bsd fic authors i understand yalls pain SO well right now why is it so fucking HARD to write dazai. like i have a whole fucking spreadsheet dedicated to tireless analysis i have done on my part so i can accurately characterize him but he is such an unpredictable and morally gray character that it's hard knowing his limits and boundaries and where he draws the line for himself.

DANNY AND DAMON 👁️ (sorry i just love me the protective dad)

(affectionately calling this one Protective Detail)

part 1 ~ part 2 ~ part 3

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Of all things Damon Gray wasn't expecting on the night of the biggest snowstorm in a decade, a snow-covered Danny Fenton in his t-shirt and jeans standing outside his apartment door certainly had to be at the top of the list.

"Hi Mr. Gray!" Danny said brightly. "Mind if I come in?"

Damon gawked at the boy for a moment longer before seeming to come around. "Ah... yes, yes! Come on in! I can... grab a towel for you to dry off..."

Danny blinked before looking down at himself. "Oh!" Before Damon could say anything else, Danny's body flickered into a hazy mist, and the snow fell harmlessly through him and onto the floor. "Sorry about that," he said with a sheepish green as he flickered back into a solid form.

Damon couldn't help but gawk again. Sure, he'd known of Danny's status for years now (supposedly, Valerie had made Danny tell him after they'd graduated), but it wasn't often that he witnessed the boy he'd known as having the worst phobia of ghosts in Amity Park use such ghostly powers so easily. To witness him doing so now, after appearing on his doorstep in such a strange state, unannounced, was odd to say the least.

It wasn't until he realized that Danny was still watching him expectantly and he himself was still blocking the doorway that he noticed the silence stretching into discomfort. Muttering an apology, he stepped aside and ushered Danny in.

The door closed behind them with a heavy click. Now inside, Danny seemed to lose some of his bright demeanor as he shuffled on the entryway rug.

"Valerie's still at work," Damon said as he walked past Danny and into the kitchen area. "I'm hoping she gets off soon. I'm not sure I want her trying to get home in this storm. Can I get you anything to drink?"

"Huh? Oh, uh, no, that's alright, thanks!" Danny edged closer to the window in the living area. Outside, snow fell wildly, blowing in all sorts of directions, blocking any view there might have been. Really, he'd seen worse snowstorms in the Far Frozen, but the human world wasn't quite as adapted to it as the yetis were. Weather like this could spell serious trouble for humans.

Damon reemerged from the kitchen with a mug of something steaming. He stood next to Danny, and the two of them watched out the window. For a long, quiet moment, they simply stood, Danny with his arms wrapped around himself and Damon sipping quietly at his drink.

It was Danny who broke the silence first. "I still feel bad she has to come all the way from here in Elmerton to work in Amity Park," he said quietly.

"She does it to herself," Damon replied with an air of humor. "I keep telling her to just find a place there in town. That's where everything important is, that's where she should be."

"Not you." Danny barely realized the response had popped out on its own. "She's still really worried about you. I mean, I know things are better than they were, of course, but... y'know..."

"What, with this thing?" Damon raised his left arm with a tiny whirr, and Danny couldn't help but stare at the metal hand that waved back at him. "It's been working like a dream. I was just telling her the other day that sometimes, it feels like it works better than the one I lost!" Damon laughed quietly to himself.

Danny joined in, but it was half-hearted. Memories flashed through his mind - a brutal fight at Axion, a toppling metal supply closet, lights and sirens and frantic screams - and he physically winced. That accident had been nearly two years ago, but the memories lived fresh in his head, just like the memories of his own accident from almost a decade ago.

"I... I think she still blames herself sometimes," he said quietly. "For letting Spectra distract her. I keep trying to tell her it wasn't her fault; I was closer, I - I should've been fast enough to get to you, but..."

Damon nodded soberly. "She's a stubborn one. Gets it from her mother. Once she gets something in her head, she just doesn't let it go."

"Yeah."

The two fell back into an uneasy silence. Snow howled away outside, and a gust of wind blew a wall of flakes toward the window, nearly making Danny jump.

"She wants to live there," Damon finally said. "In Amity Park."

Danny almost gave himself whiplash turning to look at Damon. "She does?"

"Mhmm. Not that she'll ever admit it to me out loud -" - again, Damon laughed quietly to himself - "- but she's always talking about wanting to be closer to the FentonWorks. That way she can be closer to work and closer to the portal. Heaven knows how many times she's left to go fight a ghost only to come storming back in ten minutes later because you've already been able to handle it."

Danny couldn't help the smile that crossed his face. "Yeah, she's definitely given me an earful about that before."

"I'm sure she has! But you know, Danny, the thing she really talks about being closer to is you."

Danny's heart pounded in his chest. "Really?"

Damon glanced at him, something Danny couldn't decipher twinkling in his dark eyes. "Is it really that surprising?" he teased.

"Yeah? I mean, no! No! Er, maybe? Ish?"

Damon's laugh was much heartier this time. "Well, if it is a surprise to you, then she's doing a good job of hiding it from you. I can see it in her face when she talks about you. Just the way she lights up and starts talking faster and faster, like she just can't seem to contain whatever she's feeling. Even when she's mad at you, you can still tell she thinks the world of you."

He paused to sniff and wipe at his nose. "She's always worrying that she's not doing enough for me, especially since I lost my arm. I keep trying to tell her she's doing more than enough. Just seeing my baby girl so happy... that's all I need." He turned to look at Danny head on. "And I have you to thank for that."

Danny's heart swelled. The love was too overwhelming. It shouldn't have felt like such a surprise to hear Damon's praises, but just hearing the words come from his mouth...

Without thinking, he took a deep breath, and, in one rush of words, said, "I want to ask Valerie to marry me!"

Damon, who had taken a sip of his drink, proceeded to spit all over the window.

Danny winced. "I - I mean, only if that's okay with you, of course! I'm not... I would never just go behind your back or anything, no, but you know, it's just something I've been thinking about for a long time now and - and I mean it just feels like the right time, although maybe it's not, but I just... I love her so much, and I want to spend the rest of my life with her, if - if that's okay?"

Damon blinked once, then twice in an attempt to process Danny's frantic speech. "You... want to marry Valerie?"

"I - uh..." If Danny's face had still been covered in snow, the heat coming from his cheeks would have melted it instantly. "I - yeah. I mean yes. Yes, I do. If... you'll let me."

For a long while, the two stared at each other. The longer the silence stretched on, the more Danny shrunk back into himself. This was such a bad idea, bad idea...

"Wait right there," Damon said before setting down his mug and jogging into the back hallway.

Danny could only watch him disappear, dumbfounded. The urge to just transform on the spot and high-tail it out of there grew stronger and stronger by the second. Such a bad idea.

His and Damon's relationship had started on rockier terms, sure, but it was only because he had been worried her hanging around Danny would end up with her swept into his parents' shenanigans, especially because he still hadn't been a big fan of her side job hunting ghosts back then. And okay, maybe there had been some hiccups back when Valerie had forced - er, persuaded him to tell the truth to her dad, but those had all been smoothed over by now, he'd thought.

Right?

When Damon returned, he held a tiny box in his hands and tears in his eyes. "Come here," he said, sitting down on the couch. Danny obeyed.

"I was a little younger than you and Valerie when I first met my Sherrie." Damon ran an absent thumb over the tiny box. "She was the TA for my stats class my junior year of college. I'm telling you, I walked into class on that first day and got the rug pulled straight out from under me the moment I saw her. The most beautiful woman I'd ever laid eyes on..."

Danny's leg bounced anxiously, but he stayed quiet. Valerie had mentioned her mother a few times, but she'd died before Valerie could really remember. Hearing Damon talk about her now was unexpected, but he got the distinct feeling this story was important.

"I sat right next to her. Introduced myself, tried to act all suave and smooth by asking her out, then got my butt handed right back to me when the professor introduced her as the TA. Still didn't stop me from asking her out again, as soon as the class ended. And again, and again, and again. I just knew it was meant to be with her. The day she finally said yes, I felt like I was truly living again." The smile on Damon's face carried the wistfulness and nostalgia of years long past, and Danny couldn't help but smile himself.

Damon looked at Danny again. "What you and Valerie have... it reminds me of what me and Sherrie had. I see so much of her in Valerie. She's got the same spark, the same stubbornness in her blood. Both of them just have this drive and intensity, and it's one of the things I admire most in them."

"I love that about her," Danny said instinctively. His voice had taken on its own dreamy quality as memories of Valerie's tenacity flashed across his mind.

"And that's part of the reason I see so much of myself in you."

Danny nearly fell off of the couch as Damon's words struck him. "Wait, what?"

Damon laughed. "You're a bright young man, Danny. You take a lot of pride in what you do, and you always look out for the people you care about. Even that right there tells me you and I are a lot alike.

"Not to mention that for as much as I see how Valerie looks when she talks about you, I also see how you look when you talk about her. I see the same joy and wonder in you that Sherrie brought out in me. I don't need to ask to know you'd go to the end of the world and back for my baby girl. You'd do anything to keep her safe."

"I would," Danny agreed earnestly. "She's my whole world, Mr. Gray. I-I know it sounds really cheesy but... I need her. I don't know what I'd do without her in my life."

"I know," Damon said, offering a warm smile. "Which is why I'd like to give you this."

He offered Danny the tiny box. Danny took it gingerly, cradling it in his palm. "What is it?"

Tears pooled in the corner's of Damon's eyes again. "The ring I gave Sherrie when I proposed to her. When she got sick and... and we got the prognosis," he said, his voice becoming thicker as he spoke, "one of the things she made sure she made clear before she... passed on was that I could do whatever I wanted with it, but she wanted her wedding ring to go to Valerie."

The box suddenly felt much heavier in Danny's hand. "I thought you said this was the engagement ring?"

"It is. I couldn't help myself. I was selfish." Damon reached up to his neck and, from under his sweater, pulled out a chain. Hanging from it was a simple silver band, studded with tiny little diamonds and twinkling like a star. "I've worn this every day since she passed. I couldn't let her go. Valerie was too young to understand. I swore to myself that when she got old enough, I'd give this to her, but... I'm a weak man." He sniffled again and wiped a tear off of his cheek. "I love my Sherrie so much. I'll never let her go. Not even death can keep me from her."

Danny wiped a tear from his own eye. "I've come face to face with death. It was... the worst thing I've ever had to go through," he said in a near whisper. "For Valerie, I'd face it down a hundred times over."

"And that's exactly why I know I can trust you with that ring." Damon took his prosthetic arm and gently closed Danny's fingers over the box. "It's not the wedding ring Sherrie wanted to give her... but hopefully it's the next best thing."

"She'll love it."

Damon cracked a smile. "And just how do you know that? You haven't even seen it."

"I don't have to. I know for a fact this will mean more to her than any ring I could buy."

Tears falling from both of their faces, the two men leaned forward and wrapped their arms around each other's shoulders. Damon squeezed Danny tighter and tighter to him. "Take care of her for me," he whispered into his ear.

Danny shut his eyes tight and hugged Damon even tighter. "I promise."

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part 3 here

neverflownwithme asked: “Princes bleed just like other men.”

past transmissions || { always accepting }

{ Part 1 } & { Part 2 } & { Part 3 } & { Part 4 } & { Part 5 }

{ Part 6 } & { Part 7 } & { Part 8 } & { Part 9 } & { Part 10 }

{ @neverflownwithme }

Though the room about them is small in size, it is packed to near bursting with all manner of items. Leather bound tomes are piled upon shelves, scrolls arranged atop desks, and trunks stacked along the stone walls. For then, such items pale in comparison to the painting that had drawn her eye when the room had been flooded with light.

Eyes drift over the portrait, gaze flickering across the seven figures painted upon the canvas. She knows them all save for one. The youngest of the seven is little more than an infant with her dark mahogany curls and shining amethyst eyes. She is swaddled in deep grey and white silks and cradled in the crook of her mother’s arm.

Saera.

Laira recalls the name as if it is an extension of herself... as if it is a part of her. As she ponders the state of her dreams of late --looks upon the physical manifestation of them-- she cannot help but think such a thing might be true. Her visions have been too detailed --have felt far too real-- for there to be another explanation.

And, now, there is all of this.

“There has never been a recorded recount of the Targaryens and the Starks marrying,” Hal says, eyes still trained on the painting.

His voice surprises Laira, has her own gaze turning to look at him. He has been quiet since their discovery, focus devoted to the portrait before them. Still, there is no disbelief or confusion in his voice. As Laira looks to him, he seems almost relieved by what they have stumbled across hidden within the walls of her solar.

“None before the two of us,” Laira offers, pausing as she considers her next question. She is hesitant to voice it aloud.

‘Ask him if he knows,’ something whispers to her. ‘Tell him what you have seen while you have slumbered.’

It is not the taunting voice from King’s Landing that speaks to her. Instead, it is the comforting one that had soothed her when she had first woken upon Dragonstone. Again, fear seems to slither its way down the column of her spine. Is she losing herself to grief and anger once again?

Has the damage already been done?

Is she going mad?

Has she already slipped into the abyss?

“It is Visenya Targaryen,” Laira begins, her voice hesitant, “and Tor...”

“I know,” he interrupts, eyes still trained upon the portrait. “I know who they are.”

His words shock her, make her body go rigid as she reaches for him. Her hand sets itself upon his arm, fingers practically trembling as she holds on to him. “How?” Laira asks, fearing what he may say to her. Has she told him of her dreams in some past conversation? Has she confided in him and forgotten it?

When he reaches and sets his hand over the top of her own, thumb ghosting across the bumps of her knuckles, some of her fears abandon her. She feels as though his coming answer is not so dire... that, perhaps, her fears are unwarranted. All the same, he seems hesitant himself to speak after her inquiry… if only for a moment.

“I’ve had dreams about them,” Hal finally admits, the words low. His brow has pinched together in thought again, a look of practical relief fluttering across his face the longer he gazes upon the portrait before them. “All of them,” he goes on, giving a nod towards the portrait.

Laira cannot keep herself from clinging to him all the tighter, relief bleeding through the press of her fingers and the gaze that she casts across to him. “I have seen them as well,” she admits aloud. There is something freeing about the admission, something that lifts the weight that has been settled over her shoulders since she had awakened screaming not so long ago. “I have been dreaming of them since arriving here.”

“So have I,” Hal returns. He lets his gaze linger a moment or two longer on the portrait before he turns to look at her. “I thought, perhaps, all the trials and the losses we have faced might have been to blame for it. Some sort of wishful thinking on my part.”

He pauses in his explanation once more, a sigh working its way from him. When he does, Laira speaks before he can continue on. “I do not believe that our dreams are so simple in their origins,” she admits. Not now. Not after the bloodstained stones within her solar. Not after the portrait that seems more mirror than painting to her. “Do you?” she asks him.

“No more than you do.”

They keep their positions just on the outskirts of the room, neither wishing to breach the threshold and pass through the open doorway before them. Too much uncertainty lingers ahead of them. Far too many questions are brewing. Though Laira wishes to find some sort of answer to all that has been occurring in the capital and there among Dragonstone’s ancient walls, there is also a part of her that worries what she may discover.

“It’s late,” Hal murmurs over to her, arm moving so that he can set it across the plain of her back. His hand finds a home at her waist, fingers dipping into the fabric of her robe. “We can investigate matters further when morning comes. You need to rest,” he reminds. His statement is punctuated by a brief kiss to her temple and the press of his cheek to the crown of her head. “We will find the answers to our questions.”

She cannot deny his observation, does not even think to try. Her body is sore in all the ways that she anticipated it would be from their lovemaking mere hours before. And, though her nightmare has faded away to nothing more than a passing discomfort, her head now aches and throbs because of it. Rest would be wonderful, yet Laira is uncertain how much she will be granted now.

The Queen allows her husband to draw her away from the room and back towards the main living area of their apartments. She allows her magic to slip, watching over the line of her own shoulder as the sconces upon the walls flicker before extinguishing all together. 

Returned to their bed, there is little rest to be found despite the exhaustion that clings just at the back of her mind. Buried beneath the sheets and the heavy duvet atop their bed, back pressed to Hal’s chest, Laira attempts to let the calming hammer of her husband’s heartbeat and the grumbling roar of thunder sooth her back to slumber. Disquiet awaits her each time her eyes slipped closed. She sees the portrait in the back of the hidden room within her solar at times. But, mostly, she sees Shiera Seastar, gasping and dying among a pool of blood in ruined silver and pearl silks.

If Hal sleeps, she cannot be certain. Too many times she feels his breathing change, feels his muscles bunch as if in anticipation of some sort of strike. He keeps still despite all of that, holding her to him as they both attempt to rest. It is a hopeless attempt, in the end; however, Laira welcomes the comfort he gives to her all the same.

When dawn begins to break, casting a hazy gray light through the windows of their apartments, Laira slips out of Hal’s hold to go in search of clothing to change into. She has fresh dresses and gowns available to her, all of them hanging pristinely within her armoire. She sees very little use in donning them, though. With all that she is planning to do that day, it seems senseless to ruin a dress or a gown among the dust of the hidden room. She pulls out a pair of soft riding leathers and one of Hal’s worn tunics, slipping on both in relative quiet. Taking up her abandoned pair of silvered hair pins, she sweeps her hair up into a tangled nest of curls atop her head before securing the hair in place.

Feet bare, but dressed otherwise, she steps back into her solar. The doors are left ajar as she enters, the sconces upon the wall bursting to life with flame. Those within the hidden room do the same, yellow light reflecting off the dark stone within it and casting dancing shadows across the space.

Everything is as it was those few short hours before. Leathered journals, tomes, and heavy trunks are stacked in every available space. There is another Myrish carpet set along the floor, one that stretches from wall to wall in all directions.

Pausing for only a moment at the threshold Laira steps into the small room, breath momentarily hitching in her chest. She anticipates something. What, she cannot say. A vision, perhaps. Or some other oddity. When none manifest, her breath leaves her in a relieved sounding sigh.

Stale air still lingers in the space, clinging to the walls and carpet beneath her feet. Everything seems to loom about her as she stands just inside the doorway. It’s near overwhelming, the stacks of tomes, scrolls, and sealed trunks. The portrait at the end of the space, lit by the dim rays of dawn breaking through the windows of her solar, is all the more striking.

Turning, she reaches and begins sorting through the stacks of leather bound journals and scrolls that are piled upon a desk near the doorway. She does not know how else to begin, does not know if there is even a correct place to start. Among the stacks, one journal above all the others draws her attention. She recognizes the Lyseni craftsmanship, the deep amethyst leather impeccable. Moreover, the three headed dragon of House Targaryen is emblazoned in silver along the front cover.

Flipping through the pages, she finds them filled in their entirety in a foreign --yet strangely familiar-- hand. The pages are filled with various journal entries, recounts from as far back as 193 AC. Laira begins reading from the first entry, eyes traveling across the page and the carefully penned words that are written upon it.

The first several entries are short, snippets of encounters and happenings. Some of the entries contain notes, reminders for the recorder. Others contain desires or wishes. Some, even, list grievances and fears. It is not until a quarter way through the journal that the entries seem to shift. They become longer, more detailed. It is easy for Laira to pinpoint the cause of the change. By then, she has seated herself in the middle of the room, legs drawn up so she is sitting cross-legged upon the Myrish carpet. The journal is resting in her lap, fingers ghosting along the silvered edges of the bound parchment as she devours the words.

She does not start when two familiar presences join her. The first comes to rest against her side, black fur brushing against her legs and the exposed skin of her arms. Moone whines for attention, going quiet only when she is granted the sweep of Laira’s hand over the top of her head. The second presence comes but a moment later. Hal slips up behind her, bending until he is sliding into place behind her with a tired sounding sigh. She recognizes the exhaustion all too well… feels it herself bearing down upon her shoulders.

Still, she slides back to sit between his legs at the press of his hand to the crook of her elbow, her own legs uncrossing to help push herself back. She folds them underneath one of his own when she settles, toes momentarily curling against the carpet.

“You did not sleep,” Hal speaks, leaning over her shoulder to see what she is reading.

“Neither did you,” Laira returns, mouth quirking when she feels him press a kiss down onto the bare line of her shoulder. “I hope that it was no fault of mine.”

“You know better.”

“Perhaps,” Laira concedes. Another smile lifts the corners of her mouth when a porcelain cup is passed over her shoulder to her. The porcelain is warm under her fingers when she takes it from Hal. The contents swirling within it smell heavily of orange and ginger. “Thank you.”

His initial answer comes in the form of a quiet grunt, arms moving until they are wrapped around her. The flats of his palms rest against the plain of her stomach, fingers intertwining until they are steepled together over her. “Mira gave me a rather scandalized look when I granted her entry.”

“I pray you were clothed,” Laira murmurs. When she sips from her cup, she releases a quick sigh of approval. Her tea is sweetened perfectly with honey. There is a hint of lemon lingering in the background of the brew as well. Her husband’s doing, she knows. Laira holds the cup back to Hal in offer, keeping hold of it until she feels one of his hands rise to take it from her hand.

“Partially,” he admits, drinking from the cup himself. His sip is more careful than his wife’s, not wishing to scald his tongue or the roof of his mouth. “My tunics have begun disappearing once again.”

“A curious mystery.”

Laira welcomes the ease of the conversation, welcomes the way that they are able to converse in such a manner despite what they have stumbled upon just hours before and what surrounds them even now. There is some sort of unspoken vow there between them, Laira thinks. A vow that they will find the answers that they so desperately hope to, yet will not allow anything to sway what they already are to one another. They cannot allow a desire for answers to ruin what is already there between them.

And, they shall not.

“What have you found?” Hal finally asks her, taking another drink from the cup before passing it back to Laira. “A maester’s recount of something?”

“A personal journal,” Laira answers, fingers plucking the cup back from him. She takes her own sip and then sets it aside on the carpet beside them. “It belonged to Shiera Seastar.” As for all of the other items within the room, Laira cannot say. “Aegon IV’s final mistress, Lady Serenei of Lys, has been mentioned among the pages I have read a number of times. Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight have been as well.” She goes quiet. Then, she admits, “I dreamt of her last night. Shiera, that is. She was in my nightmare.”

There is little known about the Star of the Sea. That, Laira already knows too well. Yet, Laira can recall the various dates that surrounded Aegon IV’s last Great Bastard. Those recorded, thus far, within the journal intersect perfectly with the life that Shiera Seastar would have lived. What baffles her most, though, is the mystery surrounding the latter portions of her life.

Why was there such secrecy? Why was there so little known of her?

As she ponders such a thing, additional questions spring to mind. Why was Visenya Targaryen surrounded in mystery? Why was Rhaena of Pentos?

“This entry,” she begins, fingers lightly tapping the edges of the pages, “is of particular interest.”

“What does it say?” Hal asks. Some of the script he can read over his wife’s shoulder.

Laira lifts the journal from her lap, holding it closer to her so that she may read from it while allowing Hal the opportunity to follow along with her if he wishes. “The Wolves have journeyed to the capital at Daeron’s request. More have come in tow than originally anticipated. I encountered the Heir of Winterfell earlier in the day out among the gardens. Having listened to my good-sister speak of him, I had expected him to be older than he was and not of my own age…”

The Queen’s private gardens are her favorite. Here, she can sit and read without being bothered by the stares and the whispers of others. The Queen and the King are always kind to her -- have always been kind to her. The King calls her little sister and dotes upon her in a way that her father never had in the few short years that she had known him. And, the Queen is as near a mother to her as she can desire.

All the same, the King and Queen’s pleasantries cannot undo the gossip and the sneers that members of their court give to her when she walks among them. Even at the age of five-and-ten, she has garnered a reputation for herself. It is a reputation fanned into flame by slander and misunderstanding, yet it is a reputation all the same.

