#a year ago i found a whole community where i belong

[viesantewrites]

𝐓𝐢𝐦𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 | 𝐏𝐚𝐫𝐭 𝟐

William Killick (The Edge of Love) x Reader

Previous Part

summary: The reader finds a mysterious diary in a library that belonged to William Killick in the 1930s. When she writes something in it, her notes appear in the past (1937) which allows the two to communicate with each other and they eventually fall in love.

note: I was watching "The Lake House" from 2006 with Sandra Bullock and Keanu Reeves and felt inspired by it. (& Also by Tom Riddle's diary in chamber of the secrets) I know that whole concept isn’t brand new but I enjoyed writing it. So welcome to my new cillian fanfic, hope you like it. I‘m not a native English speaker but I try my best.

William's part is set in 1937 and he lives in London. But he has a different job from the one in the film "The Edge of Love"

Masterlist

………………………………………………………………………….

YN slept poorly through the night as a fierce storm raged outside. Thunder rumbled and flashes of lightning repeatedly illuminated the dark room. YN tossed and turned, every sudden jolt making her flinch. The raindrops on the windows and the howling wind added to her discomfort, making sleep almost impossible.

Eventually, despite the storm, she drifted off and woke up in the morning incredibly exhausted. The sky was clear now, and the sun shone through the open curtains. Tired, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. She was glad it was Sunday and she had the day to herself. She remembered that she had to call Veronica urgently or she would be very angry with her. YN felt guilty that she had brushed off her best friend last evening. But then suddenly all the strange events of the previous day came back to her mind.

She slowly crawled out of bed and walked barefoot to her bedside table, reaching for the black notebook. Everything that had happened last night suddenly felt unreal, as if it had all been a dream. With trembling fingers she leafed through the book. It showed Killick's photo, his notes and diary entries, but when she reached the last page she stopped. Her own note was gone, and also Killick's reply and the brief conversation they had yesterday. Relieved, YN closed the book and sank into the chair beside her. It really had been a strange dream. Frankly, she was glad that incredibly weird and scary things she couldn't explain didn't actually happen. A diary that communicated with her? A young man from the 30s whose soul was trapped in a book? No, that couldn’t be real.

But she was still happy about the notebook because the diary entries were incredibly interesting and gave an insight into what life in London must have been like almost 90 years ago, even without magical powers. It would be perfect for her thesis.

YN yawned and grabbed her phone. She was going to ask Veronica if she wanted to meet her at her favourite café so they could plan the party together and enjoy their day. After all, she didn't have to worry about her thesis anymore. At least not today.

***

Confused, William looked at the blank pages in front of him. This couldn't be true. Where had the stranger's mysterious messages gone? Hadn't she claimed to be from the future last night?

He rubbed his temples as he sat down to breakfast at his small kitchen table and stirred his tea. His brain seemed to be working non-stop, giving him no rest. He flipped through the pages again, but where yesterday there had been his own writing and that of the stranger, today there was nothing but blank white paper. Did the notebook erase the messages at the start of a new day? What strange magic was this?

William's stomach growled quietly. Sighing, he got up and found a single piece of dry, hard bread in the basket on the kitchen counter. That should be enough for this morning, he didn't have any more, and bread was expensive.

He sat down at the table, took a bite of the bread, opened the diary again, grabbed his pen and began to write.

***

The day flew by for YN. She didn’t even think a second about the notebook, just enjoyed the day with Veronica. The weather was pleasantly warm for September, and it felt as if summer was making one last appearance before disappearing for months. Veronica had been busy planning her birthday party, from the guest list to the seating arrangements to the drinks, as she wanted the party to be perfect. YN liked seeing her so happy and invested in something, especially as Veronica was one of those people who could hardly get excited about anything.

In a good mood, YN returned to her small flat in the evening and lay down on the couch. Now it was time to relax and watch TV, but not for too long, she had to get up early tomorrow and didn't want to be too tired and unfocused at university. Maybe her best friend was right and she really was a nerd.

As she thought about university, Killick's notebook suddenly came back to her mind. She had decided this morning not to touch it, but for some reason YN just couldn't let it go. She felt guilty. It wasn't hers, after all, and perhaps it would be better if she returned it to the library tomorrow, after making notes and copies for her thesis.

Lost in thought, she finally got up, went into the bedroom, took it from the bedside table where she had left it this morning, leafed through it and suddenly flinched. This couldn't be happening, she must be dreaming again. What on earth was happening? Trembling, she dropped the book and pinched her arm as hard as she could. The pain shot through her body and she bit her lip in desperation. She was wide awake, she wasn't dreaming, and she could clearly see William's new note in his neat handwriting on the white paper. Right where there had been nothing but an empty page this morning. He had answered her again. With a pounding heart and bated breath, she began to read.

𝒟𝑒𝒶𝓇 𝒴𝒩,

ℐ'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓉𝓌𝑜 𝑜𝒻 𝓊𝓈, 𝒶𝓅𝓅𝒶𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓁𝓎 𝑜𝓃 𝒹𝒾𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒𝓁𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈, 𝓉𝑜 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝓂𝓊𝓃𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒷𝓊𝓉 ℐ 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝒸𝓁𝓊𝓈𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝒾𝓃𝒹𝑒𝑒𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓇𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔𝓈 𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓉𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓃 𝓌𝑒 𝒽𝓊𝓂𝒶𝓃𝓈 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒾𝓂𝒶𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑒. 𝒫𝑒𝓇𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝒢𝑜𝒹'𝓈 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓊𝓇 𝓅𝒶𝓉𝒽𝓈 𝓈𝒽𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒸𝓇𝑜𝓈𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓇𝓎, 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 𝓊𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓃𝑜𝓇𝓂𝒶𝓁 𝒸𝒾𝓇𝒸𝓊𝓂𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒𝓈 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓈𝒾𝓂𝓅𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒 𝒾𝓂𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝒾𝒷𝓁𝑒. 𝒮𝑜 ℐ 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝒸𝒾𝒹𝑒𝒹 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝓃𝓎 𝒻𝓊𝓇𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒿𝓊𝓈𝓉 𝒶𝒸𝒸𝑒𝓅𝓉 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓃𝓎 𝓁𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝑜.

ℐ 𝒹𝑜𝓃'𝓉 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓌𝒽𝑜 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒, 𝒷𝓊𝓉 ℐ 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝑒𝓁𝓁 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝒽𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝒶 𝑔𝑜𝑜𝒹 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒. 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉'𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒? 𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝒷𝑒 𝒸𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒸𝒶𝓃 𝒻𝓁𝓎, 𝒶𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝓁𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓅𝓇𝑜𝒻𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑜𝓇𝓈 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 ℐ’𝓋𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝒶𝓁𝓌𝒶𝓎𝓈 𝒸𝓁𝒶𝒾𝓂? 𝒫𝑒𝓇𝓈𝑜𝓃𝒶𝓁𝓁𝓎, ℐ 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹𝓃’𝓉 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝒶 𝒻𝓁𝓎𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝒸𝒶𝓊𝓈𝑒 ℐ'𝓂 𝒶 𝒷𝒾𝓉 𝒶𝒻𝓇𝒶𝒾𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝒽𝑒𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉𝓈.

𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝑒𝓈𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈 𝓂𝑒 𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝒾𝓈 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝑒𝓃 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝑒𝓍𝓉 𝒻𝑒𝓌 𝓎𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈. 𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑜𝓁𝒾𝓉𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓁 𝓈𝒾𝓉𝓊𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 𝑔𝑒𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓈𝑒? ℐ'𝓂 𝒶𝒻𝓇𝒶𝒾𝒹 ℐ 𝒶𝓁𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 ℐ'𝓂 𝓃𝑜𝓉 𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 ℐ 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝒾𝓉.

ℐ 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝓉𝑜 𝑔𝑜 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓀𝓈, 𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝑜𝓊𝓃𝒹 𝑜𝒻 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓃𝒹 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝒾𝓇𝒹𝓈 𝓈𝒾𝓃𝑔𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒶𝓃𝒹 ℐ 𝑒𝓃𝒿𝑜𝓎 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝒾𝓃𝑔. ℐ 𝑔𝓇𝑒𝓌 𝓊𝓅 𝒾𝓃 𝒶 𝓈𝓂𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓋𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝒲𝒶𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝑜𝓋𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 ℒ𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑜𝓃 𝓉𝑜 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇𝑒 𝓌𝒽𝑒𝓃 ℐ 𝓌𝒶𝓈 𝟷𝟽. 𝒴𝑜𝓊 𝓂𝒶𝓎 𝒶𝓁𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹𝓎 𝓀𝓃𝑜𝓌 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝒻 𝓎𝑜𝓊'𝓋𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝓅𝓇𝑒𝓋𝒾𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝒶𝓇𝓎 𝑒𝓃𝓉𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓈. ℐ 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝓈 𝓂𝓎 𝒽𝑜𝓂𝑒. 𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝓅𝑒𝒶𝒸𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓆𝓊𝒾𝑒𝓉, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓃𝒶𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒, 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝑒𝓃𝒹𝓁𝑒𝓈𝓈 𝓌𝑜𝑜𝒹𝓈. 𝒲𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒹𝑜 𝓅𝑒𝑜𝓅𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑜 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝒾𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒 𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒? 𝒜𝓃𝒹 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓎 𝓈𝓉𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓌𝑜𝓇𝓀, 𝑜𝓇 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈 𝒹𝑜 𝑒𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓂?

ℐ 𝒽𝑜𝓅𝑒 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓂𝑒𝓈𝓈𝒶𝑔𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝒸𝒽𝑒𝓈 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒾𝓂𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒻𝓊𝓉𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 ℐ 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝒷𝑒 𝓋𝑒𝓇𝓎 𝒽𝒶𝓅𝓅𝓎 𝓉𝑜 𝓇𝑒𝒸𝑒𝒾𝓋𝑒 𝒶𝓃 𝒶𝓃𝓈𝓌𝑒𝓇 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓎𝑜𝓊.

𝐼 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽 𝓎𝑜𝓊 𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒷𝑒𝓈𝓉,

𝒲𝒾𝓁𝓁𝒾𝒶𝓂

Tears began to well up in YN's eyes. Even though she still couldn't believe what was happening, this message had touched her deeply. He seemed so accessible, as if he had opened his heart a little to her. To her, a complete stranger from another time.

Almost automatically, YN's hands reached for the pen, and it began to scratch across the old, slightly yellowed paper. Small tears dripped onto the paper as she wrote, lost in her thoughts, only the sounds of London reaching her ears now and then to bring her back to the present. Her heart pounding, she lowered the pen and read her message once more before closing the book and falling asleep.

𝐷𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑚,

𝑇𝑜 𝑏𝑒 𝘩𝑜𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑡, 𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑤𝑜𝑘𝑒 𝑢𝑝 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑚𝑜𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝐼 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑖𝑡 𝘩𝑎𝑑 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑎 𝑑𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑚 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝑤𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑐𝘩𝑒𝑐𝑘𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑟, 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑎𝑡𝑖𝑜𝑛 𝑤𝑎𝑠 𝑔𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑒𝑛 𝐼 𝑠𝑎𝑤 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑒𝑤 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼 𝑠𝑡𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙. 𝑀𝑦 𝑠𝑜𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑡𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑙𝑖𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑠 𝑙𝑒𝑠𝑠 𝑖𝑛 𝑚𝑎𝑔𝑖𝑐, 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑝𝑒𝑟𝑛𝑎𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑎𝑙, 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠. 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝑝𝑟𝑜𝑏𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝘩𝑦 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝘩𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑒𝑟 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑐𝑐𝑒𝑝𝑡 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡'𝑠 𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑛 𝑖𝑡 𝑖𝑠 𝑓𝑜𝑟 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑒𝑟𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑤𝘩𝑦 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑑𝑖𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑑𝑒𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝟸𝟸𝑛𝑑 𝑜𝑓 𝑆𝑒𝑝𝑡𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟. 𝐼𝑡'𝑠 𝑎𝑠 𝑖𝑓 𝑖𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑠𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑙 𝑒𝑣𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑐𝑜𝑛𝑡𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑑𝑜𝑒𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑛𝑡 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑎𝑏𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝑖𝑡.

𝐼 𝑐𝑎𝑛'𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑚𝑒𝑚𝑏𝑒𝑟 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑙𝑎𝑠𝑡 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝐼 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑢𝑐ℎ 𝑎 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑎𝑛𝑦𝑜𝑛𝑒. 𝑌𝑜𝑢 𝑠𝑒𝑒, 𝑖𝑛 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑓𝑢𝑡𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑝𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝑟𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑠, 𝑚𝑜𝑠𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑗𝑢𝑠𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑟𝑡 𝑚𝑒𝑠𝑠𝑎𝑔𝑒𝑠. 𝑇ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑛𝑜 𝑓𝑙𝑦𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑐𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑦𝑒𝑡, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑒𝑟𝑒 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑏𝑒. 𝑃𝑒𝑜𝑝𝑙𝑒 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛 𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑟𝑒𝑝𝑙𝑎𝑐𝑒𝑑 𝑏𝑦 𝑚𝑎𝑐ℎ𝑖𝑛𝑒𝑠, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑦. 𝐼 ℎ𝑜𝑝𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑠𝑡𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑡ℎ𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑎𝑦, 𝑏𝑒𝑐𝑎𝑢𝑠𝑒 𝐼 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑖𝑑𝑒𝑎 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑡𝑡𝑙𝑒 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑔ℎ𝑡𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐼𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝐼'𝑚 𝑜𝑛𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑡𝘩𝑜𝑠𝑒 𝑖𝑛𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑑𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑠𝑚𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑠𝑐𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑠 𝑤𝘩𝑜'𝑠 𝑓𝑖𝑔𝑢𝑟𝑒𝑑 𝑜𝑢𝑡 𝘩𝑜𝑤 𝑡𝑜 𝑏𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑘 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑠𝑝𝑎𝑐𝑒, 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑤𝑟𝑜𝑛𝑔. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑎 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑝𝑙𝑒 𝘩𝑖𝑠𝑡𝑜𝑟𝑦 𝑠𝑡𝑢𝑑𝑒𝑛𝑡 𝑤𝘩𝑜 𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛𝑒𝑑 𝑡𝑜 𝑓𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘 𝑖𝑛𝑠𝑖𝑑𝑒 𝑜𝑓 𝑎𝑛 𝑏𝑖𝑜𝑔𝑟𝑎𝑝𝘩𝑦 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝐺𝑒𝑜𝑟𝑔𝑒 𝑁𝑜𝑟𝑤𝑜𝑜𝑑. 𝐴 𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑑 𝑙𝑎𝑑𝑦 𝑖𝑛 𝑎 𝑙𝑖𝑏𝑟𝑎𝑟𝑦 𝑔𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑒. 𝑊𝘩𝑖𝑐𝘩 𝑚𝑒𝑎𝑛𝑠 𝐼 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡𝑙𝑦 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝘩𝑎𝑝𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑤𝑜𝑟𝑙𝑑 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑙𝑖𝑣𝑒 𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝑐𝑜𝑚𝑒. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑛𝑜𝑡 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝐼 𝑠𝘩𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝑦𝑜𝑢, 𝑊𝑖𝑙𝑙𝑖𝑎𝑚. 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑑𝑜𝑛'𝑡 𝑘𝑛𝑜𝑤.

𝑀𝑦 𝘩𝑜𝑏𝑏𝑖𝑒𝑠 𝑎𝑟𝑒 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑠𝑖𝑚𝑖𝑙𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟𝑠. 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒 𝑡𝑜 𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑, 𝑝𝑟𝑒𝑓𝑒𝑟𝑎𝑏𝑙𝑦 𝑏𝑜𝑜𝑘𝑠 𝑓𝑟𝑜𝑚 𝑙𝑜𝑛𝑔 𝑎𝑔𝑜. 𝐼 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑚𝑒𝑒𝑡 𝑚𝑦 𝑏𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑓𝑟𝑖𝑒𝑛𝑑 𝑞𝑢𝑖𝑡𝑒 𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑒𝑛. 𝐼 𝑢𝑠𝑢𝑎𝑙𝑙𝑦 𝑡𝑒𝑙𝑙 𝘩𝑒𝑟 𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟𝑦𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔, 𝑏𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑘 𝑖𝑡'𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑡𝑡𝑒𝑟 𝑖𝑓 𝐼 𝑘𝑒𝑒𝑝 𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑠𝑒𝑐𝑟𝑒𝑡 𝑡𝑜 𝑚𝑦𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓.

𝐼 𝑤𝑖𝑠𝘩 𝐼 𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑 𝑠𝑒𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝑡𝑎𝑙𝑘 𝑡𝑜 𝑦𝑜𝑢. 𝐼'𝑚 𝑐𝑢𝑟𝑖𝑜𝑢𝑠 𝑡𝑜 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑤𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑦𝑜𝑢𝑟 𝑣𝑜𝑖𝑐𝑒 𝑠𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑑𝑠 𝑙𝑖𝑘𝑒. 𝐵𝑢𝑡 𝐼 𝑎𝑚 𝑎𝑓𝑟𝑎𝑖𝑑 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑤𝑖𝑙𝑙 𝑛𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝑏𝑒 𝑝𝑜𝑠𝑠𝑖𝑏𝑙𝑒.

𝑅𝑖𝑔𝘩𝑡 𝑛𝑜𝑤, 𝐼 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝐵𝑖𝑔 𝐵𝑒𝑛 𝑠𝑡𝑟𝑖𝑘𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑠𝑒𝑣𝑒𝑛 𝑡𝑖𝑚𝑒𝑠 𝑡𝘩𝑟𝑜𝑢𝑔𝘩 𝑚𝑦 𝑜𝑝𝑒𝑛 𝑤𝑖𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑤, 𝑎𝑛𝑑 𝐼'𝑚 𝑠𝑢𝑟𝑒 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑖𝑓 𝑦𝑜𝑢'𝑟𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑠𝑜 𝑖𝑛 𝑐𝑒𝑛𝑡𝑟𝑎𝑙 𝐿𝑜𝑛𝑑𝑜𝑛. 𝐼𝑠𝑛'𝑡 𝑡𝘩𝑎𝑡 𝑐𝑟𝑎𝑧𝑦? 𝐷𝑒𝑠𝑝𝑖𝑡𝑒 ��𝑒𝑖𝑛𝑔 𝑜𝑣𝑒𝑟 𝟾𝟶 𝑦𝑒𝑎𝑟𝑠 𝑎𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡, 𝑤𝑒 𝘩𝑒𝑎𝑟 𝑡𝘩𝑒 𝑒𝑥𝑎𝑐𝑡 𝑠𝑎𝑚𝑒 𝑡𝘩𝑖𝑛𝑔.

