#makes the biggest deepest bark ever

[darkwood-sleddog]

Bruh. A bear came up to our front door yet AGAIN and I knew immediately bc Sigurd now has a very distinct bear alert bark and it is. Uh. Primal? My dude just leapt from his spot on the landing and sprang into action. Guess I’m beginning to understand how a whole team of these can be used for polar bear deterrent.

[lilpomelito]

I know we all love Eddie who's convinced Steve is straight and can't see Stevie's giant crush on him from a mile away but what about extremely precise gaydar Eddie who sees 16 year old "King Steve" going out with half the school's population of girls, dressing up and taking care of his hair like a model and going "that's a closeted queer right there." And when they meet and become friends, Eddie watches Steve go through the "I'm straight but a very strong and invested ally" to "oh shit maybe I am queer too" pipeline, patiently waiting for Steve to be comfortable into his newly discovered sexuality to make the first move. Which doesn't take more than a week since Stevie is famous for his "go with the flow and normalize wild shit that happens to me" sense. He comes to terms with his sexuality in the morning and he's jumping Eddie's bones that evening. Which drives Eddie nuts, he spent years thinking Steve needed time to finally come out but Steve genuinely was clueless about his attraction to men.

Eddie can't believe this, "How could you have not known? I've always known, since the first time I thought damn this guy is hot."

Steve shrugs, "I just thought everyone thought guys were hot. I just never liked them."

"What do you mean."

"I mean, I like you, and I think you're hot."

"That's good to know but what do you mean you thought everyone was into guys?"

Steve is almost laughing at this point, "Yeah, I mean I've always seen guys as hot as well as girls, but only ever liked liked girls? They're nice, and sweet, and listen when I talk. Guys don't do that, they're always trying to compete who can be the biggest asshole. But not you, you don't do that. I just believed that finding people hot was a universal experience, and having feelings for them is what defined your sexuality..."

Eddie stares into the distance. "So what I'm hearing is, if you had better friends growing up, you would have realized this years ago."

Which makes him a little sad. Eddie's first crush was his friend Alan, who was a year older than him. The guy who introduced him to D&D, and took him under his wing when the popular kids would pick on him in middle school. He was a total nerd, the kind that actually did well in school, but he never judged Eddie for struggling. He always opened his home for him when things at home got too loud, when Eddie's dad would scream and throw things and his mom would sit there on the couch silent for hours. He was straight, but he never judged Eddie for his embarrassing crush on him, he even encouraged him to pursue other boys. He'd graduated years ago, top of his class, moved to college, and Eddie stayed the same, triple senior and all.

And Eddie supposed Steve hadn't been that lucky. His childhood friend was Tommy H; another chronic closeted case, but also a violently homophobic one. It was a relief to know that Tommy's giant crush on Steve (that was so obvious it could be observed from orbit) was not reciprocated. Almost as much as knowing that Billy Hargrove's violent lust for Steve also was one-sided.

Steve sighs. "Maybe. But I also never really had that many good female friends until Robin. I mean Nancy was great, and now we get along a lot better than we did when we dated. Carol was one of my best friends, but she was mean. She had this ability to find your deepest insecurities and just joke about them like they were insignificant. I don't know. It made me feel like shit, even if what she was trying to do was to make it less serious."

"What a bitch."

Steve barks out a laugh, and all Eddie can do is observe him, grieve in silence for little Stevie who for all he had in this world, he had to fight so hard to find his people.

[joshuaorrizonte]

Untitled Chapter Twelve: Dragonslayer

@eventide-imp @zottower

Comment to be tagged/untagged!

Kain stared at Michel and Petre, not understanding what they were saying. “What… why would a dragon not Stormsong want anything to do with me?” he protested, gaze shifting between them rapidly.

“We were hoping you knew that,” Michel said evenly. “In any event, we must go back to Elymont-“

“No.” 

“Ash?” Kain looked at the porter, who was staring at the two peacekeepers in open hostility.

Ash shook his head firmly. “Who are these people, Kain, and how do you know they’re telling the truth?”

Petre gasped in fury, “I’m not going to let an elf-“

“Petre!” Michel barked. The younger man quieted, seething, and Michel looked back at Ash. “Fair questions. Petre and I are peacekeepers from the village Kain grew up in.” Kain noticed Michel’s phrasing with a sharp pain in his heart. So it was the village he grew up in, and not his village… “As for how you know we’re telling the truth, you don’t. But Kain knows we would not lie-“

“Kain knows nothing of the sort,” Kain replied hotly. Michel’s eyes widened in surprise and Kain finished, “I ran when the elder wanted to hold me against my will and ‘undo the night elf’s brainwashing. I have no assurance whatsoever that this isn't merely a ploy to get me to return."

Michel’s face reddened. "I would never-"

"Wouldn't you?" Kain demanded. "How do I know you wouldn't, when you put me in that position in the first place!"

"I did not!" Michel thundered. "If anyone did, it was Petre-"

Petre snarled, "I did, and I'd do it again-"

"And that's why he's not going with you," Ash remarked dryly. "Come on, Kain."

"Wait!"

Michel’s voice was desperate, and Kain couldn't imagine that he was lying. He wasn't that good an actor. "Petre is an asshole. I'm not denying that."

"Michel-!"

"Shut up!" Michel snapped. "Petre is an asshole," he repeated, "but we're telling the truth! Thousands will die if you don't-"

"Michel, listen to me," Kain said steadily. "The dragons are gone. I don't know what destroyed Reythak, but it wasn't a dragon."

"It was, Kain," Petre spat. 

"How did it tell you it wanted me?" Kain challenged. "Dragons can't make human sound!"

"Kain, why would we tell such an obvious lie?" Michel gasped. 

His question finally gave Kain pause. Why would they tell such an obvious lie, indeed? It seemed that Ash had the same thought; " Well, how about this: describe it for us."

"Describe-?"

"The dragon," Kain answered, seeing what Ash was going for. "I'm a dragon rider. I know every breed of dragon there is. I may be able to tell what attacked you."

"What difference will it make?" Petre's voice was despairing, like he finally understood his position, and it didn't look good. "You already don't believe us, and as you say: no dragon could have done what this one did!" 

"Just do it," Kain clipped back. "I can't help if I don't have a clear picture of what's going on."

Michel's eyes narrowed at him, but he spoke anyway. "It was... it was huge. The biggest dragon I'd ever seen. It was black as the darkest night; its scales seemed to absorb light. Its wingspan seemed to run the width of the town. Its eyes were the deepest black, even darker than its scales-"

Kain stopped him with a wild, disbelieving gasp. "No!"

"Kain?" As Ash put a hand on his shoulder, Petre spoke his name, concern and dread thick in his voice. 

He had gone utterly pale and lightheaded. His heart beat erratically in utter terror, and for the very first time in his life, he was afraid he was going to pass out. His vision started going gray at the edges as he wheezed, "That dragon... was..."

"Easy, lad." 

"Who're you?" Ash demanded, his voice distant. 

"That doesn't matter right now. We need to get this poor boy a seat and some sugar-"

"Sugar?" 

"Later. Here, have him sit on this tree stump. There we go, just like that. I have some sugar water here-“

“Who carries sugar water?” Michel asked, bewildered.

The stranger replied sharply, “Someone with sugar sickness. Here, lad, drink up.”

The stranger pushed the bottle into his hands and helped guide the opening of the bottle to his mouth. He nearly choked on the cloying sweetness of the water, but he swallowed it with only a grimace. In seconds, the nausea and dizziness began to subside, and sound became clear again. 

Ash, Petre, and Michel continued talking with the stranger while Kain recovered. He listened closely, not quite believing he hadn’t hallucinated Michel’s description of the dragon. “Forgive me,” the strange man said as Kain looked him over. He was handsome, with sandy blond hair and ice blue eyes. He wore simple traveling garb and carried a leather pack; Kain saw no weapons on his person but a dagger. He had no doubt, from the confidence in the way the man moved, that he knew how to use it to defend himself. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but I couldn’t help overhearing your conversation. That dragon you described: it spoke to you?”

Michel and Petre both nodded. “It did,” Petre said firmly. “And we’re to bring Kain - that man you just helped - back to him, or the dragon will destroy another town—this one a populous harbor city.”

The man’s eyes widened for a moment. His cold gaze turned to Kain, and Kain thought he saw something shift in his eyes. “I’m afraid you have a problem,” the man said solemnly, “that goes beyond this man’s life.”

“What problem is that?” Ash asked, rubbing Kain’s back in firm, soothing circles. He wanted to tell Ash that he could stop, but he still hadn’t found his voice. 

“That dragon you described,” the stranger said softly, “was Bahamut, the father of the dragons.”

At that confirmation, Kain felt the world fall out from beneath him.

~*~

Gavin walked carefully through the streets, making sure Liashta was always beside him. Every once in a while, noise pierced the quiet night. The howl of a stray dog; laughter, a scream. Liashta cringed beside him, but her steps did not falter. 

They had been walking for about an hour, Gavin guiding them down alleys and keeping to the shadows. As far as Gavin could tell, no one was following them. But this was a city of hidden danger, especially where they were. If whoever wanted him dead was following him, they'd strike here, where they could kill and leave him there, just another body in the street. And if they caught him like this, Liashta was dead, too. He couldn't let that happen. 

He was vaguely aware that Stormsong was still trying to guide them. He was tempted to resist her, force her to return to him and explain herself. He gritted his teeth against the impulse. She was, no matter what form she was in, a dragon. As a rider, he was subservient to her, and not the other way around. And she knew it, otherwise she wouldn't be doing this. 

He felt her pulling him towards a dilapidated, three-storied building. No light shone in its dingy windows; indeed, from what Gavin could tell, the thing had suffered a fire in recent history, likely was not safe to occupy. Still he felt Stormsong pulling them towards the building, and though he wanted to abandon her at that point, he knew he would never bring himself to do so. She was Kain’s dragon, and he would protect her no matter what happened.

But why did it matter so desperately what Kain thought? They were lovers, true, but it wasn’t like Gavin was in love with him. 

The thought gave him pause, as he headed for the dilapidated building, Liashta protesting behind him. When he felt a strange ache in his chest when he thought of Kain, a pain that intensified when he denied that he loved Kain. It was something to think about. 

In the meantime… “Trust me, Liashta.” He paused. “Or rather, trust Stormsong. She’s calling me here.”

“I can feel it, too,” Liashta admitted, “but are we really going to follow a child into a condemnable building?”

“We are,” Gavin confirmed. Liashta inhaled, intending to snap at him, and he headed her off, “Stormsong is the most qualified of the three of us to tell if something is safe or not. She’s telling me that we’ll be safe here. I have to trust her. And you do, too, by extension, because your alternative is to attempt to make it on your own. I don’t think you want to do that.”

“I don’t,” she agreed, grumbling the words. She quickened her steps to match Gavin’s, and they approached the structure together. Gavin tried the door and discovered it locked, the doorknob stubbornly refusing to turn. Gavin raised an eyebrow, and Liashta said, doubtfully, “Stormsong likely locked it for safety.”

Shrugging, Gavin knocked on the door. No response. With a frown, his knock turned to a pounding, and that got a response, an old man answering the door. He looked Gavin and Liashta up and down, his lip curling in derision. “What do you want, whippersnapper?” 

Taken aback, Gavin stuttered for a moment before finding his words. “A child of extraordinary power is supposedly here,” he said, his voice soft and unthreatening, the tones reminiscent of when he passed through Reythak. “She is-“

“A child, you say? No child here. Move along, move along. There’s nothing for-“

“It’s alright, Solaris. They’re the people I told you about.”

The man—Solaris—turned to look inside the house. “You sure, child? Changing appearances is easy magic-“

“I’m sure,” Stormsong’s calm, strangely mature voice answered. “Gavin has a very distinct aura. It’s him.”

“And his woman?”

Liashta growled, “I am not Gavin’s woman!”

Amused, Stormsong said dryly, “That’s her. Let them in, Solaris.”

Almost hesitantly, Solaris moved aside, and Gavin led Liashta into the building. The moment he stepped through, the room behind the door brightened, clean, well-lit, and beautifully furnished. There was no sign of the decay that plagued the outside of the building.

And there were others in the room. Stormsong sat on a plush couch with a woman and another child, and, as Gavin looked to Solaris for an explanation, the old man was suddenly young, younger than Gavin. Solaris grinned at Gavin’s confusion. “Changing appearances is easy magic,” he answered Gavin’s unasked question. “Stormsong says she’s a dragon. Is she telling the truth?”

“She is,” Gavin answered, as Liashta gawked at their surroundings.

“You’re her rider?”

At that, he shook his head slowly. “No. Her rider is… lost somewhere along the Eareux shore. I’m not sure where exactly he is.”

Solaris raised an eyebrow. “How do you know this? She told you? But that makes no sense; she should be able to pinpoint-“

“Before we go further,” Gavin interrupted flatly, “I’ll need information of my own. Who are you people? Why are you so scared of being found that you’ll mask this building with a glamour to make it look condemned?”

Solaris’s grin turned to a genuine smile. “We’re dragon singers, looking for the missing dragons.”

Understanding dawned on Gavin’s face. “I… I see. I am a dragon singer, as well. I’ve only encountered two dragons since they all vanished; Stormsong, and an ancient dragon being held prisoner by the governor of Elymont to… disappear undesireables.”

The woman asked, “A rider, singer, and dark knight? Are you collecting careers, elf?”

“Not collecting so much as falling into them,” Gavin answered, almost apologetically. "I can prove any of them, if you need me to."

"That won't be necessary," Solaris said. "You're only hurting yourself if you're lying. I am Solaris, as you've likely surmised. The woman is Adele, and the child Tristan. We're pleased to meet you, Gavin, Liashta. Stormsong tells us you are a singer as well, albeit untrained. We can help you with that, if you like."

Liashta cast a furtive, unsure glance at Gavin. Gavin shrugged, and Liashta swallowed thickly, thinking over her answer. "I... I'm not sure, to be honest. I didn't even know I had more magic than to encourage plants to grow, to be honest."

"Green magic is powerful magic," Solaris said, grimacing. "You need to be trained in that, at least. Won't you allow us to help you? Stormsong has told us of your goals, and we want to assist in any way we can."

Gavin and Liashta looked at each other, both of them hesitant. "Time is of the essence," Gavin answered. "I don't think we have the time to train her."

Solaris and Adele, too, exchanged looks. "You're headed to Darkfell, correct?" Adele said, her voice thick with an accent. "I could train her along with Tristan. Solaris could go with you to Darkfell-"

"Sorry, but no," Stormsong said flatly. "You're not separating us. I know I came to you for help, but we just met. I trust you're who you say you are, and that we're safe here for now. I don't trust you enough to let you separate us."

Solaris looked at her appraisingly. "You're wise beyond your appearance," he said after a moment. "We mean you no harm at all, but I suppose I'd refuse to be separated in your position, too. Is there anything holding us here, Adele?"

"Stability for Tristan," Adele replied haltingly, "but this life isn't very stabile itself. But to take him on the road to Darkfell would be..."

"I want to go."

All eyes turned to Tristan. The boy hadn't spoken at all since Gavin and Liashta arrived; and judging from Stormsong's expression, not since she arrived, either. "I want to go," he repeated, meekly. "I want to help find the dragons. I don't want to be a rider with no dragon."

"Tristan-" Solaris began. 

But Tristan wasn't having it. "No, listen to me! Lightdust begged me to save her as she was being taken. She was terrified, Solaris. Stormsong resisted it so hard she transformed into a human and can't change back! The dragons didn't want to go, and as a rider, I'm obligated to-"

"You're a child-"

"Sol!" Tristan shouted, startling them all. "I'm old enough to have seen my parents murdered in front of me, I'm old enough to have bonded with a dragon, and I'm old enough to help rescue her!"

They stared at him, taken aback by the outburst. As Adele was about to respond, Gavin interrupted bluntly, "Wait, did Lightdust tell you what was happening?"

Tristan, startled by Gavin's tone, looked at him with wide eyes. "She - she did. But I don't understand what she was talking about."

"Tell me!"

"Gavin?" Liashta prompted, trepidation in her voice. 

"You don't understand," Gavin said tightly. "I have to know what happened to them, Liashta. The whole reason I was in Reythak was to investigate what happened to them - and to rescue them, at all costs. I-"

"And who ordered you to do that?" Liashta challenged. "Drayden? He's dead, Gavin! You don't have to obey his commands-"

"No, Liashta, His Majesty. The king sent me with those orders. I have to obey these orders. And even if I didn't have to, I want to." He ran a hand through his hair, exhaling sharply. "Drayden told me before he died that he was planning to invade the Light Continent. I doubt his aspirations died when he did. We need to find the dragons before whoever steps into his shoes can reorganize and consolidate power. If that happens, and no one had their dragons, we win, Liashta. We will win against the Light Continent in every scenario. Do you want that? I don't!"

Liashta stared at him, horrified. "What... what do you mean?" Adele asked, her voice almost gentle. "Who is Drayden?"

"Drayden is - was - the captain of the Darkfell dragon riders. He held a massive amount of political power. I'd say he was the third most powerful person in Eeraux, only second to the king and queen. He had significant influence, and if he convinced his followers that he had the blessing of the court, there will be a war the Light continent can't win."

Solaris and Adele stared at him in utter disbelief. "You said that His Majesty directed you to find the dragons personally," Adele said. And this time her voice was hard. "Your surname wouldn't happen to be Skyglow, would it, Gavin?"

Gavin's voice was flat, resigned, almost lifeless as he answered, "Yes. I am Gavin Skyglow."

Tristan launched himself at Gavin with a strangled, enraged scream. Solaris caught him and hauled him back, snapping at the boy to control his emotions. "Monster!" the boy shrieked. "Get out! Get out!"

"Tristan!" Adele snapped, and said something fast and angry in a language Gavin didn't speak. Tristan replied, furious sobs ripping from his chest. 

Adele turned to them, her expression coldly enraged. "You have three minutes to explain why we should help you, Skyglow."

"I don't understand," Liashta murmured, looking from Adele to Gavin. The dark knight looked horrifically exhausted suddenly, agonizingly sad. He said nothing, though, and Liashta looked back to Adele, Solaris, and Tristan. “Someone tell me what’s going on!”

“Gavin Skyglow has another name,” Solaris said, every bit as suddenly cold as Adele. Liashta’s heart froze as Solaris spat it, derision in his voice: Gavin the Dragonslayer.”

[witchofthescions]

The air in the hastily assembled tent was stifling. The members of the Eorzean Alliance sat across from the Garlean emperor, all of them dwarfed by the large man and his regal armor. She stared at him, trying not to glare daggers at His Holier-Than-Thou-ness as he kept talking circles around the delegates.

Diplomacy my ass, Fray growled, pacing in the back of Erna’s mind like a caged tiger. He ain’t here to settle nothin’. He’s here to make a show of how much better he is than us “savages.” “Oh look at us Garleans, haven’t we done so much good? We brought you peace and order!”

Fray spat on the ground as Erna’s lip curled.

Peace and order my ass. If lettin’ your people run amok and treat people like shit is your idea of order, then I’m the most chaotic woman you've ever met.

“This madness and bloodshed is of your own making. You broke the peace, not Garlemald.”

Oh yeah, it totally wasn’t your orders that caused the prisoner exchange to go sideways. That was Zenos’s idea. Or rather, the Ascian pretendin’ to be him. Gods, how delusional. A leader who refuses to take responsibility for his own actions ain’t fit to lead. Fray bared her teeth at Varis, though he couldn’t see her. I’ve half a mind to leap across this table and rip his damn throat out.

But no, that would defeat the purpose of these talks, which was to buy the Alliance’s army time to get into position. She admired that the delegates were still putting in an honest effort to persuade Varis to stop, even if talking to the man was like talking to a brick wall.

He sure has done his homework though, hasn’t he? Fray observed. He knows a lot more about Eorzean history and politics than I did when I first came down from Farreach, and that’s technically a part of it.

The thought crossed Erna’s mind that Varis might have his own ulterior motive for being here, just as the Alliance had theirs. But if so, what could it possibly be?

Man, I wish one of these guys would cut to chase and ask already. Fray let out the deepest of sighs. Diplomats, I swear. They gotta speechify for an hour before they can even begin to get to the damn point. I guess that’s useful here, when they’re actually tryin’ to stall, but gods above.

“Your Radiance,” Ser Aymeric spoke up, “I fear I can personally attest to the dangers of pursuing one’s vision with such righteous fervor. For a thousand years, the Holy See of Ishgard waged war with dragons. A thousand years of sacrifice, of sorrow and hate, in which we bathed in the blood of friend and foe alike. Had it gone on any longer, we may well have drowned. Yet we have chosen to raise ourselves out of this bloody spiral, and have since made peace with our former enemy.”

“So I understand,” Varis replied with that same dismissive air that Erna was coming to loathe. “No doubt the dragons were more receptive to your overtures in the wake of their leader’s demise.”

Before Varis could continue, a sharp, barking laugh rang out across the parley table. All eyes turned to the source: the Warrior of Light, head thrown back, laughing like she'd just heard the most hilarious thing in the world.

Fuck you, you ignorant fuck.

"Oh, oh that's... Oh Fury preserve if that ain't the biggest crock of shit I've ever heard!"

