#Solo Village Trip

[tanuandthetriplets]

Litti Chokha Wala Nagin Dance | Triplet Papa Solo Trip | Missed Vlog - December’23

[christinatravel]

Chefchaouen, The Blue City

Click the photo for more Pictures

[bobfloydsbabe]

i just have to clear the time off with my boss, but then i’m booking my trip to scotland! i’m so excited to get explore edinburgh and get plenty of inspiration for my book. i can’t wait!!

[oozedninjas]

Ghost Bridal

Summary: Rumor has it that the mystical jungle spirit will only resurface if a sacrifice is presented. However, Leo is taken aback. A sacrifice bridal wasn't something he would've expected from the people he vowed to protect. But with his mind clouded by the heat of his mating season, he resolves to accept you as oblation.

WARNINGS: NSFW/ 18+ / MDNI/10 years after the 2007 movie, so Leo 27-29/use of the word slut once/light dirty talk/mention of sexual toys/dry humping /oral (fem receiving) /Xenobiology (knot mentions)/somnophilia (if you read between the lines, squinting) / penetrative sex/chafing, bleeding and bruising/ aftercare/mating cycles/ The reader is referred to with she/her pronouns and possesses female anatomy/ Leo being the best boy despite the situation :')

Word count: 4,522

A/N: I now have an Ao3 account! This, along with other pieces, will be there by tomorrow!

—-------

"Quick, it's about to start!" Mikey exclaimed, gesturing with his arm, urging them closer.

Donatello arrived first, arranging the cushions on the couch for Splinter. Just as he finished, Leo assisted him in sitting down, and Raphael placed a bowl of popcorn in his lap.

"I'm glad my sons make time to watch dramas with their father," Splinter commented.

Observing them all seated, his expression softened. Despite their age, they would always be his boys.

"We'll always have time for you, Dad," Mikey returned the smile.

The drama began. Donnie dimmed the lights with a small wrist device. The room fell quiet, illuminated only by the old television. Leo leaned his back on the sofa with a gentle expression before an itch of incompleteness stinged him again, rough, and stomach-twisting.

“There she is,” Splinter voiced, “I bet she will confess her love for Ma-”

The channel changed. On the screen, the afternoon news.

"Michelangelo!" 

Mikey jumped, searching for the remote long lost between the cushions on his side of the couch. Leo got up to help, removing the pillows while vaguely listening to the fast-paced voice of the reporter.

"The inhabitants are desperately sending smoke signals and performing spiritual rituals to summon back the ghost of the jungle, a vigilante spirit who guarded the village ten years ago."

Leo's eyes snapped back to the screen.

"The situation is unsustainable. The factory is damaging the ecosystem. Losing it would signify the beginning of a collapse for humanity," said a doctor with exasperation. He pulled the mic from the news reporter as he approached the camera.

"If somehow you're listening, please come back. The jungle needs you. We need-"

The channel changed back to the drama.

"Found it," Mickey said, waving the remote. 

No one cared anymore. Every pair of eyes was fixated upon Leo, whose heart pounded within his chest, echoing throughout his shell.

"You must go," said Splinter.

He tensed, sensing Raph’s gaze over him.

"We must go,” he said, turning to his brothers. “All of us." 

Donatello sighed. "I'm allergic to mosquito bites."

Mikey grimaced. "Since when?"

"Since now." 

Raphael gave Leo a barely noticeable melancholic smile.

"We aren’t kids anymore. It ain't the end of the world if ya gotta disappear for a bit," he said teasingly.

"Oh, I get it. It's a solo trip," Mikey said, lowering his gaze.

"I won't be far for too long," Leo remarked as if it were a promise.

Donatello scoffed. "We'll survive without you for quite a while. Don't rush to commitment. We know."

At that moment, all he could offer Donnie was a smile. However, as Leo descended from the cargo ship and stepped into the border of the jungle, he finally understood what his brother meant. Taking a deep breath of the fresh, humid air of the greenery, his gaze danced along the flora surrounding him. This was it—the missing piece: nature. The sensation of embracing a certain aspect of himself that could not find fulfillment in the heart of a bustling city.

— – -

It took Leo no more than two months to gradually dismantle the construction site. An appearance here, a couple of blows there, a few noises at night, and a town full of people who convinced the businessmen responsible for the project that the jungle ghost was as tangible as the machinery stripping the trees. And that was it. He could go back after completing the mission.

However, akin to the first time, he stayed. This time not out of fear of not meeting his father’s expectations, but because adulthood had taught him it was okay to take breaks. It was okay for him not to be a leader, an elder brother, or a ninja all the time. It was more than okay to just be Leo.

After another couple of months, plants had claimed the machinery's remains. Some metal pieces still exposed to the sun sparkled, giving it an almost magical touch. The town's inhabitants built a statue resembling an anthropomorphic monk. It wasn't exactly cute, but Leo supposed it was better than revealing his true identity.

Living in the wild brought a new adventure every second, and Leo couldn't stay still. During the day, he collected food and brought it to his old underground hideout, a sort of cenote reflecting sunlight by day and stars at night, with enough space to exist in peace.

With the moon as his guide, he took care of various issues entrusted to him by the community. More than anything, moving heavy objects or patrolling certain areas. Given that most people were elderly, it was understandable.

Feeling free was satisfying. It was nice having a personal sense of purpose, liberated from the weight of carrying a team, and away from the possible repercussions of his decisions. There were no external pressures, no responsibilities beyond those self-imposed, and although there were nights when he missed his brothers, video calls were more than enough, as Donnie had gifted him a high-tech device before he left. Things were far better than alright… until winter wore off.

On the first morning of spring, Leo awoke to a familiar heat rising in his lower belly, prompting a strong urge to relieve the discomfort. He groaned. It only worsened with time. Regardless of the hour of day, he found himself suddenly lost in thoughts about his sexual toys, and all the ways he could be using them. The more he tried to distract himself, the more the memory of the relief they provided infiltrated his every waking moment. 

Leo hummed, pressing a hand down his plastron, over the area that ached the most. It was beginning to get pretty sensitive. Bad sign. 

Perhaps the villagers wouldn't be alarmed if he missed work for just one night, but as the next night came, and the next, and the next, things showed no sign of improvement. Leo began to feel more than just anxious. To make matters worse, at this point, not even fucking his fist was enough. It helped get his mind clear for the day, but the underskin burning never quite faded.

Leo turned over his leaf-makeshift bed, which now seemed ten times more unpleasant, and tried in vain to suppress the urge to go out and figure out how to make it more comfortable for himself and his ma– Leo snorted at the thought. It was horrible to endure instincts conflicting with rational thought. There had never been such a thing as a 'mate' in his life. A couple of partners, sure, but nothing close to someone who saw him like this. The mere thought of being unable to hold back or keep composure twisted his stomach.

“Fuck—” he sighed under his breath.

His hand closed around his shaft, gripping it deliciously as he moved it fast-paced. Small whimpers fell from his lips, heat spreading through his body. The peak of the season was the worst part of it. 

His head fell back as he hissed, hooded eyes locked in the sky as he chased his release. His voice rose more than he'd like as he came loud and long, spilling hot loads all over his plastron.

Leo coughed before catching his breath. He cleansed himself with a rag dampened in cold water, the sensation leaving him slightly dizzy. Every inch of his body ached. As he focused on the soothing coolness, a faint sound of footsteps reached him. He sharpened his hearing; an agitated breath came with it. Someone dared to trespass into his territory. 

The mere thought sent anger coursing through his veins, propelling him hastily toward the origin of the sound. He landed with a resounding thud, causing the scattered branches on the ground to snap beneath his weight. The intruder staggered backward. His katana reached their throat, halting mere inches before the tender flesh.

As the moonlight cast its glow, clarity washed over his vision: a woman, draped in an ethereal white fabric, lay sprawled on the ground. The wind carried her scent to his nose, and he instinctively covered his snout with his forearm before retreating, concealing himself behind a sturdy tree. His pupils dilated, taking her in.

"What are you doing here?" Leo rasped.

— – -   

You gasped a couple of times before digesting that what you just saw was not human. 

It’s okay, you said to yourself, It’s him. It's the same voice, steady, gravelly, and with a hint of sparkle. He who had rescued you so many years ago. He, who took care of everyone in the village. He, to whom the elders held respect and affection. Once you caught your breath, you began to recite long-memorized lines.

"Mighty spirit of the wild, protector of the jungle, I— I have been sent as an oblation for you to do as you please. If that brings you back to our aid."

Leo scoffed, disbelief evident in his expression. "They forced you here?" Anger was palpable in his voice. Perhaps he had been protecting the wrong kind of people.

"No!" you quickly clarified. "I offered myself.”

Your scent was intoxicating: sweet with a hint of spice. He focused on breathing through his mouth.

“Why?”

You gave one step closer, cautiously. “Consider it a payback. For your help to everyone in the village.”

"Payback?" he sneered. “I came back of my own free will. You owe me nothing.”

The urge to approach and tap your cheeks was gnawing at him. Fuck, he hated not to be in his freaking right mind. Hold it, Leo chanted in his mind. Hold it just for one more minute.

"I still want to lend you a hand,” you mumbled. “I- I have worked customer service, so I understand that taking care of other's needs constantly drains energy. I just thought you might want an extra hand."

Why was your voice suddenly so alluring? He huffed, exhausted.

"You offered yourself as a sacrifice bridal because you think I'm burnt out?"

You could hear a certain tension in his voice, stitched with a hint of sass—although, he seemed to be speaking through gritted teeth. Was he in pain?

His tone was harsher than he intended, perhaps due to the embarrassment of enduring his heat in the worst possible way. The branches and dirt cracked under your weight as you approached. Leo tensed, gripping his katana tightly.

“I know I may not have all my screws in place, but I wanted to return the favor for all the times you’ve saved us, that’s all. Help around in any way you see fit, whether it's assisting with chores you're too tired to do or whatever else you wish."

Your voice was as soft as a velvety touch wrapping around him, sensually caressing him like the finest silky fabric. It sent a shiver down his spine. He swallowed a gasp when you reached his side. His heart rate surged, echoing through every blood vessel. Leo moved back, the sharp katana once again mere inches away from your face, yet this time, trembling like he wasn't strong enough to hold it.

You raised your hands, palms showing. "But it's up to you. I really don't want to disturb you further."

You observed him wrestling with inner turmoil, his face taut, burdened by indecision. 

"You don’t understand what you’d be getting into." His gaze matched the depth of his voice.

"Tell me."

Leo exhaled heavily, whispering, "I'm burning."

He sounded like he was dying. 

“Are you sick?”

You took a step closer, and his face became much clearer.

He let out a sort of sardonic laugh. “No.”

Then you saw it: desire blazing bright in his eyes. You took a deep breath, considering. He remained as still as if he was another three in the green landscape. It hit you right there.

"Spring is when the reproductive cycle of life forms begins, isn't it?" you were searching for toned-down words so as not to make him uncomfortable. “That's what's happening to you," you stated, half matter-of-factly, half realizing it. 

"Then you understand what it would mean to stay and help me," he said. "So leave. Run back, I'll guard your flank."

You stood your ground, despite your shaky legs. “I'll help.”

“What?” he gasped in disbelief.

“I won't go back as a failure, and I won't let you suffer when you've broken your back to keep us safe. I will help you.” you stated. The resolution in your voice made him shiver.

"You don’t get it," he said, feeling every ounce of self-control slowly dropping off his body. 

Shit, he wanted to just accept. Why was he even holding back? Bet you were such a slut, bet you were thinking how would it feel to have your pretty cunt so fucking stretched by his knot.

“I do. You need reli-” 

"No, you don't," he snapped. The blue mask framed the gravity of his expression. "When I start, I won’t stop. Not even if you beg, not even if you cry. Is that clear?" 

You swallowed hard, your voice carrying a slight tremor as you responded, "Yeah."

"For as long as it lasts, I won't let you leave. You might get hurt... do you understand?"

"Yes," you muttered, finally mustering the courage to slowly push the sword out of the way. He allowed it, his eyes guarded.

You aimed closer, taking one steady step after the other. Your hand reached out until the tips of your fingers finally grazed his plastron. You slid them until the full palm pressed against it. He shivered under your touch, a faint sound escaping his lips. A moan?

There was a different glow in his eyes when he settled them back on you. They shone like he was seeing something beyond. His hand closed around your wrist, pulling you. Your chest crashed against his front, knocking the air out of you. Another mutant hand gripped you tight on the opposite side. His face landed on the crook of your neck. He growled as he took a deep breath before letting out a sigh. You held your breath.

Leo stopped, his agitated breathing inches away from your ear. Raspy, desperate, needy.

"Wait here. I'll come back for you in an hour," he instructed, reluctantly breaking the embrace to hold your face. You moved with him as he seemed to rock you. His forehead was inches away from yours. "This is your chance to flee."

He let go, and as if he were indeed a ghost, he vanished into the shadows of the night.

—--------

You waited until the thin clouds finished traveling the night sky, clearing it entirely, allowing the stars to shine. For a moment, doubt crept in, making you wonder if he would return.

"You stayed," he muttered in disbelief.

You snapped back, scanning for the source of his voice. He landed before you, a smoother descent this time. His demeanor underwent a subtle change, softer and tinted with a hint of nervousness.

"Follow me," he instructed.

You stood up, shook the dirt off the white cloth covering you, and trailed behind him through the vines and bushes. With his sword, Leo skillfully cut through some overly dense branches, making a path for you.

"Where are we going, ghost?"

"To a secluded place," he said. After a brief pause, he added, "My name is Leonardo."

You snorted. He halted, casting a quizzical look over his shoulder.

"Sorry, I was expecting something less... ordinary," you chuckled. "It's a beautiful name; a bit too formal, tho. Can I call you Leo?"

He smirked, resuming his pace. You were easy to talk to, a quality he found comforting. "Sure. So, what's yours?"

You shared your name, and he said it back. “Pretty.”

His voice, along with the praise, made your belly tingle.

He took you to a kind of cenote a couple of meters below. The surroundings stole your breath. Various shades of green foliage reclined on moss, bathed in the glow of a mellow fire dancing near the shore. The light cast the reflection of the water swells upon the walls of earth and rock. 

Beyond the flames of the campfire, there was a makeshift… nest? —more resembling leaves intertwined over the mushy moss— stacked beneath a rock bowl. The scent of flowers lingered heavily. There would likely be more than a couple on the seemingly soft pile. It looked like he had been living there for a while. 

The feeling of his hands on your sides jolted you. You turned. He was looking down at you, his gaze intense, silently conveying a question, hungered for answers. His teeth clamped together, still in pain, it seemed. You placed your hand over his.

"It's okay. I'm not afraid." 

"No?" 

Leo cupped your cheek, his fingers gently tapping. It seemed like something he couldn't suppress any longer. In an attempt to reciprocate, you did the same to him, using both hands.

“No.”