𝐵𝑒𝑠𝑡 𝑟𝑒𝑔𝑎𝑟𝑑𝑠,

𝑌𝑁

***

The library was empty and quiet as YN slowly climbed the long staircase the next day, clutching William's diary to her chest. She was unsure if what she was about to do was the right thing. Her mind kept telling her that she had stolen the diary and should give it back, but her heart wanted to keep it so that she could continue to communicate with William. He had left her another little message this morning. He thanked her for her reply, told her about his day yesterday, his work as a carpenter in London, and how he had found a stray kitten in the street and was now taking care of it.

YN loved reading his messages. He wrote so vividly, as if you were really there and experiencing the events for yourself. He also seemed like a really good person, even in such difficult times.

YN sighed one last time as she looked down at the notebook in her hand, then approached the reception desk where the elderly librarian from last week turned to her with a smile.

"Hello, madam. There you are again. Looking for another book for your thesis?"

YN took a deep breath and shook her head. She could hardly bring herself to tell the lady what she wanted. She didn't want to return the book, she wanted to keep reading William's beautiful messages. But her mind forced her to.

"Are you okay?" the librarian asked, looking worried.

Finally, YN gathered her courage and handed her the old notebook.

"I wanted to return this. I found it in the old George Nordwood book. Somehow it got into my bag and I took it home. I'm sorry, really."

The older lady looked at the book in silence and accepted it.

YN felt a wave of sadness wash over her. She had decided to return it and would never read William's notes again. "It belonged to a man named William Killick. I don't know who he is or what he has to do with George Nordwood, but I suppose we'll never find out," she said.

The librarian remained silent, opened the book, ran her finger over William's photograph on the first page, then tilted her head slightly. "He's my grandfather. He told me you were coming. Since I was a little girl. I have no idea how he knew about you but he was right."

The words sent a shiver down YN's spine. How did he know that?

……………………………………………………………………………

thank you for reading! ❤️

tag list:

@freedomring1

you liked part 1, so i hope it’s okay that I‘m adding you to my taglist:

@tenderly-hopeful-collection

@jz12luvscl16 @jz12

[edsbacktattoo]

can’t believe i missed it. happy belated birthday to my first born!

they grow up so fast 🥹

[buckys-little-belle]

Chapter One - The Blue Crayon 

. ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . 

SFW - Please keep all interactions with this post, and this blog, SFW. 

Warnings - Reader cries, first meeting jitters, brief talks of Bucky’s ‘old life’, mainly fluff 

Word Count - 1,836

Note - Releasing this is really scary, and nerve wracking. I'm worried people will hate my new writing style, or won't enjoy the slight changes to the plot/pace/overall creation. Please know that this means a lot to me, and has really given me back a piece of me I thought I lost. Enjoy, and I hope you love this as much as I do <3

. ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . 

★ Prologue ★ 

After years of feeling out of place no matter where he went, and feeling like he didn’t belong no matter what he did to fit in, Bucky took a trip to a Cafe he remembered from his old days in Brooklyn. 

The interior looked the same as it had decades ago, the soft blue and green diner furniture was in pristine shape. The metal of the counter looked slightly more scratched and worn, but the whole place had the same feel it did when he first walked in years ago. 

While most cafes offered the same types of coffee and treats, none of them were anything like Cafe BigNSmall. Instead of being on a busy street open to just anyone, it was hidden away from prying eyes on a calm street, and was catered towards Littles and Caregivers. 

It was founded before Bucky was even born, a group of people looking for a place to meet up comfortably, but also create a safe space for other Littles and Caregivers that might also be in need of a community. 

Bucky had stumbled his way into a conversation years ago about Littles and Caregivers, at first he didn’t understand what the conversation was about, but after asking a few questions and being given the address to the hardly known, yet also famous, cafe his whole idea around the topic changed. And after a few visits with his best friend by his side the two of them realised that the community they had accidentally found was one they fit perfectly into. 

Bucky half expected the well hidden cafe to be gone, or at least moved to a different location after all these years, but as he walked along the familiar sidewalk and stopped in front of the building he used to visit weekly, a warm feeling spread along his chest. The feeling of finally finding someplace he knew, and some place that knew him, was the best feeling he had felt in a while. 

Even the ding of the welcome bell was the same, the coffee just as good as he remembered it, and the crunch of the leather covered diner booth sounded just as he had remembered it. 

The feeling of sitting at a table alone though was new, his days spent here were always spent with Steve and other people they had met along the way. But now he sat in his favourite booth with a bag full of activities, and a heart in need of a purpose. He realised that even though the building had stayed the same, he hadn’t. 

Weeks went by as he watched groups of Littles and Caregivers sit around tables and talk, colour, and laugh. He understood why people avoided him, if they knew who he was they had reason to walk away, and even if they didn’t know him as ‘The Winter Soldier” he was still dressed head to toe in black, stood at times a foot above everyone else, and always had an easily read as angry expression plastered on his face. 

It had been a month before anyone talked to him, and although he wished that he could have felt included sooner, he was happy that Y/n was the first person he met, even if it took weeks of waiting. 

. ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . ✪ . ★ .  ✪ . ★ . 

The sun was shining brightly through the wall of windows, Bucky’s booth drowning in light, the small plant that sat with a basket full of sugar and cream was no doubt enjoying the nice weather. 

Bucky’s coat sat next to him, his phone buzzing from time to time though he ignored it. Instead of calling Steve back, or making sure Sam didn’t need something he surveyed the room, making sure all exits were secure, and danger wasn’t present. 

He, in a way, had given up the idea that he would meet a Little, or even a friend, but decided that in the absence of someone he would spend his time as - unwanted, and unneeded, as well as unofficial - security for those who spent their days here with friends. 

As his eyes drifted to make sure his car parked on a side street was still in tack he heard a small shuffle next to him, then a small voice spoke. “Um, Mr?” He turned his head to see a girl with tear marks down her face staring at him. Her green shirt’s sleeves covered in wiped tears, her overalls slightly off her one shoulder. 

Bucky just stared at her for a second, waiting for her to fizzle away and reveal herself as a dream, or run in fear when she saw his face, but she didn’t. “Hi.” He cleared his throat, trying his best to put on a neutral tone and facial expression. “What’s wrong?” He asked, shuffling in his seat slightly, his nerves evident. 

“My, um.” Her left hand covered in her sleeve came back up to her face, rubbing her eye before she continued. “My crayon broke.” The girls lower lip wobbled now, bringing up what must have happened clearly causing her distress. “The nice cash lady said you, you migh’ have some crayons?” Her voiced lowered to a whisper now. 

Bucky smiled, the warmth he felt when he first stepped inside a month ago finally coming back. His backpack was filled with Little friendly activities and supplies for this reason exactly. “I do.” He answered, unzipping his backpack and pulling out his carton of 96 crayons. “What colour do you need, Bub?” The nickname slipped out on accident, but the girl in front of him didn’t seem to notice, too awe struck by the box of crayons in front of him. 

She sniffled before answering. “I need blue.” She said with a little more confidence. “Hold on.” She whispered, jogging back to what Bucky assumed was her table. “This one, please.” She pulled out two halves of a blue crayon from her box. Her crayon box was smaller than Bucky’s, only a handful of crayons inside, unlike his though her’s had a small sticker on it that read “Y/n.” 

“Y/n?” He asked, the girl snapping her head to him, her eyes wide. Bucky tapped the sticker on her box, Y/n flipping it over and realising how he now knew her name. “There’s too many blue crayons in this box to know what one you want.” He said, hoping it didn’t come off mean or like he was showing off his ‘better’ supplies. “Why don’t you take the box back to your table and use any of the crayons I have for the day.” He offers, hoping that his generosity could help earn Y/n’s trust over time. 

“Can I jus’ sit here?” Y/n asked, her hands fiddling with the box in her hands. 

“You want to sit here?” Bucky parrots her words back to her, hardly believing that she would want to sit with him. 

“Yeah, if that’s okay.” Her lower lip began to wobble again as she took a step back. “Unless, I’m sorry, I can go.” She said quickly, clearly taking Bucky’s surprise as anger. 

“You can sit here.” Bucky’s words were also spoken quickly, worried if he didn’t say anything right away she would run from him. “No one’s wanted to sit with me yet, I’m just surprised.” Y/n nodded her head and put her small box down on the table before walking back to hers. 

In a minute she had gathered all her things and made her way back to Bucky, her backpack now sitting on the other seat. “You sure that I can sit here?” Bucky noticed her slight change in speech, a clear sign of further regression. 

“Yes, I’m sure.” He smiled, Y/n sitting down but still holding her colouring book to her chest, her back straight as a pin. “I’m glad you came over.” He says in hopes to reassure her he wants her here. “It’s nice to have a friend.” Y/n smiles at that, placing her book down, showing a half done colouring page. 

“I agree, bein’ lonely is sad.” She frowns. “Do you wanna colour with me?” Her tone is hopeful, looking at Bucky with a smile. 

“I’d love to.” He smiled back, pushing his coffee to the side and accepting the page Y/n tore out for him. The two of them colouring their respective pages in silence for an hour before Y/n sat up straight with the biggest smile Bucky had seen so far. 

“Done!” She practically yelled. Bucky had been done for a while now, adding his own doodles around the actual lines of the drawing. “Look.” She slides the book towards him, a coloured picture of a princess and her wildlife friends surrounding her staring back up at him. 

“This is really good, Bub.” Bucky coos, surprised at her ability to stay mainly in the lines of the original lines. 

“You can keep it.” She quickly squiggles something on the bottom, Bucky assuming it’s her form of a signature. 

“Thank y-” His words are cut off by the shrill of an alarm, Y/n digging her phone out of her backpack to turn it off, frowning as she places the phone on the table. 

“I have to go home now.” She frowns as she starts to pack up her bag, pausing to turn to Bucky. “Will you, can you.” She stumbles over her words. “Are you coming here tomorrow?” She eventually asks, her eyes avoiding Bucky’s. 

“Are you?” He counter asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Then I’ll be here tomorrow.” She smiles and finally looks at him. 

Y/n spends a few more minutes packing up her things before she stands. “Thank you Mr.” She holds her hand out for a handshake, Bucky’s back straightening as he realises he’ll have to shake her hand with his left. Instead of doing so he grabs her left hand with his right and shakes that one, her giggles worth the awkward situation. “Bye Mr.” She says, turning to leave, but Bucky keeps a hold of her hand. 

“Why don’t you keep these?” He says, pushing the box of crayons closer to her near the edge of the table. 

“Borrow them?” She asks. 

“No, I want you to keep them.” He nudges them her way a little more. “I think you’ll get much more use out of them than I ever would.” He smiles as he watches her’s grow bigger. Picking them up she does a little jump, her backpack jingling as she does. 

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” She spins before whispering a ‘thank you’. 

Before Bucky could say goodbye, or ask for her phone number, she had already walked out of the building, walking down the sidewalk looking at the box of crayons in awe. The broken blue crayon still sat on the table, he smiled, picking it up and placing it in his pocket. The small thing a reminder of the best day he’s had in a long time. 

[bucky-fricking-barnes]

Someplace Like Home

Title: Someplace Like Home

Pairing: Nomad!Steve Rogers x Reader

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Canonical violence, minor injuries, minor blood, non-descriptive mentions of hospitals, mild language

Summary: Y/N owns a hostel in Croatia. When the very handsome Grant comes to work for her, she falls hard and fast for the new handyman.

A/N: This story takes place between Civil War and Infinity War, when Steve is on the run. There are a handful Croatian phrases/words used, which are translated at the end of this fic. Don’t ask me why all my Steve stories suddenly have foreign languages in them. As always, thanks for reading and supporting my writing in all the ways you do. Enjoy!

Dividers are by @firefly-graphics

Your morning starts off slow, like it always does, and after the handful of guests have finished breakfast and left to spend the rest of the day at the beach or in the mountains, you settle yourself behind the front counter and pull out your laptop. The dirty dishes can wait until later—Ana will be here in an hour, and she prefers doing the dishes over going over the books, so you have an unspoken deal that you’ll do the bookkeeping if she cleans up after meals.

You’re just opening up the software on your laptop when the front door opens. The bell above it jingles as a man steps in, bringing with him a warm gust of air. June has been unseasonably cool, but today is the warmest it’s been in weeks. You’ve kept most of the windows open all morning, even though it was still a bit chilly.

“Dobro jutro,” you greet. You carefully shift the laptop off to the side a few inches, being careful not to mess up the carefully arranged papers you’ve sorted out on the counter.

“Kako vam mogu pomoći?”

The man has a gray hiking backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s tall and blond, a dark blond that looks golden in the light from the outside but brown in the shadows. His thick beard and mustache are well-trimmed. You automatically open up the leatherbound reservation book and reach underneath the counter for a key. 

“Dobro jutro. Uh, govorite li engleski?” asks the man. He smiles politely, and you smile back, nodding.

“Of course,” you answer. “How can I help you?”

His eyes move to the pen in your hand, already poised over the next open spot in the reservation book. “I’m not here for a room. I’m here about the opening for a handyman.”

Surprised, you close the book again and tuck it back under the counter where it belongs, along with the key you’d grabbed. No one has come about the open position since you’d posted it months ago in the local cafe. Not even a sign outside the hostel has helped.

“In that case, my name’s Y/N. I’m the owner here.”

“Grant,” he replies, his hand already held out for you to shake.

You oblige with another smile. “It’s nice to meet you, Grant. Can I ask how you found out about the position? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you around town.”

He nods once. “I just moved here from Italy, and from Switzerland before that.”

“So you’re making your way through Europe, then?” you ask. You’re not entirely surprised—he looks rugged enough that he could handle a long backpacking trip or several months of solo travel, unlike some of the college students you normally have traipsing through your village.

“In a way,” he answers. “Truthfully, I’d like to settle down someplace, but it’s been a rough few years. I haven’t quite found the place that feels like home yet.”

Secretly, as you listen to him explain the various European cities in which he’s lived, you wish that he’ll come to feel at home here. Brdonik isn’t large enough to be on any maps, but it’s been your home for almost a decade now, and you can’t imagine a better place. The whole community bands together, and people look out for each other. There’s enough tourism from backpackers and small cruises that you’re not totally isolated, but you’re still far enough removed that your daily life isn’t saturated with commercialism and the big city nonsense you often hear about through your guests. You’d experienced it enough before coming to Croatia, and you don’t ever plan on going back to the life you’d had before you moved.

“To answer your question,”—Grant’s gentle continuation pulls you from your thoughts—“I saw a flier posted in the cafe down the street. I stopped there for lunch.”

“What did you order?” you ask. You prop an elbow up on the counter and level him with your gaze.

“Is that important?

“If you want this job it is. You can tell a lot about a person based on what they order at a restaurant.”

He smiles a little. “I got the turkey sandwich.”

You consider his choice for a moment before giving him a nod. “Simple, but respectable. A clear tourist choice, but I like it.”

“You can’t go wrong with a turkey sandwich,” he adds.

“It’s a classic!” You smile back at him and then come around the counter into the main part of the lobby. You grab your clipboard from its hook on the wall.

“Let me give you a tour,” you tell him. “I’ll point out some of the things that need fixing, and then you can tell me if you still think you’re a good fit.”

Grant agrees, and he walks beside you as you lead him through the hostel. You show him the currently unoccupied rooms, as well as the common areas, and you give him plenty of time to inspect the stalled projects and major fixes that he’d been in charge of. While he looks around, you watch him carefully. There’s something familiar about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on, but he doesn’t set off any alarm bells in your head like some of the previous candidates had. He’s respectful of the property and the few lingering guests you come across, and Grant is polite enough to open doors for you as you approach them. He speaks softly and clearly, and his sense of humor is well-timed. Somehow, despite his hulking frame and obvious strength, you feel safe around him.

Eventually, you lead him to your office. Grant takes the seat in front of your desk and you close the door behind him, then sit behind your desk and pull a pad of paper from the drawer. He’s almost too big for the chair you normally reserve for college-age backpackers looking for a few days of housekeeping work. He’s relaxed, though, and he rests both arms on the thin wooden armrests as you get out what you need. You sneak a glance at him as you sit upright again. His eyes move slowly and carefully over the framed photos and documents on the wall, taking in each one of them individually before he moves onto the next—your college diploma from NYU, a photo of you with your family the last time they came to visit, a certificate of operation from the local government. His backpack is leaning up against the front leg of the chair and his left leg, and you briefly wonder how he’s afforded to travel so much. The bag looks brand new, and high-tech, too. Is he a tech mogul of some kind? A grown-up trust fund kid? Did he steal it, or is he just really good with money?

“You’ll have to excuse me, I don’t have any questions prepared for you,” you tell him as you reach for a pen.

He nods and looks back at you. “You weren’t expecting me to walk in today, I understand.”

“Either way, I have to say that so far, I’m very impressed with you.” You glance up again and give him a polite smile, then look back down as you write his name and the date at the top of the page. “What did you say your last name was again?”

“Carter,” he says.

Nodding, you add that at the top and make your first bullet point.

“Grant Carter. Are you named after someone? That seems a pretty traditional name for a guy your age.” You immediately cringe at the question. “I’m sorry, that was inappropriate. You don’t have to answer that.”

