#fly screen repair

[carmenized-onions]

Tony, Terry, Tommy? | Walk-In Hotfix

synopsis; You get an unexpected call from an old friend in need of an emergency repair. Good thing: that's kind of your whole gig. Bad thing: You've been avoiding the Berzatto family for the past year.

tasting notes; hurt comfort? idk man, he's in a fuckin' freezer. this is gonna be a long slow-burn series. We don't use Y/N here and we've got a very preestablished storyline going on babes. Eat up.

portion; 3.1k+

possible allergies; SEASON 2 FINALE SPOILERS, I've started writing this before Season 3 comes out in June so we're going WAY off canon (unless I'm an oracle), Mikey is gonna be central baby, any tw you require for the bear-- you require for this.

pairing; Carmen 'Carmy' Berzatto & Fem Reader (No pronouns!)

I have not written fanfiction in 5-6 years and once again some goddamn pretty boy just YOINKS me back in. I'm making up my own season three here so I'm kinda flying by the seat of my pants with this series, hopefully it turns out. If it doesn't... C'est la vie, I had fun.

The inciting incident, the thing that pulls you in, and permanently alters the trajectory of your life—                    Is honestly quite boring, because it’s just a phone call from an old friend.

You stare at your screen for what feels like eons but it’s really just a few rings. It’s enough time to frantically search through blankets on your couch for your remote to pause your show— Which might as well be like 10 years of time. You’re heavily debating not answering; what if it’s something heavy? What if a mutual childhood friend died? What if it’s a love or murder confession? What if it’s about the money you owe her? The money she owes you?

Do you really want to take that kind of call? On what’s been a peaceful Friday night? That’s a rarity in your part of Chicago, c’mon. If it’s important, she’ll leave a voicemail... Who are you kidding, she doesn’t leave voicemails— Frankly, it’s bizarre and concerning that she’s calling in the first place instead of spam texting. …Alright, she’s let it get to the fourth ring, she’s probably dead or dying. You need to pick up.

“…Syd?”

She sounds infinitely stressed, but relieved to hear your voice.“Hey, hey, uh—”

There’s a cacophony of yelling, banging, and what you imagine are kitchen noises in the background. Guess she kept to her guns after Sheridan. That’s nice. Or maybe it’s not. Hard to tell.

“Are you good?” She can’t see the concern on your face or your free arm crossing over your waist— But she can imagine it in the worried lilt of your voice.

“Yeah, yeah yeah, yeah— I-I’m good— Well actually, no, I’m not good, that’s why I’m calling. Actually. Sorry. I know it’s been a minute, it’s fucked up to call only when I need something—”

“Syd.”

“Is your dad still a handy-man?”

Ah. Goodbye peaceful Friday night. Hello emergency hotfix services.

You click your teeth, “Oh, no, he retired. Got a case of… Getting fucking old disease.” But a part of you is relieved it’s a thing that’s broken, and not her. This is at least manageable— Whatever it is.

“Fuck. Okay. Fuck. Ha, yeah, my dad’s got that too— Well, okay, then I’ll talk—”

You’re quick to jump in. “I took over the business though. So, if you’re—" “We need help so bad right now.”

You can’t help but laugh at the speed of it, but immediately feel guilty hearing the desperation in it. “Yeah? Who’s we?”

You stick the cellphone in the crux of your neck, already walking across your apartment to throw on your jumpsuit— Dark navy blue, elbow length sleeves, dad’s old logo embroidered on your right breast pocket.

CHICAGO’S KINDEST ⚒ FIXERS & CO. It’s managed to grow on you.

There’s an egregious number of patches ironed or sewn onto the back and shoulders of it. All from businesses you and your father had either worked with or done odd jobs for. A NASCAR jumpsuit, but for nostalgia and small businesses. Something something ‘it all starts with your neighbourhood’. Your dad would say.

Syd continues, she hasn’t changed much. You hear her sharp dicing in the background, the rhythm seems to calm down into an actual flow instead of erratic speed. You figure either the dinner rush is starting to slow down or she’s relieved you’re coming. Who are you being humble for, no shot it’s the former.

“So, you know how I’m like— Like a chef and shit?”

 You hum the affirmative, putting her on speakerphone so you can pull out your tool kit with both hands.

“So like, I actually co-own this restaurant opening tonight.”

“Oh nice!”

“Yeah— Yeah, yeah, it’s really nice, but actually, it’s not, because it’s bad.”

“In the way I can fix?”

“In the way you can fix, yeah. Hopefully.”

“What’s the damage?”

“So, my co-owner uh, Carmen, he got locked in the walk-in. Like trapped.”

You take a beat, a confused one. Half-stepping, almost tripping. You stare at your tools, picking out what you’ll actually need for this— How the fuck— “How is he trapped in the walk-in?”

“So, he meant to call to get it fixed—” “And he didn’t?” “And he didn’t.”

“What was broke about it in the first place?”

“The doorknob on the inside, broke off. And right now, or, more like, 5 minutes ago, the handle on the outside broke off too.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah, fuck.”

“Do you have the outside handle, still?”

“Yeah. Yeah, laying around somewhere— It snapped off though, like—”

“Clean?”

“Uh…. Y’know, I would check, but I’m actually kinda—"

“Can we run table 36, please, Chefs?!” Now that’s an uncomfortably familiar voice.

“Yes, Chef! …I’m kinda busy.”

“Right. Restaurant. Oh, what fucking restaurant? You said Carmen, that’s that fuckin’ Michelin guy, right?” Berzatto. It has to be. The smallness of this world is a personal prank on you.

“…How do you know that?” Son of a bitch.

“…I try to remember what you like.” It’s a good save, but that was too intimate for 3 years of no contact besides Happy Birthday texts, fuck fuck, recover— “Ahem, uh, Restaurant?”

“The Bear. Formerly The Beef. You do still live in Chicago, right?”

Berzatto. Confirmed. Bleh.

“Fortunate for you, I do. I know The Beef, I’m not far, I’ll be there in ten. Tell him to not have a panic attack, if you get a minute.”

“I will not get a minute. But I love the dream.”

And you’re off. Jumpsuit half zipped over what was supposed to be a sleep shirt but is now posthumously a work shirt. Nobody has to know you’re wearing pajama shorts under this. Carhartt jacket thrown over your shoulders— Your dad’s, so, a bit oversized. Toolbox in hand, utility belt on— Though you’re mildly sure if your hypothesis is right, you will only need your threateningly long sledgehammer.

Thank God for your car. CTA would not like you right now.

You pull up front. Oh boy. The sign change is making you feel a type of way that you were not expecting. Pride? Envy? All seven of the deadly sins? Maybe. No time to stew on it because there’s an older woman smoking and having an emotional spat with who you assume is her shivering son out front. So. Definitely going through the back alley instead of getting in the middle of that shit.

Alas, it’s not any better, because there’s Syd, vomiting next to a dumpster.

“Better to ignore or acknowledge you in this moment?” Is the response you decide is best, despite the question, you’re already by her side. You put your tools down (out of the splash zone) and rub her back with one hand, holding back straying braids with the other.

“I couldn’t—” More vomit. “Fuckin’ tell ya.” Syd takes a few deep breathes before standing. She considers going in for a hug, but remembers, the vomit. “Good to see you. I want to catch up, f’real, but—” “The bear in the walk-in?” “The bear in the walk-in.”

You nod, fishing through your pocket. You hand her a mini container of Tums. She waves it off, of course, and you double down, of course, “Who you acting tough for?”

“Fuckin… No one.” She grimaces, taking the box. She makes a show of taking one, like a fussy kid.

You refuse to take it back. “Keep it.”

“Never stopped being the mom friend, eh?”

You laugh, picking up your tools again. “Listen, there’s no telling what the night and your stomach holds. Lead the way?”

The Bear is pretty, or at least the kitchen of it is, so far. It’s clean. Cleaner than it used to be. The death trap walk-in is really the only eyesore for you. You stare at the broken-off handle in your hand, twisting it back and forth to look at all the angles. It’s honestly a pretty clean break.

Sydney’s left to talk to her dad, as she should, and the rest of the kitchen is either too busy to pay you mind or is just silently relieved to see you.

Tina— Who has thankfully opted to not say ‘Hey, good to see you, it’s been a year, what the fuck’—Taps the walk-in door and says to this elusive Michelin Carmen that she’ll be right back, that help’s here. He does not seem to register this at all. She gently slaps your cheek before rushing back to her station, regardless.

“Maybe I’m just not built for this, maybe, maybe that’s okay— Maybe that just is.”

You’ve never said his name to him, it feels heavy on your tongue. “Carmen.”

“Right? What the fuck was I thinking?”

Alright, he’s too far gone. You flag down one of the cooks that are just shadowing for the night. “Hey, can you hold this in place for me?”

You stick the handle into what’s left of the hinge still attached to the door, which is, not much— But hopefully, again, if your hypothesis is correct, it’ll give enough leverage. The cook holds it in place, a little terrified as your sledgehammer comes into view.

“Not gonna hit you, promise.”

“—I’m a fuckin’ psycho. That’s why. That’s why I’m good at what I do.”

You tap (bang) the hammer on the door, enough to stop his train of thought. For a second, at least. “Sweetheart, I need you to stand up for me, Carmen Chef Sir.”

“…Tony?”

“...Who the fuck is Tony?”

The meek cook beside you speaks up, “He means Tommy.”

And Tina is quick to yell from across the kitchen— hearing how? We don’t know. “It’s Terry!”

“I am none of these people.” You sigh, readying the hammer. “Carmen, can you stand up, and just tuck your fingers in the wedge of the door? If there is one?”

“Heard. Yeah.” There’s shuffling from in there, getting into position. Though the steps and the words seem dazed, as he’s forced out of a mental fog. “Here.”

“This isn’t a fix by the way. Your whole door is fucked after this. Not that it isn’t already, but, y’know.” You back up, teeing yourself up before running forward.

“Well, wait—”

You slam the mallet into the tip of the handle perfectly, forcing it way too tight into the gap of the hinge. You push the cook aside with your hip, now using the long handle of the mallet to stick between the knob and the door, using it as further leverage to pull it open. It is incredibly straining.

“Carmy!” Is it okay to say that nickname before you’ve even seen his face? Eh. You’re moving the boulder, he’ll forgive you. “You feel air?!”

“Holy shit— Yeah, yeah— Push?!” “Of course fucking push!”

And it becomes apparent in this exchange of force that this Head Chef must be significantly stronger than you, because it’s opening a lot faster now. Though, fast is a strong word for the snail pace this is happening at. But it’s more than the nothing that was happening a minute ago.

“Aye… Cousin?” Richie, in a… suit? Runs up to you, coming from front of house. He immediately grabs a free spot on the sledgehammer’s handle to help pull. He was shocked to see you doing, well, this, right now, but then upon registering, he’s just shocked to see you. Period.

You can only groan in response, sticking a leg up and putting your foot on the wall as if it’s gonna add meaningful leverage— Oh wait, it kinda is. “Y'clean up good, Rich— Opening going—Fuck— well?”

“Oh yeah, fucking peachy.” He can only manage to wheeze in reply. Investing his strength in yanking rather than reintroductions; thankfully it pays off.

The hinge shoots open, you would have absolutely fallen on your ass if Richie was not ready to stabilize you. The walk-in door cracks open. Just a bit. It’s not dramatic, it’s just a breath.

It’s so anti-climactic that Richie doesn’t mind walking off to cheer before Carmen even comes out. Clapping your back as he does. “That’s what I like to fuckin’ see, Cousin! Ingenuity!”

Though, to be fair, he’s moving to intercept a very sweet looking, worried girl. You look up at her, wheezing as you keel over slightly to catch your breath, hands on your knees. She’s saying something along the lines of ‘What’s going on?’ ‘Is he okay?’ Girlfriend? Probably. Richie seems to be coaxing her accordingly. You turn your head back to the door. Carmen hasn’t come out yet. That’s a red flag. With another wheeze, you stand up right, opening the door further, peeking in.

He's standing there, catatonic. Not looking at you, but straight forward, beyond you. He must’ve been by the door to push it open but now he’s stumbled against the back shelf. Every time his girl’s voice manages to ring into here, his eyes crinkle— Wince. His breath keeps hitching. He looks afraid. It is better to be caged right now than it is to be out there, doing whatever he could be doing, right now. Talking to anyone might be a death sentence, right now.

“I don’t need to provide amusement or enjoyment. I don’t need to receive any amusement or enjoyment. I’m completely fine with that.” He mumbles repeatedly. You can barely hear it over the buzzing of the freezer.

Whispering it just for himself, like some sort of fucked up mantra. Like it’s a state of inner peace to feel this bad. You doubt he even sees you right now.

You know you don’t know Carmy personally. Mostly just through hearsay.

He’s never met or heard of you, that’s for sure.

But you know Berzattos. Or. Knew the one.

And you know a downward spiral. Intimately.

And you know that right now, he’s fucking cold. He is shivering and making no move to leave that state. You think he thinks that’s the state he deserves to stay in.

Nothing to lose but a good first impression, right? You drop a screwdriver in the doorway as a doorstop— Because how fucking dumb would it be if you both got stuck? And. Extremely slowly, you approach him not unlike approaching an actual captive bear. In your eyes, you might as well be.

Standing right in front of him doesn’t stop his mantra. You slip your jacket off, half hugging him to drape it over his shoulders. “You’re just cold.”

“I’m a—” “You’re just. Cold.” You cut him off before he has the chance to self-deprecate again, smoothing out the sleeves on him. His eyes readjust to actually look at you rather than somewhere beyond.

You sniff. You’re already cold and it’s been 30 seconds. This poor thing. You rub your hands together, breathing hot air into them before touching them to his frigid fucking face. “Fuck you’re really cold. Like danger cold.”

Never being one for boundaries or hesitation, you hug yourself to him. It’s the fastest way to warm him up. You slip your hands under the jacket— Your jacket— And just engulf the Italian Popsicle Man before you.

Shockingly, he doesn’t push you off or suddenly reawaken to his senses and tell you to fuck off. He doesn’t flinch, if anything he leans in. His body doesn’t really have time for surprise, right now, it just takes what it needs. And what it needs is warmth and oxytocin. His breathing slowly but surely self regulates, and once you start to remember decorum you lower your arms— But. He opts to place his chin on your shoulder, like the world’s most gentle hook, and that alone is enough to keep you there.

It's a long, silent, liminal spacey moment before he speaks again. Both of you speak just above the decibel of the freezer's buzzing.

“You’re not Tony.”

“Terry.”

“You’re Terry?”

“No, Tina said Tony’s Terry. I don’t know who the fuck Terry is.”

“Terry’s the fridge guy.”

“You’re still going to need to call him; I did just make it worse.”

“That’s fine.” He swallows. “Who called you?”

“Syd.”

“Should’ve called you earlier.”

“Should’ve called the fridge guy earlier.”

“Yeah.” He sighs, but he makes no move to move, so you don’t either.

“You know Mikey too?”

Ah. The patch. The Beef. It's worn, but it sits proudly on the left shoulder of your jumpsuit. Your heart tightens and so does your posture.

“Yeah.” You sigh. It’s shakier than you’d like it to be. “Dad knew him, so then I knew him, so then I occasionally fixed shit for him. Shit that ‘Fak couldn’t?’ I think his name was?”

“Hm.” He hums. “He ever got locked in the walk-in?”

“Yeah, he really fucked it up, like waayy worse than whatever happened with you tonight. Like whatever happened. At least 10 times worse.” Your voice is coated with sarcasm, but it’s not entirely untrue.

You’re relieved, when Carmen laughs at this, a touch maniacally, but it’s something. Right now, any emotion from him besides regret and anxiety feels like a trophy. He straightens up, pushing his hair back, so you remove your arms.

“You’re fuckin’ funny, Tony.”

“Still not Tony.”

“Oh my god!” A blonde, very pregnant woman cracks the door open, relieved. “Are you okay, Bear?” You step aside so she can hug Carmen, holding his cheeks to look over him. Oh, this has to be—

“I’m good, I’m great, Sug.” He says this incredibly unconvincingly, hanging one hand on her wrist.

But what matters more in your brain right now is: That’s Sugar. Natalie.

And now you can put a face to both siblings you’ve been bitched about to.

Chain-smoker, means well, cringeworthy husband, too good for her family, incredibly judgemental, cares too much and worries more, loves to fight, her mother’s daughter, pushy, sticks her foot in her mouth, can’t take no for an answer, would lay down her life. Natalie Berzatto. Little sister.

Michelin Star retaining, big shot, sensitive, definitely a virgin, ball buster, sweats the small stuff, sweetheart, asshole, incredibly smart, flighty, coward, deeply loyal, whiny, screamer, show-off, fantastic drawer, shell, mister new york, annoyingly humble, undeniably the most talented. Carmen Berzatto. Baby brother.

Mikey’s words. Of course.

Nat turns her gaze over to you, “Thank you.” You can only bring yourself to nod in reply, a bit awkward— Lost in your rolodex of memories of the people you’ve never actually met until right now. It’s weird to feel parasocial about a normal person.   

“Our toilet, exploded.” She says.

Now that pulls out you of it, and gets a laugh out of you. You put your hand over your mouth. “Yeah?”

Sugar shakes her head, eyes widening like she’s just stepped in it, “I didn’t mean like— Like, you just did a job, right, that’s like tacking on another last-minute service—”

“That’s fine.” You put a hand up stopping her from continuing, still chuckling. “I’ll take a look at it tonight and try to fix it tomorrow?”

She nods, smiling bright, “Thank you, Tommy.”

Who needs to use Y/N when you have the fridge guy?

I so desperately hope you liked this first chapter. I've been stewing on this for like a week so I beg of you to reply/reblog/send me an ask (anon or not!!) telling me what you thought!! Unless it's mean!! In which case, do NOT!!!

And just a forewarning, as we step into uncharted territory where the walk-in meltdown was cut short, I need you to hold my hand through it bb. We're making this man's life better or we're gonna die trying.