Varis glowered at the Roegadyn woman, momentarily thrown by her blatant disrespect.

"Ernastral, please," Aymeric quietly murmured.

"I beg your pardon?" Varis growled.

Ernastral's laughter tapered off as she leaned forward, resting her elbow against her crossed legs. She set her chin in her hand and lifted the brim of her hat so she could better meet Varis's gaze. Red and violet eyes bored into gold, her contempt just barely visible beneath the surface.

"Listen, hon," Ernastral said, her voice as sickly-sweet as can be, "if you think all the dragons were of one mind, then you're gosh dang naive."

The delegates looked nervously between Ernastral and the Emperor, some doing a better job of hiding their discomfort than others.

"Naive?" Varis's icy glare attempted to bore through her in turn, but the roegadyn remained unfazed.

"You heard me," Ernastral replied placidly. "You'd have to be pretty naive to think that any group of people's a monolith. You think peace would be possible if every single dragon wanted vengeance like Nidhogg? That every single dragon in the world prioritized Nidhogg's vengeance over their own wants and goals?"

Varis's face betrayed little emotion other than his displeasure.

"Because if that were the case," she sat up and gestured wide, "why, Hraesvelgr would've gone 'screw that promise I made to my beloved Shiva! I'm gonna join my brother in wrecking terrible, bloody vengeance on mortalkind!' His sister Tiamat would've gone 'screw atonin' for my mistakes! I'm gonna break outta this prison and join my brothers in fuckin' shit up!' Hells, Midgardsormr would've risen up from his lake and been like 'who dareth to harm my precious children?'"

Gohnoh'a stifled a laugh as she attempted to mimic Midgardsormr's booming voice. Alisaie covered her face as well to hide her mortified but amused grin.

Varis's displeased frown only deepened.

"It's almost as if peace were possible because some of the dragons actually fuckin' wanted it! And with Nidhogg no longer buttin' his scaly snout in like a greedy little pup tryin' to steal your sandwich, those dragons could actually have what they wanted!" Ernastral paused and made direct eye contact with Varis. Her airy tone turned cold and hard. "Just like the Populares might've been able to, if your... son hadn't interfered."

Varis sat a little straighter, nostrils flaring and eyes widening. Erna's words, and their implications, hung heavy in the air. Not a word was said for several agonizing moments. Erna leaned forward, returning to her previous position with her chin in her hand.

"Now, I can see you ain't actually here to parley, because that would require you to listen to someone who ain't you," Erna said, her voice dripping with pointed sarcasm. "So. What are you really here for, Varis?"

Much to the surprise of all assembled, Varis's face lit up. A smile crept across it, and he seemed almost... impressed.

"Cutting right to the quick," Varis remarked. "I am beginning to see why so many look to you for guidance."

Erna waved a hand dismissively. “Make no mistake, I ain’t no leader. Frankly, I hate sittin’ through these long, ramblin’ discussions. So stop pussyfootin’ around and playin’ at diplomat.” She looked him right in the eye. “It’s clear you ain’t got any talent for it, anyway.”

Varis’s scowl returned, his ire focused on Ernastral. But there was something else lurking behind the displeasure, something she couldn’t quite puzzle out.

After a moment, though, he finally spoke again. "How much do you know of Garlean history, Warrior of Light?"

Erna raised an eyebrow. "Mm... not much, I'll admit. I think my conversation with Zenos before our big clash was the most I'd ever gotten when it came to Garlean history."

"I must admit the same," Merlwyb cut in, giving the younger roegadyn a nod. "What I know is all that is considered common knowledge:  that Emperor Solus zos Galvus sought to rid the world of the eikon threat and set about his campaign of conquest."

Erna nodded back and gestured to Merlwyb. "Yeah, that's about all I got from Zenos."

"That is what they took great pains to impart to my people as well," Hien chimed in, hand resting thoughtfully against his chin. "But there is something that always bothered me. Namely, the timing."

Varis nodded. "Originally, we merely sought to reclaim what was rightfully ours. The lands we had been driven from due to our inability to wield magic. Were it not for the discovery of ceruleum, and the subsequent development of magitek, we might never have gained the power to take back that which was rightfully ours."

Erna raised an eyebrow. "Y'all were driven out?"

"I do recall that being vaguely mentioned in some of my lessons. And in pursuit of this goal were the disparate factions of Garlemald actually united," Hien remarked.

"I think all here can understand the desire to reclaim one’s homeland," Raubahn chimed in. "But why expand further─ that is my question."

"And therein lies my question as well," Hien said. "The Emperor only reached the Burn─the barrens said to have been laid waste by eikons─after conquering all the lands that lay between. What is more, I am quite certain the practice of summoning was not nearly so widespread in the days before the Empire’s founding."

Lyse frowned in thought. "When you put it like that, it all starts to sound like an excuse, doesn’t it? But to distract from what? Why are you really waging this war?"

The question hung in the air for several moments. Until, finally, Varis broke into another smile.

"…Finally, you ask the right question. I can but hope you heed mine answer and at last accept the righteousness of our cause. My goal is this: to return the world to the way it once was. The way it was always meant to be. In doing so, mankind will be made whole once more."

Varis surveyed those assembled, who sat in silence as his answer sank in. Just as Varis was about to continue, however, Gohnoh'a of all people chimed in.

"So, were you given that mission by Elidibus, or the elusive Emet-Selch?"

Varis's expression turned to a bitter, tired scowl. Worried murmurs broke out among the delegates, their gazes darting between the Emperor and Gohnoh'a.

"Wait, what are you talking about?" Lyse said, turning to the miqo'te.

"When the world was shattered, so too was mankind," Gohnoh'a said, as if it were the most obvious statement in the world. "'Tis not a secret that the Ascians seek to rejoin the worlds... and, in so doing, the people themselves."

"I ain't entirely sure I'd call a plan that necessitates the slaughter of countless people a 'righteous' one," Erna muttered.

"Emperor Varis, do not trust the words of the Ascians," Aymeric pleaded. "They will lead you to your doom. My father thought to use them, but in the end he succumbed to their temptations. He embraced summoning like so many other pawns before him. Do not tell us you mean to do the same!"

Varis let out a bitter laugh. "To be a pawn, free from the burden of choice, would be a blessing. But I foreswore that privilege the day I learned that the Garlean Empire was built by the hand of an Ascian."

The room fell deathly silent.

"What?" Alisaie breathed.

"My grandsire, the former emperor, is of their number. And who better to build an empire capable of bringing about the calamitous change we desire? Would you condemn me for this alliance, for bowing to the will of these shadowy masters, when the prize is true and lasting peace?"

"Yes?" Erna said, without hesitation. "Considerin' the fact that it ain't gonna work that way."

Varis stared at her. "Why do you say that?"

"I mean... what makes you think the Garleans ain't gonna be wiped out, too? The Garleans are just as much one of these 'shattered' people as anyone else. Why, exactly, would you think y'all are gonna survive this rejoinin' process? That the Ascians would even want y'all to survive it?"

Varis had the look of a man who had a speech planned, but Erna's comment had just shot a big gaping hole right through it.

"She has the right of it," Gohnoh'a chimed in, just to twist the knife in a little further. "Should you go about triggering another half dozen calamities as the Ascians wish, the Garlean Empire will be wiped out alongside all other life on this world. There would be no one left to rule—leaving aside the fact that you likely would not be around to rule over anyone to begin with."

"Not just all life in this world," Alisaie spoke up. "All life on every star used in the rejoining. You'd be condemning not just our world, but several others to oblivion!"

"Assumin' you somehow miraculously survived, you wouldn't have anyone left to fight back against the Ascians with. Hells, if you go along with their plans, all you'll be doin' is addin' to their army, presumably. Considerin' the fact that this is what they want."

"Do you not see that this is our only option?" Varis finally countered, rising to his feet. "That we must unite as one in order to fend off the Ascian threat."

"Band together, aye," Raubahn chimed in. "But you would not have us merely work together. You would rather we all bend the knee to Garlemald and become 'as one' in your own image."

"I would liberate man from the prison of divergence—"

"Like the Ascians?" Gohnoh'a pointed out. Varis scowled.

"We would be the masters of our own fate!"

"You would be the master of ours, you mean," Erna muttered.

"Are these truly the words of Garlemald's ruler?" Nanamo chimed in. "The flaws and foibles which you so abhor are what make us who we are. Every nation ─ even yours, Emperor Varis ─ is made whole through the combination of these imperfections, the strengths of one compensating for the weaknesses of another. While it is true that man succumbs all too often to anger and avarice, he may yet overcome his baser instincts through the forming of bonds with others, fostering community and cooperation. That the protector of an empire should not only reject these fundamental truths, but seek to change them at so dear a cost to life is indefensible. Such a man is not fit to govern."

Erna grinned humorlessly. It was more a baring of teeth than an expression of mirth.

"Couldn't have said it better myself." She looked Varis right in the eye again. "And I'd go one step further. A man who refuses to take responsibility for his own actions—for his own decisions—is not fit to lead."

"Agreed," Gohnoh'a said, folding his arms over his chest. "I'll admit, I expected more of the vaunted Emperor of Garlemald. To find that he's naught but a scheming despot with delusions of saving the world is... disappointing, to say the least."

Varis scoffed, though it was clear Gohnoh'a's parting barb hit its mark. "I suppose I should not have expected more from mere savages. This discussion is at an end. I bid you make ready for our next meeting. It will not be at the negotiating table."

And with that, Varis strode out of the room.

[tomatograter]

How much of jakes begging dirk not to leave in meat do you think is his own true feelings vs Dirks influence?

I don't think Dirk’s influence is enough to make anybody do anything they did not already have half a mind to do. I've seen this be debated a lot, but Dirk is... not The Word Of God. That's pretty much the biggest joke about his defensive posturing. Dirk barks very loudly, and asserts himself in audience-antagonizing overseeing orange voice - but he cannot force you to do something you really don't want to do. He’s only as powerful as your urges.

He struggles, multiple times, to make characters do the simplest things that go against their base instincts. Dave definitely had romantic feelings for Karkat, but he was so sure their relationship could stay and strive as platonic that he pushes Dirk away. He wasn't Right about this, but he was sure of his position.

June is easy. June wants an adventure. June wants to not be herself. June will take any excuse to abandon everything and get to live a cool life where the most pressing issue is “which bad guy do i have to punch” again.

Terezi's arc in homestuck proper is largely about her learning to listen to HERSELF, not the alternian laws or game rules or meddling undead sylphs or doc scratches or whoever the fuck else, and she mocks Dirk's narrator voice to his face. She recognizes the alien thought the moment she has it.

Kanaya has always feared she holds Rose back. She loves her wife deeply, and respects her even more, but her penchant to being attracted to explosive girls (Remember Vriskan? You should remember Vriskan.) Also doubles as Kanaya grappling with the fact that she cannot control them. It's part of the appeal, that they are forces of nature so large and unpredictable she cannot help but be drawn to their orbit like a moth to a flame. Kanaya letting go of Rose is an unspooling of her deepest insecurities, her habit of giving others more credit than she gives herself, and how she's relented to the years peddled position of "mom friend" - kanaya the spoilsport, kanaya the grub nun, kanaya the... Quite Dreadfully Just Regular, I’m Afraid. What could she possibly claim to offer when put up against the secrets to understand an universe? (She isn't right about this, either.)

And Jake? Here's a bit from Jake's confession that i believe has gone largely unexamined:

Take a moment to really consider the positioning of other characters towards Jake in the epilogues. Then a little bit more in the direction of HS proper this time. Jake is the subject of constant degradation at the hands of the cast at large. His plight is always unsympathetic, his role troublesome, and he acquiesces to claiming the guilt for "being a problem in his friendgroup" or "for being assaulted by a friend he ignored" or "for being too useless and stupid", yet even though he cannot let go of the pesky self-flagellating habit, there's... Dirk.

This is how Dirk is represented and this is what he is primarily remembered by in the deepest recesses of Jake’s brain. It could have been anything else, but it’s this instead. Brain ghost dirk is not a dirk with his edges cut off, he’s not a pliant wifedirk, he’s not a little helpful tutorial phantom that tells jake everything he wants to hear - he’s quite harsh and sarcastic As A Dirk, but he believes in a Jake that’s more than the facade he presents as. Truly and fully. This is a Dirk that loves Jake, and not quite platonically.

I think it’s a bit ignorant to suggest Jake has legitimately no reason for loving Dirk back when their canon designation is “Best friends” and “Complicated lovers”. Jake loves Dirk for his brightest parts. Jake has expected a love confession from Dirk ever since the very beginning of the above conversation, during his 13yo birthday, where the big joke is “WELP, i guess instead of dirk telling me he’s gay and that we’ve been flirting all this time, he just says he’s from the future instead!”

Dirk’s influence is only to blame here insofar as him doing such a good fucking job of screwing himself over. It’s stellar. Dirk thinks the AR forced Jake’s feelings, dirk thinks he’s predatory and irredeemable, dirk convinces the audience Jake cannot possibly have a single reason to love him back, dirk fully drapes himself in the capes of being a Bad Guy, but this is HIS justification, when faced with the fact Jake pretty clearly has feelings on the matter buried deep down, and he’s a glaringly /unreliable/ narrator. The biggest tragedy of this bit is the confirmation that the heel turn and the spiel are wholly unnecessary, they clearly had things they could have invested on to make this work, but dirk is too caught up on his high horse to listen. 

Like with Kanaya, Dirk is responsible for exaggerating a heavy mass of preexisting feelings, not creating them. 

Creation, as it happens, is more of Jake’s wheelhouse.

[imasimpforshanks]

hi! i love your stuff so very much!!

can i request the angst alphabet with zoro?

thank uuuuu ❤️

Angst Alphabet - Roronoa Zoro

a/n: hiya!!! thank y’all so much!!<3 hope you enjoy this 😌

A-Accident (would they blame themselves if you died in an accident?)

He may not blame himself entirely if you were to die in an accident. But Zoro would think himself weak. How could he possibly become the words greatest swordsman if he can’t even protect his s/o.

B-Break up (How would they break up with you?)

Before breaking up with you Zoro would start to distance himself a little to try and make it easier on the both of you for when he does break up with you. Other than that, he is likely to just come right out and say exactly what he wants to say. He’s brutally honest and straightforward so he won’t try to sugar coat anything or beat around the bush.

C-Crying (how would they make you cry?)

Zoro does this horrible thing where he likes to overwork himself to the point of exhaustion. No matter how many times you tell him to stop and express your concerns for his health, he just doesn’t listen. It hurts seeing the man you love more than anything exhausting himself.

D-Death (how would they react to your death?)

Speaking of overworking, after your death he works himself harder than he ever has before. Day in, day out he’s training. He trains every possible minute to distract himself from your death and make himself stronger to ensure he never loses a loved one ever again.

E-Emotion (what is one emotion they would try to hide the most and how would they do it?)

Being openly vulnerable is something Zoro doesn’t like to do. He really only shows his vulnerable side with his s/o and even then, it took him a really long time to do it.

F-Fight (do you two ever fight? How big are the fights? What do you fight about? Etc.)

Very rarely do your fights get serious. Your fights are often just light-hearted teases and jokes towards one another. Where its always followed by laughter or eye rolls.

If your fight was to get serious, it would result in a lot of yelling at one another and with Zoros blunt personality, a lot of hurtful words (which he ALWAYS apologizes for in the end).

G-Guilt (what is the biggest thing they feel guilty about?)

The events of Sabaody weigh heavily on Zoro’s mind. He was the first one to get sent away by Kuma, so feels as though he failed not only his captain, but the whole crew as well. He wasn’t there to protect them, to help them. Instead, he was a complete failure. And, because of his weakness his captain had to fight and suffer alone.

H-Heartbreak (what would cause them pain in the relationship? How would they deal during a break-up?)

During a break-up Zoro does what he would in any other situation: workout. He keeps himself occupied by working out, and actually he drinks a little bit more than usual too. It could even get to the point where the rest of the crew feels as though they need to step in.

I-Injured (how would they react if you are badly injured?).

He turns dark. Basically, a demon in human form. Moves you from wherever you are so that you’re out of the way of more danger AND THEN HE TIES HIS BANDANA ROUND HIS HEAD BECAUSE THIS SHIT IS SERIOUS.

J-Jealousy (what do they do if they are jealous?)

Its ridiculously obvious when this swordsman is jealous. He gets super grumpy and tries to intimidate the other person. He’ll stand right behind you and honestly, that’s intimidating enough on its own. But, if the other person doesn’t get the hint he’ll place his hand, ever so casually, on his swords.

K-Kill (would they kill for revenge?)

Ever since joining the Straw Hats, Zoro doesn’t kill others (its not something Luffy wants his nakama to do, so Zoro doesn’t do it). However, that mindset goes straight out the window depending on who he’s taking revenge for (i.e if it’s for his s/o).

Most of the time Zoro just leaves them wishing they were dead. (this seems to be a common thing amongst One Piece characters).

L-Loss (what is their greatest loss?)

I would actually say losing some of his pride. Zoro is a poud man, who refuses to lower his head to anyone. However, after receiving the message from Luffy to train and meet up again in two years, Zoro knew he had to lower his and beg Mihawk for his guidance. It was definitely a hit on his pride, but, honestly… He doesn’t regret that one bit – anything for his captain.

M-Mistake (what is the worst mistake they ever made with you?).

During one of the few big fights you guys have had things got really heated and the fight ended up getting so off topic. Insults and mean words were being thrown out left and right. Zoro got so caught up in it all that he said something that targeted one of your deepest insecurities. He knew he had screwed up so badly when you walked away without even saying anything.

N-Nightmares (how often do they have them? What are they about? How do they deal with it?).

He doesn’t often get nightmares, but when he does they tend to be about Sabaody and when the crew got separated from one another (or really any other incident where he was unable to help properly). After he wakes up, he gets straight out of bed and starts working out – determined to make sure nothing like that ever happens again.

O-Outrage (how and why would they get mad at you?)

Zoro doesn’t get mad at you for much, mainly if you pay any attention to that shitty cook, like seriously, he doesn’t understand why you have to give Sanji any attention when Zoro is literally your boyfriend….

P-Past (what has happened in your relationship that changed the way you saw each other?)

Even though you never found out exactly what happened on Thriller Bark (its something Zoro refuses to tell even you), it made you realize that you need to step up and not rely on Zoro so much because although he may act like it, he’s not actually indestructible.

Q-Quality (what is their most dangerous/toxic quality?).

(SORRY I FEEL LIKE I’M BEING VERY REPETITIVE HERE AH BUT YEAH…) He never allows himself to heal from an injury properly. He always starts training immediately despite Chopper’s best attempts to stop him.

R-Rejection (how would they react to you rejecting their confession (or the other way around)).

If you were to reject his confession, he’d probably try to justify it to himself by saying “yeah actually it’s probably better this way. I don’t need anymore distractions in life.” But, he would definitely be a little down in the dumps about it. He made himself vulnerable for this and it didn’t work the way he wanted.

S-Scars (battle or self-inflicted)

Zoro has many scars. The scar over his left eye was a result of his two years of training with Mihawk, though no one knows the exact cause of it – only that it appeared during those two years. Zoro also has a scar on his chest from his very first encounter with Mihawk. He may also have scars on his ankles from the time he tried to chop of his own legs on Little Garden (I can’t recall if these are actually scars or if they healed completely).

T-Trust (have they ever broken your trust?).

This answer is short and sweet: No. Never. Not even in his wildest of dreams. Loyalty is basically Zoro’s entire character. He would never violate your trust. If he did… well Zoro, wouldn’t be Zoro anymore. (only thing he’s done that comes close is keep you from finding out what really happened to him on Thriller Bark).

U-Urge (how badly do they want to see you after you guys separated?)

Honestly, he is probably one of the few who are able to cope with missing you the longest. He still wants to see you of course – your presence is reassuring, so he definitely prefers when you are around – but he can handle not seeing you for a while by focusing on the task at hand and just remembering that this separation isn’t permanent.

V-Vicious (what do they do when they lash out on you?).

Similar to what I’ve said before, he says some really harsh things. He has always been blunt and straightforward, but when he’s lashing out at you he tends to make things a little more personal.

W-Weak (what makes them feel weak how do they try to avoid it?).

Zoro hates losing. Not because he’s competitive or anything but because losing makes him feel weak. Whenever he loses he feels so far away from his goal. To make up for this he works out. He trains and trains and trains until he can no longer move. He will keep going until he never loses another fight.

X-X-ray (what do they hate and show it most obviously?)

Obviously, he shows his hate of Sanji very frequently. The two pirates are constantly arguing and at one anothers throat.

But another thing he hates is people getting in the way of his dream. He agreed to join Luffy so long as he didn’t get in the way of his dream – and if luffy were to get in the way Zoro made him promise to commit seppuku (although whether or not I think Zoro would actually make him do that anymore is a different thing that I could go on about for a while so imma stop there…).

Y-Yearn (what is one thing that they want but can’t have?)

Zoro wants to be the world’s greatest/strongest swordsman. It’s not currently a title he can have, however, day-by-day he is getting just that much closer.

Z-Zero (what do they do/say in your dying moments?)

I don’t think a lot is said or done by Zoro in your final moments. He probably whispers a few thank you’s and I’m sorry’s. He won’t mourn properly until he’s completely alone.