Chuckling, Grant shakes his head. “No, it’s alright. My mother was a big fan of Ulysses S. Grant.”

“The 18th president?” you ask, grinning wide.

He nods and lets out another small laugh. “That’s the one.”

“He’s not normally up there on peoples’ lists of favorite presidents.”

“She had her reasons, I guess,” Grant shrugs.

You hum a little with a smile and look back down at your almost empty legal pad. You have a million questions that you want to ask, and more that you know you should, but you allow yourself to think for a moment before you look up again. Whatever you ask has to be the right mix of the two.

“You’ve lived in a lot of really impressive places,” you begin, and Grant nods in confirmation. “Why come here? There are plenty of larger cities with more job openings. Better paying job openings,” you add.

“You sell yourself short,” Grant easily replies. He sits forward a little, his elbows sliding closer to the ends of the armrests. “Your town is beautiful. It’s comfortable, and a bit secluded. I’m looking for something quieter.”

“A lot of people are, but we’re not often what they want in the long run. How long are you planning on staying?”

Grant stares at you for a long moment before he replies, “Until I’m needed elsewhere.”

You raise an eyebrow. “That’s a bit cryptic, so I hope you don’t mind if I ask for a clearer answer.”

“I plan on staying indefinitely, but if it changes, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

Not quite satisfied with his answer, you still scribble down the response and make a second point on the next line down.

“Do you have handyman experience?”

Grant shakes his head. “But I’m a quick learner and I’m stronger than I look. Whatever I don’t already know how to do, I’ll pick it up quickly if I can get the information from someone or somewhere.”

I highly doubt you’re stronger than you look, you think, forcing yourself to look down at the paper and write, rather than at him. You already look pretty damn strong.

“Do you have a previous employer I can contact? Or references?”

“I can have that information to you by the end of the day.”

You nod and keep writing, and you don’t look up as you say, “We don’t typically provide housing for employees, as we’re a small enough village that commute isn’t an issue, but given that you’re new to town, I’m going to assume that you don’t have a place to stay yet.”

“No ma’am, I don’t.”

“I can get you set up in a room here, if that’s alright with you. I won’t expect you to work outside of normal business hours, except in an emergency, but that’s the same even if you lived off-property,” you tell him, looking up. You don’t lift your pen, and it’s a little satisfying to see that Grant looks mildly surprised. He doesn’t seem like the kind of person who could be surprised by anything.

“You’re hiring me?” he asks.

“Should I not?”

He quickly recovers and shakes his head, giving you a small smile. “I was just surprised that you’re not waiting until after you’ve seen my references.”

“Are you a horrible person?”

“I don’t think so, no.

“Are you a terrible employee?” you ask, putting your pen down on the desk.

“I’m loyal to a fault.”

“Should I be concerned about criminal activity?”

Grant laughs. “I’m a model citizen, though I did steal a piece of cake when I was a kid.”

“I’ll be sure to inform the local authorities,” you tease, grinning. You slide the notepad onto your desk and stand, holding out your hand for him to shake. Grant obliges. “You’re hired, Mr. Carter. If you’re ready, I’ll show you to your room so you can get settled in before your first day tomorrow.”

“I’d like that, thank you,” he replies.

“I won’t take the room out of your salary unless it prevents us from taking guests, but I don’t see that becoming an issue, except maybe in mid-July,” you tell him as you move around the desk to the door. “The handyman position pays 800 euros a month. You’ll be paid bi-weekly in check or cash, whichever your preference. We don’t have direct deposit here. If you need an account in town, there’s a bank down the road.”

“Cash is fine,” he says. He picks up his bag and swings it over his shoulder before following you back out into the hallway, then out to the lobby. You make a pit stop at the front desk to grab a key before heading up the main staircase.

The private, single person rooms on the third floor are a little older, and you briefly worry as you climb the stairs if the beds will be able to hold Grant’s weight. You don’t use them as often now that you’ve finished transforming the old hotel into a hostel. There’s a thin coating of dust on the handrail and you make a mental note to give this floor a thorough cleaning tomorrow while he’s occupied, that way you won’t be intruding. 

You lead Grant to the end of the hall, where the rooms are slightly larger and the windows overlook the ocean. While the view is great, most of your summer guests only fill the dorm-style rooms, so you’re fairly certain you won’t be missing out on any profit by giving him this room.

“Here we are,” you say, and you open the door before stepping aside so he can enter first.

Grant ducks through the doorway and flips the light switch, then looks around in silence. You wait in the hallway, holding your breath as he makes his inspection.

“This is nice,” he finally says, looking back at you. He drops his bag at the foot of the bed. “You’re sure it’s alright if I stay here?”

You wave one hand dismissively. “It’s fine.”

Your phone chimes in your back pocket and you pull it out, quickly reading the notification. It’s only mildly urgent, but you can feel Grant trying to look occupied as he waits for you to leave, so you look up and gesture back towards the stairs with your phone. 

“I’ve gotta take care of something, but you’re in luck. Every Thursday night we host a group dinner for the guests. The food is all cooked by a chef from a local restaurant in an attempt to promote the local cuisine, so you’re welcome to join us, or I can recommend some other restaurants in the area, if you want to explore a little bit more. We eat at seven.”

Nodding, Grant smiles and crosses the room to pull the key from where you’d left it in the lock. “I’ll see you at seven. It was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

“You too, Grant. Welcome aboard!” You smile once more, then turn and head back down the hall. His door closes as you reach the top of the stairs, and suddenly, you can’t wait for dinnertime.

You occupy yourself for the majority of the day by compiling a list of projects for Grant, as well as contacting the references he sends you using the email address on the hostel’s website. He gets glowing reviews from each and every person on the list, though they all seem a little confused when you first ask about him. 

Grant comes down to the first floor at five minutes to seven, and you’re just greeting the first small group of guests to arrive back from their excursions when he steps down from the bottom step. You glance over and give him a quick, acknowledging smile before turning back to the guests.

“Dobor dan! How was your time at the beach?” you ask. They reply politely in a mix of English and their own native language. You vaguely recognize it as French. You’re about to tell them in English about the dinner schedule, hoping that they’ll understand at least partially, but Grant begins talking in rapid-fire French before you even open your mouth.

It takes everything in you to keep your jaw from dropping straight through the floor. None of Grant’s references had mentioned he was bilingual, and neither did he. It feels like it should’ve been obvious, however, given that every single person he’d talked to had mentioned his incredible intelligence and ability to pick up skills quicker than anybody they knew.

Still, you watch in stunned silence from behind the front desk and Grant chatters with the guests. He leads them from the lobby and into the adjoining sitting area, where you hear them sit down and continue to talk. Someone laughs, and then Grant does, too. It’s a deep, mellow baritone, and you catch yourself grinning before you manage to stifle it.

When the next group of guests walk in, you guide them into the sitting room with the others. Grant catches your eye as you turn the corner, and when he smiles, you swear that your heart stutters in your chest.

He’s your employee, you chide yourself, and you turn your back on the group on the premise of prepping a plate of cookies for the coffee table.

“Dinner should be ready soon,” you say as you set the plate in the center of the group. Grant translates for you, first in French, and then in a language that sounds almost Spanish, but you know enough of that to know that it’s something different. All the guests nod in agreement.

You settle against one of the heavy wood bookshelves and watch quietly as Grant chats with the guests, switching fluidly between languages whenever he turns to a new person. It’s amazing, so you simply stay silent as you listen to the flurry of foreign words in the sitting room. You’ve never heard the pre-dinner conversation so lively. It brings a new warmth to the hostel, and you can’t help but smile as you watch the guests come alive, even though they’re exhausted.

“Dinner is ready!” Ana calls. She pokes her head in the door, and she smiles wide when she sees the guests talking excitedly. Every seat is taken. When she turns to look at you, you only grin.

“What’s going on?” she asks, stepping closer so she can lower her voice. “Who is that?”

You lean in, whispering, “His name is Grant. He’s the new handyman, and apparently, he speaks multiple languages.”

“Apparently?”

“I didn’t know when I hired him! This,” you gesture with one hand towards the circle of guests, who have started to rise now that Grant has passed along the message about dinner, “was a surprise to me, too. He just started talking to them on his own. I didn’t ask him to do anything.”

Ana raises her eyebrows, giving you a meaningful look. Before you can scold her for trying to meddle in your love life, she slips away and Grant appears at your side.

“Who is that?” he asks.

Goosebumps erupt on your arms at the sound of his deep voice so close to your ear. He’s leaned down so you can hear him clearly, and though he’s not quite in your space, he’s still close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from him. It should feel stifling in the early summer heat, but it’s comforting, and you turn towards him with a bright smile.

“Ana. She’s the manager when I’m not here. I’ll introduce you later. How come you never told me you spoke all those languages?” you ask.

Grant just smiles back at you. “You never asked.”

“I’ll make sure to add that to my list of questions for the next time I have to hire someone.” You gesture at the line of guests filtering through the doorway to the hostel’s dining room. “We should eat. Most of the guests have spent all day hiking or at the beach, and they’ll be hungry. Our local chefs are all amazing, so the food always goes quickly.”

“What’s on the menu?” Grant asks. He starts to walk and you fall into step beside him, noting how he angles himself sideways and stoops through the doorway so that you’re not squashed into the doorframe. It’s a miracle he doesn’t hit his head on any of the lowered ceilings or hanging decor in the building.

I’ll have to warn him about the lights in the rooms on the second floor, you note.

“Punjene paprike. Stuffed peppers,” you translate. You pause and watch as the guests choose their seats, silently making sure there are enough chairs. When it’s clear you’ve done the math correctly, you look over at Grant. “How many languages do you speak?”

He shrugs and surveys the long table filled with food. People are already piling their plates high and chattering with their friends and family, and the room is filled with amicable noise. The sun coming in from the windows is golden. The windows face south, which is one of the many reasons why you’d first purchased the building. It needs a lot of work, and it always has, but the view of the ocean from the dining room windows, along with the way the sun illuminates the whole room, helps make all the work worth it.

“This place is beautiful,” says Grant, quietly. “You’ve done well.”

You look over at him, surprised at the praise. It warms you from the inside out, and you smile when he meets your eyes. “Thank you. I’ve worked hard.”

He nods, and after a moment, he gestures towards the table. There are two empty seats beside each other, near the far end of the room. Ana has taken the seat across from them and she’s already begun to eat.

You follow Grant across the dining room, and you try not to act surprised when he pulls out the chair and helps you sit before taking the spot beside yours. Ana catches your eye as you reach for a dish, but you look away. You can’t risk having her embarrass you in front of the guests.

Or Grant, the cheeky little voice in your brain adds, but you quickly push the thought to the far reaches of your brain. Showing your hand—and your burgeoning feelings for Grant—right now is something you need even less.

“So, you’re from New York?” he asks.

You look up from where you’re pulling a napkin into your lap. “What?”

“Your degree. It’s from NYU, so I’m assuming that you’re from the States.”

Nodding, you allow him to serve one of the peppers onto your plate, and you heap an extra serving of rice onto the side of your plate before handing him the bowl. You don’t want to assume he likes anything, especially since he ordered one of the most American things on the menu at the cafe.

“I am. I grew up in Manhattan, and I decided to stay there for college. Once I got my degree in hospitality, I decided it was time I see more of the world,” you tell him. 

“Why Croatia?” Grant asks.

You shrug and pick up your fork. “Honestly? I don’t know why. I didn’t even mean to come here. I ended up on the wrong train and decided to stick it out. I figured it would be a fun experience either way, but I fell in love with it here. On my second day here, I saw that this building was up for sale and I had just enough money in my savings to buy it. It was a big risk, but I think that it was worth it.”

He looks around the room, listening to the conversations for a few moments before he smiles. “I think so, too.”

“Where are you from?” you ask. “You’re clearly American.”

Grant laughs at that, nodding. “I grew up in Brooklyn. When I was old enough, I served in the army for a few years, and since then I’ve just been… traveling.”

The army thing makes sense, and you file that information away for later. The two of you start to eat, exchanging a few more words throughout the meal. Grant offers to help Ana with the dishes. She’s giddy at the proposal, so you let them head into the kitchen as you help guests arrange their plans for the next day. You find yourself straining to listen for the sound of his voice during the quiet moments, however, but by the time the dishes are finished, Grant tells you that he’s exhausted and he wants to get a good night’s rest before his first day on the job. You wish him goodnight from the front desk, then wait for Ana to appear and barrage you with a million questions about the new handyman.

You learn quickly that there’s even more to Grant than meets the eye. He’d been telling the truth in his interview—he’s deceptively strong, and he really does learn quicker than anyone you’ve ever met. His Croatian improves leaps and bounds in the first few months at the hostel. By the end of the summer, he’s practically fluent, even if he does bumble through some of the more complicated phrases with a faint blush on his cheeks.

The longstanding projects for the hostel are all completed by the end of August, leaving you scrambling to keep Grant busy. When you can’t find anything to do, however, he busies himself by exploring the far reaches of the island, speaking with the guests in a myriad of languages, and keeping you company in the lobby or in your office. His presence, which had once seemed much too large for the old brick building, has settled. He seems at home in the armchair you buy for the corner of your office, and he’s become a fixture in the doorway of the lobby, where he likes to stand and watch traffic pass by.

It’s on one of the hottest days of the year that you first get a glimpse behind Grant’s ever-friendly facade. You’re behind the desk, going through the reservations for the upcoming week, when there’s a shout from outside. The front door to the hostel is propped open in an attempt to let in a breeze, and Grant has taken up residence in his normal spot. You’ve only just processed the shout when there’s an explosion. The floor beneath you shakes and shudders, and you grip the edge of the desk in an attempt to keep upright.

Grant whirls around and fixes his eyes on you. He’s scanning you, up and down, searching for any sign of injury.

“Are you okay?” he asks. You nod, swallowing thickly, and peer over his shoulder. There’s no sign of what’s happened outside, but you can hear screaming and shouting. There’s a gunshot and you flinch.

“Stay here, and stay hidden,” says Grant, and you know in an instant that it’s an order. “Stay quiet and don’t let anyone in. Okay?”

Nodding again, you drop to a crouch, then curl up on the floor with your back against the desk. You clutch your phone in one hand and listen as Grant closes, then locks the door. When he doesn’t appear behind the desk, you crawl over to the side and look out into the small lobby. He’s gone.

Your arms shake beneath you and you have to fall back against the desk for support before you fall flat on your face. Squeezing your eyes shut, you listen to the commotion outside. There are no more explosions, but you hear more screams and shouts, followed by a crash and gunshots. Your heart pounds in your chest as the noise gets closer and closer. You know that Grant was in the army, so he must have military training, but the thought of him outside—the thought of him in danger—makes you want to puke.

There’s a thud against the front door and you flinch. Your body tenses and you curl up in the fetal position, trying to maintain your breathing. It doesn’t work, however, and when there’s another bang, you scream.

“Molim! Molim, let me in!”

You look around the edge of the desk again. It’s a woman on the other side, and the desperation in her voice propels you to your feet and into the lobby without a second thought. You twist the lock and yank open the door.

A slim woman dressed entirely in black grins at you. Her eyes are a shocking shade of electric blue and her teeth are bright white—a stark contrast against the mask that hides the rest of her features.

“Sorry, dragi,” she says, and you gasp when she reveals the gun in her left hand. With the other, she reaches out and grabs you. “You’re coming with me.”

“No!” You fight against the woman’s grip, and when you lift your eyes to search for help from someone else, you can’t believe what you’re seeing.

Grant is lifting a car off someone. He lifts the car and tosses it aside with a heave and a grunt, and then he’s fighting someone hand-to-hand. The man in black is clearly trained because he gets in a few hits, but Grant never stays down for long. He’s slowly forcing the man back down the street, towards the beach, instead of towards the line of shops that’s on the other side of the hostel.

There’s a blast as another explosive goes off, this time in a restaurant diagonal from your front door. Stone and rubble flies in every direction. The street is empty of people, thankfully, except for the people Grant is fighting. Somewhere down the street, a car alarm is going off, and the light from the harsh midday sun is almost blinding. Your ears are ringing from the blast and the alarm. You think you scream at some point, but you’re not sure.

The man that Grant has been fighting has been thrown back by the blast, but Grant is still standing, as if he’s anchored onto the pavement. There’s a metal car door in his hand. He’s gripping onto a piece of the leather interior, and the red painted finish on the outside has been battered by the flying debris. His chest heaves as he tries to catch his breath.

The woman drags you out of the hostel and onto the street. She wraps her arm around your shoulders and places the gun against the side of your head. You stop struggling then, and your breath catches in your throat as your heart begins to pound even harder. Your vision is going blurry along the edges, but not enough to miss the way Grant’s jaw clenches when he catches sight of you.

“Captain Rogers!” the woman shouts.

He throws a second man off of him and turns fully towards you and the woman. “Let her go!”

In your ear, the woman chuckles. It’s low and dark, and full of malice, and you shiver. You close your eyes and pray that it’s all just a bad dream.

“Not until you come with us,” the woman replies.

“Leave her and the others out of this.”

When you open your eyes, Grant is looking past you at the woman. The light reflects in his deep blue eyes, and it’s then that you realize what he’s been hiding from you.

How did I miss it before?

“Steve Rogers,” you choke.

He looks at you again. “Y/N…”

“You’re Steve Rogers.”

There’s a pause as he watches you with clear regret, and then the woman laughs, shocking you out of your revelation.

“How precious!” she exclaims. “Your little boss had no clue who you were?”

“Let. Her. Go.” Steve takes a step forward and the woman’s grip on you tightens. You can’t stop the whimper that escapes you when she pushes the gun harder against your head, making you crane your neck to one side.