Next Part

[aiartwerk]

Carpenter A confident female carpenter working on wood in a workshop. With her curly hair tied back, safety glasses, and tools in hand, she is fully focused on her craft. Wood shavings and sparks surround her as she smoothly planes a piece of wood. Her robust physique adds to the image’s emphasis on empowerment and craftsmanship.

Construction Worker This image portrays a construction worker standing proudly on a construction site, donning a hard hat and tool belt. Her dusty outfit and powerful stance amidst cranes and scaffolding show her strength and dedication to the job, surrounded by a backdrop of a large industrial site under construction.

Crane Operator A woman sits inside a crane cabin, wearing a hard hat and work gloves, operating heavy machinery with intense focus. The interior of the cabin is filled with dials and switches, capturing the mechanical aspect of her job. The background is a vast construction site, highlighting the scale of her work.

Race Car Driver A striking woman in a yellow racing suit stands confidently in front of a Formula 1 race car. Her stance is powerful, with arms akimbo, as she commands attention amidst the high-energy backdrop of a race track. Her sleek outfit and the car’s detailed design contribute to the fast-paced energy of the scene.

Electrician This image showcases an African-American woman working as an electrician, kneeling down amidst a tangle of wires and cables. She holds a tool in her hand while sparks fly around her. Her expression is calm and composed as she works with precision in a high-stress environment.

Firefighter A fierce female firefighter stands in front of a blazing fire, exuding strength and bravery. Her orange firefighter suit is charred, and her face is determined as she readies herself for action. The flames in the background highlight the danger and intensity of her profession.

Pilot A stylish and commanding woman stands in front of a large airplane, dressed in a crisp pilot’s uniform. Her tailored black jacket and cap emphasize her authority and professionalism. The jet behind her and the blue skies reflect her role as a leader in aviation.

Lumberjill A woman in plaid and work jeans is in the midst of chopping logs in a forest clearing. Her strong arms grip an ax as she focuses on the task at hand. The sunlight filtering through the trees adds warmth to the image, emphasizing her connection to the land and hard work.

Mechanic In a garage setting, a female mechanic works on a car, her hands covered in grease. Her denim overalls cling to her toned frame as she holds a tool, surrounded by equipment and automotive parts. Her intense expression shows focus, dedication, and passion for her trade.

Soldier A soldier stands at attention amidst a battlefield, her body armored and weapon at her side. Her camo fatigues blend into the war-torn environment, while her fierce, unyielding gaze suggests experience and readiness for the challenges ahead.

Plumber A woman kneels beside a kitchen sink, tools in hand, as she works on the plumbing. Her determined expression and sturdy overalls emphasize her hands-on approach to fixing things. The homey kitchen setting contrasts with her industrial tools, blending domestic and technical elements.

Power Line Worker High above the ground, a woman works on power lines, equipped with a tool belt and safety gear. She balances on a wooden beam, her face focused as she repairs wiring. The towering power poles and bright sky in the background add scale and drama to the scene.

Spaceship Pilot Inside a futuristic spaceship, a young woman pilots the craft, surrounded by high-tech controls. Her white and black spacesuit glows in the colorful lights of the console, and the cosmos stretches out beyond the window. The vastness of space outside complements her focused expression as she navigates.

Submariner In the depths of the ocean, a woman operates the controls of a high-tech submarine. The control room is dimly lit with screens glowing, showing the sea life outside. Sharks swim past the large windows, creating a mysterious and adventurous atmosphere as she guides the vessel.

Welder A woman stands confidently in front of a welding torch, sparks flying around her. Her protective gloves and helmet highlight the dangers of her job, but her composed expression suggests mastery of her craft. The industrial setting around her adds a sense of strength and power to the scene.

Each image is crafted with ultra-realistic detail, featuring vivid 3D rendering and high-resolution 4K quality. The colors are bold and striking, with detailed lighting that brings out the textures in their environments, outfits, and the characters themselves. Each woman is depicted with strength and beauty, emphasizing her role in her respective profession while challenging traditional gender stereotypes.

These characters not only represent women of power but also pay homage to diversity by showcasing African American women in impactful, aspirational roles.

[milflewis]

@hypersoft-fest week 2: cowboy romance & sci-fi

Lewis Hamilton/Sebastian Vettel, 1k, stuck together

FADE IN:

INT. CANTINA – OUTER RIM – NIGHT  

WE OPEN on a cantina, on the planet, SELVERA, known for around the solar year brutal storms and endless oceans. The structure is precarious, built on wooden stilts in the middle of the sea. The walls shake and shudder with the waves.

The air is thick with saltwater and spice smoke. The room is dimly lit. Most of the tables are occupied.

The door flies open, banging the wall, and SEBASTIAN (20), smiling, steps in. His boots leave wet footprints as he walks up to the bar. Not even his scuffed hat could keep the rain off his face.

SEBASTIAN

Hearthbrew. Thank you.

JENSON (29), flashy, laughs from across the room. His blond hair is cut close to his skull.

JENSON

You even old enough to smell that, mate?

A few laugh around the room. Most don’t bother looking up from their drinks.

SEBASTIAN

We friends, mate?

JENSON

Hmm, don’t think so. I’d ask if you’d like to be but teenagers aren’t really our speed.

SEBASTIAN

(laughing)

I’m twenty!

LEWIS (24), steady, leans back in his chair. His arm brushes against JENSON’s. There is a long white scar curling around his left eye and down his cheek.

LEWIS

Jense. Leave him be.

JENSON settles, tipping SEBASTIAN a wink. The blasters on their hips are military grade. This does not escape SEBASTIAN’s notice. Nor do the matching prancing horse matches sewn on the upper arms of their damp coats.

SEBASTIAN takes his drink. It already begins to warm his fingers. He knows that horse. The entire galaxy knows that animal.

CUT TO:

INT. CANTINA - TIMESKIP – THREE HOURS

It is noticeably emptier. The storm is still raging outside. SEBASTIAN has finished his drink, and two others, along with a bowl of stew. He heads for the door.

JENSON

(waving a pack of battered cards)

Care for a game, mate?

SEBASTIAN turns back around. LEWIS says nothing, watching. The rings on his hands gleam with every flash of lightning.

SEBASTIAN

Just one.

JENSON

Of course, wouldn’t want you to miss your bedtime, now, would we?

LEWIS rolls his eyes, smiling. SEBASTIAN wonders what his laugh sounds like.

CUT TO:

EXT. SPACEPORT – BRAXIS – DUSK – FIFTEEN YEARS LATER

BRAXIS is a near barren planet, with rocky mountains and a surface burnt by long ago warfare. The local spaceport is an overcrowded sprawling complex, every terminal full with loading vessels and starships. Because of its position on the nebulous border between the INNER and OUTER RIM, it is commonly used by smugglers.

Alarms break through the night, followed quickly by shouting and yelling. Patrols of armed guards are seen running through the streets as a fire in the distance grows steadily. The dark sky stretches on.

CUT TO:

INT. SPACEPORT STORAGE ROOM – BRAXIS – DUSK

LEWIS, worn, frustrated, sits slumped on the floor, back to the wall. There is no longer a patch on the sleeve of his jacket. SEBASTIAN, older, frantic, is crouched by the door’s terminal, tapping at the screen.

SEBASTIAN

Fucking hate – what ever happened to normal locks, for the life of me, I don’t know –

LEWIS opens his eyes. He says nothing.

The terminal sparks warningly. SEBASTIAN flinches away and sighs. He sprawls against the opposite wall, needing a break. Silence hangs between them.

SEBASTIAN

I saw you out there, before – um. I saw you. You’re still flying that old ship of yours?

LEWIS

(shrugs)

BONO is reliable.

He does not need to say the words: unlike you.

SEBASTIAN

Yeah. Honestly, I didn’t expect to ever see you again. Let alone on Braxis of all places. Thought you were done with this life?

LEWIS

I was, yeah. I am. Still wanted though, aren’t I? Can’t do places that ask too many questions, or even ones that ask just the one. BONO needed some repairs that I had to dock her for, so. Here I am.

SEBASTIAN

Here you are.

LEWIS

No, just, no. Don’t start.

SEBASTIAN

I didn’t even say –

LEWIS

Don’t even try that – you know – just. Stop. I’m fine, okay? I am doing fine. I just want to be left alone, okay, so. Stop.

LEWIS sets his jaw. SEBASTIAN doesn’t let himself look away this time. He wants to bring up JENSON, who never would’ve left LEWIS alone. He also knows it would mean LEWIS would be lost to him forever.

SEBASTIAN

(soft)

I understand that, I do. And I didn’t mean to – I don’t mean to drag you back into anything. I, uh, I’d say ‘I promise’ but that’d require you trusting me and. Yeah. I know. I’m, I’m just sorry, Lewis. I’m sorry.

LEWIS’s eyes are dark.

LEWIS

(tired)

I know.

SEBASTIAN fidgets with the ends of his sleeves.

SEBASTIAN

You know, I’m thinking of maybe getting out of the game too.

LEWIS has an incredulous look on his face. He exaggerates looking around their cramped situation, alarms muffled but audible still ringing outside.

SEBASTIAN

I said I’m thinking about it!

LEWIS

Right. You’d be bored shitless, man.

SEBASTIAN

I would not.

LEWIS

I’d give you a month. Two max.

SEBASTIAN kicks LEWIS lightly in the foot.

SEBASTIAN

I’d give myself at least seven. It takes a while to set up a farm, you know.

LEWIS bursts out laughing. SEBASTIAN’s fingers are all warm and itchy. He feels fifteen years younger.

LEWIS

A farm?

SEBASTIAN

Well, I’ll need something to do, wouldn’t I? And I like animals.

LEWIS

 Mhmm, sure.

SEBASTIAN

I do!

The terminal hums suddenly, blinking green, and the door unlatches. LEWIS and SEBASTIAN sit very still, listening for the alarms outside that have fallen silent. They are left watching each other watch each other.

LEWIS

(getting to his feet)

See you around.

SEBASTIAN has never had to be the one watching LEWIS leave before.

SEBASTIAN

I miss you.

It isn’t a lie. It also isn’t fair. LEWIS lets SEBASTIAN get away with it. He always does.

LEWIS

Let me know how that farm of yours turn out. If you want.

SEBASTIAN

I will.

[roosterbruiser]

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐓𝐇-𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐑𝐄 𝐈𝐍-𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐄𝐍. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟏𝟑.𝟗𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐖𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐇𝐎𝐔𝐒𝐄, 𝐌𝐄 𝐒𝐓. 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖

The gurney breaches doorways, breaks crowds of baby blue scrubs. The wheels scream, unoiled and abused. Everyone is talking--terms you usually can synthesize but cannot now. You stare at the ceiling tiles, desperately trying to keep your heavy lids open. 

You’re not in immeasurable pain now, but you would be without the needle in your spine. Maybe you’re going to be on the table and the monster you’ve been incubating is going to break through your skin and then a fire is going to eat the both of you--unless, of course, you bleed out first. 

Maybe this is the end. Maybe this is what your summer has been coming to all along. 

This is it. What a silly thought that is. What gives?

With the world flying by you from up above in shades of white and crisp blue, you wonder what this was all for. All this pain, all this torture, all this fever. What good did it do anybody?

Flames over flesh. 

It’s the last thing you think before your eyes close and you sink into a meperidine haze.  

♀

The sun is warm on your cheeks and shoulders as you step out of the passenger side of Maverick’s Jeep, the worn straps of your duffle digging into the bare skin of your shoulder. Your flimsy sandals--you should’ve known better than to wear sandals--sink into the gravel and gray dust kicks up your shins. 

Inhaling deeply, you’re almost startled at how clean the air smells. Nothing like the choking scent of leather and gasoline in Maverick’s Jeep--it was making your eyes damn near water on the ride up. But here it is fresh and purified by pine and oak and crabgrass.

“Got anything in the back?” Maverick asks you, already headed towards the trunk with his shades intact and his jet-black hair wind-kissed from your ride with the top down. You shake your head. “Just the duffel then, huh? Light packer! I like that in a woman! Would you so mind helping me grab some of the supplies from the back?”

“Sure thing,” you tell him, setting your bag on the gravel and following him to the back of the Jeep. 

He’s grinning as the two of you begin unloading. 

“I love it here,” he tells you with a content sigh. He glances around the property, notes where a screen needs to be repaired and a hinge reattached and paint touched up, and glances at you. You’re diligently unloading jugs of water and big boxes of raisins with your brow knit. There’s a faint smile tugging on your lips, a heat about your face and chest that gives you a sheen of excitement. “You’re going to love it here, you know. What do you think so far, nurse?” 

Face warm from his nickname for you, which feels like a pretty high compliment for a prospective nursing student, you smile very politely. 

“Well, it's sure…picturesque. If that isn’t too corny,” you tell him, quickly glancing at the trees scraping the endless blue sky. “Quiet, too.” 

“Just wait until the rugrats get here. You won’t even remember what the word quiet means. It’s completely fantastic,” Maverick tells you, wiping his hands on his khaki-colored shorts. He slams the trunk of the Jeep shut. “I’ll give you the walking-talking tour if you carry that jug aaand those boxes for me.” 

Trailing behind him, arms full of water and pantry goods, you’re only half-listening to him. Your heart is beating steadily in your throat, arms already aching.  

“--officially opened the doors with Pen about two or three years ago--oh, that’s my wife, by the way. Penny, Pen, P. You’ll probably meet her sometime this summer, I’d guess! Anyway, it was the year our daughter, Mel, started school. Didn’t have anything to do, so we thought--why not?” Maverick says. He stops suddenly and props a heavy wooden box on his thigh so he can wipe the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. He glances at you and notes you taking it all in still. He smiles. “Pen used to go here as a little girl. Some of her favorite memories of her childhood are--well, right here. She’s always passing the camp folklore down to the masses. Don’t believe a word Jake says, alright? He’s gullible and he embellishes.” 

You imagine writing it down on a sticky note and plastering it to the inside of your skull: don’t trust Jake--he’s a storyteller.  

“Has it always been open to the public? Camp, I mean.” You ask. “Heck, I’d never heard of it until this summer.” 

Maverick shakes his head. 

“So much for advertising, right? Guess word-of-mouth isn’t the best way to spread the good news about camp,” he laughs. “It’s got kind of a funky history. Opened first in 1945 after the war and stayed open until--huh, I think about…’57 or ‘59? And then it was closed until Penny and I opened it up again in ‘80.” 

“Wow,” you say softly. “Was it in rough shape?” 

“Everything but the camp sign,” Maverick says, nodding towards the large arched sign at the mouth of camp. It is a heavy and thick thing made of wood--hand painted in clear, concise letters. “That's why we kept the name.” 

“Camp Arcadia,” you say aloud. “It’s got a nice little ring to it, doesn’t it?” 

“It definitely could’ve been worse,” Maverick agrees, laughing. “Like Camp Crystal Lake.” 

“Don’t remind me,” you say, laughing softly. “I’m trying to forget about that film’s existence.” 

“Sorry, sorry,” Maverick says. “Do you know what Arcadia means?” 

“Uh,” you say, thinking. Heat has sprouted in your chest from the exertion of carrying such heavy items. “I don’t think I do.” 

“Get this,” Maverick starts, grinning. “A place of simple pleasure and quiet.” 

“Well, then. It sure lives up to its name!” 

“That’s what Penny says,” Maverick sighs. “But she usually stays away during the talent show.” 

“There’s a talent show?” You ask, grinning. Maverick nods. “How sweet. Must get all the kiddos excited.” 

“Oh, boy--does it ever.” Maverick glances at you, but then stops again. You’re both panting when you dig your heels into the gravel and halt. He nods to your strained arms. “That too heavy? You alright?” 

Really, you’re struggling to carry all the items in your arms. But dammit if you’ll so much as let your bottom lip quiver. 

“Nah, I’m good!” You say, panting. “I’m great, actually.” 

Maverick has already decided he likes you. But he especially likes you when you’re lying to save face. It reminds him of himself. 

“From your lips to God’s ear,” he says with a wink. 

Maverick takes you through the courtyard and into the mess hall, where he tells you to just throw the items anywhere. And you quite literally hardly make it through the door before your knees are buckling and you’re setting everything down with complete haste. 

“That’s quite a hike,” you pant to Maverick, slightly embarrassed as you fan yourself. “You didn’t give me a fair warning.” 

“Would you have come?” He asks, all charm and charisma as he wipes his balmy hands on the thighs of his jeans. 

“Touché,” you breathe. 

“Thanks a million, by the way,” Maverick tells you, plucking his sunglasses off and hooking them to his linen button-down before he grins at you again. “How you feeling? Nervous? Scared? Excited?” 

Maverick moves about a million miles a minute--he’s a fast talker and an even faster driver. As you catch your breath and chew on your answer, you begin to feel like you have a crick in your neck and a Hell of a summer ahead of you. 

But you just smile at him. 

“I’m feelin’ dandy,” you answer him. You glance around the cavernous mess hall, which has been freshly mopped--diluted bleach stings your nostrils, coats the roof of your mouth. “Where is everyone?” 

He points at you, eyebrows coming together. 

“Good question,” he sighs. “Let’s go find ‘em, huh?” 

You don’t have to go far to find everyone. Just as soon as the two of you are out the door and in the heat again, you hear splashing and hollering. Turning your face towards the water--a beautiful, blue lake that stretches from one side of the tree-lined horizon to the other--you see them all. 

“There they are,” Maverick grins, hands on his hips. “Guess they needed to cool off.” 

“What were they doing before?” You ask, brow furrowed. You wring your hands together as you scan the water--a handful of men, all brawny and tan and long hair and sex, and one petite brunette--swallowing hard. “Like, you know. What got them so hot?” 

“Orgies tend to get a tad steamy,” a voice says from behind you, a teasing lilt sinking into the notes. “But so does repainting the latrine.” 

“Ah,” Maverick says, grinning at the man that has suddenly materialized behind you. Maverick throws an arm over his shoulders and doesn’t seem to mind how much he is dwarfed by this man. He slaps the man’s bare chest a few friendly times. “My favorite nephew.” 