[haikyuuuuuhypeeeee]

September Scibbles - Friday, September 10th

Genre: Romantic

Featuring: Hanamaki Takahiro (2k wc)

Prompt: They only realised they were holding hands the entire time, the moment they had to let go. (prompt from @creativepromptsforwriting)

“What should we do next?”

Hanamaki Takahiro stretches his arms over his head and gazes around the amusement park. “We could play some arcade games?”

Iwaizumi shakes his head. “We should do more rides before it gets dark.”

“Well I’ll probably sit out.” Matsukawa notes. “My stomach is still full from lunch.”

“Weak!” You cry out tauntingly.

Hanamaki watches as Matsun leers at you. “Okay then, let’s go on the spinny ride and I’ll blow chunks on your face.”

Your face scrunches up in distaste. “Gross.”

“That is very gross.” Oikawa agrees.

Mattsun grins and shrugs his shoulders. Makki, and their entire friend group, knew that Mattsun has a weak constitution but he was still happy when his friend came out today. THis whole outing was OIkawa’s brain child - a day for the third years to hang out together before volleyball picks up. And you tagged along, despite your lack of involvement with the club. But no one complained - you were all best friends since the start of high school and it would have been strange without you.

And Makki wasn’t going to complain about your presence, given his massive crush on you. How could he not like you? You were loud, hilarious, passionate, strong-willed - you didn’t take shit from anyone. You were a badass and Makki would gladly be put in his place by you.

“We should go on a roller coaster.” Oikawa suggests with glittering eyes and a challenge in his voice. “The biggest one here.”

Makki shrugged in agreement with Iwaizumi, while Mattsun pursed his lips and shook his head. But you didn’t say anything, a rare look of apprehension crossing your face.

Makki wasn’t the only one who caught it - Oikawa jumped on the brief moment of weakness.

“What, are you scared Y/N-chan?” OIkawa uses his sickly-sweet and condescending tone, one usually reserved for a first-year setter at Karasano. Makki knows it’s your least favorite, and coming from a person who just loved to push your buttons made it even worse.

And lick clockwork your face morphs into one of pure rage and a snarl settles on your lips. “In your fucking dreams, Shittykawa.” Iwaizumi barks out a laugh at that. “We’re going on that goddamn roller coaster.”

You stomp off, making your way towards the ride. Makki watches you leave, his heart going doki doki for you.

“Jeez, be a little less obvious, Makki.” Oikawa snickers before following you. Iwaizumi sends a smirk in Makki’s direction while Mattsun shakes his head.

“You’re the weak one.” He faux-laments. Makki blushes before walking to catch up to you and Oikawa. It’s not a far walk and soon enough the group is waiting in line, with Mattsun promising to meet up after.

Most of the time in line is spent with you and Oikawa bickering with each other and Iwaizumi intervening when necessary. Makki laughs at Oikawa mostly, but he also spends his time daydreaming about you.

It was a popular pastime of his, one that kept him up late at night. But he couldn’t help it. Every second he spent with you fueled his wildest fantasy - the one where he confesses to you and the feelings are mutual and he can sweep you off your feet. The one where he can take you on dates to cafes and the movies and amusement parks like this one. The one where you both live happily ever after.

But reality settles in quick, and he soon realizes that so much could go wrong with a confession. What if he botches it and loses his friendship with you? What if you’re completely disgusted by him and don't want anything to do with him after? What if you hated him for ruining a perfect friendship with silly feelings?

So Hanamaki resists the temptation of giving into his deepest desires and resolves to being your friend. He jokes with you, teases you - he does everything that a friend should do. Which, unfortunately, includes supporting you while you dated other people.

And sure, maybe none of your previous relationships lasted long (save for Yudo, the absolute jerk from Class 4 that strung you along and was a total prick in Makki’s opinion) but he worries that someday you will find the person that makes you happy and treats you right. And Makki will have to stand there and smile and support you, when in reality he wants to be the person you fall in love with.

“Y/N-chan, sit with me!”

Oikawa’s obnoxious trill brings Hanamaki from his depressing thoughts and he realizes that the group has made it to the front of the line. The ride attendant is waving the group forward and the four of you make your way to the ride carriages.

“I am not sitting with you,” you say. Your voice leaves no room for argument, and from past experiences Makki knows that trying to dissuade you would end in disaster.

Before Oikawa can complain, Iwaizumi is shoving him into a seat. “C’mon, stop holding up the line Shittykawa.”

Oikawa squawks (“so brutal Iwa-chan!”) but it leaves Makki no choice but to take the seat next to you. Makki straps himself in, securing the harness over his shoulders and testing their strength.

After he’s deemed himself secure, he looks over at you. “Why so quiet? Aren’t you ready to prove that you’re the alpha human, or whatever?”

You don’t answer right away, and it’s not until the ride attendant has walked by, doing a final safety check, that you turn to Makki with a pale face. “Yeah, I hate roller coasters.”

Makki blinks. “You hate roller coasters?” He looks around and laughs. “Well this is awkward.”

“Don’t laugh.” You hiss.

“Why did you agree to go on a roller coaster if you hate them?” He asks, still laughing.

“I couldn’t let Oikawa win!” You counter. Which, yeah that’s a fair point.

Makki’s teasing manner disappears as he takes in your genuinely terrified face. “Well what should we do? Do you want to get off the ride?”

“Maybe.” The second the word is out of your mouth the ride jerks into motion. A few people cheer and Makki can see Oikawa throwing his hands up in the air in the row in front of him. Meanwhile your face is as white as a sheet.

“Okay, okay,” Hanamaki looks around the carriage. “Maybe I can find an emergency switch or something? Or I can scream really loud?”

“No it’s fine.” He can barely hear you over the clanking of the ride, and the even louder CRANK CRANK as the carriage starts to go up the hill.

Makki can feel the familiar drop in his stomach, the tell-tale sign of something wild and crazy to come and he can’t help but feel excited.

And then he feels your hand grab his frantically, keeping it in a tight grip, and all coherent thought goes flying out the window.

Makki looks at you, finding your eyes squeezed shut and your hand holding his in a vice grip.

Oh my god, Y/N is holding my hand.

He’s so out of it that he doesn’t realize that the ride has made it to the top of the hill and it starts its descent down. You let out the loudest scream Makki has ever heard, someone audible over the wind whipping by. You keep screaming through the ups and downs and around the corners. Through this thrilling ride your hand keeps its grip on Makki. And he is completely dazed by the simple fact.

Oh my god, Y/N is holding my hand.

Eventually, maybe seconds or hours or years (Makki’s lost the ability to keep time because you were holding his hand) the ride slows and shuffles along the tracks to return to the start. Makki looks over at you and sees you taking in deep breaths, your hair is all over the place and your hand still has a vice-like grip on his hand.

Despite losing feeling in his hand, Makki isn’t complaining one bit.

But he is still a little concerned for you. “Well done,” he says placatingly. If you’re alright, you’ll snap at him for patronizing you.

“Don’t patronize me.” You snap back.

Ah, there she is, Makki thinks fondly.

“It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be,” you say.

“Well yeah, because you lived,” Makki teases. The ride returns to the start and comes to a stop. “Could you imagine how less fun it would be if you died?”

You send him a withering glare and move to extract yourself from the ride. Makki sees the exact moment you realize that you’re still holding Makki’s hand. You glance at him, see him watching you, and quickly let go.

Makki spots the blush dusting your face and feels his own heat up. But he also can’t help the pleased smile that comes on his face. He gets himself out of the ride and follows you to the exit. The exit ramp gets congested quickly and for a second Makki worries that he’ll lose you in the crowd. Without thinking Makki reaches down and grabs the band. He sees you start at the action but to his immense relief you don’t pull away. You allow him to lead you away and soon enough he’s out in the open area of the park. It’s not as crowded and with Mattsun waiting on a nearby bench neither he nor you will get lost. So there’s no reason for Makki to keep holding your hand.

But you make no move to remove your hand, and Makki isn’t going to either.

“You live!” Mattsun cheers as Makki and you get close enough to hear him. Makki can see him open his mouth to teaser but he freezes when he notices Makki holding your hand.

He feels his face heat up at the evil grin creeping on Mattsun’s fCe but before his friend can say anything Oikawa and Iwaizumi join the group.

“Yoo hoo~ How was the ride Y/N-Chan?”

You give Oikawa a satisfied smile. “It was great! We should do another!”

“NO.” Iwaizumi shoots down immediately. “Shittykawa was screaming in my ear the entire time, I’d rather not relive that.”

“Iwa-chan, rude!” Oikawa cries. “I’m gonna make you go on another ride with me, just so -“

Oikawa abruptly cuts himself off when he finally notices two of his friends holding hands unironically. Makki nearly snickers at the look of surprise on his face, but it quickly turns to confusion when Oikawa zeroes in on you.

“Finally, Y/N! I can’t believe you braved a roller coaster just to hold Makki’s hand!”

The group is silent for a second before you screech at Oikawa. “Shut up!”

Makki is still horribly confused, and he glances around to see if anyone else is. But both Iwaizumi and Mattsun are smirking. Their smiles widen when they take in Makki’s face - he’s sure he looks dumbfounded, but he has no idea what’s so -

Makki gasps as the puzzle pieces finally click.

“Wait, do you like me?”

You blush an impossible shade of red at Makki’s question. But you turn to face him, face red, and meet his gaze head-on. “Yeah, I do. You got a problem with that?”

Makki laughs. He’s awed by your current resolve, by your face in the sun, and by these unbelievable twisted turn of events that he’s more than happy about.

“Of course not, seeing how I’ve had a massive crush on you for years.”

That makes your jaw drop, but your face quickly splits in a wide, toothy grin.

You abruptly turn and start to pull Makki away. He’s still confused but he knows he’d follow you anywhere.

“Where are you going?” Mattsun calls.

“If you’re getting cotton candy, bring me some! You owe me!” Oikawa yells. An audible yelp is heard after what Makki guesses is Iwaizumi smacking Oikawa.

“No way!” You holler over your shoulder, uncaring of any people looking your way. “We’re going on the Ferris wheel, alone!”

Makki must be as red as a strawberry after that declaration, the cheers from their friends not helping. But with the radiant smile you shoot him, he has no choice but to eagerly step in place next to you and hurry to the Ferris wheel.

END

September Scribbles Masterlist🧡

Taglist: @psycho-nightrose @camcam1617 @kamalymaly @toobsessedsstuff @shookykookie30 @ara-mitsue

[tenthgrove]

Sorbet and Gelato Drabble- The Foundling in the Woods

(Cut for length. Child Reader, parental relationship)

This is a very strange forest. The leaves above you gather so thickly you cannot see the sky above them, as though night suddenly fell as you stepped in. They are tall trees, even taller than the temples at Arigento your father took you to pray when the hunger began. They are spindly and twisted, like looming figures staring down with malice. With the worst ones, the ones whose branches hang out in great arcs over you with an impossible stillness, your little legs run across the forest floor to get to the other side of the shadows as fast as you can. You are deathly afraid that one of those trees is going to fall on you.

You do not know this forest. It is very different from the outlying woodlands your father takes you to hunt in the summer. You do not know this forest and you are scared.

Why did father leave you here? Were you one of your older brothers you would understand as they are big, and strong and capable, but you are not yet five years old. Maybe he saw a god and fled in terror- your aunt the priestess says there are a number of gods and spirits who live amongst these trees, but now you think about it your father did not run at all. He just left.

You continue on through the woods nervously, scrambling over roots and standing on stumps to try and see more of the route ahead. If there really are gods in these woods, or at very least hunters, maybe you will find a house eventually to rest in. You are small, and could easily slip through a window and under a bed so you are not found. That way they would not be angry at you. You hope the gods have food in their houses as well, because you are starting to feel hungry.

A wolf howls in the distance. It is not the first time. You are scared because the wolf-howls keep getting louder and louder and you cannot hear the human voices that would suggest they are hunters’ wolves. You start to walk faster. Maybe if they are like the dogs in your village they will not bother you if you aren’t afraid. But you are afraid. Will they notice?

Another sound comes from the forest. A low, angry snarl. A flash of silver darts between the leaves. You run.

Many paws bound against the ground as your chase begins. You look behind yourself briefly, terror only growing each time you see the number of angry, snarling wolves behind you increasing. Your breaths are sharp, panicked little whimpers that grow louder as your chest starts to hurt. You’ve never had to run like this before, and it’s painful. But you know if you stop they’ll catch you.

A giant oak lies ahead of you, bark withered with age. You are not very good at climbing but you can manage it when the trees are bumpy like this one, so maybe if you try, the wolves will go away.

Arriving at the base of the tree, you halt in terror. Wrapped around the lowest branch is the biggest snake you’ve ever seen, big blue eyes and coal black scales and teeth bigger than your own that are sharp as blades. The snake hisses, rearing up as it unfurls itself from the branch. Behind you the wolves close in. You scream, and fall to the ground.

You are not bitten.

One of the wolves starts to whimper and scream behind you. The rest seem to be running away judging by the sounds their paws are making but you dare not look to see. The wolf that was in pain goes quiet, something large slumping to the ground. You dare to peek.

The blue-eyed snake has its enormous body wrapped around the wolf, teeth sunk into its neck at the base of a trail of blood. When the wolf is still, the snake removes its fangs, clear venom still dripping from its mouth. You get up and start to back away slowly, but the snake notices. It doesn’t attack like you fear it might, only moves towards you slowly.

You try to run. It’s only natural after what you’ve just seen it do. The snake is quicker than you are, getting in front of you in seconds and wrapping itself around your feet. You scurry to a stop so you do not fall over, and the snake does something strange. It reaches up for a low hanging branch and pulls off a small, white flower. It rears up so its head is at your height, as though offering the flower to you. Nervously, you take it, and the snake lies down, satisfied. You don’t think it’s going to hurt you now.

Exhausted from your run and the hours of wandering in the forest, you sit down. The snake circles itself around you once, forming a protective ring around your body. You pet its scales. They are smooth and cool.

Some time later, you fall asleep.

____________________

The first thing you are aware of when you wake up is that you are not being held by the snake anymore. There is still the sensation of its scales under your hand but the creature holding you is larger now, warmer, and with hands of its own that trail through the softness of your hair. Has a person found you?

“Excuse me, mister? Could you please help me find my father?” you ask.

“Hush little one,” the man replies. “We’re working on it right this moment.”

Satisfied with the answer that your father may be returned to you soon, you relax, and lie content in the man’s arms. You soon realise why it is you thought you could still feel the snake in your hand- he is wearing a long-sleeved tunic made entirely of snakeskin. You wonder why he would choose to do that.

Another man steps out from behind the trees. It is still dark, more-so than before you fell asleep. And yet, you can see this man as clearly as a summer day. He is blond, youthful and husky with a woven weight tunic embellished with gold. Is he a rich man? Where are all his servants? He wears a cloth armguard that weaves itself as he walks, string extending from nowhere as it darts between the trees. He doesn’t seem to notice you awake.

“Sorbet, I have searched this entire forest and found not a single trace of mortals. Other than this child! There’s no way one that small could have wandered this far alone, especially with all the wolves around! Sorbet, this can only mean-”

“Gelato, save your anger. We both know what has happened. All that matters is we found them in time,” the man holding you intercedes. He sighs deeply. “It disgusts me as much as you, but humans have been doing this since time immemorial. In some kingdoms it is routine, when the child is deemed weak enough. Any attempts to return them to their family will not end well.”

“I know,” the golden man sighs. He snaps a twig beneath his feet and steps closer. “I’m still hunting them down after this,” he maintains.

“In which you will have my full support,” the one holding you agrees. There’s a hint of joy in his voice as he accepts the proposition. Still holding you, he stands. He passes you over into the golden man’s arms.

“Though it’s hard to tell on such little interaction, they seem a very sweet child. I’d wager they would do very well with us. Furthermore, our current standing with Athena should make it very easy to procure some artefact to immortalise this child, so now is as good a time as any to take them in.”

“Good. After Tithonus I’d rather not go through Zeus,” the blond man agrees.

“Who would?” the other snarls.

The next thing you know you are lifted into the air, the two men flying high above the canopy with you in their arms. The forest grows smaller beneath you.

____________________

At the deepest part of the forest. There is a house. It is a large house, grander than any king’s but empty, aside from two, now three, lone inhabitants.

Sorbet and Gelato do not sleep that night, not that their divine bodies have any need for rest other than their own pleasure. They remain awake for the sake of their child, who sleeps soundly in their new chambers, thanks in no small part to the healing serum applied to the many scrapes from their forest expedition.

Gelato traces his finger in a circle across their tiny palm. Sorbet sits across from him, checking frequently the temperature of the sheepskin pouch they filled with hot water to keep the little one warm. It is a very cold winter, after all. They look between each other, a silent acknowledgement for the mutual adoration for this sleeping little stranger. It’s a moment so… human.

It is not an act uncommon, amongst the gods, to take in a mortal child. Many are raised to be great heroes, to spread reverence of their patron’s dominion across the human world until fate comes to claim them. Sorbet and Gelato have no such wish for this child. They simply want you to feel loved.

[k7l4d4]

A Miraculous Manifesto: A list of my thoughts on Miraculous Ladybug

Hello ladies, gentlemen, and germs of all ages! Everybody clap your hands! Today, I am going to talk about a show that I very much enjoy, but also drives me up a wall: Miraculous Ladybug!

If you don’t know the show, feel free to ignore this, this is mostly to get my head together and my thoughts posted down. It’s basically just a collection of my opinions on topics within the Miraculous Fandom and show.

First off, and it’s a doozy, Chloe Bourgeois. For those not in the know, Chloe is one of the singularly most bitter, mean, and utterly selfish characters ever invented. But, she isn’t a one-note hate sink. Chloe’s mother, who is an even BIGGER bitch than Chloe herself is, abandoned her to focus on the fame and adulation her career in the fashion industry afforded her, never remembering her Birthday and often not even bothering to remember her NAME. Ouch! Chloe’s father, Andre, while not without his faults, being a formerly corrupt, and still kind of shady, politician and all, but he deeply loves his daughter. Unfortunately, Andre is by all accounts and absentee parent, relegating Chloe’s rearing to Nannies, Butlers, and the like, and burying her in presents and gifts to avoid actually parenting and teaching Chloe. All in all, a bad combination.

By all accounts, Chloe was originally a very sweet and kind hearted girl, reaching out and befriending the lonely son of the Agreste family, Adrien. However, her loneliness, her dad’s spoiling behavior, and her pining for her mother combined to turn Chloe into a monster. Chloe, as she currently is, has a massively egotistical and selfish demeanor, and has no real friends, lashing out in the cruelest and most spiteful ways for the pettiest of reasons, or just for laughs. The closest thing she has to a friend is the socially awkward and unwaveringly loyal Sabrina, who often serves as her lackey, and is regarded as such as even her family’s staff don’t believe she has friends. Again, Ouch.

When given the chance to be a superhero as Queen Bee, a role which even Marinette, Ladybug herself, thought might help her change, we saw more signs that there is more to Chloe than just a dumb bully. Despite what people might think, Chloe actually is capable of feeling remorse for her actions, and her deepest desire underneath all the hate and bile is too be useful. To not just be another burden.

Unfortunately, show creator Thomas Astruc sank that idea. Turns out, Chloe is apparently utterly incapable of change and will always remain a self-centered monster. Now, I do NOT condone the fandom that was rooting for Chloe’s behavior against Tommy-boy, as all they did was give him vindication by acting like a pack of rabid jackals going in for the kill. On his official Wiki page for Miraculous, Thomas gives what appears to be a poetic and thoughtful detailing as to his decision and why he is right for it. Honestly? It rings hollow. For all his fancy words and attempts to illustrate Chloe as solely being a toxic, hateful individual without redemptive qualities, his reasoning, as well as his apparent intent from the start to have Chloe becoming a SuperHero to be a fake-out, comes across as crass and tacky.

Thomas perpetually portrays Chloe as being a bitter and spiteful shrew, with any kind deed she does having a duplicitous motive, that she is utterly incapable of showing genuine kindness and remorse as she is, and that is the way she always will be, but the thing is? When you give a character a sympathetic backstory and motive for how and why the way they are, you should expect people to sympathize and relate to that character, as well as acknowledge the you are opening them up to the possibility to change for the better. These are all things Thomas denies ruthlessly. In his narrative, Chloe can never be good, and all her pain has only served to ruin her, nothing more.

One of his arguments to justify this? Supervillains don’t sell toys. To explain, while a tragic backstory might make kids and folks sympathize for a villain, they still won’t consider them good or support them. That is true, of course. But the biggest flaw in his logic? Supervillains are just as capable of changing, becoming better than what they are, just like EVERYONE is. Villains can become heroes, it’s true! Not without trials and tribulation, of course, but they can be more than the label society gives them. Thomas has refused to even entertain the possibility that Chloe can ever be more than what he dictates she can be. In his narrative, people who have done bad things can never attempt to redeem themselves.

Chloe’s a baddy. Case closed. Thomas has repeatedly pointed to moments in the show that “illustrate” that Chloe is beyond redemption, that she can never grow beyond her faults, but the things is? He’s the creator, one of them, and a writer for the show. He has the POWER to CHANGE that narrative, to have things happen that force Chloe to grow and become a decent, if he can’t bring himself to make her good, and make amends, even if others don’t accept it.