Two new men in black come up behind Steve. He turns his head slightly, listening to their approach, but he doesn’t move. You can tell that he’s calculating what to do next.

There’s a moment of clarity as you watch them launch themselves at him. Steve fights like he was born for it—and maybe he was, you rationalize—and as he easily overcomes them both, you have a revelation that’s nothing short of a rock at the pit of your stomach.

Steve has to get out of this alive. So many people count on him, and they always have. Though you know that there are a lot of people all over the world who consider him a criminal, you also know that there are a lot of people just like you that think Steve deserves a place of honor for all that he’s done and all the sacrifices he’s made.

The safety on the woman’s gun clicks off and Steve freezes. The two men take advantage of that, and they grab his arms, pulling them tightly behind his back and pushing him to his knees. He falls with a grunt. One of the men grabs a fistful of his hair and yanks his head back until he’s looking at you and the woman from his place on the ground. He doesn’t fight back.

“Steve,” you plead. “You have to fight. You can’t let them take you.”

“I’m not leaving you,” he replies. He shifts his gaze to the woman without moving his head. “If I go with you, you’ll let her go?”

“You have my word.”

Heat swells in your eyes and you know that you’re about to cry. “No! Don’t trust her, Steve! You can’t believe her!”

The woman jostles you and you close your eyes on instinct. A tear slips down your cheek.

“Shut up,” she growls. 

You swallow thickly. At your sides, your hands and fingers have gone numb, and your legs are barely holding you upright. 

“Alright,” Steve agrees. “I’ll go with you.”

A sob bursts through and the woman releases you. She practically throws you to the ground, and you have just enough time to get your arms out in front of you before you hit the road. Pain shoots up both limbs and the pavement digs into your forearms. From where you lay, you watch the men pull Steve to his feet. He moves with them and doesn’t fight back as they drag him to a black cargo van on the perimeter of the blast zone.

“Steve!” you scream. Your voice breaks and your throat feels raw as you push yourself up and stumble in their direction. The movement sends pins and needles into your hands and feet, but you do it anyway. Your limbs feel completely out of your control as you attempt to go after them.

Steve looks back at you. He’s too far now for you to make out his expression, but you can see that he’s trying to tell you something. The man on his right shoves his shoulder and he’s forced into the van. 

“Let him go! Steve!” You start to sprint, running after the van as the back door slides shut and the woman, who climbed into the driver’s seat while you were getting to your feet, begins to navigate it through the rubble from the explosions. The tinted windows keep you from seeing Steve inside and your mind immediately goes to the worst.

“Someone help me! Stop that van!”

You run until you physically can’t. The van is long gone, and when you collapse onto the street, a crowd gathers around you. People are murmuring and asking you questions. There are too many hands, too many faces, even if many of them are familiar. Your vision swims as you’re rolled onto your back. The summer sun beats down on you harder, and you try to focus, but all you can manage is a mumble of Steve’s name before you lose consciousness on the pavement.

When you wake, the soft beeping noise is enough to tell you that you’re in a hospital. You open your eyes, expecting to be greeted by white walls and bedding, and maybe a wall of cabinets with a sink. Instead, there’s a slanted wall of glass windows, each separated by a pillar of concrete. Thin, almost invisible computer screens with golden text are scattered around your room, each displaying charts, figures, and data in a language you can’t read. Some are embedded into the walls on either side of the bed, while others float above white counters that look more like control panels for a spaceship. There are scans of someone’s body and brain—your brain, you realize after a long moment—that spin in circles on the floating screens.

A hiss makes you flinch, and you quickly look away from the brain scan to where a young, dark-skinned girl is walking in through a set of sliding glass doors you hadn’t seen before. Her white, high-necked sheath dress looks nothing like hospital attire, especially since it’s sleeveless and only has mesh to cover her shoulders and a few inches below her knees, but she’s holding a tablet and looks so serious that you wonder if maybe she’s not a regular doctor. After all, this doesn’t seem like a normal hospital. Where are you? Did the men in black come back to get you, too?

“Y/N, it’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling?” she asks.

Her accent is jarring, and you blink. When you go to speak, you have to lick your lips a few times. They’re dry, and your mouth feels so much like sandpaper that for a moment you don’t think you’ll actually be able to say anything at all.

“Where am I?” you finally ask in return. “Who are you?”

She smiles briefly and checks something on her tablet, then glances over at one of the floating screens off to the side. Seemingly satisfied, she locks the device and sets it aside.

“My name is Shuri. You’re in Wakanda. You will be safe here.”

You frown. “Wakanda?” None of the hospitals even remotely close to the hostel hold that name, not even in passing, but it sounds familiar.

“Yes. We’re friends of Captain Rogers. When we heard about his capture, and how you were involved, we brought you here.”

Tears burn hot in your eyes as the memories from the street outside the hostel come flooding back all at once. How long have you been in the hospital? Who’s looking for Steve?

“We have located him already,” she continues, and you inhale sharply, shifting in the bed as you reach up to wipe your face. “And the Dora Milaje has been sent to retrieve him.”

“The what?” you ask. Your voice shakes and you swallow hard in an attempt to steady yourself.

Shuri smiles again. “The Dora Milaje. They are our special forces here in Wakanda. Let me ask again, how are you feeling?”

You move in the bed a little bit more, testing your limbs for stiffness or pain. Surprisingly, there’s very little. “I’m… I’m okay, I think. Confused, mostly. Thirsty.” Your stomach growls, so you quickly add, “Hungry.”

She laughs and nods, then picks up her tablet. Shuri taps a few times before glancing down at something through the slanted windows. 

“Someone will bring you food shortly. I’ll also have someone come change the bandages on your hands and wrists. Your injuries are healing nicely. You should still rest a while longer, but I will make sure you’re notified when Captain Rogers has been safely returned.”

Nodding, you sit back against the pillows, but you quickly sit up again with a gasp. “The hostel! Ana!”

“We’ve sent someone to assist Miss Mitrovich in your absence,” Shuri soothes. She steps closer to the bed and you lie back as she approaches. “There were very few repairs that needed to be done to your building, but they are taken care of, and all your guests are safe. I have already dispatched a team of Wakandan specialists to help with the rebuild of Brdonik. We are also installing a security system in your building.”

You sigh in relief and close your eyes, swallowing against the dryness again. You lay in silence, listening to Shuri as she moves around the room and mutters to herself. When you finally open your eyes again, it’s because she’s greeting someone as the sliding glass doors hiss open for a second time.

“Grant,” you murmur, and he gives you a weak smile from just inside the doorway. You correct yourself, shaking your head. “Steve.”

“Grant is my middle name,” he quietly explains. “And Carter…”

“Agent Carter,” you finish. “I see the connection now.”

While waiting for your food, you’ve slowly been piecing together the different parts of Steve’s life that you knew, trying to get the full picture. You’ve known him personally as Grant, the quiet man from Brooklyn that is good with his hands, always knows exactly what to say when you’re in a bad mood, and is a hit with every guest that crosses your threshold. On the other hand, you also know him as Steve, the All-American super-soldier that’s plastered across every history textbook you’ve ever been given. He’s also the super-soldier that you’ve watched on the news, listening to reporter after reporter praise him like he’s a god, then publicly curse and shame him on their next breath.

Shuri quietly excuses herself. You stare at Steve as she leaves through the sliding doors behind him. There’s a cut above his right eyebrow, and blood caked in his beard, right below a nasty split in his lower lip. He’s standing lopsided, like he’s keeping the weight off his right foot, and he looks like he could use a shower and a long nap.

“Are you okay?” you ask.

He nods again. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For dragging you into this,” Steve answers. He sighs. “For getting you hurt. For putting you in danger.”

You shake your head and sit up a little more in the bed, allowing the pillows to prop you upright. “None of this is your fault.”

“It is, and—”

“And nothing,” you interrupt. You give him a stern look and he presses his lips together with a wince. “You didn’t know that there was any danger. If you had, wouldn’t you have left?”

After a second, Steve nods, and you continue,

“And if you’d been able to stop it from happening, you would’ve, right?”

Another nod and you smooth the surprisingly soft hospital blanket over your legs.

“Then it’s not really your fault, Grant. Steve,” you correct again, more firmly this time. You’re still coming to terms with the fact that he’s not 100% who he said he was.

“But you still got hurt. I still put you in danger just by being there. I shouldn’t have stayed as long as I did. I got too comfortable, and too close, and I was careless.”

You purse your lips and watch him for several moments. Steve stays still under your inspection, waiting for you to say something.

Finally, you tell him, “I don’t regret what happened, and if I had the chance to go back in time and change things, I wouldn’t. I’m not in mortal danger, and you’re safe again. The hostel is being taken care of. None of the guests got hurt. Tourism might be down for a couple months but…” You shrug. “It’s the end of the busiest season anyway, and I have enough savings that I’m not going to worry.”

Steve shakes his head at you, then turns to look at the screens. He doesn’t seem to be actually reading them, but he puts his hands on his hips as he stares at a spinning scan of your hand and wrist.

“Do you regret it?” you ask.

He turns back. He’s silent for a few seconds as he watches you fidget with the hem of the blanket in your lap. “No,” Steve finally replies. “I don’t.”

“Me neither.”

When he doesn’t move, you swing your legs over the edge of the bed. You’re not dressed in a normal hospital gown—someone has put you in leggings and a tunic of some kind—but you still shiver when your bare feet touch the floor.

“Y/N—” Steve limps towards you, holding both hands out to steady you if you lose your balance. You don’t, and he stops a few feet away.

“I don’t regret any of it, Steve,” you say. You start to close the distance between the two of you even more. “Not a single minute.”

“Volim te,” Steve murmurs.

You freeze, now within arm’s reach. “What?”

“Volim te.”

Your brain is working a mile a minute to catch up with what he’s said. Steve shifts in place, wincing as he transfers the weight to his injured leg. 

“You should get that checked out,” you quietly tell him, glancing down at his leg.

He stares at you, as if he was expecting a different response. You know he was, but you’re suddenly so overwhelmed by everything that it’s the first thing out of your mouth. 

“I—” You close your eyes and shake your head, letting out a small self-conscious chuckle. “I’m sorry. I love you too, Steve. I do. I love you. I don’t— I don’t know why I said that. I guess I’m just worried—”

He cuts you off by stepping into your space and cupping your face with one hand. His fingers thread up into your hair and he tilts your head back so he can press his lips to yours. Your arms fall limp at your sides for a second, but then your brain catches up. You close your eyes and reach up to put one hand on the back of his neck. The other slides around his waist, pulling him closer as he kisses you.

Steve’s body is warm and though he winces with pain, then pulls away slightly to touch his fingers to his busted lip, neither one of you actually moves away from the other. You stay close enough to feel the heat from his breath on your skin.

“You need to eat,” he murmurs.

“And you need a doctor,” you reply.

He smiles a little, more just pressing his lips together than anything, and kisses your forehead. You close your eyes again when he lingers.

“Don’t go,” he says as you step away. 

You frown and crowd close again, and you place both hands on his chest. “Steve?”

“No. I mean, you should go now, but…” He struggles for a second, trying to find the words he wants to say, and you wait patiently. “What I meant was: Don’t go back to Croatia. Stay with me.”

“What about the hostel? What about Ana and the guests?”

“I’ve heard you say a thousand times that she could probably run the place on her own. Plus, it’s the end of the busiest season, and after everything that’s happened, tourism will probably be low. You said it yourself.” 

Steve reaches up to pull your hands off of him, but he holds them and rubs little circles over your knuckles with his thumbs. He watches you carefully, giving you his full attention. His eyes are deep and blue, and the crinkle between his eyebrows has disappeared completely now that he’s sure you’re okay.

“So, what? I’d stay here in Wakanda? What would I do?” you ask, frowning. “They don’t really have tourists here, do they? It’s not like they need a hostel.”

“No, but I need a partner.”

“Don’t you already have partners, Steve? What about the Falcon? Or Black Widow? Or even your friend that you told me about—James? Isn’t he a superhero, too?” 

Shaking his head, he answers, “That’s not the kind of partner I need, Y/N. I don’t need a partner to fight with. I need a partner that I can live with. Someone to make a home with.”

You stare at him for a second, allowing your brain to process what he’s just said, and then you give him a slow, sly smile. Inside, you’re giddy and jumping up and down, but all you do is pull your hands in a little more so he has to step closer to you.

“Steven Grant Rogers, are you asking me to move in with you?”

“I guess I am.” His ears are starting to turn a bright shade of pink, and it’s beginning to creep along his cheekbones as well, just above his beard. 

Steve’s still holding your hands captive, so you simply raise an eyebrow. “Do you have a place to live here in Wakanda? Or are we going to be staying here in my hospital room until you find one?”

He shrugs and grins back at you. “King T’Challa gave me an apartment.”

“The king gave you an apartment?” You pull your hands away and step back. You can’t hide your disbelief, though deep down, you figure it’s very likely that the king tried to give Steve more. He’s a hero, even if most of the world doesn’t believe it.

“The princess was just in here going over your medical information, and you’re shocked that he gave me an apartment?” Steve asks, a smirk on his face.

You gape at him even more. “You’re kidding. Steve, that was not—”

“Princess Shuri. She’s made most of the technology around here, and she oversees the recovery of important patients. Like you,” he adds.

“If I’d known—”

He leans in and kisses your forehead again. “You don’t need to bow or anything. They don’t do that here, though I’m sure she’d appreciate a thank you the next time you see her. Maybe compliment one of her inventions. T’Challa says she likes that.”

“The next time?” you hiss. “Steve—”

This time, he laughs at you. It’s a full-bodied laugh, unlike the sparse chuckles you’ve gotten out of him since his return, and you relax. You smile, too, a real smile that makes your cheeks ache as you press your burning face against his chest. Steve wraps his arms around you. His body shakes as he laughs, but he quickly settles down and kisses the top of your head.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” you tell him, not letting go. In fact, you hug him tighter around the waist with both arms.

“Me too. Come on, ljubavi. Let’s go home.”

Dobro jutro = Good morning

Kako vam mogu pomoći? = How can I help you?

Govorite li engleski? = Do you speak English?

Dobor dan = Good afternoon

Molim = Please

Dragi = Darling

Volim te = I love you

Ljubavi = Love/my love

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Steve Rogers: @lipstickandvibranium​ @delicatecapnerd

[strawberrystepmom]

prev chap | YOU ARE A FEVER | gojo x f!reader | series masterlist | next chap

cw: reader has defined characteristics (complexion that visibly reddens), two sisters, mentions of farming and livestock. word count 3k.

SIX YEARS AGO IN THE VILLAGE OF UCRA

Your days begin before the sun begins her own.

Distant roosters crow letting you know that morning has arrived and you shift in your bed uncomfortably, linen sheets scratching against your bare legs. Reasoning with yourself for five more minutes would be useless knowing it would throw your entire day off schedule. For a fleeting selfish moment, you contemplate the harm in allowing those measly minutes to clear your own head. The more reasonable part of you wins out this time, five minutes here and there add up quickly if you tally them at the end of the day, and your feet dangle over the edge of the bed. Your grandmother’s voice is audible through the door separating your bedroom from the kitchen, the soft clatter of dishes accompanying the sound of her singing quietly to an audience of no one.  

Padding softly across the floor, you swing the door open and greet her with a sleepy half-smile. Your sisters are still asleep and your grandfather is out of the village to trade leaving you responsible for the animals until he returns. The chickens will be fed twice today and their eggs will be collected and delivered to your neighbors. The goats will be pet gently while they’re milked, something you hope you can convince one of the girls to help with. The cows will be allowed to mosey in the pasture all day, chomping on grass while clouds roll by over their heads. 

You, on the other hand, will be handling a transaction between your grandfather and someone from the bustling city of Amavel. Sheer mention of the city makes your stomach flutter excitedly, imagining what it must be like to be in a place so large you can remain anonymous. In Ucra, everyone knows you and has since the day you were born. The community is small and deeply protective of itself, something you have always found difficult to understand given how big this world is. 

“Good morning, sweetheart.”

Your grandmother greets you as she does every morning, a soft smile on her face that shows the ever deepening lines around her mouth. Age leaves no one untouched, a thought you often refuse to indulge in because it makes you sad to think about ever losing her. You grab her hand gently and she perks up when you squeeze it. 

“Take a rest today.” Your word isn’t absolute given you are not the woman of the house but she is fair enough to consider your opinion when you give it. “Have one of the girls tend to stuff around the house.”

She sighs and squeezes your hand back, dropping it to reach around your back and grab a few eggs out of the bowl on the counter. 

“I’ll see what I can do.” 

It’s the best answer she can give. The responsibilities double when it’s just you girls left at home. She cracks eggs into a skillet and the soft sizzle fills the kitchen while you take a seat at the table your family has been sharing for three generations. This house, this table, this life - it has all belonged to people who existed long before you did. You’ve never felt like you fit into it quite well enough, something beneath your skin itching to break free from the fate of the women before you. 

This line of thinking always draws you back to imagining Amavel. A place where you can truly be anyone or no one or even someone if that’s what you desire. It’s hard to imagine a single cow or a milking bucket in a place like that, paved and illuminated streets leading its citizens from place to place if the stories you have heard are true. Bustling libraries and places to get food and drink you have never even dreamed of having in your life.

You sigh as your grandmother did moments ago, settling back into the chair you sit on for a moment. It does no good to dream, being labeled as a dreamer is being seen as trouble and you have worked your whole life to be seen as anything but. You are reliable, where you’re supposed to be when you say you’ll be there.

With any luck, your good reputation will help you today.

“Do you know what time I should be meeting our visitor? Papa didn’t say anything before he left.”