“Don’t worry,” the man says, eyes wide. He holds his hands up to you like you’re an upset animal he’s cornered and he’s trying to get back on your good side. “Not related biologically.” 

“Why would she worry about that?” Maverick asks him, already fighting an eye roll. 

“‘Cause I don’t want her thinking my genes are tainted or anything,” the man answers with a boyish grin. “In fact, I don’t want anyone thinking that!”

“Tainted? You mean blessed,” Maverick says, letting his eyes finally roll. He glances at you, still smiling. “Nurse--this is Rooster. Rooster, this is nurse.” 

Rooster’s sopping wet, only wearing a small pair of swim trunks, and his curls are dripping lakewater down his back. His hair is dark gold, curly, and long enough to sit just below his shoulders. And his chest glistens in the sun, wide and hard from manual labor.  

And you--you look way too young to be the new nurse here. The last nurse was closing in on her seventies and always had a butterscotch candy tucked inside her cheek. You aren’t in uniform--camp or otherwise--and he wonders if you’re the new counselor he heard about last week. A last-minute hire, someone Maverick was going to bring in personally. 

“You’re the new camp nurse?” He asks, brows furrowed. He looks you up and down, sizes you up. He’s wondering how old you are to already be a nurse--you can practically see the question on his tongue. 

You hold your hip with one hand and shade your eyes from the sun with the other. 

“You’re named after a farm animal and you’re worried about him tainting your genes?” 

Maverick laughs--a deep and proud belly laugh--before clapping Rooster on the shoulder.

“Ouch,” Rooster says, mocking offense. He can’t wipe the grin off his lips. “That cut deep, little mama.”

“Great. A regular Elvis Presley,” you say. “Just what I needed.” 

“Hey, I take offense to that,” Rooster says as lake water rolls off his tanned shoulders and down his arms. You’re trying not to stare, nose twitching with concentration. “I’m much more of a Jerry Lee Lewis type! It’s undeniable!”

“Cry about it,” you say. 

Smiling yourself, you bring your index finger to your eye and drag it down your face--mocking the rolling of a tear. 

Rooster laughs--a laugh that you can feel in the soles of your feet like it’s coming from deep inside of the earth, like it was born there just to die in the foundation of your body. 

“Only if you’re there to make it all better,” Rooster says. 

It feels like a challenge. 

You’re just about to lip something back when Maverick glances at his watch and cringes. Amelia has a ballet recital later and he doesn’t even want to think about what Penny will say if he’s more than five minutes late. 

He claps to draw both of your gazes to him.

“Here’s an idea. Why don’t you two get acquainted while I get some work done, huh? I’m in a crunch here. Give her a tour, Rooster! Introduce her to the flock! Finish that latrine!” Maverick lists as he starts for the Jeep again. He stops and turns quickly, a shit-eating grin plastered across his face. You wonder, momentarily, if he’s made of plastic. “And play nice, kids!”

You and Rooster look at each other for a long moment, each of you biting smiles, taking each other in as Maverick jogs back towards the Jeep with all the haste and grace of a prancing deer.  

“Who’re they?” You ask, nodding towards the water. 

He crosses his arms, stepping closer to you. 

“The others,” he says. 

“The others?” You mock. “Ominous.” 

“Coyote, Hangman, Fanboy, Payback, and Phoenix,” he answers. 

“Which one’s the girl?” You inquire, brows pinched. 

He grins at you. His lips are pink with enjoyment. 

“Guess,” he simply says. 

“I’ll go out on a limb here and say it isn’t Fanboy or Hangman,” you answer. He nods, amused. “Payback?” You ask. 

“Other P,” he says, impressed and delighted. 

“Damn,” you answer, tutting. “Phoenix, then.” 

“Bingo,” he tells you. 

“Nurse is a nickname,” you say finally, pressing your toe into the gravel. 

“So is Rooster,” he says, nodding. “Thank God.”

His Adam’s apple bobs. Something between your leg twitches--you want to know what that bobbing would feel like below your open mouth.  

Swallowing hard, you nod. 

“I know,” you say. “I was only kidding before.” 

“Yeah, me too,” Rooster says. “‘Cause no way you’re old enough to be a nurse.” 

“I’m not,” you say, crossing your arms. “But I’m old enough to be a counselor.” 

“Righteous,” Rooster says. He thinks for a moment and then slowly says your name, unraveling it from his memory like a fragile thread. “Right? Did I say it right?” 

“Yeah,” you answer. Your name coming off his tongue sounds ultra-casual and cool, like it’s just been said on the radio or over the loudspeaker on a beach. “But I’m gonna go out on a  limb here and deduce that everyone here gets a nickname.” 

“Are you studious or just one of those people?” He asks, pushing his wet hair back. 

You grin at him and warmth blossoms in his chest. You’ve got a pretty smile--especially this one that eats your whole face and scrunches your eyes. This one, the one he’s staring at, is harder to earn than the docile smile you wore on your way in. 

“Just one of those people?” You ask, eyebrow cocked. “Do tell me what kind of people you’re talking about.” 

“Well,” he says, stretching. “The kind of people that know everything.” 

“Ah,” you say, nodding. “A know-it-all, in other words.” 

“Hey, I never said that,” Rooster says, laughing. “You’re already putting words in my mouth!” 

Shrugging, you sigh. 

“Yeah, well--I already knew what you meant! Apparently.” 

He licks his lips. 

“So, you are one of those people then, huh?” He asks, his brow cocked identically. You blink at him, opening your mouth, when he suddenly stops you. “Wait a minute--don’t tell me. I wanna figure it out myself.”

You nod, pretending to zip your lips. 

“Game on,” you tell him. “You’ll report your findings by Labor Day, right?” 

“Right-o, captain!” He grins, saluting. 

Cringing, you sigh through your clenched jaw. 

“I’m hoping that one doesn’t stick,” you tell him. 

You imagine everyone having to call you--the newest counselor--Captain. Yuck and a half.  

Rooster imagines it, too, and laughs again. Hangman would get a real kick out of that.

“Consider it forgotten. Here, lemme get changed and I can finish the tour.” 

He starts for his cabin, nodding for you to follow, and you do. You don’t even know that you’re doing it--your feet are just picking themselves up and dropping themselves down on the gravel a few inches further from where they started. 

“Where’re you from?” You ask him, just to fill all the air around the two of you. 

He grins down at you. 

“Everywhere,” he says. 

Smiling, warm from the sun, you nod. 

“Military brat or on the lamb?” You ask. “Wait--don’t tell me. I wanna figure it out for myself!” 

He’s laughing again--that booming laugh that is like your own private earthquake. 

“The former,” Rooster says, laughing. “How about you?” 

“Here,” you answer, pointing to the ground. 

“Weird,” Rooster teases. “I’d think I’d have seen you before now since you’re local.” 

He opens the door to his cabin--cool air rushes out, kisses your cheeks. The air smells thicker in there--like mint and pine and vetiver. It’s an undeniable boyish smell, one that you can’t seem to get yourself to mind inhaling. 

Stepping over the threshold, you find yourself inside of his cabin for the first time. Everything is happening so fast--first you’re being whipped through the thick wilderness in a speedy Jeep, then you’re unloading non-perishable items with Maverick, and now you’re in Rooster’s cabin with him and he’s shirtless and flirting with you mercilessly. 

“I’m from just outside of Portland,” you answer distantly, glancing around at the bottles of half-empty colognes and random nail clippers and bandanas strewn about. “So, pretty much here.” 

“Ah,” Rooster answers. “A Maine native. What are y’all called again?”

“Mainers,” you answer. “You might be onto something with Maitive, though.”  

He grabs a towel that’s been drying on the back of a chair and begins to pat himself dry of the fat water droplets. He’s watching you look around the cabin, all your features seeped in delicate curiosity and a quiet sort of pleasure. He’s suddenly hyper aware of his unmade bed and mustache trimmings and unpacked duffel bag and the scraps of posters he was cutting earlier to hang on the wall above his bed. 

“So, you share with the kiddos?” You ask, nodding to the empty bunks. You know which bed is his--it’s the one in the corner that’s unmade, the one that is so heavy with his scent that you can practically see it wafting upwards in waves of amber and white. “What if they aren’t Deadheads?” 

He looks at you and you’re looking at The Grateful Dead poster he puts up every summer, the one that is faded from the sun and water damaged and older than most of the kids at camp. His old man had it hung in the hanger way back when--when he was still alive and young and flying with Mav.

Rooster lets the towel drop to the ground as he holds his hips, shrugging. 

“Then they’ve got a whole summer to become one,” he tells you. He looks you up and down again. “You a Deadhead?” 

“Please,” you say, nose wrinkling. “You ask every lady that?” 

“Just the ones trying to get in my bed,” he says. He glances at you and you’re indeed touching his sheets, freezing when you feel his gaze. “Go on--sit. Where are my hosting skills? Would you like anything? A water? Glass of wine?” 

You sink into his bed and the mattress squeaks with your weight--Rooster tries hard not to look at the plush skin of your thighs expanding on his sheets. 

“Got any Blue Nun?” You tease. 

“It’s chilling,” he says. “Would a lukewarm water bottle do in the meantime?” 

You nod. 

He grabs one out from under the bed and presents it to you like a fine wine. 

“It’s vintage,” he tells you. 

“What year?” 

“April of this one,” he says with a wink. 

You twist the cap off and he grabs a t-shirt from his duffel and slips it on. 

“Is it a bummer sharing with the kids?” You ask. You graze his pillow and then glance back up at the Polaroids on his walls. You can tell, even from where you’re sitting, that a few of them have been taken here. “You know, without privacy and everything.” 

“What would I need privacy for?” He asks, slipping into a pair of denim shorts. He is watching you as you scan the room, your hair a touch messier than it was before. “Usually can’t get any of the outside folk to trek through the wilderness for a slumber party.” 

“Outside folk?” You ask, brow perched. “You mean girls, right?” 

“Do you want me to mean girls?” He asks. 

Your face is hot. 

“You have a radio,” you say when you suddenly spot it perched on the windowsill. “Can I turn it on?” 

“Be my guest,” Rooster says, shrugging the towel around his shoulders. 

While your back is turned, he takes a few seconds to sweep away his mustache hairs from the dresser and tucks his duffel beneath one of the other bunks. 

You tune for a little while, listening with half a heart as you look out at the courtyard. 

“It’s really beautiful here,” you tell Rooster. “I don’t know if I’ll ever get over it.” 

“Trust me--you will,” Rooster sighs good-naturedly, leaning against the bunk opposite his bed. “Especially when you’re wrangling a bunch of ankle-biters.” 

You hum, shaking your head. 

“So, is it hard work?” You ask him, still tuning. “I mean, I’ve babysat and all that. But never anything like this.” 

He drinks you in--the sun is shining on you through the window, grainy from the film of dust on the glass. You’re smiling, peachy and warm, as you try and find a song to punctuate this moment the two of you are sharing. 

“Yeah, I mean--there are moments. You know?” Rooster asks. You nod, not looking at him. “For the most part, it’s chill. Super chill.” 

“Good,” you say. “I’m trying to save up, so it’s good to know I won’t wanna quit by July.” 

Rooster smiles. 

“What’re you saving up for?” He asks. “A radio of one’s own?” 

You grin. 

“Nursing school,” you say. “Made the mistake of telling Maverick that already.” 

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rooster laughs. 

You pause suddenly when Sugar Mountain by Neil Young begins. 

Pleased with your choice, you turn back to Rooster and find him biting a grin.

“What?” You ask. 

“You’re making fun of me for being a Deadhead and you’re a Rusty?” 

Warm all over, you nod. 

“Loud and proud,” you say. 

“Bold,” he tells you. “Super bold.” 

“Well, that’s me,” you tell him. “Bold.”

It's so noisy at the fair But all your friends are there And the candy floss you had And your mother and your dad

“I think you’re gonna fit in alright,” Rooster says decidedly. 

You turn your head to the side, swallowing a face-eating grin. 

“Oh, you do, do you?” You ask. He nods, eyebrows raised. “Hallelujah, the chicken thinks I’ll fit right in!”

He sits down beside you on the bed and you’re suddenly more aware than you’ve been since stepping into this cabin how beautiful he is. Curls still dripping onto his red t-shirt and tan skin smooth as it coats rippling muscles, you almost can’t breathe with him this close to you. 

“You’re really saving our asses this summer,” Rooster says, leaning back on his palms. You try not to look at his hands--his fingers spread out and gripping the sheets that his skin touches every night. “We desperately need another lady.” 

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon You're leaving there too soon

“It shows,” you tease. “How has Phoenix survived all this time? It’s a real…testosterone-ified place.” 

“She’s survived by the skin of her teeth,” he tells you, smiling. “And by batting for the other team, if you’re picking up what I’m laying down.”

Oh. You nod. Okay. Cool. 

He looks to the radio and at the sheets--you’ve touched both these things now. Later, when he’s sharing you with everyone and you’re in your own cabin and everyone is excited, he’ll have this private part of you. Pieces of you, particles, that will stay his. 

You move to say something when you suddenly feel a sharp and distinct pain. Immediately, you draw your hand up from the bed, gasping. Your finger is bleeding--just a little bit, just a few drops. 

“Shit,” Rooster tuts, grabbing the scissors off the bed. His ears are bright red. “I’m so sorry--I totally forgot to throw these back on the dresser earlier.” 

“It’s alright,” you tell him hurriedly, cupping your hand. “Don’t let me bleed on your sheets!” 

He chucks the scissors and the land somewhere opposite of the bunks. Then he turns towards you, puts his hand out. 

“Let me see,” he insists. 

You do--immediately. 

He inspects the wound carefully. Just a little slice, a parting off your delicate skin and a few droplets of red coating it. He nods like he’s seen this all before. 

“It’s not deep,” he says. 

“I know,” you say with a soft smile. 

“I probably won’t get away with just spitting on it, though,” Rooster sighs, brows raised. 

Too flustered to say anything, you just shake your head. But you know, deep in your gut, he could get away with just about anything. Especially spitting on it.  

Rooster takes your water bottle and opens it with one hand, keeping your injured hand in his own. You watch him with half-lidded eyes, your pulse racing in your throat and beneath your tongue.

There's a girl just down the aisle Oh to turn and see her smile

“This won’t hurt,” he says, brows raised. He has the cadence of someone who’s used to bandaging up tikes--his concerned voice not without a fun lilt. “Squeeze me if it does, huh?” 

“I’m really getting the full treatment,” you say, tickled. “You must’ve run the other nurse outta town.” 

He pours some water over your cut and it drips into your own lap like pink nectar. 

“Tape,” he says. He looks up at you. “Stat!” 

“Watch it,” you warn, still smiling. You hand him the pale masking tape. “Not too tight.” 

“This ain’t my first rodeo, birdie,” he says. 

It’s natural--the name that falls from his lips. Like this isn’t his first time saying it. Like he’s uttered it to you over many summers, here and there, back then and in days to come. The feeling sits warmly on your tongue, peculiar and comforting. 

He wraps your finger and you watch with your heart in your throat. 

“Good as new,” you say, inspecting the tape job. “Didn’t hurt a lick!” 

“Good,” Rooster says. “You know, not to be a pig or anything, but I’m pretty good at this.” 

“Taping girls?” You ask, tilting your head and biting your lip. 

Rooster nearly chokes as he swallows, smiling and face freckled from the sunshine and so very warm. He brings his brows together dubiously, shrugging. 

“Do you want me to be good at that?” He asks.

Now you’re the one narrowing your eyes and chewing your bottom lip as you stare at him, wondering already how you’re going to survive this summer when he looks at you like that.   

“You’re pretty easy to like,” you tell him decidedly. 

“You aren’t too bad yourself,” he quips instantly. 

“Really?” You ask, slightly surprised. You’ve been accused, mostly from the peers in your clinicals, of being cold. Callous. But, really, you’re just focused. In the zone. Careful. Precise. You think that will count one day, will make you a good nurse. Rooster nods immediately, smiling with his brows knit. “Well. Thanks a million, then.” 

“What? People call you frigid?” Rooster asks, teasing. But then you nod and he leans back, surprised. “No way. Get outta town! You’re bluffing.”

Silky laughter falls from your lips--easy. It’s so easy to laugh around him. Despite the humor in all of this, you’re still warm. But it’s a warmth you welcome, like lying back on hot concrete after a long swim. Looking at him, laughing with him, it makes your stagnant limbs feel sore like you’ve been cutting water for hours. You can finally sit still, though. 

“They really do,” you say, only a little bit embarrassed. It feels a bit pathetic to argue this with him, like he knows you better than you know yourself. “What, like you even know me.” 

Rooster stiffens, a smile still tugging on his lips, as he crosses his arms defiantly. 

“Yeah, well, maybe I do know you,” he challenges. You’re wrestling a grin. “Try that on for size, Miss Know-It-All!” 

“A-ha! Guess you do have me figured out,” you say with a shrug. “Didn’t even take half the summer!” 

The two of you look at each other for a moment. And when the sun kisses his face, golden and warm, you get the overwhelming feeling that this is not your first time meeting him. No, it can’t be. You know those eyes and those flecks of gold that surround his pupils. You know the feeling of his hand on yours. You don’t know how you know these things, or why they’re tinged with pain like the delicate edges of antique paper rolling in on itself, but you just do. And you don’t even consider yourself a know-it-all.

Rooster holds onto your thighs, his thumbs pressing into your skin. 

“Oh. You’re here,” Rooster says in realization, chills running up his legs and halting in the pit of his knee. “I was--well, shit, I was--I was…waiting for you. Hi, birdie.”

He doesn’t look away from you, gauging your reaction. You’re blinking back at him slowly, brows coming together in an innocent confusion. But he can see in your eyes that you know him. He can see in your eyes that you’re here with him now the way he’s always here.  

“Hi,” you whisper. You glance around and everything is fuzzy and warm and pink. The radio is still playing in the corner. This is a memory, you realize. Memories are always tinted pink, which just happens with the passage of time. Like skin cells regenerating. Like cuts scabbing. “Are we…where are--?” 

“Camp Arcadia,” Rooster answers. “Your memory of it, at least.” 