Thomas likes to draw comparisons to abusive relationships when it comes to Chloe, but when you look at the show? It doesn’t actually hold water. The only people she has any kind of relationship with that isn’t straight up antagonism are Adrien, Sabrina, Audrey, and Andre. While it could be argued that Chloe is abusive towards Sabrina, and the dynamic they have is NOT healthy, I wouldn’t call it abusive. Chloe in no way forces Sabrina to do all that Sabrina does for her, even if she is barking orders, and Sabrina is cognizant of the fact that they do not have a standard friendship, enough so that even Chloe’s family’s employees don’t actually view Sabrina as actually being Chloe’s friend. Chloe might be harsh with Sabrina when they are on the outs, but she is never shown forcing Sabrina into anything, and Sabrina is often the only person besides Adrien or herself that Chloe shows compassion towards, particularly as Sabrina is one of the few people completely aware of Chloe’s childish and geeky side and accepts it utterly; at the worst interpretation, Sabrina is Chloe’s ENABLER, not her victim.

For Audrey and Andre’s relationship with Chloe, it is definitely toxic, but, if anything, Chloe is the one being abused! Audrey frequently belittles and ridicules Chloe, forgets her name, HER OWN DAUGHTER’S NAME, abandoned her when she was too little to truly take care of herself or have proper knowledge of right from wrong, and generally treats her like a particularly incompetent employee, when all Chloe wants from Audrey is her affection, her approval, and her love. Andre isn’t really bad with Chloe, but he’s neglected to be a parent to her, showering her with gifts to avoid having to actually be there for her when she needed him for all those years, which probably didn’t do any favors for how maladjusted she is. 

Adrien frequently makes excuses for Chloe, apologizing on her behalf, and only occasionally standing up to her when she acts up. But Chloe isn’t abusing him, emotionally or mentally, as Adrien could be considered Chloe’s sole true friend; whenever Adrien scolds or gets upset with Chloe, Chloe backs down and off, and on the few times Adrien has threatened to stop being friends with her, Chloe has nearly broken. The only real thing keeping Adrien in Chloe’s life is the fact that she was his first friend, and he is her only friend aside from Sabrina. Chloe has no leverage to be abusing Adrien, or anything to use to keep them in each other’s lives; Adrien is friends with her by choice. Nothing else.

The worst part of it all? Chloe never got a chance. Thomas denied Chloe the possibility of growth, and will most likely keep denying it to her. So, I say we mourn. We mourn the loss of what will never come to pass, because one guy with a TV Show said so.

[commanderserwin]

morning view.

✧ characters. levi ackerman x reader

✧ summary. bedsharing trope with angst and some sprinkles of fluff if you squint a little ♡ is this even bedsharing ???

“because those girls thought we are still together, and we always sleep together in tents so they counted us as one.” 

✧ notes. super self-indulgent bedsharing fic ♡ inspired by this song b/c it’s an ultimate favorite of mine. and also because i love bedsharing fics that’s all

it has been three months and it was a mutual decision.

everyday with him always ended with a sour mood, a sad face, a frown, a scowl, sleeping angry with the two of you laying down with the biggest distance between your bodies. angry, angry, and horrible and both of you knew.

so after a year— comes the break-up and it was exactly what you two needed.

but who ever thought of teaching these new recruits how to count? how could they not count properly as it goes easily from one to ten? it was taught in training, maybe in early education, or from their father or mother over a dining table, but it was easy.

one, two, three.

"what do you mean there isn't a spare tent?"

the young recruit shuddered under your eyes. she tried to smile, but it made her look constipated and she only shook her head. the other young girl beside her looked equally hopeless, probably beating themselves up for not counting properly.

"well?" you pushed, offering a hand as you looked at their wagon.

it was empty, mockingly empty.

the night's getting close and by whatever this trial is of sleeping outside the comfort of the warm headquarters to teach these young ones how to survive the outside, and yet here you are, already dying because they have no spare tent.

"we thought..."

"thought what?"

"we counted..."

"counted?!"

"we counted you and captain levi as one, because you two are together, and you always shared tents with him! but we didn't know that you broke up with him, and we only knew about it now. so we have no spare tents because we thought you would be sleeping with the captain!"

the girl blinked before you while the other panted for air as she spat out her quick spiel for not having a spare tent.

the wind has been getting colder, and before you could sleep with only a coat over your body but now... the wind made your toes curl and made your whole body shiver.

you turned behind you, instantly looking at him who was helping the others set up their own tent. he commanded the others to help and proceed to set up their own before it gets too dark and cold to do so. you whipped your head back towards the girls, sighing deeply because you wanted to be angry but there was no reason to because... it's there already, can't be fixed.

but it can be fixed and it involves with you kneeling down and asking for a spot beside him because you are not about to sleep outside in the cold.

the girls gulped under your look, and you pointed at yourself for holding on to their words. they look alarmed as you inched closer, "i didn't break up with him. we both wanted to break up, you got it?"

the wind blew over your whole body as you stomped towards where the supposed tent is. his back was turned on you as he hammered the nail deeper into the ground— fully knowing that you were behind him.

you cleared your throat, tightening your arms across your chest as you rocked your foot gently, looking up because you aren't ready to meet his smug face.

but he didn't turn around. he kept hammering the nail down even when it was perfect already. he moved his head to the side to hear you clear your throat again, and again, until you couldn't take it.

"levi."

"what."

levi brushed the grass off of his trousers as he raised to his feet. he dropped the hammer back on to the grass as he crossed his arms. he watched you pinch your arm in an attempt to calm yourself— to ask him, for something he knows that you will ask.

"can i sleep with you?"

he arched a brow, waiting for more.

oh, his smug face, you thought.

no matter how impassive he stared, you knew that underneath all that he is smiling widely and is enjoying this— which he was.

"please?" you pushed, hauling your bag to the side of his tent.

levi didn't answer because he wanted to hear more. for three months, he waited for you to come up to him with something, even when he found himself hiding away. this was just an oppurtunity to fix that was long broken before it even started— but he's just enjoying, enjoying, this sweet, stubborn begging from you.

"please?"

"fine," levi answered, and you immediately crouched down to be inside the tent. he shook his head, bending down slightly to pop his head inside, "but why?"

it made you angry again. 

"because those girls thought we are still together, and we always sleep together in tents so they counted us as one."

levi clicked his tongue as you whipped your head towards him, eyes ablazed as you looked at him. his grey eyes inspected the small tent, wondering how the two of you could fit now with the smallest distance in that tent. he was about to comment on not to take the left side because that was closest to the opening and his spot, but he kept his mouth shut as you instinctually went back to your things, moving them to the right like you always do.

he left without a word, hearing you mutter to yourself as you cursed this whole situation.

levi roamed around the few tents and being in charge, he barked gentle orders to the new recruits as they settled inside their own tents after their dinner. he didn't see you anywhere after the dinner, didn't even mingle with the others as you usually would do, so he gave a few extra minutes before he went inside his tent where he figured you would be in already.

and he was right. because there you were, cramped and kneeling down in the tent, as you tried to unclasp the stiff leather harnesses around your chest and back to get a more comfortable sleep.

levi turned his back, removing his jacket as he folded it into the side. he turned his head once more, watching your fingers fiddled with the hard material as he busied himself with the boots, placing them beside yours. he turned to his cravat as he folded them inside his jacket— and you were still busy with the harnesses.

“you can ask for help,” levi hinted, unbuttoning his shirt at the collar, turning his head towards you.

“i don’t need your help,” you snarled, tugging on your leathers on the chest and back, hoping to find some success but to no avail.

he sighed quietly, kneeling down beside you, swatting your hands away from your back. he tugged harder, hearing you groan embarrassingly as he worked his way out of your leathers, helping you successfully untangle yourself. you moved your head to the side, eyeing his work but he didn't stop there, because he helped you untangle the ones over your thighs and legs.

"thank you," you murmured, accepting your harnesses as you fixed them up beside his clothes.

levi only grunted in return as he began with his own effortlessly, while you crawled into the sleeping pad, settling on the furthest right as you laid down stiff as a log.

the sweet, soft patch of grass was as perfect as the sleeping pad and you fought yourself not to yawn and close your eyes as you didn’t want to disrupt whatever levi needs to do with the candles on. but levi made it impossible when he blew on one candle, dimming the light in the tent as he proceeded to fix his side and clothes.

the small things with him and it has you melting into sleep already. levi caught on your surpressed yawn, quieting his movements to make room for you to rest after an exhausting day. after that, he crawled beside you with his back on you, settling down and shying just an inch away from each other.

you have no idea how long you have been asleep. the darkness engulfed your eyes, and it took a while adjusting. you blinked a couple more, your mind slowly waking up to the slightest movement beside you as you draped an arm around the space beside you. it was automatic in your mind to look for him, feel for him when you wake up without him beside you.

"levi?" you croaked, hand blindly patting his side, until you feel his seated figure in the dark before you. you tugged on his shirt, just to feel him— just to know if he was there and he softly leaned on your hand. "levi?"

"go back to sleep," levi murmured in the dark, his head turning to where you were even when he could only see your silhouette.

"hmmm," you hummed, turning your body to the side to curl up a little. you dropped your hand from his back, tucking it underneath your cheek as you closed your eyes. you felt his arm brushed over your waist as he fixed the coat over your body properly while you snuggled deeper.

"sleep," he whispered, pulling his knees up as he laid his arms over it.

after a few minutes, and you couldn't— not when you heard him give out the deepest sigh as he sat on the pad in the dark, the usual. even three months of the split, you still now this about him. the nights you have spent calling out his name, only for him to be far away because he couldn't sleep. the only thing that could make him lay down comfortably is when you would reach out to his hand, guiding him back beside you.

but you don't know if it was still appropriate, because you two aren't together. a mutual decision, and even as every bit mutual it is, it felt too different and unsettling. still, you weren’t a nobody to not comfort him through his night. so you did the best thing that you could think of, no matter how hard it was to strip the sleep away from your tired body but you did it anyway for him.

your shoulder brushed his as you sat beside him, yawning as you stretched your legs as you pulled them to your chest. you rested your head on top of your arms as levi tensed beside you.

“what are you doing?” levi softly asked, turning his head to the side as you yawned gently.

“you can’t sleep so i’m staying up with you.”

“i said go to sleep.”

“you can’t tell me what to do,” you muttered, resting your cheek on your arm as you traced his features with your eyes in the soft, tented moonlight.

“we have to be up in a couple of hours, so, rest.”

“i will stay up if i want to.”

three months of avoidance, three months of excuses of the split and this has been the closest the two of you have been. like a lost continuation to the story you two have been trying so hard to narrate only for it to be unfinished in the end.

it isn’t always horrible with him. everyday with him was filled with the small things, the details that made your heart flutter: that whenever you wake up just for him to feel his arm lazily on top of yours, or when he polishes your boots, when he piles your things neatly, kissing your shoulder, holding your little finger in secret, a hand on your back as he passes, the quiet “hi’s” mumbled, or his palm turning over yours as he let you hold his hand when he couldn’t sleep at night.

levi felt your finger tap on his knee as you nudged him with your shoulder, making him intake sharply. suddenly, he felt your hand on top of his, clutching it gently while you turned your head straight ahead. levi didn’t even try to question or fight it— because just this once and last time, he wants to. he turned his palm over, fitting his fingers into the spaces as he held on to yours while the two of you sat down together in the dark.

seconds, minutes has passed before he finally had enough of the sitting. he looked down at the intertwined fingers before stretching his shoulder.

“i’m going to lay down,” levi sighed.

“okay.”

and he did. and he held on to your hand, as he settled in on his side. he tugged on your fingers, making you look back at him, smiling as he tugged again, urging you to lay down too.

“are we going to sleep?” you yawned, curling up beside him, facing him. “do you want me to hold your hand?”

“don’t coddle me,” levi scoffed, turning his head away while he laid on his back. 

“hah,” you huffed, closing your eyes as levi placed your intertwined hands in the space between your bodies. “if i pull away, don’t come crying to me.”

“go. to. sleep,” levi harshly whispered —faintly squeezing your hand. 

“i should say the same to you.”

“speak more and i don’t think i’ll ever get to sleep.”

you chuckled softly, snuggling closely until the faint press of your cheek is upon his shoulder. levi turned his face, his lips close to your forehead as he breathed deeply, awaiting for sleep. he could see through the sliver of the moonlight as you moved in closer to him, lips slightly parted as sleep clouded your mind.

levi couldn’t help but breathe a little better, think a little gentler when you are close to him— as if everything is shutting down for the day, and he only wanted to drown in the sense of you. but he shouldn’t, because it was over. it was a mutual agreement, and he admitted how it was such a good decision for the both of you, but he couldn’t help but be bitter.

“where did we go wrong?” levi asked in the night, turning his face away. he held on to your hand while he absently soothed you, sighing deeply as he let his mind rest into the clouds with the feeling of you.

where did we go wrong?

you flutter your eyes open, resting your chin on his shoulder as levi slept beside you. his hair framed his face, falling sloppily on his forehead, making you want to brush them away— push them away just to get a better look at his face. but you stopped your fingers just at the tips of his hair, retreating them back to hold on to his arm.

the smallest distance you have shared with him after breaking up and it has got you messed up in the mind. but sleep never came that easy, because his question stayed unanswered.

his morning view. it wasn’t the ugly shade of the tent or the way the recruits outside laughed outside. it was the way your cheek was pressed on his shoulder, almost leaving little no space on his side because you have completely moved closer to him. 

levi has been awake for almost an hour, unmoving and still as he waited for you to pry away your tangled arms and legs with his, both of your hands still lazily intertwined with each other and levi perfected his fake sleeping position while he felt you stir awake beside him.

he has done this so many times, almost waiting for you brush his hair away as you gently moved away from him. it almost didn’t happened as he listened to your shaky breathing, knowing that you were hesitating. levi didn’t really expect you to brush his hair away— let alone hold his hand, so he threw away that thought.

yet, his heart almost stopped when he felt your fingertips brush his cheek in the softest gesture, as you murmured a little, “levi?”

but he didn’t respond. he was supposed to be sleeping.

“still asleep?” you whispered so softly, feeling your hand brush his bangs away.

he could feel the futon crumbling under your weight as you untangled your legs, yawning gently as you stood up, while he listened to you move around. you stopped for a moment, and levi almost opened his eyes to see where you have gone to, but he only felt your hands rustle down his blanket, covering his feet— tucking it underneath the covers. then, you were off.

you have been gone for awhile, and levi finally opened his eyes— letting out the biggest exhale that he didn’t know he was holding. levi stretched his neck, rubbing circles into his nape, feeling the aftermath of having his head faced to the side while he slept as he sat up.

he closed his eyes, seething through the sensation, while he tried to move his neck to side, taking a deep breath whenever it hurt. he didn’t even hear you come inside— he only opened his eyes in surprise when he felt your hand on his knee, squeezing it while you crouched beside him.

“does your neck hurt?” you smiled, holding out a warm cup of tea for him. levi looked down at your hand, his eyes wondering but you answered it right away. “i saw it in your bag, i’m sorry. i thought i’d make you tea as a thank you.”

“hmm,” levi nodded, accepting the warm drink from your hands.

you sat down near his feet, blowing on your own drink as you two sat in silence— listening to the trainees outside the tent.

“we go back to the headquarters in a while,” you mumbled, looking at the liquid in your cup.

“we should get ready,” levi murmured, his lips on the brim of the tea you have brought him. he wanted nothing more than to wrap his blanket around you, noticing the small sniffle from the crisp weather— but he fought over it.

tea all smell the same to him whenever he does it, but it feels different whenever you make it for him and it almost made him smile.

the air has settled once more, both of you sipping silently, relishing in the stillness of the night and the morning spent together. levi watched you blow on your tea, placing it firmly in between your hands, moving it around gently— both of you not moving a muscle to prepare for the way back. he stayed on his spot, enjoying his tea as he looked at you carefully, noticing the deep furrowed brows on your face— painted deep in worry and dread.

levi sighed gently, making you look at him. if there was something bothering you, he was sure it was because of what he said last night. he thought you were asleep right away, because he read the tiredness in your eyes but he must’ve missed it. he took the blanket off of his body, moving to sit beside you.

his shoulder brushed yours in a greeting, as his hand found its way towards yours. “cold?”

“a little,” you murmured, turning your hand over as he intertwined your hands together— warmth from the tea swirling in between the two of you. levi stared ahead into nothing, gently smiling, as you placed your head on his shoulder, tightening your hold over his.

holding each other just for the last time, leaving the question still unanswered, as you two sat down together in the early morning.

[chaoticallysapphic]

the great divide part four

summary: Who knew that eight words would be your undoing. If you had known then what you know now you wouldn't have signed up for Suyin's dance troupe, you probably would have left Zaofu just to be safe. But you didn't and fate had branded you with a path that chained you to someone who would break your heart. 

a/n: This is an 18+ chapter, if you aren’t an adult please do not read. As always thank you to the amazing @medeliadracon​ for beta reading this

word count: 4k

You don’t know how you're going to pull off a lie this big, when it came to the secrecy of your relationship with Kuvira it was more like omitting the truth, you technically are close friends you just didn’t elaborate on how close. 

Before today that was the biggest lie you’ve kept, but as you slowly drive to the front terminal of the main dome you realize how much easier it was to keep because you weren’t keeping it from her. 

Instead of speeding off towards your destination, you take your time, the sooner you arrive the sooner Kuvira would send men to look for Suyin and Zhu Li. Part of you desperately wants to floor it, Wei didn’t hold back from his punch and now you feel the beginning of a splitting headache seep through your head. 

But you’ll be fine, a little pain will be okay so long as everyone is safe. When you get a bit closer, the sight before you has you stepping on the brakes. The domes… They’re gone. The sun has been down for hours and yet the city is visible as the metal that once protected it is laying on the ground. What has she done?

Your heart pounds as you pull up to the entrance of the city, some guards are standing by the empty tram when you pull up. Killing the engine you jump out and grab your chest from the trunk. “Why are you alone?” One of the men asked, most likely the one in charge of this section. 

“Something happened, I need to see Kuvira immediately.” The authoritative tone of your voice, a way you’ve never really spoken before, sets the guards in motion. One of them takes your chest and gently places it inside whilst the other heads into the operating booth. You step inside the empty vehicle and sit down by a window. 

The doors snap shut and with a slight jolt, the tram comes to life. You nervously fiddle with your hands as you try to come up with lies for any questions she may fire your way. The entire ride you keep your gaze on your lap, not wanting to see what's become of your hometown. You don’t want to see your parents anymore, not until you’ve achieved your goal. The idea of them seeing you, thinking you're on the wrong side of history makes you sick to your stomach.

After a few minutes, the tram comes to a gentle stop and the doors open up, when you look out you realize you're in the Beifong dome, there’s a residential area in here as well but it mainly consists of the family grounds. A guard steps in and takes your chest for you. 

“I’m meant to take you to Kuvira” he explains, his eyes stray to your cheek for a moment. You stare back until he realizes he’s been caught. His eyes widen as he clears his throat and begins to walk off. You follow after him, keeping your gaze straight ahead. 

It shouldn’t shock you, but when he leads you into the Beifong estate, you can’t help but feel like you don’t belong. The only other time you’ve been inside here was a few days ago when you tried to peacefully convince Suyin to concede but it feels like forever ago. 

You lose count of how many turns you take before he reaches a sitting room, different from the other one, that has it’s doors already open. Kuvira is sitting on the couch with a clenched jaw whilst Baatar is standing by the alcohol cart. When you both step inside, Kuvira’s eyes snap to you, her gaze darkens as it settles on your face and she immediately gets up to walk over to you. 

“What happened, where’s General Yin?” She barks out, her fingers reach up to lightly touch the bruise. Upon contact you flinch away, hissing in pain and her gaze softens. Baatar looks over his shoulder and scoffs at the sight of you as he downs his drink. 

“I…” you begin, your voice shakes. “He attacked me.” Baatar looks at you with a brow quirked in skepticism. 

Kuvira’s fast reddens in anger, “what do you mean he attacked you?” 

“H-He and Zhu Li they were… I guess working together I don’t know it’s a blur.” She stares you down and you feel so small under her frightening glare. What could make this more believable? You think, and it hits you, tears. 

You’ve never tried to cry on demand before but you squeeze your eyes shut as you force flashes of some of your worst nightmares to play before your eyes. 

Kuvira admits she loves Baatar. 

Your parents dying. 

Her… dying.

All three squeeze at your heart but your pesky brain focuses on the last one. An image of her laying on the rubble of a building with a rod stuck in her stomach as blood drips from her mouth. Her skin is becoming paler by the second and no matter how loudly you scream for help, everyone around you stands and watches as she dies in your arms.

Hands gently cup your jaw and pull you out of your torture, Kuvira’s glare has vanished as she tries to wipe away your tears. “What do you remember?” 

Her voice is soft now, soothing even. You let out a shaky breath as you force yourself to focus on that awful scene. “He stopped the car a-and they both got out. She tried to make me come with but I wouldn’t and…” 

You hear Baatar spit out “spirits,” as he refills his glass. Kuvira stays quiet as she listens, silently urging you to continue. 