It must have struck a nerve because he yanked you from the spot where you stood, practically tossing you into the heap of leaves. He landed above you, a hand behind your head. It was so sudden that it made you dizzy. You clung to the edge of his plastron as he pressed you against it. 

Leo caught your mouth. His kiss was deep, fervent, demanding, exuding an almost fuel-ignited heat. His tongue interlaced with yours, and he moaned when you kept up with him. 

You gasped for air when he let go. A pang of bolt-like tickles sprouted and spread from your belly through your veins, and they reverberated through every place he explored with open, calloused palms. He dragged his hand across your side, all three fingers groping your breasts ravenously, pinching your nipples above the fabric. You gasped.

Leo carried his kisses to your neck, nibbling at it right over your pulse line, sucking the soft flesh hard enough to make you yelp. That would leave a mark. He grinned over the bruise before finding another spot near it to make another.

You felt his grip over your thighs as one of his hands had somehow found out how to go past that ridiculously long bride-like dress. You embraced him with your legs, pulling him close to your core and arching your back as if you were in heat alike upon feeling his front so tight against your cunt.

He humped over your clothed slit, pushing your legs wider to accommodate himself, after which he thrust again, this time letting out an earnest groan right into your ear. His hot breath against your skin gave you goosebumps. 

You whimpered, seeking a place to anchor yourself. Slipping a hand through the top of his shell, you secured yourself to his broad shoulders as he kept grinding on you frantically. 

You spread your legs wider in an attempt to feel the friction better. The lower part of his plastron was soaked, and the slimy moisture seeped through your clothing smoothly. It felt so good that you started clenching and unclenching to increase the sensation.

His voice quivered as a hot liquid damped you down, sticking to the clothes. You remained there, fixed as he caught his breath. Leo got up on his knees. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. You could then notice every perfectly formed muscle on his body. Below his belly, his cock was glistening with the slick of the previous cum. His size was not as intimidating as the knot at the base, swollen and somewhat red. He looked almost immaculate.

Leo removed the blue bandana in one swift movement, and in the next, he ripped off the ruined dress off your body. He panted, gaze lusting over your nakedness. His predatory gaze sent a shiver down your spine.

"Such a pretty little cunt," he said with a half-grin on his face. "Not wide enough to fit me, tho. Gotta fix that first."

He pushed your labia open with raspy thumbs before leaning down. You breathed in sharply upon sensing his snout so close. Leo licked a stripe over your slit, steady and soft. You gaped, holding his head with trembling fingers. His tongue was thick, mushy-like. You moaned when he circled it over your clit, before sucking on it. Your hips snapped up, offering as much of yourself as he was willing to take.

Leo lingered there, feasting on your puffy nub. You closed your eyes, head falling back. Soft whimpers and sighs echoed through the place as you squirmed between his arms.

He slid back to your entrance and pushed in, moaning at the taste. After a couple of testing thrusts, he began fucking you with his tongue: sleek, hot, and skilled in a way you weren't prepared for. 

You pushed his head deeper into you so your clit would rub against his snout, building an exquisite warmth inside your belly. Leo sensed you tensing under his grip, and he gave until the hot, sweet spasms of your walls told him you were satisfied.

His cock pulsated more with each passing moment, aching to get entirely sucked by your hot insides, and move. But fuck, if Leo retained yet one ounce of self-control, he committed it to ensure he wouldn't harm you that much. 

A fine line of saliva followed him for a fraction of a second when he pulled away, panting. He cleaned his face with his palm to then fist his cock, right above the swollen knot. You lifted your legs by pulling them towards you from behind the thighs, gaze thoroughly hypnotized by the sight of him lining with you. 

Leo let out a breathy moan as he pushed into you, the heat, the softness, and the sight taking away the last drops of his rational thought. 

The stretch stung slightly, but god, other than that, it was heavenly smooth. He bottomed out. Before he even moved, Leo spilled one hot load after the other, brimming you with cum. 

“Fuck—,” he panted. 

His chin rested on the crook of your neck. Your hands flew to his back, and you caressed his shell lovingly. His breathing evened with each controlled exhalation, yet the grip of his fingers over your flesh hadn't relaxed one scrap. It gave you the impression that he was holding back. Despite his feral desires, on the verge of losing his mind to pure instinct, he remained steadfast in his commitment not to harm you. Your heart melted.

“It's okay. I can take it,” you whispered tenderly, leaning your head over his, embracing him further.  

“No, this is— this is enough.” he gritted, voice sore. 

“Hey, I don't like giving half-heartedly. I told you it was alright," you told him, but it didn't seem like it was going through his stubborn head. So you changed the tone to try your luck. "Besides, I like how you feel inside me. I bet you'd fuck me so good."

His breath hitched. 

You grinned, clenching around his cock. “I bet you’re wondering how it’d feel, if you pushed your cute knot inside me.” 

“Stop it.” 

“Why?”

“I can’t— “

“Say you don’t want to.” you pulled his face to make him look at you. Hooded eyes bearing such a delightful dark gaze. He was about to snap, just one more small push. “Say you don’t want to breed me so fucking much it drips off my cunt. Say it, and I’ll shut up and let this to your own devices.”

His pupils dilate entirely. "Say that again." 

"Breed me so good." 

He kissed you at the same time he thrust, setting a frantic pace. His dick felt heavenly. It effortlessly reached the best spot inside you. You kept him pinned in the right place with the clasp of your legs, getting friction over your clit. 

He forced the pulsating nub inward, the stretch sent your eyes rolling to the back of your head.

“Ah— shit, yes. Yes.” he gritted, his voice drunken-like.

Irrepressible moaning streamed like a pretty song as his pace quickened. Leo sounded so fucking hot, relishing the instant. His orgasm triggered your own. Your back arched, and he slipped his arms underneath you, bringing you impossibly near to him as his dick pulsated deliciously, spreading the warmth within him through you.

Leo didn't stop after that. He continued to fuck you until your inner thighs bled from the continuous chafing against the edges of his shell, babbling something about pretty babies with your eyes. He was thoroughly unbound, mind spinning, burning as much as his passion for you. 

At some point, reality became a vaporous reflection on tempered glass. You were facing him at one moment, and then next, Leo held you by the hips as he ravished you in doggy style. His groaning, along with the lewd sound of wet skin slapping, anchored you to consciousness just enough to feel him spilling another hot wave of cum.

— – -

You woke up to the soft symphony produced by the combined sounds of the jungle—small animals rustling their wings, the wind whispering through the branches, a distant echo of a bird's song. The sun bathed the water in light, creating small waves that reflected the tranquil movement of the water all around.

Every inch of your body ached so intensely that the mere contemplation of movement welled tears in your eyes. Perhaps it had been too much. When you tried to shift, you felt something wet adhering to the skin of your thighs. Looking down, you found seaweed moistened with a scent that resembled a subtle mix of herbs.

A firm hand caressed your arm, and you tensed. However, the grip was gentle, almost hesitant, as if he were afraid to touch you. Slowly, you turned around. There he lay, gazing at you with bright, guilt-filled eyes.

"Good morning."

“Hello,” you greeted back.

"I'm sorry. It was-"

It's okay," you interrupted, placing a hand over his own. "I signed up for it. I told you I'd tough it out. Don't be too hard on yourself."

His gaze softened.

"Yet, I'm sorry I hurt you."

"You followed his gaze toward the area closed off with herbs. Bruises spread underneath. Then you noticed that, except for those bruises, you were pristine, and so was the place where you slept.

"You cleaned me up?"

"I had to do something for you. Although I know it's not enough, it’s a beginning," he said, fluttering the tips of his fingers near the damaged area.

"Thanks. So, is it over, or…?"

"The worst part is, we should be okay as long as someone keeps her mouth in check," he teased.

You chortled. "Sorry, not sorry."

He shared a laugh with you. Just as it subsided, Leo drew you into a tender embrace, snuggling you in a way that set your heart aflutter.

"I'm gonna keep you safe," he whispered.

You froze, a touch overwhelmed by the unexpected affection. He pressed a gentle kiss to your forehead. The moment lingered until a rumble from your stomach shattered the magic. Your cheeks burned bright red. Leo chuckled softly.

"What would you like for breakfast?"

[ancha-aus]

RealAgeAU Drabble - Reminiscene

Hello everyone :3

You all know what time it is!! I think... It is time for another Dream drabble :3 @spotaus I know how much you like having dream be put through the ringer :33

First drabble Prev drabble Next drabble

Not much to say this time. You guys ready?

*-------------------------*

All things considered? Dream had been doing okay lately.

The worst part was that he wasn't sure if he felt good or bad about it.

At least Core didn't call him every 5 minutes anymore. Seems like the outcode child finally accepted that Dream had changed. That Dream had moved on.

Hah.

If only they knew how little he had actually moved on.

Dream stands in the greyed out forest. Waiting and listening. Not even a slight breeze. No sound.

A dead AU.

He used to blame Nightmare for that, for killing their AU.

Nowadays?

Dream figures it was just the end of their AU.

Dream leans against a tree and sighs. He tries to reach out but no sounds.

On his solo trips and, as Blue liked to call them, self discovery trips. Dream had learned he could speak to trees. Though maybe calling it speaking was a bit generous.

The trees didn't use words. Just sounds and whistles and whispers that could almost have been words. Dream had still been able to understand however. He just had to listen.

Seems like that was a theme for him. He just had to listen to be able to understand.

Even so, he takes a deep breath and leaves the forest and walks towards a familiar hill.

He kept returning here. Dream wants to say he doesn't know why and that it is just his home calling back for him.

He knows the truth.

He stops by the old cut down stump and focusses on the two familiar graves.

Seems like he hadn't been the only one visiting. There are once again fresh flowers. All beautifull yellows and orange coloured this time.

Dream smiles as he sits by the graves and gently touches the flowers. Part of his soul grieves at the two graves, once of which is meant for him. But another part of his soul sings in joy.

Because there is only one monster who could have made these graves and left these flowers.

Dream chuckles as he glances at the stump "Nighty came by... didn't he?"

No answer of course. Nim has died a long time ago. Even so Dream leans back against the stump as he keeps looking at the graves, most of his focus is on his own.

Dream keeps staring at the graves as he speaks "I know you won't answer me... with you being gone.. But... I want to at least think you are listening to me. Just this once."

Nim never listened to him. Neither to Nighty. They just had to listen to her.

Look at where that lead them.

Dream watches over the grey fields and the village in the distance. "Had you already decided near the start? Which one of us you would love and which one you wouldn't?"

No answer but Dream didn't mind. He watches the village in the distance. He can't help but wonder how often Nightmare would have had to do this alone. Keep watch alone.

"Or was it an in the moment decision? Had there been a moment were you held both of us and loved us both? Or had you decided the moment Nightmare formed that you would hate him?"

How often Dream would rush off, ignoring the quiet pleas to stay wiht Nightmare.

"I think you decided from the start. Why else would you give him the name you did? Say the only thing that matters about him is how he was different from me."

Would he have seen those angry people coming? With weapons? Had Nightmare been afraid? Wondering where Dream had been? Why Dream hadn't stopped them?

"It has to be the reason. Why else would you tell me to make friends with the villagers and help them? While telling Nightmare to stay put and send them away? You must have known. Known that by making me help them and by making Nightmare deny them that they would grow angry with him."

How often had Nightmare believed Dream had abandoned him? Only for him to end up mortally injured?

"You don't deserve the grave he made." Not that Dream thinks he truly deserves one himself. Even if he returns each time to see if new flowers are left for him.

Dream once again wonders if he should leave a message for the next time Nighty visits... Just something that he wishes to talk.

But then that ever present fear returns. What if it meant Nightmare wouldn't visit this place anymore instead of answering? What if he decided it was better to completely cut their past lose from him instead?

Dream hugs his legs as he tries to remember how colourful everything had been. How beautiful it had been.

But... Dream now realises that it had just been a prison of responsibility... For both him and his brother.

A golden cage... but still a cage.

Drema snorts as he nudges Nim's grave "Yet here you are! immortalised by a grave your son made you! You know. That same son you aparently never liekd or wanted? That son made you a grave and keeps said grave clean and brings you flowers. I bet you wouldn't even be thankful for it."

Dream knocks the stump with his fist "After all! How often did you tell me that I should focus on myself? How i should focus on making the villagers like me? How i shouldn't bother to wait for Nighty to return from the river?" Nim had been trying to seperate them from the start. A dream had never realised.

Dream sighs as he hugs his legs "We were children. Little babybones and you gave us adult responsibilities...." They should have just ran. the two of them should have just disappeared into the forest.

Nighty had asked him a few times if they couldn't just leave together.

Dream should have realised something was seriously wrong. Nighty had been the one who took their jobs so seriously.

But... Dream had just said he didn't want to leave his friends in the village behind.

"I wish i could turn back time... get a redo... I would stay by Nightmare's side. I would convince him that the job you gave us wasn't our job."

Dream wonders why Nightmare had been so set on doing their job so well... Dream has ideas but none of them are happy reasons.

"What... waht did you tell him? That made him desperate to do this job well?" Which lies had Nim told Nightmare in Dream's absence...?

Dream hugs his legs "Why did you never bother to tell me?" Dream grows angry as he huffs "Why did you never bother to tell me the same? Or tell me when Nighty was near? Or tell nighty when I was near? What was it you were trying so hard to protect?!"

A memory. from so long long ago. It had been raining and Nightmare hadn't been around. Ligthning had been flashing and Dream had been so afraid. His mother had help him within her branches. protected him. reassured him he would be safe. told him...

told him that Dream just had to protect himself. protect the hope he represented...

Dream laughs as he kicks the grave of his mother. glaring at it angerly "Was it worth it?! Was it worth killing one of your sons to protect the other?! Was it worth being the cause of all this pain and suffering we both had to go through?!" Dream shakes his skull as he gets up "Nevermind. You are never going to give me answers... and honestly. I am tired of you being a part of my life in anyway. I hope you rot whereever you are now." and he walks back to the forest.

It is silent and he prefers it like that. Things had been loud and hectic.

And well...

Maybe just maybe... He had done the same as Nightamre had done.

He gets to the forest lake and immediantly spots the tiny grave.

Well not grave. Dream shies away from that word. Nightmare is very much alive after all. It is more like a memorial... Wait those can be made for living people right? drema thinks so.

It was nice. It gave him a safe place to grieve and talk about everything. to imagine Nightmare across from him and listening to him. Like old times.

Dream figures that is why his own grave nad Nim's are still up. Dream knows Nightmare has to come by to take care of both graves and Dream snorts as he imagines Nightmare just telling the two graves in all the things they had been wrong in and all the stupid lies they believed.

For now he sits down and pulls out a few little knick-knacks he had collected form across the multiverse.

Dream keeps his voice quiet. Afraid someone will hear and come ruin it "Hey little brother..." he can't forget anymore that Nightmare had been his younger twin. Yet it had always been Nightmare who took care of him. "I am back..."

finally back.

