SNIFFLES...HELLO MX HOW KIND OF YOU TO SAY ;---;

There she was, standing in the church of Lathander, at the altar with a man whom she'd sworn to tolerate for the rest of her life so that she wouldn't have to spend the next forty years wondering how she would keep a roof over her head when sodding Andrew Brightstar had opened his giant, foul mouth. Everyone knew that when the priest asks for objections, truthfully no one is supposed to answer. Not unless there is something concrete and urgent. This was not funny. And yet, he'd stood, cleared his throat, and very clearly proclaimed for the world to hear that she was already married. To his brother. In the church of the elven trickster god.

She could have killed him there and then. If looks could kill, he'd have been a dead man so many times over that not even hell would have him to hide from her fury. It was a small blessing that the shock of it kept the skies clear, or a hurricane would have sunk the fleets of the whole of the Sword Coast. And he'd, on that note, simply flounced his way out of the church.

All hell had broken loose.

It didn't matter that it was a lie. It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. But now that it had been said it no longer mattered what was true, only how it was to be perceived. And there was no gracefully coming back from this. Everything went to shambles. Guests left gossiping, the groom might have decked Andrew there and then if he'd still been handy, Keres was whisked off against her will into a carriage headed not to her new home, not to her old home, but back to the Whitlock estate until it could all be sorted.

Nine hells, Keres sucked her teeth and raged, pacing her childhood bedroom, now starkly empty, trying to think of what she had possibly done to deserve this. What she could possibly do next. Or ever. With one stroke, Andrew Brightstar had ruined her life and she hoped he suffered for it.

Andrew hadn’t been present to dodge Keres’ betrothed as he lunged forward to strangle a man, but Percy had. It was probably Percy’s bloody hide the man wanted. Andrew had told everyone in good society that Keres was married to Percy in the eyes of Erevan Ilesere. The trickster god of the elves would probably approve of the lie but as Percy resisted the urge to reach for one of the many daggers hidden under his fine clothes, there was no lie Percy approved less of. It wasn’t that he hadn’t wanted to marry Keres, it was that someone else had been a quicker draw to ask her. He’d just made peace with it, too, or as much peace as he could have, and he was now not sure whether continuing the lie would behoove Keres or if telling the truth would save either of their hides.

He'd settled for some sort of middle ground: a confession.

“If I was married to Keres, do you really think I would give her up so easily?” he roared, dodging yet another blow that could have broken his ribs. “I love her enough to respect her choice in husband and if you’re the man she wants-“

His nose cracked under Keres’ fiancé’s fist. Blood dripped down Percy’s lips and chin and he wiped it off with the back of his hand. He laughed and a dagger appeared in his hand as if by magic. It took ten men to pull them apart.

“Take her if you want her so badly, Brightstar,” he spat. “You bloody psychopath.”

“I’m not the one who started swingin’ in a Church,” Percy growled, shaking off the folks who tried to hold him back. “Gods, Keres deserves better’n either of us.”

He made his way outside, where the breeze had picked up to a wind, but not so much that there was a storm. Interesting. He would have thought that Keres would have caused a monsoon by now. He drove his carriage to the Whitlock estate without the aid of servants, many of whom had taken Daphne home the second the brouhaha broke out. He arrived to the porch and knocked upon the door and Keres’ foster mother saw him inside with purple fury written on her face.

“Mrs. Whitlock,” Percy said, holding up hands in surrender as her sputtered accusations that he had defiled Keres or else made a bigamist of her, neither of which felt like serious crimes to a crime lord, “if I had ever been so blessed as to marry Keres, the whole Sword Coast would know it. I dunno why Andrew lied to everyone, but with your blessing, I will make things right.”

“You had better,” Mrs. Whitlock hissed. “Keres is running out of options and, frankly, it’s embarrassing that despite our best efforts, the girl cannot find a husband.”

“She never had to look far,” Percy said wistfully. “I should have asked sooner.”

“And stain her reputation?”

“And make her happy,” Percy countered. “I would do anything to make that woman feel loved and cherished and treated like a queen until the end of her days.”

“Then why haven’t you, Sir Brightstar?”

There was no winning. He eventually got permission to visit Keres’ room without a chaperone. He knocked.

Finnegan always anticipated outliving Victor, even in their early days and in the later ones when he was sure this was the man he wanted to marry. This was the lot of an elf: to outlive all you loved except the green, damp earth. One day, Finnegan supposed he would eventually return to the earth - and return and return again and in those returned lifetimes, love again. He would remember fragmented portraits of Victor, here a smile, there a laugh, sometimes a sharp word, and often an adoring gaze. He would be warm and familiar and distant, nothing the new elf Finnegan would one day be could mourn, only be glad he’d once had him. Such was the lot of every elf who had ever loved a more mortal creature.

Finnegan was no longer an elf.

Now he shunned the daylight and slept behind tightly drawn curtains. At night, he plucked up his lute, one of those cruel things he’d been allowed to keep as Barovia collapsed in on itself, and he played the saddest of love songs - a man forced to live and live and live without his lover, yet never again be alive. Such was the lot of a vampire.

This inn was not too picky about its clientele, thank sweet and blessed Hanali, and so Finnegan stayed longer than usual, resting by day and at night earning his keep and seducing the odd patron to let him feed from their veins. Eventually, he’d have to go. He always did. But tonight his neatly trimmed claws strummed the lute and he sang in the voice of a performer. His greatest performance was, of course, the fact that he did not choke on his words with sobs. Especially as he saw the golden-haired youth in traveling clothes, eyeing him in a way that felt more like sunshine than anything Finnegan’s been allowed in a hundred years. Like sunshine, it might kill him. As badly as he wanted to die, he let himself burn a little more in the young man’s company, tuning his instrument against the bar, hovering in his proximity.

