Thread: Fandoms and originals (MxM, MxF, and multi-character scenes)

RE The Men of Westeros MxM, MxF, and multi-character scenes Using this post to add some writing samples from other RPs I've done - the starting posts of my part of the RP. Around half of these RPs are still in progress or are plot ideas I'm no longer interested in, but definitely feel free to ask about any of them! Even if they're no longer available, we could probably derive an idea from them. Jon Snow welcoming Loras Tyrell to the Wall Appealing to Southron Lords had truly been a double-edged sword for the new Lord Commander. Were they truly concerned for the security of the realm, then they would have taken every measure possible to answer his call for arms and aid with all due haste and due diligence. The security of the realm was an issue that should unite the Lords of Westeros, and while he doubted its powers to bridge old rivalries, it would nevertheless give a unifying goal too important to undermine with petty politics. Sadly, however, Jon had long suspected Southron lords of having a certain perception of the Wall. A dumping ground for unwanted sons, incendiary and vexing maesters, rabble rousing vassals, and mere common criminals. A drain on the resources of rival Northern lords, an obligation they had to attend to lest their lands be pillaged and mauled by wildling marauders. An old story, a threat to quell disobedient children, a curiosity to be marvelled at. Jon doubted many of the Southron Lords recognised the stakes at play. The Southerners, however, from the Vale to Dorne, had been spared the true horrors of the War of the Five Kings, and had resources and men more naturally hospitable Lords in the Riverlands and the North could not muster. They had to be called upon, and so ravens had been sent. He had known those loyal to Stannis at the Wall had had mixed views on such an arrangement some viewed it as weakening those disloyal to the King, others as a potential path for reconciliation, others angry at even the prospect of talking to such traitors. His fellow Brothers had had more mixed reactions, yet rooted in the pragmatism of such a move and whether it was even worth the time. Dolorous Edd had recommended merely sending a one-sentence letter, bar all the insignia of the Watch, to profanely summarise their current situation. While such a move would have been incredibly satisfying, Jon wrote it off as a joke, and ignored Edds pleas to let him pen the letter that would be sent to every landed House in the realm. Responses had been patchy. The various Sistermen Lords had been the first to reply, but with conditions attached to any offers of help, with thinly-veiled demands for assistance in their smuggling operations and help in their plotting against their fellow Lords of the Sisters. Other responses had trickled through. Some Houses had the decency to apologise, or even justify why they lacked the resources, yet others called on the Watch to be less presumptuous and instead send such ravens to their rival Houses, who clearly owed the Wall a greater obligation. Some had made unsubstantiated promises of sending more common criminals north. And then the Tyrells, rooted deep in Kings Landing politics, had sent Loras north as an envoy. Jon had no doubt that there was a political incentive behind it, but made no attempt to speculate as to what that motive was. Regardless, it had been an act of surprising courtesy to send a son of a Great House to the Wall, and Jon had no intent of throwing away an opportunity or rebuking such an offer. He would, at least to the Sers face, assume altruism. He had been meeting with Ser Denys Mallister and Cotter Pyke, trying to better discuss how to fortify the whole length of the Wall. That was, at the very least, his formal assignment. He had chiefly been sitting in the middle of the two men as they argued and feuded. Pyp and Satin had been by his side, conveying messages too sensitive for the Lord Commander to delicately transmit. Pykes Maester, Harmune, was also clearly aggravated by how the discussion had turned into a verbal sparring match, a naked wrestle for sparse resources, but was too drunk to actually be of much assistance. When Grenn knocked and brought news of Lorass arrival, Jon stood up, only too eager to terminate this unproductive meeting. If separated, perhaps reasonableness could prevail. Cotter, there are some letters from the Three Sisters that may be of interest to you, and we would appreciate your counsel in how we respond to their conflicting requests. Satin will show you and Maester Harmune to them. Satin, a pretty Oldtown whore, sat up. Jon realised slightly too late Cotter would dislike his rather lithe build and gentle bearing, but decided not to change his mind. And Ser Denys, I understand your disappointment with the last batch of Moles Town recruits, but there are more in the yard waiting for your assessment. Pyp will show you to them. I have a meeting with Loras Tyrell. Denys, trained to be as stoic as a noble should be, and Cotter, rough and coarse in manners, both responded identically. Their eyebrows raised, their eyes lit up with interest, and they both stood up in time. It occurred to Jon he could quickly sever friendships with both men by noting how alike they were in temperament once the