It is such a reason that she prefers the solitude of the gardens to the chattering halls of court.

Silver skirts bunched beneath her knees, Shiera bends forward to snip pieces of lavender from the bush in front of her. The trimmings join the others in her basket. She has found all manner of things in her trek among Queen Myriah’s gardens that day. There are pieces of lemon thyme, lavender, and mint in her basket. There are also pieces of tansy, basil, wormwood, and pennyroyal among half a dozen other plants and herbs. And, Shiera has use for all of them.

Some, she will use in medicines and tonics. Others, for cures that some ladies of the court dare not speak of aloud.

Humming softly, she is leaning to snip pieces of rosemary from a nearby plant when a shadow falls over her. She feels the presence clawing faintly at the back of her mind before the voice comes.

Both are uninvited. Both are unwelcome.

“Shiera.”

The young girl scowls, focus devoted to the rosemary plant that she now cuts. She drops the sprigs into her basket alongside all the others, refusing to acknowledge the presence that still hovers just behind her. She hates Bloodraven and everything that he brings forth with him in his wake.

How someone as kind as Lady Melissa Blackwood could birth a son such as Bloodraven truly baffled her.

“Don’t be cold,” Bloodraven says.

There is a hint of a growl to his words. Shiera hears it as well as the birds chirping in the trees all about her. The growl sends a shiver up her spine… or, perhaps that is Bloodraven’s tampering once again. She feels the clawing at the back of her mind once more, a desperate attempt by something dark and incredibly dangerous to gain access to her in some forsaken manner.

Shiera refuses to yield, has long since proven to be a host that Bloodraven cannot gain access to. The daughter of Serenei of Lys would never be one to be so easily controlled. Her defiance only serves in fanning Bloodraven’s temper. Such a feat seems to be a more common one as of late. There is a great deal of pride in that for Shiera.

Let him know that he has met his match in her. Let him know a girl five years his junior already holds more power than he does.

When the shadow above her moves, and Shiera sees a hand stretching out for her, she whirls and slaps the hand away from her. Her gardening shears are dropped, another blade snatched up from the amethyst belt at her waist and thrust in Bloodraven’s direction. The dagger in her hand had once belonged to her mother, had been an heirloom of Serenei’s Lyseni family for generations. Forged from Valyrian steel, Shiera grasps the handle of it tightly in her palm, the blade gleaming smoke gray in the early afternoon sun.

Bloodraven stares at her, having stopped in his advance. He stares. And then, all at once, he begins to laugh. The sound makes Shiera’s skin crawl.

“What are you going to do, Shiera?” Bloodraven taunts. “Kill me? Our dear brother will have your head for such a thing.”

He moves again and, when he does, Shiera slashes with merciless intent. The blade drives home, slashing deep across the other’s untainted cheek. There is nothing that has ever sounded so sweet as the surprised yell that Bloodraven gives in answer to her strike.

Her victory --no matter how small-- is short lived. In the next moment, Bloodraven’s hand is connecting with her own cheek. The force of the slap sends her stumbling to the ground, body upsetting the contents of her basket in her fall as her dagger jolts out of her grasp and scitters across the brick pathway winding through the garden. She attempts to scream when Bloodraven’s weight falls atop her, finds that the sound is muffled, though, by the press of his palm over her mouth and nose. She can’t breathe. She thrashes and shrieks behind his hand, screams louder and louder when she feels his free hand attempting to yank the bottom of her skirts up.

Just as quickly as Bloodraven’s attack starts, it stops.

Shiera feels the other’s weight leave her, hand torn away from her mouth and nose. She gasps for breath, half screaming in the process. Over the sound of her panicked gasps, she hears the sound of flesh connecting against flesh. The sound of snapping bone comes and then Bloodraven is howling and cursing. Shiera looks about her at the sound, searching for her dagger. She spots it only a second later, shining just across the garden pathway. She nearly trips twice over the length of her silver skirts as she bolts to retrieve it.

“You bitch!”

Shiera hears it screamed at her, turns just as she is snatching up her dagger to see Bloodraven making another bolt for her. His cheek is still bleeding from the strike she dealt him. But now, there is additional injury. His nose looks crooked. There is blood pouring openly from it. Broken, Shiera realizes. She cannot temper the fluttering satisfaction that rises within her at the sight. She anticipates another slap from the man, braces herself as she clutches her dagger tighter in her hand. Another body is stepping between her and Bloodraven in the next moment, an unmoving shield between her and her demented half-brother.

“Northern dog!” Bloodraven yells.

Bloodraven never advances beyond the man standing before her. When he tries to bull through him, the man --a Northman, Shiera gathers-- takes hold of Bloodraven’s doublet and throws him back onto the brick pathway. The Northman’s arm extends back while Bloodraven attempts to collect himself upon the ground, urging her to remain hidden behind him. Shiera makes no move to depart from the safety of her spot. She does not move to relinquish the hold upon her dagger, either.

Stumbling back onto his feet, Bloodraven growls low in his throat, glaring over to where Shiera still hides behind the safety of her rescuer. He spits blood at the two of them, wiping his bloodied nose upon the now ruined sleeve of his doublet. A finger is jabbed in Shiera’s before he skulks away, a threat growled out as he retreats.

“I will have you.”

The words send fear cascading down the column of her spine. She takes half a step closer to her rescuer, her free hand touching at his shoulder to steady herself. She’s surprised when she feels his own hand set itself against her arm. She flinches --unwillingly-- with the contact, but does not shrug away from it.

Neither she nor her rescuer make an attempt to move, not until Bloodraven is retreating down the garden pathway in a near whirlwind of black and crimson silks. Each and every step that he takes is framed with a loud curse. It isn’t until he is out of sight that Shiera finds herself willing to move. She steps away from the remaining man, hurrying back across the pathway to where her herbs now lay scattered among the grass. Half of them are bruised and flattened. She will be able to find some purpose for them, she knows, but it will not be what she originally anticipated using them for.

With a sigh, Shiera bends and sets her knees back into the soft grass, skirts bunched up around her again. Her basket is righted before she begins collecting all that has been scattered in Bloodraven’s strike. She keeps her dagger in hand, working slowly. When a presence settles down beside her in the grass --the Northman, she realizes a moment after--, Shiera pauses in her gathering to watch him out of the corner of her eye. He has short-cropped dark brown hair and eyes that are a near match. As she watched him, she thinks his eyes are actually a shade darker than his hair.

“Are you all right?”

Shiera nearly laughs at such a question. This is not the first time that Bloodraven has acted in such a way. She knows that it shall not be the last as well. This is the first time, though, that he has come as close as he did in succeeding in his attack. He is becoming bolder each time.

“Would you like me to find a maester for you?” the Northman asks, a bundle of herbs placed back into the young woman’s basket. “Or one of the Queen’s guards?”

Shiera immediately shakes her head, gathering another fistful of herbs. “They do not need to know,” she tells him. And, then, “You should not have done that. He will be angry now…”

“Princes bleed just like other men,” the Northman tells her. “I should have done worse for what he was attempting to do, Princess.”

She smiles at his response, less from his reasoning and more from what he calls her. “I am not a princess.” To many there at court, she was barely even a lady. The Westerosi courts had little favor for bastard born daughters and sons… even those of royal and noble birth. “And Bloodraven is no prince.”

The thought occurs to her, just a moment later, that the Northman assumed such about Lady Melissa’s son… that he’d defended her in such a physical manner against a man he thought to be a royal.

“He’s not even a man.”

That makes Shiera smile. There have never been truer words spoken. “No, he is not.”

At times, Shiera thinks he is something entirely inhuman. She had thought so since the very moment she met him.

With her herbs back in her basket, Shiera gathers her shears and begins to stand. She’s surprised when her basket is taken up ahead of her. She is even more surprised at the hand that the Northman offers down to her in aid. There’s a moment of hesitation before Shiera reaches to take hold of it and climbs back to her feet. Shiera expects him to relinquish her basket back to her and be on his way. Instead, he keeps his hold on it and offers his free arm to her.

Shiera watches him for a time before slipping her dagger in her hand back into the belt at her waist. Then, she reaches to slip her arm through the other’s own.

“Do Northmen make a habit of defending ladies from unwanted advances and then acting as their escorts?” she asks him, walking with him as he leads her back to the garden pathway. He turns them back towards the Red Keep as they begin walking side-by-side. “Or is it merely a personal code for some?”

“My father would be angered if he discovered I had left a lady to journey anywhere on her own after such a harrowing encounter.”

Shiera makes a sound of understanding. Then, she asks, “And, what would he say to not formally introducing yourself to the lady you aided?”

He laughs at her question. “He would likely be angered all the same,” he admits. “My name is Donnor.”

“Donnor,” Shiera repeats. “Thank you for coming to my aid,” she tells him. Most of the men visiting court would not have… would have been turned away by the reputation that followed her about the court.

“You owe me no thanks for that.”

“That does not mean it is not owed to you.”

It’s Donnor’s turn to hum in understanding. He follows it with a question of his own. “Would my lady grant me her own name?”

“Shiera,” she tells him. When she turns to look at him, she finds him already watching her. “My name is Shiera.”

{ @truetargaryen & @fullrangeofemotions & @xcoatlicuex & @thequeenmaker & @ialwayswasthebest & @viperparamour & @hisvipereyes & @nolongerhispawn & @adornishviper & @shewhoisironborn & @anunfailingkindness & @therosesofhighgarden & @aladyofwinterfell & @fairytalesandstars & @iveneverbeenagoodgirl & @zaldrizo & @arisiarrxb & @alionessroars }

Imagine...being a demon and hunting Dean down

CarryOnCap’s Masterlist Dean Winchester Masterlist

Summary: When Dean says he knows you better than anybody, you’re surprised to find out that you may have more of a history with the Winchesters than you can remember...

Warnings: very slight Season 15 *SPOILERS* for like a paragraph; mentions of “need to kill”; slight angst and open-ish ending, but implied TFW 2.0 win

A/N: Written for @wayward-mikaelson​‘s #Daily Imagine Prompt and (unintentionally) for @winchester-reload​‘s #Suptober20 day 4 prompt “Brand” (even though I’m working on my actual entry sketches!)  Idk where this came from and it took a weird route. Also, there’s an unintentional...nod? paraphrasing maybe? of dialogue from CA: The Winter Soldier, so credit to the MCU writers for permanently snaking their way into my subconscious because my love for Steve and Bucky apparently knows no bounds.

“If it isn’t the notorious Dean Winchester,” you sneered. “As fun as this little game of cat and mouse has been, you Winchesters are really starting to piss me off.”

They’d been tailing you all across the country and you’d had enough. Sure, you were a demon, but it wasn’t like you set out to hurt anyone. As long as everyone else could mind their own business, you liked to think you were pretty easygoing. 

…aside from a few bloody slip ups here and there but, hey, who was counting?

At least you weren’t one of those crossroad douches in the soul collecting business. You preferred to spend your time topside, having fun and wreaking a little havoc now and again. It had been going just fine until those plaid-wearing pests became obsessed with you. Eventually you’d decided to hunt them down for a change so you could finally get a little peace.

You hadn’t spotted the tall, sasquatch Hunter yet, but you’d caught the green eyed one by surprise and knocked him to his knees. Glaring down at him with a smirk, you kept a firm hold on the pressure point of his shoulder to make sure he stayed right where you wanted him.

“Did the cat catch your tongue? Because, with all of our showdowns lately, I was expecting a little more of that quick wit you always seem to have stowed away.”

If you were being honest, he was a pretty fine piece of ass and you wouldn’t mind going a round or two with him under different circumstances. Even with the dopey look of intensity on his face, laced with...something you couldn’t quite put your finger on.

Distress? Of course it would make sense for him to feel that way--you were a demon after all. Was there a hint of longing in the way he was staring at you? Maybe he couldn’t help thinking you were attractive despite what you were.

Who cares? You practically growled at yourself, chasing away something nagging in the back of your mind that told you there was more to his reaction. Pretending you didn’t actually care because you were incapable of such feelings anymore.

“D’you remember me?” he asked, eyes darting back and forth between yours.

Fuck, he was gorgeous. And it was really hard not to get caught up in his eyes. Why did that piss you off so much?

“Of course I do. You two meatheads have been on my ass everywhere across this godforsaken world,” you spat. “I know we’ve had a grand ol’ time and all, but listen up because I’m only going to say this once-- Leave. Me. Alone. If I catch you two on my tail again, I won’t be such a ray of fucking sunshine.”

He studied you for a long moment, seemingly unfazed by your threat.

“What do you remember about becoming a demon?”

You narrowed your eyes and tilted your head at his question. “What does that have to do with anything? And why the hell would it matter to you?”

“Because it does. Now I’m gonna go out on a limb here and guess you don’t remember a whole lot about what happened to you. That there’s some gaps you just can’t seem to fill in.”

“And let me guess--you just happen to have all the answers to that because you know me so well?”

“I do. I know you better than anybody.”

You weren’t sure what game he was trying to play or how he could possibly know how disconcerting it was that you couldn’t recall a damn thing before the last month or two. Your life as a human, your time in hell-- you didn’t have the slightest idea who you were or what had happened to you.

But there was no way you were going to listen to some Winchester--even if your gut told you he was telling the truth.

“I highly doubt that,” you retorted, seething with defiance.

“You know me--”

“No I don’t,” you snarled, unsure why his words were making you feel so unsettled.

“Your name is Y/N L/N. You’ve known me and Sammy your whole life. You--ngh--”

He flinched and groaned in pain when you tightened your grip, digging your thumb into the hollow area just below the crook of his neck and above his collarbone. With your other hand, you withdrew a large blade from the side holster you’d crafted yourself.

“Sorry, sweetheart. I’ve had enough of the foreplay.”

Dean threw a sidelong glance at the weapon. His nostrils flared as he clenched his jaw and fixed his olive eyes on you again.

“I know you’ve been bouncing around looking for answers on that blade. Just like I know that underneath that jacket of yours you’ve got a mark on your arm. And I know from the small trail of bodies you’ve been leaving behind that you’re trying to fight that hunger you have to kill anything and everything around you.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Your voice quivered between your gritted teeth.

“It’s called the Mark of Cain. And that right there is the First Blade.” He nodded toward the weapon without a trace of deceit on his face. “I know the calm you feel when you’ve got the blade in your hand. And that power flowing through you? It scares the hell out of you.”

You grimaced, placing the antique blade against his throat as your chest began to heave from the growing rage pulsing through your veins. What gave him the right to pretend he knew a damn thing about you? 

Maybe he was right. Maybe you could admit the power did scare you sometimes. You didn’t exactly give a shit about right and wrong, but the overwhelming urge to kill left you feeling out of control. It was why you were trying to uncover answers about the brand on your arm. Why you were fighting a losing battle with the trembling hand gripping the blade now-- you wanted answers and you needed him to keep talking.

“How do you know all of this?” you demanded.

He swallowed uncomfortably and the blade bobbed against his Adam’s apple. “It was Chuck--uh, God. You’re a Hunter, Y/N. You, me, Sam, Cas, Jack--we’re family. Chuck’s trying to end the world and we were working to stop him. On our last run-in with him...we thought he killed you. But it turns out he sent you to some other universe he’d created. In this world I had the Mark and, when I died, I became a demon. In the other world he tossed you into, we think that’s what happened to you. ‘Bout a month or two ago, somehow you found your way back to this world and we’ve been trying to track you down ever since.”

Furrowing your brow, your eyes fell away from him as glimpses of the events he’d described flashed through your mind. You squeezed your eyes closed, trying to latch onto fragments of the hazy memories emerging from the depths of your subconscious...

Dean screaming your name, face contorted with horror. A small man with graying hair and a wicked grin snapping his fingers. Your hand gripping someone’s forearm, just as his strong hand grasped yours. The deep red energy that flowed from his arm to yours, searing through your veins until the Mark bubbled to the surface of your skin--the scar that was always itching to let the darkest parts of you reign free. 

“We can help, Y/N. Me and Sam can fix this.” Dean’s gruff voice was resolute as he briefly glanced away and begged you to consider his offer. “Just come with us and we can cure you.”

His words stirred something in your chest, making you realize he had triggered the faint prick of some long forgotten emotion. A small part of you longed to go with him, but it was miniscule and insignificant when you considered that “fixing this” might mean getting rid of the Mark. 

Despite the fear and lack of control it brought you, you were unwilling to give up the power or the blade. It was an addiction you had no intention of overcoming.

“Maybe I don’t want to be cured. The way I see it? There’s nothing to fix. Time to say goodnight, Dean-O.”

You raised the blade but, before you could strike, something cinched around your wrist. When the power coursing through you became dull, you turned in surprise to see that Sam had secured your wrist in one end of the cuffs he held. He reached for the blade with his free hand and swiftly dodged you when you lunged at him after releasing your hold on Dean. 

Snarling in rage, you again swung at Sam while he tried to wrestle the blade from your grasp. Dean suddenly collided with your back, circling his arms around you as he pinned your limbs to your sides. You thrashed your head and screamed as you tried to escape, but his cheek was pressed between your shoulder blades, tucked safely away from your efforts of fracturing his nose with the back of your skull.

“It’s okay, Y/N,” he grunted, arms tense as he squeezed you tighter. “We’re gonna fix this. You’re okay, sweetheart.”

“Dean, I still...can’t...she’s too strong,” Sam grumbled.

You continued struggling while you gripped the blade with every bit of strength you had. As you fought the boys, you spotted a young man in a tan jacket walking toward you who had seemingly appeared out of nowhere. He looked vaguely familiar and you surged toward him out of instinct, knowing he was a greater threat than the men holding you.

His hair was side swept, with a few of the sandy colored strands grazing his forehead. His eyebrows were drawn together over soft eyes, brimming with an array of emotions. The boy raised his hand in greeting, smiling in relief as if he’d managed to find a long lost family member. 

“Hello, Y/N... We’re going to help you. I promise. Sam and Dean will find a way to fix this.”

“Do it, Jack!”

“Any time now, kid.”

The boys shouted in unison and you paused for a fraction of a second as another series of memories flooded you. Before you could make sense of them, Jack reached out and pressed two fingers to your forehead.

Your knees buckled and your eyes fluttered closed as you slipped into unconsciousness.

CarryOnCap Crew (Forevers):

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A Hapless Endearment [Creepypasta x F. Reader]

Yayyy, the second chapter is done! Enjoy~

Chapter 2- Sweet Dreams Are Made of This

It's hard to make sense of anything around her. The static making itself ever-present in her mind is almost crippling. It blocks out all of her thoughts. Distant whispers erupt throughout the endless grays and blacks. It's like she's fallen into a void. Like she can't escape.

A breeze suddenly blows past her. It's burning hot but somehow icy-cold at the same time. It gives her a feeling of terror, utter, raw fear that grips at her heart and squeezes her lungs. She finds it hard to breathe. She looks around frantically. It's the same. Everything is the same. She can't even see a floor beneath her feet, but she knows it's there. It has to be there. What else would she be standing on?

The static grows stronger, louder, overwhelming her senses and making her grab at her head in a desperate effort to make it stop. The breeze billows and the voices become more distinct. But she still can't hear what they're saying. Are they even saying anything? Or are they just murmurs of agony riding the wind and reaching her ears?

"Y\n..."

That voice. Something about that voice sends shivers down her spine, makes her heart speed up to an unhealthy rate. Her gaze averts around, trying to find a source, but she ultimately fails.

"Child... come."

'Come'?  Come where? The static in her mind seems to thicken and still at the same time, greatly confusing her, and she furrows her eyebrows. A fog graces her feet as it rolls across the seemingly invisible ground, bringing a sensation of dread and impending doom with it. She backs away, though finds it does nothing, as the area surrounding her goes nowhere.

"Come to us..."

"Who are you?!" she yells, but immediately tenses. She can't hear herself. Her voice has been... muted. The static continues to get stronger, and she hits the side of her head, trying to stop it. It cancels out her thoughts, makes her feel helpless. All while a suffocating feeling settles in her chest and it becomes more and more difficult to collect oxygen.

"Join me... Come..."

***

Her grip on the sheets covering her torso tightens as she shoots up in bed, instantly being greeted by light from the morning sun shining in through the window and making her squint her eyes and turn her head. She takes deep breaths, savoring the air finally invading her lungs as she tries to calm her rapid heartbeat.

She has had a lot of weird dreams before, but none compare to the one she just woke up from. She stares at nothing, in particular, blinking away the tears that formed in her eyes and refusing to cry. Taking notice of the fluffy feline curled up on her thighs and looking up at her with startled eyes, clearly not happy about being woken up, she lets out a soft sigh and strokes his back, finally able to steady her nerves and focus on more positive things.

"Sorry I disturbed your precious beauty sleep," she mutters sarcastically, wiping her eyes to get herself awake. She tries to brush the dream off as nothing, just stress creeping its way into her head and giving her freaky thoughts. But something about it just... unnerves her. Like it is much more serious than what she wants herself to think.

Leaning her back against the wall of her bed, she runs her hands through her messy hair and releases a yawn, rubbing her eyes before grabbing her phone off of the stool that she had pushed up beside her bed the previous night and turning it on, curious to see if anybody sent her a message and wanting to get her mind off of the nightmare.

None. She drops her phone by her side and slumps down, disheartened. I guess nobody cares, anymore. Then again, who can blame them? I'm just an inconvenience, anyway.

She managed to catch a glimpse of the time in the top right corner of her phone before she turned it off, discovering it's around 9:40 in the morning. "Sorry, buddy. I've gotta get up," she says, looking down at the cat in her lap that just got settled and is now trying to go back to sleep. His ear twitches in recognition, and she runs her fingers through his thick fur before gently sliding him off of her and standing up.

When her bare feet touch the chilled, hard-wood floor, she flinches and jumps onto the fluffy rug in the room's center, trying to get used to the surface in her mind's still hazy state. She glances back at the bed, and her e\c orbs land on Marshmallow, who is looking at her in obvious distaste. She narrows her eyes.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. It's not like you can't sleep any other time of the day." He blinks and stands, stretching for a moment before turning away from her and lying back down. "Okay, fine, be that way. I bet you won't be mad when I give you some beef jerky later."

With that, she looks at the closet, then down at the floor, knowing what needs to be done and mentally preparing herself for it. C'mon Y\n, it's just a floor. A floor made of ice... but a floor, nonetheless. Quit being a pansy and go.

Sucking in a breath of encouragement, she steps onto the wood and lets out a squeak, her pace quickening the closer she gets to the closed door. "Right about now would be a good time to have slippers," she murmurs to herself, opening the door and stepping inside. She sifts through the different clothes, deciding what she wants to wear though not having to look for long.

She throws on some shorts and a t-shirt, socks, and a pair of tennis shoes before stepping back out and heading toward the bathroom, hoping that nobody else is occupying it at the moment. To her luck, once she's out of her room, she finds it empty and strolls inside, closing the door behind her and flicking the light switch up.

After flushing the toilet and washing her hands, she does everything in her morning routine before walking out into the hall and heading down the stairs, instantly catching the whiff of a pleasant scent wafting from the kitchen. Farrah takes notice of her granddaughter entering the doorway and sends her a welcoming smile as she takes a pan of biscuits out of the oven.

"Good morning, hun," she chirps, removing her oven mitts and turning to face her. "How did you sleep?" Y\n walks closer and shrugs, remembering the endless, dull scenery and the eerie voice whispering those words to her in her head.

"I mean... I had a pretty unsettling dream but, other than that, I slept fine." Farrah hums and tilts her head slightly. "What about you, Nana?"