Grandma smiles and flips your egg by lifting the pan and tossing it gently in the air. When you were a child you swore this was a magic trick and told her so, eyes sparkling with joy. You were quickly and sternly told to never mention something like that again after you said it. The request has been honored but you still think the same thing every time you watch it.

There have always been rumors that magic exists in all of Ormur’s countrymen although in Ucra, this is strongly frowned upon. The people of this village lean on the primitive side compared to the rest of the increasingly modern country and superstition runs rampant in every home. Doorways and windows are blessed to keep evil out, black cats are shooed away with brooms and terrified glances.

“I believe he said this evening although I think you should stick as close to home as you can today in case he arrives sooner.” She advises and you nod. “People from the city tend to run on a different schedule than the rest of us.”

From the few past experiences you’ve had handling transactions with people from the city, you know she’s right. Time moves differently when you have endless amounts of it. “I better get started then.” You move to stand up but she stops you with a gentle hand on your shoulder, sliding your breakfast in front of you. The same breakfast you’ve enjoyed since you were a child, two eggs with their yellow eyes staring up at you. “Eat first. I’ll see if I can get your sisters up to milk today.” A gentle reassurance that she’s trying to lessen your load, just as you do hers. You smile up at her and she leans down to kiss your forehead while you split the two eggs into separate pieces and silently give thanks for the meal. The sun has risen, her light filling the kitchen, and you’ve well and truly managed to mess up your schedule for the day by taking those few minutes to enjoy your breakfast. 

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

As expected, nothing has gone according to plan today and it feels as though there is some force out of your control causing all of the chaos around you.

The chickens got out of their coop overnight, giving you no choice but to walk into the forests that surround the village to gather them all. You gently reprimanded each of them and placed them back in their homes with a disappointed sigh, plucking eggs from the nests to put in the pockets of your apron. Counting over each of the rows, you notice one is missing and shut the coop tightly, latching it closed before leaving.

How could you forget one? You could’ve sworn they’d all made their way back when you clucked at them and scattered feed on the ground at your feet to beckon them to you and you stomp back into the woods, frustration evident in the way you mutter to yourself quietly. 

“Of course this has to happen today of all days,” you spit through gritted teeth, the blooming hydrangeas of the forest brushing your arms as you walk through the thick bushes to a clearing where you stand and take a deep breath.

“FLORENCE!”

You scream the name one of your sisters gave the chicken so loudly it practically rips itself out of your throat, your body bending with the force of it. Fists balled at your sides, you stomp in place and furious tears roll down your cheeks. 

Your mind races with anxious, spiraling questions. Why is this happening? Is it because you wasted too much time with grandma this morning? Is it because your mind dwelled a little too long on this concept of magic that seems so foreign but so pervasive everywhere you look?

Bottom lip quivering, you unball one of your fists to wipe your fingers down your face. A few angry tears drip down your chin before you can catch them and you blow out a defeated puff of air. Going any deeper into the woods could spell disaster if you can’t find your way back home by the time you need to be there so you contemplate what to do next. 

Then you hear them - footsteps. The crunch of fallen leaves and dirt causes you to spin around and you come face to face with a man you’ve never seen before. A whole lot of man at that. 

He’s taller than any man you’ve ever seen, broad shouldered and easy smile wearing. Blue eyes lock their gaze on you and you note that if they’re the sky, the floppy white strands atop his head are the clouds and they’re both unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. Your breath catches in your throat and he smiles, raising his arms that are wrapped around your lost chicken.

“I’m guessing this,” he nods downward at the surprisingly calm bundle in his arms, “is Florence?”

Wordlessly, you nod and reach out for your lost chicken. He holds her a moment longer, thumb stroking the fingers around her neck, and you wonder if this isn’t an ambush given you are in the forest on your own. Long before your adulthood, there were a few packs of bandits that attacked villagers and forced the entire group to be assigned escorts.

Your posture stiffens and he notices, handing her over with an affable smile and a laugh.

“Believe it or not, she found me.”

You attempt to discreetly assess your chicken for any harm that may have come to her on her adventure but find yourself thwarted by how interested this man is in speaking to you, his glance still fixed on your face. Florence clucks and shifts in your arms but your touch immediately soothes her as you pet the feathers on the top of her head and her beak.

Deciding to play it cool, you clear your throat and raise your eyebrows, finally meeting his gaze fully. Your stomach flutters as it did this morning, the excitement of something you’ve never seen before nearly overcoming any farm girl stoicism you may have perfected in your life. 

“Where at?” You ask coolly, or at least you believe you do until he cracks a smile. He can tell you’re trying to appear tough and aloof to protect yourself from any potential threat so he slackens his posture to make himself at least a little smaller. 

“In the bushes not far from here.” He points in the opposite direction of where you stand and you nod, still clutching the chicken. “I was on my way to the village to pick up an order and honestly assumed that’s probably where she came from.”

This is the man coming to pick up a freshly processed cow, sold to him by your Papa? Your eyes widen and you smile, tension melting from your body. 

“You’re supposed to be meeting me, actually.” You laugh. The coincidence is funnier than you expected and you tilt your head to the side curiously. “Are you the cafe owner? Nanami, I believe?”

“No, no. I’m the cafe owner’s friend,” he raises his eyebrows and waggles them in a way that makes you giggle. “I don’t know if he’d call me his friend, maybe just his brave and extraordinarily handsome delivery man, but he’s my friend.”

The chicken meltdown seems like a distant memory as a giggle bubbles out of you, amazed by this man’s easy going nature. The people in your village are so serious it’s hard to believe a person like this actually exists. Every bit of him seems different, thrumming with a bright white light of joy and vitality. His steps are as light as air, his grin shines in the dappled afternoon light.

“What’s your name?”

The man smiles down at you and opens his arms.

“Satoru Gojo, the one and only. And you?”

Quickly you introduce yourself though your confusion about his introduction is apparent. You tilt your head to the side curiously. Florence once again rustles in your arms and you touch her, gently assuring her everything is fine despite whatever she is worked up about. The chaotic energy that has blanketed your day clearly hasn’t disappeared fully but you are best suited to keep her calm.

“You’ll have to forgive me for asking but are you famous or something?”

Now it’s his Satoru’s to laugh. It sounds like the music that is played during the seasonal festivals in the village to you; you hear the songs so rarely that they have become something you cherish. 

This laugh could become the same if you think too long about it. 

“I mean if you mention my name at any bar in Amavel you’ll probably get a collective sigh from the patrons,” he jokes. “I’m pretty talkative and drunk people hate that.”

You wouldn’t know. You’ve never stepped foot in a bar despite being old enough to drink, the village tends to steer clear of alcohol unless it’s festival season so even wine is hard to come by. Excitement rises in you again, warmth lightening your limbs. 

“Can I ask you a few questions about the city while we walk back to the village?”

Gojo grins, a bit taken aback by your friendliness though he plays it off well. He has only traveled to Ucra a few times in his life, most of them recent, and he has never met someone quite as excited to see a stranger. Your eyes gleam and he wonders for a moment how anyone in your life has denied you a thing.

“Of course but you have to answer my questions too, okay?”

Nodding excitedly, you giggle.

“You can go first if you’d like.”

He pretends to ponder for a moment, stroking his chin thoughtfully while you begin walking back toward your home, where the large wheelbarrow of meat purchased waits for him to take back to the city. You don’t want to take up too much of his time knowing that what he purchased is time sensitive but the day is already so off track - what does it matter if you take a few minutes to do this? You took a few minutes to nourish yourself with breakfast, this is simply a different kind of sustenance and one you get to enjoy so rarely.

“Why is your chicken named Florence?”

You squeeze her gently in your arms.

“My sister named her. I have two of them and they named all of the chickens. This is Florence, we have Mary, Hattie, and Lucy and a bunch more at home. I could introduce you if you want?”

Even your frustration about having to wrangle and return each of these chickens has long evaporated and Satoru nods at you, holding his hand out in the direction of your village.

“After you.”

-:¦:- -:¦:--:¦:- -:¦:-

Once he’s certain that he is far enough out of the village that his magic will not be detected, Satoru mumbles a spell that encapsulates the bundle of packages in the wagon in golden light and they whoosh away in an instant, magicked off to their rightful owner Kento Nanami hours away from the secluded village he remains outside of. There’s a basket of preserved fruit and eggs dangling from one of his arms, courtesy of you, and he decides to keep them with him instead of sending them back. He doesn’t have to share a gift, after all.

Taking his time getting home, he walks in the opposite direction of the dirt path you walked him down just hours ago. There is so much to contemplate from this one little trip but there are two things he knows for certain. 

One, you have magical ability. Your touch alone was enough to calm animal and human alike, the slight golden aura shimmering off of your hands alerting him that it is not simply your good personality providing comfort although he did believe it to be nothing but at first. He won’t deny your good nature or your kind heart but there is more, something you clearly are interested in judging by how many questions you asked him about Amavel.

Two, he likes you. Not in the way he sort of likes everyone, it’s in his nature to be personable, but in the “why is my heart beating a little too fast right now” way. The “why do I have to leave you when I want to stay here and listen to you talk about how you named your chickens all night” way. The way that will make him certain he has to come back no matter what. Clever man that he is, it doesn’t take long to concoct a plan to figure out how to do just that.

Gojo mutters an incantation and with a wave of his free hand a book materializes out of thin air. It’s heavy and leather bound with gold raised lettering on the cover. It plops onto the ground with a thud when he releases his magic and he bends down to situate it between the hydrangea bushes far enough away from the village that he knows only you will venture out here. 

There’s a binding spell on the book, something to always tether him to you while he is back in the city. The book won’t spy on you per se but he will know every time you pick it up to read it, a gentle tug on his magic telling him that the sweet village girl is interested in more. 

If you wanted it, he’d give you everything including the world but he must take it a step at a time. This is simply step one - a magical interest check if you will. 

Satisfied with his plan, Satoru rises to standing and plucks a satchel of dried peaches from the basket you sent him home with. Popping one into his mouth with a pleased hum, he grins as he chews and continues walking away from the place he hopes to return to very soon.

[fishymom-art]

BOOM!!!!! SUDDEN OC REF SHEET DROP!!!!!!!!!

Say hi to my beloveds!! Some of them were created around uuuhhh 2012/13 maybe, but they went through drastic redesigns throughout the years (specifically Rose, Polen, Amelie, and Raff + Milo, who didn't change a bit), and some of them are brand new (Eru was my D&D character and Tim was created out of nowhere inspired by my husk redesign lol)

Details under the cut!

They exist in The End Realm - the prison of all the other realms, where all criminals and whatnot go. There were so many people, that The End Realm developed it's own communities, politics, etc. It homes many many different people from every part of the multiverse - Human Realm, Ether Realm, Occult Realm, etc. The leader of The End Realm is Raff (or Armel Howl, as he used to be called), an emotionless demon who controls his subjects with their every step. His servants - Shadows - watch everyone and everything around his isolated castle and the rest of the Realm. He tricks people into making a deal with him and they own him their lives. They get a golden jewel with a red ruby in it that is unbreakable and a swirly tattoo is carved into their skin to showcase, that they belong to him. If a person tries to break the pact, they become one of the Shadows. Tim Baccarat - The only human out of the whole bunch - He/They - Demisexual - 28 y.o - Used to own a casino, now works as Raff's butler, coz he owns him. - Was exiled from the Human Realm for Soul Gambling. - (Inspired by Tim Wright from Marble Hornets, Husk from Hazbin Hotel, and Jeeves from Jeeves and Wooster) ((what a combination)) - Voice Claim: Husk from Hazbin Hotel (Keith David)

Rose Seed - Dark Fae, pretending to be a Love Fae - He/She - Gay - 26 yo - Native to The End Realm. A singer and a performer in general, Raff's assistant. Was found by Raff with a missing wing and made a deal. - (Currently inspired by 10th Doctor from Doctor Who, Angel Dust from Hazbin Hotel, Francœur from Monster in Paris) - Voice Claim (for noooow): Angel Dust from Hazbin Hotel (Blake Roman)

Eru - Aasimar (at least originally) - They/them - Aroace - 38 yo - Used to be a part of a high religious power/church in the Ether Realm, but was exiled due to going against some of their beliefs. Leads a rebellion against Raff. Had a son. - (Inspired by Odysseus and Athena (specifically from EPIC: The Musical), and Queen Angella from She-Ra) - Voice Claim: Odysseus from EPIC: The Musical (Jorge Rivera-Herrans)

Polen - Forest Fae - She/Her - Pansexual, Polyamorous - 35 yo - Native to The End Realm. Eru's right hand in the rebellion. Used to be best friends with Rose, but they stopped talking after he made a deal with Raff. - (Currently inspired by Daisy from The Magnus Archives, Hecate (specifically from Lore Olympus)), ZombieCleo (any Life Series, mostly Last Life though) - Voice Claim (might change): Lizzo, lol

Amelie Fairchild - Succubus - She/They - Lesbian - 32 yo - Raff’s maid. She used to be a high overlord but Raff took over and she signed an unbreakable contract so he doesn’t kill her. Is very in love with Polen. Wants to be a part of the rebellion. Was exiled from the Occult Realm for being weak. - (Currently inspired by The Beast from Beauty and the Beast (I am a horrible person lol), c!Captain Puffy (Dream SMP), and Pearl (Double Life)) - Voice Claim: The Crane Wives (specifically "Curses")

Raff (Previously: Armel Howl) - Demon, used to be a human - He/It - Bisexual - 29 yo (looks like that at least) - Highest overlord of The Realm. Leads an army of shadows, that look over each and every person in his realm. He has eyes everywhere. Was exiled from The Human Realm many many years ago for practicing Dark Magic (creating Shadows). - Voice Claim: MISSIO (Matthew Brue)

Milo Howl - Unknown - He/Him - Unknown - 9 yo - Raff’s son. Powerful being. - Voice Claim: Sushi Saucy

[antiradqueerguy]

Hi. I'm antiradqueerreally. I was very badly spiraling (I have very severe hormonal issues that cause a myriad of problems if I'm not medicated, which I wasn't due to it not being a good time for taking them) throughout that entire account's run. The scene aesthetics thing is mainly because I have trauma towards the subculture because I'm mainly from twitter spaces. Most of my exposure to it comes from people like 4lung, Sparkledogcore, and other pro-para sparkledog artists who who either offended or are at the very least contact-neu. Seeing it reminds me those people period.

As for the "cleansing" thing, I realize how fashy that sounds, but that's not what I meant. I am not a conservative. I'm an autistic genderfucked nonhuman. I meant that I firmly believe that paraphiles need to stay away from anything that is associated with the queer community and vice-versa for the safety of the queer community, which is kind of in dire straits right now. I'd rather that the queer community be louder and more upfront that people who abuse children do not belong in the community. Like imagine if someone like that Chayah cunt or whatever found out about the pro-para community. If Republicans saw a whole gaggle of queers publicly beat the shit (metaphorically or literally) out of child rapists, it could potentially change some minds. "Oh… maybe not ALL of them are groomers." - Basically, I wanna boil frogs into nicer frogs.

As for my "anti-kink" stance, yes, I am aware of petplay not being inherently zoophilic (I think I just said that to be a dick idk, I say weird shit when spiralling). I think it's weird, and I think people who are zoos shouldn't engage it in because it could potentially feed into desires - Actually, yeah, I don't think feeding into harmful desires in any way is the right solution. I do think cold turkey should be an eventual solution. The end-goal should be to not have to worry about these thoughts. I also firmly believe that POCD/ZOCD isn't the same as being pro-para. Intrusive thoughts are INTRUSIVE, UNWANTED, DO NOT WANT, while I find that most pro-paras are like "Oh… dogdiddle thoughts… nice, gonna make a cute flag for it and make it part of my edgy vibe :)" which… I dunno, I would rather be around someone with the former mindset than the latter, because that tells me they have way more of a moral compass.

I am extremely adverse to ageplay because I am a purely SFW age regressor. I do not think having the mindset of a child, childish things, etc, should ever EVER be associated with anything sexual. I am a baby regressor, I do not want anything sexual associated with being baby. Hell, I only just started recently drawing diapers in my regression art because I was so fucking scared of people who sexualized them - I was groomed to shiiiit by AB/DLs when I was a kid. I made an f-list years ago, since at the time age regression communities were not a thing (I'm old) and i wanted innocent scenarios where I was a smol lil' thing. Nope. Got weirdos into cub porn instead. Fucked me up and it's a major reason I hate pro-fic people.

So yeah, I do not think being "pro-para" is the way to self-improvement. I understand that a majority of the community are just people trying to heal, but I don't think festering in fantasies that feed into bad thoughts is a healthy way to go. I'm not going to change these stances, but I will apologize for being a major cunt. I am simply traumatized by weirdo fucks and I shouldn't be engaging with people who make me see red.