Dream traces the stone and wood structure he had made. all still in perfect condition. With the AU being dead there was no more decay.

Dream organises everything he had left before sitting across from it "Sorry it took me a while. I had a.... I had an identity crisis." he snorts "I know. ironic isn't it? Everyone was always so quick to help and guide me to be what i should be yet it helped nothing. I still ended up unsure about who i was or what i had to do..."

he looks at the snowglobe he had put down "I was always jealous of how you just seemed to have it all figured out. How you were confident in what you did. Both before and after the apples. it felt like i was failing, and i guess in the end i did fail as everything i believed had been a lie..."

Dream sighs as he leans his cheek on his knee as he keeps looking at the structure "It is stupid... I had all the help in the world, and then even the multiverse. and yet still i didn't figure it out. I still didn't figure out i was a god of balance over positivity. I still didn't figure out i was doing more harm than good..."

Dream traces the grey grass under him "I was so against picking a domain Nighty... partly because i didn't want to pick something and get you stuck with something you would be hated for. Not again... but that wasn't all."

Dream hugs his legs and confesses what had been weighing him down "I was afraid of picking wrong. No, I am afraid of picking soemthing wrong. That i will pick something and once again not understand it... How did you do it Nightmare? How did you figure out what you were suposed to do? You didn't have help yet you understood...."

Drema chuckles and rubs his cheek "Not that it matters anymore. aparently i did already pick... Reaper confirmed it for me not too long ago... a god of progress. What the hell does that even mean? What does it mean i should do? I know i aparently helped blue by inspiring him to get out of that loop but still! That was on accident! what if i once again go to far?! what if i..." he hides his face "What if i mess up again?"

Guilt and Dream chuckles "Here i go again... whining about my trouble... I don't even know what my choice and pick do you... what is even the oposite of progress?! regression? Did i make it so you are stuck with like... reset stuff?!" he sighs as he rubs his cheek and rubs the tears away "This shit is so unfair... neither of us ever asked for this. We never wanted this and no one tried to help us before yet expected us to just know."

Dream stares at the memorial. no answers of course but he does feel better after speaking about his worries.

Dream chuckles as he pats the memorial gently "But.... that wasn't why i am here. As you know... today is a special day!" he turns to his pack and pulls out a bottle. it is champagne. and a few cupcakes. he lays the cupcakes between him and the structure before putting a candle on both cupcakes and lighting them.

Dream smiles as he opens the bottle and holds it up to the grave "It is our birthday!"

Dream rubs his neck "I know it must seem weird. after all! For the last i don't even know how many years i had so many people to celebrate with and so many powers and even before that it were the villagers but... well..."

his voice grows softer and softer "I miss when it was just us. After we collected berries and fresh fruits. when we would sneak off together and sit by the river to eat the fruits together and give each other small gifts..." he pulls a small wooden statue from his pack.

Dream looks at it and rubs the wood. He had spend weeks on it. an old familiar skill now unfamiliar and feeling alien in his hands. he managed to make a small owl at least. even if one eye was clearly bigger than the other and Dream now had more splinters in his hands then ever before, even more than he first started.

He places it carefully in front of the memorial "I know it... it isn't my best work... I am going to be honest, it is porbably my worst..." he just hadn't had time to try again. He tried so many times but none of them have looked right and as time went by it just kept getting worse and suddenly he didn't have time anymore.

Dream chuckles "It sucks that i.... i didn't keep up with the hobby... I hope you kept reading at least... that you had the chance to keep reading... your picture and castle seemed to reinforce this at least... there were so many books in there! and the picture of you reading..." he rubs his arm as he keeps sitting right there "I am sorry... that you felt like he had to leave and run from your home... again..." he glances down adn chuckles "look at me... rambling... lets blow out the candles okay? I will blow out both. Don't forget to make a wish."

Drema leans down and blows out the candles on both cupcakes before putting his hands together and making his wish.

A silent whisper in his mind.

please.

please.

Just give him the chance to meet Nightmare again.

To talk to him one more time.

If only once to tell him he is sorry and that Dream loves him.

Dream opens his sockets and smiles at the grave, ignoring the tears that are leaving his sockets "Did you make a wish nightmare? Remember. No telling! otherwise it wont come true!"

Dream takes the two cupcakes and eats both before opening the champagne bottle and drinking straight from it. He isn't a fan of stuff like this but champagne is suposed to be for celebrations and well... celebrating himself and his twin seems like a good reason.

He spends his afternoon like that. just being in his old AU thinking back.

Fitting. a god of progress... stuck thinking about the past.

Dream chuckles and sighs "Blue said it is fine you know? To take time and get used to everything... I just hope... that you are doing the same... taking your time to rest after everything. I can only imagine how exhausting it would ahve been to have to do everything you did while everyone was actively working against you..." he smiles up "Good news for that though! I managed to visit pretty much everyone who knew either of us personally or about us! And i managed to explain the situation! so.. hopefully... whever you are or are planning on going, people will let you be and do your thing..."

Dream smiles at the memorial with the raised bottle "to us. to the future... and... I miss you... I am sorry i didn't make it obvious how much you mean to me..."

That had to be the reason why Nightmare hadn't searched him out yet... because he beleived that Dream hated him.

And that is on Dream. On dream for not doing a good job as brother and making it obvious that he loved his twin.

Dream hums as he leans against the stone structure "I love you nighty. And I promise you, I will make it up to you once we meet again."

Maybe that is why he is the god of progress. Because he is willing to move forwards and make it up. progress towards a new future.

Dream blinks and laughs "I bet you would have heard my title and figured it out immediantly." he giggles as he leans against the stone "Happy birthday Nightmare."

Happy birthday to me.

Dream sips the expensive bottle and enjoys the peace and silence.

*-------------------------*

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[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

Thank you for reading! If you liked this, please consider reblogging my work so that others can enjoy it too.

I do not consent to have my work posted, translated, or published to any third party site or app. If anyone sees my work anywhere other than my personal tumblr, Patreon, or ao3 accounts, it has been reposted without my permission.

If you want to support me further, consider buying me a ko-fi! My ko-fi is also under my SPN fanfiction blog, but I promise it’s me.

If  you would like to be added to my tags, please send me a message or an ask! I tag for Everything, Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers, Thor Odinson, and Peter Parker.

Forever: @aya-fay

Steve Rogers: @lipstickandvibranium​ @delicatecapnerd

[capybonara]

The Zorca and their Migration Routes

Brain zoomies strike again but I wanted to add visual aid to these particular bits of story that have been running in my brain. Putting it all under a cut FOLLOW ME!

Spring: Lanayru Sea

Taking the events going on in @werewolfsister's comic, the relationship between the Domain and the Zorca have grown. Sardon, Cironus, Kaska ,and sometimes little Kaso, have become frequent visitors while their pod remains out in the bay and ocean area.

The water ways allowed Sardon and Cironus to get into all sorts of trouble when they were younger.

When they were just starting to test the limits of how far they could go from their pod, and small enough not to alarm other hyrulian races(mistaken for slightly taller zora boys) They came upon Kakariko Village by chance and during the late hours of the night raided a pumpkin patch and devoured everything. Not knowing they were the reason the present day Olkin is so protective of them. Maybe one day they can go back and make amends somehow…

The end of spring marks their next journey along with their big courting event!

Summer: Akkala Sea

As spring comes to a close, other pods start to converge in Lanayru so they can all make the trip together to Akkala. The main reason for this is for their courting event called Turning the Wheel. Which is a metaphor for life and death cycles, as well as their destination, the Rist Peninsula!

The younger zorca who are of age participate in a race to get to the end of the spiral at Rist Peninsula. But it's less about who gets there first and more about who they end up racing side by side with ("the treasure is the friends you make along the way!"). Older zorca take their time because they're socializing with old friends and previous partners. Those who participate in the game usually arrive a day earlier before the main group.

The pairings can come about unexpectedly! A zorca may hit it off with someone as they race. Or it can be planned, where partners agree to race together. There's no shame for anyone reaching the end without a partner though as they can try next season.

Non-zorca partners are allowed to participate in this event as well. Couples don't have to finish the race either, if they want to, they can break away and join the slower group, or head off together for more private entertainments. But a many enjoy reaching the end because once the entire group reaches the center of the peninsula they have their own party with food and singing to mark the start of summer!

Cironus and Sardon have played the game several times, and always reached the end solo. To avoid the matchmaking attempts by his grandmother, Sardon found a way to avoid courting by simply being faster than anyone trying to keep pace with him. Cironus enjoys the thrill of the game but no one has matched his pace either.

Once the summer of love is over its time to move on to...

Autumn: Necluda Sea

This is an especially important time for pregnant zorca! Their pregnancy can take over a year, so those who participated in last years courting event are ready for babies and need to be prepared for what's to come.

@werewolfsister's Domain of the Sunken Garden is located between the South East coast of Hyrule and Eventide Island. The Zorca have done gift exchanges with Oley and Tajin since the zorca themselves cannot reach the depths of their home.

Somewhere south of Eventide Island is where the Zorca perform their burial rites. When an individual passes, no matter the season, the pod travels to these waters to lay them down to rest in a whale fall event.

When the temperature shifts, and due dates are getting nearer its time to head on...

Winter: Faron Sea

Faron Sea is where the Zorca go to have their babies! Every baby born is a precious addition to their pod since the Zorca are so few in number. New and experienced mothers work over time with hunting and everyone else pitches in to help care for the little ones. The nursery is closely guarded, and anyone who doesn't have business there sticks around in the open waters.

Because the villagers of Lurelin fish in the same waters, the Zorca offer their assistance in any way they can, by helping them catch fish or chasing off monsters!

When spring rolls around again, they say goodbye to their friendly neighbors, and the newborns are strong enough to make the trip back to Lanayru to begin the seasons all over again.

[psychhound]

[ID: a banner that reads "immigration sale" in large light letters, with "8 games 40 - 60% off" in smaller light text. the background is a home's porch with a rocking chair, with a light brown translucent text box over it. end ID]

HEY YALL I'M DOING A SALE

so my little brother @hmooncreates and his partner @paladinbaby are working to move in together!!! faun does not live in america and the visa application is Not Cheap so im having a sale to help out!!!

the goal is $150 but literally anything is awesome!! all proceeds will go straight to paying for the visa application

the sale includes some big games!! if youve seen my sales before, you'll be familiar with:

little shepherd, little spy: a solo or duet journaling game where you are a spy in the fairy war, delivering messages through your spy ring through coded messages in the books on your bookshelf

dead mans hand: a solo storytelling game where you travel around the weird wild west learning peoples stories through a poker hand oracle system

little celestial fieldwork guide: a solo or multiplayer city exploration photography game where you use tarot cards to get hints as to what objects little spirits are hidden as to catalogue them for your research

familiar field trip: a competitive multiplayer game where you are all witches' familiars causing havoc in the village, teaming up or betraying each other to get the most mischief points

some BRAND NEW GAMES that have NOT been on sale before are:

shadow/giant: a duet game where one player is a gruff, jaded adult and the other player is the magical child now under their care

the graveyard game: a solo journaling game where you interview people to write an ethnography of a magical, haunted graveyard

with breath & sword: a solo journaling game where you gear up and fight monsters in order to calm down from real-life anxiety, using grounding methods and breathing techniques

the narrator paradox: a solo narrating game where you have to wrangle your protagonist into listening to the story you're trying to tell and not defying the narrative

each game 40% off or get all 8 for only $18!!!

also check out hollis's fundraising sale with a zine and dating sim inspired ttrpg (its so so fun) and faun's fundraising sale commissions (theyve drawn most of the art for my dnd game theyre amazing)

checking the games out and spreading the word so appreciated!!! thanks yall!!!

[partywithoutsmiling]

Some musing on the Wanderer!Branch AU

(Okay, bit of a chaotic lore dump incoming, as this is probably the first time I am putting it to words)

Okay, important info first:

I headcanon it that Branch- and thus the other Brozone bros- are half-pop half-rock in their herritage; this headcanon is an old one, ever since World Tour dropped, and honestly only supported by the fact that Total Eclipse of the Heart that Branch sung as trolling is considered a Pop Rock song XD But hey, one doesnt need to have many reasons to make headcanons pff

(I have some tentative lore about his parents- and his grandparents- too, and how that would effect Branch and his Bros growing up, but I will leave that for a separated post)

But anyway, with Branch's Pop side being moderated by his Rock side, he would have always felt a bit out of place among his tribe, even he grew up perfectly happy with no tragedy in his life (I know switching Branch's and Poppy's place when it comes to being grey is all the rage right now, but I still feel most are missing all the necessary nuance to really make it work, but lets not get into that pf)

Obviously, that feeling of not fitting it only got hundred fold worse since his PTSD and him being grey, as Pop Trolls doesn't seem to be known for mental health support. Branch eventually leaving is not him going 'Screw you all, I will find someone who appreciates me' (much like Clay did) but more of a 'I am sorry, I won't get in your way anymore, I wont be a burden'

Basically massive amount of self-loathing and severe lack of self-worth. When Branch had his final breakdown and decided to leave, I don't think it would be with the precise goal of finding anyone (yes, part of him hopes he would be able to find his brothers and at least find closure one way or another, no matter how much it terrifies him).

Honestly, Branch probably didn't dare to examine his decision to leave any closely than he needed to, lest it would stand out to him for what it really was- a suicide trip.

This was Branch that doesnt know anything about the wide, outside world; he knows Bergen Town, knows of the old Troll Tree, and now knows the Forest and their Troll Village. But everything else is uncharted territory for him. He knows of the Neverglades, because of a faint memory of John Dory constantly talking about them when he was a baby, but has only a vague sense which way they are (I headcanon they make up for the border of Pop and Rock territories)

His preparation for the trip was abysmal, and so was his plan in general. He just picked a direction- opposite of Bergen Town, away from them- and started walking. When he first encountered the towering high peaks of Classical Territory, he immediatelly recognized that they can't be the Neverglades- very much not fitting the description that he remembered, so he walked past/around them, smack dab into Country territory.

Compared to others, I don't think the Country Trolls would have been very welcoming to him at the beginning; used to hard life, inhospitable land and abundant death, Branch would be an unexpected disturbance; obviously not a Classical Troll, who borders with them the closest but never comes down from the skies, obviously not a Funk Troll, who with their technological advance might as well be myths at this point- and obviously not a Pop Troll, since he doesnt shower them with obnoxious music and doesnt even look the part.

Had he been at his 100%, they would have probably been quite content to send him packing, figuring he was just a Rock Troll going solo career (little insert headcanon: Rock Troll Rite of Passage is going on a Rock Tour, and sometimes the more adventurous Rock Trolls strays into other territories to bother and cause mayhem other trolls. Barb's Rock Tour was her Rite of Passage, and being a freshly fanged Queen, she took it to another level)

But Branch quite helpfully collapsed on their doorstep, half starving and dehydrated, and they weren't so callous as to leave him there for the elements to take care of him.