"A lot more peacefully now that I know you're here under the same roof," she replies, giving her a brief hug, which Y\n gladly returns. "So, you hungry? I made breakfast!" Y\n glances over at the stovetop and nearly drools when she sees freshly-cooked bacon resting on a plate, scrambled eggs in a skillet, and the same pan of biscuits placed beside them. She can feel her stomach start to rumble the more she stares at it, so she just nods over-enthusiastically and goes to retrieve a plate and fork from where they were set on the island in preparation.

"This all looks delicious, Nana," she comments, scooping some eggs onto her plate after getting several pieces of fried pork. Her eyes meet Farrah's, and she sends her a grateful look. "Thanks for making it all."

"Oh, it was no trouble at all, just like you, my dear, are no trouble at all." She pats her affectionately on the head before sliding her hand down to cup her cheek and smiling. "Now go eat your food and enjoy it." Y\n nods, taking a step back and laying the plate full of food on the counter, aiming to get butter and jelly out of the fridge. She also grabs a spoon and butter knife afterward, using them to smear the two substances across the soft inside of her biscuits before grabbing her plate once again and strolling through the living area and into the dining room.

She pulls a chair out from under the table and takes her seat, anxious to get some food in her stomach and finally start her day. Farrah soon appears with her own platter of breakfast and sits beside her, the two chatting about various things as they eat, and time seems to fly by. At around 10:25, Y\n rises from the chair and heads back to the kitchen, feeling properly filled-up as she rinses her dishes.

Her gaze averts to the window behind the sink, being greeted by the bright morning sunlight and the colorful scenery that she doesn’t get the advantage of seeing in the city, where she, unfortunately, was born and raised. She spots her grandfather, sitting in an old chair out on the lawn and admiring nature at its finest, seemingly lost in thought.

Allowing a fond smile to stretch across her face, she dries her hands on a towel hanging from a rack before poking her head back into the living room. “Hey, Nana…”

“Yes, hun?” She twists her body around slightly to meet Y\n’s eyes in curiosity, and Y\n grips the door frame with her hand and leans forward, letting her arm keep her stabilized so she doesn’t fall over.

“I think I’m gonna go outside for a while if you don’t need me here for anything.” Farrah nods.

“That’s a good idea, Marshmallow needs to be let out, anyway.” As if on cue, the fluffy feline walks down the stairs, tail high in the air and head raised as he jumps to the floor and stops in front of the closed door, sitting down and looking at Y\n expectantly. “Where are you gonna go?”

“I dunno.” She shrugs, glancing down at Marshmallow and meeting his bright blue orbs. “I was just thinking about going on a walk, or something.”

“Yes, some fresh air will do you good after breathing all of that polluted city stuff.” She takes a sip of her coffee thoughtfully. "Just be careful and keep an eye out for bears. Or anything dangerous, for that matter."

"Yes, ma'am." She nods in understanding and steps over to the door, opening both it and the screen and allowing Marshmallow to prance through and onto the porch, likely eager to go about his daily hunt and roam. Following behind him and shutting the door behind her, a warm, familiar breeze hits her in the face as she does so, and she once again averts her eyes over to Phil. "Good morning, Pops." Her voice raises just enough to get his attention, and sure enough, his head turns her direction before the corner of his lips quirk upward in a cheery smile.

"Hey, hummingbird! Did you sleep okay?" She bites the inside of her cheek and leisurely makes her way down the stone path leading toward the gate. Thinking back to her eldritch dream, she stuffs her hands in her pockets and answers quietly.

"As well as I could, I guess..." Though when he doesn't seem to hear her, she rewords her sentence and speaks up. "I slept fine. What about you?"

"Ah, well. You know how it is with all these old joints and bones. They never give you a break."

"Sorry." She breathes a sympathetic laugh. "But I can't say I have any experience in that field." He releases a snort in response and leans back in the old patio chair, raising a thick, bushy eyebrow.

"Yeah, that's 'cause you're a spring chicken. Trust me darlin', the years'll catch up to you eventually. And then you'll look like me." He pats his rotund belly for emphasis, and she rolls her eyes playfully and can't stop the amused huff from exiting her lips.

"I'm sure I will, Pops."

"Where are ya going?" She unlatches the gate and glances at him before nodding her head in the direction of the opaque forest surrounding the quaint property.

"Walking. I thought I'd try to... get a better feel for this place, again." She notices his face seems to soften ever so slightly, and he briefly looks past the many tall trees, into the shaded woods, and lets a breath out of his nose before meeting her gaze once more.

"I'm sorry you haven't been here to visit, Y\n." Her chest constricts and she shifts her eyes down to the ground uncomfortably. "It's not right for your dad- your parents- to put themselves before you. They shouldn't treat you the way they do. I wish you'd let me do something about it." She only shrugs solemnly, her mood doing a one-eighty and dropping to the floor, though she tries to mask it and instead forces a smile on her face that she hopes is reassuring.

"It's isn't your fault. Dad's just... just a jerk and Mom is..." She sees it's difficult to find correct words to describe her mother, and after a moment to think, shakes her head dismissively. "They-they have issues. But yeah, don't be sorry, I'm okay. Two more years and I'll be outta there, anyway."

"Well... you're more than welcome to stay here, for as long as you need. It gets lonely around here without anyone visiting us." She brushes a strand of h\c hair out of her eyes and tilts her head curiously.

"Nobody visits you? Not even Aunt Darcy?" Her stomach does a concerned flip when she sees his facial expression turn from mildly sympathetic to alarmed in an instant, and her eyebrows furrow, questions zipping through her mind at lightning speed. His hands, she notices, clench the arms of the chair and his breathing seems to have quickened, if only slightly. "Pops...?"

"I-I, uh..." He lets an anxious breath flow out of his mouth as he runs his wrinkled fingers through his hair. "Yeah, no, your aunt doesn't come. She hasn't, not in a while..." Y\n can sense the tension in this conversation, and how strange Phil's sudden change in behavior is. Hesitantly, she speaks, her voice low.

"Wh-why? Did you guys fight or something?" Although she hasn't seen her aunt in over five years, she still remembers her clearly, and she knows that she wouldn't ever willingly avoid Phil and Farrah. Unlike Darcy's brother, she isn't a sour person and wouldn't let something as ridiculous as a disagreement get in the way of their relationship, especially since her son Wyatt always loved hanging around here.

"No." He shakes his head lightly and refuses to meet the e\c eyes of the girl as he collects his thoughts and puts them into words. "Look... we'll talk about it later, alright? You just go and enjoy your walk." He dismisses her with a wave of his hand, though she doesn't move, and instead stares at him with an obscure expression painted across her face.

"What's wrong, Pops? Did something bad happen?"

"It's fine, sweetheart," he reassures, his tone vagarious. "Be careful out there. Don't want to get mauled by a wild dog, do ya?"

"Gee, what a pleasant thought," she mutters sarcastically, but figures that he isn't going to give her the answers that she so desperately craves at this point. I'll try my luck with Nana when I get back, she thinks, letting out a dismayed sigh before stepping through the gate and locking it back. "No, sir. I'll be careful."

When she receives no response, she turns on her heel and heads toward where she remembers the old trail used to be, the previous subject heavy on her mind. That was weird. Has Darcy really not come to visit her parents at all? For how long? She supposes that she has been gone for a very prolonged amount of time and she's sure to have missed some things, but just how important are these things? Something obviously happened between her grandparents and her aunt. But what? Hopefully, she'll get a reasonable answer when she comes back.

She walks under the willow tree beside the cottage and is unable to stop herself from glancing down the road, where her mom and dad disappeared a mere day ago and left her behind with the parents that her father absolutely refuses to talk to, reconnect with in any way, all because of a petty argument.

Nah. She narrows her eyes in indignation. He's just always been selfish. And unfair. And a terrible person. That 'argument' was just what pushed him over the edge. What even was their argument about? She wracks her mind but can't seem to recall any moment where her dad actually explained what was going on, not to her, anyway. In fact, the only time he graced her with an answer at all was when she gathered up the courage to ask him why they haven't visited Nana and Pops in so long. She believes that she had just turned twelve a few weeks prior when she became curious about it and walked up to him one day in the living room.

"Hey, Dad?" He hadn't even looked up at her. Didn't give any attention to his only child. "Daddy?"

"What do you want." It came out as more of a demand than it was an actual question. Still, he didn't look up at her, and she had taken a seat beside him on the couch.

"Um, I was just wondering... we haven't seen Nana and Pops in a while-" She cut herself off when she was met with the sharp, threatening glare of her father, becoming instantly uncomfortable as she stared back uncertainly. It had taken her off-guard, as she had never seen her dad's eyes as cold as they were at that moment. Especially when they were looking at her.

"I don't want to hear anything about them." The way he had said that sentence made her heart drop in concern, and she flashed him a bewildered look.

"...What? Wh-why?"

"Don't ask questions. Just don't mention them." Puzzled would have been a good word for how Y\n was feeling at that moment. Thoughts were swarming her mind, and despite the hard, final tone of voice her father had, she continued.

"But... they're your parents? A-and I miss them. Don't you miss them, too? It's been almost a year-"

"What'd I say?" He snapped at her, his lips pressed together into a firm, angered line. "Don't. Mention. Them."

"Dad-"

"My God, you're more persistent than your mother." He shot her a disappointed look, though she only craned her neck to the side.

"What's wrong...?"

"Arguments, Y\n. Arguments about crap that doesn't concern you." She couldn't stop herself from flinching slightly at the harshness of his words.

"Dad..."

"Stop talking and go to your room." When she stayed still, looking at him with wide, questioning eyes, he released a huff of irritation. "Now."

Shaking her head disapprovingly at the distant memory, she eventually rediscovers the path that she traversed down so many times, back when she was merely a child, before she had so many problems in her life. It appears to have not been used in quite a while, as there are weeds growing up from the ground, low-hanging branches swooping down and entangling together, making a sort of archway. The grass is extremely overgrown, and just by looking at it, she would guess that each blade would have to be around three feet high.

She suddenly looks down at her bare legs, a little nervous about stepping through the tall grass likely housing ticks and traced with thorns. Maybe I should've worn jeans instead... Letting out a defeated sigh, she cautiously steps through the tall, twisty foliage, trying her best to avoid getting scratched by a brier or catching her foot in a weed and tripping.

She glances up and ahead of her, feeling relieved that the shrubbery thins out just a few feet down the path and should be easily manageable. She just has to get there in one piece. Carefully, she takes several slow steps forward, the grass tickling her legs each time she moves, though she brushes it off and focuses on making it through.

Should’ve brought some branch cutters or something. After a couple of minutes, she arrives in a less hazardous area, and instinctively reaches down to brush her legs and feet off, just in case there are some bugs that may have been taking refuge on them, though to her ease, finds none. She places her hands into her pockets and continues her stroll through the peaceful forest, savoring the natural sounds erupting from all around her.

The chirps of the birds and rustling of leaves create a relaxing cadence; a sound that she rarely ever gets the pleasure of hearing. She only just realizes how much she missed being here, able to roam around, enjoy the area without the interruption of her parents, city life, or just drama in general. Letting out a tranquil sigh, she wonders how long she can stay here. How long will her parents be gone? It isn't like they care about her absence anyway, that much is apparent. The only reason they'd come back is because of their work, their fancy jobs working for some billionaire company that Y\n could care less about. Sure, they make a pretty good living off of it, and it isn't the worst job in the world, but it takes up all of their life. At least when she was little they made time for her, but now? They don't even bat an eye in her direction.

Do they even still love me? It's a question she's asked herself a multitude of times throughout the last few months, but the answer was always too painful to accept. They haven't said it since... since I was fourteen. She remembers it clearly. It was her fourteenth birthday, they had a cool party, her best friends came, back when she still had some, and her parents took a little time to make her feel special, which, even at that point, was a rare trait to exhibit. But they did it.

Her father had hugged her and told her that she's beautiful, her mother had stroked her hair, explaining to her how much she meant to her. That she loved her. It was the last wholesome moment they ever shared together, and thinking about that makes her chest ache with loneliness. Although she wants to think that she still holds a special place in their hearts, she knows that the odds aren't in her favor.

She allows a sad chuckle to exit her l\c lips as she shakes her head. Oh, well. A girl can dream, right?

___

The masked male walks swiftly through the dense forest, staying attentive as he listens to everything around him. The quiet tweets of blue jays, the rustling of leaves, the flow of a nearby stream- all normal. Which is good. That means nothing out-of-the-ordinary is lurking around, following him. At least, nothing that isn't remaining silent. But he's grown accustomed to his surroundings, and he's confident that he'd be able to recognize a threat, whatever form it may take, from wherever it may have been hiding at.

He feels his phone vibrate from within the confines of his pocket and inwardly rolls his eyes. That's the fifth time in the last three minutes that Ben has texted him. He's sure that he's still going on about how something is "urgent" and that he has to "get here ASAP". What does he think he's doing? Moving at a snail's pace? Ben's house is over half a mile away from his own, and he's only been walking for about five minutes. No matter how speedy and agile he can be, he still isn't Superman. Shouldn't Ben know that? Moving from one place to another takes time.

After around two more minutes, he finally sees the old cabin come into view, shrouded by vines, weeds, and various other greenery. To oblivious, inexperienced eyes, it's nearly undetectable, which is perfect. It doesn't draw attention, which is something that Hoody, among others, greatly prefer. Any poor soul that may wander this far into the woods and see it, or any of the others, will be taken care of. Immediately. They can't take a risk. It would be too dangerous.

By the time the phone buzzes a sixth time, Hoody is already coming to a stop in front of the rustic-looking door that's made of the same taupe ash wood as the rest of the house, with some minor improvements to better ensure safety. The whole place, whether one's standing from afar or looking at it close-up, seems like it would be very insubstantial and a hazard to be around, much less live in. But in all reality, it makes quite a good home for the two that take residence there, and it's most definitely safer than it may first appear to be, thanks to a few key individuals and their useful carpenter abilities.

He knocks quietly on the hard surface, stuffing his hands inside of his pockets and waiting patiently for Ben to stop hounding him with text messages, notice that he's right outside, and allow him in. Shouldn't he already know where he is? That's why he installed one hundred cameras around the area, right? To observe what's happening without having to leave the comfort of his chair? Or perhaps that's what he wants to see Hoody about; complain that his cameras are malfunctioning and ask for assistance. Though he doesn't know how much he'll be able to assist him because he doesn't have half the knowledge that Ben has regarding electronics. But he'll do what he can if it means getting one of their main lines of defense up and running again.

He's pulled out of his thoughts when yet another message comes through his phone and makes it vibrate against his leg, a feeling he's really beginning to get irritated by. Releasing a muffled sigh and deciding it would be better to just check whatever text he just received instead of ignoring it altogether, he pulls out the small device, and swipes down on the notification tab, seeing not six, but ten unread messages from the teenager himself, all of which consist of either "where are you?", "you gotta get here quickly", or "hurry your butt up, you depressed son of a cracker".

"Ah, screw you, too," he mutters to the screen, knowing full well that its target won't be able to hear him. Unless he has the audio turned on and is secretly listening to him talk. The little creep, he can't help but think before he finally reaches the last and most recent message.

Just come in, the door's unlocked

Obeying the message, he grips the knob of the door with his gloved hand and gives it one swift turn, pushing once he hears a small 'click' and entering the cozy-looking household while shoving his phone into the back pocket of his jeans where it rightfully belongs. The interior is nothing special; a kitchen with a small bar and plenty of counter space to spare to the right, a living room with an old, dingy-looking sofa, a couple of chairs, and a coffee table to the left, and a narrow hallway straight ahead, which has five different doors leading to five different places. Two of them lead to bedrooms, one a bathroom, one a laundry room, and the one at the very end is an entrance into the basement, also known as Ben's office.

Shutting the door behind him, he ventures farther into the familiar area, counting on the sunbeams currently shining through the dirty windows to light his path and take him to his destination. Where is his destination? Not able to see Ben nor his roommate anywhere, he assumes that either one or both have to be in the basement, so he begins his trek through the darkened hall until he reaches the closed door, once again wrapping his hand around the metal knob and giving it a firm twist before it creaks open, giving him access into the electronically-lit room below.

He can hear faint voices getting louder as he calmly walks down the staircase, one reasonably deep and the other about a pitch or so higher. He descends downward until reaching the ground, glancing to his left and being met with two easily-recognizable figures due to their odd features.

One of them is sat rather comfortably in a computer chair that he no doubt stole from Amazon, his blond hair swept to the side in a messy, boyish style. He sports a pair of converse, black skinny jeans, a dark green Halo 5 t-shirt, and a beanie. His appearance would be startlingly normal if he lacked the glowing, red eyes and the tears of blood that slowly cascade down his deathly pale cheeks.

Standing leaned against the wall next to him is someone nearly three feet taller, body clothed in all black save for the navy blue mask that covers his face and the strands of copper-brown hair sticking out from under his hood. His eyes are nothing but soulless, empty pits that replace where his once chestnut ones used to be, the sockets constantly leaking a thick black substance similar to that of tar and leaving sticky trails down his mask.

Both heads turn to look at Hoody when he appears behind them, and Ben instantly jumps up, his shorter-than-average height noticeable, especially when compared to taller people, like Hoody and Jack. "It's about time you get here, slowpoke!"

Ignoring the comment, the man clad in a mustard-yellow hoodie crosses his arms impatiently and eyes the one in the corner of the room for a moment before turning his attention back on the blond in front of him. "Now, what exactly was so important that it couldn't wait a couple of hours?" His voice is low and calm, but authoritative, and Ben glances at Jack anxiously.

"We think that egg head is going after someone else to make his slave." Hoody raises a brow beneath his ski mask and gazes down at the boy curiously.

"How do you know?"

"Cause Jack's been getting these-these, um, feelings? For a while. I don't know, wh-what kind of feelings, like-like bad kind of, weird and freaky feelings, maybe since a week or so ago, then he walked by somebody after, y'know, stocking up on his, uhm, diet... and he said they emitted a really strong, like, odor? Or something? And then-"

"Ben," Hoody speaks, cutting the boy off in the middle of his sentence and ultimately silencing him. "Just let Jack explain it." His lips part to say something, though he only lets out a quiet huff after a moment before plopping back down in front of the multiple monitors of different areas in the forest and leaning backward in a sulking manner. "Right." He sighs and signals for Jack to begin speaking, to which he nods and complies.

"I've been feeling... strange, lately," he starts, his voice deep and muffled though decipherable nonetheless. His hands are stuffed into his hoodie pockets as he lightly boosts himself off of the wall with his foot and stands at his full height. "A kind of... tingling, in my chest and mind, but not a good one. More of a... ominous kinda tingling, like something bad is about to happen, or someone's fixing to get hurt. But I don't know who."

Hoody processes this newly-received information and listens with keen ears, inquisitively waiting for the eyeless man to continue.

"But earlier today, after leaving a house, this feeling got a lot stronger. And it was really sudden, like, it just hit me. I couldn't figure out what was happening until after I looked around a bit and noticed someone walking down some grown-out path. And somehow, immediately after I saw her, I knew that she was in danger."

"Wait, wait, wait," Ben interrupts, holding out his hands in a silencing gesture. "It was a girl? You didn't tell me that."

"Because I was waiting to inform the more mature ones who actually focus on the situation rather than something as ridiculous as gender," he remarks, making Ben scoff. Hoody, ignoring Ben altogether, turns to completely face Jack in order to further question him about the somewhat surprising matter, neck craned to the side slightly.

"Okay, but why does this mean that it's connected somehow to him? Did she cough? Did you hear any static?" He merely shakes his head in the negative.

"No. I just know that something sinister is going on and that feeling I've been getting the past couple of days is definitely coming from her. Just an evil, dangerous aura surrounded her, which is why I'm sure that he's involved." Hoody rubs at his head, finding it hard to doubt a word that Jack's saying. He's never been one to lie, after all, and being a reincarnated version of his former self gives him certain... supernatural abilities, that others don't have. Not even the two ghosts of their group.

He stands there a moment, still and quiet as his mind swarms with questions, before looking at the navy blue mask but having to avoid direct eye-contact with the empty sockets in his face due to making him feel uncomfortable. Not that it can be seen, anyway. "Um... alright, well. What do you suggest we do about it?" He earns an unsure shrug in response.

"I guess we could just eliminate her. It would throw off whatever his plan is and get her out of the cycle before she inevitably gets hurt."

"Unless he brings her back," he points out. "Then she'd be more powerful and we'd have another one to fight against."

"That... does make sense. But we can't just leave her there to become a victim. Either she'll accept him or he kills her. Which would just be one more innocent wiped out by his hands."

"We could bring her back here!" Ben suddenly speaks up, once again rising out of his seat and painting a confident look across his ghostly features. "I mean, she wouldn't be in immediate danger and we could tell her what's going on so she knows what to do and what to avoid."

"But then she'd be endangering us." He shoves his hands back into his pockets and takes a step closer. “And what if she’s already under his influence, huh? We’d be leading him straight toward us and there’s no way we’re strong enough nor do we have the numbers to fight him and his group of freaks.”

“Yeah, but what if she’s not? I mean, we need the extra set of hands, anyway. She could be useful!”

“At what cost? The lives and freedom of everyone here? It would be stupid to bring her here, especially since we don’t know anything about her.”

“Jack!” Ben turns his attention to the tall, lanky man standing silent, hoping to get somewhere with him. “You’re the demon here, so is she dangerous?” He plants his masked face in the palm of his hand in the universal sign of ‘oh my God, you’re an idiot’ before answering, his voice low.

“I don’t know, Ben. She seemed totally normal, but I didn’t get a very good look.”

“There ya go, boomer.” His red pupils shift back up to look at Hoody, his eyebrows raised. “She’s not dangerous. We can bring her.”

“For the record, I’m only six years older than you,” he starts, attempting to bite down his exasperation with the teenager and speaking with a level tone, to which he receives an eye roll. “And Jack didn’t say she wasn’t dangerous, he just said she looked normal. They’re two totally different things.”

“Whatever.” He places his hands behind his head carelessly. “I still vote that we bring her here.”

“We’ll ask the others and get their opinions. Jack,” His head turns to look at the mentioned boy, “is there anything else I should know about these ‘feelings’ or the girl you saw?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay then. Ben, call everyone and tell them to meet up at my place within the next thirty minutes.” The tone of his voice leaves no room for argument, and without question, Ben whips out his, now slightly outdated, cellphone and begins to text each person in his contacts exactly what Hoody told him to say.

“Oh, by the way, I fixed your phone.” He pulls out a small flip-phone from his pocket and tosses it to Jack, and he effortlessly catches it and slides it into his pocket, muttering a ‘thanks’ while he does so. Hoody turns to leave, though before he starts climbing the stairs he speaks once more.

“You both need to come, too. We all need to discuss this and figure something out before tomorrow.” They nod in reply, and he disappears from their sight.

lotus & ivan short fics 2

Summary: I’m in my Lotus and Ivan feels today so here’s some Soft content of them.

The T.V. plays at an almost unintelligible volume in the background, the next episode of the true crime show Lotus had been watching playing automatically without recognition from either her or Ivan. She’d been watching with hazy interest, drunk on most of a bottle of wine, and using the show as a distraction while she waited for Ivan to get home. As soon as she’d heard his key in lock, she’d turned the volume down, waited for the door to open, then demanded that Ivan come sit with her. He’d obliged without hesitation.

Now she sits in the corner of the L-shaped couch that’s too big for their sitting area, with her legs draped over his lap. He has one hand on her knee, the other on her inner thigh, and he listens with silent amusement as she drunkenly rants about the effects that different soils can have on plant growth. 