vestiges of upbringing had been removed. It was Denys who spoke first. Lord Commander, the Tyrells and the Mallisters have a strong history, and- That history recently involves your nephew marching in the army trying to get rid of the Tyrell Queen! Cotter had hoped merely to denigrate Denyss prospect as an envoy to meet with Loras, but perhaps realised slightly too late his comments could be seen as an insult of the Stark banners the Mallisters had marched under. He decided to shift track. Not to get embroiled in the realms conflicts, but if Mallister here wants to present his family history as a reason for meeting with the Tyrell boy, then maybe he should remember his family present. And perhaps you should too, Cotter, for your family has doubtless reaped and reaved Tyrell territory countless times, whichever family it is you hail from- Enough! Jon valued both of these men, but together they were far worse than the sum of their parts. Were here as men of the Watch, not men from the families we left behind. He turned to Pyp, Grenn, and Satin in turn. There was value in their lack of highborn loyalties. You two should both do well to remember that, and if I hear any Southron politics being discussed with the Tyrell envoys, I will be sorely disappointed. We must convince Loras that this is an issue that transcends House loyalties. If I need your help in doing so, I shall call on you both later. Separately. He left the room, and followed Grenn to outside the quarters where Loras had been seated. Camern is settling him into his quarters, Grenn explained with no prompting. As you insisted. Still not sure why. He makes me look witty. Camern used to be a Highgarden resident before he got sent here. Hed recognise a Tyrell when he saw one. Jon soon spotted Camern, clearly returning from his tasks, standing still to hear his report. Yeah, like every smallfolk criminal has seen their lords and ladies in the flesh before. Despite the sarcasm, Grenn gave Jon a friendly pat on the back as he kept walking, duties demanding his attention. Camern soon stopped in front of Jon, and nodded. Definitely Loras. Jon had, to the most trusted and esteemed members of the Watch, asked around to see if anyone could be sure the man who arrived was actually Loras Tyrell. Sadly, most highborn Brothers capable of recognising Loras were absent, and so it fell to Camern, as the only semi-trustworthy man capable of confirming they were not giving bed and board to an imposter. Camern was a lowborn criminal who had been caught attempting to spy on Lady Margaerys handmaidens in order to impress his friends. For his perversion, he had been given a choice his eyes or his freedom, and he had chosen to keep his eyes. Camern turned his head, and Loras was striding confidently to join them. Jon nodded wordlessly to Camern, giving him leave to return to his duties. Camern turned his head back at Lorass rather crude greeting of the Lord Commander, but knew better than to intervene. Of course, Ser Loras. Internally, Jon bristled slightly at the brusque and informal greeting. He was no stickler for manners, certainly, but had come to expect something more respectful and ceremonial. He would not render Lorass trip meaningless and Tyrell aid an impossibility, however, by rebuking the Knight of Flowers for his curtness. The Watch needed men and supplies. He had a strange way of beginning talks, but Jon knew that the Tyrells held all the cards here, and so he would play along. I hope the quarters are to your liking. Its not much, but on the Wall we can spare little time for comfort. I have requested some fine wine and food from our warehouses to be brought to you, in honour of your arrival. Jon began walking, hoping to follow Loras, knowing some measure of deference would perhaps go along way. Anything you request, we shall try to accommodate. Click to expand... Gabriel Reyes and his Overwatch colleagues visiting the Shimada compound Gabriel Reyes always had to concede that, in the contest of first impressions, Jack Morrison won, hands down. He had just enough of that rustic charm from his rural Indiana upbringing left in him to be relatable to the average man, but not too much that he came across as an unrefined country bumpkin to the elites who set their salaries. He was handsome, blond and with a finely chiseled jawline. Whenever he spoke, he spoke in a deep and gruff voice that just oozed charisma, that was inexplicably dulcet in its sonorous character, that lent itself to agreeable and silvery prose even when he was speaking bullshit. And when he wasnt speaking bullshit? Dammit, then it only got better. He managed to strike that evasive balance perfectly, between idealistic empathy and dispassionate unflappability, between rigorous attention to detail and appreciation for the bigger picture. If nothing else, Jacks professionalism was beyond reproach. For he knew that he would be better at talking to the Shimada clan than any of his companions. They all knew that. And they all knew that, were the negotiations to be left to either the callow McCree or the brusque and frank-talking Gabriel, things would likely go to shit pretty quickly. But Jack, perfect and kind Jack, would never state that. Hed never say what they all already knew. He would be euphemistic, circumlocute with a slipperiness