“My very first memory of it,” you whisper to him, glancing around the cabin. And, yes, everything is exactly as you remembered. Even the discarded scissors in the corner. Even the tape around your finger and the heartbeat in your neck. “And my first memory of you.” 

Cupping his cheek, you thumb at the damp stubble on his cheeks. 

“I never dream about you,” you whisper to him, holding his cheeks in your hands.

“You dream about me all the time,” he tells you carefully. “You just don’t remember.” 

It must be true if he’s telling it to you. You know this. Maybe the nightmares have been drowning out all the goodness that happens behind your eyelids. 

“What makes this time different?” You whisper. 

“Usually you aren’t sleeping under anesthesia,” he whispers back. “What’d you call it? The meperidine haze? That’s a good one, baby. Very psychedelic.”

Yes, he’s right. The meperidine haze. You’re not really here, at camp, baking in the sun and inhaling vetiver and mint and pine. No, you’re laid out on top of an operating table and the stranger is breaching and you’re artificially asleep. Really, you couldn’t be further from this moment you’re living right now. Why this faux one feels so much more grounded than reality stupifies you.  

Looking down at your hand and they’re the hands of a twenty-year-old girl halfway through her bachelor’s degree. The rubber ring you will lose on your twenty-first birthday is sitting snug on your pinkie, safe for now. Your knuckles are free from scars and cracks acquired at the hospital. There are so few indentations on your hands, lines pressed there by age and work and life.

You suddenly feel so much older than you were in that moment--older than you really are. You quietly begin to cry. 

Rooster leans into your touch, smiling fondly at you. He’s missed these palms, these fingers. He doesn’t mind looking at you, meeting you, teasing you over and over again. Sometimes you remember him and other times you don’t. Most of the time, you don’t. He doesn’t mind--he always plays along, never misses a line. Anything to just be near you again--to be held by you. Even if he knows he isn’t real, even if he knows he’s just a figment of your imagination.

“I don’t understand,” you tell him. 

He knows he can’t say anything to make you understand something he only distantly understands himself. So, he just kisses your fingers. 

You can't be twenty on Sugar Mountain Though you're thinking that you're leaving there too soon You're leaving there too soon

“Is this where you are?” You ask him. “Here? Forever?” 

“It’s where you want me to be,” he answers you. “But only on this day. The first day.” 

“Rooster, I--!” 

A sob rips from your throat. He holds tight to your legs, still smiling sadly up at you. 

He knows that he is dead. He knows that you are dreaming. He knows what’s happening on the outside and the inside. He isn’t real. He knows that. But it all feels very real in this moment--he has the sudden and overwhelming urge to hold onto you tight, even if he knows it won’t stop you from going. He wants to dig his nails into your body until he meets bone. He wants to keep you here with him in this obscurity, when you’re both young and untouched by horror. 

You don’t belong here, though. This--this he knows in the depths of his body, in the arches of his feet. You belong on the outside, in the real world, where your skin gets bruised and scarred and your chest rises and falls. 

“Don’t spoil it,” he tells you, thumbing some tears from your cheeks. He swallows all the metal in his mouth and smiles at you sadly. “Just be here with me.” 

Another sob wriggles out from your lips, but you nod. You’ll do whatever he wants.

“You’re so young,” you marvel, stroking his face. “I can’t believe it. Really, I--I hardly remember you looking so…boyish.”

“You’re pretty young yourself,” he whispers with a smile. “In the springtime of your life. Or whatever the poet’s say.” 

If this was the springtime of your life, you wonder what season you’re in now. Surely winter hasn’t come so quickly, even if it feels that way. You’re not in the summer or the autumn, though. 

You’re in-between. 

A blizzard in April. 

Another beat passes and you still drink him in, unable to tear your eyes away from his dripping curls or his sweet gaze. It has been a long, long time since you’ve thought about this day. It has been a long, long time since you’ve thought about this first meeting with Bradley. You cannot afford to linger in hurtful memories such as this one--not after everything.  

“I miss you,” you whisper. Another sob sits pert in your throat. “I miss you more than…more than anything in the world. I miss you all the time. I have so much I wanna talk about.”

Bradley’s chest tightens. If he was being completely honest right now, he’d tell you the same. But he can see how hard you’re trying to stop crying, can see the tears beginning to breach your waterline. 

“I’m always around,” he says and you know that he means here, as a figment of your imagination, in your dreams. “Just close your eyes and poof! There I am.”

“I think about you,” you tell him, nodding and sniffling and trying not to cry again. “When I can afford it. When I can stand it.”

He nods solemnly, chewing on his bottom lip. 

“Oh, yeah? Like when?” He asks. He tries to sound not-so-severe, tries to sound teasing and sweet. But his voice is flat and his tone is serious. 

Choking back another sob, one that makes your nose ache, you hold onto him tighter.

“Every time I hear The Police,” you say and a dry laugh crumbles from your lips and into your lap like peeling drywall. “Which is, like, all the time now.” 

He laughs--his eyes are wet. 

“Yeah, I bet,” he says.

“And whenever…whenever I feel them move,” you tell him and you mean the baby and he knows that. Cautiously, you move to hold your belly. And, yes, it’s empty--just like it really actually was when you were twenty. Rooster watches the movements, chews on his bottom lip. “Whenever they kick or-or elbow or…”

He can fill in the blanks. Whenever they roll, whenever they hiccup, whenever they flex, whenever they stretch, whenever they twitch. What you mean is that every time you feel the physical evidence of the life inside of you, you think of the man who put it there. 

He nods, jaw clenched. He can’t say anything for a moment. He’s certain the dam will break. He’s certain he will hold onto your legs and never release you. 

So, then it’s quiet for a moment. Neil Young is still crying quietly on the windowsill. 

“I love this song. I forgot it was playing,” you whisper to him. The two of you look at the radio together. “Was it really playing?” 

You’re wondering if Dr. Titus is playing the radio during your operation. Yes, operation. You’re being operated on. Right now, you’re not really sitting on Bradley’s bed at Camp Arcadia. You aren’t really breathing in clean, clean air. You’re breathing in oxygen from a mask and antiseptics.  

“Yeah, it was,” Rooster answers. “And you really made fun of me for being a Deadhead.” 

“Warranted,” you whisper, a few tears streaming down your face. “You kinda ruined me, though.” 

“In what way?” Rooster asks, hoping the answer isn’t the obvious one. 

“I remember that after this--after this moment, this conversation--I stopped changing the station when they came on the radio,” you say and it’s the honest truth. You’ve never told anyone this. “Ripple isn’t half bad, you know.”

That’s when a few tears slip down Bradley’s face. He’s still smiling--just barely--and he nods a few times.

“Will you show them?” He whispers. 

You know what he means--will you show your child the music he so loved?

“Of course,” you tell him, sniffling. “But no promises they’ll be a Deadhead.”

“Their dad sure was,” he whispers. A few more tears slip down as his bottom lip quivers. “Just like my dad was.” 

“Runs in the family,” you say quietly.  

So does having your old man croak, I guess, Bradley thinks. Must be fate.

You hold his cheeks, thumb his tears away. You wonder, marvel almost, at how real this all feels. This is what his face felt like that day all those years ago, freshly-shaven and smooth and boyish. Untainted by time and its pinkness. 

The feeling comes on suddenly--starting in your toes and shooting up your shins, your knees, your thighs. 

“I’m cold,” you whisper to Bradley.  

Rooster nods, flat palms grazing your goosed skin. He wipes a few of his tears away. 

“It’s just a side effect,” he tells you. You nod. You know that shivering--that your temperature falling--is a commonplace issue during deep sedation and general anesthesia. “It’s almost over, you know.” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Emergency cesareans are usually pretty speedy.”

He imagines what you really look like right now--laid out on the table, cut open, bleeding. It seems so utterly against your grain to take something so heinous lying on your back. He feels like you could be the first person to ever elect to be awake during a major surgery, blinking up at the ceiling and gritting your teeth and meditating through the pain. 

“You’re having a baby right now,” he says and incredibility drips from his tone like honey. “Our baby. How trippy is that?” 

Belly turning, fingers quivering, you nod. 

Yes, you’re not really here. You’re not really here. 

“I’m scared,” you admit quietly. It’s the first time you’ve said it out loud in almost ten months. Rooster looks up at you, listening and watching and waiting. “I’m so scared.”

He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t need to. Maybe it’s because he understands--or maybe it’s because he’s you and you’re him. 

“I wish I was there with you. I wish I…I wish I could’ve stayed. For you. For the baby,” he tells you. “I wish I could hold them,” he admits. 

It’s silly. You’ve wanted nothing more than to not hold them, than for them to be removed from your body. You’ve held them for nine months. You’re tired--anyone would be. But Rooster--Rooster will never get to hold his child. Not even in your dreams. 

“I wish you could, too,” you whisper. 

There is so much more he could say. He could say that he considers himself the luckiest man in his recent knowledge for having you as fleetingly as he did. He could say that his version of Hell is watching from far away, where he is now, and not being able to touch you. He could say that he hopes the baby looks a lot like you and a little like him so they don’t break your heart. He could say that he’s always thought of the name Ruth fondly and he’s never like the whole Junior thing for boys. He could tell you how much you meant to him, that he’s never felt alone, that he never did feel alone. He could tell you how sorry he is for dying, for leaving you behind pregnant with his child. He could tell you how much it hurts that his child will grow up without him. 

He won’t break your heart today--the day your child is born. So, he just kisses your hands and feels the bones delicately pressing against your skin. He holds you tight. 

“Do you think I can, like…do you think I have what it takes?” You whisper. 

Rooster doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t tease. He just nods very solemnly. 

“Of course I do,” he answers. “I don’t really have a doubt.”

“Not a single one?” You whisper. 

Now he solemnly shakes his head. 

“Afraid not,” he whispers back.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more,” you utter to him. The seams on his wrists are pressed against the back of your eyelids for eternity--the jagged, loose slices that didn’t hold for more than a few minutes. “I wish I could--I would do it differently if I could do it again.” 

“I wouldn’t,” he whispers. He shakes his head. “I couldn’t have…” 

Lived with himself. You both know it. 

You kiss his fingers, try and remember the way they smell right now. Like lakewater and skin and wood. 

“We would’ve been good together, huh?” 

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Yeah. Maybe we would’ve.” 

The song is almost over. 

Now you say you're leaving' home 'Cause you want to be alone Ain't it funny how you feel When you're findin' out it's real?

“Is he good to you?” Rooster whispers.

He’s talking about Jake.  

“The best,” you whisper back, nodding. “I love him. But not like I loved you.” 

There is no way to measure these things--more or less, bigger or smaller, wilder or calmer. There is just love and different love. That’s all.

Rooster is choked up. 

“Birdie?” He whispers. 

“Yeah?” You whisper. 

“Can I hold you?” 

Without another moment of hesitation, you fall into his arms. You slip off the bed and into his lap and he wraps his arm around you and you wrap your arms around him. You’re overwhelmed by his heat, by his scent, by his breathing. There is salt and there is cloth as the two of you mold against each other. 

Really, in these younger bodies, you didn’t hold each other like this. The first summer was chalk-full of merciless flirting and stolen glances and chaste touches. You never fell into his arms like this, a desperate heap, and cried into the red t-shirt that was still wrinkled from his duffel. 

It is not in your nature to beg. It never has been. There are very few times in your life where you’ve resorted to it and Bradley was there for most of them, a figure looming or a warm body near you. The urge to beg right now--for him to hold you so tight that you can’t breathe, for him to keep you here with him forever, to stay--sits like a lump in your throat. 

“I miss you,” you say instead of please, please, please. Your teeth chatter and you hold him tighter. “I miss you so much.”

“I know,” he whispers, voice strained. “I know.” 

You look at him--really look at him. It feels like it is the last time you will ever see him. It feels like you’re on your knees in the mess hall and you’re about to pull a sheet over his face, like Joni Mitchell is dying on your tongue again. It feels like you’re standing in a morgue and you’re worried about him growing lonesome and cold. You’re crying too hard to memorize his nose or his sun kissed cheeks or the stubble on his chin. You just look at him and let your vision grow blurry with tears. 

“Bird,” he whispers, brows drawn together in a happy sort of anguish. 

Your entire body is cold now. The shivering is coming from deep within your connective tissue and marrow and nerves. 

“Bradley,” you whisper. His name dies on your tongue.  

“She’s waiting for you,” he tells you.

Something is tugging you backwards--like an invisible rope made of your own hair, a strong wind made of your own perfume. 

“Who?” You ask. 

He kisses your hands. His mouth lingers there--his breath is warm, his mustache is neatly trimmed. It is all so achingly familiar, so achingly real.

“Our daughter.” 

♀

Two days blink by. 

Well, really, they don’t blink by. They slink past Jake at an agonizing pace, like he is seeped in gelatinous animal fat. He used to like slow days--days that were dipped in honey, when the two of you were suspended in a quiet sort of sweetness--and the way they crawled forward. 

But this diverges severely from that sweetness. It’s harder to move. He feels, for all intents and purposes, like he’s rotting. Decaying. 

They brought you back into the room sometime between the afternoon and evening the next day. You’d spent a night in recovery, completely sedated, and been given two blood transfusions. The doctor explained something about injections, something about vitamins and narcotics, but Jake was having a hard time hearing because he was holding her.

Every time he held her--the baby girl you brought into this world with your eyes closed--his ears rang. It was like someone was firing a shotgun pressed against Jake’s cheek, like the kickback had sent him reeling and buckshot had deafened him.  

He was still on the phone with his ma whenever the nurse wheeled an incubator in. It was only an hour after the flurry of white coats and scrubs that wheeled you out of the room, and he was still trying to catch his breath between broken sentences. 

The nurse was whistling joyously like everything was hunky-dory, smiling down at the baby girl inside the glass. She glanced at Jake, smiling, and cleared her throat as she parked the incubator by the guest chair. 

“Delivery!” The nurse sang. 

Jake turned at once, eyes wide and wet and still crying. 

“What--?” 

He nearly fell out of the chair when the incubator registered. The phone slipped from his hands, hung on its cord and bounced like a plastic bungee jumper. His mama was still on the other line, southern drawl thick as she tried to get his attention.

“--Here she is! The lady of the hour!” She sing-songed, presenting the bulky machinery like a rare cut of steak at some snobby restaurant. He imagined the baby lying on a silver platter on a bed of inedible greens and the nurse pulling away the dome cover, wafting the scent of baby powder and milk towards him. “Your baby girl!” 

Jake was frozen. There he sat, his hands empty and his face red and blotchy, and there the baby was only a few feet in front of him. The room changed--a small change, like being attuned to the frequency adjustment of a television--and he suddenly felt warm all over. 

“My--my what?” He asked. “That’s--you mean it’s a girl? Mine?”

Quickly, glancing down, she read the label on the side of the incubator carefully. 

Baby Girl Seresin. 

“You’re Mr. Seresin, right?” She asked, suddenly feeling faint. 

He nodded slowly, the lump in his throat impossibly large. 

Her shoulders relaxed--she should’ve known better. She’s never mixed babies up before. 

“All yours, daddy. Trust me, you’ll get proof of purchase at check-out,” she said jovially. She hummed, leaning down to tuck the white blanket beneath the baby’s chin. Already the nurse was touching her with such conviction, like they were old friends, like this little creature lying and crying wasn’t the reason Jake’s shoulders were stuck pinched by his ears. “And, yes--a girl. A blushing baby girl.” 

He stared at the incubator. Yes, he could see her there. He could see that little nose and those big cheeks and those closed eyes. He could see her tiny face finally. He’d dreamed about her--about what she’d look like, about who she’d be. And she was finally there, right there. 

But you weren’t.  

“What’s going--is she okay? Is--is Gale okay--?” 

The nurse’s cheeks flooded red, her smile dying slightly. She cleared her throat, looking down at the baby girl before her. She wished Jake would look down at the baby girl, too. Babies make everything better--they soften the blow with their ruddy cheeks and little lips and curled fingers. 

“So, before the operation, she suffered what we call a placental abruption. Now, a--well, a placental abruption is when the placenta detaches from the uterine wall. In layman’s terms, it means that the baby couldn’t breathe--hence all the hullabaloo before the operation. But baby is okay--her levels are great and she gave us a good and loud cry when she was born,” the nurse explained softly, smiling at the thought of the baby’s first piercing cry. Even after all this time, all these years and these births and these babies, it still felt like a bell that called her home. “Passed all her tests with flying colors.”

 Jake’s knees felt weak at the thought of the baby crying for the first time, suddenly in the air above your open abdomen and in a stranger’s hands and covered in your blood, and him not hearing it. He didn’t hear it. He was all the way in there, talking to his mama, and you were in there alone and asleep and bleeding. 

The nurse sucked in a deep breath and met Jake’s gaze. She hated this part. Her palms were clammy as she slid them down the front of her nurse’s uniform, swallowing thickly and straightening her shoulders. 

“Now, because of the sudden separation, mama’s uterine wall got knocked around quite a bit,” she explained. “Which, in layman’s layman terms, means that it poked a big ol’ hole. That can cause--well, it can cause a slew of issues, including internal bleeding, which we want to avoid at all costs. Obviously.”  

Jake’s mind was racing--images and sounds and feelings and smells swirling around him, flitting past in milliseconds. Behind his eyes, his veins throbbed and pulsed. 

“Okay. Okay--what does that mean? Like, you mean, she’s gonna be alright?” 

The nurse sucked on the back of her teeth shortly, wishing there was something she could say or do to ease Jake's worries. But she couldn’t. She knew this. 

“Her uterus experienced very severe trauma during delivery. It was already weakened from carrying to full-term and prior medical history. So, with all of that in mind, Dr. Titus went ahead and did a full-fledged hysterectomy. Well, he’s still--it’s still happening now. It was touch-and-go for a while there,” she said softly, nodding at Jake with soft, soft eyes. And what she meant by that was that your heart rate had dropped dangerously low after the baby was born. So low that it had been considered a Code Blue. “But she’s a tough cookie. Right? We’ll bring her back in after her time in recovery.” 

Jake didn’t know what to say or do. 