Mid-rant, Lotus pauses to catch her breath, and in those few short seconds, she gets distracted by the way Ivan is looking at her. She knows Ivan’s appearance is intimidating and unnerving to most; he’s covered in tattoos, towers over others, and is usually scowling, the frown lines etching into his skin as he ages. And she knows how dangerous he can be and the history he has with violence. His appearance doesn’t even fully reflect how terrifying he could really be. 

But when he’s looking at her like that, with such a loving expression, his scowl relaxed and replaced by soft adoration, she can’t possibly see him as scary.

“I love you,” Lotus says, not for the first time since he got home. She puts her palm against the side of his face, and strokes her thumb across his cheek bone. She’s not often verbal about her love for him, but wine loosens her lips and makes her more affectionate.

<<I love you, too,>> Ivan signs. He puts his hand on top of hers and leans into her touch. His eyes fall closed. For a few seconds, neither of them say anything, enjoying the silent presence of each other. He turns his head and kisses her palm, and she smiles.

Lotus has lost the thread of her soil spiel, her thoughts now occupied by her affection for Ivan. He opens his eyes and looks at her intently, his gaze searching and intense but soft. 

“What?” she asks.

<<Tell me what you like about me again, please?>> he asks.

Lotus laughs. He only asks her that when she’s drunk, probably hoping she won’t remember. She does remember, but she never brings it up when she’s sober. She likes that he asks. She likes the excuse to tell him everything about him that makes her happy. 

“Okay.” In a quiet voice, she says, “I like your smile aaaand...I like your eyes. I love your tattoos.” Her fingers ghost over his skin, up his upper arm and shoulder, stopping at his neck. With her forefinger, she traces the shape of his lotus flower tattoo. “I like this one,” she says quietly. “I’ve never really liked my name, but this made me like it more. I like that you have a tattoo for me. I never...I never thought I’d be someone who likes that.” 

For a few seconds, she says nothing, distracted by the feeling of happiness bubbling inside her. She breathes in deeply and blinks, returning her focus to Ivan’s question.

With a thoughtful expression, she continues, “I love when I make you laugh. Sometimes you look at me with this expression like you’re trying not to laugh and that’s…” she trails off as she tries to grasp the words to describe her feelings. Unable to find anything adequate, she settles for saying, “I love that. Your happiness makes me happy.”

As she talks, she traces her forefinger absently over Ivan’s skin.

“I like when you listen to me talk about the things I like or the...the things I’m studying. Even if you don’t really know what I’m talking about. And sometimes--sometimes you bring up things I said a while ago, and it makes me feel listened to. You make me feel listened to.” She looks at him with a contemplative expression for a moment, then readjusts so she’s sitting up and leaning toward him. Tilting her head, she says, “I’ve never had that. Someone who cares so much about my accomplishments - especially my educational accomplishments...I guess Connie and Jules do. But, they’ve both always cared about school; school would come up with them whether I brought it up or not. It’s different...I’ve never felt like I could really share what I’m learning with someone. But...but I feel like you care. That you want to know.”

She can’t properly express her feelings. She hopes he understands how much his interest means to her. “You make me feel like someone is proud of me, and...and I never realized how much I wanted that.”

<<I am proud of you,>> he signs. <<You are incredible.>>

Lotus leans forward and affectionately bumps her forehead against Ivan’s shoulder. 

She then pulls back, and continues her stream-of-consciousness list of things she likes about Ivan. “I like that when you get home from work, you kiss me, even if I’m barely awake.” She smiles. “I like kissing you.” She presses her lips against his, then nips lightly at his lower lip.

“Hmm,” she hums. “I like how you look in sweaters. You look hot in sweaters. You should wear more sweaters, babe. And button-ups, with the sleeves rolled up. That’s hot too.” she traces her finger up his forearm. “And I like your muscles, and...I like when you get silly when we go ice skating.” The thought of him chasing her around the ice with a playful grin makes her smile to herself. 

“Hmm...I like when you leave me notes in Russian for me to translate. I like your eyes,” she says, as she looks up and her gaze meets his. “Did I already say that? You have pretty eyes.”

Lotus leans into him, hiding her face against his shoulder as she wraps her arms around his neck. He winds his arm around her back and pulls her closer. Her mind is occupied by thoughts of Ivan, and for a couple minutes, she’s quiet. Then, she pulls back as far as she can while still having her arms around his neck, so she can look at him as she talks. 

“There’s this thing you do sometimes - when you’re happy, I think - that I love. You...you do a little wiggle that makes me think of a happy puppy.” She mimics the movement. “That’s why I started calling you puppy. My puppy…,” she kisses his jaw. “I didn’t want to tell you that, because I didn’t want you to stop doing it.” She abruptly pulls back. “You better not stop doing it.”

There’s a twinkle of amusement in Ivan’s eyes. He pulls his hands away from her to sign, <<I don’t think I could if I wanted to.>>

“Good,” she says. “Because if you do stop, I will never forgive you.” 

 Ivan smiles and brushes hair out of Lotus’s face, then kisses her. 

“I love you,” she says again. 

<<I love you, too.>>

“I’m not done telling you what I like about you,” she says. Ivan wraps his arms around her middle and listens quietly as she continues her rambling.

--

With a laundry basket propped against her hip, Lotus goes through each room in the apartment, collecting towels and linens to be washed. She can’t remember the last time that the folded blanket that’s draped over the back of the couch was washed, which as far as she’s concerned, means it’s been too long. As she reaches for the blanket, Ivan looks up from his video game. It’s a game with guns and shooting; something she’s not interested in.

Ivan pulls off his headphones, letting them hang around his neck, and looks at her expectantly.

“What?” she asks, as she shoves the blanket into the basket.

He balances the controller on his knee, then signs, <<Are you coming to sit with me?>>

She smiles, feeling a rush of affection for him. With a teasing tone, she says, “You’re so needy.”

The way Ivan looks at her, his gray eyes soft and wide, is reminiscent of a sad dog begging for food. She knows he’s not consciously looking like a lost puppy; it’s effective regardless. She’d been thinking about joining him once she finished the laundry, but that look fully convinces her. She leans over the back of the couch and kisses his cheek.

“Yeah, I will in a few minutes, Puppy. Let me start this load of laundry.”

Once the washer is running and filling the apartment with a dull background noise, Lotus settles on the couch beside Ivan and sets her weekly planner on her lap. She uncaps her pen, intending to strike out tasks on her To Do list, but her attention is captured by the T.V. screen. Ivan’s headphones rest on the coffee table in front of him, and the game he’s playing is different than the game with guns that he’d been playing before. She watches as Ivan’s character passes several idle characters.

Confused, she asks, “Why aren’t you talking to them?”

He looks at her and cocks his head to the side, then shrugs. 

“Aren’t you supposed to talk to them?” she asks. “Why else would they be there?”

Ivan looks back at the T.V., and his character approaches a man standing alone.

“No, wait,” Lotus says. “You skipped so many people. You have to go back and talk to them first.” She recaps her pen and sets it and her planner on the coffee table. Scooting closer to Ivan, she leans against him.

Ivan looks at her and kisses her temple. His smile is amused, though Lotus isn’t sure why.

“What?” she asks, feeling like she’s missing the joke.

He just shakes his head, still smiling.

--

The sound of a key in the lock startles Lotus, making her jump, and she reflexively looks to the door. She was lost in the pages of her book, her mind completely occupied by fictional characters and their journey. As the lock turns, Lotus glances at the clock. She’d lost track of time; it’s well into the early hours of the morning, late enough that Ivan has finished his shift and returned home. As he opens the door, Lotus marks her page and places the book on the coffee table.

Lotus smiles as Ivan enters the apartment and steps out of his shoes.

“Hey, how was work?” she asks, stretching her arms above her head. She’s been sitting still for too long. She tosses back the blanket that covers her legs, inviting Ivan to join her on the couch. 

Ivan says nothing, just crosses the room and flops onto the couch, resting between Lotus’s legs and hiding his face against her chest. She runs her hands over the back of his head, her fingers moving through his buzzed hair.

“That bad, huh?”

His groan is silent, but she can feel the vibrations of it against her. She runs her nails over his scalp and gives him a few moments to relax.

“You okay, honeybee?” she asks. She trails her thumb along his jawline and tilts her head, trying to get a better look at him. 

He sighs, his breath warm against her, and turns his body so he’s leaning against the back of the couch, but still partially on top of her.

Looking up at her, he signs, <<Drunk people are annoying and stupid.>>

Lotus smiles. Ivan isn’t someone who complains. The fact that they’ve reached a point where he���ll express his annoyances and complaints to her makes her feel warm inside. She puts her hand against his cheek and asks, “Wanna tell me about it?”

He closes his eyes and leans into her touch before signing, <<Tomorrow. Now, sleep.>>

“Okay, but not on the couch,” she says. 

Lotus knows he could fall asleep anywhere, but she would much rather they sleep in bed. She’s more likely to fall asleep and stay asleep for at least a few hours in bed than she is on the couch. Ivan stands and stretches, reaching his arms up, and she notices dried blood on his skin and clothes.

“You have blood on you,” she says.

<<Not my blood,>> he shrugs. Lotus looks at him, her expression blank. Ivan glances down at himself and back at her, then signs, <<Shower, then sleep.>>

“You better,” she says. 

When he gets out of the shower, Lotus is already snuggled in bed. She looks up as he pulls back the covers to lie beside her. As he gets comfortable, she curls against him, wrapping her arm around his middle and draping her leg over his. Sleepily, he kisses Lotus’s forehead, and minutes later, he’s asleep. 

Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio Interview: Fo Sho

Photo by Francis A Willey

BY JORDAN MAINZER

No album from 2021 so far has me anticipating the return of live music more than Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio’s (DLO3, for the insiders) I Told You So (Colemine Records). The band’s second full-length expands upon their first LP Close But No Cigar in all the best ways: propulsive grooves, soulful moods, and an active imagination. Opener “Hole In One” introduces all the elements--funky, prickly guitar lines, confident drumming, and soulful organ--before first single and second track “Call Your Mom” and third track “Girly Face” reveal a gentler kind of sway without losing any of the sharpness. After “From The Streets” slows things down even more with a lurching rhythm and trailing reverb, the album turns it up a notch again with “Fo Sho” and “Aces”, upbeat struts with guitar and drum solos. In between that and the Stax-inspired closer “I Don’t Know” are perhaps the album’s two best tracks: a remarkably faithful, emotive cover of George Michael’s “Careless Whisper” and “Right Place, Right Time”, a solo-laden jam that begins with spontaneous studio chatter embracing the chaos of live recording. Moreover, the album contains all the elements of and is almost structured like a terrific live set, with ample virtuosic dynamism and ideal pacing.

The band on I Told You So is founding members Lamarr, on organ, and Jimmy James, on guitar, with drummer Grant Schroff (The Polyrhythmics) filling in for what was at the time a permanent drummer to be named later. (Schroff went on a European tour with DLO3 right before the recording of this album, so they decided to go with him.) Since then, drummer Dan Weiss has entered the fold; he joined as a permanent drummer last year and even toured a little bit in Canada and Montana before COVID-19 abruptly ended the tour. But while the drummers have rotated, it’s James’ guitar and especially Lamarr’s organ that have remained the foundation of DLO3, one that gives me confidence they could switch drummers every time and still one-up themselves.

I spoke with Lamarr earlier this year from his home in Spokane, WA about the various releases under the DLO3 belt (two albums and singles/live releases) as well as working virtually with a new drummer, Colemine Records, and Chick Corea (who passed away right before our conversation). Read our conversation below, edited for length and clarity.

Since I Left You: What about I Told You So is unique as compared to anything else you’ve ever released under this trio?

Delvon Lamarr: We have more musical influences in I Told You So. The reason why Close But No Cigar felt kind of reserved--we weren’t getting too deep into it--was because it was unplanned. We didn’t even have music to record at the time. But this one features more diverse musical influences of ours. “From The Streets” has that hip hop, Ohio Players feel. “Careless Whisper”--you never hear an an organ trio play that. It digs deeper into our musical knowledge.

SILY: What was the process for composing and arranging these tracks? How much improvisation was there?

DL: It’s like 90% improvisational. Pre-pandemic, we toured a lot, so we hardly ever had a chance to get in a room and write music. Plus, we all live pretty far away from each other. We basically write music during soundchecks, and when we’re on the road, we come up with these ideas and put them together. Usually, we write these melodies, and things like that, but outside of the melody, the solo areas are pretty much gloves off. Whatever happens happens. One of the things we’re known for is intertwining music with other music, different genres of music within the one song. It keeps the music fresh and keeps people engaged. It’s a free for all for most of it. [laughs]

SILY: There’s a good balance on here of songs where everyone has equal weight versus songs really led by one person or instrument. Was it important for you to achieve that balance across the whole album, or did it just end up naturally like that?

DL: It’s just how it ended up. When we write music, we pretty much write grooves. Take “Call Your Mom”: That whole song was built around Jimmy’s guitar riff, so that is the melody. When we wrote that, we actually wrote it on the road during soundcheck. I think it just naturally happens. Whatever instrument we think sounds good, we’ll play that melody.

SILY: Has Dan been learning the tracks?

DL: Oh yeah. We’ve been writing music together. Right now, we multi-track our ideas or sing it into a phone and try to build it that way. A lot of these new tunes we haven’t actually played, because we can’t get in the same room, so we just go for it, man.

SILY: What about “Call Your Mom” and “Careless Whisper” made you want to release them as singles?

DL: That was a decision between my wife [and manager Amy Novo] and Colemine Records. I probably would’ve chosen “Call Your Mom”, too. It has a certain feel and groove to it, man. [laughs] “Careless Whisper” is funny, too, because I wasn’t even gonna record that tune. My wife really likes when we play it--she requests it at the end of shows. She convinced us to record that. I was like, “Nobody wants to hear ‘Careless Whisper’ by an organ trio.” She said, “Dude, just do it, it’s gonna be really good.” We did it, and I was wrong. The reception from that tune has been pretty amazing, actually. I thank her. She’s the reason we recorded it.

SILY: You play a lot of covers live--on the KEXP release, you did “Move On Up”, and last year, you released a cover of “Inner City Blues”. What’s your general approach to covers: Be faithful, or put your own spin on it?

DL: The spin of playing a cover tune just happens naturally. Take “Careless Whisper”: We try to play it like the recording, like the original. I work on phrasing the melodies like George Michael sings it. The way we end up doing that automatically puts a certain feel to it that naturally happens. I feel that way about all of them, even when we do “Move On Up”. I play the melody like Curtis Mayfield sang it. I try to get all of his nuances.

SILY: “Fo Sho” was released on the same single as “Inner City Blues”. Why didn’t you include “Inner City Blues” on the record? Is two covers too many?

DL: Not at all. Close But No Cigar had 4 covers on it.

SILY: That’s true.

DL: We just had a lot of original music we wanted to get out. I Told You So is part of a session that had 27-28 songs recorded. We have another album or two, or an album and a couple 45s worth of music just in that recording alone. We’ve done more recording since then, so we have more music in the can right now. We just wanted to get original tunes out. We did record some more covers that will be out later on, either as 45s or something else.

SILY: The record’s really crisp, but on “From The Streets”, the trailing reverb of the guitar is a hazy contrast to the rest of the album. Can you talk about that track?

DL: The history of that track--basically, I grew up in the streets. I was a rough child. [laughs] I had that music in my head that reminded me of my childhood of running the streets. When we recorded that, you never really hear an organist in an organ trio play a bass line. I don’t play chords in that tune at all. A lot of that magic is Jimmy James. He doesn’t use guitar effects. I actually recently got him to use a wah in a show, and it took him five years to do that. He’s straight guitar and amp. He’s always been that guitar player. That tone, that sound, that reverb is just him and his amp.

SILY: Was that actual studio chatter at the beginning of “Right Place Right Time”?

DL: [laughs] I was wondering when somebody was gonna ask me about that. The song we recorded before, we played the whole thing start to finish, absolutely perfect, without a single flaw. Grant, maybe the last four or five seconds, completely bites it. We were playing, and he forgot to do a break right at the end and kept playing, so it was an unusable take, so he screamed, “Fuuuuuuuuck! Fuuuuuuck!” That’s what we were referencing at the front of it. Jimmy James was like, “Remember that time you were like, ‘Fuuuuuuuuck,’ and then I started copying Jimmy.” It was pretty funny. We listened back to it, and my wife was like, “We gotta leave that in there.”

SILY: Is there an extra guitar on that track?

DL: There is. The guitar player from the Polyrhythmics, Ben Bloom. It’s funny how that worked, because he came to see Jason [Gray], our studio engineer, and I asked him whether he had his guitar with him, and he did, so I said, “Grab it, let’s record something!” He said, “I got about 20 minutes, I gotta be somewhere.” I just started messing around with this bass line, and everything started falling into place. We did two takes of that song. Over about 15 minutes, we wrote that entire song and recorded it. At first, it was just one quick bass line, like a short bass line that I had the idea for, and we started building on it. Ben came in, put his magic on it, and it was a wrap, man. I love that solo, too. It’s dope.

SILY: What’s the story behind the record title?

DL: When our original drummer left the band, people were worried about the sound of Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio, because he had such a distinct style of playing. People assumed we’d sound different. I kept telling people, “As long as the music is good, people are gonna like it. It might feel different, but it’s gonna feel good and sound good.” That’s why I called the album I Told You So. Because it sounds good!

SILY: What about the album art?

DL: People are always wondering what I’m doing on the front of that album. I was shadowboxing--I used to be a boxer in my youth. We were taking photos in Cincinnati, and it was one of the photos everybody liked.

SILY: What does it mean to you to be on a label like Colemine Records, diverse in terms of genres but a wholly old school vibe.

DL: Our relationship is really good. They’re cool cats, man. It’s truly an honor to be a part of what they do. Since we’ve been with that label, I’ve met a lot of the artists on that label. It’s a gift to be a part of what they do. One of the big reasons I really like them is that it’s managed by two brothers that run it who are just normal dudes. They ain’t corporate. I talk to them like we talk to each other. It’s like family. I really respect these guys and what they do. It’s amazing being a part of what they do.

SILY: For sure.

DL: That’s “Fo Sho”. Just kidding.

SILY: Are you planning on doing any live streams or socially distant shows down the line, or are you waiting for things to calm down more?

DL: We’ve done a few live streams so far. We have more coming up. We’re working on some stuff. A lot of the tours we had scheduled last year got rescheduled to this year, so we’re seeing what happens, but right now, we’re still trying to book shows and see if it can be done safely. If it ain’t gonna be safe, we’re not gonna do it. We’re just hanging in there still, trying to keep things on the books. 

SILY: What else is next for the Trio?

DL: We’re working on a new project that we’re gonna call DLO3 and Friends. Basically, Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio is gonna be the basis for the band but we’re gonna incorporate musicians we’ve met on the road all over the world that we’ve liked and start collaborating with people. We just went in the studio a couple weeks ago and laid the foundation. It’s comin!

SILY: Anything you’ve been listening to, watching, or reading lately that’s caught your attention?

DL: I’ve been back in my old school traditional swinging jazz, Kenny Dorham, Johnny Griffin, Coltrane, Miles, all those guys. I was originally a straight up swinging bebop player and haven’t been able to do that in a while.

SILY: Speaking of Miles, did you hear that Chick Corea passed away?

DL: I did. That was a pretty sad moment. We have the same booking agent. I never got to meet him. I was hoping to. 

SILY: Do you have a favorite piece or recording of his?

DL: Yes. The Blue Mitchell album The Thing To Do. I remember listening to it; Chick was burning on it. One of the other things I realized on that album was how high pitched Al Foster’s toms are. But yeah: huge loss for the scene.

SILY: Anything else I didn’t ask about you want to say?

DL: Support your local record stores. There may or may not still be our limited pink vinyl at your local store, since those were only sold at record stores. Support your local record stores and local music.

I Told You So by Delvon Lamarr Organ Trio

Henlo! Could you do a yandere bts reaction where their crush/love interest think theyre dating or in love with someone else so they back off and end up falling for another person?

OCTOBER DAYS  ━ YANDERE BTS REACTION*:･。.

WARNING - This is a yandere au, meaning the following may be triggering to some viewers.  I am not trying to discriminate the boys in any way, this is for entertainment purposes. Viewer discretion is advised!!!

Thank you for requesting, sweetheart!

P.S this reaction was entirely inspired by my nostalgia for October 😬

KIM SEOKJIN

━━━ The chilling, October wind dances with Jin as he tracks through the empty woods. Dead leaves and twigs crunch under his boots as he hurries to the overlook to meet you there. He must hurry, he must hurry. Jin cannot waste a single, living, breathing second before declaring his eternal love for you. His clothes are painted with crimson blood. Not his, but rather the boy who claimed to be your lover. Jin’s got a stern facade, the blood adding onto everything intimidating about it, but you must look in his eyes. He’s got love in his eyes. Soft, sweet, equivalent to the doe-eyed fawn’s you see in the awakening of spring. Entirely pure.

You sit at the edge, looking over the town in all your glory. You radiate a tranquil aura; so calm but yet, so blissfully excellent, in a certain matter. Jin can’t help but marvel at the way you sit so calmly in the milky way of your own galaxy. You hear the flutter of footsteps behind you, quickly turning only to meet with horror. Like petals falling gracefully of a flower, only to turn to ash once they meet the surface. There’s heartbreaking beauty in your expression, but Jin mustn’t stay silent now. He must scream from the rooftops of his infatuation for you, his everything, his childhood best friend, his one and only lover.

“You have my heart, Y/N. You always have… But you’ve given yours to some filthy heathen who surely does not deserve a single second in your presence… Y/N, please. Please let me spend every waking moment in your presence, please let me show you how strong and dominant but soft and sensitive my devotion for you is… Please love me the way I love you so…”

MIN YOONGI

━━━ This new school year was supposed to begin differently; perfectly. Yoongi would gain confidence and finally, find the privilege to be held in your arms, but fate had other plans for him and left him beaten bloody in the parking lot, cold, October wind against his exposed skin. Memories now begin to prance and frolic in his head. His mind is filled to the brim of screaming turned to white noise and the sight of distorted rage and blood. Yoongi, in a state of blurred fury, attacked your supposed “lover” thinking he could possibly defeat him with his tiny figure.

But, what’s this?

As he awakes to the beeping of a monitor and blinding lights, he can smell the sickeningly sweet stench of honeysuckle, the musk immediately calming him from his rage-filled mind. Like early June air, he inhales the scent and exhales fluttering heartbeats and rosy cheeks. The lights, which were once as blinding as the sun, simmer down and he can see a figure sitting before him. And once Yoongi regains complete consciousness, he can finally make out the person before him. It’s you. His midnight muse, his golden sun, his lovelorn daydream, his Y/N. You gently brush his hair with the tips of your fingers, lulling him into an empty trance with your touch and delicate reassurance, and Yoongi forgets what it means to breathe.

“Y/N… Y/N… I-I’m sorry. I-I-… I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you… I-I love you- I love you so much!!”

JUNG HOSEOK

━━━ All Hoseok ever truly desired was to feel your seraphic touch in the dead of nightfall and to taste the sweet, sweet nectarine of your kiss. He desires to inhale your scent of honey and lavender and to watch as your beaming smile challenges the light of a million stars. All Hoseok truly ever desired was you. But this demon has taken your soul and kept it locked in a cage for his amusement. Hoseok watches and questions, what is this feeling? It’s like pomegranate seeds stuck in his teeth! Red like the petal of a rose but sharp as its thorns. It’s like a rot has formed in the pit of his stomach, slowly spreading over time and killing him with ease. For the first time in such a long time, Hoseok feels pain.