“He got so angry, they… um they fought about it and I tried to stop them both but he got so angry at me for messing up their plan that he... “ You gulp, “I woke up with a dart stuck in my neck.” 

“Where’s the dart?” Baatar calls out, Kuvira rolls her eyes at his question as she reluctantly drops her hands and takes a step back. You dig your hand into your jacket and fiddle with it, your hands are clammy so it keeps slipping. Finally, your fingers wrap around it and you pull it out for Kuvira to see. 

She grabs it from your hand and growls out “this is one of our own.” She looks into your eyes once more, at your messy appearance and tears rushing down your face. Your mind twists the image of her death, in this version her death is your fault… You didn’t do enough, didn’t stop this in time and she paid the price of your inability. You choke out a sob at the idea of her wheezing as blood gushes from her head. “Let’s get you to your room.” 

Kuvira settles a hand on your shoulder and leads you away, the guard with your chest follows as you walk down the winding hallway before stopping at a large door. The guard opens it up and places your chest at the foot of your bed before scurrying out. He closes the door behind him, leaving the two of you alone. Kuvira flicks her wrist, effectively bending the lock into place before pulling you into her arms. 

You grip the back of her shirt as you continue to cry, you can’t will the image away now no matter how hard you try. It’s ingrained in your brain, clawed itself into the deepest corners of your mind, and settled in for life. 

“You're safe,” she says softly, one of her hands running through your hair. “I won’t let anyone ever lay a hand on you ever again.” She kisses the top of your head before gently tugging you towards the bathroom. She lets go of your hand and begins to fill the bathtub up with water. You bend your armor off then take off your clothes. Your eyes never leave her form as she grabs some oils and bubbles from a cabinet and pours some in, a rosy fragrance fills the room as the bubbles multiple. 

Kuvira turns the water off and turns to look at you. “Will you… get in with me?” Kuvira nods and helps you get in the tub before beginning to undress. You pull your legs up to your chest and space out as you look at all the bubbles in front of you. 

You don’t think you’ve taken a bath with her before. The showers on the train were small and she’d usually enter your room a little bit after midnight. She climbs in behind you and slides her legs on either side of your hips. You rest your head on her chest and sigh. Being close to her like this helps ease your fears and worries. 

The Beifongs are hopefully far away from here by now, and Kuvira is very much alive as she wraps her arms around your waist. You think she bought your lie, you think if she didn’t you wouldn’t be taking a bath right now. 

At some point she cleans the dirt off your face with a wet cloth, she avoids your bruised cheek though. With her free hand, she brings her thumb up and gently places it on your lip as her fingers gently grip your chin to make you look at her. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there.” 

“It’s not your fault, Vira.” You press a kiss to her thumb as your hand trails up to her cheek. She leans into your touch, the two of you sit there staring at each other until you feel your skin turn pruny. 

Reluctantly you both get out of the bath and wrap each other in robes, she pulls you into a soft kiss that you eagerly reciprocate, one of your hands went up to her bun and pulled out the pins keeping it in place. Her black waves fall around her shoulders in a beautiful mess of curls, you think, while you pull away from her, how lucky you are to have been given such a beautiful soulmate. 

“It is my fault, everyone knows I’m close to you and the target on my back grows larger with every day that passes. What if next time they kill you?” Her voice cracks at the end and your heart breaks because you just had a bit of a breakdown at the idea of losing her, so you understand.

“I am not going to die, I promise. I don’t think anyone is stupid enough to try that.” People may not know that you're her soulmate but they do know that you two are very close. She runs her fingers through your hair and sighs. She pulls you out of the bathroom and towards the bed where she begins to untie your robe. 

You flush as Kuvira slides it off your shoulders and lets it fall to the ground, at the sight of your naked form she groans before pulling you into a gentle kiss, her hands come up to cup your face- for the side that's bruised her hand lays on your jaw- as she softly licks your bottom lip and you open your mouth up for her as you wrap your arms around her neck.

As her tongue caresses your own, you feel something wet drop onto your face that has you slowly pulling away and opening up your eyes. She’s crying. “Vira…” 

Her lips brush against your own as she says in a pained voice “I thought you left me when an hour went by without your arrival.” Your heart clenches. You begin to kiss away her tears, she squeezes her eyes shut as you try to ease her worries, her fears. 

“I’ll never leave you,” you whisper in her ear, your lips trailing down her neck as you leave soft kisses against her tan skin. “I might be upset but I will never leave, love you too much to leave.” She pulls you into another kiss, this one a bit more forceful, she’s trying to fill herself up with you to keep surviving, you're her fuel and she’s running low. 

She slowly walks you backward until your knees hit the edge of the bed, you fall onto the plush mountain of pillows as Kuvira unties her robe before straddling your hips. “I love you,” she murmurs as she kisses your neck, one of her hands placed beside your head to hold herself up while the other slowly run down your side, her fingers light as a feather. 

Those soft lips you love oh so much trail down your collarbone, she places a kiss right between your breasts before lifting her head to lay a soft kiss to each nipple, you arch your back, letting out a soft whine as she softly licks at one of them, then blows onto it. She repeats herself with your other one before continuing to trail her kisses down to your core. 

Kuvira kisses your hip bones before nuzzling her face in your stomach and sighing. One of your hands goes to softly grip her hair and she looks up at you through her lashes with her gaze so full of love it leaves you frozen in its wake. Kuvira places a kiss on your stomach before trailing down once more. She leaves a soft kiss on your pubic bone before she slowly ducks down and licks a strip up your slit. You let out a sigh of relief and wiggle your hips, trying to get more out of her. 

She uses her fingers to spread you open as her other arm drapes itself across your stomach to keep you in place. Kuvira continues to slowly lick up a few more times, each time her tongue reaches your clit she applies a bit more pressure, leaving you a panting mess in need of more. 

Finally, as if deciding you’ve suffered enough she dips her tongue inside you. You throw your head back as she uses her thumb to gently rub at your clit, her gentleness is so different from her usual rough behavior in bed (not that you mind, you love both sides of her) but you don’t think she’s been this slow and loving with you since her engagement. 

Kuvira pulls her tongue out of you and replaces it with fingers, her mouth immediately gets to your bundle of nerves where she wraps her lips around your clit and sucks. The arm thrown across your hips moves, her hand going to squeeze at your breast. “Fuck… Vira,” you moan out as she continues to pump her fingers deep inside you at an agonizingly slow pace. 

She removes her lips from you for a moment to say through pants “I just wanna feel you, all of you,” before diving back in. Both of your hands tightly grip at her black tresses, pulling a moan out of her that vibrates against you. She feels you clench around her fingers so Kuvira adds a third and slightly picks up her speed. It’s not as fast as she usually goes but she wants to gently pull it from you, wants to take her time with you because she was so sure you’d finally left her. 

“Come for me, love. Please.” She says, having briefly pulled away from you, she’s swirling her tongue around your clit with her fingers curling inside you, her hand once squeezing your breast is now gently rolling your nipple between her fingers. When she thrusts her fingers back into you, you snap. A string of loud, breathy moans escapes you as you ground yourself on her fingers and let go. 

She fucks you through your orgasm, licking around her fingers as she continues to pump into you. When you feel yourself slowly come down, you gently try to pry Kuvira off of your sensitive core. She resists and instead pulls out her fingers which she happily sucks clean, her gaze locking with your own. When she’s sucked off all of you, she leans down and licks you clean. You jolt at the feeling of her tongue licking up your slit and let out a soft cry, “Kuvira.” 

Once she deems you clean enough she pulls away and leaves a soft kiss on both of your inner thighs before climbing up to kiss you. You moan as you taste yourself on her and eagerly grant her access to your mouth where you both softly run your tongues across one another. You ease your grip on her hair and slowly move them down to cup her cheeks. 

You both kiss each other for a few minutes with your legs wrapped tightly around her hips before you slowly pull away, with both hands on her shoulders you flip the two of you around so you're on top, she laughs, full-on wide smile, head thrown back laugh and you grin. 

“My turn,” you say, kissing that spot right under her ear, and her laughter halts as her breath hitches in her throat. You place a knee between her legs, situated against her core and she immediately rubs herself against it, she’s already so wet which you know is from getting you off. Kuvira might be the dominant one out of the two of you, but she got off on pleasuring you. 

“Y/n '' she moans out as you trail your lips down to her breasts, knowing that her neck is off limits you begin to litter her chest and shoulders with as many lovebites as you can, she continues to grind herself against you. Something about her so desperately trying to get off on your leg has you moaning as you wrap your lips around her nipple, you look up at her through your lashes. The sight is a masterpiece, Kuvira’s head is thrown to the side, half-buried in a pillow as she lets out sharp pants with love bites scattered across her tan skin. 

You release her nipple, taking the neglected one into your mouth and swirling your tongue around the hardening bud. Giving a gentle tug that has her reaching to pull your hair, you let go of it and crawl down. You remove your leg from Kuvira’s core, causing her to emit a frustrated groan.

But you ignore her, when you get down to her lower regions your eyes land on her soulmate mark etched across her left hip bone, “Would you mind helping me memorize the routine?” glares back at you. It seems like yesterday that you nervously walked up to the woman you thought was just so beautiful and said those words. You press a gentle kiss to her mark, Kuvira looks down at you with this gaze full of unending love that makes you want to cry. 

You pull away from her and work you way down to her glistening slit, her slickness is covering her thighs, and fuck, Kuvira never loses control like this. You press a trail of kisses up her right inner thigh, once you get to the very top you lick her thigh clean before turning to do the same to the other. 

Finally, you decide enough is enough and press your tongue inside of her, swirling around and caressing her walls. Kuvira lets out a raspy gasp and she pushes herself against you, loving the way you're making her feel. You gently press your thumb against her clit, adding a bit of pressure before rolling it between two of your fingers. Goodness, Kuvira tastes amazing and you don’t think you’ll ever get tired of her, you fervently keep going, your tongue slowly darting in and out as it licks up any of her cum and soon Kuvira clenching against you, her thighs came up to wrap around your head but you don’t mind, it just makes you go faster, trying so desperately to push her over the edge.

“I’m… I’m gonna” she moans out as she tilts her hips up and lets out a scream that has her biting the pillow beside her. You hum in approval as she lets go and licks her up like you're a starved woman. Slowly her legs loosen and then fall back down, her thighs shaking as you pull away from her. You pant as you try to catch your breath, some of her cum drips down your chin and onto your chest, the sight has Kuvira’s eyes widening in delight.

 You climb off the bed and grab two towels, one of them you use to wipe your face off and between your legs whilst the other is for your lover. You climb back up and gently wipe away the mess you’ve made, she grabs your hand and tugs you forward, effectively getting you to fall onto the bed. You toss the dirty towel behind you and pull her close, resting your head on her chest. 

“I love you,” she says, her voice is raspy and low from her screaming. You press an innocent kiss to her chest and whisper back “I love you too.”

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

Perhaps it’s the fact that your sleeping in a new place or the fact that your tongue fucking caused her to sleep in. All you know is that when you open your eyes, the sun is up and has cast the room in an ethereal type glow. Your heart drops as you hear the sounds of the guards outside practicing fighting in what once was the meteorite garden and people walking past your bedroom door. 

“Vira…” You whisper and gently shake her awake. Your lover’s eyes slowly flicker open and stare back at you in confusion. “Vira everyone's awake.” 

The effectively wakes her up, she pushes you off of her and looks around the room in a panic, her hair is an absolute mess that has you swell with pride, and your eyes land on her chest. Spirits you did a number on her. She immediately gets up and looks around for her clothes, not even bothering to put her robe on. You get up to help her, as you make your way to the bathroom to search, you both stop dead in your tracks. 

There’s incessant knocking at your door, well more like slamming, it stops for a moment and you wonder if the person has left but your hopes are dashed when in an all too familiar nasally voice you hear “Y/n let me in!” 

“Why?!” You shout back as you shove your lover in the bathroom, she closes the doors behind her and you quickly throw on and tie up a robe. When you walk past the large mirror by the door you stop, there is no denying what just went on in here. Spirits the smell is still here, but then a thought strikes you as he goes back to pounding on the door. 

Baatar is necessary for Kuvira to succeed… And you don’t want her too. You let out a deep sigh, preparing yourself for what's about to happen before unlocking the door. The second he hears the click of the locks he’s opening the door himself and pushing through, you stumble back and glare at him. “What the fuck, Baatar?” 

“The staff said she didn’t leave this room last night, so where is she?” He growls out. Baatar pushes past you and looks around the room, taking in the tossed cloths, extra robe on the floor, and rumbled sheets. “Spirits Baatar I know you hate our friendship but do you really think you have the right to act like this?” 

“It’s lunchtime,” he spits out, spinning around to stalk towards you. “She is up at the crack of dawn every morning to practice her bending and go over any paperwork that may have accumulated, then we eat breakfast together and go over blueprints that I made!” He points to himself, screaming out the end of his sentence. Out of fear maybe, or pent up anger you honestly don’t know, you slap him across the face.

The sound echoes through the grandiose room as he holds his reddened cheek. “What are you trying to say, Junior?” 

“I know your in love with her, you practically eye fuck her anytime she enters a room, it’s so disgusting and desperate and I know she is still here so where is she?” You want to bend the metal around him and fling him through the glass window, but he needs to know. He needs to find out. 

“I don’t know you,” you lie, your eyes flickering to the bathroom door. Baatar looks over his shoulder at where your gaze strayed before stalking over and wrenching open the double doors. Inside is Kuvira, hair still a mess with her boots and pants on in the middle of buttoning up her shirt. All of your bite marks are on display for him to see. 

“Baatar…” She begins, his face is beet red with his fists clenched at his sides. “I can explain.” 

“How long have you been with her? How long have you been lying to me!” He tries to get in her face as he did to you. You think he’d have learned after you slapped him but it seems the lesson didn’t stick. Kuvira bends a large piece of metal off the wall and pushes him back with it. Baatar goes flying onto his back and slams into the foot of the bed. 

“I don’t answer to you, I don’t know what makes you think you could ever treat me like that, I am the great uniter and I do not take lightly to men trying to instill fear in me,” she growls out. Stalking towards him with her shirt still unbuttoned, she grabs onto the collar of his shirt and pulls him up into a sitting position. Her face is so close to his, “I wanted to keep you around after I broke it to you, but if this is how you're going to act, then I might as well lock you up like I did your family.” 

His eyes widen as Kuvira calls for the guards, “at least tell me how long, how long did you make a fool out of me?” 

“Three years,” you answer. His mouth drops open in shock as the guard's filter in, “take him away and lock him up. I’ll stop by to talk to him later.” The guards grab him by the arms to drag him away, he doesn’t stop them as he tries to process your words. Three years.

[emerald-amidst-gold]

18 19 20 27 28 from the protag questions <3

Ooooo! Lots of goodies! o3o You all spoil me~! X3

Thank you so much! Let's get into it! >:D

18. What is the biggest similarity between your protagonists?

Grey morality. PFFFFT!

I'm serious. I have a habit of creating characters that have questionable methods to situations, but yet can be empathized with or even sympathized with. Fane, Rylen, and Elise all do what they have to do, and it's up to the audience to formulate whether or not they agree or disagree with their personalities and actions.

I'll say this once because I've had people in the past kind of...bash me for it, but just because your character has a specific view does not necessarily mean you as the creator share that same view. That isn't me throwing swings out at self-inserts or characters that are reflections of their creators, this is just how I feel in response to my own characters. I try to disconnect from my characters because I want them to be their own. I build the foundation, give them a name, a history, or a family to influence them, but I don't steer their minds, their decisions. They flow the way they want to flow. Simple as that. Fane is the OC that is most reflective of me, but not with everything. He has his own methods, own reasons for thinking the way that he does and so do I.

I think it has a lot of my fixation on making characters teeter has to do with how I interact with the world in real life. I just...don't see black and white. I give everything the benefit of the doubt and I hold my ground concerning my views even if others might see them as 'wrong' or 'controversial'. I'm horribly analytical and I'm always like, 'But what if...'. That's just...me. XD

But yeah! Grey characters are my vice and I'm not sure if I'm doing it right most of the time, but I try! :3

19. What is the biggest difference between your protagonists?

Mainly how they approach situations and their feelings surrounding leadership.

Fane is rash, doesn't plan, doesn't think everything through before acting or he just outright chooses not to. He tends to make decisions on his own, but mainly only in battle. In more diplomatic settings, Fane is the master of deferral. XD He divvies out tasks that he feels aren't his area from either a lack of interest, a lack of confidence in himself, or just feeling that someone else would be the better option.

Rylen has his moments of brashness, but he's pretty subdued, go with the flow type of deal, but most who know him intimately know he's pretty high strung when it comes to matters where his voice has power. Man's a ball of stress and anxiety. PFFT!

Elise is the calmest out of the three. It was practically trained into her in the Circle. She's also just inherently docile, but after the Blight she does have moments of being feral and unhinged. That mostly happens if one of her companions are in danger or if her own life is threatened. She's not afraid to make her voice heard, either. Generally, Elise is soft spoken, but she will stand up for herself and other people, despite the grief it could cause her.

20. Who handles responsibility the best? And who handles it the worst?

If Fane puts his mind to it, he can handle responsibility pretty well. His want to involve himself deeply in matters doesn't happen until after Adamant and only gets stronger and stronger after Trespasser. Fane is a force when he wants to be and Solas tries to draw that out, to make him realize he can do whatever he puts his mind to. However, Elise would be the best in terms of responsibility. She had a lot in the Circle, even more during the Blight, and a substantial amount as Warden-Commander. Does she wish she could rest? Of course! But she doesn't complain because she knows she can make change. Rylen's okay with responsibility; he becomes Viscount after all. But, he is prone to slacking off at times, but really only after the Chantry explosion. The guy is TIRED. What can I say? XD

All in all, none of them bad at handling responsibility. They just have different ways that they go about it! :D

27. What would their fears on the graves in the fade during Here Lies The Abyss be?

Yes, yes, yes, YES! The question! The big question! The question that leads to Fane and Solas' first kiss! AHAHAHAH! >:D

Elise - Betrayal. This is more in terms of Elise towards herself and her own actions. She's afraid that everything she's ever done has been one great betrayal to everyone and everything she has ever cared about. She had no choice but to witness Jowan become Tranquil, Alistair, so hurt and angered by her decision at the Landsmeet, abandoned her to face the possibility of the death alone, her faith was sundered after the Broken Circle, making her fear her magic for the first time in her life and making her wonder when she would become the very monsters she had just finished killing. The list goes on. Elise made so many decisions in service to the world, but she silently wonders when it'll all come crashing down around her, when everyone will leave her because they'd been betrayed.

Rylen - Wasn't enough. Rylen wrestles constantly with the fact that he's never been strong enough. He wasn't strong enough for Carver; the ogre ripping him from their family and pounding into pulp. He wasn't strong enough for Bethany; unable to protect her from the templars, so he opted to take her to the Deep Roads, thinking it would be safer, but it wasn't. He wasn't strong enough for his mother; his eyes focused on the horizon rather than the ground that began it all.

And he hadn't been strong enough to end Corypheus for good. We all know what happened wasn't Hawke's fault, but Rylen the master of blaming himself for everything, so that's one event he dwells about every. day. every. night.

Last, but not least, FANE. *sounds the horns* You ready? You ready?! >:D

Fane - To be forgotten. That's right.

That's Fane's biggest, deepest fear; to be forgotten. I know there's only been a few chapters of my main fic that kind of reference this, but you know how Fane constantly says to himself, 'I wish I could be forgotten. It would be better if I would just disappear and be forgotten.'? Yeah, it's a front. He's trying to convince himself that that's what he wants, but in actuality, it's reversed. He's terrified, terrified of being forgotten by the world, by his sister, by the Inquisition...

...by Solas. That's the worst person who could forget Fane. And around the time of Adamant, Solas and Fane being the stubborn fools that they are, act as if they haven't known each other for fucking centuries even though the truth literally screamed at them after Haven. They were lost together in the mountains with that truth hanging between them, and still they ignored it because it hurt and they both felt they didn't deserve the hope that they could be together. Fane attempts to unearth some lost memories, some lingering feelings, but Solas wasn't ready and guided them away from that unopened bag, refusing to let Fane in on his agenda or allowing him to help in any way. It gets to a point where Fane starts to believe Solas doesn't actually recall their relationship, who he is and he spirals pretty bad in the Raw Fade when that tombstone is glaring at him.

When Solas sees it...he cracks. Quietly, in his mind, but he realizes how stupid he'd been, how stupid they had been. The truth was looking at him in two tones and he ignored it out of fear. It's what spurs Solas to take Fane into the Fade and show his dragon the place where he had endeavored to make sure the other would never be forgotten. Solas also makes it clear that he had never forgot Fane, ever.

"I could never forget you, my dragon. Your memory lingered within the halls of my mind even as I slumbered. I am but a fool, a fearful fool. I thought it kinder to let you live a new life, unburdened by my burdens. I do not wish for the past to repeat itself, to see two tones ebb away and breath leave your lungs once more.", Solas said, eyes downcast, pained grimace housing sorrow, grief, and despair in its curves. "...But, it is not kinder. It is more agonizing to try and forget than it is to remember. Though, I have never tried to erase you from my memory nor have I tried to abandon what I felt for you--what I feel for you.'