There was something a little more red than gold about his hair, now that they stood close together. His eyes were bluer in a way that would usually make Finnegan suspect fey blood. But there was no flower crown and no twisted mound of flesh to touch with reverent fingertips as Victor skimmed his hands across the planes of Finnegan’s scales. Somehow, Finnegan didn’t want to know those family stories. Somehow, he felt certain he’d written a few of them himself. This was not Victor, but it could be a son or a grandson or an uncommonly handsome stranger. He never expected to grieve the passage of time. Then again, he’d never expected to live out his days in the Shadowfell at the beck of a strange and powerful master. However, he always expected Victor to die before him. He simply always expected to bury him with his own hands, to return him to the earth as elves returned their beloveds’ bodies to the earth, to wait foolishly as others waited properly for their beloveds’ return. It was stupid to look for Victor in a stranger. It was stupid to dream that he might have been allowed to say goodbye.

It was stupid to brood on it when there was a pretty young thing and he could imagine getting lost in his kiss, draining him, holding him, feeling almost satisfied. Why shouldn’t he? He tilted his head, smiling toothily at the young thing - a warning as much as an invitation - before he spoke.

It’s the holiday season… | Not accepting!

who spends hours putting up lights only to get tangled in them and storm off?: RUDYARD. He refuses help and insists he’s been doing this for years.

who accidentally eats a whole box of christmas chocolates in one sitting?: Victor, after not having eaten for two days. Self-care, buddy. 

who insists on watching the cheesey hallmark christmas movies? Victor, tugging Rudyard onto the couch mostly for snuggles. Rudyard complains about the plot the whole time. 

who insists on playing nothing but michael buble in the few days running up to christmas?: I feel like this is more a Victor move, but it’s probably something more Church-y. Could be Buble tough. Either way, he’s trying for the fifth Christmas in a  row to teach Rudyard the basics of waltzing and they’re teasing and fussing at each other in the kitchen.

who gets their presents wrapped at the mall so the other cant go snooping: Victor gets Rudyard’s presents wrapped in the last place Rudyard will look: Chapman’s.

who insists on making snow angels? I feel like this is an automatic response to falling down in the snow, which happens an alarming amount. Both of them.

who put christmas outfits on all the pets?: RUDYARD and they aren’t “pets”. It’s Madeline and she looks excellent in her Christmas jumper, thank you very much. 

Do they go to family’s or have a quiet day in? A bit of both, since they live with Antigone (and the kids) if applicable and even though they’re staying home, they have family around and it’s not exactly quiet.

who insists on wearing matching ugly christmas jumpers?: RUDYARD. Victor goes with it gamely. 

Who waits up until midnight to give the other their present? If the present isn’t family-friendly... ahem. But otherwise, they’ll open presents with everyone else.

Who insists on hand-made presents only one year?: I feel like VIctor says something about it and Rudyard turns it into a weird competition. 

Who puts mistletoe on every door frame?: Victor puts it up ONE place and overnight, it multiplies. He thinks Rudyard is being competitive and is like “You don’t have to go to such lenghts to get me to kiss you, darling” and Rudyard is like, “I didn’t!” and no one believes him. Georgie thinks her prank is hilarious.

Who gets too drunk at the work christmas party and has to be picked up at 9:15pm?: Victor. Rudyard doesn’t drink and I keep imagining the “You were flirting with Rudyard.” “So? He’s my husband.” “You asked if he was single. And cried when he said no.”

//Not at dumb question to ask at all!! There’s various takes on what it is; THIS is what’s speculated on a wiki and then following that is my take on it! 

Not much is known about Neuro-Immune Deficiency Syndrome, although it appears to render its victims physically weak and fragile, a condition which only worsens over time. Victims of N.I.D.S. thus require constant medical attention.

This disease could be based on HIV/AIDS (human immunodeficiency virus/acquired immunodeficiency syndrome), a real-life infectious disease. Based on its name, N.I.D.S. is most likely a disease that affects the nervous system (likely the brain) while also weakening the immune system (through the reduction of a person's antibody count), making the patient more susceptible to other diseases, as is evidenced by its name ("neuro" comes from the Greek word neuron, meaning "nerve" and in medical terms, refers to the brain and nervous system; immunodeficiency implies a weak immune system).

HOWEVER: in my portrayal I compare it to SCIDs (Severe combined immunodeficiency). SCID is the result of an immune system so highly compromised that it is considered almost absent.

MEANING that my Maria underwent various bone marrow transplants, periods of isolation, frequent septic attacks, pneumonia, several semi-comas and multiple blood draws/ blood transfusions. Eventually the two last methods of treatment was being tested right before the G.U.N raid and it would’ve proven successful had Space Colony ARK not been shut down and Maria killed. One of the last methods being that of gene mapping, but due to its risk for Leukemia tendencies in other patients Gerald Robotnik refused to perform it on his granddaughter. What would be the point in a cure if she died from cancer months later? 

W - An idol.

eraserhead.

i’ve always admired all might and his triumphs, ever since i was a kid. he inspired me to become a hero, to always pull ahead of the competition and win, and to come out on top.

he also barely even fucking saw me until i was right up in his face.

aizawa actually told me to get up and do it, and he told the entire goddamn country in the face of harsh criticism and pressure to say otherwise that i could. that i would. he saw that i was trying harder than anybody and he didn’t let anyone conveniently fucking forget it.