Step after step, Hoseok must run. Run, run, run until these sins he has committed can melt. Moonlight brightens up the empty road before him and the chirping of the crickets turn to white noise. Everything turns so hazy in the light glimmer of the October fog; everything turns fluorescent in this velvet night. Reliving the moment, he can see the eyes of your lover lose their light as they consume the antifreeze that was hidden in the pie that Hoseok baked out of “the goodness of his heart.” He remembers the way they seized and the guttural sounds of their choking and cringes at the inhuman thought. Hoseok giggled manically during the process but now feels reality settle deep within his aching chest. Sweat forms on his forehead, his knees grow weak, his breathing becomes increasingly rapid as he questions over and over again, what have I done?

“Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N!!! I need my Y/N!! God, I feel like I’m dying!! Where did you go…!!? Please don’t leave… I’m sorry for what I did, please!!!”

KIM NAMJOON

━━━ There’s a garden that rests in Namjoon’s heart. All fluttering birds and butterflies and the swaying of trees and flower petals in the wind. Fluffy grass and fluorescent sunbeams, entirely a place of magic within his chest. There are fruit and vegetables littered around, dusted with the dirt and there are fairies that linger and sing all around the isolated area. Even though you’re late into October, summer lasts for eternity in this haven. This seraphic haven may be a fairytale of some sort or even just a metaphor for the sweet shock you bring to his heartbeat, but this eternal garden is what keeps him alive. 

But now, someone is trying to take this paradise away from him.

He must seek revenge for the hellion that robbed him of his happiness, no matter the circumstances! But Namjoon can’t seem to pull you two apart. He could drown you out in 15,000 love potions and the elixir still wouldn’t drive your attention away from that heathen! Resent cradles his heart and he can feel the garden inside him. Namjoon is so utterly desperate to bring an end to this torment! Finally picking himself up from the dirt, he regains his logic and musters up the perfect plan. He kills an innocent. A girl that lived in the same apartment complex as your lover, then planting their DNA all across the crime scene and the girl’s limbs. Namjoon then watches in amusement as he’s pulled from your arms in handcuffs, giggling once hearing his distressed screams. The fairies sing, the wind tousles with the grown leaves and these gray clouds have finally departed. His garden is finally healthy. He can finally be yours.

“Oh, Y/N… I can’t wait to feel your arms around me. But, I must wait. I can’t be greedy… This plan must work out before you can finally call me yours~…”

PARK JIMIN

━━━ How could you neglect an angel crafted from the purity of the clouds? Deny someone with a heart made of glass but an infatuation made from stone? You interlock your hands with your newfound lover in the October wind and turn oblivious to the teary eyes burning wounds into the boy. Jimin is livid, shaking with such a resentful force in his stance with a tear running down his pink cheek, seen so profoundly stuck in this cold embrace of anger that even the strangers who pass by seem to shutter into submission under his facade. They don’t matter, though, only you do.

Jimin is so genuinely infatuated with you. So, so terribly in love with you that he’d let you shred his fragile heart to bits and pieces, then pick them up and put the fragments directly back into your palm. He shows up at your window, practically banging with such force that could shatter it. You answer, worry vivid in your expression as you open the window, letting the October air and broken boy sink into the room. Jimin now lies on your bedroom floor, remnants of a broken heart in his chest and desperate begs ghosting his lips with permanent broken sobs.

“W-W-Why him, Y/N? Why did you choose him? Was I-I not good enough or-..? I-I think of suicide when you touch him like that; when you touch him the way you should be touching me… It hurts, Y/N, it hurts! Just, please… Please make it stop…! Please hold me and make it all stop…!”

KIM TAEHYUNG

━━━ Every fleeting moment spent in your presence is entirely ethereal. Those brief seconds of eye contact and those several times you bumped shoulders, mumbling an apology to the teen bring warmth to his soul. Taehyung clenches those memories in his fist, inhaling the scent, wishing it was your musk that smells of petals and early June wind instead. Taehyung sighs heavenly inhaling the fragrance of a sweater of yours, then casting his eyes to the assortment of polaroids of your face that holds the elegance of shooting stars and diamonds. And as much euphoria this brings to Taehyung, there’s that small, bitter piece inside him that craves more.

He needs to be held by you, to feel to rose petals that make up of your skin. He needs to feel your attention, to feel the sunbeams kiss against his skin whilst your eyes made up entirely of stardust gaze into his. But, he can’t. 

Some other boy; a boy much better than him has been granted the holy privilege of being called yours. So now, Taehyung sits under the golden light on his desk, the musk of nightfall brushing against his skin, writing in red ink with tears falling down his cheeks. He resorts to writing anonymous letters, pouring his soul into each word but so desperately craves to cut open his chest, pull out his heart and place it in your delicate palms. But his insecurities overpower him, and he cannot act on anything besides writing and breathing in your sweater, trying so desperately to calm him of his raging emotions while tears drench the paper in front of him.

“My dear Y/N, Was I not enough? The thought of seeing you touch him once more haunts every breath I take and it brings me to tears every time. My heart has been torn, my skin’s been flawed with scars and I’m choking on blood. This lovelorn relationship you and I have is exhausting, but I will fight through. For you, I must fight through.

Sincerely, Your One and Only Lover, Taehyung.”

JEON JUNGKOOK

━━━ The trees dance, the wind whistles and the moon shines. The evening twilight was just like any other night, soft, peaceful, glorious, but there’s a sudden shift in the October air. This shift is so horrifying that the wolves thirsty for blood scurry away. You see, Jungkook has met with the cracking conclusion that he truly never mattered to you, seeing as you benefit from that parasite that’s constantly giving you affection. Jungkook thrashes, screams and chucks items of all sorts around his room, shouting profanities and such with tears flowing down his cheeks. All Jungkook ever truly desired was to feel your touch of July as he sinks into a deep slumber, or to feel your lips pressed against his cheek during the pearly sunrise on an early spring morning.

He so desperately craves to spill every feeling buried deep within him, but he can’t.

Jungkook always held his head high and had faith in every tomorrow for you to be his, but he’s been stained by heartbreak. He has opened his heart for you like a ruby rose but you’ve crumbled the petals to ashes. He’s given you a light and screams for you to follow, yet you follow the fog of darkness when it whispers in your ear. Yet, you still let that cretin drape upon you, letting him cover your golden aura with his own. And as Jungkook sits on the edge of his bed, head in hands with cracked sobs echoing in the room, he has a sudden revelation. He has been wounded, bleeding right from his shattered heart, and the only anecdote for this eternal hell within his own mind was to pay with blood. Jungkook needs that man’s blood and he needs it now!

“You filthy, disgusting heathen! How dare you touch them with those dirty hands of yours…!? The way y-you just love them with ease fills me with jealousy and it gets so hard to breathe and I-I just- I can’t fucking take it anymore…! I need you dead so these thoughts can finally just leave me alone…”

Healer of My Heart

Pairing: Bruce Banner x Avenger!Healer!Reader

Summary: Bruce’s injuries may be irreversible to even the most advanced technology, but not if you have anything to say about it. 

Warnings: <<*ENDGAME SPOILERS*>> feels, slight angst

Word Count: 3105

Request:@no1brucebannerfangirl requested “Can I suggest a Bruce Banner x Reader where the reader has healing powers and is able to repair Bruce’s arm? ‘Cuz I heard that his arm injury is permanent and THAT’S NOT OKAY!”

A/N: Since Reader is a healer, I took the liberty of changing a few extra canon things! Hope you enjoy it hon!

You all stood in silence - it was done. The stones were all in place, and it was time for someone to wear it. You were the first to shakily reach for the Iron Gauntlet, but several hands grabbed at you, pulling you away from the box.

"It should be me," you snapped. "My powers… we've seen what it did to Thanos, and Rocket told us what happened when the guardians wielded one stone. Who knows what it would do to a mortal? My advanced healing might be able to handle it.

"Besides, compared to all of you, I'm the most expendable. You're Earth's mightiest heroes. I'm a healer. The world doesn't depend on my existence like it does all of yours."

They looked uneasy - you made a pretty solid argument about your powers, but you were too precious to all of them. You may have been 'just a healer,' but you had made them each a better person, and you really held the team together in tough times. Bruce was the first to speak up.

"You can't do this Y/N, we won't let you. Me least of all. Besides, the gamma, it's like… it’s like I was made for this."

He nodded to someone behind you, and iron-clad arms circled you waist, pulling you back.

"No. No! Let me go, Tony, let me go!" You fought against his hold and almost broke away, but Steve caught you and caged you into his chest, immobilizing you.

"Steve. Steve let me go. Please! It has to be me. Not him, please no!"

You beat against his chest with your fists and tried to escape his hold, but it was useless. Steve looked down at you with a remorseful look as he shook his head.

"I'm sorry, Y/N, I really am. But Banner's right. And it's his decision." Steve nodded to Bruce, and you struggled even harder as he reached for the Iron Gauntlet.

Bruce smiled sadly at you and breathed, "It'll be okay. Let me do this."

Traitorous tears escaped your eyes as Tony covered the three of you with his holo-nano shield. A tense moment as the gauntlet expanded, an ethereal and foreboding glow, and then Bruce was yelling in agony as a myriad of colors and power visibly flowed through his veins. You clamped your hands over your mouth to contain your own screams. Steve was trying to cover you view of Bruce, but you couldn't look away.

It should have been you.

> > > > > > >

A metallic snap, and the air was suddenly lighter. Bruce was splayed out, right arm a charred, smoking mess. Tony's suit was administering a suture spray to suppress the damage already done, but you knew it wouldn't be enough. You ripped away from Steve's loosened grip and stumbled forwards, dropping to your knees at Bruce's side.

"Move. Move!" You nudged Tony out of the way and cradled Bruce's face, your hand barely covering the curve of his jaw, but his groans subsided and he leaned into your hand nonetheless. You gingerly placed your other hand on his injured arm, letting your powers take over.

Bruce let out a relieved breath as the charred and cracked skin of his arm started to very slowly knit together, so slowly it was nearly imperceptible. You could see the muscle and sinew slowly rebuilding itself beneath the charred mess, the semi-healed skin turning from ashy gray to a sickly green.

Whew. It was working. You slumped a little, leaning to hug Bruce as you continued to heal his arm. It was taking more of your energy than you had anticipated, and the process was much too slow for your liking. The skin was still damaged, his arm immobile and emaciated as you crumpled onto his chest.. God, you were tired.

Bruce's left hand gently caressed your head, the sight and feel slightly comical due to his hulking size. Heh, you were really going loopy if you were making horrible puns.

Your hearing was muffled, and you could barely make out Bruce's voice saying, "Y/N, please stop. You're wearing yourself out. I'll be fine, I promise."

You tried to respond, you really did, but the words just wouldn't form on your tongue. Your mouth was too tired, brain a muddied mess. A hazy voice pierced your thoughts.

"Guys, I think it worked." Scott Lang's disbelieving laughter was heard in the background, scarcely leaving his lips before the air vibrated and the building shook, suddenly exploding the space around you.

Panic filled you as the shock-wave sent everyone careening in different directions. The floor gave way beneath you, plummeting you into unknown depths. The mix of emotions and exhaustion you were experiencing, with the sudden adrenaline and panic, was too much for your over-stimulated body and you blacked out as you and Bruce fell into the darkness.

> > > > > > >

Soft. But… firm? You opened your eyes with a groan, seeing nothing but darkness. Your body hummed with nervous energy, exhausted but alert. A rattling cough, a strained groan, the shifting of metal and concrete. Your ears were suddenly assaulted with a symphony of sounds.

Your eyes soon adjusted, and you saw Bruce straining to hold up a giant slab of concrete that threatened to crush you both. Gasping, you scrambled to move, but you were pinned to the spot.

"No Y/N, don't move," Bruce grunted out the words, and you heeded the warning.

Taking stock of your surroundings, you were filled with dread at the sight of the obliterated building. How were you even alive after an explosion like that? The answer - Bruce. His body was shielding yours, half smothering you as he struggled to both keep you safe, and to hold up the concrete.

"Bruce, what happened?" Your hushed whisper seemed loud in the space between dripping water and crumbling foundation.

"Explosion. Barely managed to save you," he grunted again, shifting to stabilize his grip.

"Okay. Okay. Oh god, I hope the team is okay. We're gonna be okay, right? We have to be." You rambled hysterically as you looked around, trying to shut yourself up, but your mouth kept moving without your consent.

"Maybe… maybe I can call for help. Somebody will come, right? Those bastards are too stubborn to die. Oh god, please don't let them be dead. This isn't helping."

Bruce let out a strained chuckle, "No, no it's not helping, but I'm just glad it's you I'm trapped with. Even in an impossible situation, you can make me laugh.”

"Very touching, but could you bozos stop yapping and help me out from under here?"

Rocket's pained voice echoed in the space around you. Another groan, and you heard Rhodey's voice ring out, "I got you buddy, just hold still."

You heard a metallic clang, Rocket's relieved sigh, and the thud of more falling concrete.

"Rocket? Rhodey? You guys okay?"

"Yeah Y/N, we're fine now. You and Banner okay? Keep talking so we can find you."

"Oh thank goodness. Rhodey, be careful. We're stuck, and the area's unstable. Is anyone else around?"

Rhodey's voice grew closer, "No, just us, as far as I can tell. Hang tight, we're coming to you."

"Wow. Okay. We're gonna need backup for this."

As they came into view, Bruce snorted and you sassed, "Y'think? We figured we'd just chill out here, maybe have a picnic. Care to join?"

Rocket laughed dryly, "Ha ha. Okay, wise-ass. I'm going to see if anybody else survived."

"No, wait! It's safer to stick together -"

You were cut off by Bruce's shout, curling in on yourself as he suddenly scooped you towards him and strained to hold the concrete up.

"… Hello?"

Nothing had ever sounded so beautiful as Scott's echoing voice.

"Scott! We're over here! Be careful though, everything's unstable."

You saw his miniaturized form navigating the rubble, and you nearly cried when he said, "Oh hey! What's up guys? Here, let me take care of that for you."

In the blink of an eye, Scott was a giant, grabbing the four of you in one hand as he flicked the huge slab of concrete away.

"Okay gang, let's go find the others," Scott's optimism was astounding.

As he carried you all to safety, you started to heal Bruce's arm again. He knew that resistance was futile, so he sat back in Scott's palm and let you do your thing. "This is so weird. I'm used to being the biggest one around here." You just laughed at Bruce's glum face.

The team was soon reunited outside the destroyed compound, the relief short-lived as you now faced Thanos' army.

"Suit up kid, can't leave our super-medic without protection."

You caught the bracelet that Tony had tossed your way - your very own nano tac suit. You grinned and tossed him a lazy salute as you activated it.

> > > > > > >

"On your left."

You were exhausted. Again. But you supposed that running around trying to heal your wounded teammates would do that to a girl.  As you had been healing Tony's concussion, you had looked around to see Steve standing alone against Thanos and his entire army.

So yeah, when you heard Sam's voice over the comms, you choked back a sob of relief. They were back.

After Steve's triumphant "Avengers, assemble" call to arms, it was chaos. You darted around trying to heal and patch up as many people as you could. There were so many allies on the battlefield, it was so hard to keep track of what was happening. You flitted around, doing your best to heal the injured and moved on to the next person. The battle was still raging when you saw it - Tony and Thanos in a clearing. You raced towards them with an unnatural speed.

There was a small shock-wave when Tony snapped his fingers.

"Stupid, dramatic bastard," you sobbed as you fell at his side, his vacant stare crushing your heart.

"C'mon Tony, stay with me. We need you, the world needs you," You slammed your hands against his chest, draining all your energy just to heal his deteriorating heart. One last effort - "Morgan needs you."

With those words, you pushed your remaining energy into healing him, and you briefly heard, "Kid?" before your vision faded.

> > > > > > >

Ugh. Everything hurt. Newly conscious with eyes still closed, you tried to gather your bearings. What the hell had happened? Oh. Right. You had almost killed yourself trying to save Tony… Tony! Your eyes flew open and you saw yourself in a sterile-looking, but comfortably homey, room with a sleeping Bruce at your bedside.

You put your hand over his large one resting on the bed, and promptly fell asleep again.

You woke days later, feeling a lot better. Each member of the team visited you and caught you up on what had happened after the battle with Thanos. The others came and went, but Bruce remained a constant.

"So let me get this straight… we won?"

"Yep."

"And Thanos and his goons dusted?"

"That's correct."

"And Tony's okay?"

"Well, I wouldn't say okay, exactly, but he's alive thanks to you. He's on the mend."

"Oh thank goodness. Which brings me to my next question. We're in…?"

"Wakanda."

"And I almost died."

"Yes. Which I'm still pretty pissed about."

"Hey! I couldn't let Morgan lose her dad."

"And that's why I adore you, but I can't stand to lose anyone else. Especially not you."

"… I'm sorry about Nat. I know you two used to  be close," your voice softened and you fiddled with the blanket covering you. "I miss her, Bruce."

He gently massaged your hand, lost in his thoughts now. "I miss her too, Y/N. I really did try to bring her back."

> > > > > > >

"And how's my injured healer doing?"

You smiled at the young girl that walked in. "Shuri! Well, I'm still alive, thanks to you. A little queasy, but it'll pass. How's Tony doing?"

"Stark is progressing well. You did the most important part and saved his heart, the rest is manageable. He should wake soon." Shuri talked as she scanned your body with her kimoyo beads and studied the data.

"You're healing nicely as well. Try not to use up that healing power until you're fully recovered, hm?" She hummed and looked pointedly at Banner before waving goodbye.

You looked at Bruce in confusion, "What did she mean by that?"

"Hm? Oh nothing, it's nothing," his left hand went from cupping his face, to scratching his neck, then settling at an odd angle on his lap. You noticed his right arm remained immobile.

You narrowed your eyes at him, "You're a terrible liar, Bruce. Tell me."

He sighed and lifted his right sleeve - arm still emaciated and damaged.

"You mean… Shuri couldn't…?"

"No. Despite everything that she tried, the only thing that can even begin to repair it is… well, you."

"Ah. I now understand why she said that."

"Yep."

"Shit. And now all I wanna do is fix it."

"Yeah I thought as much," Bruce only sighed.

> > > 6 Months Later > > > >

"Hold still please."

"It's itchy."

"I haven't even put it on you yet, you big green baby!"

"I meant my arm."

"Yeah well, that's what happens when something takes forever to heal," You eye the sling. "Well, mostly."

"I can't even tie my own tie."

You smile, "And that's why I'm the one tying it for you."

Your fingers continue their work, carefully folding and manipulating the fabric.

"How'd you learn to tie a tie, anyways?" Bruce fidgets until you poke him in the chest pointedly.

You shrugged, "My mom taught me, said I should always know how to do thing 'just in case.' And hey, lookie here, she was right! It's certainly come in handy now."

You pat the perfect half-windsor knot, letting him know you were done. "Ta-da! Lookin' sharp in your suit there, Banner."

"Thank you Y/N. You look beautiful, by the way. "

"Why thank you, Sir Jeffers," you say with a laugh.

"Sir… what?" Bruce just looks confused.

"Eh, it's from a cartoon thing. You ready?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Oh wait! Last minute healing session!"

"Y/N…"

"Hush, it'll only take a minute. Slow as it may be, every little bit gets you closer to normal."

You spent a few minutes channeling your energy into his still-injured arm. It was mostly back to normal, the skin his now-normal green and the muscle mass was almost back to its original state, but still a work in progress.

"Thank you, Y/N." The quiet emotion in Bruce's voice put a lump in your throat.

"You're very welcome, Bruce." You pat his arm and stood up, a little weaker from the healing now.

Brushing your hands together and smoothing out your stylish pant suit, you grinned and said, "Now let's get to our seats, I can't wait to see Pepper's dress!"

Bruce offered you his good arm to escort you out. "Why are they having another wedding, again?"

You took his arm, "Because half our friends were dusted, and the remaining ones had a stick up their ass at the time? Besides, now Morgan and Peter can be the flower children, while Harley is a dashing groomsman! Peter is still a little miffed about that," your laugh was music to his ears, and he couldn't help but smile.

You made it to your seats and sat through the ceremony. It was breathtaking, and you choked up as Tony and Pepper said their vows. Even old man Steve shed a tear and smiled a little wistfully. You had offered to regenerate his cells, but he had declined, saying he'd had enough lifetimes, and it was time to step down. You were a little sad, but you'd understood and respected his choice.

The ceremony ended, and the reception was now in full swing. Tony and Pepper walked up to you and Bruce, hugging you both tightly before Tony quipped, "Hey kid, where's my wedding present?"

"Tony!" You laughed as Pepper smacked him on the back of his head.

"What, saving your life and fixing your arm wasn't enough?" You crossed your arms and stared at him with a raised brow.

"I - I wasn't -"

Your straight face split into a shit-eating grin  at his floundering. "Oh my god, your face! Priceless. You know I'm kidding. What the hell am I supposed to buy a billionaire? I got you the Avenger set of Hot Wheels."

Tony shook his head and Pepper just laughed. He grew serious as he pulled you into a hug and whispered, "I really owe you, kid. You've given me the greatest gift I could ever have asked for." You pulled away, both of you misty eyed, before you shared a parting nod as the newlyweds went to greet others.

Bruce stuck by your side throughout the night, and you eventually ended up on the dancefloor, his good arm wrapped around your waist.

You looked up at Bruce and joked, "I can't believe you made me heal Tony first. We could have been properly dancing."

He smiled sweetly. "You take good care of me. And besides, we'd never be able to dance properly, I'm more than twice your size." He paused, "And I couldn't let Morgan see her dad like that, not if you could help him."

You practically melted from his pure and sweet demeanor.

"And that, dear Bruce, is why I adore you."

Dancing with only one arm was awkward, so you discreetly did the last bit of healing needed on his arm and said, "My feet hurt, can you pick me up please?"

Bruce looked at you a little funnily, but complied with his good arm and held you to his wide chest, you being seated in the crook of his elbow and arms around his neck. You slyly undid the strap to the sling behind his back and let it fall to the ground.

"What the…? Aw man, hold on Y/N, give me a second please." Bruce saw the sling fall and bent to let you down and grab it, but you deliberately 'lost' you balance and fell back.

Bruce gasped and reflexively went to catch you with his right arm, catching and cradling you before you could hit the floor.

"That was stupid," he admonished. "You could have gotten a concussion or -"

You grinned up at his dumbfounded look.

"Cat got your tongue?" you cheekily asked.

"You - you - healed me? Completely?"

"Yep! Now c'mon and put me down, you owe me a proper dance!"

Bruce shook his head and smiled adoringly, "You're really something, you know that?"

"Only for you," you sighed happily. This was it, this was home - in Bruce's arms, surrounded by your crazy makeshift family.

Chance Encounter - Chapter 3

Home for the Holidays 2019 Prompt: Sharing A collaboration by @mdelpin​ and @oryu404​ AO3 | FF.Net | Prev: Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Next: Ch 4

May 12, 2020

5:20 pm

It took a few adaptations to the usual schedule and extracting a promise from Sting to meet them there after work. Still, when Rogue arrived at the community center, both of his sons were fed, washed, and ready for bed, and the list of questions he had failed to prepare for yesterday’s interview was fully drafted on his phone.

The voice recorder was charged and equipped with an SD-card that had plenty of available memory left. The diaper bag contained everything it should and then some, and on top of it all, they arrived more than half an hour before the meeting was supposed to start so he’d have enough time to re-do the interview.

‘The things you can get done with good planning,’ he thought to himself as he wrestled the stroller through the entrance of the building.

