her one nub of an ear. Aslop had always been the more independent of the two cats, always exploring, sneaking outside even sometimes. And yet, here in an exciting new place, she curled up  on Ava’s chest and started purring loudly. Ava let out a shaky breath, loud in the silence.    What headcanons or plans do you have for this character? (Please take any current plotdrops into consideration):

Mostly just vague ideas at the moment. I feel like the direction I go will have a lot to do with her interactions with other people and with the development of the plot. That said, in my mind Ava’s always been one of the more background members of VFD, she joined late, she’s more into research than fighting on the front lines. Poor girl’s asthmatic and petrified of planes and quite simply not that type of person. BUT, god is she desperate to know what happened to Sybil, I think it’ll be very interesting for this desperation to push her outside of her comfort zone, to slide more into the action. OR alternatively, again a lot of this hinges on where the plot goes, I love a good moral quandary, Ava either making a fishy, not great deal with a firestarter for information or even her finding something out in her investigation that makes her doubt the holy mission of the volunteers (particularly since many of them even ones she considered friends doubt her innocence). I think her connection with Adam will be very interesting to explore. His doubt in her, their workplace relationship, his lack of knowledge about VFD. Super excited. Her and Lauren’s connection should be super fun as well. Nothing like a good arch nemesis plot. I kind of can’t wait.    Do you want any additional connections for your desired character that you’d like us to add to their bio?: I didn’t see either of them in any of the characters and I don’t know if you had something planned for them down the line but I’m very interested in Ava’s sister in laws, Clara and Isabella. I think it would be nice and heartwrenching for her to still have a family of sorts even after Sybil’s death. I mean plus they both just sounded super interesting.

   Anything else?:  A few valuable, factual details,   Ava, a young girl, curled in the old green armchair in the sitting room of her grandmother’s house.The heavy book in her lap was too old for her and boring moreover but it was a better alternative to staring out the window, watching, waiting for two people who wouldn’t be coming back (Ava had known it was the last time during the last time her parents came, she could feel it in the air, in the lingering kiss to her forehead her mother bestowed, her father tucking her in that night. Every movement whispered goodbye. It was a good thing she had this experience-it meant she knew how to recognize nonverbal goodbyes.). In a month’s time, Grammy Ellie would take pity on her and make the trek up to the attic to bring down her daughter’s, Ava’s mother, childhood book collection. She never could stop watching though. Wanting. It didn’t take long for her to read every book of her mother’s twice over. The library two streets down from Grammy’s was a small affair, homey, with not enough shelves for all their books. It was love at first sight. If she wasn’t home, she was guaranteed to be there. She didn’t play at the playground like the other children, didn’t run and scream up down the street. She was largely alone as a child; no one else understood her and she didn’t understand them. They had no interest in anatomy and chemistry and constellations, didn’t want to listen to her excited explanation of what black plague did to the body. It was okay; she didn’t even know she was lonely (that would come later). Primary school was merely a series of disappointments. Medical school might have been as well if not for that fateful taxi drive. The VFD was full of people just like her, full of that gnawing yearning for knowledge, for importance, for saving the world. It was a group of people who had as children all been told at one point or another to tone down their excitement about something. She made her first real friends there, her family (she discovered just how lonely she’d been all along). Friends she was desperate to protect in any way that mattered; for her that was using her medical skills to patch up the members of the VFD risking their lives on the front lines. A year after joining, she’d graduated from med school as an internist. Having a purpose among her family filled her with joy. Ava was often called into headquarters to patch someone up, small burns and other minor wounds mostly. That was until the panicked, late night phone call from one of her friends. Ava rushed across town her heart beating in her throat, hearing the words, poison, oh god, Ava, what do I do, I can’t lose him, over and over. She got there just in time, just in time to watch him die. She was still performing fruitless CPR, his wife sobbing on their kitchen floor, when the ambulance arrived. It would not be the last death. Going back to school for a residency and then fellowship in forensic pathology was an easy decision for her. If she couldn’t save her friends’ lives then she would do her best to respect and speak for them after death. Sybil had once asked how she could possibly bare it and Ava, unsure herself sometimes, had told her that she saw it as being a translator of sorts, passing on the last words of the dead to the family. Sybil, staring back at her, leaned up and kissed her forehead and it felt so much like a goodbye that Ava had whispered, please don’t put me through that (she would, of course, and there was a part of both of them that knew Sybil would). Sybil Holloway was a tornado carving a line of destruction through her from the first moment to the very last. She was Ava’s first everything, first friend, first kiss, first date, first time, first love. From the very moment Ava laid eyes on her, Sybil at a party, playing her cello for a small group, the music bleeding out of Sybil like a tide, she knew Sybil was special. They were as many people told them a disgusting couple, eyes following each other, soft touches, easy companionship, trust, support. Understanding. That, more than anything else was what Ava thought people were searching for, understanding, to hear an answering echo of your own spirit in someone else. Even so, it wasn’t a perfect relationship, no that would require perfect people and neither Ava or Sybil were that. Sybil never hesitated from taking on dangerous work for the VFD, dangerous, secretive work. Whispered conversations, late nights poring over notes she didn’t share, and sudden trips she claimed were just for searching out antiques. Ava knew this wasn’t the full truth and though she wanted to give Sybil her privacy she was terrified too—so many of their friends had died lately.

They fought over it occasionally when Ava’s worry became too much. Sybil accused of her of not trusting her, of acting like Sybil was just never going to come back one day just like her parents. No one could hurt you quite like someone who knew you well. They fought about it publicly at a small VFD gathering a week before the fundraiser and though they later made up at home that night, Ava knew that fight was still ringing in people’s ears as they looked at Sybil’s vacant fragile dead body sprawled on the sidewalk.