Naturally, their help hardly came for free, and even if they didn't ask, Branch would have already feel indebted to them for wasting resources on his wellbeing. A Survivalist himself, he easily spotted the tight budget they were running, and felt guilty for being a burden yet again.

To his surprise, when the country trolls found out he was a hard worker, a skilled architect and wiz engineer, they completely turned their wariness around.

It was the start of his 'finding himself' journey, but for the first time, Branch started to feel... appreciated. Yes, these trolls didn't know him- but they looked at him, looked at what he can do, and called him accomplished; they were praising his skills, and called him valuable.

(But some sense of danger remained with him; as far as he believed, 'Branch' was left behind to rot away in his bunker. So when introducing himself, and habit got better of him, he started with "Bra-" but caught himself and finished "-mble"; and that new name, 'Bramble', stuck XD Still a plant name, still close enough that he can learn to repond to it- and honestly, feels like fits him better right now, as he feel all out of sorts)

It was only the first step, maybe, but it was a step toward feeling that he had some worth.

I think, out of all the Tribes, he stays with the Country trolls for the longest; yes, the life there is hard, but that is perhaps why he feels most welcomed there. There are no useless nonsense parties, no senseless dancing- the times when they can finaly wipe their brow and relax is when the community gathers together and they just... talk. Sit around, share food, look at the stars and reminiscence.

It's all very subdued, and even though Branch is the most obvious outsider ever, he feels like one with the community, and that by itself is already healing a deep wound he didnt know he had.

When the country trolls finally start singing on their good day, Branch is rather taken aback (He forgot, that Trolls are Trolls, and Trolls sing)- but the sombre and slow melody and topic of the country speaks to him, and while he doesnt join- and they dont push him to join- he listens, and he appreicates.

It is with Country Trolls that he heals most of his trauma when it comes to music. His Grandma and his Brothers leaving him are still a big guilt that weights him down- and something he wont address for a long time- but Country trolls shows him that music can be wildly different. He still doesnt sing, but when offered to be taught to play a banjo (XD), he probably doesnt refuse- mainly out of fear of insult, but also because for the first time in his life, he wants to actually try.

As time passes, his more curious side comes out- he asks questions, wants to know everything- up to this point, he didn't even know that the Country trolls were country- and to them it was obvious what they were, so why would they need to introduce themselves?

That line of questioning leads to the explanation of the other Tribes existing, and that each Tribes' music is different.

And for the first time in his life, Branch felt something alien to him- burning Wanderlust. (Bit of his Rock herritage showing, eh? Solo Rock tour, Rite of Passage~?) The thirst for knowledge was always there- after all, his bunker had many journals filled to brim with information about what he discovered in the foods, helpful tips for survival and many plans for inventions- but those were always done out of necessity, discovered and noted down so that he could live another say. Never before he had a desire to discover simply for the sake of discovering.

Never before he also actually felt like he had the option to do so; the world has always been an inhospitable wilderness to him, only filled with a small handful of trolls and a town full of monstrous giants. His childhood was filled with memory of a large iron cage, and that trapped feeling didn't change; after all, his Bunker, for all that it offered him safety, was a different type of cage too. The whole Troll Village- Pop Village, as he learned now- was another cage as well. Gilded one, made of ignorance.

And so he knew his time with the country trolls came to an end- and it was because he grew to respect them and appreciate them, that he doesnt disappear in the nigh and haltingly tells them his decision to leave and explore.

Memories of his Brothers' argument echo through his mind as he waits for the inevitable blow up, but.... he is once again surprised when the trolls just accepts this decision and wish him all the best- going as far as to help him pack- properly this time- and wheedling out of him a promise to check in once in a while, whenever he is in the neighbourhood.

Equipped with a non outdated map, he decides to make visit all the other territories one by one, starting from Country and heading right towards Classical, going around in one large circle around Pop Territory- Going to Techno after Classical, and to Rock right after that. Funk is largely a mystery to him- the Country trolls are at this point content to believe they are just a myth- much the same way a unicorn is to us- but Branch wants to keep an open mind.

After all, he himself had no idea other kind of trolls existed, so why dismiss the Funk Troll existence right away?

His travels to Symphonyville proved to be as challenging as was the start of his trip towards Country territory. Being high in the mountains- higher than anywhere Branch ever went- really showed him that walking is easy only when the road is straight and flat.

The air growing colder and thinning, he probably doesn't make the best first impression neither- especially in his dishevelled state, he is once more mistaken for a Rock Troll, and it takes a gargantuan amount of effort to convince anyone that he is simply there to learn music, and not cause any trouble.

Out of all the Tribes, he would stay with the Classical trolls the shortest. They are strict teachers, and their culture is very frigid and traditional- and Branch knows that he would have to wildly change himself to fit among them. Yet looking around, seeing the tall spires of the buildings around him, he finds he doesn't really want to. The grandiose of everything is rather intimidating- but even if he tried his best, he would never fit well among the classical trolls, always limited by something (like his ability to fly)

And realizes that was okay. That was acceptable. And that the classical trolls knew he wasn't a good fit now, and would hardly ever be a good fit ever- but they never expected him to become someone he is not. He asked them to teach him and so teach him they will- but you cant force a white sheep to grow black wool anymore that you can force a black sheep grow white.

The moment they realize Branch is there to learn and not wreck their peace like wandering Rock Trolls tend to do, they definitelly warm up to him more- but it still with the mildest of disapprovals since compared to them, Branch looks like a scrunkly kitten and all of them are just itching to groom him properly XD

Branch himself is amazed at the variety of musical instruments that exists and very quickly finds that he is not a progidy in plaing them all pff. Wind musical instruments are most likely completely beyond him, and after some attempts gives them up for a lost cause. Percussion fairs a bit better; he definitelly has some idea how to keep a beat and a rhythm, but even there he finds playing piano the most comfortable out of them all, with drums being a close second.

It is with string instruments that he trully shines, especially those that he can play with his own hands, without the need to use a pick or a bow; a tentative hint at his connection to music, the vibrations just send shivers down his spine and makes him feel more close to the sound his playing produces. (Guitar and Harp becoming his favourite instruments from the get go).

Getting to Techno was trickier. Them living underwater makes access to their territory rather impossible- unless Branch happens to meet someone willing to cross then bridge between Land and Sea XD

It makes for a rather convenient introduction for minor genres; the land bordering Classical and Rock seems to be as the perfect land for various minor tribes to cohabit in peace.

Are there Techno Opera trolls? Siren like beings, that found their homes on the deck of boats, sailing from and to an island after island? Techno Classical that built their living on the coast line, wanting to be close to both land and sea?

In any case, Branch discovers that even with music it's not so simple as shelving it into labels, and that it is ever growing, ever evolving. He never manages to actually visit Techno Reef, but he doesnt' need to; compared to other trolls, the Techno Trolls are not insular, and quite happily come to the surface or to the coast, both to vibe with the offshoots of their genre, to discover what they came up with, but also to simply make friends and have fun.

It was the first time Branch encountered a large party not unsimilar to that of a Pop Troll one- and yet for all that the party was just as loud and wild as he was used to seeing, the sight of it didnt really fill him with uncontrollable panic. It definitelly helped it was once again more about the music and the beat itself, and about the mood of the partygoers than it was about the singing; it was about experimentation and trying out new things- and yet not every troll was dancing around like maniacs. They had the stage for sure, and large crowd was gathering there- but there were also the fringe areas and corners, where Trolls just sat and chatted and bopped to the beat. Not forced to do anything they didn't want to, simply allowed to have fun in their own way.

He doesnt really interacts with the Techno Trolls that much, beyond when there is a party happening on the surface. Gravitates more towards exploring the Minor Territory, and discovering that it holds more than just Techno Classical/Opera. Not wanting to stray too close to the border with Pop, he nevertheless encounters encounters various offshoots of Pop as well- and the K-Pop gang as well

This definitelly allows him to learnt that even the Trolls Kingdom are not free of corruption and the bounty hunters are not starving for contracts- crime does happen in the troll kingdoms, and when the local police force comes short, the bounty hunters are the next best thing to employ.

Speaking with the K-Pop gang, he learns- with a bit of unease- that there was an old contract unfulfilled, that searched for all the Brozone Brothers, and thanked his lucky stars he can in no way be connected to them. It was considered a cold one, where there was no hope among the communities of it ever being cashed in- but the knowledge someone was looking for them- specifically for the younger of the brothers (Him, Floyd and Clay) made him wonder who could it be.

(Part of him entertained that it could be John Dory)

(Other part dismissed it right away. After all, JD did specifically state 'Goodbye Forever'- why would he make the effort to employ bounty hunters to find three of his brothers, if he was even alive to do so?)

That meetings seems to set of a string of bad luck- at least, that's how he feels. Continuing down to Rock territory- of which he is most wary (after all, he was constantly being confused for one, and expected to cause mayhem and destruction- so what kind of Trolls Rock Trolls were to earn that reputation?

A very specific kind- wild and chaotic.

Compared to other Territories, no-one blinks when he just walks in and continues deeper into the Kingdom; and he can finally see why he was mistaken for a Rock Troll. Muted colours, sharp smiles and even sharper claws, it was like walking into uncanny valley, where nearly every troll wears his face. At that point, unknown to him, his colours are not completely grey and black, so he is sporting some faint hues, and very quickly learns that thanks to the direction he came from, Rock Trolls think he is from an Offshoot genre; either Punk Rock or Pop Rock (though they obviously hope for the former) They reconsider him to Folk Rock when he brings out softer tunes that he plays on a borrowed guitar; and for the first time in a while, Branch is asked to sing.

He panics, obviously- playing musical instrument is one thing, but getting over his trauma from singing is another- and quite swiftly and bluntly refuses, cringing after to wait for the inevitable "You are a Troll, why don't you sing?"

Only... it never comes. There are shrugs, and one "Cool." and then he just gets invited to an Indie Rock show, and that is that.

Completely baffled at this easy acceptance, Branch agrees out of shock, before he can trully think it through- and realizes it's the first time since he left Pop Village (at this point probably nearly two years ago) that he thinks back on its inhabitants and namely Poppy.

He feels rather guilty, for taking this long to really give them a concrete thought. Like yes, he did think of them at the beginning, when he lived with the Country trolls- but that was only in general way, comparing the different livestyles. He never really chose to think about the people he left behind.

Now, no longer blinded with grief, self-loathing and rampart paranoia, he does remember that not all adults in his life went out of their way to activelly fail him. King Peppy, for all that he was unequipped to deal with Branch's issues, tried to check up on him regularly; his Grandmother's friends or those who knew her, made it their goal to be kind, even if Branch tried to avoid them out of reminder what he caused

Hype, Trickie, Boom and Ablaze were old friends- his childhood friends- the ones he made after his brothers left, and the ones he pushed away after he went grey- and yet they still managed to be around, noticing them from a distance, even as he stopped speaking to them.

And then there was, of course, Poppy.

Just starting to mature when he left, it's not quite a crush that he feels for her (not yet anyway), but there is still some sort of appreciation for her- some part of him, that subconsciously aches at the need to be close to her, and feeling just that bit of her warmth and positivity- one that made him wistfully keep all her invitations and listen to the sound of her recorded voice.

For the first time, he wonders how they reacted to his disappearence. Wonders if they miss him- or if they curse him. If they do both- like he felt conflicted towards his brothers, the older he got and the more obvious it became that they are not coming back.

It was that thought- the comparison to his brothers- that pushed him to hesitantly think about returning back to Pop Village; to his bunker, to his old life- to Poppy.

It was a tentative thought really; truthfully, the desire was a half hearted spur of the moment, and not something he would drop everything for. He didn't miss his old life; where he was the village hermit, the outcast, the weird one. Besides, he just arrived in Rock, and he still had a whole adventure ahead of him, trying to find the Funk trolls.

And so, When in Rome, do as the Romans do- and so Branch steeled himself to attend a party, one that he was specifically invited to; after all, he had been at parties before now, within the reach of Techno Reef, it's not like this one is any different

Only it kind of felt like it- yes, the music was harsher, the beat went harder- but the harmonizing of voices reminded him so close of his own tribe that it just left him feeling jittery- and at first, yes, the party made him tense and hardly participate, but as it went on, song after song, he could feel himself slowly relax.

(Besides, there was something about rock music, that send warmth straight to the core of his being; something about it resonated with him more than any other music did, besides Pop- and where before he fought hard to not allow it to do that, perhaps, just this time, he could try the opposite)

(After all, they were underground, where Branch always felt the safest, and the Bergens had no idea other tribes even existed- he could indulge a little)

Of course, fate has a funny way of entertaining itself, and in the second of his indecisiveness, he gets bumped into and trips and falls- or he would, if pair of hands didn't steady him, and familiar voice asked him if he was okay

And Branch suddenly felt altogether three years old, getting fed empty promise and watching his older brother disappear through the entry to his Grandma's pod

And he is now in present, left staring at nearly 15 years older Floyd, his brother clearly living the best life, happily away from Pop Territory (away from Branch)

His name drops from his lips before Branch can stop himself, and that has Floy pause and squint at him- obviously not recognizing him, obviously trying to place him- before something clicks and his eyes widen and he goes pale

Branch most likely punches him- and then finds he cant stop heaving in fury and goes punch him again, not allowing Floyd a word in (honestly, he is not punching very hard, not apart from that first one)

Of course, Floyd is hardly alone, probably in a band, and his band mates are not keen on having their member be attacked by a random troll

Brawl very easily breaks out- honestly nothing new among the Rock Trolls- and ends up with all of them, especially Branch, thrown in a cell for their troubles, much to the protest of Floyd's bandmates, who curses and claims innocence

For the first time in forever, Branch feels hollowed out; yes, he had been hoping for a closure- but honestly, he had expected to find all of his brothers dead; not finding any of them living happily away, their youngest brother not even a blip of concern in their mind.

He certainly never expected it from Floyd, who essentially lived a stone throw away; who clearly was able to cross the distance it took from Bergen town to arrive in Rock troll's territory, just shy away from the Pop one.

------------------------------------------------------------ This is where I will stop the musing for now XD;

Obviously there are more things to add; Barb would make appearance, not yet as a Queen but definitelly in charge of keeping any Rock Trolls in line (she is not called a Princess because the Rock Trolls don't use that title for their heirs) and while Floyd is aware she is the future Queen, that information doesnt get shared)

The discovery of Funk Trolls still awaits as well, as does Branch's return to Lonesome Flats, as he had promised to do

But that's for the next time :)

[cassimothwin]

So you're looking for a system other than D&D...

Have you tried solo RPGs? Because it's not just "how can I play D&D alone" there's a whole world of cool stuff out there….And I want to tell you about it.

(I'm quite sick today so please forgive any incoherence or typos.)

First off, it's totally fine if you're more of a party person over a solo person. I just know a lot of people aren't aware of solo games, how they work, or the breadth of diversity you find among them.