Fane frowned, tugging on the mage's forearms to bring him closer, urgently, but timidly; Solas didn't even protest, but his eyes remained downcast. "What do you feel, Solas?", he asked and received no answer. "What do you feel, Solas?! What can't you forget?!", he repeated, voice echoing off the halls of death and remembrance. He needed these words, he needed to know!

What did the sky feel?! What did it remember?! He just wanted one damned answer in this upside down world!

Solas' eyes shut slowly, chest rising with a deep inhale. "I..", he started, but paused again, face twitching with hesitance and reservation. "No, it's not--!"

Fane growled low. "Enough! If you won't tell me,", he barked, yanking Solas forward by his arms, barely registering the grunt of surprise that left his lips, and shot his hands up to hold a bewildered face. "...then show me!"

I tease~ >:3

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28. What is their favourite location within their own game and what would be their favourite in each others?

I answered this ooooonnnneee HERE! >:D (I would just copy and paste, but it LONG. ADHDKS)

And there we have it! Beautiful! Perfect! And FUN! X3

[axther]

everything stays

denki kaminari x reader 

prompt: lost in the woods ( @bnhabookclub​‘s bingo event!!) 

in the end, only the watcher stays.

a/n: thank you to the wonderful @pixxiesdust, fantastic @chubbynegget, the amazing @samanthaa-leanne, the incredible @fanfic-me-up, the celestial @tamasoft, and the exceptional @eddiesfuckinzone​ for beta’ing for me!! y’all are so sweet ;; the transparents are from @bellushimiko​! you can find them here!  

Denki Kaminari didn’t know how he got in this situation. 

He was in the middle of a ring of trees, which inside had a ring of rocks. A snowy wolf was on top of the rocks with a dissatisfied snarl, their tail wrapped around the top of it in a cartoonish way. Denki didn’t know what wrong turn he made, where he separated from Bakugou, Kirishima, and Sero, but he had found himself in front of a pack of dark wolves, all growling at him. He was sure that they would’ve eviscerated him, had the white wolf not come along. They turned without question or fear, and the white wolf simply stared at him like a disappointed mother. Not only that, something was just off about the ring, like if he stretched his hand forward, he could touch something not quite mortal. 

“Hooh-kay…” He sighed, leaning away from the wolf. “This is weird.” 

The wolf narrowed their e/c eyes. Denki gripped the strap of his hiking backpack tighter. 

“I am going...to leave you alone. I am not dying today. Nuh-uh.” Denki pursed his lips before attempting to go around the rocks. A sharp, female voice pierced the air. 

“What are you doing in my forest?” 

Denki froze, golden eyes wide. “Who said that?” 

He spun left and right, panic in his veins. The voice echoed all around him, and he near snapped his neck trying to locate it. A twig snapped behind him, and when he looked, the wolf was gone. 

“Didn’t your parents ever teach you to not answer a question with a question?” 

Denki spun around and saw the wolf was gone. His heart stopped, just a bit, and he looked around to try and track the wolf. There were glimpses of it, just barely, like a wisp in the dark trees. There was no sunlight, no moonlight, no light at all, except for the vaguely glowing rocks and the white wolf. A voice hissed, everywhere and nowhere at once. Every word was annoyed and packed a punch, echoing in the deepest parts of the forest like an auditorium. 

“What are you doing in my forest?” 

Denki jumped out his skin, leaping away and trying to turn, but something snagged his ankle and he plummeted to the ground. He tried to catch his breath until he saw the barest wisp of a white shadow before someone walked up to him. Before him was a young woman, maybe his age, with h/c hair and startling white streaks running through it. Despite her skin being s/c, she was practically glowing, and one eye was even so grey it was white. The other was a warmer e/c. It could only be described as more human, tangibly vulnerable. Denki swallowed. 

She was, without a doubt, ethereal. Celestial, earthly, ghostly and immortal all at once. 

“Are you deaf?” She hissed, and Denki was broken out of his stupor. Her tone was more irked than anything, and she leaned in. Denki backed up and she took a step forward, and they played it as though it were tag until Denki’s back hit the biggest rock in the middle. 

“Uh, well, uh, I, uh, my friends, we were, uh, you’re...you’re pretty. Who are you?” Denki stuttered out what he hoped was a comprehensive sentence, but the girl’s eyes darkened. “What are you?” 

“That’s a bit rude, innit?” She stood straight, holding her nose up in the air. “You’re in my forest, and you’re asking what I am?” 

“I’m sorry, ma’am, miss. Uh.” He fumbled over his words when she leaned in again, and he breathed in something that was purely terrestrial. It was all sorts of sweet things, like berries, and there was mud and bark and the sunlight wafting through the trees when you’re alone. 

“Well?” 

Denki blinked. “Well, what?” 

“Why. Are. You. In. My. Forest?” 

“I thought it was government property.” 

“That’s what I let them think.” The girl shrugged haughtily. 

“Then…I was here with some of my friends.” Denki stepped from the rock, feeling something tingling up his back. “We were walking the trails, actually.” 

“Then you should’ve stayed on the trails.” The girl tilted her head condescendingly. “Didn’t anyone ever tell you to not stray in the woods?” 

“Well, if it meant I would meet pretty girls, then I would do it anyway.” The girl jumped when Denki said it so smugly, and her head whipped around. She wore a pout before huffing. 

“You’re in the face of...of me, and you flirt?” 

“I flirt with danger. What can I say?” 

“Insufferable.” She gave a cross between a concerned and disgusted. “Are all humans like this?” 

“Only me.” Denki gave a cheesy grin. The girl’s frown shook at its foundation.

“Absolutely amazing. Are you aware that I could kill you?” 

Something in Denki told him that he should be terrified, but he wasn’t. It was like when humans go skydiving; stupid, but entirely within their will. 

“I guess. You look too cute though.” 

“C-!” The girl sputtered a bit.”Why would you…?!” 

“What’s your name?” Denki felt his confidence grow at the crack in her exterior. “I’m Denki Kaminari.” 

“I have many names.” The girl hesitated, still looking confused. “Aisling, some call me. But I know myself as YN.” 

Denki nodded fervently, a finger on his chin like he was trying to mimic Michelangelo’s David. “A pretty name for a pretty lady! I like it!” 

“You’re named for thunder.” YN mused, slowly letting her shell edge away. “Why?” 

“I have an electric quirk!”  He snapped his fingers and let out a little spark. YN’s eyes got impossibly big. 

“How did you do that?” There was a veiled shock in her voice like she either didn’t want to show her confusion or didn’t want to offend him. “You...are you...do you have magicks?” 

“Huh? Magic? Nah! It’s a quirk! All my friends have quirks. If you want, we can go and look for them.” 

“Your...friends. The ones you got lost from.” 

“Yeah! Sero can use tape, and Mina, she’s super cool, she’s got acid!” 

“...Alright, then.” YN rose to her full height for the first time, and Denki felt something deep in him shift when he realised she was his height if not taller. He couldn’t tell if it was good or bad. “Where did you lose them?” 

“What?” Denki paused. “I figured you knew, like, everything about the forest?” 

YN frowned. “I’m not omnipotent. This is my forest, but I don’t know everything.” 

“Well,” Denki turned, beginning to go back to the way he came. “This got a lot harder.” 

“They are your age, yes?” YN followed without making so much as a sound, quicker on her feet than she should’ve been. When Denki glanced down, he saw she was like a gazelle; prancing with her feet barely touching the ground. She often let him move ahead of her, only to leap forward in a graceful movement that made Denki jealous, flitting left and right like a curious faerie. 

“I mean, yeah. We all go to school together.” 

“Then they are most likely still looking for you. We shall listen, and I can send the madaidhean-allaidh to look.” 

“The what?” 

“Wolves. The wolves.” 

“Oh.” Denki turned back around and began trying to retrace his steps. The trees loomed over him, and when he glanced around, YN was gone. Panic flooded his system until there was a small giggle from above him. He looked up to see YN perched on a branch that in no way could’ve held her weight and leap from limb to limb of the trees. She didn’t so much as wobble, and Denki tripped on a rock watching her. He fell into a faceful of moss and he heard YN slump onto a branch, laughing. 

“Come on, buachaill toirneach! We shall find your friends!” 

They didn’t find Denki’s friends. 

It had been well over an hour and Denki could feel the sun sapping at his energy. Sweat clung to his skin and he used some spare cloth from his bag to hold his hair back. There was conversation at the beginning of the search, soft murmurings from YN that lead Denki to somehow make a fool of himself, but as time went on, they drained away into silence. 

YN. 

With every moment she moved, with every glance Denki sneaked in, he began to realise something about her. When he first met her, he thought she was a quirk user, just not socialised. She spoke fondly about her forest and the wolves. She was lithe and fast, running across the trees without touching the ground. She became little more than a streak of a white dress, dancing through the leaves and sunlight. Her feet never seemed to touch anything. 

Denki wondered if she was even human. 

It made sense. Maybe she was something older than him, or even older than quirks. Was she from an age bygone? Or was she as old as the planet itself? Did she plant the first tree of the wood and remained with it, long after all the other little plants and animals had left? She seemed so cosmically amaranthine, like the very oaks and pines kneeled their branches so she could flit across them. She didn’t even look human, with kind hands and arms that lead to a coldly beautiful torso, and a graceful neck, and a head that Denki was sure not even Toga could duplicate.  She was strangely deathless, like a corpse brought back to life. Even her hair seemed to defy mortality and gravity. 

Denki blinked. He had been staring at her, and she was staring unblinkingly right back, not even glancing to see where her feet would go. Her arms were behind her back and she looked mischievously innocent.  

“Penny for your thoughts?” She mused, weaving behind the trunk of a redwood and reappearing on the other side. Denki pursed his lips. 

“What are you?” 

YN faltered for the first time, stopping and staring at Denki with her full attention. He stopped, too, but because of the severity of her eyes. One white, one e/c. It was spectral and eerie, and something in Denki’s blood cooled and was lit on fire at the same time. 

“What do you think I am, thunder boy?” She asked. She sat on a branch, but it was airy, like she lifted her legs and floated down onto the bark. 

“I don’t know.” Denki hesitated. “I don’t think you’re human.” “No, I’m not.” YN held her head in her palm, looking thoughtful. “I don’t think I ever was.” 

Denki swallowed thickly. “Then...are you some sort of god?” 

YN paused before beginning to shake with laughter. It consumed her whole until she had to wipe a tear from one immortal eye. 

“There are no gods here. It’s just me. No god would dare step in here.” 

“Why not?” 

YN tilted her head. “Why not…? I suppose they are afraid of me. I am not something to be controlled.” 

“Then what are you?” Denki felt the slightest sense of frustration. They were back to the original question. 

“I don’t know.” 

Instantly, Denki felt all emotions except for guilt vanish. She sounded so sad and confused, looking up towards the sky and dangling her legs back and forth. The dress swirled around her thighs. 

“Oh.” 

“I suppose I’m the forest, itself. I’ve been here for so long, I’m not quite sure. I remember when the humans came in with axes and blades, and I howled and bit at them until they bled.” She looked back down at Denki. “It took them years, but they learned their lesson. They will not touch my forest ever again.” 

Denki said nothing but swallowed again. He could only imagine the fear; something you didn’t know, monsters even, coming in and tearing down your home, your heart. Of course, YN would react the way she did, to both them and Denki. She wasn’t hostile, she was defensive. She wasn’t mean or rude. She was scared and confused. 

“You’re a curious human, thunder boy.” 

Denki snapped out of his thoughts when YN fell to the ground. Her arms were spread for the fall and her feet touched the forest floor without so much as a sound. Where she stepped, Denki realised, little white, star-shaped flowers bloomed. She looked at him and Denki looked at her. 

“Why are you guilty, thunder boy?” She walked to him as though he were a scared animal. He felt his breath catch when she got unbelievably close. “You are kind. And that is...rare in humans.” 

“I just...I feel bad. For what we’ve done.” 

“Then fix it. Learn from your mistakes.” She was close, so close, and Denki was sure he stopped breathing. He could smell her, and she smelled like rain and sunlight and all the little green things. 

“I will,” He gasped out. “I will.” 

And YN leaned in, just enough, and Denki leaned in, and quietly, like the moon on a cloudy night, their lips met. 

It wasn’t more than skin on skin, but it was soft, and Denki shook. He placed a gentle, quivering hand on YN’s cheek and he could feel her smiling, ever so sweetly. When she pulled away, there was a softness in her eyes, and she held a hand to his cheek. She began swiping her thumb against it, and Denki realised he had been crying. Something tugged at his heart, and he kneeled to the ground. 

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” 

YN kneeled down, too, and the plants around them seemed to lean in. The wind fell silent and the trees stopped whispering, and it was like the whole forest leaned in to hear. 

“I know, Denki. I know.” 

Denki didn’t know when he fell asleep or woke up, but it was with Sero looming over him. 

“Dude!” Sero cheered. “You’re finally awake! Hey guys!” Sero turned, waving. “He’s awake!” 

Denki sat up as the other three began walking over. Bakugou looked furious as usual, but both Kirishima and Mina looked relieved. 

“Lucky! We were worried something happened!” 

“Yeah, bro! Next time, we’ll keep better tabs on everyone!” 

“Stick the dunce on a leash.” 

“Don’t pretend you weren’t worried, bro.” 

Denki rubbed his head. “Wait...what happened?” 

“We lost you around, like, three o’clock.” Kirishima squatted, jutting a thumb towards the woods. Denki realised they were outside the ranger’s cabin, and off to the side were two rangers (one a dog, and the other a duck.) He swallowed. 

“Wait. Where did you guys find me?” 

“More like you found us and then passed out, or something.” Sero shrugged. “You were in your sleeping bag, by the campsite. We went back so we could get signal to call someone, and you were there, just chilling.” 

“Don’t you remember?” Mina cooed. 

“No. I remember...I was in…” Denki faltered. 

“Maybe you sleepwalked, then. It was pretty far off from where we realised we lost you.” Sero mused. Kirishima sighed, crossing his arms. 

“We’re lucky something worse didn’t happen, bro.” 

“Yeah…” Denki glanced to his left, seeing the campsite, before realising there was a series of plants leading up to his and Sero’s tent. They all were swaying softly, little white, star-shaped flowers that seemed to wave to him. Denki felt his heart race, mind running as he tuned out the others. He glanced around rapidly before looking back to the tree line. 

And there, a lone white wolf stared back with one white eye. 

She bowed her head, and the others fell silent. She had one paw extended, before turning quietly and slowly back into the heart of the forest. 

“What the hell was that?” Bakugou growled. Denki felt a flush rise to his cheeks, and he brought a hand up to his lips. The trees shuffled and whispered, as though they were saying goodbye, and the little white flowers followed the white wolf home. 

a/n: environmental activist denki environmental activist denki 

[evanstanwrites]

The CEO -1-

The beginning and the end?

summary:  y/n Photographer meets James Bucky Barnes CEO of White Wolf Industry, they fall head over heels for each other. But Bucky has many secrets, will she find out who or what he really is? And more so will she accept it or will she run as far as she can when she finds out?

A/N: based on elements of an rp with the lovely @loricameback​

A/N: proofreaded by my favo kiwi: @pawfect-melody​ 

moodboard below by @imanuglywombat​

warnings: mostly fluff and a small bit of angst at the end

The CEO masterlist

y/n couldn't believe her eyes when she saw the email. She had walked into her small studio office early this morning with her favorite Starbucks drink and a breakfast snack in her hands. She was first to arrive, even if the only other person working with her was Mia. y/n had opened her own photo studio only last year after being stuck at an office job for her entire working life. She hated the job but it paid well so she was able to save a good amount of money, only needing to take out a small loan with the banks so she could finally achieve her big dream: owning her own studio and being a freelance photographer. Mia helped her mostly with the business side of things and managing appointments, she was a godsend most of the time and one of her best friends. 

After setting her stuff down on her desk she was actually surprised Mia wasn’t there yet, Mia was usually the first to arrive and layers deep in work by the time she arrived.

Just when y/n sat down and started up her laptop Mia burst into the room with one of the biggest smiles on her face.   

“good you’re already here,” she says as she drops her stuff on her own desk. "Have you read the emails already?" 

"No, I just arrived myself but I was planning on checking them right now." She said as she opened the email app and scrolled through the new mails. "I already checked them last night from home. There is one, in particular, that is very interesting and I think is one of the best opportunities we have ever gotten. Scratch that it is the best." Mia rambles on like a kid with ADHD. Y/n pulled up the email she was talking about and began to read. 

Dear miss y/l/n,

I write to you on behalf of the White Wolf industry, seeing as our company has started a new campaign we see it necessary to complete this with media attention as well. Our CEO Mr. James Barnes has recently had an interview with the New York Times magazine and in addition to the interview will require professional photographers. Mr. Barnes personally requested your employment in this task if you so wish to accept. 

Contact our office on (000-000-000) to arrange a time and a place which best suits yours and Mr.Barnes needs. 

We look forward to your swift reply.

Sincerely,

White Wolf Industry 

Y/n couldn't believe her eyes as she reread the email over and over again. 

"Is this for real or am I dreaming Mia?" Y/n asked amazed

"It's real." Mia squealed enthusiastically "this is gonna be your big breakthrough y/n, THE James Barnes, CEO of the biggest company in New York and you're going to take his picture. Not to mention that he’s smoking hot"

Bucky had been working for many hours when Steve knocked on his open office door, entered and shut it behind him. 

“Buck, tell me you're only just in and haven’t been here all morning” Steve said as he sat down in front of Bucky’s desk knowing well enough that wasn’t the case. 

“ Seems like you already know the answer to that question, Stevie” Bucky said without looking up from his laptop.

“Man, you’re gonna kill yourself overworking. Did you forget this is only a front and you actually don’t have to do all that work by yourself, you’ve people working for you, you know.” 

Bucky only rolled his eyes not really responding to that, what kind of mob boss would he be if he didn’t play the part of the front that protected his true job and the people who were working for him. 

“So you take on the collecting rounds today, take Sam with you, I don’t want him around when miss Y/l/n arrives.” he said and Steve chuckles “Yeah I’ll take him wouldn’t want you to miss your shot.” 

Of course Bucky had looked the woman up when he came across her work, her work was amazing and he felt like he had to get to know her, meet her in person, so he looked up everything he could find out about her. So when the opportunity occurred and he needed his pictures taken for an interview he had done he immediately demanded her.

“Okay get going now, I pay you to work not to sit around and make fun of me.” Bucky barks only half-joking. 

Y/n didn’t know why she was nervous, maybe because this could be her biggest breakthrough or the fact that after she had called to make the appointment, now a week ago, she had looked up more information about Mr. Barnes. She hadn’t found out much other than the standard information about the company he was CEO of and a picture of a man with a buzzcut, sharp cheekbones and the deepest blue eyes you could drown in. 

Y/n took a few deep breaths after she had parked her car in the underground parking lot, Mia had called in sick that morning so she would have to face this job alone today. But just as she got out of her car a beautiful young woman walked towards her and greeted her with a smile. Apparently she was Mr. Barnes’s assistant, Sophie and she was tasked with greeting and helping her with anything she might need. 

so that’s how an hour later she found herself in an empty conference room, tables pushed to the side and equipment set up with the help of Sophie. 

“Thank you so much for all the help setting up.” y/n says to her as she leads her through the hallway till she stops in front of two beautiful wooden carved doors, clearly this was Mr. Barnes’s office and she would finally meet him. Sophie knocked on the door, entered and announced y/n’s arrival.

“Well don’t let her stand there let her in” she heard his warm voice call out before Sophie stepped out of the way and motioned for her to walk in. When she did she had to make sure that her mouth didn’t fall open, god he’s even more gorgeous in person and Mia was totally right he looks like sex on legs in his black fitted suit with no tie, leaving a bit of his chest and the small golden chain visible.  

“Miss Y/l/n, please come in” he says with a smile as he stands up to greet her and waved his hand to one of the chairs in front of his desk. As soon as she stepped deeper into his office the doors behind her closed and she was left alone with the hunk of a man. “It’s nice to meet you miss y/l/n, I’ve been looking forward to working with you” he says holding his hand out for her to shake. y/n walks deeper into the office and takes his offered hand, ‘wow his hands are so soft and warm, god I bet they’d feel amazing in other areas’ she thought to herself but had enough self-control to say “the pleasure is all mine, Mr. Barnes, I can’t say thank you enough for this opportunity.” 

“Please call me Bucky” he says while giving her one of his brightest smiles, making her want to melt in a puddle at his feet.

“Well only if you call me y/n.”

“You got yourself a deal” he says as they both sit down on the chairs in front of his desk. The conversation flowed easily between them, at first, it mainly stayed with professional talk but as time went on it started to feel more like two friends talking and the conversation also turned in that direction. It seemed like they had only been talking a few minutes when Sophie had knocked on the door to remind Bucky of his lunch reservation in the bistro downstairs. He had thanked her and invited y/n to join him during lunch under the claim of a work lunch but they both know work wouldn’t be the subject of conversation. As predicted their work lunch turned out actually more like a lunch date seeing as they both didn’t hold back the flirting that went on between them. 