Young girls could be heard singing and giggling over upbeat pop tunes. The sounds immediately drew the attention of the twins, especially Kuro, who started fighting against the stroller’s straps so he could lean towards the direction the sounds were coming from. He was still too young to be able to point his fingers, but he made his demands very clear by reaching out and giving a loud, vocal instruction.

“Buuhhh!”

“Sorry Cupcake, I don’t think that’s meant for us,” Rogue responded before turning to the receptionist. “Good evening, I’m here for the Dad’s Club. Could you please tell me where I can find its meeting room?”

The receptionist’s head snapped up at his voice. She looked frazzled, very much like someone who wasn’t having a good day, but just as she was about to speak, Haku made a noise that made her peer into the stroller.

“Oh my goodness, aren’t they sweet?” The receptionist made silly faces at the twins as Rogue watched with mild amusement. She finally looked back up at Rogue, her lips curled into a friendly smile, a welcome change from her previous dour expression.

“The Dad’s Club meetings are held in the daycare center, but that space is currently being used for rehearsals by a dance group. Unfortunately, the school holidays have led to the daycare center being double-booked, but the club meeting is still scheduled to take place as soon as possible.”

“I see. Do Mr. Conbolt and Mr. Clive happen to be present already?” Rogue asked, feeling discomfort settle in the pit of his stomach at the name Clive alone, “I’m supposed to meet them ahead of the club, but maybe I got here a little too early.”

Rogue startled as the doors of the community center suddenly slammed shut behind him. He looked into the stroller quickly to make sure the twins hadn’t been frightened, but it seemed as if they were still focused on the music coming from the daycare center.

He turned around only to see Macao and Gildarts walking towards him, arms laden with several supermarket bags.

“You bought too much food again,” Macao Conbolt complained, “What are we supposed to do with all this?”

“Stop worrying so much, someone will eat them, it’s a bunch of guys right?” Gildarts shrugged off Macao’s displeasure, “Seriously, I could probably eat all this on my own.”

They hadn’t seen Rogue yet, too intent on their bickering to notice anything around them. Soon they had reached the receptionist’s desk.

“Is that why you were trying to buy the booze rather than the juice boxes I asked for?” Macao challenged, and Gildarts flashed him a careless grin while simultaneously grabbing a rose from one of the bags.

“Running this club has aged you, Macao, you’ll never find a good woman this way,” Gildarts handed the rose over to the receptionist who could only gawk at it and then at Gildarts. A look that Rogue recognized well from hanging around the man when he was younger, “Wouldn’t you agree, Gladys?”

“When did you even get a rose?” Macao looked inside the remaining bags presumably to check for any additional contraband.

“A man is always ready,” Gildarts shrugged before once again, dazzling poor Gladys with his winning smile.

Rogue found himself feeling sorry for the receptionist, Gildarts was unlike anyone else Rogue had ever met. He was big, loud, and brash, but he could also be incredibly charming and fun.

Once, he’d been like an uncle to him. A rather annoying uncle that was always involving himself where he didn’t belong. Before he had much chance to think about the man, the receptionist ratted him out, probably to divert attention away from her.

“Uhm, that man over there was asking for both of you,” Gladys helpfully pointed him out, and suddenly he wished the stroller were larger so he could just hide behind it. He wasn’t sure how Gildarts was going to react when he saw him, considering their last interaction hadn’t been a very pleasant one, and that made him awfully nervous.

To his surprise, Gildarts regarded him with interest, observing him as well as his sons with keen eyes. Rogue’s unease began to mix with confusion, and an added layer of guilt to top it all off when he saw a familiar grin form on Gildarts’ face as if nothing had ever happened between them.

“Never thought I’d see the day when the half-pint had a half-pint of his own, and two at that!”

Before Rogue had a chance to protest the use of that most hated of nicknames, Gildarts had already put down the bags he was carrying and moved over to Rogue, surrounding him in one of his infamous bear hugs that Rogue had to admit he’d missed. He wrapped his arms around the larger man slowly, unsure of what was happening but not wanting to fight the affection he was receiving.

They separated, and Gildarts peered into the stroller, “And who are these fine lads?”

“Guys, we’re kind of blocking this area maybe we could move this reunion somewhere else until the room opens up? Gladys?”

“Let me check,” Gladys looked at a map on her desk that was filled with dry erase marker entries, identifying the available spaces within the community center, “It looks like the small meeting room across from the daycare center is open.”

“Wonderful, thank you, Gladys,” Macao began to move towards the room Gladys had indicated with Gildarts hurrying to grab his bags and follow along with Rogue, both remaining silent for the moment.

There were so many things Rogue wanted to ask, none of them related to the Dad’s Club. A glance at his watch, however, made him realize those questions would have to wait, they’d wasted too much time already.

The kids were being pleasantly agreeable for once, their eyes darting from place to place as they looked at all the new things. The building, which was used as a community space, was decorated in cheerful colors with murals painted by a local artist by the name of Reedus Jonah decorating many of the walls.

They entered a small room containing a conference table that could seat six with enough room left over to comfortably place the stroller near the door so the kids could listen to the music.

Once Rogue was sure the kids were settled, he took a seat at the head of the table with Gildarts and Macao sitting on either side of him. Rogue could feel Gildarts watching him but chose to ignore it, grabbing his recorder and briefly looking at his phone screen to review the questions he’d come up with. Placing the recorder on the table, he made sure to turn it on, waiting for the red LED to light up before asking his first question.

“I guess I should start by asking what the club is, what purpose does it hope to serve?”

Macao and Gildarts stared at each other briefly with Gildarts gesturing for Macao to answer.

“Well. Makarov Dreyar and his friend Yaj Ima were both having some issues with their kids, and when they went looking for help, all they found were groups geared towards women. This was back in the eighties. They talked to some of their other friends and found that a lot of them were also frustrated by the lack of resources geared towards them, so they all got together and formed the first incarnation of the Magnolia Dad’s Club.”

“The idea was to support each other through problems and provide help, however possible. For example, Gildarts here was a social worker so occasionally he would be asked questions on fostering, child visits, things like that. Everyone lent their skills and expertise to help others.”

Gildarts had been a social worker? For as long as he could remember, Rogue had heard his father complain about the dangerous missions his friend went on for work. Gildarts’ daughter, Cana, would stay with them, forcing Gray and Rogue to share a room until he returned. Both Cana and his dad would be nervous wrecks until Gildarts booming voice could once again be heard.

“Okay, so if I understand correctly, the club was founded in the eighties?” Rogue verified, “and you mentioned that was the first incarnation, so what happened to it?”

“What happened was you all grew up, “ Gildarts remarked, “I’m surprised you don’t remember the club at all. You, Cana and Gray used to come to some of the meetings with us. We’d go get fast food after.”

Now that Gildarts mentioned it, Rogue vaguely remembered something, but it was sort of hazy. He mostly recalled going to eat with their dads. That was always fun, especially when they were in a good mood and joking around together.

“Makarov and Yaj were getting old, they’re in their seventies now, so when they announced their retirement and no one stepped up to replace them, the club just kind of died. That was about ten years ago,” Macao added, an almost wistful expression on his face.

“So why start up again now after so much time had passed?”

Macao and Gildarts remained quiet for a moment, and this time it was Macao who gestured towards Gildarts, letting him answer.

“Well, Makarov reminded us that it was time for us to pay it forward, and he was right. It might be 2020, but the fact remains that for every one resource that exists for fathers out there, there are twenty for mothers,” Gildarts explained.

“When I found out I had a daughter, I had nowhere to go to ask for help. I ended up at your doorstep with a crying little girl who had no idea who I was to her. Your father introduced me to this club, to other men like me who were just trying their best to be good dads, and it helped. It made me a better father and a better person overall.”

“There are plenty of fathers out there who are lost, who knows maybe you’re one of them,” Gildarts gaze was intense as it fell on Rogue, “If I can help them out, don’t I have the responsibility to do so?”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to say —”

“My wife left us when my son was very young,” Macao interrupted, trying to defuse the sudden tension that had taken over the room, “I was really lost until I found an ad for the club in the Teacher’s Lounge of the high school I teach at. It took me a couple of weeks to admit to myself that I wasn’t okay and that I needed help, but once I did, these guys took me in. They helped me get through arguably the toughest time in my life. I’d like to do that for others.”

“Yeah, I mean it’s not like Makarov fed us drinks until we agreed or something,” Gildarts scoffed while Macao glared, “That would be silly.”

Rogue wasn’t sure what to make of that last statement. With Gildarts, it was hard to tell what was fact and what was fiction sometimes.

“Okaaay, you mentioned yesterday there was babysitting, what other services do you provide?” Rogue tried to steer them back onto more neutral ground.

As Macao opened his mouth to answer the door to the daycare center opened and he scrambled to grab the bags. Rogue noticed Gildarts sneak something into the bag nearest him with an impish grin.

“I’ll go set up the snacks and get the coffee going before more people arrive,” Macao declared with his usual friendly smile, “I’ll be happy to answer any additional questions you might have after the meeting.”

Rogue nodded at him and gave him a sour smile in return. Gildarts showed no sign of moving, looking pretty comfortable in his seat, so that meant he was stuck with him for now. Not even the twins were going to save him this time, they were both completely focused on their toys. No crying, no screaming, no attempted escapes or diaper explosions. Of course, that only happened when it was highly inconvenient. Great.

“So-” Gildarts finally spoke up, drumming his fingers on the table, “Long time no see. How’ve you been doing? Looks like you’ve been busy.” He raised his eyebrows as he shot a quick but amused glance towards the twins. And while there weren’t many things that defined the word busy like caring for two very dependent, tiny humans did, knowing Gildarts that wasn’t what he was referring to.

The repetitive tapping of Gildarts’ fingers on the wood grated on Rogue’s nerves. It sounded unnatural, like fingernails scratching against a chalkboard. His eyes were instantly drawn to the offending digits only to realize he’d somehow managed to forget that Gildarts’ left arm and leg had been replaced with prosthetic limbs. A souvenir from one of his missions that had gone horribly wrong.

“I’m sorry,” Rogue ignored the comment, offering a long overdue apology instead, even as his eyes remained glued on Gildarts’ fingers. “I know you were just making sure I was okay back then, but I was just so angry for being left alone for so long. It—”

“You don’t need to apologize for anything, Rogue,” Gildarts interrupted him, the use of his actual name a clear indication that he was serious for once. “I should have gone sooner, I let myself get caught up in my own shit and — nevermind. Point is we’re fine.”

“I guess we both did,” Rogue thought aloud, resting his chin on the palm of his hand. He was glad that Gildarts had accepted his apology, but it didn’t make him feel any better about his actions. He’d been upset about being alone, but Gildarts had been dealing with his whole life being turned upside down. “You probably miss them too, huh?”

“Every day, kid,” Gildarts winked, but there was an underlying sadness that Rogue could relate to. He reached out with this right hand and ruffled Rogue’s head, messing up his ponytail and changing the topic. “I like this new look you’ve got going, it suits you.”

Rogue’s hands moved to his hair, gauging the damage before giving up and letting it down. He ran his fingers quickly through it, glaring as Gildarts began to chuckle at him.

“You are so annoying!” Rogue blurted out loudly, making Gildarts laugh even harder.

“There he is!” Gildarts exclaimed, his grin making him look younger than his fifty-five years, “I’m still me, you know. The prosthetics just make me harder to beat in a fight.” Gildarts pumped his fists in a pretend punching motion.

“When the hell were you a social worker?” Rogue didn’t know why that question felt so important, but it was in stark contrast with everything he thought he knew about the man.

“I’m insulted you didn’t know. I have a Master’s Degree in Social Work, but I enlisted in the Navy right after graduate school. Hmm, let’s see, that was right when I first found out about Cana. I did it for a few years, but I hated it. I got better results in the Navy.”

He looked down at his watch, “We’d best get moving, You’ll probably get most of what you need for your article from the meeting itself. Plus,” Gildarts rubbed his hands together in glee, “I don’t want to miss Macao’s face when he finds my little surprise.”

“What did you put in the bag?”

Gildarts gave one of his goofy grins as he stood up, “You’ll see.”

Rogue followed suit, collecting the recorder and slipping it into his pants pocket before walking over to the stroller and following Gildarts out.

Master and Apprentice: An Overview of Themes

Okay, so as many of you may have surmised, I adored this book. There’s so much to talk about in it and the ramifications of some of the themes play all the way up to the Sequel Trilogy. 

To be honest, I’m not even sure where to start with everything I want to talk about, but I’m going start here with this basic outline of things I noticed and will dissemble from there over the next few days, weeks, whatever. 

Lineage

“You inherit your parents' trauma but you will never fully understand it.”

So I will preface this part by saying that I am a huge fan of Bojack Horseman and this theme comes up again and again and again in this show. (As does the difficulty, but possibility, of breaking that cycle.)

This book is heavy on the behaviors and prejudices and patterns that get passed on through generations, or in this case, lineages. Dooku’s preoccupation with prophecy touches Rael, which touches Qui-gon, which touches Obi-wan, and of course, ultimately plays a huge role in Anakin’s life. Not only that, but Dooku’s restrained, demanding manner seems to have  rubbed off on Qui-gon, who seemed to be constantly measuring up Obi-wan to an impossible metric and thinking it in his presence, which meant Obi-wan likely felt all of this and presto changeo we have a talented young Jedi who feels he is unworthy. This book really illustrates how Masters are as much parents as teachers, and how whatever issues the parent is dealing with gets passed down and processed, whether it be through rebellion, imitation, or a host of other reactions. Hell, the book mentions Yoda’s master (albeit not by name). I am *dying* to know who they were and what happened there. 

Performance Art

Okay, so one of the initial main culprits is a group of performers who end up being branded as terrorists. First of all, this made musician-me CACKLE, period. But beyond that, there is a running theme of a performative aspect to government, to ceremony (Fanry perfects this), even to the Jedi themselves with their rituals, with their idealistic Code versus reality. Sidious was perhaps the best performance artist of the entire GFFA. And prophecy, to a certain degree, requires performance, requires actors to ingest a script and accept it as truth, and finally meet its demands of life’s stage. Is it foretold because the events must happen or because the actors choose to make them happen?

Prophecy

Which leads me into the thorniest topic of this book. Dooku was obsessed with prophecies. Qui-gon became obsessed with prophecy, to the point of breaking a thousand laws to get Anakin to Coruscant. And then Obi-wan was so devoted to Qui-gon, despite everything, that he told himself he had to believe in the prophecy, for Qui-gon’s sake (back to family issues there.)

How many of these prophecies ended up being self-fulfilling because of the actors involved? (Namely, Qui-gon.) Even when Qui-gon realizes his mistake is trying to control the future instead of accepting it, he goes ahead years later to manipulate circumstances so Anakin can be a Jedi. That’s not accepting the future, he cheated at dice to change the future, to control it. And that action set off an avalanche of consequences I doubt Qui-gon prepared for. In short, Qui-gon is a very fallible character here and shows a fair amount of egotism in terms of his relationship with prophecy. 

I mean, the Force showed Qui-gon that he was “meant to misinterpret” his vision? I don’t even know where to start with the sheer audacity of that statement. Qui-gon doesn’t report his vision to the Council, because he thinks they won’t understand, thinks they’ll get mired in some minutiae of governance and not do anything substantial. And yes, the Council does dither, even Obi-wan notices it, but those controls are there for a reason and Qui-gon just runs roughshod over them, because he thinks he alone has the answers, that he alone can change the future. 

And it kind of comes back to this whole Lineage issue where Dooku had this attitude that he alone knew the truth. I mean, he defects to the Sith partially to rid the Republic of corruption, and look at his Padawans - Rael and Qui-gon, both iconoclasts, both skirting the edge of...something, and it’s almost laughable that Qui-gon gets so upset with Rael’s disregard of certain parts of the Code (the killing of his Padawan part, of course, but also the celibacy part) because Qui-gon lies and cheats and pulls cons across the galaxy and disregards swaths of the Code at will. And you have to wonder, is this because Dooku was too independent, and if Dooku was that independent, how did Yoda’s training of Dooku play into that? 

Then again, while family and upbringing play a huge part in a person’s actions and personality, they are not the only thing, they do not dictate the future. Nor do prophecies. And Qui-gon clings so much to these prophecies, just as Dooku did (and Dooku’s prophecy of choice, he who learns to conquer death will through his greatest student live again is just...it explains a lot as to why Dooku was so devoted to teaching, was so exacting on his students ((although I will never let go of the headcanon that Dooku actually enjoys teaching, because I feel that a personality like his needs someone to impart knowledge to)). 

Prophecy, more often than not, becomes self-fulfilling prophecy, which is an interesting paradox. Prophecies are read, believed to be true, and are enacted by the actions of the very people (beings) who read them in the first place. 

And thus they become prophecy. 

I mean, no wonder Yoda wanted to burn the “sacred texts” by the time The Last Jedi rolls around. Prophecy becomes a way to abnegate responsibility for one’s actions, to deny, whether it’s Dooku seeking to avoid death, Qui-gon proclaiming he is a vessel for the will of the Force, or even Obi-wan claiming Luke as the Chosen One in Twin Suns. (Although, I wonder about that last one, as Obi-wan is naturally skeptical of prophecy. I mean, the Jedi do have the Force and are granted visions, but then again, they make decisions. They choose to turn to the Dark Side, choose to bend to the will of a hazy future which claims no specific actors...and I feel like Obi-wan’s references to prophecy are more an expression of familial love, of tribute to Qui-gon rather than a true belief that Anakin was "the” Chosen One. Obi-wan believed in Anakin himself above all else, even his better judgment.)

The Jinn-Kenobi Express

So...what is going on with these two?

In many ways, this is more of a Qui-gon book than an Obi-wan book, although we get plenty of insight to Obi-wan’s character. And one of the things I really appreciate about Claudia Gray is the fact that she seems aware of the Jedi Apprentice series, the kind of dynamic that created, and weaves this story in a way that does justice to those interactions and the limited time we see Qui-gon and Obi-wan together on screen. 

And the thing is, Qui-gon is kind of a jerk to Obi-wan. From page two of this book, his is questioning Obi-wan, wondering why he hasn’t reached a certain point in his abilities yet (all while deliberately holding him back in areas like lightsaber combat, which is an astounding illustration of Qui-gon’s complete obliviousness to his own actions and ramifications of his actions). And, let’s be honest, Obi-wan is an empath - he wouldn’t be such a talented negotiator and diplomat if he weren’t (because, before anything else, you need to be able to read people, to know and feel their emotions in order to succeed at deals, treaties, and diplomacy). Obi-wan knew Qui-gon was questioning him, could feel it and this harkens back to those JA books where Qui-gon is kiiiind of a total douche, at times. And Obi-wan - rebellious, independent, self-esteem-lacking, so wanting someone’s approval Obi-wan...just falls right into this. It’s kind of an unhealthy dynamic, which resolves itself after Pijal, only to relapse all over again when Qui-gon finds Anakin and pulls his BS on Tatooine. 

Here’s the thing. Qui-gon is not a bad person. I don’t hate Qui-gon, he has good motivations, he wants to make things better. He cares about Obi-wan, seeks advice from his old Master (not knowing Dooku has fallen, my god), tries to free all the slaves he encounters, wants to buck every piece of Jedi and Republic law in order to make the galaxy right. And, you know, I get it. I really do. But there’s idealism and then there’s trying to do the right thing within the systems (no matter how terrible) we have created and inching forward to change because to do otherwise would be to fight yourself in a paper bag. 

Qui-gon is the living embodiment of the phrase “the road to hell is paved with good intentions.”

And Obi-wan knows this, knows Qui-gon is fallible, knows that his devotion to idealism, to prophecy is dangerous and yet he goes along with it anyway because Obi-wan’s greatest failing is his attachment. Obi-wan (the empath) cares too much and he can’t let go - not of Qui-gon, not of Satine, and certainly not of Anakin. 

"Let the past die. Kill it if you have to.“ I mean, I’m not a Kylo Ren-stan by any means, but he’s not wrong. At least, not in a broad sense, not in the way that might have allowed Obi-wan to make some clearer-headed decisions about everything from his relationship with Qui-gon to Anakin to the Council. 

In Conclusion

Dooku cared about his students but possibly feared death and thus possibly made his students his vessels to achieve the goal of immortality, despite enjoying teaching.

Qui-gon cared about Obi-wan as much as he did the betterment of the galaxy but was terrible at expressing it and put too much faith in himself, the Force, and prophecy. 

Obi-wan cared almost too much about everyone but himself, replacing self-esteem with rules and the Code, devoting himself to the memory of Qui-gon and his wishes in his guilt over his survival of the encounter at Theed.

And this writer cares waaaaaay too much about these characters and will most definitely be writing more about this book because, to quote Obi-wan flying a ship in the middle of a ship: AAAAAUUUUUUUUUGGGHHHH

Alvarez AU Part 2

Decided on short story format ;) Sorry for inconsistency’s~

The place was new to him, the Guild of ‘Fairy Tail’. How long had he been roaming, looking for the Dragon father of his all across the world. Where then he just had happened to stumble upon the Master of Fairy Tail. Makarov Dreyus. With a warm smile and extension of his hand, he took the young Dragon Slayer's hand, and showed him the place that would be the new home of his. The people he would come to call his friends and comrades. The people he would come to love and cherish. Those who would latter bring him pain. Those who would become his inspiration. Everything started here.

“Hi... I’m Erza” he could remember her saying, that smile of hers, locked behind an untold pain he would soon to learn of later, “Don’t go causing trouble here... Here at Fairy Tail we all treat each other as if we’re family, remember that.”

Though, he also could recall, “Urrgghh!!” he was always too busy fighting with the boy who would never wear clothes. “No ways I’d consider this pervert here as someone like that!”

“Who wants a stupid kid who believes in Dragons as a family!” the boy would retaliate.

Feeling a vein tick, and the eventual follow up that the boys would, in the heat of their own fight, would strike the red-head. “...” feeling a vein tick, “I JUST said! No causing trouble!” thrashing the two into the wall.

The two would continue to fight day after day. And just like the same, the red-head would stop the two from fighting, usually forcefully by beating them until they both ‘calmed down’. And despite that, the three would continue to spend time with another. Even if they acted they were annoyed. Perhaps, that was just their special way of bonding with another.

~*~

Stepping foot through the Guild, ‘he’ was there as expected, sitting at the end of the room, on the counter. A saddened smile as he looked up and saw him strolling in. It was as if the way he approached and entered was enough to tell the Dark Mage of a ‘brother’ what his answer. No fuss, no anger, no violence, a simple casual-like stroll into the wrecked Guild formerly belonged to ‘Fairy Tail’.

“So... Have you decided on your answer?” he asked, the raven-haired mage approached.

Silent, he tightened his grip, “...” thinking back on all the memories he had here, the memories that soon would be irrelevant. “The war ends if I do this... right?”

“...Yes” his face lightened, elated a little at the context of his question, “Time is messy... doing this... will create a split world. One where the War comes to an end, and one... where War will never have taken place...”

Letting go of his grip, “Because ‘Zeref’ would never have existed... right?” looking back on all the tragedies his ‘brother’ has caused. Tower of Heaven. Tartaros. Deliora. Eclipse Gate.

“That is right...” a bit grievance at the memory, “That is why I need Fairy Heart... so I can open the Ravines of Time... and from there I...with your help, can go back to ‘our’ Family... happy... in our own time.”

Thinking back, he recalled the ‘family’ he saw in his memories when he was on the brink of his own death. He had a father, a normal father. A Mother. He lived happily with his older brother in their cottage in the woods. It was a wonder why he always felt so comfortable out in the woods, rather than in crowded areas. His sense of adventure always different from the others. No... there was one other person whom shared that same feeling

...