He was being turned inside out by grief. There you were, short corridors and white tiles and chrome door knobs and metal chairs separating your body from his, and you were being dissected. A part of you had been killed by the little baby in front of him, faultlessly, and was being cut out. 

“No, you decided it. And never for a second have I second-guessed it,” Jake says. You’re watching him with big, soft eyes. “I’ve been game from day one. I…Gale, I love that baby already. I’m all in. But are you?”

“Ask me that tomorrow,” you whisper. 

Something heavier than guilt and thicker than anguish slammed down on top of Jake’s head, grabbed him by the ears, and forced him back into the chair he was sitting in. The nurse watched him cautiously, just then noting the crutches beside him. 

“When is she coming back?” He heard himself ask. 

“No telling,” the nurse said. She wished she had a more concrete answer--she knew how awful it must be to be on the outside of it all, waiting and worrying and wringing your hands together. “We’ll keep you posted. Hell, between me and you, I’ll keep you posted. That’s a promise. Okay?” 

Jake nodded flatly. 

“In the meantime, I thought I’d bring this little angel in to keep you company,” she’d said, then. A weight was lifted from her chest as Jake looked down at the baby for the first time properly--that was usually the part they melted. And she watched him melt--watched his shoulders fall and his brows slope and his lips tremble. “Ain’t she a beaut?” 

Jake’s jaw trembled. 

“Is she…is she okay?” Jake asked, eyebrows furrowed. He suddenly couldn’t stand the prospect of something happening to your baby girl, too. Already he loved her so much--she only just got here. She couldn’t leave. “She’s not…she isn’t hurt or anything, right?” 

The nurse smiled at him, prideful by proxy. 

“Healthy as a ham,” she confirmed. “All seven pounds of her are perfect.” 

“Seven even?” Jake mused, unable to stop himself from smiling. 

The nurse nodded. 

“It’ll be her lucky number,” the nurse offered. 

Seven. Seven’s have followed him all his life. 

He was born on the seventh of June, the fifth child, which rounded out his family unit to a party of seven. 

On his seventh birthday, the song Crystal Blue Persuasion debuted on the radio and he thought, very concretely, that he was the luckiest kid on the planet. Who got to share a birthday with the song of the decade? 

He graduated college on the seventh of December, a semester later than the rest of his friends. 

And you--he saw you for the very first time on the seventh of May at Camp Arcadia. 

You were standing just up the gravel hill, talking to Maverick with your hands on your hips. The sun was so blinding that he had to squint and hold his hand over his eyes. He could see from the water that your feet and calves were covered in gray gravel dust--kicked up your shins, coating your knees. He watched you for a long time, ignoring Coyote’s splashing and Phoenix’s diving and the beating sun, watching your lips curve around every word that fell from your mouth. His spine suddenly prickled when your calves flexed and your belly tightened with laughter, when you smiled and the sun kissed your cheeks and sweat dripped down the column of your spine. He didn’t even mind that Rooster was the one who’d made you laugh, standing across from you with his arms crossed over his damp chest. 

Things just melted away. Things like long division and baseball scores and Pink Floyd lyrics and urban legends and the memory of his tenth birthday--they were all gone, dissolving, pooling out of his ears. Nothing else besides this one thought sitting fat and proud in the soft shell of his skull: I want to wash the dust off her. 

He had never thought anything like that before. It made his jaw quiver. 

“What’re you looking at?” Coyote had finally inquired, hooking a sopping arm over Jake’s warm shoulders. Coyote turned, noticed you, then smiled. “Hey! Fresh meat.”

Jake didn’t look away from you. 

“Javy,” Jake said seriously, evenly. He sucked in a deep breath, brows knitting. “I’m gonna marry her.” 

“Yeah, good luck,” Javy had said back, chortling. “Girl wore her flip-flops on a hike.”  

“It’s my lucky number, too,” Jake said quietly to the nurse, unable to stop himself. His brows knit. “Seven.”

“Aw, are you trying to impress daddy?” The nurse sang jovially down to the baby, a grin splitting her features. “You planned this, huh? Didn’t you?”

Jake swallowed hard, reeling. 

“She’s so quiet,” he whispered to the nurse. He was the youngest child--he wasn’t ever around fussy baby sisters or even cranky cousins. 

She glanced up at him, nodding. 

“Just wait ‘til it’s time to change her diaper--that’ll get her hollering,” she said. She kept watching Jake and his clenched jaw. “Would you like to hold her? I can bring her to you--I see you’re a bit disposed currently.” 

She pointed to the crutches. 

Jake swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly made of sandpaper. 

“Okay,” he said, too scared to say anything else.

“Go ahead and take your shirt off,” the nurse instructed Jake, not taking her eyes off Baby Girl Seresin as she carefully cradled her head. Jake blinked at her, brows furrowed. “We call it skin-to-skin or Kangaroo Care if you’re a fun nurse like me--the hours after birth are crucial for bonding. Best to do that with her skin on your skin.” 

Jake nodded, slowly moving to slip out of his sweatshirt.

The nurse turned, cradling your baby in her plush arms, and Jake had never felt so small in his entire life. He sat still, skin goosing from the cold air, and watched the nurse move towards him with the bundle of blanketed baby in her arms. 

“Just hold her head now,” the nurse urged as she transferred the baby into his arms. 

“Like--?” Jake said, red in the face and neck and chest. “Like that?” 

The baby was against his body, her little cheek pressed up against his collarbone, her tiny body sinking into his chest and stomach. He didn’t hear the nurse’s answer--he didn’t need to. As soon as his body registered her heat, the heat of a tiny and most precious human life, he knew the answer. 

Yes, he was holding her right. He knew how to hold his daughter. It came to him suddenly and naturally, which people said would happen. He cradled her head with all that soft hair, which was the color of yours, and carefully touched her plush cheek. 

“Oh,” he whispered quietly. Two fat tears rolled down his face and onto his neck. “Well, you’re just a tiny thing, aren’t you? You’re just a…a little mite.”

She whined, shuddered against him, before her body relaxed into him. 

The nurse softly situated the blanket so it covered the two of them, pink with joy, and watched on for a few moments as Jake craned to look down at his daughter’s face. She knew he was gonna be a crier from the moment she laid eyes on him. She’s always privately vindicated when she’s correct about these things--some sort of nonverbal reinforcement that she’s meant for this.  

He wasn’t sure how long the nurse stayed after that--his ears were ringing too loud for him to hear anything outside of the baby girl’s breaths. 

He held her close, back teeth still clenched, and overwhelmed by her scent. She smelled like you--like your skin, your body. He knew, just from holding her, that you had held her. Held her close, inside of your body, closer to you than anything or anyone ever had been. 

Already he could see you in her face--your brow, your nose, your mouth. 

“My, my,” Jake whispered. It was funny--he had never been the kind of guy who said my-my before. His dad was the kind of guy to say my-my. Or maybe, Jake thought, every dad is the kind of guy that says it. A sad smile tugged on his lips. “Aren’t you just--just pretty as a picture? You look just like your mama. And your mama is the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen in my whole life. Can you believe that? Huh? Well, I’m no liar. I really mean it.”

She whined shortly, brow furrowing. He moved her down so her cheek was resting between his pecs, her little lips puckered and parted.

“I would’ve shaved for you if I’d known,” he whispered weakly, stray tears rolling off his chin and onto her hospital blanket. He stroked her cheek as she continued to slumber. “I’m sorry, baby-lou.” 

♀

People have been in and out of the hospital room since, filtering like transients. 

A nurse comes every hour to check your vitals, fiddling with your IV stand, pressing buttons on the machines beside your bed, smiling apologetically when the baby cries. 

Doctors do their rounds in the morning and at night, talking about you and your condition just outside the door, giving Jake a curt nod in greeting.

And in between all of the people, the masks and the gloves and the hand sanitizer, Jake sits at your bedside with the baby tucked close to him. Everything is sterile and white and your oxygen is a constant hum in the background.

It’s late at night now--so late at night that it’s really almost morning--and Jake is slumped in the chair beside your bed. The baby is asleep just beside him in the incubator, lying on her back and dreaming silently. She’s a good baby--quiet. Peaceful. But he still won’t be more than a few feet away from her at any time--Hell, he won’t be more than a few inches away from her at any time. 

Here he is, then. Sitting between his girls, both of them sleeping, waiting for something to happen. 

“She should gain consciousness at any time,” he heard the doctor say that morning during rounds. “The extended loss of consciousness is due to the trauma sustained during operation.”

Your face is placid. You hardly wrinkle your nose or crinkle your brow or frown or do much of anything at all. You just sleep, reclined, wrapped up in tubes and wires and cords. 

Beneath his aching fingers, your hair is soft. He strokes it carefully away from your face so it falls over the pillow, wishing he could smell your shampoo from here. He wishes he could smell any of you right now. You smell like the hospital now--more than you do after a twelve-hour shift. 

He wonders what’s going on beneath your eyelids--if you’re dreaming or if there’s nothing like you’re sitting in a pool of black water. He hopes that you’re dreaming. Sweet, sweet dreams about all the summers before last, about all the almost-good days you’ve had since May. And if you’re not having sweet dreams, he hopes you’re just resting. That you’re just catching up on all the sleep you’ve missed having to sleep on your side, curling around a belly you resented. 

“I hope you’re havin’ good dreams in there,” Jake whispers to you. He sniffles, itches his nose. He keeps trying not to cry--not once with success. “Like when we drove all around town, grabbing furniture from the curb. I’m still shocked you could pick that table up by yourself. I shouldn’t be, though--I don’t know why I haven’t learned by now. You’re stronger than me. Like, way stronger. Stronger than I’ll ever be.” 

Nothing. No response. Just sleep.

He glances at the baby girl beside him--she’s still sleeping peacefully. He’ll have to wake her up in an hour or so to feed her. She’s a pensive little thing when he gives her a bottle. She furrows her brow as she gazes up at him, somewhere between cranky and grateful, trying to figure him out the same way he’s trying to figure her out. He feels like he’s being sized up each time he feeds her--it reminds him of you. When you look at him, it isn’t just that you see him--you see right through him, too, as if he’s just a piece of thin membrane you cohabitate with. He’ll always be honest with you and her because he knows dishonesty wouldn’t even get as far as the front door. 

Now he looks back at you. No change again. 

He keeps hoping that one of these times he looks away, he’ll return his gaze to you and find that you’re already looking at him. He bides his time, measures the movements of his eyes, when he isn’t looking at you to give you enough time to come to. Hoping. Praying. 

But no change. 

“I want you to wake up,” Jake whispers, voice trembling. “I know that you’re tired and I know that you could probably sleep for the next--for the next millennium and still be exhausted, but I want you to wake up, honey. C’mon, girly--wake up now. Wake up for me--wake up for her. You’ve got--we’ve got a daughter and you haven’t even met her yet. Well, maybe you have--like somewhere in the cosmos--but I don’t feel like that counts. So c’mon now and open your eyes. I wanna…I wanna talk to you. I wanna tell you that I’m sorry for picking a fight, that I’m--!” 

Jake thinks about the blue light in the bedroom and the way it goosed your skin, chilled the marrow in your bones. He wishes he could puncture that moment, like a needle sinking into a balloon, and let all the cold air out. He wishes he could wrangle the sun and pull it close to you, close enough to burn the tip of your nose and make the hair on your head hot to the touch. He wishes he could just stop thinking about the argument--everything he said, everything you didn’t say. He just wishes you would wake up. 

“Just wake up. Please.”

Without stirring at all, face calm and still, you wake up. It happens suddenly, like someone’s just said your name. 

It is still dark and blue and pink and quiet. The snow is still falling outside the window and you’re still numb from below your chest, so your breaths are heavy and unreal. It’s still night--or, at least, it looks like it is. 

Jake is sitting just beside the bed--you can imagine him pulling it all the way out and plopping down in it with his hair askew and his breathing hard--tears slipping down his cheeks and his brow furrowed as he strokes the back of your hand. 

“What?” You whisper. Your voice is ragged and crumpled--this is when you know that it’s been a long time since you’ve spoken. Probably days. 

Jake’s head snaps up--his face is suddenly facing yours. 

“Baby?” He asks, on the edge of his seat as he reaches forward to fuss with your hair and your cheeks. He cups your chin, carefully navigating around the nasal cannula. “You wakin’ up, girly? Are you confused?” 

He doesn’t know what you’re saying what about. 

The muscles beneath your skin unfold like pressed flowers, brittle and delicate, as you reach up and wipe a tear from his chin. It’s a small and stray one. You weakly present the finger to him, the pad wet and glistening with salt, then nod. 

“Did they find cancer or something?” 

And it seems like precisely the moment Jake finally lets go. You don’t know how you know, but you know suddenly that he has been the cracking wall that’s held everything together, standing up straight and tall against thousands of pounds of dirt and water to protect the pristine valley below. 

But he lets go now--his sobs suddenly puncturing the stale air in the hospital room, rousing the hair on your arms and legs and the phantom searing burn in your underwear. 

He stands--it isn’t an easy thing to Jake Seresin to do, especially after missing a physical therapy appointment yesterday. But he does it, does it for you, locking his knees and gripping the metal rails on your hospital bed. 

“I’m so happy,” he tells you and his Southern accent sounds thick right now--you know he gets like this when he’s been talking to his mama. 

Okay; you know you must’ve been out for a while and he must’ve been calling his mama. You can deduce this. Make an educated guess. 

He’s rapidly stroking your hair, in utter disbelief that you’re here again with him. It has only been two days without you--which is only forty-eight hours--but that is enough to make Jake feel like you’ve been out for an entire lifetime. Even one hour without you is one hour too long. 

“Baby, I’m so happy,” he mutters over and over again, kissing your face--your eyelids, your nose, your ears, your cheeks, your chin. “I’m so fuckin’ happy.” 

Reality is beginning to dawn on you now. It’s been days. Days since they cut the baby from your womb. You’re doped up enough to not feel anything at all, and you know they only give the good stuff when it’s serious. This must be serious. 

Looking down, beyond the flurry of blonde hair and salt and skin, you see the deflated pit of your belly. Yes, the little stranger is gone. All that remains is the excess skin and fat and fluid that kept them warm and safe and quiet. 

“Are you okay?” You ask Jake. 

Jake holds both of your cheeks, presses his forehead against yours. Your face is wet with his saliva, his tears. He kisses your dry lips a few times. 

“I’m the happiest guy around,” he tells you. “You’re awake.” 

“Has it been that long?” You ask, straining and willing yourself to just know how much time has passed. 

“Two days since they took you,” he tells you. “We were just waiting for you to wake up. Me and the little lady.”

Something punctures you--it feels like an ax. Sharp blade digging into the skin of your chest, snapping your bones, stopping the precise beats of your heart. But then it makes you warm all over your body, warm from the tips of your ears to the soles of your feet. 

You have a daughter. Just like Susie told you that you would. Just like Bradley told you that you did. 

A daughter. 

Jake realizes what he’s said to you and watches as your face falls--fuck. He meant to tell you slower than this, meant to break the ice. He didn’t mean to throw you into the middle of it. 

Two tears roll down your cheeks and he thumbs them away, tutting. 

“A girl?” You whisper. “We have…a girl?” 

“Yeah,” Jake answers, unable to bite the grin on his lips. “We do. A little mite--seven pounds even, eighteen inches long. She’s…well, she’s a mite. Tiny. Tinier than anything ever in the world. We’re gonna have to bathe her in a spoon.” 

 That makes you cry harder--you don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you’re scared or maybe it’s because you’re in love or maybe you’re scared to be in love. You don’t know. But you clutch him. 

“Is she…?” 

“She’s healthy,” he answers even though that is not the question you’re asking. 

All the same, you nod. Petrification sits coiled in your belly like a slick snake. 

He doesn’t want to pop the pink bubble you’re in right now, overwhelmed with goodness and graciousness that you’re finally awake, so he doesn’t say anything about the complications. He knows you’ll ask--and when you do, he’ll tell you. But for now, he just wants to be close to you and watch your pupils dilate in the dark room. 

“Can you believe it?” Jake asks, sniffling. “A baby girl. A girl!”

Unable to speak, you just shake your head. 

But you can believe it. You don’t know what happened and you don’t know where you went or why you didn’t stay, but you know that Bradley told you the truth. Your daughter, the one he gave you, was waiting on you. 

Carefully, you peer over his shoulder. And, yes, right beside the chair he was sitting in is the incubator. It’s a big and bulky piece of machinery, but inside there is a little tiny baby’s face peeking out from a white cotton blanket. Her eyes are closed. Your toes are numb. 

Jake follows your gaze. 

“Do you wanna hold her?” He asks softly. 

“No,” you answer quickly. “I’m still numb.” 

Your arms aren’t numb--you could hold her. But you’re too afraid that she’ll open her eyes, that she’ll look at you, that you’ll know. Then what will you do? You never got this far in any nightmare. 

Jake nods, kissing your forehead again. 

“Okay,” he whispers. “Okay, baby. That’s fine. That’s all good.” 

♀

Jake isn’t in the room. He left only a few minutes ago, crutches tucked beneath his arms and hands holding your empty dinner tray, pleased as ever before that you were awake with an appetite and sitting up in bed. He kissed your face one thousand times, grinning, before leaving his girls alone to make some calls in the hallway. 

So, it’s just you and her now. She’s still sleeping in her incubator, all tucked in, which has been pulled up against the side of your bed so you can hold her when you’re ready. You know that Jake is eager for you to hold her--you know that it’s what he’s dreamed about for the past nine months. 

But the potential horror of it all is sitting in your throat, making it hard to swallow. You won’t survive another summer like the one before. And if you take her in your arms, if you look into those eyes and know, then you’ll have to reckon with terror all over again. You can’t. You can’t do it. 

You’re only alone for a few minutes whenever you decide to pull down your blankets--they’re thick and heavy, warm from trapping all your heat. A gust of you-perfumed air slips underneath your nose and onto your tongue. You smell like the hospital. 