Once lunch was over they both fell back into their professional self and they started the actual photoshoot, she had to admit he was a very easy model and one hell of a photo genetic man, like could this man ever be in a bad photo?  Once she had enough pictures she started to clean up her stuff together with Bucky’s help, which he offered himself not taking a no for an answer, but sadly it didn’t last long because once again Sophie came in to remind him of an appointment, this time for what seemed an important meeting. 

Bucky said goodbye to her with a sweet kiss to her cheek and a promise to get in touch with her later on.  

Later on turned out to be just half an hour later, just as y/n had arrived back at her office when a text message arrived on her phone.

“Thank you for today sweetheart, I had a real good time getting to know you and I know for sure those pictures will turn out to be amazing ;-). x Bucky”

‘How the hell did he get my phone number? I don’t remember giving it to him’ she thought but blushing as she read the pet name before shrugging to herself and typing her response.

“Well with a model like you I’m totally sure of that, there is not one bad picture I took of you. I had a blast working with you :-)” 

“I’m glad you think so sweetheart. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

of course she accepted and it turned out to be a regular occurrence and they went out for lunch or dinner almost every two days. When they weren’t together they were texting or calling each other, after two weeks she felt like she had known him all her life, she had never felt a connection like that with someone before and before she actually really realized it she was falling for him, hard. In week three their flirting was almost nonstop so she thought to herself that he had to feel the same way if he kept asking her out and flirted with her like that. She decided that she had to say something, she had to tell him how she felt, she wanted to know where they stood and if this was going somewhere. 

So that evening when he picked her up for dinner she asked for him to come in for a minute.

“Everything alright sweetheart, is there something wrong?” he asked as he sat down in front of her on her couch.

“No there is nothing wrong, I just wanted to talk to you about something important” she said clearly nervous making him worry a bit. He shuffled forward so he could take her hands in his running his thumbs over her skin trying to give her the comfort she apparently needed to say what she clearly wanted to tell him. “You know you can tell me anything sweetheart” to which she nodded before taking a deep breath. “I’m falling for you, hard. And I wanted you to know because I feel like maybe there is a chance you might feel the same and I wanted to know where we stood. Like is there even an us?” she rambled luckily he stopped her with just a look, a big smirk on his face. “Sweetheart, of course there is an us. I’m head over heels for you.” 

And before she knew it he had her on his lap, lips and tongues entangled with each other in a passionate embrace, their dinner date clearly forgotten as they had only want for each other.

Being in a relationship with Bucky Barnes felt like the best thing that had happened to her, he always made sure she felt loved and cared for, he gave her his full attention whenever they were together, even sent her flowers every few days. He made her happy and she could only hope that she made him as happy too. But after a while, things started to feel off. There were times that he’d be very secretive about either his job or things he did in his free time whenever they weren’t together, like where he’d go every Wednesday and be totally unreachable. She felt like there were things he kept from her, things he never wanted her to find out. Thoughts started to run through her mind from the stupidest things to the thought that maybe she wasn’t his only girlfriend that maybe he was cheating on her?

A part of her questions got answered on a Wednesday afternoon when she was taking pictures for a job in a park not far away from Bucky’s office. She was taking pictures of all the different kinds of flowers and plants when suddenly a man walked through her line of view, Bucky. But he wasn’t alone, what seemed to be a four year old was sitting on his arm with her arms holding him tightly around his neck and a stuffed monkey in her hand as she giggled at something he said to the little girl that oddly looked a lot like him. From their interaction, you could easily see he loved the little girl dearly, it was obvious to her that this must be his daughter. But why didn’t he tell her that he had a little girl? Then she started thinking about all the other things he held back from her and started to tear up at her conclusion, how could he do this to her, to anyone actually. She had to end this, she had to end her relationship with Bucky Barnes, clearly a married man with a daughter.

tags:

@marvelgirl7​ @imanuglywombat​ @loricameback​ @aesthetical-bucky​ @feelmyroarrrr​ @huskygreatdane  @cap-just-said-language​ @sebastianstans-girl​ @seasaurusrrex​ @lolabean1998​

[vermiculus-incipiens]

OOC INFORMATION:

What’s your name? ashlie

Preferred pronouns: she/her

Timezone: est

IC INFORMATION:

Character Name: Sirius Orion Black III

What’s a hobby or pastime that your character enjoys? Throughout Sirius’s teen years the thought of participating in school activities fell to the wayside. No matter how much his best friend may love the sport, the idea of Sirius in a little Quidditch uniform or chumming around with Old Sluggy went entirely against the bad boy image he had worked so hard to  curate for himself over his time in the castle. Besides, rebellion was a full time job in itself and when paired with his duties as a Marauder first and foremost… Well it was fair to say Sirius had thought up a whole slew of reasons he never participated in organized activities outside of his simple refusal to do anything that may link him to Slytherin house and by extension other members of the House of Black. He had however, transfigured himself a sketch pad during a detention with McGonagall his third year and art had become an outlet he never thought he would obtain. It was like a diary– his deepest thoughts and fears laid out in that book, including the things he was too afraid to even tell James. Sure, sometimes his forms would be lined with mindless doodles. Or notes past along during Order meetings held unfriendly caricatures of Alastor Moody and were hidden between his three people, followed by giggles as if they were nothing more than school-boys again. But lately that same sketchpad from his younger years became dark and full of images of the fears that plagued Sirius’s nightmares. He considers mischief making his main hobby, a final attempt to cling to what was and what could have been in a world not plagued by war. Practical jokes had never been his style, despite Sirius’s well known reputation as a prankster in his youth; his sense of humor had always been too dark for the simplicity of turning off his friends alarm or swapping Slytherins robes to rep the wonderful red and gold before a quidditch match. His idea of a prank had always toed the line of bullying and had been encouraged or at the very least pushed aside until he had managed to take things too far. He needs to be held back even still; as times continue to grow darker the fact that no one ever held Sirius accountable for his so called pranks and need to explore is only a hindrance to himself and everyone he loves.

Do you have any preferred ships or anti-ships? sirius/chemistry.

What do you think your character’s Boggart would be? If their greatest fear isn’t something that could easily take a solid form, what is it? Why? There is a difference between what Sirius expects to see when confronted with a Boggart and the form the creature actually takes and it is something that had changed more than once since the spider he came across at the age of seven in one of the rooms of Grimmauld Place. As a young adult, Sirius is not afraid of anything in this world more than what he would be if it were not for Gryffindor house. For the first time in his life he understood the difference between a house and a home. He made friends, felt cared for, and was free to be himself entirely without fear of extreme retributions. He always expects to see a version of himself just like the rest of the Most Noble and Ancient but deep down Sirius knows he had lost his family before he had been blown off the tree. He had found his true family in three boys who shared his dormitory. Still, after leaving home he was stuck up every night, waiting for that fear and pain of what was he going to do next? But Sirius already knew what he was doing from here and his family served no purpose in his life anymore. No part of him could ever be what they wanted to be, and his fears changed from what if he was one of them to what if he was still himself but never escaped his mother’s clutches. He would still see himself in the Boggart, but younger, that same fear in his eyes that haunted him every year at the end of term when he knew he had to return home to 12 Grimmauld Place.

What’s your character’s biggest pet peeve? Sirius claims his largest pet peeve is conformity, only because he cannot think of a more respectable way to say he can’t stand a kiss ass. After years of desperately trying to appease a mother who would never find him good enough, watching other people do the same grates on his nerves in  a way he hasn’t fully figured out just yet. If he could break free of his mother’s hold why couldn’t Regulus? Why couldn’t Peter simply express an opinion of his own? Sure Sirius could be ruthless in how he turns down the other Marauders lesser ideas, but he couldn’t be anything like his parents were, he was their friend.

What would you consider to be an eccentricity of your character? Sirius struggles to recall a time his blood status was not the focal point of his identity and the harder he pushed away, the stronger it clung to him. From the day he was born he was never Sirius– but the Black family heir. The one who would inherit the family fortune, carry on the name of the most noble and ancient. As he grew older he became the rebel, the disgrace to the 28 who was only headed for trouble and needed to be set straight. His own housemates saw him as nothing more than a overly-privileged pureblooded brat who wanted to play like he was one of them for a while. He had truly thought he escaped the stereotypes of a member of the Sacred 28 when he’d been disowned, forced to be a burden on his best friend and start an entirely new life, but even still he heard it. That Black kid got what was coming to him, nothing but a spoiled brat who didn’t know how good he had it until it was gone. His sense of entitlement is obvious to those who were raised differently than him, although maybe more difficult to spot by his fellow purebloods. Sirius has always been impulsive, when the stress and anxiety gets too much to bear he lashes out, acts up and can forget it isn’t always his own safety he is putting at risk. After that day at the willow- he’s refused to call it a prank since it happened- he has tried to put more thoughts into his actions but quite often even still, his racing thoughts take over. His entitlement doesn’t make him a bad person, it just takes a lot more effort to get Sirius to allow a person to see past the barriers he has put around himself. He wants the people around him to see a blank expression, an uncaring bad-boy, or the one with charming grin who was always quick to make you laugh because if he doesn’t care he can’t be hurt again. It takes a lot to get past those coping mechanisms.

What is/was your character’s favorite subject in school? Why? Defense Against the Dark Arts initially grabbed Sirius’s interest for the same reason he did anything else, he knew it would frustrate his mother.  As time passed Sirius realized he enjoyed the dark arts part of the class a little more than he felt comfortable admitting to anyone, even if he only enjoyed it through a lens of how to combat darker magic.

What time of day is your character’s favorite? What time of year? Sirius has always been an early riser, even as he grew older and clung to the idea of adolescent rebellion, waking before the sunrise was a habit he never seemed to shake. It still felt like his only moments of peace at times. It had always given him that same feeling he would get as the seasons changed from summer to fall; a cool breeze and leaves crunching below his feet bringing him back to fresh starts and finally reconnecting with his friends and found family. September first has yet to lose place as Sirius’s favorite day of the year, he’s determined to find a way to ensure the Marauders keep that day sacred, no matter what may come of them in the years to come. Just reliving the memories and knowing a new generation is making their own has always been able to pull him out of his own depressions, even if only for a few short hours.

What’s your character’s Patronus? If they can’t conjure one, what would it be if they could? Why? It’s become increasingly more difficult to pull the New Foundland ( only slightly altered from his own animagus form ) to front nowadays. Some days he can’t seem to manage it at all, a failure so strikingly different from the feeling of accomplishment when he had mastered the charm so young. He had expected the mixed breed he had grown so used to transfiguring into to blast from his wand so the purebred canine had felt like a slap in the face, especially since Sirius succeeded for the first time so soon after leaving home, but so much of himself was there, even if it hurt to admit it. Despite the popularity he held throughout his teen years and the confidence he displayed to anyone outside his closest circle, Sirius knew he was known to many as James Potter’s best friend. Man’s best friend- it was a title he oddly felt proud of, even if he would love to be seen more for his accomplishments than his dependency of his three best friends. For as cuddly and loving as Sirius is once he trusts you, he is also prone to lash out when threatened as well. Many have claimed his bark is worse than his bite and Sirius’s words can absolutely be cruel, but at the end of the day he will follow his instincts and attack if you threaten him or the people he loves.

What is your character’s biggest vice (bad habit or immoral craving)? Before things got where they are now, everyone had already begun to simply assume Sirius, the life of every party, would show up already with a buzz. Sometimes one of his friends will be laughing alongside him, matching glazed looks in their eyes; although as time passed the occurrences where Sirius was alone in his drunken state came more and more often. Orion had given him his first drink at fourteen as a reward for behaving through an important dinner and since then Sirius has held quite the taste for top shelf Scotches. He doesn’t often drink beer and he never drinks anything cheap, one of the few traits left over from a life he once lived.

Is your character an introvert or extrovert? How well do they handle social situations? Many tend to mistake introversion with shyness, and that is something Sirius has always been far from. He is one to thrive in a social setting, charming and witty, he has always held the ability to make others swoon in his presence. Sirius lights up a room simply by walking into it and the only downside is how hyper aware he is of the impact he has on those around him. At the end of the day however, he needs time to recharge. A night in with the Marauders will always hold priority over a boys night out at the club and large social settings get tiring after a few hours of making nice with people he can barely pretend to remember the names of. Being on all the time gets tiring, and at the end of the day like any introvert he needs time alone to reflect or more recently, wallow in self-pity.

What is your character’s diet like? What’s his or her favorite food? Food security has never been an issue in Sirius’s mind, even after leaving his childhood home, he never went hungry or even without a well balanced and well cooked meal. Now that he is no longer living under adult supervision however, home cooked meals have been replaced by a takeaway more nights than not, although certain meals have special meaning to him still. Chinese takeaway containers a reminder of the first few nights in his first apartment, or the roast he would eat every Christmas he had spent at Hogwarts his first few years in the castle.

How do you think your character’s psychological issues have manifested and changed your character up to this point?   Sirius’s first night at Hogwarts was confusing for him. These children were nothing like the dirty muggles from his bedtime stories, or the ignorant fools from the cautionary tales of his childhood. His mind was racing, trying to take in all this conflicting information while simultaneously seeking out ‘proper’ friends like he was told. It had been too much as he continued to wipe the sweat off his hands inside his pocket, breaths shallow as he tried to keep himself from being sick. He just wanted to sincerely have the courage he was pretending to possess and maybe he could calm down enough to figure out where to go from here. He was nothing more than some scared, pathetic little child who desperately needed to be brave enough to get through the day and put these puzzle pieces together. For a while having been sorted into Gryffindor was the worst thing that could ever happen to him. After his sorting he had immediately hidden under the covers of his bed, writing an apology letter to his parents. He completely blocked out his other roommates, was snippy and rude, even to the boy who had been so nice to him on the train, the one who would later become his brother in everything but blood. Everything Sirius had ever known was questioned when he was sorted into Gryffindor and while he had slowly been losing the affection of his family a bit more his entire life, truly separating himself like this was the scariest thing he had ever encountered. Something that kept him up at night for years was how terrified he was of losing the only family he ever knew. He needed to gain courage because of the house, he had never felt brave and had to work harder than anyone to fit in in the tower ‘where dwell the brave at heart’. He continued to try to blend in with the Blacks, even as he started growing his friendship with James, Remus, and Peter. He had been the heir to one of the oldest and most prominent families in Britain and no matter how much more appealing letting himself be a child with his friends seemed, he was not mature enough to know pulling away from his family’s teachings was an option. He had begun by toying with rebellion and facing the consequences whenever he had no choice but to come home, finding comfort and endearment in three boys he spent his free time attached to at the hip. Still, the transfer year after year from Gryffindor Tower to Grimmauld Place left Sirius uncertain, not only with the behaviors he was taught were proper, but over his family and their own individual morality when compared to how he was treated by others outside the elitist and abusive behaviors of the members of the Sacred 28. Walburga was unafraid of using an unforgivable on her eldest and indifference on his behalf eventually became determination to turn him into another clone of every Black before him. He had learned young the true meaning of the privileges of being born pure. It had never made them better than others, simply made it easier to get by doing whatever they wanted without facing the consequences those who didn’t have generations of connections would have to deal with. In turn that meant Sirius began to brush off his fears early, plaster a smile on his face and hope the people around him also cared little enough to pretend to believe it. The mischief maker never seen without a smile on his face doesn’t need the same resources as those openly weeping. Eventually Sirius learned to use that adreleline from causing caos to get him through the day to day. He became dependent on the pranks and adventures he had during his school days to keep his mind off of the realities of a family who hated him and whispers of a war where he knew he would end up fighting his own blood. After spending seven years as a close-knit gang of teenage boys, coming up with nicknames and wreaking havoc on Hogwarts’ ground and staff- Sirius had not been ready to give it up. The rush of the Marauders made him feel something for the first time and the Order seemed to be a bigger and better version of this, but this time with a purpose. Coming in Sirius got a kick out of the meetings, knowing how his mother would disapprove and putting his money where his mouth is to prove to every person who ever told him he would never be anything more than another privileged pureblood. When the realities of war started to hit it made Sirius wonder if he had ever truly been as progressive as he liked to think he was. He slowly began to realise the danger that the people he cares about are in, and just how wrong what is happening is and he’s starting to really fight for a cause rather than trying to cause as much trouble as he can while he’s young and alive. But it’s still all centered around himself and his own world. Sirius wants to fight for his friends’ safety. Get this war over with so he does not have to deal with any more loss. He cannot handle more loss, it would ruin him. Losing Regulus had pushed him over the edge in a way Sirius had refused to accept was a possibility when he signed on to join the Order. He knew he would be fighting the people he grew up alongside. Every duel he made sure to take in every feature he could piece behind the death eater masks, knowing if he had to come face to face with his brother he wouldn’t have the strength to follow through with it. But Reg dying so quickly, so young for a cause Sirius had warned him against so many times had destroyed him. The guilt eats him alive, if only he had sucked it up and stayed home. What if he hadn’t given him the choice and forced him to run away with him when Sirius escaped to the Potters. Things had started to become real, he would continue to lose the people he always thought as untouchable.

Give us a headcanon for your character. Anything is acceptable. Sirius hadn’t run off to the Potters on his own free will. Fights with his mother and father had only grown more intense that summer after a year of goofing around at school and thinking he could get away with behaving like a clown all year and not face the repercussions when he finally returned home. He had not been told the exacts words saying to leave 12 Grimmauld Place, but yelling he was no longer welcome in their family and the rush to blast Sirius’s name off the family tree had pretty heavily implied as such. James and his parents were the only people he ever told he was kicked out, that first night when he finally arrived on their front door. After that night it was only that he simply left home when anyone asked, even Remus and Peter while having more of the story than anyone else, do not have the entirety that Sirius explained that first night. The words run away didn’t leave his lips until after his graduation from Hogwarts when he needed to prove to the Order that his last name did not make him untrustworthy.

[smokeycemetery]

JA ONE XTC

JA • • •

KEVIN HELDMAN lives in New York. This is his first piece for "Rolling Stone." (ROLLING STONE,FEB 9,1995)

THE FIRST TIME I meet JA, he skates up to me wearing Rollerblades, his cap played backward, on a street corner in Manhattan at around midnight. He's white, 24 years old, with a short, muscular build and a blond crew cut. He has been writing graffiti off and on in New York for almost 10 years and is the founder of a loosely affiliated crew called XTC. His hands, arms, legs and scalp show a variety of scars from nightsticks, razor wire, fists and sharp, jagged things he has climbed up, on or over. He has been beaten by the police -- a "wood shampoo," he calls it -- has been shot at, has fallen off a highway sign into moving traffic, has run naked through train yards tagging, has been chased down highways by rival writers wielding golf clubs and has risked his life innumerable times writing graffiti -- bombing, getting up.

JA lives alone in a one-bedroom apartment. There's graffiti on a wall-length mirror, a weight bench, a Lava lamp to bug out on, cans of paint stacked in the corner, a large Metropolitan Transportation Authority (MTA) sticker on the side of the refrigerator. The buzzer to his apartment lists a false name; his phone number is unlisted to avoid law-enforcement representatives as well as conflicts with other writers. While JA and one of his writing partners, JD, and I are discussing their apprehension about this story, JD, offering up a maxim from the graffiti life, tells me matter-of-factly, "You wouldn't fuck us over, we know where you live."

At JA's apartment we look through photos. There are hundreds of pictures of writers inside out-of-service subway cars that they've just covered completely with their tags, pictures of writers wearing orange safety vests -- to impersonate transit workers -- and walking subway tracks, pictures of detectives and transit workers inspecting graffiti that JA and crew put up the previous night, pictures of stylized JA 'throw-ups' large, bubble-lettered logos written 15 feet up and 50 times across a highway retaining wall. Picture after picture of JA's on trains, JA's on trucks, on store gates, bridges, rooftops, billboards -- all labeled, claimed and recorded on film.

JA comes from a well-to-do family; his parents are divorced; his father holds a high-profile position in the entertainment industry. JA is aware that in some people's minds this last fact calls into question his street legitimacy, and he has put a great deal of effort into resisting the correlation between privileged and soft. He estimates he has been arrested 15 times for various crimes. He doesn't have a job, and it's unclear how he supports himself. Every time we've been together, he's been high or going to get high. Once he called me from Rikers Island prison, where he was serving a couple of months for disorderly conduct and a probation violation. He said some of the inmates saw him tagging in a notebook and asked him to do tattoos for them.

It sounds right. Wherever he is, JA dominates his surroundings. With his crew, he picks the spots to hit, the stores to rack from; he controls the mission. He gives directions in the car, plans the activities, sets the mood. And he takes everything a step further than the people he's with. He climbs higher, stays awake longer, sucks deepest on the blunt, writes the most graffiti. And though he's respected by other writers for testing the limits -- he has been described to me by other writers as a king and, by way of compliment, as "the sickest guy I ever met" -- that same recklessness sometimes alienates him from the majority who don't have such a huge appetite for chaos, adrenaline, self-destruction.

When I ask a city detective who specializes in combating graffiti if there are any particularly well-known writers, he immediately mentions JA and adds with a bit of pride in his voice, "We know each other." He calls JA the "biggest graffiti writer of all time" (though the detective would prefer that I didn't mention that, because it'll only encourage JA). "He's probably got the most throw-ups in the city, in the country, in the world," the detective says. "If the average big-time graffiti vandal has 10,000 tags, JA's got 100,000. He's probably done -- in New York City alone -- at least $5 million worth of damage."