Shaking those thoughts from his mind, “You can’t do it... can you” the voice sparked his attention, especially the Dark Mage. Turning, he saw the young girl, Mavis Vermillion, standing in the doorway, “Even if you weren’t from this time... if you lived hundreds of years more than the other Slayers... you know ‘this’... is your home...” approaching him, “The Guild that was like your family... the irreplaceable friends you made... that’s what makes a home, Natsu... that was my reason for making ‘Fairy Tail’... A place where ‘anyone’ can feel at home.”

“...” shaking a little, he couldn’t deny the words the First had spoken to him, “But if I do this... everyone will be happy! I have a chance... to save them... make things happier for everyone!...Lucy... Gray,...Erza... I can stop being a screw up...”

Smiling, she caught the Dragon Slayer, cupping his face, “I don’t think they see you as a screw up...” stroking his cheek gently, “You’ve helped so many people, Natsu... taking the brunt of pain for all your friends... for a person ‘out of time’...You’ve become the living spirit of this Guild...” pulling him into a hug, “...But even you need saving... and NOT... from him” passing a dark look at Zeref.

Though the raven-haired mage was indifferent at the expression on Mavis’ face. No, if anything he was smiling. He was impressed such a girl could give him the look of anger. Especially coming from a girl he ‘believed’ he had loved once. Actually, he had. Which was why she died in the first place.

“If it wasn’t for me... Natsu would still be an kid...cold and stuck in a life-sustaining capsule...” he informed her, as she faced him, ‘protecting’ Natsu, “So I ‘have’ saved him...” then, his expression began to change, darkening. “And I will do it again... if I have to go through you, Mavis...”

Cringing, she faced him with anger, “...Does meeting me mean nothing to you...?” stifling her own anguish and anger. “...You’re taking not only Natsu’s friends... but...” shaking she glared at him, “You’re saying... you wish you had never met m---”

“It’s because I met you...” in a moment he cut her off, closing the gap as he held her chin, “...I felt the strongest pain I hadn’t felt for centuries... and you lost everything...” reminding her, “...I’ve hurt you for so long... Caused you so much pain, Mavis...” leaning in, “Let me fix that...”

Realizing what he was doing, she tried pushing him away, “Zeref---!! N---” But it was too late, as his lips had already pressed onto hers.

Almost instantly, her eyes shot out, as a bright light engulfed her, the power of Fairy Heart being ripped out and into the Dark Wizard, until no trace of magic was left in her. Lacking of anything else, the ‘First’ succumbed to the floor. Breathless, empty. For Zeref, however. That same power he had stolen consumed him as his body bleached holy, flutter of angel wings popping behind him.

“First!” rushing over, shaking her, trying to gauge a reaction out of her. Twitching, she finally looked over at him, “Thank god...” still in panic, “It’ll be fine... We’ll go back and...”

Shaking her head lightly, she smiled, “...It’s up to you, Natsu...” weakly trying to hold his face, “I know... you’ll protect your friends...” telling him, “...And I know... Fairy Tail will... Protect you... Just... rely on them... like they had you...”

Falling a bit limp, her breath was growing shallow. She wasn’t in any dangerous state, but if she was left unattended for too long, it wasn’t going to be good for her. Shaking, he gazed at the fallen face of the First Guildmaster. A young girl, little, but with a heart larger than anyone he had noticed. Flames began to flare from his anger, wrapping around in a swirl. Flashes of Igneel passed through his mind. Again, he failed someone. Someone who believed in him.

~*~

Hazy, she drifted in a sea, trying to recall everything that had happened. Playing like a record, the scene unfolding of the three of them growing up. She hadn’t dreamt of a past like this, in such a long time. For most of her life, the nightmarish life she had lived enslaved occupied her nights. And just before more began to play, the scene lit in a bright light, burning through her images as a young girl appeared, with feathers in her hair. With a gentle smile she held her hand out.

“Don’t sleep too long~” the young girl cheerily grinned, “Natsu needs your help...” “----....” she couldn’t make out the bit clearly.

Then, the last thing she had remembered began to play in place of the little girl as she continued speaking. When they were so close from the Guild, the moment just before she lost consciousness. The kiss that was placed on her lips. The blow to the gut that knocked her out. The smile of a young man going off to war on his own.

“Erza... I L---” shaking his head lightly, “No... nothing...”

Bolting straight up, her heart was racing, a cool sweat running down her head. As she frantically looked around, she found herself miles away from where she had last remembered. Gray was there, catching on that she had woken up, followed by Lucy, Happy, even Wendy. 

...

But there was someone missing. The face she had expected to see upon waking up, to cause a loud ruckus of happiness. 

“...!!!” turning quickly she turned to face the direction of the Guild.

Feeling her heart race, she struggled getting up, still reeling in from all the damage she had taken from her past battles. The punch to the gut from Natsu not helping. “Don’t sleep too long~” the voice retained in her head, “Natsu needs your help...”

Using Gray as a crutch to stabilize her balance until her breath got to a steady pace, she turned to the direction of the Guild. The looks of saddened despair as she looked around, assuming they knew something she didn’t. That didn’t matter to her. Despite the heed from her friends, she took a step forward. 

Then another.

And another.

Picking up speed.

Until the Titania ran with all her might, her friends following her. Natsu needs your help...

Hurry...

..

..

..

Before it’s too late... and he’s gone forever...

Finding Home (5)

Summary: Avengers High School AU. Gender neutral reader-insert. You, the new kid, just want to be left alone. But instead, you get the Avengers gang – and maybe, a new home too.

Warnings: Cursing. Hangover. Vomit. SO MUCH ANGST OMG.

Author’s Note: I am SO SORRY THIS TOOK A WHILE. I’ve had a hella busy week, so I only managed to finish it today. This was supposed to be uber fluffy, but it ended being uber heavy, omg. Get ready for that! Enjoy! Let me know what you think!

Finding Home: Part #1: beginning. Part #2: accusation. Part #3: restless. Part#4: coin. Part #5: haze.

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5: haze

n. a state of confusion

Light exploded on your eyelids. Stinging and blinding, you blinked your eyes open, adjusting to the abrupt burst of brightness. A few moments passed before your vision cleared, and you were met with a gray sky. Wait – what?

You sat up, alert, and – fuck. A dozen knives stabbed your brain, the world around you hazy and tilting, forcing you to shut your eyes and rest back on – some pillows? You frowned. Looking around with greater care, you realized you were on a single-bed mattress, thick and soft despite being on the carpeted floor, with a fluffy blanket on top of you, at the corner of some kind of white room.

With your hands, you propped yourself up against the wall, wincing when your joints cracked, then ached to a dull throb, and the stabbing in your brain multiplied and intensified to several dozen needles. Now with a better view of the area, you realized it wasn’t even a room. It was an entire floor, like a studio apartment, but expansive enough to install maybe two or three rooms. Scattered around it, in reasonable distances from one another, were other mattresses, a few neatly made up but most not, and a lot of sleeping bags – five of which were occupied.

With most of them were wrapped in their sleeping bags and their backs to you, distorting their figure, deciphering who they were was a challenge. But across the room, low snores drifted from a massive figure, sprawled across a mattress. Then, you recognized the golden tresses. Your eyes widened. Thor.

Your eyes flitted to the other figures, recognizing them one by one: Sam, Scott, Pietro, Clint – the last of which was so tightly enveloped in a blanket he looked like a cinnamon roll with blonde hair poking out at one end. Memories flooded your throbbing brain: a blazing campfire, a glinting coin, several cans of beer, laughter and laughter and laughter. The Facility. You were at the Facility – at their own hang-out whatever. This must be the second floor, if the staircase leading downstairs was any indication.

But how did you get here? To this frameless bed?

Pushing yourself up, you rose from the mattress, and swayed a bit before catching yourself and fixing your relationship with gravity. Then – fuck – another light explosion. You looked up, squinting at the glass ceiling. Thick and heavy clouds with dark backsides rolled into the dusty gray sky, hiding the world’s greatest source of illumination. But not even that could stop it, as it appeared once again, peeking it from a gap between the clouds, brilliant in spite of the depressing colors of everything else. It still hurt.

You shuffled towards the staircase, tip-toeing in between sleeping bags with immense caution. With all the alcohol these folks consumed last night, no doubt they’d have chainsaws splitting their skulls once they wake up – and you’d rather be damned to hell than be a part of that.

Reaching the railing by the staircase, you caught the faint sounds of silverware hitting porcelain and the distinct scent of coffee. Now leaning over it, you spotted a few familiar heads sitting around a kitchen island, their soft hum of chatter drifting up to you, the aroma of grounded beans much stronger. Just the smell of it cleared the brain-stabbing, like a gust of wind blowing away leaves strewed around an unkempt yard, and stirred something in your stomach, making its lack of nourishment prominent–

“Looks like it’s going well,” a timid voice asked from the bottom. You looked down, squinting. It sounded like Bruce.

“I’m kind of proud us,” another said, somewhere distant. A soft click, like the satisfying sound of a kettle being returned to its place, resounded in the room. A figure stepped out, taking one of the bar stools around the kitchen island with a mug in hand. You realized it was Rhodey. “Never knew we could pull that off. Oh, nice brewing, Vis.”

“Thank you,” Jarvis said, stepping out with a mug and the clanking of a spoon against porcelain. He settled himself against the counter across them. “Natasha, I have noticed, has talent in matters such as these. She plans them well. Otherwise, Y/N would not have opened up so willingly.”

Your brows furrowed. Pull what off? Plans? You opening up? What could they be talking about–

Something stirred in your stomach, fluid and heavy. It rose and tickled the back of your throat – oh, shit.

You wasted no time padding down the stairs. One foot after the other, fast and urgent, despite the occasional creak of your worn joints. You had to press a hand against your lips, just in case you opened them on instinct.

Someone called out your name. “Hey, g’morning!” Looking up, you were greeted with Rhodey’s grinning features, followed by a smile from Bruce and a nod from Jarvis. Something felt strained with the way they were looking at you. “You’re up early,” Rhodey said.

Whatever was on your throat has receded, leaving a bitter aftertaste, just as you reached the ground floor. Your features twisted, disgusted. “Guessing the morning isn’t good for you?” Bruce said, corners of his lips falling.

You shook your head, but stopped immediately when it made the brain-stabbing worse. No more head moving, alright. Then, there it was again, shooting up your throat like a canon, and you pressed a fist tighter against your sealed lips. Lurching forward, you scrambled towards the bathroom.

Just as you grabbed the doorknob, it swung open, Tony in his crimson robes stepping out of it. He threw a look at you, but you only pushed him aside, another wave hitting you, rising from your stomach and spilling onto your tongue. In a heartbeat, you were kneeling in front of the toilet, arms around it. You poured it all out.

Heaving out a few more times, you felt fingers sweep away the strands of hair stuck on your sweaty face, gathering them to a bunch above your head. Now, you felt the hand making circles on your back, reassuring and somewhat calming. You wretched out some more. “Get some painkillers,” a voice said behind you – Tony, you realized – “And an entire pitcher of water. Pour a glass too.”

You heard hurried footsteps, the open and shut of cupboards, then your own dry-heaving. His hand patted you on the back. “Right, let it all out. Flush it before we scar ourselves.”

Lifting your head from the bowl, you complied, watching as the indistinct matter you’ve just disgorged spun against the white porcelain in sickening hues, until, like a breath being sucked in, it vanished. You rested back, only to feel a hand stop you. You squinted up at Tony’s towering figure, just as he lowered himself and reached out with a towel, wiping whatever was dripping at the corners of your mouth. Heat shot up to your face, your cheeks pinking. “I–”

“Do us a favor and keep your mouth shut. Your breath can kill us,” he said, rising and setting the towel aside. Immediately, you pursed your lips. “C’mon, let’s get you up.” With his arm around you, you managed to stand, swaying a bit at first before finally straightening, and both of you lumbered out of the bathroom. “How’s your head?”

Like it was being drilled through with a hundred nails, you thought, but only managed some unintelligible groans. After some shuffling across the room, you were back on the kitchen island, on a seat someone pulled out, in front of a few pills and a glass of water, surrounded by the other three boys. “Drink up. It’ll help with the headache,” Tony said, gesturing to the pill.

Without hesitation, you tossed it into your mouth, then downed the whole glass of water in one gulp. Setting it down, you winced, tasting the leftover bitterness of your vomit. You felt a hand on your shoulder. “You alright?” Rhodey asked, lips twisted.

Your gaze fell on your now refilled glass – which you downed again without much of a breath; less bitter now – then to a nearby, yellow mug. You squinted at it. Holy shit, that’s hella white coffee. So blindingly pale; not even a taint of the brown powdered bits. “Why is your coffee so white?” you asked, following the length of the arm from the hand gripping it.

Bruce’s brows shot up, along with the edges of his lips, amused. “It’s milk,” he said. “I like warm milk in the morning.”

Someone patted you on the back. “Get some rest, bud,” Tony said, as he shuffled away to a desk at a corner you haven’t noticed before. It was loaded with some pretty, techy stuff. “You’ll feel a shit ton better after a long nap.”

Nap, you thought, yearning, as your head throbbed, duller than before. Your gaze drifted back to your glass, now again refilled. How does that happen? Brows furrowed, you spotted the pitcher of water, held by long and lanky fingers. Oh, Jarvis owns that hand. Yep, he does.

“Want to go back upstairs?” someone said. You shifted your head to the voice, saw Rhodey’s concerned face looking down at you, his hand still on your shoulder.

Upstairs. You squinted up at him, blinked a few times, perplexed, then raised your hands to rub the exhaustion off of your eyes. How did you even …

“You fell asleep while Thor was telling another glory story,” Rhodey said, sensing your confusion. Beside him, Jarvis nodded, adding: “Subsequently, Natasha and Bucky brought you upstairs. I’m afraid Thor was not pleased.”

That made sense. The last thing you remember was the sound of Thor’s guffaws and his enthused gestures. You hummed in response, raising your glass of water and draining it once more.

“Thanks so much, by the way,” Rhodey said, glaring at Bruce. “For leaving me to clean up their mess.”

“I believe I provided adequate assistance,” Jarvis said, raising a brow.

He patted him on the back. “Which I’m grateful for, bud.”

Lowering his mug, Bruce’s eyes widened, mouth gaping as he raised one hand, as if to appear innocent. “I had to go to bed early. Otherwise, I’ll be like–”

“Scrooge from A Christmas Carol,” Tony said, perking up from his tinkering. “Or Thor when he’s craving poptarts. Pietro without weed for a week. Vis when he hasn’t seen Wanda all day–” Jarvis frowned at this. “Oh! Steve when Bucky misses another one of their threesomes with Wilson–”

“You made your point, Tony,” Bruce said, unamused.

“Gimme a new category,” he said. “I can do this all day.”

Your body swayed, shifting your gaze to the couch. The couch. So big, so soft-looking, so comfy. You stood up from your seat.

“Going up now?” Rhodey asked, brows knitted. But you only waved him away, and shuffled down towards the couch, its plush cushions so inviting, so tempting, so welcoming.

“Do you require any–” Jarvis said, just before you threw yourself on it, head first. So big, so soft. Mmmm. “I suppose not.”

Curling up on the couch, Jarvis’s voice and everything else faded in the background, as your eyelids fell, and the world was dark. Soon, it was quiet too.

Riiiiiing, riiiiiiiing!

What the hell – can someone kill that, please? It was buzzing, vibrating on something solid, somewhere nearby. You groaned, and pulled the soft, cotton blanket on top of you above your head, but it did little to mute the noise. Wait, when did you get a blanket –

Suddenly, you felt hands on your shoulders, shaking you and calling out your name. “Sorry about this,” a voice said, soft and regretful but urgent. Was that Bruce? “But it’s your dad.”

Your eyes opened wide. Oh, shit. Jumping off the couch – Bruce stumbling back, having been leaning over you – your head whipped around for the vibrating device, and – on the coffee table! You grabbed it, pulling it towards you, until it came up short. The corners of your lips fell, just as your gaze did, dropping onto the edge of your phone and spotting the cable shoved onto its battery hole. You pulled it out, pressed answer, and brought your phone onto your ear. “Hey–” You stopped, cleared your throat. Still dry. “Hey, Dad,” you said, attempting nonchalance.

He called out your name, surprised. “I’ve been calling you all morning! Where are you? Are you still at that Tony Stank’s house?” he asked. Wait, did you send him a text message of your whereabouts?

“Stark, Dad, his name is Tony Stark,” you said, leaning forward with your elbows on your knees. The last thing you could remember was jotting down a mental note to text him where you were. But did you? “And yeah, I am … at Tony’s house.” Technically, you weren’t. But it was close enough. “I would have told you earlier, but my phone ran out of battery. Just charged it now.” Your gaze followed the cable, trailing to a socket. Who charged this?

Shoes tapped against linoleum, and you looked up, finding Bruce’s retreating figure, heading back to the kitchen island. There, Rhodey and Jarvis sat, with a textbook and a few notebooks, the former looking at you with furrowed brows and the latter immersed in whatever he was scribbling on paper. Rhodey raised a questioning thumbs-up. You returned it, weak but reassuring, just as a memory popped in your mind–

Your father breathed out a sigh, relieved. “Oh, okay, good. I was already thinking of coming by to pick you up–”

“Oh, god no!” you said, jumping up from your seat. Everyone perked up, Rhodey and Jarvis from their homework, Bruce from pouring a mug with coffee and Tony from his desk. It would probably be better to have this conversation outside. Heading to the back door, you slid it to the side and stepped out onto the back porch.

You cleared your throat. “I mean, that’s unnecessary, Dad. Really. I’m okay.” With your free hand, you rubbed circles on your temples, straightening out the creased skin. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you I was going to sleep over here. Got carried away, I guess.”

“You had fun, didn’t you?” he said, voice softening.

Stepping onto the gravel ground, you raised your head, gaze landing on the fire pit. Practically spotless, the remains of last night’s burnt wood have been dusted off, as if nothing had even happened last night. But it didn’t feel that way. Not with the surrounding logs and chairs still around it, almost untouched. In a blink of an eye, you were back: sitting at that log with Natasha and Clint, Pietro and Jarvis offering you s'mores, Sam and Rhodey passing by beer cans, Thor telling his tales of adventure, Tony and Peter piping up with sarcastic commentary, Steve calming everyone down when it got too loud. The edges of your lips tilted up. It was more than just fun.

Your father’s voice pierced through your thoughts, calling out your name. Looking up at the gray sky, your lips stretched wider, warmth settling into your chest despite the passing, cool breezes. “Yeah, Dad, I had fun. Lots of it.”

“Well, that’s good. Good you enjoyed the party,” he said, kinder now. “And made friends! You made friends now, huh?”

You froze. Party? How did he know it was a party? “Dad, did you get a text from me last night?”

“Hmm?” he said, sounding distracted. It sounded somewhat strained, as though he knew he just did something he shouldn’t have. “You didn’t send me anything.”

Your brows furrowed. If that’s the case … “Well, I never said I was going to a party at Tony’s.”

For a few moments, the only sound was the hum of the communication line between the two of you. Then, he sucked in a breath. “Okay. Mr. Coulson told me.”

Your brows shot up. “Mr. Coulson?”

“He – he told us about the party the other day. We were supposed to convince you last night to go, but you, well – apparently, you went ahead,” he said, tone resigned. “He called last night. Told us where you were.”

You frowned. But it didn’t make sense. How could Mr. Coulson have known? About the party, about where you were? Not once did you contact him last night; you’re sure of it.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before, love,” your father said, piercing through your thoughts. “I – well, your mother and I, we weren’t allowed to interfere, since you were progressing so well.”

Progressing? What the hell does that mean? You pressed your lips together. Looking down, you kicked a pebble, watched as it bounced across the others, disappearing behind ankle-high grass that led to the surrounding forest. “I don’t get how he knew all of this.”

“Oh,” he said, surprised. “I thought you knew.”

Your brows knitted together. “Knew what?”

“That girl – what’s her name? The one he assigned you to?”

“Natasha?”

“Yeah! Her,” he said. You could imagine him nodding along with his own words. “She lives with Mr. Coulson, hun. He adopted her.”

Your heart slammed against your eardrums, booming and silencing the world around you. Natasha, Natasha, Natasha. Something tugged in your mind, a memory. Natasha told me everything, you remembered Tony saying yesterday. Then, Jarvis, this morning: Natasha plans well. Otherwise, Y/N wouldn’t have opened up so willingly. “She – he – they planned this?” you asked, voice hushed. The world suddenly fell silent, all sounds – even your own heartbeat – shrinking to a low hum in the background, lower and lower until it was nothing, sucked away by a vacuum.

“Ever since you were assigned to Natasha. Mr. Coulson had to check on me before they went for it, but it sounded like a good idea.”

Ever since … what? It’s like you’re back at the house, last night, listening as the voices of your parents sparred. Your lungs stuffed with smoke, clogging up your nose, your throat. Air wasn’t coming in right, not at the sound of your shallow breaths. Your knees quivered, your legs weak. It was so hard to breathe. Why was it so hard to breathe?

The sound of your father’s voice calling your name took you out of your reverie, your eyes fluttering as you returned back to Earth, gasping for breath. “Are you there? Hey, hun?” You shook your head, one hand running through your hair and tugging on the strands hard enough for your head to throb at every pull. Spinning around, you froze as your gaze fell onto a hooded figure at the side of the house. He stood with his ancient iPhone in hand, mouth gaping. Bucky, you realized. How long has he been standing there? Does he know? Does he know about this?

“Okay, your mom just woke up. I can hear her getting ready upstairs. She’s probably not going to be happy that I let her sleep in today, although technically, it’s just a half past nine. But anyway, come home soon, okay? Love to hear how the party went. Oh and I have last night’s dinner heated up already!” your father said. Click. The line went dead.

You stared at Bucky, just as your arm went limp, lowering your phone to your side. He stepped forward, then hesitated, unsure. He must have heard. He must have.

“I …” he said, swallowing. “It was …” He pressed his lips together, jaw clenched, as he looked away, eyes hardening at his inability to explain himself.

“Did you know?” you asked. Then, suddenly surging with fury, something inside you breaking, you rushed forward, shoving your phone in his face. “Did you know about this?”

His long lashes fluttered, flinching, before he moved his head to face you. He opened those stony, blue eyes, and it said it all. I’m sorry.

“We’re back!”

Both of your heads spun to the house, as a cheer erupted, familiar voices in varying volumes and degrees of joy drifting to where you were. You glanced back at Bucky, before climbing up the steps of the back porch and pulling the back door to the side.

They were all there. Rhodey, T’Challa and Bruce, with piles of homework, and now a sleepy Scott, Pietro, and Sam on the kitchen island, nursing mugs of coffee; Steve took out styrofoam containers that smelt something like shawarma from a plastic bag, Tony and Thor eagerly opening it, the amorous odor filling the room; while Jarvis and Wanda removed canned goods, chips and pastries from Walmart shopping bags. The refrigerator door slammed closed, and there she was. Natasha.

Bruce looked up at your entrance, gesturing to a mug nearby. “I made you coffee–” Something in your expression caught his eye, and he frowned. He called out your name, a perplexed lilt in his tone.

Catching this, Steve looked up at him, then at you, his firm hands folding up the now empty plastic bag. One corner of his lips perked up. “Hey! Breakfast’s here. Sorry, we took so long, we had to pick up T’Cha–” His eyes glanced behind you, and the smile fell.