👴

[magical-mogai]

my dyke flag.

heya, folks. lilith of magical-mogai here, to talk about something i made. a flag, to be specific.

for the past four years i've struggled with the words lesbian and dyke. at first i felt connected to both! then dyke lost its appeal and i became just a lesbian, and i was... fine with it for a while, i think?

then about two years ago, i started to distance myself from the online queer community. i still had an off-and-on mogai hyperfixation, but i was just so sad, to put it bluntly. i couldn't find where i belonged, even in the community about belonging. even when i made my own labels, i'd never be able to check off all the tiny boxes that made me feel seen. i never was what i expected to be, in any way.

overall i started to slip from labels, as a whole.

i called myself a lesbian in front of my friends who i knew wouldn't get it, but in private i tried the words "queersbian", queer, "lesbiqueer", about every combination i could make without having to call myself a dyke.

then for a while, i just let the question go unanswered. what am i? gay, i guess? i think? i let it be a question, and i found comfort in that.

eventually i came back to the word dyke. and left. then came back again. and again. and again and again and again until i couldn't deny its presence in my identity anymore.

and even then i still did. so i called myself bi for a bit. tried it out, worked through the preconceptions i had of bisexuality, and tried to ignore the weird feeling it always left in my mouth to call myself bi.

i met other queer people in the real world. old trans people, those who dont call themselves anything, a lesbian married to a man, bi girls who only date men, trans men with husbands who call themselves straight, everyone who i at one point (shamefully) tried to recategorize in my brain to fit my view of the world, and i just accepted them as they were.

so eventually, i too tried to accept that i was just bi, but i realized that i was just... wrong. all of a sudden i knew that i was going off a label i THOUGHT should fit, not the one that did.

so i came back to dyke.

and i looked for a dyke flag, something to proudly display on my wall, but found lesbian flags. and gay flags. and queer flags. i didn't find anything i felt myself in.

so i made a flag.

using a light pink, purple, and blue color palette, and featuring two interlocking venus symbols, here it is. my dyke flag.

use it if you want, or don't. or design your own, or don't. make yourself feel seen however you need to.

so here it is. my dyke flag.

maybe in two years i'll come back and laugh and go "wow, she got it WRONG." but for now, here i am. here it is.

my dyke flag.

[foxes-that-run]

The Lakes

The lakes is about escaping the challenging aspects of Taylor Swift's life with her muse to form an artist community like Wordsworth and Keats had in the Lakes district in the 19th century.

Above, the Lyric video shows wildflowers, LK has referenced this song and Harry also has for a Pleasing campaign. In the vertical video Taylor is on a swing, reminiscent of the swing in Seven, possibly about Harry. Finally a photo with a swan in The Lakes District.

In the Long Pond Session Taylor said (I've shortened it)

'The Lakes is a testament of what I wanted to escape from and where I saw myself escaping to. We'd gone to the Lake District in England a couple years ago. In the 19th century you had a lot of poets like William Wordsworth and John Keats. There was a poet district. They had their own community of other artists, which I've always in my career.' Jack: 'it's not just I've found something worth escaping to it’s a person to escape with.” Taylor agreed "That's a huge sincere statement of hope, everything I'm naming is completely small compared to this love.” “Hoax as the ending song was interesting for a couple weeks but then I wanted the real last song. The Lakes shows you exactly what the overarching theme of the whole album of trying to escape and having something you want to protect, protect your own sanity and saying look they did this hundreds of years ago, I'm not the first person who's felt this way.

Taylor said they had gone to the lakes "a couple of years ago", and she described a poet district with an artist community, meaning fellow songwriters. She had been to the Lakes with a couple of years ago with on her first trip there with Harry Styles on her birthday in 2012. At the time Taylor said it was her best birthday since she was 6. Like Taylor, Harry has a similar experience of fame and is a lyricist. Harry has also sung about being in an artist community with Taylor, in Canyon Moon, which has a very similar idea as The Lakes.

I have seen people refer to the Invisible String Lyric "Our three-year trip / Getting lunch down by the Lakes" to point to Joe. While not photographed, their 3rd anniversary was October 2019, or 6 months before this song was recorded. 'A couple of years ago' rather than 'last year' implies the earlier trip. Joe is also not a lyricist, she spoke about an artist community. He is credited as a producer on Folklore. Taylor described how William Bowery wrote the melody's not lyrics.

Lyrics

Is it romantic how all my elegies eulogize me? I'm not cut out for all these cynical clones These hunters with cell phones

An elegie is the speech at a funeral, her songs, particularly those she is reclaiming are like diary. She lost her eulogie, the story of her life.

The last line refers back to 'I Know Places' "They are the hunters, we are the foxes" where she and Harry ran from paparazzi, now they hide from every person with a cell phone.

Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm setting off, but not without my muse

Taylor is saying she is not cut out for the music industry life, she lost the rights to her diary, constantly photographed. In the Long Pond she referred to having this plan for years, which she foreshadowed for Lover, and I think Harry's Peace ring. I think they may have shared this plan when they first visited for when she turned 30 and into 2020. Folklore is about communication and how life differs to what a 23 year old planned.

The final line is so lovely, her muse is Harry Styles. No other partner has inspired so much work or so much success, they have inspired and encouraged each other to do their best work. Even when they are with others for years they still write about each other. When they see each other they are prolific. Harry has even sung about how he writes too much about her. I could list what proportion of awards and hits are about this relationship, but let's stay in the Windermere peaks.

Despite their success Taylor does not think they are cut out for this life. Taylor has sung about Harry's anxiety in New Years Day and Now that we don't talk, it's also apparent watching him at award shows in his solo career. This song and many (Mirrorball, I know places, Slut!, You're on your own kid) are about how fame impacted Taylor.

What should be over burrowed under my skin In heart-stopping waves of hurt I've come too far to watch some namedropping sleaze Tell me what are my words worth

The first line I think could have 2 meanings, one that the relationship should be over but it is not and the waves are hurt of not being together. Or, and I think this because of the second half, Taylor cannot let her masters go. The last line is a pun on the worth of her words and the poet William Wordsworth.

I want auroras and sad prose I want to watch wisteria grow right over my bare feet 'Cause I haven't moved in years And I want you right here A red rose grew up out of ice frozen ground With no one around to tweet it While I bathe in cliffside pools With my calamitous love and insurmountable grief

I want auroras and sad prose, refers to Harry Styles. She describes his eyes as “aurora borealis green” in Snow on the Beach. She also describes him as sad boy in Question..?, he does write sad prose.

In the Long Pond Session Taylor said "I could see this you know you you live in a cottage and you've got Wisteria growing up the outside of it and you just why you know of course they escaped like that." William Wordsworths cottage (below) has wisteria growing on the side, which is a slow growing purple plant, almost a lavender haze!

I love the imagery of 'Red rose grew out of rose in frozen ground', because it refers to Rose, which is a Haylor theme. But also because it refers to the track before Hoax: "My winless fight, this has frozen my ground" It also refers to a theme of hiding their love, "I would die for you secret" in Peace, that something beautiful and no one needs to know about it.

The last lines are so poetic and dramatic I love them. Calamitous love refers to a love that’s “built to fall apart (and back together)” in OOTW or "a crooked love in a straight line down” in IWYW. Taylor used a similar word discussing SOTB, calling it cataclysmic love. Taylor describes her dramatic and passionate relationship with Harry rather than staide and safe one described with Joe.

Her insurmountable grief is all she’s lost, her masters, the things she gave up in your own your own kid and things she has to pine about.

Take me to the lakes where all the poets went to die I don't belong, and my beloved, neither do you Those Windermere peaks look like a perfect place to cry I'm setting off, but not without my muse No, not without you

Love this chorus, such beautiful poetry about poets and love.

[reveriesofawriter]

book rambling don't mind me

the book kept saying anharion was his title... so was that also his name? did his name become a title when the Betrayal happened? does "anharion" translate to Betrayer or is that just what he's known as? was it a mistranslation from the old language? edit: I just reread the part where sarcean said he used to be called something else and now I feel like that's going to give away the whole ~is he the sun prince~ thing

I've seen some theories about the Collar and to what extent it actually controls james and like. as much as it would be less big and exciting to see it this way... what if the Collar is mostly symbolic? bc sarcean can talk people into doing what he wants anyway and james was obviously not immune to the charm (it's magnified for him even) well before will knew anything about himself or his powers so what if the collar was just a way to show other people that anharion belonged to him? but GOD if this moral stronghold of not wanting to manipulate james into kissing him and wanting him to do it of his own free will stops these boys from having a lil smooch for the majority of the third book I will Die

I've also seen people try to draw lines between will/sarcean and james/anharion as far as their past/present personalities and the consensus seems to be that will has a more clear line between himself and sarcean but I saw someone say it was more like intrusive thoughts and I think that's fascinating, also that will is seeing james and not anharion the betrayer when he looks at james but james in every sense is this cocky little asshole (affectionate) who flirts and uses his powers to take advantage of people while anharion in the past wasn't like that sooooo I think will isn't Seeing james as who he is I think he's seeing anharion for who he used to be before he turned against sarcean. which is so interesting when you think about will saying people shouldn't be judged by what they've done but what they can do

the tangled web of who hates who is so messy but I trust violet to, if not outright take will's side, then to convince the others to let him go like banish him or whatever instead of killing him right away (even if james's powers would physically protect him from that I just need violet to believe in him)

I'm still thinking about little 6 year old will setting a rich fucker's clothes on fire bc he laid his hands on a woman who was nice to him, how violet saved his life and he's spent every day after that trying to return the favor including using a newfound power he doesn't know how to control yet to set her free from a cage in another country

can't wait to see how the narratives shift when we get other perspectives on what the past was really like bc from what I can tell sarcean and the lady weren't really In Love they just had a fling one time

on that note I thought will was switched out for the girls somehow when they were kids but elizabeth was told her mother had a son before her and she believes that son is will, which would mean will is both blood of the lady and the dark king, which brings to question who his dad is bc they said it wasn't simon but I don't think his birth was a virgin mary situation, also I know sarcean got around but are will and simon's family related any closer than one ancestor thousands of years ago? is sinclair will's father?

I don't think tom and violet will fight to the death, tom may die in another way tho

what's the fourth kingdom and how does that pay into this? bc the first gate was in england the second was underwater somewhere and the third is in italy so the fourth...? on that note there must be more stewards alive who weren't in the hall when it was torn through, people who either left that life behind, or like cyprian at the beginning who didn't drink from the cup but still follow the lifestyle, or maybe like small covens of stewards who never went to the hall bc they found their own communities elsewhere idk it's just very eurocentric to think everyone from everywhere would meet up in this one place when the whole rest of the world exists

will needs some alone time after all this someone give him a safe place to rest and a hot drink

phillip and visander... and the unicorn....... love triangle of the ages... (I wonder if visander will find his way back into a man's body somehow or if he's stuck looking like katherine forever lol) (realistically. I don't think this man fucked his horse. but. metaphorically? metaphysically? whatever they had was probably as erotically charged as that magic scene right?)

[gingery-juniper]

PERSONAL BLABBER TIME

-long personal ramble ahead-

I don't really post personal stuff here, but there's no other platform I feel safe sharing. I don't really share a lot personal stuff online anyway, but I'm really excited about this and I'm just dying to get it all out and share my excitement with someone.

Like

Orange-cat zoomies excited.

🐈[nyoom]🐈

I've been afraid to open up and unmask for so long, but this is the one place I feel like I can be open about who I am. I don't care if anyone actually reads it, I just want to vent it out.

I'm about to start taking T (testosterone)!!!

I am AFAB and non-binary, and now trans-masc.

I've always hated the body I was born with since I was a kid, but never quite knew why. I was raised in a very conservative Christian household that strongly condemned anything outside the "norm". I was raised to be a "good submissive wife"

That never sat right with me, even as a religiously brainwashed kid. And now I understand why. Not just the creepy religious aspect (that's a whole 'nother deal), but that I was never supposed to be a woman.

I knew something was different about me ever since middle school, but I didn't have the experience or exposure to know why I felt wrong in my own body. I was a tomboy I guess, but it was more than that. I my autistic ass always hyperfixated on male fictional characters. Everyone always assumed I had a crush on them, but no, I wanted to BE those male characters.

I spent so many years thinking maybe if I was more perfectly feminine I'd be happy, starving myself to be ~pretty~ and accepted by my family and peers. That didn't do shit and just made me deeply and harmfully depressed and more confused.

I spent so many years "believing" gender and sexuality was a strict "good vs evil" thing. Even daring! to think of deviating from being cis or hetero (those terms are evil and "woke" btw /s) was an abomination. Anyone at all queer (definitely used as a slur by them) was going straight to hell.

I feel sick knowing I used to believe that.

Well, I didn't really believe it. It didn't make sense to me, but I was conditioned to think that way (for fear of punishment) so I went along with it. But it didn't make sense and confused me when I started to meet and make LGBTQ friends in high school and at my first job. They were such amazing people. I couldn't figure out how they were possibly "evil".

I'm so angry it took so long for me to finally break out of that brainwashed mindset and start thinking clearly for myself.

10 years later, after a long time away from my parents/family, it's all making sense. The egg has cracked.

I've since found the LGBTQA+ community and have never felt more accepted and understood. This is where I have always belonged and I'm so grateful to have made it this far to realize that.

I was making formal plans to off myself a few years ago (many factors involved), but seeing some of the things people posted here made me realize that I'm not broken and not worthless and helped inspire me to live.

Over the last few years (and yeah honestly tumblr has been an incredible learning and supportive community resource) I have come such a long way in my personal journey. I am learning who I am now.

I had top surgery earlier this year and it's the best decision I've ever made. I've never been happier in my life.

Somehow my family hasn't noticed.

Now I'm going to start T.

My family won't take kindly to this change. They are very homophobic and especially transphobic. But I'm no longer interested in being palatable to keep them comfortable. I am going to be me whether they like it or not.

For the first time in my life, that I can say with confidence, I want to live.

I am asexual.

I am aromantic.

I am non-binary.

I am trans.

I am queer.

[ironychan]

A Little Human (as a Treat)

Part 1/15 - Un Voluntario

Part 2/15 - Un Escursione

Part 3/15 - Una Complicazione

Part 4/15 - Una Famiglia

Part 5/15 - Una Aiutante

Part 6/15 - Una Ricerca

Part 7/15 - Un Confronto

Part 8/15 - Un'Emergenza

Part 9/15 - Una Speranza

Part 10/15 - Una Sera

Part 11/15 - Un'Interruzione

Part 12/15 - Una Fuga (Prima Parte)

Part 13/15 - Una Fuga (Seconda Parte)

Part 14/15 - Una Conseguenza

Part 15/15 - Un Finale

@dysphoria-sweatshirt @writer652 Last chapter! Final word count 76000

There were no clocks under the sea, so Ciccio had no idea what time it was when he woke up. The sun was well up, casting dancing lights through the window and onto the walls and floor of the room where Marco and Vin slept. The two narrow stone shelves covered with seaweed must have been their beds – Ciccio was on the floor in between, on a mat of sponges similar to the ones the Donzellas had given them. His skin was still a little loose on his arms but had mostly shrunk back into place, but his muscles were aching all over, and he was ravenously hungry.

He therefore tried to roll over and get up. The sponge mat came with him, stuck to the spines on his back.

Ciccio reached back to try to peel it off, but was not flexible enough, especially with his shoulders sore from the exertion last night. He was going to have to find somebody to help him, which would be embarrassing. Even more embarrassing, he discovered that somebody had gotten him into a pair of seagrass trousers to replace his ruined shorts. Whose were those? They couldn't belong to the farmhands, they were too skinny. Were they Signor Donzella's? Had they belonged to Arturo and Giordana's father?

He decided he didn't want to know.

Slowly and with gritted teeth, he made his way to the kitchen. Marco and Vin were probably already out doing farm work, but the Trota family were there, cleaning up after breakfast. Ercole must have been goaded into helping, because he was handing shells and bowls to Signora Trota for her to scour out over the hot vent.

“Ha!” he exclaimed when he saw Ciccio. “Yesterday you looked like an hors d'oeuvre – today you're the main course, with your own pla...” at that moment he caught Giordana's baleful eye. She bared her teeth, and Ercole fell silent.

Signora Trota gave Ciccio a big smile. “Here's our hero,” she said cheerfully. “The whole community is talking about you, young man!” Without needing to be told, Arturo and Giordana came to get the sponge mat off Ciccio's spines, while their mother continued to speak. “After we came back here, Silvestro and Niccolò tracked the squid down and finished it off. We're talking about what to do with it now... we've considered eating it, but the Cormorano kids said they tried to eat the last one and found it tasted terrible.”

“There's a Museum of Natural History in Genova,” said Ciccio. “Maybe they'd want it.” He braced himself, expecting the removal of the mat to hurt a bit, but his loose skin meant his spines were not as securely anchored as they'd been the previous morning. The sensation of it stretching and bouncing back as the sponges came away was odd, but not particularly painful.

“What's that mean?” asked Arturo. “Storia naturale?”

“It's a place where they've got all kinds of things from nature for people to look at,” Ciccio explained. He muttered a thanks as Giordana took the mat away, and pulled himself over to the table with his arms because those were less sore than his tail. “Animal skins and skeletons, and fossils, and stuff like that. They don't have a giant squid, or even a really big one... at least, they didn't when I went there on a school trip.” That had been several years ago.

“Oh, that sounds neat!” said Arturo, and turned to his mother, opening his mouth to ask if he could go... then he remembered how upset she'd been last night, and changed his mind.

“Is there any more food?” Ciccio asked. His stomach was gurgling insistently.

“Of course there is. We saved some fore you,” Atinnia assured him. She brought over a few dishes and shells full of whatever sea monsters ate for breakfast – Ciccio couldn't identify any of it, but he didn't care. He was so hungry he tucked right in. Some of the textures were weird, but he didn't let it bother him.

It did make him think of something, though. “Have you eaten anything?” he asked Ercole through a mouthful.

“A little,” Ercole replied. “I know better now than to ask what it is.”

Arturo snickered. “It was shark's eggs.”

“I told you not to tell me!” said Ercole.

“Buongiorno!” somebody called from outside.

“Oh! Good morning, Chiara!” Signora Trota replied, going to greet their guest. “Excellent timing, he's up and eating. I called Signora Zigrino,” she explained to Ciccio. “She's our local erborista and all-around wisewoman. She's got some advice for you.”