most would never think to associate with Jack. But no. It wasnt being euphemistic. It was being professional. So how had he told Jesse and Gabriel that the important stuff - the stuff that mattered - would be left to the able command of Jack Morrison? Not by just telling them straight. No. That was never Jacks way. He liked to fancy himself some kind of egalitarian team strategist, and so what he instead told them was that he wanted them to snoop around. Talk to the unimportant people. Not in those exact words, but that was the gist. Dont get Gabriel wrong. He loved Jack. Dude was his best friend. Theyd been through thick and thin, developed a rapport that no amount of smarmy politicking and undeserved applause on Jacks part could truly dent. And he had no problem with the division of labour, the delegation of rules. What he didnt appreciate was the lack of forthrightness. Setting a bad example for the newbie. Jesse McCree was technically no newbie. Reformed outlaws brought onto the side of justice had experience that people like Morrison and Reyes - especially Morrison - could never hope of attaining. A mindset. A mindset that was bad for negotiations, sure, but Gabriel thought Jack was doing Jesse no favours by being economical with the truth. Still, it was his mission. And Gabriel would make the most of his assignment. See what intel you can glean from those lower down the ranks of the organisation. Implicit in that was just make smalltalk. If anything noticeable comes up, report it. But dont push, or goad, or snoop, or violate their privacy. Gabriel would just chat some shit with the servants and the out-of-favour members of the entourage, try and get a feel for the dynamics of the place. A grasp of the atmosphere. McCrees instructions were a bit more structured accompany Jack with his negotiations, but dont get in the way. Do the small talk stuff Jack couldnt be bothered to do, basically. McCree looked more comfortable in this social role than Gabriel was, the more experienced operative had to reluctantly admit. Eventually the limo pulled to a stop, and the engine ground to a halt. Gabriel placed his hand on the door handle, looking to Jack for permission to depart the vehicle. Jack knew where their stop was, after all. Gabriel had also been told that information, and had chosen to ignore it. Jack would be able to remember it, and if he was rendered incapable of remembering it, then getting to the Shimada clan base on time would then be the least of their priorities. Jack looked through the tinted windows, and nodded. He made sure to get out first, springing into action before Gabriel could process his request. The gregarious and charismatic Jack Morrison jumping out of the limo, hand out and smiling brightly, that was a great first impression. Not the sulking, scowling Gabriel getting out of the back seat. He looked over the limo as he stood up, trying to stretch his legs without making too much of a scene. Jack was already the centre of attention. Bar a couple of perfunctory glances, nobody Jack was meeting with looked at him. He was seen as a guard, probably. They knew who he was, but it was Jack they wanted to talk to. Gabriel turned away. Scowled. Walked off. Time to settle in. Click to expand... The loyal bodyguard of another Targaryen claimant Objectively, the Port of Qarth was a truly beautiful sight. Its beauty derived much from its contradictions. The colours of the extravagant ships dancing in the waters and the dazzling architecture glimmering beneath the beating sun, a sight that would appear shambolic were a single window to shut or sail to turn astray, yet never did so. The noises of a million different tongues and dialects clamouring to be heard, creating a sound that was at once cacophonic and harmonious. Throughout the air wafted the scents of many an exotic spice and opulent dish, mixed with the cuisine of the common traders and the unseemly byproducts of industry and commerce, blending into a strangely appealing concoction, one that defied all the rules of good taste yet still made ones mouth water. Most men would describe the sight as majestic. Awe-inspiring. Beguiling. It was at once palatial in stature and chaotic in beauty. It reflected both the organisational prowess of the Qartheen and the organic peace in which merchants and traders flying every flag of the Known World, from the Tyrell sigil of the Reach to flags that, ostensibly, represented the Cities of the Bloodless Men and Carcosa, mingled and bartered. But Karron Ashbridge knew only one sight to be majestic, and awe-inspiring, and beguiling. He could only appreciate the other fruits the world offered with an impartial eye, recognising and appreciating how others would kill and die for one glimpse at them. But there was only one sight that could inspire such passions in himself. And he was truly blessed to be able to cast his eyes upon that sight every day. The Silent Dancer was a small ship. Sleek and streamlined in design, Essosi in origin, it was far smaller than the ships in which they had left - no, fled - Westeros all those years ago. It was more suitable for their current party, smaller and more eclectic in character than which a rightful King truly deserved. It was a perfect fit for the port of Qarth, however. It had been able to navigate