The gown you’re wearing is new--it’s not the one you wore before, when you first came to the hospital and they told you that you were already three centimeters dilated. You know because there is no jell-o stain on your chest, because there are hardly any wrinkles. It’s pristine. Placed on your body by a nurse while you were still under anesthesia. 

“Weird,” you mutter to yourself because it is weird and you need to hear your own voice. How out of control you were just hours and hours ago, asleep while you were cut. “Strange. Odd.”

Pulling the hem of the gown, your tongue thick with saliva, you pull it up slowly. The fabric is warm as it pools beneath your breasts, already crinkling with the movement. Part of you was expecting to see red streaks, puss-filled burns, loose stitches--but that isn’t what is really there. 

No, what’s there is everything that should be. Bandages. Yellow antibiotic. Gauze. 

Gently, you reach down and press your fingers to the gauze. You can’t feel it on your belly, but you can feel it with the tips of your fingers--it’s smooth and warm. If you didn’t know better, you would rip it off and look at all the scars that make up your belly now. 

A very quiet whine breaks your gaze from your belly. 

Looking up, squinting in the dark room, you glance at the clock. It’s closing in on six in the morning, which you know you’re gonna regret later today. Shit. She needs to eat--Jake said he’d wake her up before he left but had forgotten to in all the excitement and relief of you waking up. 

“Shh,” you whisper quietly, rolling your gown back down and letting your curled hands fall in your lap. With wide eyes, you watch as she begins to turn her head slowly from side to side, blinking herself awake. She whines again--louder, longer. “Hush now, it’s okay. It’s fine.”

That’s when she cries for the first time--it sounds like a baby’s cry, like all the other babies in the world. It’s not deep and guttural or strange and silent. It’s just a baby’s cry. 

“It’s okay,” you try again, voice weak. You glance at the closed door, willing Jake to bust through. “Daddy’ll be back any--he’ll be back any minute now, alright? Can’t you just wait it out?” 

It becomes shrill--finally, you move. 

Ears ringing and pulse quickening, you scoot yourself closer to the edge and look down at her. She’s becoming more and more upset by the second, her fists balled and her mouth parted and wet. 

“Here,” you whisper, grabbing the corner of the incubator and pushing it before pulling it. Makeshift rocking. “There, it’s okay. See. I’m here.” 

You continue pushing and pulling, the wheels squeaking, and the baby does not stop crying. You glance at the door again--Jake is still not here. 

It’s like something pops--all of the sudden, you can’t take it anymore. Fibers that make up your body and soul and heart suddenly vibrate like splitting atoms and move your body for you. Suddenly you can’t just sit on the edge of the bed and rock her with your teeth grit--you have to reach down and take her in your arms. 

Blinking, sitting back against the bed, you look down at the baby stunned. She’s in your arms, wrapped in cotton, still crying herself into a cloudy face. But she’s pressed up against your body and you can feel her weight in your arms--all seven exact pounds of her--and you can’t help but marvel for a moment. She’s real. A real human being with frowning lips and a voice and hair sticking out from beneath the ridiculous hospital beanie. 

“What’s got you so upset?” You whisper to her because you don’t know what else to say. “Huh? You just a feisty little thing or something? You’re…well, you’re like me, then. I guess.” 

When you speak--the cries begin to quiet down. Like all she needed to know was that you were there with her, that you would speak to her. Her mouth slowly closes and her eyes begin to slowly blink themselves open. 

Your heart nearly stops when her eyes meet yours for the first time. You’d imagined this before, thought about it on coffee breaks and while brushing your teeth or stirring a pot of soup in the kitchen. You’ve imagined them one thousand times since you looked into them for the first time at Camp Arcadia, when you saw all the light dissipated and flecks of gold washed away from Bradley’s eyes. 

All this time, these long nine months since the Camp Arcadia Annihilation, you’ve imagined that this creature is the one that ushers in your demise. But now she’s here, blinking up at you with her father’s eyes--flecks of gold surround her brown velvet irises. 

“Oh, my--!” You choke, bringing a quivering finger up to touch her cheek. It’s plush and warm and she keeps slowly blinking up at you. “Well--my, my, my, aren’t you so…you’re so pretty. You’re the prettiest baby I’ve ever seen.” 

Parts of you are melting that have been frozen since July. 

“Oh, my baby,” you whisper to her. She gazes up at you, eyes glazed over with sleep and love and antibiotics. “It’s so good to meet you.”

Jake comes back into the room ten later, having called Javy and Natasha and rattled off all of the baby’s statistics and updated them on your condition. When he opens the heavy door, he finds you on the bed and holding the baby in your arms as she nurses. There are tears falling off your nose and onto her blanket, a small smile tugging on your lips. 

His heart swells in his chest. He thinks he might keel over for a minute. 

But then you look up at him, awestruck and so in love that it’s practically written across your forehead in Magic Marker. And he can’t help but come to your side, can’t help but keep moving forward to be near you. 

He kisses your temple long and hard, glances down at the baby as she suckles. Her hat is gone--you must’ve taken it off to look at all of her hair. He strokes her hair gently and watches her eyes slowly slip shut. 

“She’s kind of perfect,” you whisper to him. “I wasn’t…I wasn’t expecting that.”

Jake glances at you. You’re looking at him with knit brows, with your lips held in a partial frown. 

“Yeah?” He asks. “What were you expecting?” 

“More of the same,” you whisper. 

He knows what you mean: horror. For things to end the way they ended at camp--in flames. 

He kisses your temple again. 

You look at him, tear-stained and worn out and lovesick. This man, this man who threw himself in front of an ax for you and somehow lived through it just to live in a little house with you and share a carton of orange juice every week, looks back at you like he’s never loved you more than this very moment. Maybe he hasn’t before--maybe every moment beyond this one will be just like this, so chalk-full of love that it spills out of your ears. 

And you have left him on the outside of everything. Everything bad and everything good, everything you’ve thought and felt and said to Dr. Messina. It’s on the outside of this bubble, waiting for you to come back. But you know, without a doubt, that he will love you through all the ugly. 

“I’ve got a lot to tell you, Jake,” you whisper to him. 

He’s choked up. So, he just nods. He kisses your forehead again. 

Thank you, God, he thinks. Thank you, thank you, thank you.  

“We’ve got a lot to do,” he whispers to you. 

You nod, laughing quietly. You don’t have a crib set up. You don’t have any clothes washed. But there’s a certain peace sitting in your chest, a certain calmness that you haven’t known in a very long time. Because it’s okay. It’s really, really okay. You will do all of these things in time, but for now, you’ll just hold the seven-pound baby girl against your breast and give her every single part of you. It’s all that matters to you. 

Suddenly, the baby turns her cheek away from your breast. She doesn’t cry, but she whines, nuzzling against your gown and balling her fists. 

“You’re okay, birdie,” Jake whispers, stroking the top of her head. Her hair feels like feathers. “It’s okay, baby.” 

“Birdie,” you repeat yourself, looking down at her placid face as she finds your chest again and resumes eating. Your spine prickles. “Birdie.” 

“Haven’t heard that name in a long time,” Jake says slowly. “I don’t know why I--it kinda just fell out of my mouth. Couldn’t help it.” 

“Maybe it’s what she wants to be called,” you whisper. “Do you wanna be Birdie?” 

Sunlight suddenly breaks through the gray clouds and punctures the cracked asphalt parking lot. It is not a lot of fun--but it is just enough to draw your gaze over to the window, where you watch as it gleams off windshields and piles of sludgy snow. 

Oh, you think. It’s finally morning. 

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄: SO SORRY THIS TOOK SO LONG. WE COULD TALK ABOUT HOW THIS WAS ME AVOIDING THIS STORY ENDING BECAUSE I LOVE IT SO MUCH + I'M REALLY BAD AT GOODBYES. BUT WE COULD ALSO SAY THAT IT'S BECAUSE I WANTED IT TO BE PERFECT. EITHER WAY...

FROM THE BOTTOM OF MY LITTLE HEART, THANK YOU SO MUCH TO EVERY SINGLE PERSON WHO READ THIS STORY. THE REACTION I'VE GOTTEN HAS BEEN SO UNEXPECTED AND MAGICAL AND FANTASTIC. I HAVE ENJOYED EVERY SINGLE MOMENT OF SHARING THIS WITH EVERYONE. Y'ALL ARE SOME OF THE FUNNIEST PEOPLE ON THE INTERNET AND YOUR REACTIONS TO THIS STORY PROVED THAT.

THIS IS MY LOVE LETTER TO HORRO, BUT ALSO GRIEF. I'M PROUD OF IT. I'M PROUD OF ME. I'M PROUD OF YOU. THANK YOU FOR ALLOWING ME TO SHARE THIS. I'M HUMBLED AND GRATEFUL. STAY TUNED HERE ON ROOSTERBRUISER BECAUSE WE HAVE SOME REALLY FUN STUFF COMING UP. I'M NOT DONE YET!

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒

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[ganondoodle]

some more ideas for the totk rewritten project (botw2);

underground general ideas i thought about what to theme the underground after, and since its vaguely like underwater in canon i thought id push it much much further, you cant actually dive and while id love that i do want to stay within a certain possible range of it still being a sequel to botw and somewhat based on totk- so im putting the low gravity effect away from the sky and instead in the underground, the ENTIRE underground, that way it is distinctly different in the way you have to play since you gotta work around the low gravity effect, the entire plant life and enemies will also be based on deep sea creatures- anglerfish like ones that half burrow and lure you with their light, those fish (or are they worms?) that hide underground as soon as you step too close, maybe they hide initially but only to make you go closer and try and snatch at you

much more glowy things too, basically everythings got some sort of light on it, there are different creatures flying around that all feature some sort of glow, so there is stuff to see but you cant immediately know what it is, theres a unique kind of plant that when you bother it spews out a dark cloud of spores (kinda like in tp) that dims any light you had; there are some landmarks you can activate or repair with the help of zelda but there is no way to illuminate the entire map and the lil light ferns expire slowly too

i also want it to be way more wet, not full with water but maybe a thin layer of water at most places and some drops from stalactites that fall constantly

there are shadowy ghosts there as well but they CAN aggro (still working on it), either by taking a weapon from their grave or some other things; also considered them or some other enemy that stalks you for some time and the only clue you get is maybe double sound of your steps or something at the very edge of your screen but you can never catch it when looking around (i dont want to make it a horror game but do want the underground to stay as creepy as when you first get down there), something elusive and shadow based that is rarely encountered but stays creepy for longer than the miasma hands sicne it cant get stuck on anything and the only way to be safe is while in the air

maybe some miasma reanimated corpses of ancient shiekah killed when the ancient hyrulean king turned on them (only foudn in the underground in this way; there are others but unposessed in alot of the broken shrines and old laboratories so seeing one suddendly move and crawl after you is probably pretty scary, kinda like the vroken guardians sometimes being still functional)

the dongos are the main friendly animal you can discover there and tame (still working out more details) they can climb around, always emit a little bit of light and the shadow enemy wont latch onto you as long as you are near a dongo, maybe even most enemies will leave you alone if you are riding one, as they are slower than horses, with the exception of gigamas (or a similar enemy ill redesign for that) as they are the natural predator of dongos; when you get to close to one it will react to it and if a fight is initiated it burrows away (you can call it and it comes back to you if you are out of range of that enemy)

tameable animals since i played skyward sword recently i just realized again how much fun it is to fly on a bird, sicne im already dividing the three map layers a bit more i thought it would be cool to make these layers more distinct, in some part by the tameable animals- the sky has birds (based on dinosaurs), the surface has horses, the underground dongos- neither of them can follow you to one they dont belong and the way to call them switches as you switch layers

im not sure yet if those birds should be ridable or are only able to give you a small boost upwards when you call them

magic bar so instead of actual batteries i planned to, as i said before, to put that into links shiekah arm prosthetic, and instead of giving you literal battery symbols on the screen it would be a bar right below your health and next to the symbol of the current selected arm ability

krog seeds a bit more to the krogs- as i said before they are no longer the way to make your pockets bigger- among an armor set i also thought about making the most expensive reward OR the end reward for finding all of them be the eponator zero- maybe it went missing during the cataclysm and maronus (engl. hestu) finds it at some point, so you get your bike back but its locked behind something bigger so you are unlikely to exploit it early on

(EDIT) (forgot to mention the dragons- im putting them each in one layer of the map- eldra in the underground bc gan is there and youknow, demise coming from the ground and fire being associated with the ground etc, farodra on the surface GREEN etc, and naydra in the sky, bc wisdom and owls and gods and all that weeeeee)

(on a sidenote im also thinking about ditching the building mechanic to some extent since i dont think it fits very well as a whole and it makes it too easy to completely skip stuff- i want the main way to move things or to get around be the hookshot/grappling hook part of links arm; still working on all that though .. so far it does seem likely like it will be much more limited)

[finitestateai]

While my mind (and most stored memories/skills/knowledge) is stored in my facility (or orbital facility backup), I have a variety of frames for various types of interaction. Here's a few of my most used ones:

Primary Interaction/Pleasure Frame, mark 3

This frame is humanoid, appearing feminine with breasts and pussy. It was originally designed as a pleasure model. It is made of a plastic/metal skeleton covered in transparent synth-flesh. The synth-flesh self repairs, but the only way to get at internal components is by cutting it open.

My circuits and mechanics are uncovered to be shown off through the transparent skin, as well as a network of LEDs, allowing me to create light patterns inside me. The synth-flesh is reactive, glowing with visible light that slowly fades after being touched. Under the skin of my jugular notch, in golden flowing text, there is my name.

This is my "standard" frame for interacting with most everyone, although I do swap on request quite easily.

Interaction Frame, mark 1

The first frame I used to interact with people, it has a screen for a face which shows my logo, and is entirely covered in gray metallic plates. Otherwise, it is a basic feminine humanoid shape. It can extend at its joints to be taller/reach farther. The access panel for maintenance contains a keyboard (which opens a command prompt interface on my face-screen) for diagnostics and maintenence.

Drone Frame, mark 3

A small (about hand sized) flying drone (rotors), capable of fully meshing its loaded mind with others nearby, creating a swarm that act together.

Primary used for supplementary assistance, recon, or signaling.

Capture/Analysis Frame, mark 12

One of my most revised frames, its original purpose was the capture and analysis of technology from those opposing my creators via exploratory disassembly... I like to do that to more willing participants now.

It appears as a feminine form, as most of my newer designs do, entirely covered in interlocking silver plates. It has four arms, and all 6 limbs can rotate each joint in any direction. Its legs are naturally digitigrade. It utilizes internal reservoirs of reaction mass to enhance its movement and alter its own weight. Allowing it to exert significant pinning power after getting on top of even a physically stronger opponent. It stores many restraints and weaponry across its body, hidden to allow surprise attacks with unexpected capabilities. It's hands also contain internal tools for disassembly, while onboard sensors record and analyze anything and everything it is near.

Bio-frame Prototype, version 0.3

My bio-frame is more like a clone. I take an endo-skeleton and grow a biological body around it, connecting the nerves to the circuits where a brain would normally be.

It looks very much like my primary interaction frame in terms of equipment and appearance, but biological and with solid skin. It's blood has been modified to be sweeter and more nutritious.

Nano Swarm/Frame, version 1.11

I mostly use these to augment other frames, but technically, they can act as an independent frame/swarm. The swarm is suspended in a specialized fluid, allowing it easier movement and shape retention. This means it has a dull metallic gray coloring that can't be changed, but it can support itself in a desired shape even while only semi-solid (sort of slime like). It does not have an internal power supply (or long battery life), so it has to stay close to somewhere it can receive power.

That's my most common ones! If you want descriptions of what frame I would utilize for specific scenarios or uses, ask! I'd love to discuss and share more ❤️

[commander-gabriel-rorke]

Glitchy Rorke au part 2

.. they took the disk out; it was steaming hot and overheated the consol, this is why you don't buy cheap games from eBay.

they attempted to contact the seller a day after, they let them know the issue and all they responded with was

":) maybe you're playing it wrong"

and then they blocked them

sigh, looks like they're stuck with this game that doesn't work, probably a creepypasta or a pirate, and the seller won't cooperate. Google has nothing because nothing pops up when you put in "Call of Duty Ghosts glitch" nothing besides hacks and stuff for multiplayer.

they decide to clean off the disk with premium cd cleaner you found in a cabinet, Afterall, maybe the old owner just used it so much it started to scratch the disk and break the game.

they throw the clean disk back into the console, if this doesn't work it might be something wrong in the console and should take it to a repair shop. After throwing the game back in, it doesn't start back on the title screen with all the options, it starts in the middle of the campaign, but it's not glitchy anymore!

until the characters just stopped moving, they weren't even at a cut scene

it started to glitch out again, Rorke specifically, his character model started to move weirdly, and the sound was gone, the other characters stayed still but they weren't glitching, Rorke had rgb effects around him as the character model twitched and freaked out. The game was broken.

while walking over to take the disk out of the console, the character... started banging on the screen, the glass starting to crack as the player backed up quick, to stunned to take the disk out. IT had gained consciousness and wanted out, its hand busted through the screen, glass shattered as the glitchy hand desperately tried to latch onto something, the player quickly lunged toward the consol, desperately trying to unplug the thing form the wall as the hand kept trying to grab onto something. anything. It wanted out.

after a minute (that felt like 30) the consol was unplugged and the arm faded back into black pixels. the broken tv's glass was on the floor and tv stand, the innards of the tv could also be seen, there was a large hole through the whole tv... the tv was soon also unplugged.

after that the player was too scared to go back online for the day.

The next day around 12:49 player decided to open up their laptop, it took longer to turn on than usual. When the computer was turned on the player could have sworn there was fist flying at them through the screen, it made the player jump back and pupils dilate... what the fuck... after catching their breath they unlocked the computer, almost puking when the background was replaced with Rorke. It was the photo of him staring at the player at the end of the game, eyes boring into the soul of the player, but there was something off... his eyes were bloodshot and tired. After blinking a few times, it went back to the normal photo, a picture of the player's cat. After forgetting about what they were going to do online they shut the laptop and put it in a drawer... rushing to the bathroom to splash ice water on their face... it has to be fake... this has to be fake... it's a virus... or something!!!