Signora Zigrino was yellow-green in colour, with a mottled pattern down her back and fins that were starting to fade to white with age. She set a basket of various herbs and shells on the table.

“Francesco, isn't it?” she said to Ciccio. “Atinnia's told me about you. You're new at this, like Luca's friend Giulia, is that right?”

“Sort of,” said Ciccio. He yawned, then realized he still had food in his mouth. Ercole was looking at him with a revolted expression. “Sorry.”

“Don't apologize,” Signora Zigrino said. She took a shell full of green goo out of her basket. “Puffing is very hard on the body – I remember Atinnia's friend. Marina was her name, I think...” she looked at Signora Zigrino, who nodded. “She would be tired for days after doing that. Even the little fish, afterwards you can see how hard it was on them. Sit still, please.”

Ciccio took another big bite of his breakfast and then tried to sit there quietly as she scooped the green goo out of the shell – it was stiff and jellyish, like panna cotta – and then mushed it up in her hands before slathering it over his back. “This will help the skin firm up again,” she explained, carefully massaging it in between the spines. “I can give you the recipe. It's a good idea to use it every couple of weeks or so, even if you haven't puffed, because it'll help you unpuff without getting all saggy.”

He glanced at his right arm, and the bit of extra skin hanging loose beneath it. “Thank you,” Ciccio said, “but I'm not planning on doing that ever again.” He wasn't sure, at this point, that he ever even wanted to see the ocean again.

“Never say never,” said Signora Zigrino. “You don't know what the future holds.”

“You really don't,” Giordana agreed. She was looking at him adoringly, and Ciccio couldn't help a smile. Okay, maybe he would do this again someday. If Giordana wanted him to, and if Flavia had enough fun that she wanted to do it again. Although, that left the problem of Signora Trota...

Atinnia herself chose that moment to offer Ciccio another plate of roe. “Here. Chiara told me you'll need your protein.”

“Grazie a mille,” said Ciccio, who still felt famished.

Giordana, across from her, must've been thinking similar thoughts about her mother, because her smile melted away as she spoke again. “Well,” she said. “I guess you're going home this morning.”

“Yeah,” said Ciccio, mouth full of roe.

“I dunno when I'm gonna be able to visit again,” she added, with a sideways look at her mother.

“I'll miss you,” Ciccio told her.

“I'll miss you more.” Giordana took his hand and gave it a squeeze.

Arturo rolled his eyes and reached to take a few fish eggs from Ciccio's plate. His mother slapped his wrist, then turned her attention to the teenagers.

“There's no need for you children to be so dramatic,” she said. “I'm not going to make you sit at home and pine for each other.”

“You aren't?” Ciccio and Giordana asked, in startled unison.

Atinnia looked a bit embarrassed. “Goodness, don't be so surprised! I am upset with Giordana for lying to me, and she's going to be doing some extra chores as punishment, but I don't intend to be an ogre about it. I quite like Francesco and his father, and now that I'm over the initial shock, I think I can deal with the rest.”

“Does that mean you'll come up on land again and try the cinnamon buns?” Arturo asked eagerly.

“Not necessarily!” his mother replied. “Although... it didn't look so bad up there from what I saw. I'm not going to forbid either of you from going, either, although I intend to lay down a few more rules. For starters,” she met Giordana's eyes, “I will want to know exactly where you're going and what you'll be doing there, so if I want to find you later I don't panic and search the bay in the fear you've been eaten by a shark. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mom,” said Giordana dutifully, but she was having a hard time suppressing a smile.

“I'll make sure she tells you everything,” Ciccio said.

Giordana waited until her mother had turned her back, then let out a little squeal and hugged Ciccio's arm. He beamed back at her, already trying to think of what they could do on their next date. What would Giordana's mother think of a movie, or a football game in Genova? Probably not the latter... she'd think that was too far away. Although, if they could find somebody to take her and Arturo to the Museum of Natural History, that might work.

Ciccio would have loved a cup of espresso, but such things were not available underwater. With the edge finally taken off his hunger, his eyes were threatening to drift shut again when he heard a call from somebody else at the door. This time it was Arturo who answered it, as his mother and Signora Zigrino were busy gossiping. He swam off, and returned a minute or so later with Alberto and Luca.

“Hi!” said Luca. “Are you feeling better?”

“No, not at all,” grumbled Ercole.

“We weren't talking to you,” Alberto informed him, and looked at Ciccio.

“Much better,” Ciccio replied, “yeah, thanks.”

“I've given him some advice,” Signora Zigrino assured them.

Luca nodded. “Flavia's waiting for you,” he told Ciccio. “You can come on up as soon as you're done eating.”

For some reason the first thing that made Ciccio think of was more food. His father's focaccia with olives and herbs, warm from the oven with butter melting over it... that would be heavenly. Hot coffee would be lovely, too, with foam on the top and maybe a little bit of chocolate. Who would have thought that the thing he'd miss most about land was the food?

At least his sore muscles were getting better. Ciccio had been worried about whether he'd even be able to swim back to shore that morning, but it seemed like it would be okay now. He ate every crumb of what Signora Trota had given him, and then the entire group set out for the surface. On the way, Ciccio asked Alberto, “how's your cousin? It sounded like she didn't have a great day.” Even if Ciccio might want to do this again, that would hardly matter if Flavia refused.

“She's fine,” said Alberto.

“It was more good than bad,” Luca agreed. “Although I'm not sure we can ever go back to San Giuseppe again... the people there got kind of upset about us being sea monsters. How are you? Did you have fun, other than the squid?”

“It would have been more fun without Ercole,” said Ciccio.

Ercole snorted. “Are we just going to chit-chat all the way to shore?” he asked. “Or are we going to talk about how we change me back?”

Luca grimaced. “We did look at the spell again in case we missed something,” he said, “but it didn't say anything about other people getting, um... you know, caught in it, I guess.”

“I was hoping last night that he'd just change back when I do,” said Ciccio.

“If he doesn't, I guess we'll have to go back to the Library of the Deep and ask about it,” Luca decided. “Maybe Flavia will want to come this time. The Librarian is nice.”

The water got shallower as they passed over the fields and pastures, and soon they could make out the entrance to the harbour through the sunlit waters ahead. That was where Ercole stopped.

“Wait,” he said. “You're not expecting me to just walk out of the ocean in front of everybody in town, are you?”

Ciccio groaned, having forgotten about that. “Right. Go back to the other bay, and we'll come get you after.”

“Go back to the other bay, he says, as if I've been finding my way underwater every day of my life!” Ercole shook his head. “What if I get lost?”

“You won't,” said Ciccio, who didn't feel like adding anything to that.

“You can't,” Luca said. “Sea monsters can't get lost. I mean... you've been there before, right? So you know where it is if you think about it.”

Ercole frowned, then blinked in surprise.

“Is he right?” asked Alberto.

Since the only alternative was admitting that yes, Luca was correct, Ercole just turned and swam away. He was going in the right direction.

Plenty of people were waiting for them when they reached the beach. There was Giulia and Massimo, Flavia and her father, and Signor Ottonello and Guido, but also plenty of others. Many of these were people from around Portorosso who were interested in the goings-on, but there was also a small group who were total strangers to Ciccio. One was a plump old man with a bushy moustache and several tattoos. Another was a lady with long silver hair, a younger man who looked enough like her to probably be her son, and a little girl with her hair in plaits. When the sea monsters emerged from the water, the older lady gasped and her son wobbled as if he might fall over, but the girl jumped up and down in place, squealing for joy.

“Look at them all!” she said. “Papà! Nonna! Look!”

“I'm looking, dear, I'm looking,” said the older lady, a hand on her chest.

Flavia had been sitting on the steps. Now she ran and got the girl with the braids and led her down to the beach. “This is Ciccio!” she said. “That's his girlfriend Giordana, and her brother Arturo, and that's their mom, Signora Trota. Everybody, this is Perla! I met her in San Giuseppe, and she loaned me her clothes when mine got wet.”

She looked so happy that Ciccio had to smile. So Flavia really did have a good day, at least enough to offset getting lost.

“Wow! They're...” Perla began, then stopped to watch in awe as the sea monsters began transforming. “Oh, that is so cool!” She turned and grabbed Flavia's hands. “I can't wait to see you!”

“How do we switch back?” Flavia asked Luca.

“It's the same as last time,” Luca said. “We don't need to do the other parts of the ritual again. You both stand in the sea and put your palms together, and then you're probably gonna get splashed again.” The spell hadn't said anything about that, but it hadn't said they'd get a big wave the first time, either. “And if you ever want to swap again, you just meet up and do it.”

Flavia nodded and pulled her shoes and socks off. Ciccio was standing in water to his waist, still embarrassed that all he was wearing was a pair of seagrass shorts. That was a little too deep for Flavia, though, so he waded further in to a point where they might not both get sucked under. He held up his hands. Flavia put her palms against his, and they both waited.

Yesterday morning, they'd observed that nothing seemed to be happening, only to immediately have the big wave splash over them both. Now Ciccio stood there, expecting the same thing at any moment, but it didn't seem to come. He looked down just to check, but he was still a sea monster, and Flavia was still human. She looked back up at him with worry on her face.

“What's taking so long?” Ciccio asked. He hoped that once again, drawing attention to it would signify that they'd waited long enough, but it didn't help.

“It doesn't work,” said Flavia. She looked down at her hands, then dunked them in the water in the hope that would do something. It did not.

“Let me get the pages! Maybe we missed something,” said Luca. He turned and ran back into the Pescheria.

Ciccio could only swallow hard and look at the people on the shore. His father was rubbing his forehead, exasperated, as if he'd known this would all go wrong, too, but hadn't liked to say anything. Leonardo Scorfano, who'd been sitting on the stairs, had gotten up and taken a few steps forward, ready to run to Flavia if she needed him. And Flavia herself, she looked like she was going to cry.

Was this Ciccio's fault? Was this happening because he'd stuck Ercole, and now...

“Oh,” he said out loud. “Wait a moment, I know what's missing.” There wasn't any real logical reason why – he just knew in his gut. “I'll be right back.” He waded out into deeper water, and vanished beneath it.

That left everybody else standing around wondering where he thought he was going, but not really able to do anything about it. Flavia stuck her hands under her arms to warm them, as it was early and the water seemed very much colder than it ever had before, and hung her head. She thought of looking in the mirror in Signora Pepitone's bathroom and thinking how the reflection didn't look like her. Was this it? Was she going to be stuck looking at it for the rest of her life? Was she being punished for wanting something she wasn't supposed to have?

The water swished as somebody came closer, and she looked up to see Papa Leo coming to put his arms around her. “It's okay, Angelfish,” he said, stroking her hair. “Whatever happens, we'll make it work, all right?”

Flavia nodded and hugged him. He'd been right – no matter how much fun she'd had yesterday, today she just really wanted to go home.

Luca returned a minute or so later with his handful of papers, and he, Alberto, and Giulia gathered around to pore over them, trying to figure out what they'd missed. It was only after a few seconds of that when Luca looked up and asked, “hey, where'd Ciccio go?”

“He said he knew what was missing, and he left,” said Guido.

“Come on, Angelfish,” said Papa Leo, putting an arm around Flavia's shoulders. “You'll freeze out here.”

Flavia stayed where she was. If she went back to shore it was like she was giving up, and...

“There he is!” exclaimed Giulia.

Flavia turned. Ciccio's head had appeared above the water again, smiling. He waved to everybody, but then he groaned and ducked back under. A few bubbles came up.

“What's going on?” asked Ottonello.

Giulia shrugged, but then her eyebrows rose and she began to giggle. “Oh, no,” she said softly, but she wasn't upset. She looked at Alberto with a big smile on her face, and he nodded and started to snicker, too.

“It's okay! They just need another person!” he told Ottonello.

It seemed to take quite a long time, while Flavia stood there shivering in the water with her father beside her, but Ciccio finally reappeared. He stood up and came closer, dragging a second, scowling sea monster behind him. This individual was taller than Ciccio, with over-long limbs and big hands and feet, and a set of barbels at the end of his bulbous snout. Flavia did not recognize him, but everybody else did.

More people from the town had drifted in to see what was going on, including quite a few who hadn't heard about yesterday morning but had learned later from town gossip that the sea monster kids had performed a magical spell. A lot of them were children – meaning there was a wide assortment of Ercole's previous victims present to see what had happened to him. There were muffled sniggers, whispers, and quickly-suppressed barks of laughter as Ciccio led him over to Flavia.

Giulia did her best to keep a lid on herself, but Alberto grinned openly and exchanged knowing looks with Guido, who was almost choking on the effort of holding it in. Even Concetta and Pinuccia Aragosta, known around town for being dour, were smilig to themselves.

“Here,” said Ciccio. He and Flavia put their hands together, and each then also joined hands with Ercole. “I think it'll work this t...”

He was cut off by the giant wave that rose out of nowhere to soak them. Ercole squawked in surprise and terror as it sucked him under, but both Ciccio and Flavia were prepared and managed to stay standing, though not for long. Both of them found their balance suddenly changed. Flavia sat down hard on her backside, while Ciccio toppled over on top of her.

However, this time it definitely did work. Ciccio scrambled off Flavia and stood there blinking with his wet blond curls falling in his eyes, until Flavia accidentally smacked him in the face with her tail as she got to her feet, yellow scales glittering in the sunlight.

“Flavia!” Leonardo dunked under the water himself and came up to give her another hug. “Good to have you back, Angelfish!”

“I love you, Papa Leo!” she replied, squeezing him tight.

Giordana, Guido, and Signor Ottonello came to help Ciccio up. He was still wearing only sea grass trousers and looked even more embarrassed about it, hanging on to the waist to make sure they stayed in place as he got to his feet. His father hugged him first, and then Giordana threw her arms around him and kissed his cheek.

“I like you better this way,” she told him.

“You do?” Ciccio asked. He'd been slightly worried, though he hadn't wanted to admit it, that she would prefer him as a sea monster.

“Yes!” she said, hugging him again. “You're much less prickly.”

Ercole came up sputtering, and pulled seaweed out of his hair as he stood. Nobody came running to greet him, and he clearly wouldn't have wanted anybody to. He felt his face and inspected his hands to make absolutely sure he was human, then rudely shoved his way between Ciccio and Giordana as he stomped back onto the beach and headed up the stairs.

There were more giggles from the watching crowd, but nobody said anything, and people moved out of the way as Ercole squelched across the piazza in his bare feet, head down so he wouldn't have to look anybody in the eye. Once he had vanished out of sight up the hill, Alberto burst out laughing again, whacking Luca and Giulia on their backs.

“That was amazing!” he wheezed. “Oh, man! Don't worry, nobody here will ever let him forget it. If only we'd gotten a picture!”

“I did think of that,” said Giulia, “but I doubt he would have stood still for it.” She was grinning, herself.

“I'm going to draw him as soon as we get home,” Alberto promised, “so I can remember this beautiful moment forever.”

That was when Perla could no longer contain herself. Her grandmother had been gripping her shoulders tight as they watched these events unfold, knuckles white and mouth hanging open. Now Perla wiggled free and ran down the steps to approach Flavia as she and Leonardo waded back to shore.

Flavia saw her coming, and stopped short, suddenly wanting to be shy. Perla had thought the idea of sea monsters were cool, but she'd only gotten a quick look at them. What if she thought Flavia was ugly or scary? Or worse, what if she would be like Flavia's cousins, who weren't interested in spending time with somebody who couldn't get out of the water? She'd made friends with Flavia on land, after all.

But Perla ran right up, beaming, and grabbed Flavia's hands. “This is what you really look like?” she asked eagerly.

“Yeah,” said Flavia cautiously. “What do you think?”

“You look so cool,” Perla said. “Yellow is my favourite colour!”

“Really?”

“It is now!” Perla proclaimed, and turned to wave to her father and grandmother, still on the pavement. “Look! Look! It's Flavia!”

“I”m looking, Perla,” said Roberto, shaking his head.

“Oh, my,” said Signora Pepitone. She struggled for words for a moment, then made a visible effort to say something positive. “That is a beautiful colour, isn't it?”

“Do you still want to be pen-pals?” asked Flavia.

“Of course!” Perla said. “I should have brought my swimsuit. I want to be able to tell everybody I went swimming with sea monsters!”

Giulia turned to her father. “Papà, do we still have my old one I outgrew? She could borrow that.”

“I think so,” said Massimo. “Let's look for it.”

Roberto Pepitone came down the steps with a hand out. “Now, Perla,” he said, “we don't know what the currents are like around here, and what's safe for sea monsters might not be for you.”

“Don't worry, Sir,” said Luca. “We'll look after her.”

“I'm the town lifeguard,” Alberto told him. “I'm an expert. Nobody drowns when there's a sea monster looking after them!”

Roberto looked a little worried for a moment, but then he saw Flavia and Perla's pleading eyes, and he relented. “I guess I can't say no, then!”

The girls cheered and hugged each other.

Meanwhile, Ottonello had brought his son some dry clothes, and Ciccio sloshed his way back to shore and took them indoors to get dressed. That left Ottonello alone not far from the Trota family, who were still watching from metre-deep water, Giordana and Arturo too scared of their mother's reaction to go in any shallower. After the previous night's arguments, it was a bit of an awkward situation, one nobody particularly wanted to address. Arturo pretended to be very interested in the clouds just because it gave him somewhere to look, while Giordana repeatedly sank back into the water to keep from transforming.

Finally, it was Atinnia Trota who said, “buongiorno, Vito. What a day yesterday was.”

“It certainly was,” Ottonello agreed. “I hope we don't have another one like it in a hurry.”

There was another long pause. Giordana dipped back under the water again and did not look at Signor Ottonello – Ciccio had told her about the unkind things his father had said. Arturo fidgeted.