through the larger trading galleys, with an almost cat-like nimbleness and agility, and had been able to anchor in a rather central location, lodged between two far bigger vessels, with rowing oars that Karron mournfully noted were likely worked by slaves. He sighed. This was an assault on the senses, and he had a far more beautiful sight to gaze upon. Turning his heels, he walked inside, not knowing until the embrace of shade returned to him just how intense the sun had been. Wiping his brow with his hand, he looked at his king. My liege. Click to expand... Donut from Red vs Blue on patrol The song that Donut was humming defied all attempts at transcribing. It seemingly changed tempo and rhythm, indeed its very genre, every few seconds. The cacophonic nature of his humming was of no consequence, of course. He was standing by a rock, guarding what his new Sarge had told him was a mineral of vital but inexplicable importance, and the assignment called for solitude. He felt somewhat honoured, being given such a lofty assignment straight out of the gate, and with such trusting and open comrades-in-arms. He did not spend much time questioning the orders. Yes, he did not see how his lightish-red armour made suitable camouflage, but the others had thought of that. They also, using rather convincing arguments free from logical fallacy, convinced him that he was not bait, and that they were not getting him out of the base to bitch about him and his exploits. That would be rather unfair. So ultimately, Donuts humming was for his own amusement, and the lack of consistency or artistic panache was of no consequence to anyone else. Live and let live was perhaps too simplistic a notion to answer all questions of morality, but it definitely governed private humming in the privacy of ones home. And in the privacy of the middle of nowhere. Nope, Donut gained a certain philosophical pleasure, a certain relief from boundaries and societal prejudices, when he indulged himself in tone-deaf humming. Also because last time he tried humming an actual song, he got shouted at by some copyright lawyers. He grew up in a strange community. He decided to stop humming at that point, in case he accidentally violated someone elses intellectual property. And guarding this rock was very important. It was the centre of an important strategic focalpoint, contained various materials vital for every pursuit in humanitys existence, served as an important rallying point for the morale of friend and foe alike. At first Donut had suspected that they were forgetting their justification for the rocks importance and making up new ones as they went along, but then Donut realised The rock had all these important roles, and so much more. Click to expand... Makoto Tachibana reflecting on his friendship with Haru It couldnt be love. No. That was ridiculous. It wasnt even worth the mental energy, the firing of synapses, pondering that possibility. He didnt need to ruminate on it, speculate about it, dissect the abstract concepts and the tangible emotions. He could rule that possibility out. Hed ruled it out many times before. He couldnt be in love with Haru. He just couldnt. Hed known him pretty much all his life. The Westermarck effect had to kick in. And hell, the guy was his best friend. It was presumptuous, selfish even, to fall in love with him, and put the importance that relationship had for both of them on the line. Love was a dangerous thing, anecdotes and fiction had imprinted upon him, and if it went wrong or wasnt reciprocated, then hell, that friendship could crumble. And neither of them could survive that. So Makoto only considered the possibility he was in love with Haru to immediately discount it. Spending even a second more thought on it was dangerous. Rei and Nagisa alike had both spotted him staring at Haru throughout the day. Reis tone was quizzical, Nagisas teasing, the implications unspoken but obvious. His eyes had rested on the sight of his torso, sculpted and defined to be the perfect aerodynamic swimming force, glistening with water. His eyes followed every dip and dive in Harus at once sporadic and highly-regulated swimming. His mouth, he realised after the fact, had been hanging slightly open, so absorbed was he in the undeniable beauty of his friend swimming, possessing the grace of a dolphin. He had made sure to tell Rei and Nagisa the same justification. He had to make sure Haru didnt go too crazy. Didnt swim too far out, or abandon the need to eat and sleep, or get too absorbed in his passion. And that was true. The truth of the reason satisfied them both. He wasnt in love with Haru. It was protectiveness. That was it. But that too, couldnt be all of it. He remained watching Haru, as he sat on the log, in a rare moment of voluntary stillness. He was in no danger. But he couldnt tear his eyes away. He appreciated Harus body in a physical sense, yes. It was beautiful. Elegant. Perfect. And the mind within? Cryptic, yet all the more beautiful for that. He was blessed to have Haru as a friend. It was appreciation. But no. That didnt explain the...thoughts of recent nights. It was lust. He could not deny that. Lust for someone he cared about. A wave of lust that would pass, and soon normalcy would return. But he would never admit it was love. He sat down next