If you ask about solo games, the first one mentioned is almost always Ironsworn. It's freeeee and comes with a lot of resources. The PDF is over 200 pages, so I understand if you don't want to dive in with Ironsworn quite yet.

Ironsworn has a large community, including support for Foundry and Roll20, along with many derivative works. It offers a gritty default fantasy setting, but encourages you to ignore that if you prefer another world… maybe one from another RPG you enjoy the lore from…?

BUT maybe you want something that isn't as much of a commitment (and maybe a little sad)?

Many Wretched and Alone games use a tumbling block tower to simulate a random ticking clock. It might represent your failing mental health, the barricade crumbling, the ship sinking…

One of the creators of the system has a great thread highlighting their favorite games. Just search Wretched an Alone on Itch.io to find even more.

And if you don't want to go buy a Jenga tower, there are some great random simulators out there. I've been able to play W&A games on road trips, using a deck simulator, a dice simulator, and a tumbling tower simulator. Here's tower replacement I like. It replicates the odds of a tumbling tower falling without being too complicated.

Carta is another cool system where you use a standard deck of playing cards to create a map that you explore. As you explore, you usually have to manage resourses to avoid something bad, but not always.

Here's a collection of several games made using Carta.

Dead Belt takes this concept and RUNS with it. You have a few things to track as you explore abandoned randomized ship decks, searching for a good payload. Upgrade your gear and do it again.

Does the thought of managing your character sound exciting? Do you enjoy soulslike games, like Elden Ring and Bloodborne?

Rune is a fresh release with a lot of third-party support already. It's pretty easy to pick up and play too.

Apothecaria and Apawthecaria have you making potions for the local village. Go out exploring, collect ingredients, and see if you can solve the greater mysteries of the land.

Interested in horror, but want a more narrative-driven experience? In Dwelling, you'll spend the night sleepless and alone in a haunted house. This is a very neat game.

Songs of the City is a delightful tarot game that you play once a day for a week. It's another narrative-driven game where you draw cards and cast magic to see small neat changes in the city you reside in.

Anamnesis, Anamnesis, Anamnesis. I talk about this game a lot because it's magical in its simplicity. There's nothing to track and it's an incredible way to generate character ideas or tell a story.

And now there are more Anamnesis games coming out (including mine) You don't need the original games to play any of the games you see here.

There are so many more games I want to talk about, but alas, this cold is making me stop there.

If you've written a solo game, streamed one, reviewed one, or have one you really like, I invite you to share it!

[just-someone-online]

Wendy Headcanons!

My fav! Quick heads up if you haven't read it, but a couple of these are derived from the Blue Mistral spinoff.

Natsu once asked her what air tasted like to her and she's been wracking her brain trying to describe it ever since. It does have specific tastes to her (Edolas' in particular was very distinctive) but it's not really something she can put into words.

Wendy's time in Aiya Village made her realize that she kind of liked being seen as a boy, at least sometimes. She isn't really sure why she feels that way, but sometimes when she's on solo jobs (And later during team missions when she's more confident about it), she'll complete them as Wendell. Carla doesn't quite understand it, but as long as Wendy isn't picking up any bad habits from Natsu, Gray, or the other guys in the guild, you won't see her judging.

Wendy was once convinced to join one of Fairy Tail's infamous brawls and ended up accidentally blowing four people through a wall. She won't admit it, but she kind of wants to do it again.

She still keeps up with everyone from Blue Mistral after the time skip. They mostly write to each other, but Emily will visit Magnolia from time to time.

She's been learning regular hand-to-hand from Erza for situations where she might not be able to use her magic. And while she doesn't have the same commanding presence as Erza, Gray and Natus sometimes feel a chill go down their spines when they see her sparring.

Wendy draws in her spare time! She tends to keep it to herself, but she'll show off her sketchbook if someone asks. It's full of everything from weird dreams she's had, still life sketches, to doodles of her guildmates.

A lot of the children in Magnolia love her. Once, she was walking by the park while some kids were struggling to get their kites in the air, so she created a small gust of wind to get them going. Now, there's a small army of kids with kites that hangs around outside the guild and ask for her.

Wendy has a handmade flag with Cait Shelter's guild mark hanging up in her room. After Fairy Tail disbanded, a flag with its mark joined the Cait Shelter one, and then a Lamia Scale flag joined them a year later. And while Wendy doesn't often lose her temper outside of a fight, Carla pities anybody dumb enough to damage them.

This girl can not get on a train without something happening. If it isn't something big like it getting robbed or her falling out of a hole in the coach made by Natsu and Gray, it's either getting delayed, she'll trip getting on board, or some other problem. Strangely, a lot of these stopped happening as much once she developed motion sickness. Carla and Chelia joke that it's the universe taking pity on her.

[tanuandthetriplets]

Gaon Me 1358 Ka Mandir | Nadi Me Adha Latka Hua | Missed Triplet Vlog

[christinatravel]

Sunset Stroll: Beach in Tangier, Morocco 🌅🏖️

Click the photo for more pics

[xjulixred45x]

I need to ask from morbid curiosity mostly. I have heard of diabolic lovers mostly from top 10 unfortunately not good ones. What are your unadulterated thoughts on the brothers?

I have talked individually of Subaru and Reiji, and there is a post where i Say which Diaboy i HATE the most, but i Guess is therapeutic talk shit about them all :)

in order from oldest to youngest, not in order from worst to """best"""

Carla to me is practically a P3d0, and it's worse if we consider that canonically she likes Yui to call her "Onichan"🤮 and he's such a son of a bitch, he tortured her SO MUCH (along with Shin) that it made her think about COMMITTING SUICIDE. a scourge

Shin is the definition of Carla's lapdog, and since he has the power he feels comfortable mistreating everyone (but if they were stronger? He comes out with his tail between his legs) GOD THE SCENE WHERE HE MAKES YUI LICK HIS OWN BOOTS. just as bad as his brother. Only he's not a fetishist.

Shu just seems boring and bland to me, I'm sorry I can't say much about a character who literally does NOTHING. Her background is fine, but I think she was very wasted on a character in a bad story.

Reiji IS A SON OF A BITCH, he not only decided to kill his brother's friend BUT THE ENTIRE VILLAGE, OUT OF JEALOUSY, and on top of that kill his mother who wasn't even abusive (compared to the other two, she was quite loving). honestly an idiot.

Ayato is unbearable, I just can't stand him, he acts like a little child. apart from the fact that he is the one who objectifies Yui the most and who insults her the most along with Kou. without forgetting that he is considered the "hero" of the franchise😑

Kanato is all of the above combined in an amorphous and delusional mass in believing that he is the victim and that he is right in everything, being also a necrophiliac and cannibal, there is no need for me to say more.

Laito is, sadly, one of the best written in the entire franchise but at the same time he is a FIRST DAMN, he was the first to cause Yui's suicidal ideas, apart from the fact that HE IS a sex offender who should stay away from people .

Subaru is a hothead who gives me certain Incel vibes, he believes that all women are equal and that gives him the right to treat everyone like shit and be physically violent. Even if he has the most "justified" trauma next to Laito, it doesn't make him any less of a horrible person.

Ruki is simply a control freak who, since he is now a vampire, believes he is above everyone else and is honestly a second Reiji but with a cheap background. but he has my eternal hatred for the cat.

Yuma just doesn't catch my attention beyond his design and being just as aggressive as Subaru, he has literally beaten Yui to death in almost all of her endings. I don't like.

Kou is INSUFFERABLE and eager, not only for being so materialistic but for the way he messes with Yui's self-esteem makes my heart bleed.

Azusa is a MANIPULATOR, no matter who it hurts, he literally Guilt Trips Yui to make her hurt him! and then he cuts her! He might be the "Best" but he is still trash.

Kino is similar to Kanato in that he is spoiled and a horrible being at the same time, he has no consideration for those other than him and that makes him DESPICABLE ON HIS ROUTE, he literally killed a child in front of Yui so that he would not try to escape . it's bullshit.

Overall, I think that would be it. They're all trash, but different trash.

____

en orden de mayor a menor, no en orden de peor a """mejor"""

Carla para mi es prácticamente un P3d0, y es peor si consideramos que canónicamente le gusta que Yui le llame "Onichan"🤮 y es tan hijo de puta, la torturo TANTO(junto a Shin) que le hizo pensar en SUICIDARSE. una lacra.

Shin es la definición de perro faldero de Carla, y como tiene el poder se siente comodo con maltratar a todos(pero si fueran mas fuertes? el sale con la cola entre las patas)DIOS LA ESCENA EN LA QUE HACE QUE YUI LE LAMA LAS BOTAS. igual de malo que su hermano. solo que no es un fetichista.

Shu simplemente se me hace aburrido y soso, lo siento no puedo decir mucho de un personaje que literal no hace NADA. su trasfondo esta bien, pero creo que fue muy desaprovechada en un personaje en una mala historia.

Reiji ES UN HIJO DE PERRA, no solo decidio matar al amigo de su hermano SINO A TODA LA VILLA, Por CELOS, y encima de eso matar a su madre que nisiquiera era abusiva(en comparación a las otras dos, era bastante amorosa). sinceramente un imbécil.

Ayato es insoportable, simplemente no me lo puedo aguantar, actua como un niño pequeño. aparte de que es quien mas cosifica a Yui y de los que mas la insulta junto a Kou. sin olvidar que es considerado el "héroe" de la franquisia😑

Kanato es todos los anteriores combinados en una masa amorfa y delirante en creer que es la víctima y que tiene la razon en todo, siendo también un necrofilico y canibal, no hace falta que diga mas.

Laito es, tristemente, uno de los mejor escritos de toda la franquicia pero que al musmo tiempo es un MALDITO DE PRIMERA, fue el primero en causar las ideas suicidas de Yui, aparte de que ES un delincuente sexual que deberia manterse lejos de las personas.

Subaru es un hiracundo que me da ciertas vibras de Incel, cree que todas las mujeres son iguales y que eso le da el derecho a tratar como la mierda a todos y ser físicamente violento. aun si tiene el trauma mas "justificado" junto a Laito, no le hace menos de una persona horrible.

Ruki simplemente es un maniático del control que como ahora es un vampiro cree estar por arriba de los demas y sinceramente es un segundo Reiji pero con trasfondo barato. pero tiene mi odio eterno por lo del gato.

Yuma simplemente no me llama la atención mas alla de su diseño y ser igual de agresivo que Subaru, literalmente ha matado a Yui en casi todos sus finales a golpes. no me gusta.

Kou es INSUFRIBLE y con ganas, no solo por ser tan materialista sino por la forma ej la que se mete con el autoestima de Yui hace que me sangre el corazón.

Azusa es un MANIPULADOR, le duela a quien le duela, el literalmente le hace Guilt Triping a Yui para que lo lastime! y encima después la corta el!

Kino es similar a Kanato con lo de ser un mimado y un horrible ser al mismo tiempo, no tiene consideración por quienes no sean el y eso lo hace alguien DESPRECIABLE EN SU RUTA, literalmente mato a un niño enfrente de Yui para que no intentara escapar. es una mierda.

en general, creo que eso sería todo. Todos son basura, pero diferente basura.

[whiteheartlight]

hey I wrote a fic while my internet was down about the world's grumpiest Toa while he and the others were traveling back to Mata Nui with the Matoran. please let me know if you enjoy. Onewa is such a bastard. but a bastard with nuance?? I've always thought he and Vakama should get to talk after the Visorak arc

.

It would actually be pretty cool, Onewa thinks, if Nuju didn't manage to concuss himself so bad while he did it.

He was up there where he needed to be, that's the thing. And Onewa's not afraid of heights like Whenua is, but when that bird smashed through the window of their airship and tried its damnedest to get Vakama by the waist, Onewa did think to himself, for a moment: I'm a Toa of Stone. Maybe the others should handle this.

Nuju might have intuited that thought, or maybe he had just been itching for some action after being stuck on a ship with the rest of them for weeks on end, but one way or another, he pulled out those ice spikes and practically leapt out the window to go after that over-sized set of knives on wings.

“Can't we just let the poor thing go?” Whenua had called, clinging queasily to a nearby support pole as the wind rocked over him. “It was probably hungry!”

“So it gets to eat Vakama?” Matau replied. “Or do you think it needs two of us?”

“If we let it go it could go after the Matoran spheres,” Vakama called over the wind. “We need to at least knock it out of the sky!”

“I'll handle the draft it's riding!” Matau shouted, leaping out the window and spreading his wings. He dipped hard before he caught the wind and came back up towards the bird, one hand curving through the air as he redirected the draft.

Unfortunately, he didn't redirect himself to avoid it. The bird panicked at the sudden change, flapping hard to try and course-correct, and Onewa heard Matau go “oh, whoops” before a metal wing was slicing towards his own. Matau disengaged his wings to avoid the blow, and he instantly started to plummet.

Onewa grabbed him neatly by the back of the armor from the side of the ship.

“Can you watch it, Matau?” he snarled at him. “What a stupid fucking stupid way to die that would have been.”

“Aw, were you worried?” asked Matau, making a fake pout.

“There would have been a whole village of Matoran with no one around because you weren't paying attention. Do you even care about that?”

“Spirits, Onewa, I would have quick-caught myself. Don't be a stuck crab about everything.”

“You two both focus!” Vakama called sharply, and Onewa swore before hauling Matau back in to safety. The bird swooped past them again, enormous talons reaching for either one of them before it darted back out again. He probably did need to focus, but honestly, in that moment, he felt so angry he could scream.

Look, it's not just been this, okay? Ever since Vakama got back from his stupid fucking solo trip that he still won't even tell them about, the others have been wearing on his nerves like they're getting paid good widgets to do so. He doesn't even really know why. They're just all... the same. They're all the same beings they always were. Weren't they supposed to change over time? Not just Vakama putting his shadows to rest, or Matau toning down the sarcasm, or whatever you want to call what any of them have been through. Wasn't there supposed to be a moment where he looked around and realized that they were all – you know – professionals?

Aren't they supposed to feel like real Toa?

Instead they're here, on a busted old airship, trying to caravan a pack of comatose Matoran across unexplored waters because they couldn't save their real homeland. It seemed to strike him in the chest for a second, as the shadow of the bird's wings passed over him. No matter how many times he thinks it, it always punches him. He always thinks to himself Lhikan expected more from us.

He was thinking it again when Nuju distracted him by finding his footing along the side of the ship. Onewa couldn't even see what support beam or structuring he was standing on, but, with his ice spikes in the side of the ship's metal to steady him, Nuju got up.

“Oh, wow, he's up there,” said Whenua, and then promptly covered his eyes with his hands. “Be careful!”

“Matau, be ready to catch him if he falls,” Vakama ordered, and Matau bounded back into the sky. Nokama had a selection of clouds pouring down a fence of rain, bringing the predator bird towards Nuju, there on his feet, and he pulled an arm free, striking it through the air like he was giving a command. Onewa saw the light catch brilliantly on the heavy ice that formed along the creature's wings, sending it swerving, shrieking, and then falling. It came close to Nuju, who leapt away gracefully, back towards the entrance of the ship –

And, in one unfortunate push from the bird's spiraling wing, cracked his head hard against the edge of the open window.