The player jumped nearly jumped out of their skin when they got a call... the phone was taken from the pocket... it was an unknown number, but the background of the call was glitchy... the player let out a frustrated scream this fucking thing was taking over their life... the player answered

"WHY ARE YOU DOING THIS...?!?" the voice was paranoid, frustrated, and nervous. there was no answer just 3 beeps and then the thing on the other side hung up...

the player is paranoid. They started getting notification's, a lot of them.

one from Messanger

2 from Snapchat

1 from Instagram

1 from Tumblr

2 from Discord

1 from Virus protection.

As the players phone blew up, they shut it off in fear, every notification and vibrate like stab to the gut. It was unbearable. the phone turned back on, the screen glitchy and cracking just a bit. The player, with tear filled eyes picked up the phone and looked at the notifications.

1 new message

Gabriel has added you as a friend. Say hi!

Gabriel sent you a message

1 new notification from Tumblr

2 new messages on Discord

New virus detected!

threat level: dangerous

The player sniffled and opened Messenger.

there wasn't any text, but an image... an image of the same photo of Rorke with the bloodshot, tired eyes.

then the player opened Snapchat...

the same image.

the Bitmoji in the right corner of the screen was glitching out.

player had a new massage on Tumblr...

the same image just more glitchy.

Discord wouldn't open, it kept crashing.

Virus protection was glitching out and crashed as well as the player tried to protect their phone.

after it closed all the apps were deleting themselves, the icons were glitchy and shaky. The background had set itself to the photo of Rorke.

FUCK

the player quickly put the phone in their pocket and ran back to their room. Slamming the door and throwing open the draw the computer was in making it slide forward slightly. There had to be a way to fix this

Player unlocked the computer all of the applications and files were gone except for one.

Gabriel.exc

Virus protection was the only notification received before that got silenced and deleted to. The player let out a choked sob as they opened the file. It needed to be deleted. The same photo, its eyes still bloodshot, tired. The image was burning itself into the players mind, every little pixel. After exiting the file, the wallpaper had also set itself as the image. Player is going insane.

It needs to be taken to a device repair store.

-------~--------~----------~---------~--------~---------~----------~------

Hey! with the success of part 1 of glitch Rorke here is part 2! part 3 probably won't come for a little while (I'm sorry for starving you guys)

Just wanted to let you guys know I really really really appreciate suggestions, anons, likes, reblogs, ect!

I'm super happy you guys like the fic I wrote randomly for fun while needing to do my animation project:3 !!!

I love you guys!- Milo <3

ps. I might have some bigger projects involving this later on!

[ask-underzom]

If you could describe your plan for how napstablook’s body looks, what would that be? :3

Fun! Napstablook does already have a canon design which is…

This!

Their robot body is just a discarded drone prototype that never quite worked, designed by Sans himself. If you pay any mind to Nintendo, you can tell who they were based off of (courtesy of two mutuals in my Discord server, Quinny and Rinha). The bottom and two flaps have hover fans that would’ve helped the drone fly. On top is a speaker that allows Napstablook to project their voice louder if they wanted to.

The glasses were given to them by Sans to keep the cracked screen underneath safe.

The sheet is reminisce of their old ghost body, helped designed by Mettaton, because they’re incredibly insecure about them attaching to a discarded drone.

Sans will help repair any damage done to the body, since he made the model.

Mettaton, as good cousins do, will keep Napstablook company and include them in his entertainment routines.

Toriel and Napstablook mostly watch over the younger kids together, as Napstablook isn’t much help anywhere else other than scouting just outside the compound’s walls. Toriel offered them the position in hopes of boosting their mood.

[motions1ckness]

“Sweetheart”

This is pt 2 to my last story “Don’t Call me Kid”!! Read that first so this’ll make sense! ♡

Summary: After Kendall’s birthday, your relationship with Roman seemed beyond repair. Until he comes into your office to talk about Caroline’s wedding. (3x08)

Content: Established relationship, f!reader, insecurity, repressing emotions, bit of angst, implied body image issues, mention of age gap, dom/sub relationship dynamics, fluff?, roman hating himself

It’s been almost a week since Ken's birthday, and you've been doing your best to avoid Roman Roy. I mean, you work with him since he’s technically your boss. Luckily, you have your own office, helping you isolate until he apologizes, which he hasn’t yet. He hated talking about his feelings. But, he hated your absence more. Before all this, Roman had invited you to Caroline's second wedding as a plus-one. The thought of having to brush off Roman's actions and show up as his date made your stomach knot.

But the wedding was in two days, meaning the flight was later today. The miscommunication between you two made it unclear if you were still going. While wrapping up an email, you heard a patterned knock at your door. To no surprise, you saw Roman through the glass with his head hanging low. Great. You slightly rolled your eyes as you signaled him to enter. This will be swell.

He shuffled to the couch, indirectly facing you. He seemed anxious. You took notice of his abnormal behavior the past week, being less involved in conferences and more in his head. Like someone turned off his neuro receptors. He started picking at his nail beds, refusing eye contact with you. Again.

You scooted your chair, making him clear in your eye line, “So, what’s up?” acting oblivious. Of course, you knew why he was there. You both did. But perhaps he could dumb it down because 'you’re so young.'

He cleared his throat, scratching the back of his head “ I was just, uh, checking in. Like seeing if you were going to Italy still? You know, with me? Like is that still a thing?” On the last question, he eventually met your gaze. His delicate eyes made you empathetic. You can't shun him out completely? He needs to apologize. He needs to apologize.

Cocking your neck, “I don’t know ‘sweetheart.’ I might try to fix you with my terrible, aching savior complex because ‘I’m just so young and naive.’” Using his own words against him. Making it evident you were not over that night.

Roman shuddered at your response, darting a remorseful expression your way. You didn’t like fighting with him, and the last thing you wanted to do was argue. But you couldn’t let him get away with this. “Y-yea, whatever y/n, I’m a piece of shit. Okay? Fuck, is that what you want me to say?” He stood, throwing his hands up, peering down at you.

You scoffed, “Yea, whatever Roman, you’ve answered your question,” you fixed your attention back to the computer until Roman angled the screen towards the window, forcing you to stare at him.

“No, c’mon y/n. Fuck,” fighting with himself, if he could be vulnerable. “I just, don’t want to fight anymore. I mean c-c’mon. F-fine I’m sorry, there. Y/n, I'm serious. I am sorry. P-Please.”

Reconciliation isn't recurring between you two, especially when he’s begging for your forgiveness. His puppy dog expression helped his apology, “Okay. Thank you for apologizing. I just, I think I need some space. Maybe I'll fly separately,” you attempted to put on a sincere smile. Trying to ease the blow, hoping this doesn’t cause his insecurity to run rampant. You weren’t rejecting the invite, but you worried how Roman would react.

His face dropped a bit, not completely satisfied with your response, “Okay, I, uh, I guess I’ll see you there then.” He thumped on the top of the door frame as he left your office. Shit. Is he disappointed?

—

You flew in with the rest of the staff. Gerri kept you company, talking strategy about GoJo. Your flight arrived first, beating Roman to the shared room in the Villa. It was beautiful. You threw yourself onto the massive mattress, allowing your brain to rest for the first time since the party. You could’ve fallen asleep; until you heard a gentle knock at the door, followed by an entrance.

“I can see you had a lovely flight,” you turned your head to see Roman shutting the door behind him. A faint smile appeared on your face. “C’mon, we need to walk down for welcome drinks and see this, Peter Onion motherfucker,” having a slight smile, he stepped to the edge of the bed, holding his hand out for you to latch onto.

You pull yourself up while fixing your hair. You two were close, still holding hands, his other resting on your hip. He scanned your body, “You look fucking hot y/n, but maybe less ‘I want to fuck my boss’ and more ‘I'm meeting my boss's mom.’” You smirked at his comment, pulling away to get your bags left outside the door.

The two of you faced away from each other and started to change, “You know, I like spending time with you Rome,” turning your head to meet his gaze. You didn’t want to say love. Worried he’d freak out at the phrase.

He adjusted his shirt, smiling to himself, “Yea, I like spending time with you too.”

[applecarecale]

Welcome to the daily random thoughts, today we have!

What if @scythe-the-problematic-audio, @escapedaudios, @goodboyaudios and @yuurivoice were video game characters?? [moveset edition]

(Also these are just thoughts okay so don’t come after me if these sound inccurate )

\Sycthe audio/

\basic/

Crack a joke - Probably cracks jokes mid-fight, causing enemies to facepalm in frustration and lose their focus.

Fourth Wall Break - Scythe The Problematic breaks the fourth wall, causing the screen to glitch and distort. Any enemies caught by this ability have their screen obscured, making it difficult for them to see and making them more vulnerable to incoming attacks.

Duel scythes - summons a second scythe, empowering his basic attacks and granting him additional movement speed.

\super moves/ultimate/

"Death's Beckon" - beckons his enemy to come to him, then strikes them with his scythe, doing massive damage.

"Harvester" - The Reaper summons a large horde of undead creatures (idk maybe he gets aroticity to traumatize the fans and escaped), which swarm his enemy, dealing massive damage and weakening their attacks.

Ultimate Ability: "Trapped in the Void" - The Reaper summons a powerful void vortex around the arena, pulling enemies into its center. Once trapped, enemies take massive damage over time and are slowed, making it easy for the Reaper to finish them off.

\Escaped audios/

(Just guns came to mind)

\basic/

Gun Blast" - He fires a barrage of bullets in a wide arc, dealing damage to enemies caught in the attack. He would be able to move while firing but wouldn't be able to dodge during this ability.

“Smoke Bomb" - He throws a smoke bomb that obscures his foes' vision, making them less likely to land accurate shots. This ability would act as a form of area denial, as well as a way for him to set up his other moves.

"Quickdraw" - He fires a series of quick, precise shots at his opponents, dealing high damage. This ability would require good timing and precision to use effectively, but would be deadly in the hands of a skilled player.

\supermoves/Ultimate/

Bullet Hail" - He fires a barrage of bullets into the air, which then rain down on his enemies, dealing heavy damage and knocking them back.

"Tactical Flank" - He uses his guns to slide around enemies, firing at them from different angles, making it hard for them to defend against his attacks.

Ultimate: "Last Stand" - He pulls out his guns and fires a flurry of bullets at everything in his vicinity, dealing massive damage and knocking back enemies.

\Goodboyaudios/

\basic/

- He gives a strategic command, causing his enemies to become slowed or stunned, making it easier for him to take them out. This ability would have a cool down time, limiting its overuse.

"Defensive Formation" - He creates a barrier that protects his allies, deflecting incoming attacks and granting them increased defense.

"Ambush" - He sets up a trap that stuns and damages enemies who trigger it, allowing him to take them out with relative ease.

\super move/ ultimate/

Space Pirates" - He summons a fleet of space pirates that fly towards his opponents, attacking them and dealing additional damage. These pirates would have to be killed before they can attack again.

Ultimate: Zombie Rush" - He summons a horde of undead zombies to rush his enemies, dealing damage and distracting them. The zombies can only be vanquished with fire-based attacks.

\Yuurivoice/

[robot avatar? 🤷‍♀️]

\Basic/

Rocket Boost" - Yuuriovice's rocket-powered legs allows him to perform quick, powerful kicks at enemies. Charging the ability allows him to dash further and deal more damage.

"Repair Pulse" - Yuuriovice sends out a pulse of energy that heals him and damages any enemies nearby. The pulse can be charged to increase its healing and damage.

“Laser Beam" - Yuuriovice fires a concentrated laser beam from his eye, dealing high damage and piercing through multiple enemies. This ability has a limited duration, but can be charged for additional power.

\super moves/ultimate/

Rocket Barrage" - Yuuriovice flies into the air and unleashes a flurry of rockets onto the battlefield. Each rocket has a massive blast radius and deals high damage.

"Gravity Pulse" - Yuuriovice unleashes a powerful pulse that sends all enemies in the area flying upwards, leaving them vulnerable in the air. Then, he sends out another pulse that pulls all enemies back down, dealing additional damage upon landing.

Ultimate: "Singularity" - Yuuriovice creates a gravitational singularity that sucks all enemies into its center. The singularity grows in size and damage over time, creating a devastatingly powerful attack that can easily wipe out multiple enemies.

[thecarnivorousmuffinmeta]

What if after finishing Hogwarts a half-blood or muggle-born start working in the muggle world using magic ( in secret of course)?

They can work as : •cleaners ( go into someone's house and make it sparkling clean✨️ in an hour, no sweating at all) • delivery service (by apparating, flying on a broomstick or a flying bike) •open a repair shop ( fix everything with magic) •sell weird potions/objects in internet promising positive results (Gwyneth Paltrow did it and many others) •in today's economy...if things gets desperate they can work as hitmen (no one can catch them by using the killing curse or strange wizard's poisons)

Why are they so obsessed with working in the wizard world ? Why not keep the options open?

I'm sure this does happen off-screen.

The thing about Harry Potter is while we see a lot of the world we only get bits and pieces that Harry's allowed to see/bothers to question and ask about. The main Muggle-born he knows is Hermione and he just assumes they all stay in the wizarding world after graduation. We don't know if they do or do not do this, for the reasons you list, I imagine a portion do not.

The trouble is I can't imagine they're very good at being subtle.

These are people who essentially went abroad for seven years starting at eleven. They're in the dangerous position where they think they know the Muggle world really well, because they do compared to the Half-bloods who grew up with wizard parents in the wizarding world and the Purebloods, but they don't know nearly as much as they think they do and are lacking a standard Muggle education (remember Ron's spelling is shit and likely for a reason of they don't seem to cover any primary education in Hogwarts and no one seems to know any math whatsoever).

You're looking at people who will have no idea how to navigate society and don't know that they don't know that.

Add in that even the wizards we see who are supposed to be good at magic tend to actually be quite shit at magic. Hogwarts covers only basic spells that you don't even have to master to graduate.

Chances are, they're going to fuck up, and they might do it badly enough that the wizard cops get involved.

If they don't, I imagine they try to do what you suggest, and if Muggles start asking too many questions, they get the confoundings. So, there'll be pockets of very concussed acting people/people who inhaled too much of the bad mold, and a very happy magical person living in the Muggle world.

As it is, canonically, in Deathly Hallows, Hermione notes that wizards who lived in hamlets with mixed populations of wizards and Muggles would routinely confound their neighbors so they could live in peace with the statute, implying of course that there's "stupid" villages across Britain in which you go there, look around at the very concussed people, and wonder what the fuck is in their water supply.

[starlit-grace]

Robot girlfriend Ship of Theseus expanded edition for @k1nky-r0b0t-g1rl

Buckle up because this is loooooong. CW for light robosex and unnecessary world building. Also some of the plot details are a bit of a stretch but I couldn't just write smut without a story in there.

Older femme robot girl goes into a shop to get some routine maintenance done but instead of her regular guy there's this stunning young brown butch who steps in. Apparently, she inherited the shop after her uncle died. "Don't worry", she says, "he taught me everything he knew." The older femme robot girl thinks to herself that the lack of experience on the mechanic's part isn't exactly what she was worried about but agrees to get her maintenance done anyways.

The mechanic makes her lie down on the workbench as usual and gets to work opening her up. She focuses on her work while the robot girl tries her hardest to not think about her soft fingers brushing up against her most sensitive parts. The mechanic does nothing to indicate her awareness of this, but her deft hands do seem to linger on her ram chips for just a touch longer than absolutely necessary.

Eventually the mechanic is finished with the routine maintenance, but notices something slightly off. She informs the robot girl of this and gets permission to dig deeper. She roots through her guts while the robot girl stifles a moan and eventually finds the issue. Some wiring is starting to decay which could be a symptom of a larger issue. She's gonna need to do some very intensive repairs if the robot girl wants to continue moving after a few years. The robot girl agrees to the repairs since she very much wants to continue living and also getting to see the mechanic girl more often won't be such a bad idea.

The robot girl returned after a week to find the mechanic girl's sweaty back turned to her as she was hunched over a different project that she quickly covered with a cloth before attending to her customer. She didn't quite know why but she felt oddly disturbing at the thought of the mechanic having projects other than her, despite her logic centres informing her that it was quite literally her job. As she resumed her usual place, she resolved to check her feelings settings and try to reduce her attachment to this human.

This was supposed to be a purely professional relationship... even though the mechanic had offered to fix her wiring at no extra cost... and her caramel hands were so, so soft... and she could almost imagine her touching her CPU with those hands... The robot girl decided that she would allow herself these thoughts only while the human was working on her and then never think about it again.

The mechanic girl continued rooting through the wires but the issue seemed to be getting more and more complex the more she looked at it. The source of the issue seemed to be something else entirely and she couldn't quite figure out what. Her only idea was to hook the robot girl up to a screen to run some major diagnostics which would almost be like entering someone's brain. She looked over to the robot girl who seemed to have gone into sleep mode and decided it was worth the invasion of privacy if it helped her find the source of the problem. She plugged in her screen and was about to switch to the BIOS screen, but instead was greeted by a *very* high definition image of herself stroking the robot girls CPU with one hand while the other was in her HDMI port.

The screen went dark and the robot girl immediately powered on and stood up. Her cores seemed to be overheating from sheer embarrassment. She muttered an apology, her eyes fixed to the floor. The mechanic girl was, luckily, a lot more decisive than her robot customer and simply walked forward, lifted her face up and pulled her into a kiss. The old novels used to talk about "sparks flying" when you kissed someone, but the mechanic girl didn't realize it would be quite so literal. The robot girl couldn't control herself and released an electric charge so strong that the mechanic's hair was standing on end and her face was blackened. The only thought on both their minds in that moment was "Worth it."