Looking over your shoulder, you saw Bucky enter the room, shaking his head ever so slightly. “What – what’s going on?” Steve said, the confusion and concern in his tone grabbing attention. You looked back at them, just as everyone fell silent, creases on their foreheads and brows knitted together, their eyes on you.

“I need–” you said, voice dry. You swallowed, thick rolls of saliva moistening your desert-crisp throat, then tried again. “I need you guys to tell me the truth.”

Thor let go of the plate in his hand, turning his body to face you, his unruly yet glorious, golden mane swaying at the movement. “What troubles you, table-tosser?”

You winced at the nickname, memories of your past resurfacing, but pushed it aside. “Is it true?” you asked, facing them with steel eyes. “Was this all planned?”

Sam frowned, nose scrunching. “What are you–”

“You know what I’m talking about!” you said, stepping forward. Your hand gripped your phone tight, practically squeezing it, your fingers trembling. “The party, everything you told me last night. Did you plan it all?”

Everyone exchanged glances, their gazes having a conversation in their minds that you couldn’t hear. You looked at Natasha. She kept her eyes down, face unreadable. This was an answer enough.

“You kept pushing us away, bud,” Tony said, breaking the silence. He leaned against the kitchen island, folding his arms beneath his chest. “There weren’t many options.”

“So, you set up all of this?” you said. Something boiled in your stomach, shooting lava into your veins, and the hair on your arms jumping upright. But Tony only averted his gaze, huffing out a sigh.

Beside him, Steve shared a meaningful look with Natasha, before he turned to you, his face solemn as a grave. “We didn’t know how else you were going to open up to us.” You could hear it: the crack of your heart, like the land splintering at the first tremble of the earth, threads of opening cracks snaking around the surface. His brows furrowed, and his eyes glinted, begging you to understand. “We did it for you.”

We. He said we. “You were all in on it,” you said, voice soft. “Ever since the beginning.” And they did it for you. They lied, they pretended, they deceived you for you. The lava inside you flared, your limbs thrumming with its blood-boiling heat.

Natasha looked at you now, stepping forward, calling out your name–

“Was any of it real?” you asked, stopping her. You stared at her, at her usually composed features, now flitting through various emotions, but even as you watched her open her mouth, ready to respond, it dawned on you: you weren’t going to believe her. You can’t now, not after all that you’ve learned. You can’t.

Shaking your head, you stepped away from her, away from all of them, and turned around, heading out the backdoor. You kept your head down, shutting the sliding door behind you with a hard shove that rang in the house, the absence of your presence now suddenly, prominently felt. A hush fell over the room.

The sound of a toilet being flushed broke the silence. The bathroom door opened, and Clint stepped out, adjusting his pants. He looked up, and seeing the look on everyone’s faces, cursed under his breath. “Gone for a minute, and everything goes to shit.”

The Facility wasn’t far from your house. Probably only fifteen minutes away, if you hadn’t gotten lost in the woods for half an hour. But you made it. It wasn’t exactly the number one place you wanted to go to, but it wasn’t like you had a lot of options. Besides, your comfortable bed would be waiting, ready to swallow you whole and away from the world.

Climbing up the front porch steps, your hand reached for the doorknob.

“–trying, okay? I have been trying, for the last three years!” Your father’s voice drifted from the door, his voice rising, trembling in frustration. “Why can’t you see that?”

“Because you haven’t tried hard enough,” your mother said, in a much lower volume, yet with the same amount of force. Her voice sounded close, though–

The door was pulled open, revealing your mother already in her office wear, composed and neat. Her stone eyes landed on you and widened, just as your father appeared behind her, looking like he had just gotten out of bed, with an apron tied around his waist. Both of them froze.

Your father was the first to move. Straightening up, he cleared his throat and gave you a watery smile. “Hey there, hun! Good you’re back! Have you eaten–”

“I’d like to speak with you,” your mother said, stepping aside.

You glanced over at her, at her stony expression, then at your father’s forced smile, and shook your head. Walking inside, you unzipped your boots and kicked them off. “I’d say I’m sorry for running out all of a sudden last night without much of an explanation, but then, you agreed to have my friends to set up a party to fool me into thinking I belong somewhere,” you said, setting the footwear aside. You straightened, heading towards the staircase. “So, don’t blame me if I don’t feel like talking to anyone right now.”

“You keep pushing everyone away, forcing yourself into isolation,” your mother said behind you. Was that a hint of – frustration? You paused mid-step, turning around to face her. Her features were set in unreadable lines. “We didn’t know how else to help you.”

Help you. You clenched your jaw, sensing the boiling in your gut returning, spewing lava all over your insides. “How is it–” you said, locking your eyes on her. “That last year, you complained when I went out too much with Quill and Gamora and the gang, and then now, you’re complaining I don’t go out at all?”

Your mother pressed her lips together. Beside her, your father stepped up, hands clasped in front of him. “This isn’t like you, hun.”

“Like me?” you said, eyes wide in disbelief. You descended one step, falling eye-level with them. “You don’t even know me! Both of you have been too caught up in your pretending everything’s okay world to even see me.”

Your father furrowed his brows. “What–”

“My room is right there, Dad,” you said, gesturing to the first door upstairs at the end of the staircase. “And I’m not deaf. Or stupid.”

Shaking her head, your mother breathed out a sigh, waving away the topic. “This is beside the point–”

“The point is why, Mom,” you said, tilting your head at the side. The flame in you was dimming down, watered down by waves of pain and resentment, leaking from the opening cracks all over the surface of your fractured heart. “Why did you do this to me?”

She stared at you, and something in her composure has broken down, corners of her lips pulling further down and her stone eyes softening. She brought her gaze down, glanced at your father. He caught this, exchanging messages through mere eyes. He looked at you. “We just want you to be happy.”

You closed your eyes, shaking your head. Wrong answer. “No, don’t, Dad,” you said, eyes opening, flashing with fury. “Don’t lie to me. You didn’t do this because you wanted me to be happy! You did this because you wanted to find out what was wrong with me, why I’ve been getting into trouble at school and throwing tables and locking myself in my room.”

“So, why?” Your mother stepped forward, arms crossed beneath her chest and back ramrod straight. She stared at you, dead in the eye. “Why have you been behaving like a–”

“Fuck-up?” you said, arching both brows. When they opened their mouths to protest, you raised a hand. “Don’t even deny it! Don’t pretend that’s not what you’ve been thinking, because that is what you’re thinking.” You stared at your mother. “You want to know why I’m acting like a fuck-up? Look at how you look at me, Mom, look. It’s the same exact look you give Dad.”

Her eyes widened, brows knitting. But your father looked down, fingers playing with a loose thread on his apron. You turned around, ascending the staircase with heavy footsteps. “Like we never do anything right,” you said over your shoulder. “And it doesn’t fucking help that you forced people to pretend to be my friends!” Reaching your bedroom, you made sure to slam the door behind you, locking it in case anyone followed.

A few beats passed, and – slam! Even from here, you could feel the front door trembling in its frame.

Throwing yourself onto the soft, sweet cushions of your bed, you gripped the blanket like it was the only thing holding you together. Then, finally, your heart burst. You’d think it would be an explosion of lava, but really, it was the rupture of a dam.

A/N: Well. Everything just went to shit. How you guys doing?

Tagging: (If you’d like to be tagged, let me know!)

@addictivewriter @taxesareallthatsurroundus @thatweirdgaygirl @1022bridgetp @cry-me-a-fkin-river @punkfaress @avengersandchill @do-you-mind-if-i-slytherin1 @hairdye-enthusiast @emilarose

Okay but honestly, though, a minor rambling about empathy because I need to emotionally purge and talk about this for a second (because I'm overflowing). I have no idea if this is the same for every other "emapthetic" person out there but for me, empathy is an overwhelming emotion. It's not even an emotion so much as it's the mismatched combination of every single other person's emotion smothering me from the inside out. It's frustrating and overwhelming and honestly just so fucking wild. I don't even think I can put into words how intense it is. I pick up on everything, though. I can honestly always tell what's going on inside someone, at least emotionally. The why is hazy but the what is always clear as day. And then that "what" enters me and twists my insides around and basically projects itself onto me. It's strongest with people I care deeply for-- my parents, my friends, my boyfriend especially. It's interesting because, as far as I can tell, my boyfriend is this very carefree person. He cares about things, yes, but he's flowing and calm and just...if life were a river, he lets it carry him wherever and makes the best about where he ends up or whatever happens. In terms of emotional perception, he's the exact opposite of me. Or so it seems. Granted, that doesn't mean he's got a constantly mute/gray aura. Sometimes there will be days when he comes home from work in a particular mood. I can't even really pinpoint the exact emotion, it's just this dark, cloudy, closed off mass encompassing him I guess. I can tell something's off, that something isn't quite right, but I never know the why. I never know if something happened at work that put him in a negative mood or if he's just tired or if he feels achy or what. I'm not a mindreader, I can't figure these things out by myself. But whenever I ask him if everything's okay, I feel like he shuts out, locks the gates, says he's fine even though clearly something is amiss. I'm sure for every other person in the world, they could just accept that their significant other doesn't want to talk about these things and they can just drop it and leave it alone but for me, that's not possible. Alarms go off in my brain telling something is off and making me desperate to get to the bottom of it. As if other people's emotions are this tangled web of organic matter and color that once it's presented to you, you need to untangle it and sort out all of the knots. It leaves me feeling paranoid and cautious. Like walking on eggshells, tiptoeing through a jungle filled with hunter's traps and messy vines. I feel those feelings brew inside of me, those same unresolved emotions emanating from the other person. I pick up on intention when strangers talk to me, whether their compliments are genuine or if they're just trying to satisfy some ulterior motive. Sometimes I wonder if empathy is the foundation for all my other issues: the anxiety, the apparent agoraphobia, the introversion. Introversion seems to be the most likely link. It only makes sense. When you pick up on everyone's emotions all the time, it makes it hard to stand people for too long. Maybe that's why I like to come off as this dark, mysterious figure to strangers (more at school than anywhere else), too. I don't want to let anyone in because I don't want to feel anything. I'm tired of feeling so intensely, and I don't want to deal with picking up on people's emotional cues and body language and sensing their intent and whatnot. I don't want to be open because I don't want to invite that sort of shit inside. I don't like to speak up about things because I feel like I'm overreacting, like my feeling overwhelmed isn't justified because I feel everything so deeply and get sensory overload so quickly. Like I don't have a right to complain because shit like that isn't worth complaining about. It's something I need to get used to, to learn to control. I can't go through the rest of my life so raw and sensitive. I can't possibly live my life to the fullest in panic attacks and mood swings and clenched fists because of my shrewd sense of perception. I need to learn to put up forcefields-- real ones, not facades-- so that I can protect myself from experiencing all the overwhelming sensations around me. And yet the strange thing is that despite being so perceptive of everyone else's feelings, sometimes I quite honestly feel numb to my own. Maybe everyone else's emotions drown out my own or something but a lot of times, I feel emotionally numb and as if I'm just going through the motions. At least when it comes to myself. But when other people are thrown into play, my emotions run wild. I feel everything in everyone else so deeply, and sometimes that hurts. It hurts seeing my mom cry every time she has to say goodbye to me after a visit, or the way she starts to act kooky and mentally displaced on video chats because she doesn't know how to handle her grief over my moving out. It fills me with this dense, deep, blue cloud of emotion that permeates my entire body and makes me feel immensely guilty for things I shouldn't feel sorry for. It's instances like that when the empathy is clear as day, and it's easy to figure out. It makes sense. The less distinguishable factors stem from the anxiety and all the branches of issue that stem from that. Anxiety feels more like an environmental perception than a human one. And if not environmental, then internal. But anxiety is only caused by the other issues that stem from it. It has come to my attention recently, after another unsuccessful trip to the mall, that I might have agoraphobia. Every time I step foot in the mall, I get a massive panic attack. I cling to my boyfriend and hyperventilate and feel unstable and tense. I could say high ceilings play a role in this, because high ceilings always make me uncomfortable, but I feel like that discomfort isn't rooted in anything. It's just tethered there in mid-air, pointless. That would explain enviromental triggers but that doesn't explain why even in areas without high ceilings, the anxiety still can sometimes strike. It's gotten to the point where it's anywhere public, really. Venturing off into the public, on more than one occasion, will fill me with immense dread and panic. But the reason why is so unclear. It doesn't necessarily feel like an empathy issue; it's not like I'm picking up on the emotions of literally every single person in the entire building or if I am, I must not be totally aware of it. There are sometimes certain people who make me feel paranoid, suspicious characters that make me want to run for the hills but then again, it's always more a matter of that they look suspicious to me and I transition into a higher alertness than they feel suspicious. And besides, almost everyone comes off as a suspicious character to me. I've conditioned to myself to trust no one, but I think that's more a result of upbringing than empathy. The one branch of this anxiety thing that I am certain of, however, is the connection between my empathy and my emetophobia. If someone so much as looks like they're going to be sick, my anxiety goes on high alert. I panic. I lose it. My body rejects any and all food I try to eat because I'm certain whatever I swallow is going to just come right back up by extension. Seeing or even hearing anyone get sick sends my empathy soaring and soon, I feel sick, too. Sometimes this is a delayed reaction, though. Sometimes it doesn't bother me as much until I'm laying in bed trying to sleep at night, and my mind is running a mile a minute and thinking back to what I heard and saw, replaying it over and over again and churning my own stomach in response. Other than that, though, the connection between empathy and the other anxiety issues isn't as clear. Granted, I will admit that even the slightest negative tweak in someone's emotions will send me flying off the handle and practically into insanity. If I overhear tidbits of two people in my group talking and there seems to be some sort of problem, my anxiety instantly kicks in. I start fearing the worst, I lose my mind. I frantically pry for explanations, for reassurance that everything is, in fact, okay. This is especially overwhelming in public places, specifically ones I already feel nervous in. As if all my fears of everything bad that could happen are potentially being realized. It's not a fun feeling at all. For so long I've hoped to find a way to numb it all out, whether that be through a specific person or something tangible like a piece of jewelry or a favorite sweater or something stupid and intangible like a mantra or some sort of mental behavioral conditioning. Sometimes when I'm with my dad, I feel safer and calmer but that's just because I know no matter what, he will keep me safe. He makes me feel safe, as he should. But that doesn't always work. When he accompanied me to my college orientation, I was a panicking mess the entire time and whether he was there or not made no difference. I feel like the only thing that really releases me from this sort of thing is cold water and bright sunlight. Some sort of refreshing and blinding stimuli. It's like no matter what, sipping ice water or washing my hands with cold water or stepping outside into the bright sunlight always seems to bring me back to center. Or at least in terms of panic attacks, it does. As for the cool-down on the empathy side, the opposite seems to be true. A dimly lit, warm and cozy environment void of all distraction (both of the human and audio variety) seems to recharge me emotionally and socially. Any silence and isolation, really, seems to do the trick but I guess after spending so many nights locked in my room staying up until 4am when I was living with my parents, I've gotten really accustomed to that kind of environment. I would turn all but my nightstand light off, I've have my fan running on medium, the TV playing on mute in the background just so the place didn't feel quite so secluded. Everything was dark and quiet and peaceful. The perfect formula for recharging. It's so weird the way one form of relief can make things so much worse if used in the opposite situation, though. Like obviously panic means I need cold water and bright lights. Social and emotional exhaustion means I need warmth and darkness. If I try to resort to bright lights and cold water during that social/emotional exhaustion, however, it just makes everything that much worse. It's too much to handle. The stimuli is just too intense. If I try to resort to warmth and darkness during a panic attack, it just makes me that much more anxious. The loneliness makes me feel dissociated, the darkness makes me fear what could be lurking in the shadows, and I already feel warm and clammy so adding even more warmth makes things that much worse. I don't know, I guess it's complicated. But then again, I'm complicated. I'm strange and mysterious and I honestly feel like an enigma. Nothing about me seems to make much sense. I'm a bundle of conflict and rage and I feel far too much, even though I try to act as if the opposite is true. Or maybe I'm just tired and overthinking everything and would be better off backspacing this entire post and climbing into bed. Who the fuck knows anymore, honestly? I sure as hell don't. By tomorrow morning, all of this will probably blow over and I'll wake up and reread all of this thinking to myself what the fuck was I even doing? Wondering why I was so worked up about something so stupid that isn't even going to bother me much come sunrise (probably). I guess I just get very worked up and talkative (or type-ative, in this case) in the heat of the moment and need to purge myself all of all these thoughts lest they fester in my brain and ooze toxic fluids. That's a really great mental image. I don't know, man. Sometimes these things just overwhelm me and I've gotta get them out somehow, and writing everything down is just the easiest format to do that in. Will this all still be an issue once I wake up? Probably not immediately, but it's always been a problem before so I don't see it stopping any time soon. So long as I am forced to socialize and leave my house, these will probably remain issues that I am just going to have to learn to deal with because let's face it: empathy is a chronic curse that we can only learn to manage. I guess that's still a work in progress here.

Essay

Jaeger Ehrenbeck

Prototyping

March 26, 2020

Why Gray Area Matters:

 A Compendium on Ideation Synthesis, and Collaboration

 Ambiguity is often met with dismay or fear. Ambiguity is a sense of uncertainty towards something, or a state at which something is observed in and paradoxically not observable, at least in terms of making a solid conclusion or remark towards what it is that is being observed. To designers however, this uncertainty is the life-force of the imagination, it is the boundless freedom of creativity.

 The topic that will be discussed in this essay is the process of prototyping and engaging with others, but more specifically, the importance of  equivocacy in the context of collaborating with others and sharing ideas with peers, stakeholders, or whoever else may be included in the prototyping process. Leaving some aspects of an idea undefined is of great importance to designers and stakeholders alike. The degree to which a designer does this can make or break a prototype, so it must always be balanced carefully in accordance to what stage of prototyping the designer is on.

Leaving aspects of a prototype undecided is important for collaboration with others the designer is working on the project with. It is inherent in the very nature of building a prototype that things are left undecided. It is not a polished idea; it is a compromise between the dualistic worlds of imagination and practicality. The collaborative process works and aims towards a common goal, that is the only certainty when it comes to creating, so with that in mind, everything else is left up in the air. 

This is the most primitive stage of the prototyping process, when only the goal is determined and the idea is not yet made. This stage can be extremely frightening to a designer, feelings of doubt and uncertainty arise and prevail. It is only when the first most primitive concept is created that these feelings begin to subside; this is when a prototype is born, albeit in its most basic capacity, the progress from this point grows exponentially. The reason for this is the very uncertainty that causes the fear in the first place. A primitive prototype, while weak in its initial realization, is actually very strong for the sake of ideation, comparatively to a raw brainstorm. This is because once the hatchling idea is first given some basic concrete information it then becomes something phenomenological amongst all the brainstorm’s participants and can be a jumping off point of sorts. Everyone can see this hazy idea through their own set of lenses. When this occurs it can significantly bolster a brainstorm, as everyone has their own envisioning of the idea, and with each person it is filtered through, their mind generates a variation of the same idea or new ideas altogether, thus bringing immense insight into not just the fledgling prototype, but the brainstorm as a whole. It allows what is gained from this to be fuzed with other ideas, creating whole new concepts and allowing this phenomenological envisioning to repeat again and again. 

In my project 2 group I experienced this personally; we had the goal in mind of improving family communication. From there we identified the problems of time-zone management, difficulty with scheduling time to talk, and phobia over not knowing the subject of what a family member was calling about (emergencies etc.). Once we identified the problems we felt very lost in the face of solving these monumental tasks, and we couldn’t quite figure out how to solve all of them in one design. We had very primitive concepts at the beginning, such as a subject line for calls (which is not exactly ground-breaking), a mood tracker, dice with a list of controversial topics to talk about, a bell system of sorts for a simple two-way communication between a small area (think a few rooms away in a house), and an interface that could display availability and aid in scheduling. While not much on their own, these simple ideas once shared added quite a bit of synergy to our brainstorm, within minutes we were already figuring out how they relate and quickly put them together into the singular idea of a digital, smart-whiteboard which sparked even more ideas. All of these ideas began with quite a bit of gray area to allow us to mesh them together. In contrast, if these ideas had started out polished with almost all their aspects planned out it would be difficult (not impossible) to think of how they could mesh together, and maybe even too precious to change for those who had slaved away to perfect them; it would no doubt cause a reluctance to radically change if needed. Maintaining gray area in prototypes and design proposals is maintaining flexibility.

Equivocacy is important for the imagination of the stakeholders. When proposing designs within the prototyping process the stakeholders are not looking for a completed product. They are trying to filter your idea first before they accept it for further development. For this reason a prototype should not be a fully defined project. It is for the same reasoning as why a designer should not define too much too soon: It kills the imagination of the viewer. A prototype is collaborative by nature and stakeholders are as much part of the process as are a designer’s team. From what we learned in our Graphical User Interface course, selecting colors or photos to be used in a mockup is generally bad practice, sometimes when stakeholders see these prototypes they cannot imagine them without these colors or photos and they may write off the design proposal. In Exploring Information Appliances Through Conceptual Design Proposals, It is also argued for a level of equivocacy or “openness” -as Gaver calls it, when it comes to making design proposals, for the sake of the stakeholders, “Presenting ideas as narrative proposals allows their concreteness to be balanced with openness, because many details of their implementation, aesthetics, or functionality do not need to be resolved” (Gaver, 215). Gaver’s reasoning is more directed at the feasibility of the designs he is referring to, but the principle is the same. It’s not always about having everything done and resolved, prototypes should maintain some equivocacy.

It could be argued against having gray area that a lack of concrete elements to a design is a lack of responsibility on behalf of the designer, and that keeping things too ambiguous places more of the onus to imagine the proposal on the stakeholders; this has some truth to it. While gray area in the prototyping phase is a great strength, it is neither black or white in consideration to whether it is good to have or not. Maintaining gray area in design is a nuanced topic and must be judged on a case by case basis. 

The lazy designer expects stakeholders to envision too much, and in contrast, the overzealous, compulsive designer defines too much too early with their design proposal, closing off imagination and opportunities for their prototype. Much like painting or drawing, the designer must strike a balance with how much is defined at any given point. Painting is a good parallel process to this, you start off broad, making sure to keep the full picture in mind before jumping into small trivial details. For the prototyping process it is exactly the same, the designer should start broadly to allow flexibility, and be able to make radical changes. As the idea begins to come more and more into focus, the designer should begin looking at the details of how the prototype will operate more carefully. For example, when designing our project 2 whiteboard prototype, it started out as a makeshift hodgepodge of several ideas, an availability interface, a smart-schedule, a subject line for calls, and a drawing program with real-time updates. At this stage in our design there was enough ambiguity to allow for tons of ideation and iterations of the whiteboard, but if it were to be presented it in its raw state, it would be laughable. Only when we created hi-fidelity Sketch and Adobe XD mockups, did I feel confident with presenting the idea as a proper proposal. Creating the hi-fi mockup in sketch helped me define more features of the idea and helped see what the experience could look like; there was still some gray area, but at this point the whiteboard was something that was appropriate to present, as we ensured that most of the onus to imagine and define features was on our shoulders, and that there was still a smidge of gray area as to not be a full-fledged idea. This would allow a stakeholder to see the idea and still envision it taking a different path should they choose to do so.

Collaboration, ideation synthesis, flexibility, and an openness to radical changes in the face of stakeholders all hang in the balance of how much ambiguity you maintain.  Striking a good balance of defined and undefined aspects in one’s prototype is extremely important for these reasons.

Works cited

Gaver, B. and Martin, H. (2000). Alternatives: exploring information appliances through conceptual design proposals. CHI Letters, [online] Volume 2(Issue 1), pp.209–216. Available at: ResearchGate.net [Accessed 26 Mar. 2020].

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