“Oh!” groaned both Whenua and Nokama at the same time, everyone shifting towards Nuju in a collective alarm. Vakama grabbed Nuju's shoulders from the front while Matau swooped back inside to grab him from behind. He was only limp for a second or two, a white hand staggering up to grab at his head, but they had all heard that metal clunk of his cerebral casing connecting solidly with the harsh edge.

“Is it cracked?” asked Onewa tersely, coming to stand at Vakama's shoulder, hand out-stretched with nothing to do. Vakama was looking at Nuju's casing with a forger's eye, searching for any fractures.

“I don't think so. It'll be the inside we should worry about. Nuju, you need to sit down.”

Nuju was trying to get onto his feet without needing support, but not having much luck at it.

“I'm fine,” he snapped, voice shaky. “I handled it.”

The attitude is what's really getting Onewa mad, now that they're all here, crowded around Nuju. Onewa scoffs, shaking his head at him. “Seriously? You could have fallen too. We couldn't have just handled that from inside the ship? A couple ice darts wouldn't have taken it down the same? Oh, you were just aching for a fight.”

“Onewa,” warns Nokama, trying to get Nuju to at least lean back on them. “Not now.”

“Don't worry, sister, I think the odds of him remembering any part of today are pretty slim after our resident genius's latest idea.”

“Nuju, sit down,” Vakama insists, pulling his shoulders. Nuju's being such a pain. Is this how Toa act?

“I don't want you all touching me!”

“We're trying to stop you from falling. Let us get you checked over and then we will all back off, I promise.”

Nuju grabs at his mask again, groaning, but he doesn't let them lower him. He grips at the wall and then shoves Matau's arm off him. “Brother, just one second,” Nokama's telling him gently. “You're okay, we've got you.”

“I'm fine, get off!”

“Oh, by the spirits, Nuju,” Onewa hisses, something molten rising up in him. “Just sit down and shut up.”

Nuju's legs give out from under him so fast he nearly smacks his head a second time, but Matau scoops him up with a yelp. Pale blue eyes pierce Onewa with a fury that needs no words, but as his mouth fails to glow, Onewa realizes he can't talk.

Something races down his spine. He didn't mean to command him like that. Or maybe he did – the intention was there, it has to be, for his mask to work, but he didn't mean –

Nokama grabs Nuju's wrist before his hand can come up to strike back with ice. He grabs her wrist in return, mask contorting, but then something goes blank in his eyes and he sways, just trying to breathe. He hit his head hard.

“Onewa, go cool off,” Vakama orders shortly.

Oh, yeah, of course the Fire Toa's going to handle this. Their fearless leader.

Onewa scoffs and turns his back on his siblings, feeling four sets of eyes on him as he goes.

He shouldn't have done that. But this is it. This is... this is destiny, he supposes.

It doesn't feel right in his chest. Nothing has for weeks.

.

“You come to kill me, ice-weaver?”

Onewa's adjusting the shape of his whetstone carefully in his hand, its form shifting like water beneath his fingers, when he hears the steps approaching him.

Honestly, he's impressed Nuju knows about his little hiding spot. At the back of the landing bay, on the bottom of the ship, the tow cord stretches out towards the airships connected to their own. The windows around it are meant to allow Matoran to check that the cord is intact and undamaged, but it also makes a nice viewpoint. The other ships bob along through the air behind them, and at this time of evening, the sun comes through everything like its trying to cram the light inside. He likes the white noise of the nearest blade spinning through the air too – whoosh, whoosh, whoosh, low and heavy.

“Nokama's trying to talk him down,” comes a voice that isn't Nuju's. “He was more sullen than angry. I think he's embarrassed. It wasn't very kind of you.”

Onewa turns to level Vakama with a look, taking in the sight of him crouching to meet Onewa's gaze, still outside the bubble of the tow cord area, which is not tall enough for a Toa to stand in. Onewa shakes his head and pulls out his proto pitons, setting them on his lap.

“There's no difference between embarrassed and angry for a Ko-Matoran. He'll have his revenge, and I'll take it. End of story.”

“You lost your temper with him.”

“My real punishment is right now. Nokama really knew who to send to give me the most grief, didn't she?”

“She didn't send me.”

“Yeah, right.”

“Come on, you know she's focused on Nuju right now.”

Onewa snorts. Okay, that's fair. She takes care of all of them in a lot of ways – probably more than she should – but she does pick favorites sometimes. He doesn't care, though. He doesn't want her coddling and he loves his sister no matter who she's standing up for.

“Look, Onewa,” Vakama says, taking in a deep breath. “I understand entirely that you have extra doubts about everything since what I did with the Visorak, but – ”

“Can it,” Onewa cuts him off, curving his whetstone along the underside blade of his piton. He loves that slide of protodermis on stone. “If you could get out of your head for more than five seconds you'd remember that I'm not treating you any differently than I always have. Honestly, that whole drunk-on-power shtick might be the most interesting thing you ever did in your life. No more big sad eyes. Just bright red rage.”

Vakama scowls at him. “It was monstrous.”

“I can't tell you how little I care about your pity party. Seriously, if I tried to find the words – ”

“Alright, alright,” Vakama sighs, sitting down beside him. “Well, you're certainly treating the others differently.”

Onewa examines his piton in the light. “I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Sure,” Vakama answers flatly. “Onewa, one way or another, couldn't we try getting off on a better foot? All of us?”

Onewa finds that pretty funny. “A tiny bit late to be asking, don't you think?”

“Now's the time. We're going somewhere new. Leaving old enemies behind. Old shadows. Speaking for myself, I can acknowledge I'm in a much better headspace to be...”

“Less aggravating?”

Vakama pins him with a look. “Whatever you need me to be.”

“How noble.”

“Onewa. You controlled Nuju today. He's going to have your head. You can't be treating the others like that. I don't know why you'd choose Nuju of all people to pick on, but whatever I need to do to help you – ”

“Did you ever meet Toa Rooka?” Onewa asks.

Vakama stops short, evidently turning this change of topic over in his head. “No,” he replies. “Saw him from afar, you know how it would go. Rooka, of course, was – ”

“Larger than life?”

“In a number of ways,” Vakama agrees. When Onewa doesn't answer, he presses on. “You knew Rooka?”

“I saw Rooka die,” Onewa says.

Vakama goes quiet. “I didn't know that.”

Onewa nods at nothing, frowning out the window.

“How did it happen?” Vakama prompts him.

Yeah, he still remembers that answer in vivid detail, no matter how the years pass. Onewa presses his thumb hard into his wrist, below his vambrace. “Dark Hunters. Long before Nidhiki started crawling around or anything, just... the war, or its remnants. I was out in the fields where the fighting had happened, part of a search and rescue thing that the Mangai were leading. All the Hunters were supposed to have cleared out, but... I wandered onto them. Had my carver's tool in my hand. I remember coming over this crest and seeing him there, more gold than brown in the sun like he was. They put an axe through most of his throat, and the ichor sprayed like crazy. He didn't make any noise or anything. I think I said his name, so I'm lucky they didn't hear me. Or maybe I said 'Toa.' I think I just said 'Toa.'”

Onewa shifts in place and shrugs. “Anyway, some of the others must have been patrolling with him, because Naho and Lhikan were already looking for him before he was gone. I didn't go fetch them or anything, but they saw me sitting on top of the rocks, watching. Naho started cleaning up Rooks, and Lhikan came and got me. He picked me up – and you can imagine how much I would tolerate that normally, but I let him that day – and he took me home. Checked on me, afterwards, and then, he just never stopped checking on me.”

He can see the second Vakama becomes tempted to cut in with some anecdote about how Lhikan was always so caring like that, wasn't he, and Onewa cuts him off sharply.

“So I'm saying you aren't the only one who lost him, Vakama.”

“I never said I was,” Vakama shoots back, with a little of that Fire Toa heat.

“Yeah? You act like it sometimes. Now you know. And whatever, okay, you were stuck in your head, that's fine. But if you could stop acting like this is the fire-spitter show for two minutes, it would help me out, thanks very much.”

“It's always something I'm doing wrong, isn't it?”

“And here we go, right on schedule.” They glare at each other for a second before Vakama reels himself in, puffing out this hot, annoyed breath and crossing his arms over chest.

“So, what? You're saying you're just grieving, then, and that has you tearing into Nuju for no reason?”

“First of all, the reason was that he's insufferable. But no, that's not what I'm saying. I'm saying – it's been on my mind – I just thought you should know that I miss him too.”

“Oh.”

Onewa twists his vambrace around unhappily. “Yeah, fucking 'oh.' And I know that I've been an ass too. And now there's a lot to adjust to, and I don't know, Vakama. I only ever started following you to whatever degree I did – or sticking with any of the five of you – because I thought it's what he would want. But now look at us. Are we really getting anywhere? I'm supposed to believe we can lead a whole society of Matoran now? I don't understand why he picked us. Any of us, sometimes. But I loved him too.”

Vakama sighs and spreads his hands in an open gesture. “I know you did, Onewa. I know you're not actually... I don't know. Unkind.”

Onewa scoffs, shaking his head. “Really? How would you know that?”

Vakama frowns. “Well, I know you're not.”

“And you're so sure?”

“Yes,” says Vakama simply.

Onewa drops his hands into his lap, frowning back at him.

“Onewa,” says Vakama. “I would rather be your brother than your enemy. We all would.”

“So you're asking me to start being nicer and then we're good?”

“I'm asking you to follow me,” Vakama replies, which is pretty fucking bold, considering what they were just talking about.

“Why should it be you?” Onewa asks. “What have you ever done to deserve my loyalty? Two weeks ago you ran off on your own back to Metru Nui! Why would it ever be you?”

“Are you so opposed to it?”

He's not, Onewa realizes, turning irritably back to his other piton. No. He thinks Vakama could do it, actually. He saw him there at the end of the Visorak, coming back to them as himself, somebody upright and certain, if worn. He saw a leader.

“Maybe you're just not used to following, to being part of a team,” says Vakama, softer. “Which is fine. But here we are, Onewa. You're looking at your future and realizing we're all going to need to be leaders, together. We're going to need to be united. And not just to save our own tails when trouble comes, but because...”

His hand moves towards the other ship in the sky behind them, and Onewa stares out at it. He knows. There are hundreds of Matoran there who will need all six of them. United. There are Matoran who might need someone to carry them somewhere safe, and then to look after them. And that's him, somehow, him and these others. Because Toa Rooka and Toa Lhikan and the others are all gone, and Onewa and these five beings here with him – they're what's left. No other options, not anymore. Onewa and his brothers and sister.

“Deep down, I think that starts your heartlight flashing in a way you're not used to,” Vakama continues. “So maybe instead of telling us you're nervous, or scared – ”

“Watch it, fire-spitter.”

“ – you lash out. But Onewa, the reason that it should be me – just so we're all on the same tablet – is because that's the leader the others chose. And I have not done anything to deserve that. In fact, I've done plenty to be banished from your sights forever. But here we are. Call it destiny, or Lhikan's hope for us, or even say it's only because this is the fire-spitter show, I don't care. Here we are. I never want to be five minutes late to helping you because you didn't call for me, Onewa. I want to be your brother. I'm asking that you fall in line at my side – and all of our sides – and start accepting what we are now stepping into.”

“Well.” Onewa looks down at his pitons again, touching the cold metal for a second. “Maybe I don't know how to do that.”

Vakama hums at him. “I think you do.”

Say what you want about Vakama, but truthfully, this is that Fire Toa bravery they always talk about coming out to play, because in that moment, he has the nerves to put his stupid fucking hand on Onewa's shoulder.

“By the way,” Vakama adds, as he claps his armor and then starts to rise. “You're more gold than brown in the sun, too. Think I know where you got that from. I can't be Lhikan, but I'd be happy to check on you instead. Whatever happens, you won't be alone. We all want to be in this with you, no matter what comes next. Believe it or not, brother, but... we have your back.”

Onewa covers his mask for a second, sucking in a deep breath.

“This is real, huh? This... I'm really stuck with all five of you forever. Lhikan's really dead. It's the five of us. Mata Nui. You lot are stuck with me!”

He can grasp that Vakama's trying to be a cool and collected leader who came to give him words of wisdom, but really, when he breaks and start cracking up... Onewa thinks it's a good sound. Been a long fucking time since he heard Vakama laugh like that, bent over himself and covering his mouth. Or maybe never. Maybe he never knew Vakama when he was full of laughter. He shakes his head and turns away from his brother.

“I have your back too,” Onewa says. “At the end of the day, at least.”

“Yes,” Vakama says, smiling at him. “I know that. I'll see you later, Onewa.”

Then he's gone. Self-righteous forger.

Onewa looks back at the other ship again, the spheres that hold his people gleaming just a few bio away, and he's no tower-loving Ko-Matoran with a penchant for star-gazing of any kind, but in that moment, well... when he closes his eyes and lets himself imagine, he thinks he sees the future.

Yeah, Nuju's going to kick his ass. But there will be good things too. And bad things. And mistakes. And triumphs. The six of them will navigate it together.

.

He knows what Vakama means to do before he does it.

Maybe Onewa always knew it would be the price. He doesn't know how any part of him was ready for this, but somehow, he is. He sees Vakama reaching out his hand, and he doesn't feel scared. He isn't surprised. He's ready.

Vakama touches the Matoran sphere. A light begins to change him. When it's done, he's not Toa Vakama anymore, and Onewa feels the others staring at him and the spheres in silence. Onewa steps up beside him. He puts his hand on the next sphere over.

.

thanks for reading <3

[writingcold]

Guess what...

I thought a double post to get us going would make for a good start. So, we’ve met our Jacob, let’s roll into chapter one, shall we?

Content Warnings:  I need to put this here - this is a work of fiction. There will be imagery of violence, character deaths, inequities, poverty, heavy angst, and adult sexual situations throughout the story. Please read at your own discretion. All characters are fictional, though some of the big events that are shown are historical, but may not be historically accurate. 

Thank you to @edgingthedarkness for all of her help as my all mighty beta for this fiction. She listened to me drone on and on about it for months on end. She really took a bullet for this one! She created the banner for this story as well! Also thank you to @katuschka for her amazing skills in bringing our hero Jakub to life. Divider art by @ firefly-graphics.

The Dead

Jake X Fem!Reader

Chapter One word count: approximately 7100 words

Warnings in this part: None other than language, being in the graveyard, perhaps seeing our ghost for the first time from y/n’s pov.