to Haru on the log, and followed the trajectory of his eyes out over the horizon of the lake. You having a good time so far, Haru? Makoto spoke to Haru as normal - deliberate, direct, considerate. Haru did not waste time with flowery metaphors or flourishing rhetorical embellishments, and Makoto knew he was best spoken to with a refreshingly direct character. He made sure not to betray a single sign of his internal turmoil. Click to expand... A young knight to be cursing his luck Gavin Westall was not meant to be a knight. Certainly, the traditions of Trevaria, his place in the Westall family, and the obligations of his high birth meant that he had a duty to serve as a valiant knight, as a defender of his familys privileges and smallfolk, as a protector of the realm and an enforcer of justice. He had been groomed to do just that. The finest tutors in the small peninsula from which the Westalls hailed, time as a squire to their liege lord, a meticulously crafted training regimen. Even his family history had set him on the course of a vocation in combat. His father, uncles, and older brother, whether groomed for rulership or warfare, whether raised to plan an attack or lead it, all had the muscular builds the Westalls were somewhat renowned for. The Westalls were characterised by broad shoulders and a durable constitution that made even great lords tremble and their daughters open their legs. Such a boast was as close to a family motto as they had. The Westalls were a small House, with mixed fortunes, but a reputation for heroics that preceded them. However, while the world had conspired to force Gavin into the martial lifestyle, his temperament and mettle had done all within their powers to frustrate such efforts. Gavin preferred books. Politics. Ruling. Justice. Sitting in an antechamber instead of rough-housing and feasting, pondering the details of a fairer world. When Gavin had arrived at the camp, Master Ethan did not hide his disappointment. Gavins body was lithe, lean, supple, willowy and elegant in movement. That was how it had been charitably described. Weak. Gangly. A scarecrow made out of wheat. A man who can read everything but wield nothing. Those were perhaps the more common epithets, the more imaginative ones the only indication Master Ethan gave of being a well-read and creative man. Master Ethan took great pleasure in insinuating Gavin was a bastard, even going so far as to nickname him Eastnone. Were build alone proof of parentage, Gavin would be inclined to agree. His face was recognisably Westall. Thankfully, the lottery of birth had given him some traits that made him fit in with the rest of his family. He was hoping his obvious cowardice and unimpressive build had meant the knight who was here to assess their skills would have already removed him from consideration. And when he curled his finger, inviting him - no, ordering him - into the ring, Gavin looked around, hoping he was indicating to someone else. Alas, the gesture proved to be unambiguous in meaning, the wordless instruction unequivocal and self-evident. So he stepped forward, thankful for how the burdensome armour concealed some of his obvious anxiety, sword ready. And danced. Well, he wished that it was how it came across. Instead, it was more of him just jumping back, dodging the knights sword blows, too slow and too pensive to have any hope of parrying. The knight had been cautious and defensive with the fighters before him, but had apparently detected Gavins trepidation, for he was on the offensive constantly. His pressure was relentless, his sword swings too erratic to be blocked, and so panicky and equally erratic evasion was Gavins instinctive survival tactic. Each swipe of the blade came closer and closer to connecting with the meat of his body, all manner of grazes already having connected, ignorable only thanks to the adrenaline of the moment. He was predictable, hopping around the field like a bunny, the knight seemingly prolonging this sorry charade for no reason other than to humiliate him. Once or twice there was the clang of metal, as Gavins sword interrupted a swing, but that was an accident every time, and only served to knock Gavins balance off, and allow the next few swings to brush against the fine hairs on his skin. Youre lucky I dont know what noises rabbits make! Master Ethan yelled, provoking chortles from the others. Philip Angwin laughed the hardest. He had been able to do what Gavin had not - blend into the background, avoid detection, but not make such an intention obvious. He had insulted all of the fighters before him, whispering into the ear of his friend, timing his insults so the clang of metal blocked them out from the ears of most. Gavin had heard a few. The blond youth who had been the first to volunteer had received a host of masturbation jokes as reward for the injury to his wrist. Gavin had shut out his comments since then. But when the laughter dissipated, and Gavin was still hopping around, the knights back to Philip as he pursued his prey, Philip withdrew his sword. Stepped forward. And with a yell, brought his sword down low, aiming for the back of the knights knees. Nice teamwork, boys! Ethan yelled. As was often the case, determining whether his tone was sarcastic or sincere was a fools errand. Click to expand...