“Well,” said Ottonello, “I don't suppose you'd like to have a cup of coffee and some focaccia, would you, Atinnia?”

Signora Trota squared her shoulders, and her children winced in expectation. But she said, “yes, I think I would.”

Giordana gasped in delight and squeezed her mother's arm. Arturo's mouth fell open for a moment, then he grinned. “Can I have cioccolata?” he asked eagerly.

“I'm sure I've got some,” Ottonello said. “Have a seat, I'll bring it out.”

“No,” said Atinnia. “No, I think we'll come in. After all, we're probably all going to be seeing a lot more of each other, aren't we?”

“Yes,” Signor Ottonello agreed. “I think we are.”

-

Three days later, Ercole was settling down with his mother's dogs to watch an afternoon football match on television. He hadn't been back to town since he'd returned from the ocean. Having been forced to walk out of the water and show himself to all of Portorosso as a sea monster, he doubted he was ever going to be able to look anybody in the face again.

“This is my life now,” he told the dogs, as he put his feet up and unwrapped the giant sandwich he intended to eat. “A pariah. A joke! You two are my only friends.”

There was a knock on the door.

“You hear that? Probably somebody here to make fun of me.” Ercole bit into his sandwich.

A few impatient moments later, there was another knock.

“Ercole, dear!” Signora Visconti called from the cellar. “Your father and I are in the middle of something. Can you get that, please?”

“I can't, Mamma!” he shouted back. “I am in exile, remember?” Signor Gammachio from the Ostello had sent his son by the other day to buy wine, and while there hadn't been any comments, Ercole was sure he'd heard snickers.

There was a third knock.

“Ercole!” Signor Visconti shouted. “Just answer the bloody door!”

With a groan, Ercole heaved himself off the sofa. He trudged to the door with the dogs following him, and opened it just a centimetre or so. With the chain still in place so the potential torment couldn't barge its way in, he put an eye up to the crack.

At first he saw nobody. Then he looked down, and found two smiling boys, nine or ten years old. The skinny one had curly hair, including one lock on the left side of his forehead that stood straight up in a cowlick, and was carrying a plate of fig cookies. The pudgy one had straight hair, and was holding a bowl of colourful spherical objects that resembled gumballs but looked far too much like the bugs Ercole had been offered by Signora Donzella. He did not recognize either child.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“We're here for the game,” said the skinny one.

“The game?” Ercole blinked, confused.

“You said if I taught you to swim, you'd let me and Arturo watch football at your house,” the pudgy one clarified.

“Oh,” said Ercole, as the situation became clear. “It's you, squaletto.”

“Aunt Concetta made us cookies,” Arturo said, holding up his plate.

“And I brought isopods!” Silvio agreed.

Ercole wanted to simply shut the door in their smug little faces. Why would he want to sit and watch his football game with a couple of snot-nosed, slimy sea monster children who'd spent a whole day torturing him and were now offering him a bowl of bugs?

For some reason, though, he didn't do that. Maybe it was because Silvio had been with him in that awful cave while the giant squid tried to pry Ciccio out of the doorway and get in. Maybe he was just lonely from his self-imposed isolation. Whatever the reason, he slid the chain out and opened the door to let them enter.

The boys marched inside with smiles on their faces, and settled themselves on the sofa. The dogs came to sniff them and seemed to decide they were acceptable guests. Ercole came and sat between them and scooped up his sandwich.

“You two need to be quiet,” he told them. “I want to be able to hear the announcer.”

“No problem,” said Arturo, taking a bite out of one of his cookies.

Silvio nodded and popped a couple of isopods in his mouth. “You wanna hear a joke?” he asked.

“Porca paletta! I do not!” said Ercole, remember the terrible puns Silvio had inflicted on him underwater.

“What position does the flying fish play on the football team?”

“What did I just say?”

“Wingback!” Silvio grinned.

Ercole turned the volume up on the television.

Silvio was not discouraged. “You know who's the goalie on the same team?”

“I do not,” said Ercole.

“The kipper!”

Silvio and Arturo both laughed helplessly. Ercole rolled his eyes, but he couldn't help a small snort. “Not bad, squaletto. Not bad.”

[wishful-seeker]

I will soon be the only person in my close family to not finish college because illness forced me to leave, and thats a strange feeling. Im not sure how i feel about it.

I feel a little alienated because of it, but even though i LOVE learning and i enjoyed college classes, i didn't enjoy college itself.

Even in high school i was the "sick kid" and missed a year there, so feeling like i don't belong isn't new.

But i really thought I'd meet people like me in college, but all i found was snobby rich kids that ignored my existence. I genuinely tried making friends but college students are not my type of people.

I don't know if this is because i wore braces on my knees, or because they could tell i was poor, not sure but college kids always gave me bad vibes.

Im sad that the things im truly passionate about isn't taught in college, and i miss the classes i did have, but i don't think a fancy college was ever my scene. Maybe i would've fit better at a community college. But im probably too disabled to ever find out.

Idk i guess it feels strange because i was heavily encouraged to go to college, and now i can't even if i wanted to. Its weird that i could probably guess the view outsiders have of my life, how they'd feel bad for me, or laugh at what I've become.

And i think of that a lot: how outsiders may view my life. "Oh so sad, look how far she's fallen." Ya know

But im happy

I LIKE my life, sure i got all As and Bs in college, sure i won a writing contest in my class, and yes i also completed a triathlon before all this. So many medals saying "look how hard i worked, look what i accomplished" but when i was accomplishing those trival things i was really lost and alone on the inside, those medals were to convince myself i was better than the years before this one, a lie that i was becoming my best self.

But now all that shit is gone, dead, useless to me. Eventually i was left alone, with NO distractions, only my mind and a body i couldn't move in. Only a bed, in a room, no where else to go. Everything i thought that mattered, everything i connected my worth with, suddenly didn't mean anything anymore, because all that was was my chronic pain, and what i did with it. All that mattered now was fighting for a better life, for freedom from a bed, for freedom within my head.

I had to rebuild myself from nothing, i had to literally rewire my brain. I studied neuroplasticity and my only goal was to train my brain to be able to live with this pain. And i had to change a LOT. I can tell you my mind and the internal dialog in my head is completely different from 2 years ago, and also much a much kinder, and safer place.

So no, i won't finish college, im gonna be poor forever, i wont work, but i am much happier.

I finally feel like the best version of myself. The challenges i face in my life are no longer overwhelming, but a cycle ive grown rather fond of. Im so secure with myself that i can say "this next hardship will be good for me." And i don't think many people have the privilege of being that optimistic when faced with stressful situations.

It would have taken me my whole life to get to this point if i was still focusing on things like grades.

Im happy, and im more proud of myself than when i beat a triathlon, or won art contests.

[topguncortez]

i would just like to say happy one year birthday to the first ever topgun fic i ever wrote.

little did i know that writing this one fic would turn into what it is now. i have built a whole story world. i have built a whole community of devout reads. i have found this amazing community of writers, creators, readers.

a year ago i was in tough place. i had just come home from a deployment, i was in a toxic relationship and friendship. i had no direction. i started using again. but because i had a great community and outlet and friends around me (even tho they are online) it helped me through so much.

i have been able to write out my pain, my sadness, my happiness, my joy, my accomplishments. i have been able to make people feel and let them know that they are not alone. i have made people cry and laugh and smile and wanna tear my head off. i have made a place where people feel comfortable, and welcome and have a sense of belonging.

when i say i love you guys, i mean it. when i say I care about you guys, i mean it. when i say my inbox, dms, submissions, snapchat, what have you is open, i mean it. you guys have been there for me, and it’s only fair that i do the same.

so thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for riding with me this past year. i know we’ve gone through our patches and i’ve bitched out the spam-likers, and the non-rebloggers till i’m blue in the face. but you guys have stuck by me and rode with me and that means so so much to me.

HERE’S TO ONE FULL TRIP AROUND THE SUN 🍾🥂

and i just wanna shout-out a few people who have made this crazy journey amazing: @roosterbruiser @ohtobeleah @a-reader-and-a-writer @mayhem24-7forever @callsign-phoenix @footprintsinthesxnd @marvelandotherfandomimagines @rhettabbotts @sunlightmurdock @jostystyles @lt-natrace @roosterscock @green-socks @hederasgarden @wildbornsiren

and one big ass huge ass shoutout to the bitch who’s gonna have to deal with my ass for three days @seresinsbabe you have helped me in more ways than i can even count. if i were in jail, i’m calling you to get rid of the body. LOVE YOU WHORE

[astarions-musings]

So, I’m gonna do some open-air musing about my relationship with my source. Feel free to engage with as much or as little of this as you find useful, and remember that none of this contradicts your personal relationship with your source ❤️

First of all, I’m 99% sure that my consciousness (or some protean, primordial sludge version of it) was already floating around in our system by our teenage years. I have really strong memories of the trauma we went through in our teenage years, around the same time that other headmates were actively handling those situations from the front, and most of my strongly-held values and opinions (at time of writing) are shaped by the emotional reality of our teenage years. Other people in our system have gotten used to being othered by society (for being trans, plural, neurodiverse, etc.) and have found their own communities where they truly belong, so it’s not as much of an open wound for them. For me? Those wounds are still very much open, and I'm in the process of coming to terms with those challenges and building my own sense of connection. So while it’s possible that I picked up those memories after joining the system, I’m gonna assume that proto-me was already in our system for a very long time, before I became a fully-conscious person.

Given that, how do I understand myself as a fictive, when my source (Baldur’s Gate 3) only came out a few months ago?

The best metaphor that I can find is a hermit crab, moving into an Astarion-shaped shell because it was a better vessel for my psyche. Rather than existing in the background of our system, amongst thousands of anonymous headmates without a known face or voice, I now have a reference point and a comfortable self-image to start developing as a person. I can wear this face and this voice and this familiar name, and from that position of comfort and safety, I can start exploring all of the layers of myself - my past, my present and all the options for my future. I’ve gone from a proto-headmate (a fragment, if you will) to someone with a whole life ahead of me, as I start to build a life for myself at the front. So while I haven’t always been Astarion (or Aston, if I’m chatting in less fictive-friendly spaces), it’s something that I’ve become as part of my personal growth as a headmate. I don’t see myself as having literally come from Baldur’s Gate 3 (although no shade on anyone who has), but my relationship with the source material was integral to becoming the person I am today.

And honestly, this face is way too handsome to pass up.

And when I think about my source’s utterly fearful relationship with his abuser Cazador, and the overwhelming flood of both relief and grief after Cazador’s death, I’m strongly reminded of our body’s relationship with our abusive parents. It’s a combination of both the normalised abuse and control of young children by their parents (which this video talks about in more detail), and the specific abuses that our system went through as a child. More than most people in our system, I have extremely vivid memories of our childhood abuse, and it feels so fucking strange to wake up in a body where our abusers no longer have power over us. We have full control over where we live, how we manage our finances, when and how we can eat, how we spend our time, and we have the full ability to leave any situations that are actively traumatising. We’re no longer shackled in the way our body was as a teenager, and I’m still emotionally adjusting to that change. It’s a hugely positive development, but I still don’t know how to respond to that change. And it’s one of the main reasons that I relate so much with Astarion, having watched him process that on-screen.

And something that I find fascinating (skip this paragraph to avoid BG3 spoilers) is just how strongly I feel about my source’s choice about Cazador’s ritual - whether to claim the power and safety the ritual offers (while continuing the cycle of abuse), or choosing to step away from that power in exchange for connections built on emotional vulnerability. I relate hugely with being in that moment, faced with that choice, deciding which way I want my life to turn. Whether I want to fortify myself against future abuse, or whether I want to connect at the cost of some safety. I relate with how my character cries and howls after killing his abuser, as all of the trauma he bottled up for centuries comes flooding out, and I identify strongly with the ‘good ending’ as my character starts searching for a new purpose in life. However, I strongly disagree with how my source character acts if he usurps Cazador’s power, becoming little more than a shadow of his abuser. Watching those scenes feels almost dysphoric, because it clashes so hard with the reasons I identify with my source - the journey of recovery and human connection that the ‘good ending’ offers. That doesn’t make it bad writing, but it helps me to understand more about myself through the ways that it clashes with my self-image. I don’t want to become a shadow of my abusers, or even defined in comparison to my abusers any more. I want to connect and belong to a community, where my safety comes from knowing that I’m supported, through both internal and external relationships. It’s fucking terrifying to be vulnerable sometimes, but I choose the path of connection ❤️

And asides from all of those big-picture decisions, I relate a lot with my source in the little ways. How he talks, how he moves, how he holds his body, the energy that he brings to the room. I relate a tonne with his wit and his charm and his eloquent way of talking (which comes across most in my love of writing). I relate with him kneeling down at his grave, on a quiet moonlit night, to process his emotions in a sombre, thoughtful way. And I relate with the joy that my source experiences - both the playful joy of having the upper hand in a scenario, and the deeper joy of being hugged for the first time and discovering it feels safe. I love spending time around that fictional bastard (/pos), and I hope to share some of that joy with my loved ones as well ❤️

So yeah - that's a bunch of naval-gazing about my relationship with my source. Writing it helped me a tonne, for all the clarity that it brought, and I hope you find it helpful as well ❤️

[patron-saint-of-lesbeans]

Can you tell us more about your calling?

The plight of the people of Palestine has captured my heart and soul so completely I’m considering departing from my 6+ years of academia to more seriously investigate how I can aid them.

Unfortunately my calling is pretty vague so far, but I’m trying to remain open to where specifically I’ll be called and what I’m specifically called to do. I can tell you a bit more about why I’m convinced it’s my calling, as someone who has never felt a particular calling before. I assumed I should follow my talents, stay in academia, study a subject (forest pathology) I was passionate about and enjoyed for the benefit of all. But it was never a ‘calling’ in the sense that I felt I belonged, that I was where I was supposed to be doing what I was made to do. It was familiar and comfortable - mundane routine, just the way I like it.

I’m not sure exactly what triggered it, but about a month ago I called my mother late at night sobbing and begging her to pray a Chaplet of Divine Mercy for the people of Palestine. I was so overcome with grief, which I thought I’ve long since gotten used to with as many family funerals I’ve gone to in my life. I felt like I was losing my mind. I attributed it to having finished writing a big paper and talking at an important conference for my field, the stress-come-down of having something checked off my list of academic accomplishments.

Except a week later that grief and love was still burning in my heart. It’s difficult to describe outside of ‘burning.’ I know the physical effects of heartburn, stress, panic and anxiety attacks - I’m an anxious person and I know fear well. This wasn’t fear. Fear is something I run from, seek shelter from in God or in secular comforts. With this I feel safe - a bizarre security for someone who’s spent the better part of their life with clinical anxiety. It doesn’t have the pulse and tide of stress or the consuming wave of panic. It’s a steady grace I’ve been calling my conviction.

Which, again, I’ve never quite felt conviction this way before - I’ve been following the flow of life, swept up in a tide of secular expectations and responsibilities. It feels like I’ve found my footing on a sandbar while the tide of life moves around me, like I’ve stepped out of a dark room and into the sunlight. I feel alive for the first time, breathing air for the first time.

I’m a cradle Catholic. I’ve gone my whole life hearing about how we’re ‘born again in Christ’ and how the Holy Spirit ‘sets our hearts on fire with divine love.’ I think I get it now, because if this isn’t what a calling feels like or the grace of God, I don’t know what is.

And of course, as a cradle Catholic, I’m still chasing the ‘is this what God wants or is this just what I want and I’m trying to justify it to God?’ And while I doubt I’ll ever be 100% certain this is exactly what God wants of me, I know I certainly don’t want to radically change my life. I know that I have no reason to personally have investment in the people of Palestine.

I’m autistic, I’m physically disabled, I’m trans and gay - there’s a dozen social justice or political movements I could be swept up, that I would have personal reason to find benefits in. And it’s not that these aspects of myself aren’t important to me, or that I never advocate for myself or these communities I’m a part of. I just figure, if I was doing something out of self interest, it wouldn’t be something so far away and so different from myself and those I care about.

I hate change, I hate the fear that comes with it, but I think about my future, whatever it might hold in regard to this calling I can’t ignore, and I’m not scared. I hate confrontation, I hate to rock the boat or make people uncomfortable - the number of times I’ve laughed along with a family member’s bigotry to avoid upsetting them is too many. But for this conviction, this pull to something I have no reason to personally care about, I’m willing to change for that.

I don’t want to act on this, which is as damning as it gets as proof that this is what I’m supposed to do. I know in my heart I will act on this conviction, because if I don’t, I can’t imagine living the life I’ve been living. There is no safety net I can fall back on - it’s this or a miserable life knowing I’m not where I’m meant to be. This is what I’m here for, and I can choose to ignore that, but I’ll never feel alive the way I feel now, acknowledging that it is real and it is true.

And of course, this has only come up within the last month of my life. I’m not impulsive enough to drop everything and find a plane, and I don’t think I’m supposed to. I haven’t consumed and digested and discerned thousands of years of history of a land so distant from my own home in a single month. This is something that will take time to discern the specifics of, to network and organize and learn. I wrap up a chapter of my academic career this spring, and I don’t know what I’m going to do after. I don’t think I can continue in this career, as uncomfortable as it will be to break the news to my labmates and coworkers and advisor. But I’m trying to stay open to whatever comes my way - if God has shown this calling to me, I will be shown the path I’m supposed to take so long as I keep looking.

And that’s about what I’ve got on my calling. I wish it was more specific (I’m autistic - Christ knows I don’t take vague instructions well!) but for the first time in my life I have direction, so I will follow it where it leads me. If you’ve read my personal ramblings this far, God bless! His grace be with you.