Chapter 1: The Visitor in the Graveyard

     Cemeteries were supposed to be places of honor and reflection. For some, there is nothing but deep grief and despair but cling to the ground in a stark effort to hold on to loved ones lost. For others, the spaces are stained with loss and suffering but avoid to negate the trials of their painful, broken hearts through avoidance. For me, however, it is a place to allow my imagination to run wild. To latch on to pieces of history and rehydrate the roots of the past to weave new stories. I was driven by the need to visit the grand and lavish cemeteries of the huge urban areas, but I was equally intrigued by the tiny, backwater village graveyards of rural communities. There was inspiration to be found in the rotted marble and granite as well as the new, heartrending loss of pristine stone and vaults. 

     I may be known to some as a writer of spooky stories, so it would make sense that I find spaces of hallowed graves the perfect place for inspiration. Spooky is just happenstance. A cowl over the meat of what really interests me - the history; the stories that were deemed too unimportant to record, but the memory of them live on in the people who may have once had a frayed thread to the wider story. Now granted, I am not a ghost hunter, nor am I one who likes to troll these spaces in the dead of night. No. I find that they are just as freaky in the broad light of day. It may be just the flicker of shadow or color that resides in the corner of the eye, but you cannot convince me that nighttime is the only time ghosts and other entities exist or have the ability to reach out to the living side of this world. In reality, I’m the biggest scaredy cat ever. 

      I had passed by the forgotten cemetery way out on County Road 15 somewhere in middle Michigan two years prior when I was on a solo Spring Break road trip up on the Upper Peninsula. I had taken a few photographs with my phone of the little, closed up church and the cemetery grounds that lay across the street. While the church was surrounded by barren crop fields, the graveyard was encased in ancient, scraggly pine trees with a smattering of old oaks on three sides, as if the farmers did not dare encroach on the hallowed ground. Honestly, I had forgotten about the scrap of space until I was clearing out downloaded trip photo files on my laptop back in August.

      I had found myself needing to return to the desolate grounds. My fingers ghosted across the ragged scar on my forearm that seemed to throb as I looked over the pictures. The church was that typical Midwest narrow, white structure with a steep roofline and high steeple that housed a large bell to call the farmers in for services. The weathered wooden siding needed some love and the once lush stained glass that was housed in the window casings needed attention. There were heavy locks on the doors and an old air feel to the overgrown dirt parking lot that indicated that it was no longer utilized for a spot of worship. A voice buried deep in my brain, whispered a longing to stand in the seemingly forgotten grounds of the dead. There was a drive to be amidst the weather and time eroded blocks of memories of lives that needed to stay in the distant past.

      One headstone in particular had snagged my attention that day. It was truly ancient, caked in mold and dirt, the top was decayed from centuries of exposure. However, someone had attempted to keep the stone sealed with a heavy lacquer. Unlike the other antiquated monuments where the lettering was faded or completely eroded, the carved letters appeared fresh, despite the overall condition of the stormy colored granite. It was strange. No surname, just a formal name. No dates. No inscription that identified the life it memorialized. Jacob. I had felt strange when I had snapped the last bit of pixels and turned my back to the sullen treeline. My foot wobbled on the path and I tumbled down, catching my forearm and tearing open my arm in the most nasty manner. The wound healed, leaving a gnarly scar behind that had been forgotten. That was until I tripped once more across the pictures of the graveyard. 

      There were four weeks in October that had very few items on the calendar. I convinced my publisher and dear editor, Vinny, that I needed to return to that mid Michigan town for the sake of research. Vin was receptive. The publisher not so much. My deadline was looming and they wanted something - some manner of work that I could show to prove that I had not fallen down another hole of …  Nope. Never you mind about that. I have three books under my belt and I’m only thirty three. It’s not like I’m experiencing a block or anything. A bit distracted is a good way to explain the situation. I had packed my bag, booked a room in a tiny roadside hotel and headed out from Ypsilanti with the full intention of finding the central character to my next novel, and perhaps the scrap of story that could help me get over this dry spell.

      The trees were whispering with color, not the full show of Autumn yet, but it was already swirling with crispy air and chilly skies when I arrived in Frankenmuth. Oktoberfest banners were plastered across the touristy town. I found the little hotel and checked in, all the while being cordial and warm the best way I knew how. The lady behind the desk gave me recommendations for the best coffee shop and diner to visit that the locals kept secret for the most part. I smiled like she had given me insider information.

      The suite was cozy with a lovely quilt across a queen sized bed, an office space and little kitchen. It would be fine for a home for an initial two weeks. I spent the better part of my first hour setting up my laptop and stack of empty notebooks, favorite pens…  I had a method that was not to be trifled with. It was evening, and the sun was on the horizon when I decided to find food and make a plan for my first official day of research. 

      I drove through a fast food place for a sandwich and drink then proceeded to drive around the town, finding it a bit larger than what my memory had remembered. I cruised past the huge Christmas store, and through the downtown area, getting a lay of the land. I found the little coffee place and the diner that the lady at the motel had said to visit, as well as the city hall and library. I fought the urge to drive north of town to the church and graveyard. It was growing dark, and knowing me and the fact that I can get lost trying to get out of a paper bag, I opted to return to the hotel and call it a night.

      Sort of.

      I set up my coffee pot in the kitchenette and filled the room with the scent of chai. A smile bit at my mouth as I settled in at the desk with the local history of Saginaw county. I scrolled through a few minutes worth on the state site before I tripped over a local historical page on Frankenmuth. I had no direction as of yet, so all this reading really was moot. Just as I was getting comfy in the not-so-comfy office chair, my phone illuminated with Owen’s picture. I debated for a second, knowing that the fucker was in Rome and probably was salivating to rub it in. 

      “Hey, baby sister,”  he said as I answered.

      He sounded way too happy and the music in the background drowned out his light hearted voice. I tried to ask how he was doing, but he was pretty much shouting over me.

      “Have you been paying attention to my texts at all?”  he jabbered, his words spilling out fast.

      “I’ve been objectively staying distant,”  I remarked as I kicked my feet up on the table.

      He let out a laugh that was instantly joined by a frilly little trill. “Come on, you’re missing all the fun we’re having.”

      Ah. There it was. He had company when he hadn’t left with company. I grinned and waited for their hushed conversation to turn back to me. 

      “Talked with Gran earlier,”  he said, his breath heavy with movement. “She said you’re in fucking Frankenmuth?”

      “Yeah, research,”  I said, picking at a flaw in my pants.

      “Why there? It’s like milk toast and beer,”  he replied just as a woman’s laugh carried across the line. 

      “We’ll see. Just something here is all.”

      “Shit, Y/n,”  he said, his tone light. “If there’s something weird about a tourist trap, you’ll find it.”

      “You bet I will.”

      He talked at me for another fourteen minutes while I scrolled through local county history, moreso looking at archived pictures than reading. We ran through our typical litany: check in with Gran, make sure we pay attention to each other, and actually answer a text every now and then. That last one was on me. I get it. We lost Mom and Dad when we were really young. Grandma and Grandpa raised us in Ypsilanti. After Grandpa passed, I didn’t have the heart to leave. I may have lived on the opposite side of town, but I didn’t have the heart to leave completely. Owen was a freelance photographer, and a damn fine one at that. He had built a solid reputation traveling with bands and artists and other clients around the world. But Ypsilanti was home to him still as well. We always returned home to Grandma.

      There was a pause and it sounded like he was stressed. I sat up in the chair with an awful squeak as I listened to his companion speaking.

      “Hey, Owen?”  I asked, trying to keep my voice free of tension and failing.

      “It’s all right, little sister,”  he sighed. “I gotta go. It’s an early morning shoot and a few of the permits weren’t filed properly. Talk soon?”

      We said our hurried goodbyes, but included a heartfelt ‘love you’. There was never an end of conversation without that phrase. It was a shared scar from losing the parents that remained. We could be angry with each other, but we always parted with a ‘love you’ for fear of never seeing the other again. It had happened. Wouldn’t happen again - not in our family.

      Tea savored and some soft music in the background, I tucked in to read a bit. I caught up on the socials, and called Gran to say goodnight. We shared a giggle and a promise to say goodnight tomorrow. There had been rain through the night. I woke at some point, light shimmering in the fringes of my sight and my stomach sloshing around. I tried to breathe through the pain that lurked there, refusing to give in to another migraine. There was a moment where I was unsure if I should move to get my meds, or dash to the bathroom to empty my stomach. So, instead, I drifted through that wasteland between conscious thought and dream. It felt like hours that I lingered in that state. The warmth of the quilt and the softness of the pillows did little to tug me deeper. I felt my lashes tickle my skin but never did they fully close.

       At the three o’clock mark, I felt a chill course through my flesh. The pain was mostly gone, thankfully adverted, and simmered at a dull roar. I took in as much air as I could and slowly counted it away from my body with a soft count. I felt gray around my edges. It was a dogged malaise that haunted me for nearly two years. The migraines had increased, robbing me of days at a time. They ate my creativity and stole my will to even move. Owen and Gran were more than concerned, but when your doctor says it’s ‘just’ migraines, what is one supposed to do?

       Sleep finally came; the welcomed stranger that it had been as of late laid its hands upon my brain and allowed me to be still. I woke after only a few hours, but it was enough. I lay there for more than a few beats, just listening to the world around me, my breath keeping time like a metronome. The ghost of a touch brushed itself against my shoulder. I pictured many of my characters of the past, but none fit. This was a touch that whispered of forbidden love. The striking heat was full of longing and desire and barriers. It was a shimmer of inspiration that blazed and was gone as I slipped from the snug bed.

       The diner was my first stop. It was beyond crowded, but the kind waitress found me a two-top in the far corner, nestled amongst the local art and news clippings of important events. I sipped my coffee, taking in glorified high school sports from decades past, and yellowed pictures of smiling faces of long forgotten achievements. Breakfast completed, I found myself in the car heading out to Old County Highway 15. The sky was a startling shade of blue with little swirls of clouds, as if framing the lovely shades of orange, yellow and red that were gaining momentum. The church and cemetery came into view along the long stretch of straight, rolling road. My heart quickened its beat the closer I got. 

       I sat, parked on the side of the road, hands on the steering wheel. There was a stab in my belly that I initially identified as anxiety. But that’s not what it was. I couldn’t understand this emotion as it needled me. Instead of listening to it, I grabbed my camera, notebook and pen, and my phone, braving the wind as it swept in from the distance in waves of sharp gusts. If there was no wind, the day would actually be warm. I rolled my eyes at myself over the old feel of my thoughts. Obviously, I was suffering from too much influence from Gran. I moved towards the overgrown lawn of the church first. There were signs that it had been mowed, not often, but certainly taken care of a few times a year. I stood way back and snapped a few pictures of the stained glass on the east side of the building. I walked up and took note of the tiny etched metal placards that held names. I took a picture of each one, recording the surnames of those long since passed who had worshiped upon this ground. I repeated the process on the other side. 

    Pausing a moment, I looked down at my camera screen to make sure the names on the placards were clear for later research, when movement across the street caught my attention. It was no more than a shadow of tree limbs, surely, but my spine was telling me that it was a form that was clearly moving in a very non-tree-like manner. I raised my camera and took a few pictures, first of a wide angle to make sure I got in the whole range of the grounds, but then a few of the older side of the cemetery. The sight of the Jacob stone made my skin quiver with curiosity.

      I crossed the street without actually looking for cars. Dangerous - not really. The only sound was that of the trees creaking and shivering in the breeze. I wondered what constituted a traffic event on such a desolate stretch of road. Perhaps my singular parking was the highlight of the day. Pausing to really look at the wrought iron, taking note of the patches of exposed rust, the fencing was actually quite beautiful for such a rural setting. Odd. The latch moved easily, betraying the care that had obviously been taken to maintain the gate had been recent. The hinges hissed a high pitched screech, but it was more like an old person getting up - once they got moving, they quieted. 

      My eyes skated to the Jacob stone once more, but I turned east, away from the point of interest. The small lobe was dotted with headstones marked with more recent years. My steps were measured and slow, taking in the years as close as 2017. The church may have not been used for some time, but the cemetery was still visited, and was still utilized by those of the living. The corner of my mouth tugged at the notion that the grounds were not completely forgotten.

      With resolve, I turned to the much larger western stretch, but again, strayed away from the Jacob stone. I worked my way back towards the gate, finding a truly ancient stone that held a ghostly 1847 with all the other lettering eroded from its surface. The idea that this was hallowed ground for nearly two hundred years chilled me. I paused as my brain scolded me for not looking for the memorial plaque that surely would give information about the church and graveyard. I scanned the fence line, feeling like an idiot that I walked right past it. Thankfully no eyes were there to see me bumble back out the gate to feast upon the information, I took in that the church was The Church of the Redeemer, founded in 1850, although the cemetery had been consecrated well before that, with burials taking place prior to 1800. I took a picture of the information before returning to my grim browsing. 

     The wind began to whip through the top of the pines, creating a jaw clenching sensation swim through my guts and shiver across my flesh. I took in the formal names of James and Myrtle, William and Gertrude matching the surnames that I had seen on the stained glass on the church walls. I stooped to touch a few of the smaller stones, brushing back the soot of time, to be rewarded with dates that tickled the late 1700’s. All the while, my gaze strayed to the Jacob stone despite my need to pay attention to the spectral memories of those whose graves I lingered across. 

     My head tilted as I once again looked to the Jacob stone, catching how each letter of name looked to be carved by a different hand. I frowned as I returned to the stones close to the gate, careful in my footing as the ground buckled and bucked against its inhabitants. The overall condition of the headstone matched that of the first stone that bore 1847, but somehow, it felt older, despite, or perhaps because of the thick lacquer that appeared to be poured over it. The 1847 stone faced the same direction - north - as the Jacob stone. It was not as tall, but the weathering would be similar, wouldn’t it? It was interesting that the letters of Jacob appeared to be freshly scored in the stormy granite. Surely, someone was maintaining the marker, but why do that to the letters of the man’s name? Making each one different. Even the carving styles were distinct in how the letter was crafted. I snapped a few pictures before I proceeded to my target. I finally approached the grave, as if it beckoned me like a long lost…  Stop. Stupid brain getting all weird, just ignore that, yeah?

      The thought that each letter signified a different era struck hard as I reached out to touch the apparent flaw in the ‘A’. I scratched the thought down in my notebook. A grimace perched itself on my mouth as if accusing me of being an idiot at that moment. The scent of water wafted past my nose as I traced a finger across the name as a whole. Odd. My heart thudded thickly as I followed the cap of the ‘B’ back to the ‘J’. What was this sensation that bound itself across my chest with such…  strength? Confusion touched my thoughts as I pulled my hand away. The smell of water - the smell of big water like a lake - wafted into my nostrils once more as I lifted my camera to take a few more pictures. Rationally, none of what was before me, around me, made sense. I took a step back and a sense of longing the likes I had never felt before attacked every cell of my frame. I fought for breath. My stomach pinched in anger for no reason. It was as if my life shattered without cause. 

      “Fuck,”  I sighed as I leaned on the back of a bench that rested at the edge of the main path.