AT ABOUT 3 A.M., JA AND TWO OTHER WRITERS go out to hit a billboard off the West Side Highway in Harlem. Tonight there are SET, a 21-year-old white writer from Queens, N.Y., and JD, a black Latino writer the same age, also from Queens. They load their backpacks with racked cans of Rustoleum, fat cap nozzles, heavy 2-foot industrial bolt cutters and surgical gloves. We pile into a car and start driving, Schooly D blasting on the radio. First a stop at a deli where JA and SET go in and steal beer. Then we drive around Harlem trying a number of different dope spots, keeping an eye out for "berries" -- police cars. JA tosses a finished 40-ounce out the window in a high arc, and it smashes on the street.

At different points, JA gets out of the car and casually walks the streets and into buildings, looking for dealers. A good part of the graffiti life involves walking anywhere in the city, at any time, and not being afraid -- or being afraid and doing it anyway.

We arrive at a spot where JA has tagged the dealer's name on a wall in his territory. The three writers buy a vial of crack and a vial of angel dust and combine them ("spacebase") in a hollowed-out Phillies blunt. JD tells me that "certain drugs will enhance your bombing," citing dust for courage and strength ("bionics"). They've also bombed on mescaline, Valium, marijuana, crack and malt liquor. SET tells a story of climbing highway poles with a spray can at 6 a.m., "all Xanaxed out."

While JD is preparing the blunt, JA walks across the street with a spray can and throws up all three of their tags in 4-foot-high bubbled, connected letters. In the corner, he writes my name.

We then drive to a waterfront area at the edge of the city -- a deserted site with warehouses, railroad tracks and patches of urban wilderness dotted with high-rise billboards. All three writers are now high, and we sit on a curb outside the car smoking cigarettes. From a distance we can see a group of men milling around a parked car near a loading dock that we have to pass. This provokes 30 minutes of obsessive speculation, a stoned stakeout with play by play:

"Dude, they're writers," says SET. "Let's go down and check them out," says JD. "Wait, let's see what they write," says JA. "Yo -- they're going into the trunk," says SET. "Cans, dude, they're going for their cans. Dude, they're writers. "There could be beef, possible beef," says JA. "Can we confirm cans, do we see cans?" SET wants to know. Yes, they do have cans," SET answers for himself. "There are cans. They are writers." It turns out that the men are thieves, part of a group robbing a nearby truck. In a few moments guards appear with flashlights and at least one drawn gun. The thieves scatter as guard dogs fan out around the area, barking crazily.

We wait this out a bit until JA announces, "It's on." Hood pulled up on his head, he leads us creeping through the woods (which for JA has become the cinematic jungles of Nam). It's stop and go, JA crawling on his stomach, unnecessarily close to one of the guards who's searching nearby. We pass through graffiti-covered tunnels (with the requisite cinematic drip drip), over crumbling stairs overgrown with weeds and brush, along dark, heavily littered trails used by crackheads.

We get near the billboard, and JA uses the bolt cutters to cut holes in two chain-link fences. We crawl through and walk along the railroad tracks until we get to the base of the sign. JA, with his backpack on, climbs about 40 feet on a thin piece of metal pipe attached to the main pillar. JD, after a few failed attempts, follows with the bolt cutters shoved down his pants and passes them to JA. Hanging in midair, his legs wrapped around a small piece of ladder, JA cuts the padlock and opens up the hatch to the catwalk. He then lowers his arm to JD, who is wrapped around the pole just below him, struggling. "J, give me your hand, "I'll pull you up," JA tells him. JD hesitates. He is reluctant to let go and continues treadmilling on the pole, trying to make it up. JD, give me your hand." JD doesn't want to refuse, but he's uncomfortable entrusting his life to JA. He won't let go of the pole. JA says it again, firmly, calmly, utterly confident: "J give me your hand." JD's arm reaches up, and JA pulls JD up onto the catwalk. Next, SET, the frailest of the three, follows unsteadily. They've called down and offered to put up his tag, but he insists on going up. "Dude, fuck that, I'm down," he says. I look away while he makes his way up, sure that he's going to fall (he almost does twice). The three have developed a set pattern for dividing the labor when they're "blowing up," one writer outlining, another working behind him, filling in. For 40 minutes I watch them working furiously, throwing shadows as they cover ads for Parliament and Amtrak with large multicolored throw-ups SET and JD bickering about space, JA scolding them, tossing down empty cans.

They risk their lives again climbing down. Parts of their faces are covered in paint, and their eyes beam as all three stare at the billboard, asking, "Isn't it beautiful?' And there is something intoxicating about seeing such an inaccessible, clean object gotten to and made gaudy. We get in the car and drive the West Side Highway northbound and then southbound so they can critique their work. "Damn, I should've used the white," JD says.

The next day both billboards are newly re-covered, all the graffiti gone. JA tells me the three went back earlier to get pictures and made small talk with the workers who were cleaning it off.

GRAFFITI HAS BEEN THROUGH A NUMBER OF incarnations since it surfaced in New York in the early 70s with a Greek teen-ager named Taki 183. It developed from the straightforward writing of a name to highly stylized, seemingly illegible tags (a kind of penmanship slang) to wild-style throw-ups and elaborate (master) "pieces" and character art. There has been racist graffiti political writing, drug advertising, gang graffiti. There is an art-graf scene from which Keith Haring, Jean-Michel Basquiac, LEE, Futura 2000, Lady Pink and others emerged; aerosol advertising; techno graffiti written into computer programs; anti-billboard graffiti; stickers; and stencil writing. There are art students doing street work in San Francisco ("nonpermissional public art"); mural work in underground tunnels in New York; gallery shows from Colorado to New Jersey; all-day Graffiti-a-Thons; and there are graffiti artists lecturing art classes at universities. Graffiti has become part of urban culture, hip-hop culture and commercial culture, has spread to the suburbs and can be found in the backwoods of California's national forests. There are graffiti magazines, graffiti stores, commissioned walls, walls of fame and a video series available (Out to bomb) documenting writers going out on graffiti missions, complete with soundtrack. Graffiti was celebrated as a metaphor in the 70s (Norman Mailer's "The Faith of Graffiti"); it went Hollywood in the '80s (Beat Street, Turk 182!, Wild Style); and in the '90s it has been increasingly used to memorialize the inner-city dead.

But as much as graffiti has found acceptance, it has been vilified a hundred times more. Writers are now being charged with felonies and given lengthy jail terms -- a 15-year-old in California was recently sentenced to eight years in a juvenile detention center. Writers have been given up to 1000 hours of community service and forced to undergo years of psychological counseling; their parents have been hit with civil suits. In California a graffiti writer's driver's license can be revoked for a year; high-school diplomas and transcripts can also be withheld until parents make restitution. In some cities property owners who fail to remove graffiti from their property are subject to fines and possible jail time. Last spring in St. Louis, Cincinnati, San Antonio and Sacramento, Calif., politicians proposed legislation to cane graffiti writers (four to 10 hits with a wooden paddle, administered by parents or by a bailiff in a public courtroom). Across the nation, legislation has been passed making it illegal to sell spray paint and wide-tipped markers to anyone under 18, and often the materials must be kept locked up in the stores. Several cities have tried to ban the sales altogether, license sellers of spray paint and require customers to give their name and address when purchasing paint. In New York some hardware-store owners will give a surveillance photo of anyone buying a large quantity of spray cans to the police. In Chicago people have been charged with possession of paint. In San Jose, Calif., undercover police officers ran a sting operation -- posing as filmmakers working on a graffiti documentary -- and arrested 31 writers.

Hidden cameras, motion detectors, laser removal, specially developed chemical coatings, night goggles, razor wire, guard dogs, a National Graffiti Information Network, graffiti hot lines, bounties paid to informers -- one estimate is that it costs $4 billion a year nationally to clean graffiti -- all in an effort to stop those who "visually laugh in the face of communities," as a Wall Street Journal editorial raged.

The popular perception is that since the late 1980s when New York's Metropolitan Transit Authority adopted a zero tolerance toward subway graffiti (the MTA either cleaned or destroyed more than 6,000 graffiti-covered subway cars, immediately pulling a train out of service if any graffiti appeared on it), graffiti culture had died in the place of its birth. According to many graffiti writers, however, the MTA, in its attempt to kill graffiti, only succeeded in bringing it out of the tunnels and train yards and making it angry. Or as Jeff Ferrell, a criminologist who has chronicled the Denver graffiti scene, theorizes, the authorities' crackdown moved graffiti writing from subculture to counterculture. The work on the trains no longer ran, so writers started hitting the streets. Out in the open they had to work faster and more often. The artistry started to matter less and less. Throw-ups, small cryptic tags done in marker and even the straightforward writing of a name became the dominant imagery. What mattered was quantity ("making noise"), whether the writer had heart, was true to the game, was "real." And the graffiti world started to attract more and more people who weren't looking for an alternative art canvas but simply wanted to be connected to an outlaw community, to a venerable street tradition that allowed the opportunity to advertise their defiance. "It's that I'm doing it that I get my rush, not by everyone seeing it," says JA. "Yeah, that's nice, but if that's all that's gonna motivate you to do it, you're gonna stop writing. That's what happened to a lot of writers." JD tells me: "We're just putting it in their faces; it's like 'Yo, you gotta put up with it.'"

Newspapers have now settled on the term "graffiti vandal" rather than "artist" or "writer." Graffiti writers casually refer to their work as doing destruction." In recent years graffiti has become more and more about beefs and wars, about "fucking up the MTA," "fucking up the city."

Writers started taking a jock attitude toward getting up frequently and tagging in hard-to-reach places, adopting a machismo toward going over other writers' work and defending their own ("If you can write, you can fight"). Whereas graffiti writing was once considered an alternative to the street, now it imports drugs, violence, weapons and theft from that world -- the romance of the criminal deviant rather than the artistic deviant. In New York today, one police source estimates there are approximately 100,000 people involved in a variety of types of graffiti writing. The police have caught writers as young as 8 and as old as 42. And there's a small group of hard-core writers who are getting older who either wrote when graffiti was in its prime or long for the days when it was, those who write out of compulsion, for each other and for the authorities who try to combat graffiti, writers who haven't found anything in their lives substantial or hype enough to replace graffiti writing.

The writers in their 20s come mostly from working-class families and have limited prospects and ambitions for the future. SET works in a drugstore and has taken lithium and Prozac for occasional depression; JD dropped out of high school and is unemployed, last working as a messenger, where he met JA. They spend their nights driving 80 miles an hour down city highways, balancing 40-ounce bottles of Old English 800 between their legs, smoking blunts and crack-laced cigarettes called coolies, always playing with the radio. They reminisce endlessly about the past, when graf was real, when graf ran on the trains, and they swap stories about who's doing what on the scene. The talk is a combo platter of Spicoli, homeboy, New Age jock and eighth grade: The dude is a fuckin' total turd. . . . I definitely would've gotten waxed. . . . It's like some bogus job. . . . I'm amped, I'm Audi, you buggin . . . You gotta be there fully, go all out, focus. . . . Dudes have bitten off SET, he's got toys jockin' him. . . .

They carry beepers, sometimes guns, go upstate or to Long Island to "prey on the hicks" and to rack cans of spray paint. They talk about upcoming court cases and probation, about quitting, getting their lives together, even as they plan new spots to hit, practice their style by writing on the walls of their apartments, on boxes of food, on any stray piece of paper (younger writers practice on school notebooks that teachers have been known to confiscate and turn over to the police). They call graffiti a "social tool" and "some kind of ill form of communication," refer to every writer no matter his age as "kid." Talk in the graffiti life vacillates between banality and mythology, much like the activity itself: hours of drudgery, hanging out, waiting, interrupted by brief episodes of exhilaration. JD, echoing a common refrain, says, "Graffiti writers are like bitches: a lot of lying, a lot of talking, a lot of gossip." They don't like tagging with girls ("cuties," or if they use drugs, "zooties") around because all they say is (in a whiny voice), You're crazy. . . . Write my name."

WHEN JA TALKS ABOUT GRAFFITI, HE'S reluctant to offer up any of the media-ready cliches about the culture (and he knows most of them). He's more inclined to say, "Fuck the graffiti world," and scoff at graf shops, videos, conventions and 'zines. But he can be sentimental about how he began -- riding the No. 1, 2 and 3 trains when he was young, bugging out on the graffiti-covered cars, asking himself, "How did they do that? Who are they?" And he'll respectfully invoke the names of long-gone writers he admired when he was just starting out: SKEME, ZEPHYR, REVOLT, MIN.

JA, typical of the new school, primarily bombs, covering wide areas with throw-ups. He treats graffiti less as an art form than as an athletic competition, concentrating on getting his tag in difficult-to-reach places, focusing on quantity and working in defiance of an aesthetic that demands that public property be kept clean. (Writers almost exclusively hit public or commercial property.)

And when JA is not being cynical, he can talk for hours about the technique, the plotting, the logistics of the game like "motion bombing" by clockwork a carefully scoped subway train that he knows has to stop for a set time, at a set place, when it gets a certain signal in the tunnels. He says, "To me, the challenge that graffiti poses, there's something very invigorating and freeing about it, something almost spiritual. There's a kind of euphoria, more than any kind of drug or sex can give you, give me . . . for real."

JA says he wants to quit, and he talks about doing it as if he were in a 12-step program. "How a person in recovery takes it one day a time, that's how I gotta take it," he says. You get burnt out. There's pretty much nothing more the city can throw at me; it's all been done." But then he'll hear about a yard full of clean sanitation trucks, the upcoming Puerto Rican Day Parade (a reason to bomb Fifth Avenue) or a billboard in an isolated area; or it'll be 3 a.m., he'll be stoned, driving around or sitting in the living room, playing NBA Jam, and someone will say it: "Yo, I got a couple of cans in the trunk. . . ." REAS, an old-school writer of 12 years who, after a struggle and a number of relapses, eventually quit the life, says, "Graffiti can become like a hole you're stuck in; it can just keep on going and going, there's always another spot to write on."

SAST is in his late 20s and calls himself semiretired after 13 years in the graf scene. He still carries around a marker with him wherever he goes and cops little STONE tags (when he's high, he writes, STONED). He's driving JA and me around the city one night, showing me different objects they've tagged, returning again and again to drug spots to buy dust and crack, smoking, with the radio blasting; he's telling war stories about JA jumping onto moving trains, JA hanging off the outside of a speeding four-wheel drive. SAST is driving at top speed, cutting in between cars, tailgating, swerving. A number of times as we're racing down the highway, I ask him if he could slow down. He smiles, asks if I'm scared, tells me not to worry, that he's a more cautious driver when he's dusted. At one point on the FDR, a car cuts in front of us. JA decides to have some fun.

"Yo, he burnt you, SAST," JA says. We start to pick up speed. Yo, SAST, he dissed you, he cold dissed you, SAST." SAST is buying it, the look on his face becoming more determined as we go 70, 80, 90 miles an hour, hugging the divider, flying between cars. I turn to JA, who's in the back seat, and I try to get him to stop. JA ignores me, sitting back perfectly relaxed, smiling, urging SAST to go faster and faster, getting off, my fear adding to his rush.

At around 4 a.m., SAST drops us off on the middle of the Manhattan Bridge and leaves. JA wants to show me a throw-up he did the week before. We climb over the divider from the roadway to the subway tracks. JA explains that we have to cross the north and the southbound tracks to get to the outer part of the bridge. In between there are a number of large gaps and two electrified third rails, and we're 135 feet above the East River. As we're standing on the tracks, we hear the sound of an oncoming train. JA tells me to hide, to crouch down in the V where two diagonal braces meet just beside the tracks.

I climb into position, holding on to the metal beams, head down, looking at the water as the train slams by the side of my body. This happens twice more. Eventually, I cross over to the outer edge of the bridge, which is under construction, and JA points out his tag about 40 feet above on what looks like a crow's-nest on a support pillar. After a few moments of admiring the view, stepping carefully around the many opportunities to fall, JA hands me his cigarettes and keys. He starts crawling up one of the braces on the side of the bridge, disappears within the structure for a moment, emerges and makes his way to an electrical box on a pillar. Then he snakes his way up the piping and grabs on to a curved support. Using only his hands he starts to shimmy up; at one point he's hanging almost completely upside down. If he falls now, he'll land backward onto one of the tiers and drop into the river below. He continues to pull himself up, the old paint breaking off in his hands, and finally he flips his body over a railing to get to the spot where he tagged. He doesn't have a can or a marker with him, and at this point graffiti seems incidental. He comes down and tells me that when he did the original tag he was with two writers; one he half carried up, the other stopped at a certain point and later told JA that watching him do that tag made him appreciate life, being alive.

We walk for 10 minutes along a narrow, grooved catwalk on the side of the tracks; a thin wire cable prevents a fall into the river. A few times, looking down through the grooves, I have to stop, force myself to take the next step straight ahead, shake off the vertigo. JA is practically jogging ahead of me. We exit the bridge into Chinatown as the sun comes up and go to eat breakfast. JA tells me he's a vegetarian.

IF YOU TALK TO SERIOUS GRAFFITI writers, most of them will echo the same themes; they decry the commercialization of graf, condemn the toys and poseurs and alternately hate and feel attached to the authorities who try to stop them. They say with equal parts bravado and self-deprecation that a graffiti writer is a bum, a criminal, a vandal, slick, sick, obsessed, sneaky, street-smart, living on edges figurative and literal. They show and catalog cuts and scars on their bodies from razor wire, pieces of metal, knives, box cutters. I once casually asked a writer named GHOST if he knew another writer whose work I had seen in a graf'zine. "Yeah, I know him, he stabbed me," GHOST replies matter-of-factly. "We've still got beef." SET tells me he was caught by two DTs (detectives) who assaulted him, took his cans of paint and sprayed his body and face. JA tells similar stories of police beatings for his making officers run after him, of cops making him empty his spray cans on his sneakers or on the back of a fellow writer's jacket. JD has had 48 stitches in his back and 18 in his head over "graffiti-related beef." JA's best friend and writing partner, SANE SMITH, a legendary all-city writer who was sued by the city and the MTA for graffiti, was found dead, floating in Jamaica Bay. There's endless speculation in the grafworld as to whether he was pushed, fell or jumped off a bridge. SANE is so respected, there are some writers today who spend time in public libraries reading and rereading the newspaper microfilm about his death, his arrests, his career. According to JA, after SANE's death, his brother, SMiTH, also a respected graffiti artist, found a piece of paper on which SANE had written his and JA's tag and off to the side, FLYING HIGH THE XTC WAY. It now hangs on JA's apartment wall.

One morning, JA and I jump off the end of a subway platform and head into the tunnels. He shows me hidden rooms, emergency hatches that open to the sidewalk, where to stand when the trains come by. He tells me about the time SANE lay face down in a shallow drainage ditch on the tracks as an express train ran inches above him. JA says anytime he was being chased by the police he would run into a nearby subway station, jump off the platform and run into the tunnels. The police would never follow. KET, a veteran graffiti writer, tells me how in the tunnels he would accidentally step on homeless people sleeping. They'd see him tagging and would occasionally ask that he "throw them up," write their names on the wall. He usually would. Walking in the darkness between the electrified rails as trains race by, JA tells me the story of two writers he had beef with who came into the tunnels to cross out his tags. Where the cross-outs stop is where they were killed by an approaching train.

The last time I go out with JA, SET and JD, they pick me up at around 2 am. We drive down to the Lower East Side to hit a yard where about 60 trucks and vans are parked next to one another. Every vehicle is already covered with throw-ups and tags, but the three start to write anyway, JA in a near frenzy. They're running in between the rows, crawling under trucks, jumping from roof to roof, wedged down in between the trailers, engulfed in nauseating clouds of paint fumes (the writers sometimes blow multicolored mucous out of their noses), going over some writers' tags, respecting others, JA throwing up SANE's name, searching for any little piece of clean space to write on. JA, who had once again been talking about retirement, is now hungry to write and wants to hit another spot. But JD doesn't have any paint, SET needs gas money for his car, and they have to drive upstate the next morning to appear in court for a paint-theft charge.

During the ride back uptown the car is mostly quiet, the mood depressed. And even when the three were in the truck yard, even when JA was at his most intense, it seemed closer to work, routine, habit. There are moments like this when they seem genuinely worn out by the constant stress, the danger, the legal problems, the drugging, the fighting, the obligation to always hit another spot. And it's usually when the day is starting.

About a week later I get a call from another writer whom JA had told I was writing an article on graffiti. He tells me he has never been king, never gone all city, but now he is making a comeback, coming out of retirement with a new tag. He says he could do it easily today because there is no real competition. He says he was thinking about trying to make some money off of graffiti -- galleries. canvases, whatever . . . to get paid.

"I gotta do something," the writer says. "I can't rap, I can't dance, I got this silly little job." We talk more, and he tells me he appreciates that I'm writing about writers, trying to get inside the head of a vandal, telling the real deal. He also tells me that graffiti is dying, that the city is buffing it, that new writers are all toys and are letting it die, but it's still worth it to write.

I ask why, and then comes the inevitable justification that every writer has to believe and take pleasure in, the idea that order will always have to play catch-up with them. "It takes me seconds to do a quick throw-up; it takes them like 10 minutes to clean it," he says. "Who's coming out on top?"