      There had only been one time where that level of dread had struck - when I was told Mom and Dad were never returning to us. But somehow, this pain was deeper. It was even more painful of a sensation than that day. On the verge of sobbing, I glanced back at the stone as if that had been the source of all my woe. A shimmer of linen and a lock of chestnut seemed to peek out from the edge of the monument to disappear around the back. My feet stumbled forward. I caught myself before I could fall over. With my heart pounding sickly, and my throat closing on a yelp, I managed to move with a shred of grace towards the gate in a hurried retreat. Before I pushed my way out, I lifted my camera once more and turned back to the Jacob stone. Nothing. There was nothing there. No shadow. No sound. Even the breeze had grown gentle. I snapped a few last pictures. 

      Unsettled, I nearly fell across the threshold of the gate and rushed to latch it behind me. I ran across the broken asphalt of the road and hopped into the waiting driver’s seat. I discarded my camera, phone and notebook into the passenger seat before cranking over the engine. I paused before locking the doors. As if that would stop anything that lingered in the air. My eyes strayed to the headstone once more, strained in an attempt to see anything that was clearly not of this world. A profile of a man’s face was unmistakable, peering out from beyond the back of the headstone. The skin was translucent, the hair danced around like it was caught in a wind. For a moment, it turned towards me as if seeking me out over his nonexistent shoulder. 

      “Nope,”  I gulped as I slammed my foot to the gas pedal and took off like a shot down the long, straight road.

      I was all the way back to town and in my room before I could feel my skin start to slow from crawling. The hair on my head felt like it was full of static from the swirl of thoughts. Was the apparition that I saw Jacob? My hands shook as I took a long, slow drink of water. Whatever I had seen out there may not have realized my presence. Or if it did, was it playing coy? Shaking out my hands before reaching for the camera, I found I needed just a few more breaths before plugging it into the laptop. 

      “Fuuuuuuuck…  Do I really want to do this?”  I asked myself, outloud. 

      I opened up a music app and found my soothing playlist to start before I flipped the cover of my notebook to look once more at the stray thoughts that I had recorded. I reached for my pen and added a fuller note beneath my initial observation.

     The name was clearly not carved by either the same hand for each letter, or it was not fully carved by the same hand in the same ‘era’. Each letter of Jacob seems different, not belonging to the name as a whole -whatever the fuck that means.

     I dropped the pen with a disgusted huff before I turned my eyes to the screen before me. The warmth of my skin evaporated immediately at the sight of the first picture - it’s of a wide shot of the headstone and it was completely hazy. My lips pursed as I moved to the next one, where I knew I was zoomed in on the carving to capture the detail. And it was the same damn thing - it wasn’t just hazy, but pixelated. I scrolled through and sure as shit, every shot of the Jacob stone was the same - totally unreadable. 

     “What the literal fuck,”  I whispered, as my eyes hardened on the mess I somehow made of the most unnerving morning. “Okay, go back to the beginning.”

      I closed it out and opened the file that would bring out all the day’s photographs. I started with the first one I took of the church and it was fine. All the names that I recorded of the stained glass were also fine. The first headstones of the cemetery were fine. I gritted my teeth with frustration as I scrolled to the first wide shot of the grounds. The gate and subsequent fencing, the headstones in the foreground were fine. It seemed almost like someone was smudging the picture around the Jacob stone only. I was so focused on the screen, my nose was practically touching it when I realized there was something  at the edge of the treeline…  

     “What the hell?”  I whispered as I tried to zoom in.

     My mouth hung open at the sight of that same man whose profile I had seen looking over the edge of the stone earlier, but this time, it was nearly the entire face that was captured - and it was on film. I could see the tree limbs through the spectral face, but it was a face with a sharp jawline and high cheekbones, round cheeks and a point to the nose that rested above a full set of lips. The brow was furrowed and eyes were almost… angered? 

     I felt like my chest was caught in a vice as I continued to stare. This was not a human. This was not anything close to human. And yet, my stupid brain was screaming at me like he was the most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes on. The confusion wrapped me up as I panned back out on the picture to look at it once more as a whole. My eyes remained glued to the foggy patch where the creature’s face resided. 

     I brought up the next picture, and there it was again, this time, not just the face, but the upper torso was revealed. He was strong, as evidence his chest peeked out, and he seemed broader than I would’ve expected. I moved to the first of the seriously blurred pictures, allowing my eyes to remain right where the apparition had been in each of the previous frames. 

     My hold on the moment was already fragile but the longer I remained frozen to that spot, my vision of what was in the frame became clearer. It was the full outline of a masculine figure from the top of his head to the bottom of his foot. My jaw slackened and my stomach churned. The apparition could only be Jacob - whoever that might have been, I was looking at what he was in the ‘now’. My body oozed back into the stiff chair and my feet tingled as my weight shifted. My logical mind did not want to accept what the picture was depicting. I knew I was alone. I knew there was no one remotely close to that cemetery that could have accidentally “photobombed” the scene. And yet. There he was. He looked to be seeking out something. He looked to be seeking the answer to a puzzle. 

     “Damn.”

     The word slithered out from between my lips like it was the most important thing possible. I glanced down at the time and realized that I could run for lunch and possibly have time in the library to round out my afternoon. My eyes strayed to the man in the photo once more. The corner of my mouth tugged a bit before I reached for my keys.

     I grabbed a sandwich from the local deli and followed the directions to the library from my map app. I delved into my ham and cheese in the parking lot of the library, my eyes skating across the grounds of the park that lay just beyond the tidy brick building. I was instantly wrapped in the smell of paper and books and all things wonderful as soon as I walked through the narrow foyer and into the library proper. There was a kind, round face that greeted me from the circulation desk. 

     “Local and regional section?”  I asked with a shy smile.

     Instead of just pointing me in the direction, the soft looking woman emerged from behind the counter with a huge smile and bubbly conversation. By the time we arrived in the back corner that was decorated in local art and what appeared to be hand turned bookcases, she knew that I was a writer and that I was researching for a character. She started pulling all sorts of books out that I may find the little church in the country in, that included platt books, local history, and the best part, she disappeared for nearly ten minutes only to reappear with a narrow flat bed cart with three volumes of bound newspapers.

      “We have these going back to when the paper got its start,”  she huffed as she maneuvered the volumes up onto the table beside me. “I’m talking way back. But this will get you through the last seventy five years.”

      My eyes must’ve been sparkling something fierce as the woman snickered at my reaction. “These are perfect. I will be sure to find something I can use for sure.”

      “Oh good. I was afraid I was going to overwhelm you,”  she remarked with a wave of her chubby hand. “We still have the old microfiche readers in the basement, but I find going through the actual papers gives things a bit more oomph.”

      “Absolutely,”  I gushed, dragging my fingers across the shiny gold lettering. 

      She let me be with an offer of more help when I was ready before she made her return to her desk. I fished in my backpack for my earbuds, notebook, and laptop and settled in to immersing myself in the information before me. At first, it was like walking across a highly polished sheet of ice. My eyes were skating over words of little import and my brain was begging me to stop with such mundane events. Business openings. Business closings. School events. Football games. Dances. Graduations. Spelling bees. Concerts. Festivals. Court news. Fires. Arrests. Storms. Tornadoes. Weddings. Obituaries. Births. My neck was screaming at me as I sat back in my hard chair with a sigh. I needed to take a break from the newspapers. I shifted my playlist to something heavier and moved my attention over to regional history in the few hefty, leather bound books that had taken up the corner of the table. 

     Flipping the cover back, I bypassed the meager table of contents and moved towards the index in the back, figuring to look for churches first. Sure enough, there it was, beneath my fingertips - the little forgotten country church out on 15. The Church of the Redeemer Catholic Church was founded in 1850, giving service to the surrounding farms that would go on to make up the future township of Frankenmuth. The strip of land that the cemetery was located had been used for many years prior to the founding of the township, being used by trappers and their families for much longer, but the date was not disclosed. The series of photographs of the church had to have been taken at the turn of the 1900’s, with updates from the ‘40’s, 60’s, and the most modern was no later than the early ‘90’s. I flipped to check the imprint of the book and I was correct - it was published in 1994. 

      My fingers were tapping against the few pictures of the actual cemetery,  as I began repeating the names I knew were on the stones with each tap of my finger. Biting the inside of my cheek, I reached into my backpack for Grandpa’s trusty magnifying glass. It was the only thing Grandpa treasured as much as Grandma. She bestowed it to me since I was the only one of the grandchildren who she trusted to care for it as well as her husband had during his lifetime. I passed the thick glass across the pictures, straining in my search for the Jacob stone. Like the wide shots of my own pictures, the location of the headstone was all blurred and smudged.

      I pushed out a breath before I turned back to the newspapers. At least I know the church was still in operation in the 1990’s. I disregarded the top volume of newspapers, setting it on the table behind me, opting to peruse the volume that held 1975 - 1999. Honestly, I had no clue what I was actually looking for, but as I flipped through the pages I felt a pull like I was on the right path somehow.

     “How are you doing back here?”  the librarian asked as she stopped at my side.

     “It’s all interesting,”  I said quietly with a smile and a glance over to her. “So much information, but interesting.”

     “Oh, that’s the Redeemer you’re looking at there,”  she remarked as she reached for the open book with the pictures of the church. 

      “Yeah. Full disclosure - it's what brought me here actually. I was heading home from up north when I saw it,”  I explained. “I don’t know what it is, but there are some really interesting headstones.”

      She licked at her lips before setting a book - my book - down on top of the newspapers. “For research, right?”

      I picked up my novel with a laugh. “Wow. You’re trouble.”

     “Naw, just aware of all of our authors that belong to the state,”  she said, a faint blush on her face. “We have all three of your titles, by the way. They do very well in circulation.”

      “Nice,”  I said before handing her back the clearly lightly read tome. “And yes, it’s research. I may have a story to tell if I find something here. But… can we…?

      “Lips are sealed, of course,”  she beamed with a hand over her heart. “I do need to tell you that the library will be closing in an hour.”

      I put every ounce of disappointment into my eyes as I nodded away. “I see. I know these books cannot leave the library…”

     “Nope, but I’ll tell you what I can do - we can leave everything right here. We’ll make this your workstation,”  she offered kindly.

     “That is amazing,”  I oozed as I placed a hand on her arm. “I would really appreciate it.”

     I watched as she nearly floated back to her desk with a wave. In the meantime, I could feel it… The pounding behind my eyes. I knew I was pushing it just a bit on the day. I knew I probably should have laid down instead of continuing on to the library. I stretched my neck and told myself I can last a little while longer. 

     I was somewhere in the summer of 1984 when I landed on an article about a musician from the area that had made his way onto the stage in Detroit. The picture above the article was grainy but… My brain literally froze at the sight. The black and white image sizzled into my eyes like a beacon. I rushed to the picture folder on the laptop and brought up the one of the near full face and nearly screamed from the likeness.

     Before me was Jacob. He had been real once. A guitar player for some rock band that was doing well within the local scene. I scanned the article and my stomach was swirling as I learned that the band was getting some serious notice from heavyweights and were in the process of cutting an album. I glanced back at the busy circulation desk before reaching for my phone to snap a few pictures of the article and picture. 

     With my head screaming, I packed up my backpack and straightened up the table. I left with a whispered thank you to the librarian and made my very quick exit. I started to feel the waves of nausea echoing through my gullet as I made my way out of the parking lot and easily made my way back to the hotel. I made it into the room just as the blinding pain started. I skipped turning on the lights and struggled out of my shoes before landing into the bed. This was a routine that I had down pat for the past two years. Migraines really were a bitch. I knew I had pushed it too far and now I was going to have to survive the consequences of those actions.

     Pulsing lights jabbed behind my eyes. I slowed my breathing down, counting to five in between each time I took in air or blew it away. I felt my toes getting heavy, followed by my legs. The best I could do was sleep it off. It was too late to take meds. I pictured the man in the cemetery. The subtle cleft of his chin and the point of his nose soothed me. The sharp ridge of his cheek and the shadow of his eyes were haunting. If this man had been alive he would be beautiful. I had to pause the thoughts as I waited to see if I needed to book it to the toilet to throw up. Instead, I lulled, my mind adrift in the blackness of the room and the ghost in my thoughts…

     ⭒☾ The absolute exuberance of a child pumped through my veins as I ran across the solid earth. I knew every turn and hole of the land, so I ran with a confidence that could only be gained through youthful sureness. The cream colored linen of my dress billowed around me and seemed to dance with my laughter. I caught sight of my hands and knew that I was indeed locked in the form of a young girl. The field I was dashing across was vast and full of untouched tall grasses and locks of wildflowers. The sky was heavy with bright white wisps of clouds and crisp Springtime breezes.

      A blink of my eye and I knew I was older. Not running, but still traversing across the ground of this foreign space I had no idea where it resided. Happiness touched me still as I looked over my shoulder to see a woman in a much heavier dress trying to keep up. I laughed as I did turn and run as she called out to me to wait. The near black waters of the lake spread out before me as I finally stopped on the edge of the ground before it fell away to the storm beaten rocks below. I held my arms up to feel the wind across my whole body and was instantly scolded for being so ‘wild’.

       Another blink and I was standing upon a beachhead littered with tiny wooden shanties. There was a desperation that lingered in between the structures where children wandered and played while women applied their few trades to gain coin to keep those bellies fed. There was a heaviness here that I didn’t like. Once more, the woman was with me, scolding me for stopping her in our task. Her sour expression only stirred my emotions. I snatched the purse at her side and proceeded to the open air market with her right on my heels. I must’ve been no more than fourteen, but she did not pursue me like a thief. She protested as I stopped before the man who sold bread. I pointed at the largest of his baskets that was brimming with food. I handed the whole purse over and started to lug the basket away. 

       The children on the beach took notice of me as I struggled through the sand. I stopped and untied the ribbons on my shoes, leaving them behind as I moved much more swiftly barefooted. I started to knock on the doors of the shanties, one by one and handed each a loaf of bread. The woman was standing with her arms crossed as if she were angry but I waved her down to help me. These people were hungry and I had at least a few scraps to aid them through their day. It was a happiness that filled me to the brim and continued to flow over.

      Another blink and I was alone in a grand bedroom filled with fine fabrics and rugs and a bed that would hold the likes of many sleepers. It felt wrong to have such lavishness when there was such blatant need only moments from my door. There was wealth here that could help the poor for many years. The woman from the market was brushing my hair, her voice speaking foreign words I did not understand, but the tone was certainly scolding me for my actions. I walked from the dressing table to the narrow balcony, leaving the chilly air to infiltrate the room behind me as I leaned against the elaborate railing. The moon was full, splashing down upon the waters of Le Lac Superior. The ships and their great white sails seem to play across the dark current of the black night waters. I realized this was home. Home from forever ago… ⭒☾

Dreams play a big role in our story, probably more than they should. How did you like the official chapter one? Let me know! I will be posting every Thursday - you can find a sign up for my tag list here. 💚💚See you next Thursday!

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