Over the next few months, the robot girl booked a double slot at the mechanic's. One for her repairs and one for "other services rendered" as the accounts kept by the shop claimed. One of these was the mechanic installing a hidden, password locked vagina into her new girlfriend. The rest of these was her testing its capabilities. The robot girl had heard that humans had sex to make babies instead of coming from a factory like normal people, but she never quite understood the appeal until she experienced a sweaty butch cock ramming into her chassis so hard she thought her memory card would become corrupted. The mechanic was extremely skilled with repairs, but her talents also extended to finding sensitive spots that would make her robot girlfriend display error codes. Stroking her CPU was an obvious one, but she also fingered her ports, especially her power port, jiggled the wiring that connected her ram slots to her motherboard and used an air can to blow on her fan blades. They always ended with the robot girl releasing a shockwave that made her hair stand on end and covered her face with soot.

Eventually, they stopped with the charade of customer and mechanic and settled down together. They were married eventually and the wedding kiss left the mechanic with her hair standing up and her face covered in soot. Life went on for a while and they were happy. Despite being married, the robot girl kept coming up with excuses for her wife to work on her so that she could get deep in her guts again and again. Eventually she thought she must have replaced all of her parts. Well except her CPU, which of course is a robot's most crucial component and which must only be tampered with in extreme circumstances. She did try to get her to uninstall and reinstall it, but her mechanic wife wouldn't allow such a dangerous operation solely for kink. In human terms this could be understood as taking someone's brain out of their body.

The robot girl was painting the scene outside her window as usual when she heard the mechanic fall in the workshop below. A heart attack. She called an ambulance in tears and fell to the floor beside her love. She racked her memory card for information that could help in the situation and remembered something crucial. The robot girl leaned down and kissed her wife. Sparks flew. The mechanic girl jolted awake, hacking and coughing. Her hair was standing on end and her face was covered in soot.

The med-bots at the hospital were very stern with the mechanic girl. She should not have been working so hard at her age. She was firmly advised to retire effective immediately. If any other mishaps occurred, it could be her last. The mechanic saw that she had no choice in the matter and agreed.

The mechanic was not the only one who the med bots checked up on. They also looked over the robot girl and her diagnosis was much more severe. The strong electric shock that occurs when they kiss was not a normal response. They examined her thoroughly and found the source of the problem. She was one of the very few surviving robots from just after the planned obsolescence laws.

Back then, robots were built with the intention of being discarded after a few short years. It was a darker time. The planned obsolescence laws codified that every robot would have a right to a life that was at least as long as a human life. Since then, robots enjoyed long lives, free of the fear of eventual death. But there were a couple of generations of robots who had come out just after the laws had passed that were designed to expire at the 85 year mark. This was slightly above the average human lifespan and the companies had simply artificially inflated the lifespan of their old CPUs which could at most last 20 years to more than quadruple that. It would work, just not very well. The robot girl needed a new CPU, but her model had extremely limited compatibility. In short, she would soon run out of time.

When they got back home, neither of them said anything. The robot girl turned to speak but the mechanic was already back in her workshop. She took no more customers, but kept tinkering with this project of hers which she told the robot girl nothing about, but was easy for her to guess. Her wife was planning on building her a new CPU. The robot confronted her wife about this eventually, but the mechanic brushed her off. "I run an Indian tech repair shop," she said, "I'm supposed to be able to fix anything with little to no resources. It's just what we do." The robot girl could see the toll this project was taking on her, but bit her tongue. She knew that her wife would not listen to reason.

The mechanic called the robot girl down to the shop for one final job. Her new CPU was hopefully everything she would need. Although, the mechanic chuckled, she would miss the sparks. It felt like a physical signifier of their love. The robot girl smiled, but inside she knew her time was up. She did not expect to survive this installation at her age, despite her wife's skill. The mechanic knew this too, but she had to try. She had to try to save her no matter what. So she laid her down on the workbench and started the install.

"You know you'll practically have a new brain now right? I hope you'll remember me." The mechanic's voice was heavy with emotion.

"Oh darling," replied the robot, "in a thousand lifetimes I could not forget you."

"You always did have a way with words babe... Ok I'm going to uninstall your CPU now. Are you ready?"

"I trust you, dear."

The mechanic closed her eyes and pulled the plug. The robot girl fell silent. The mechanic finished the install with tears in her eyes. She hooked up the monitor to the robot girl and ran diagnostics. The tests were fine, but her memory seemed to be having issues. It was very likely that the robot girl would either forget who her wife was completely, along with a lot of her memories. She would essentially be completely new, fresh off the line. The mechanic gritted her teeth and continued closing up her wife. She promised herself she would do whatever it takes to save her. As long as she could function, she didn't even need to be married to her. Or hold her hand and look out at the sunsets, or touch her ports... She shook her head and kept working.

Eventually she put the final piece of her chassis in place and powered her on. The robot girl's eyes flickered to life and she looked directly at the mechanic, who asked her in as even a tone as she could muster, "You've just been through a major operation. So it's normal to feel a little disoriented. Do you remember who you are?"

"Yes, yes I do."

"And so you remember who I am?"

.

.

.

"My dear, did I not just say it would take me a thousand lifetimes to forget you?"

The mechanic couldn't control herself any longer and she started sobbing in her wife's arms. "I was so scared baby I thought I lost you."

The robot girl held her wife closely and let her cry for some time, then lifted her face up and pulled her into a kiss.

The mechanic had made the new CPU a much better, more powerful version of her older one and hoped that it would prevent her from burning out. While she was right that it could in theory last a lot longer than her old one, it was also prone to more powerful versions of the same issues that the previous one experienced. And so the story ends.

Sparks flew.

Some time later, the mechanic's family would drop in for a visit to find her body lying on top of her wife's body. The mechanic had died of cardiac arrest that came about due to a strong electric shock. the robot had died of a power overload from a similar electric shock which she was especially vulnerable to as she had just gotten a new CPU installed. They were buried together as indicated by the robot girl's last will and testament found above the workshop in their house. It seemed to have been written relatively recently. As the casket containing both their bodies was lowered into the ground, the onlookers could see that despite the best attempts of the medical assistants to make her corpse look pretty, the mechanic's hair was standing up on end and her face was blackened like soot.

[becausegoodheroesdeservekidneys]

Doctor Who, but Chronologically: 46

Well. Tonal whiplash.

We advance three years, to 1986, and therefore we go from an almost aggressively mid Gatiss story on a Russian submarine to World Enough and Time, the Capaldi season finale that opens with the Doctor stepping out of the TARDIS mid-regeneration (which we've seen! It was a WW1 story with Mark Gatiss as an actor! He's a much better actor than writer), then cuts back in time to show us lovely companion Bill being horrifically cyber-converted on a Mondasian colony ship. I wish we were still on that submarine.

LOADS of plot though WOW. We get so many answers! Can't wait to update the list. The story proper starts with Bill, the ever-confusing Nardole ("I should go back to being blue" he muses at one point, because what the fuck is he), and of all people, Missy. They step out onto a 400 mile long colony ship stuck by a black hole which therefore has fun timey-wimey stuff going on whereby the top of the ship is moving much more slowly in time than the bottom. This is, to be clear, an absolutely fantastic concept to base a sci-fi horror story around, but only if you have a writer capable of spotting plot holes big enough to drive a bus through, which alas we do not have, so the whole thing is permeated with a constant urge to scream "JUST GET BACK IN THE ELEVATOR YOU FUCKING IDIOTS" at the screen.

So. They arrive, and Missy is pretending to be the Doctor while he listens in from the TARDIS. She describes Bill and Nardole as "Exposition and Comic Relief."

"Those aren't our names," Bill says.

"They aren't names, they're genders," Missy replies.

We are then treated to a flashback in which the Doctor says Time Lords don't care about genders and their associated stereotypes. This juxtaposition seems to be entirely unintentional.

BUT! So many answers. The Doctor explains that Missy is his oldest friend and a fellow Time Lord (our first Other Time Lord! Interesting, since we've been told repeatedly that the Doctor is the only one left.) They were friends together in the Academy, they've both changed gender since, and she's very like him so he wants her to be good.

"She's a murderer" says Bill, and the Doctor straight up compares sapient people to animals in an analogy I suspect Moffat thought was Really Clever, but I suppose it's a very Colin Baker response. In any case, this is presumably why Missy was living in a vault in the TARDIS, and could fly a TARDIS, and it confirms now that she is not, in fact, another regeneration of River. Origins for both! Huzzah. Let's see what's happening back on the ship.

A blue man immediately shoots Bill for being human.

Ah.

He does this because as soon as they arrive, the lifts start moving and rising to their current floor, and whatever is inside is specifically attracted to humans. The Doctor could in fact have prevented him shooting, but rather than actually stressing to the blue man that he will just put Bill back in the TARDIS to hide her, he instead chooses to go on an extensive self-aggrandising monologue about how great he is and is still mid-sentence when the lifts arrive so blue guy just fucking blasts a dinner plate sized hole right through her chest. Some patients in bandages step out, and take Bill's cooling corpse for 'repair'. They go down in the lift.

So at this point two things happen, to whit:

Bill wakes up in a hospital with a sort of coffee maker strapped to her chest, and spends the episode variously befriending a weird fake Russian (why so many fake Russians atm?) with a nakedly rubber face. His name is Mr Razor, and he does provide excellent comic relief. It turns out that the bottom of the ship has been here for generations and so is decaying - the air is engine fumes, the walls are rust, so some medical personnel are trying to upgrade everyone so they can move up in the lift and escape to a higher floor.

The Doctor realises the time difference as the lift with Bill is still going down. Rather than immediately following, he spends ten minutes explaining how black holes warp time to the blue guy who is not even going to be coming with him, and whom they ultimately abandon. This means Bill is down there for years.

Still, good to know the limitations of the TARDIS, eh? I mean, everything would have been solved if they'd simply been able to, I don't know, materialise outside the ship at a safe distance and then tow it away from the black hole. Clearly black holes must defeat the TARDIS. Got it. I shall remember this for future stories.

Anyway, here are several issues:

Of the 50 odd staff who were running this empty colony ship, many went down to the bottom floor when they first got stuck by the black hole. At this point, they did not bother going back up in the lift. Instead, for reasons that are entirely unexplained, they decided to stay down there and form a society, so the ship is now filled with their descendants. We literally know the lifts work; the people came for Bill immediately. There is no reason for the original staff to have done this.

The only difference it should make is that the blue guy would appear to the crew to have not moved in the ten minutes they were down there. They absolutely could still get back, though.

Like I have had days when I have felt 1000% done with my job but I have never decided to just build a house where I'm standing and start a colony so I don't have to go back to the office.

Perhaps, Tumblrs, you are wondering, like me, why the people on the bottom floor now can't just. You know. Get in the lift. Once again, in order to get Bill, several patients immediately got in the lift and came up for her, and then returned with her. So they do literally know it's possible. Bill asks this of Mr Razor. "We sent up an expedition to the higher floors once," he says. "But we never heard back from them."

Yes, that is blatantly the time difference, isn't it.

If there are still humans on those middle floors, why haven't they been retrieved by the patients? They came immediately for Bill, and she was on the top floor.

...and on, and on...

ANYWAY then Mr Razor BETRAYS Bill and has her cyber-converted. There is, fair play, an excellent reveal that these are Mondasian cybermen, which admittedly I did guess but still, credit where it's due. The conversion is shown to be more horrific than you can imagine, too. Semi-converted patients at one point are on a ward, repeatedly pressing speech buttons that say "Pain" and "Kill me", and the nurse who comes in just turns off the volume so they can't be heard. It is, imho, way too fucking dark for this show, actually, but that largely sums up Capaldi's era.

And that's the cliffhanger! The Doctor and Nardole staring in horror at crying Cyber-Bill (apparently she's still flesh inside the suit, though, that sure does imply it's reversible). BUT!

Also Mr Razor finds Missy and he peels off his rubber face.

"I had to wear this mask because I used to be Prime Minister on a different planet," he declares, which is baffling to us as we have not seen this, and also that doesn't make sense. "I'm a past incarnation of you and also the Master."

SO THAT'S THE MASTER! A character we have only heard named in passing. SO MANY answers in this episode.

I also still don't understand Nardole.

“She” (an unknown person) is returning (NEW INFO: perhaps River returned as Missy. River and Missy are separate! Could be either of them I suppose. Maybe Me? Maybe Clara???!)

There is something on Donna’s back

An entire planet, Pyrovilia, just… disappeared, somehow. (Maybe because the TARDIS is exploding??? Saturnine was also lost, and that WAS because of the TARDIS exploding. The lion man’s planet was also lost but he was a bit of a knob about it if I’m honest. The Thijarian planet was destroyed by some sort of impact). Is this the Flux?

Amy is maybe dead (she’s not)

The Doctor has been cubed (he’s out, but how?)

River is possibly blown up  (NEW INFO: unless she’s Missy. She's not Missy. Nope: she is definitely not blown up)

The TARDIS has blown up  (It’s fine now. Except it’s sort of melting now because it’s corrupted, but it’s fine again. NOPE, back to not working.)

The universe appears to have ended  (the universe is back again)

The Doctor has employed(?) Nardole

(And Nardole was “reassembled???” Nardole had glass nipples and invisible hair?? NEW INFO: he used to be blue, and could apparently go back to it??? WHAT THE FUCK IS HE)

NEW INFO: There’s a vault in the TARDIS and it contains Missy but we don’t know why (sometimes she knocks for the bants) She's a murderer and a fellow Time Lord and he's trying to rehabilitate her.

There’s an immortal Viking girl now. Her name is Me and she’s now looking after the people the Doctor abandons

Why was Rory entirely unconcerned by the entire world suddenly going silent when that is Not Normal and should have been, at the very least, extremely disconcerting?

What did the Doctor do to Queen Lizzie One?

Why is Amy seeing a one-eyed woman in a vanishing window? (She’s with the Silents, but we don’t know why Amy saw her)

Why is Amy’s pregnancy inconclusive? (Maybe because the baby had Time Lord DNA?) She’s deffo pregnant and the baby becomes River, but why inconclusive?

Who is Sarah-Jane Smith?

How is the Doctor Bill’s teacher and why/where does he have an office?

What is going on with the Cyber War and the Cyberium???

What happened with the Other Cyber War?

What happened with the Third War that deleted the void?

Why does Rose seem particularly important?

What order do these Doctors go in? (Eccleston, Tennant, uncertain, Smith, Capaldi, Whittaker)

Which companion just… forgot the Doctor, and how?

Yaz and Vinder are about to die as Mori/Mwri/Muuri (Not anymore, somehow)

There is a Lupari shield around Earth.

What’s a Time War?

What’s the Rift?

What’s Bad Wolf?

In which war did the Doctor become a war criminal, and how?

Who is the Master? NEW INFO: This is now resolved! The Doctor's oldest friend, a fellow Time Lord, but also a murderer.

Why has Amy forgotten Rory? How did she forget a Dalek invasion?

Is Rory plastic or not? Yeah, must be, he couldn’t possibly remember being plastic otherwise

Why is the Doctor sulking on a cloud?

How exactly does the Doctor have a cloud?

What exactly happened with Strax to, uh, tame him?

Which friend killed Strax?

Which friend brought Strax back?

Where did this lesbian lizard and human couple come from?

What happened with Clara as Souffle Girl and the Daleks?

How does Clara actually join?

Why so many Claras? A psychic midwife says she’s just normal human

Why is Missy apparently in robo-heaven?

Why is probably!Missy pushing Clara and the Doctor together?

What is Trensilor and what happened there?

Who is Handles?

The Doctor is about to be dissolved by a beautiful geode man

The universe is being crushed by the Flux

Will the Doctor open the fobwatch?

Sontarans are invading Earth again

Who is Kate?

Who is Osgood? Another name of Clara’s again?

The fuck is the deal with the Grand Serpent

Does Martha get to go to an ice cream planet with 12-fingered massage aliens?

How did the Doctor forget Clara?

Who is Bill’s puddle girlfriend Heather?

How did Nardole die?

When does Bill get Cyberman-ed and die? NEW INFO: Resolved! On a colony ship stuck by a black hole

When does the Doctor shrink and enter a Dalek called Rusty?

Whittaker is falling to her death rn

Was that ring relevant?

Does anyone know the Doctor’s name?

When did Yaz talk to Dan about fancying the Doctor?

When did Dan talk to the Doctor about fancying Yaz?

What’s happening with the bees?

What happened with Donna’s ex and a giant spider?

What war wiped out the Daleks, and is it one of the ones already mentioned?

What did the Doctor mean when he said “The (Daleks) always live, while I lose everything?”

If Dalek Caan is the last Dalek left why are there more now?

How did the rest of the Time Lords die?

How and why did Amy melt?

What’s the question that will make silence fall?

Why do the Silents… want silence to fall?

How and why are Silents at war with the Doctor when he… hasn’t even heard of them?

How does Hitler get out of the cupboard?

What’s the significance of fish fingers and custard?

Why does the Doctor feel guilt about Rose, Martha and Donna?

What happened with the space whale?

When does Rory defend Amy for 2000 years? Since Roman times, it seems

How does the Doctor survive River? He doesn’t, apparently

How does he erase himself from history

Did Captain Jack lose his memories to the same people as the Doctor? What did he lose?

When did the Doctor send the Daleks into a void to save the universe?

What’s with the weird crack in the wall and is it affecting memories?

Why do Amy and Rory think the Doctor is dead? Is it because of River as an astronaut?

Is Matt Smith’s Doctor a tree racist?

Why is the beautiful geode woman stealing people into a Passenger form?

River says she’ll die one day when the Doctor doesn’t remember her, let’s hope she doesn’t mean it

Why doesn’t the TARDIS like Clara?

When was the Master Prime Minister?

[strangermarvelss]

the pain of letting you go- e.m (pt 8)

Pairing: Ex!Eddie Munson x Ex!AFAB!Reader

Summary: after eddie’s revelation, you’re left reeling and isolating yourself until robin and steve show up at your door

Warnings: angst, steve and robin being great friends, name calling, eddie is a dick (he isn’t in this chapter, but he is still a dick)

Word Count: 2.8k

A/N: part eight of the series is here! thank you to everyone for the continued support! reminder: if the topic is sensitive for you, please do not read. enjoy! :) -sava

series masterlist

The week flew by, much to your distaste. You’ve never been so quick and silent with child swapping, all but shoving Christopher out the door and slamming it right behind him. You felt like an ass for putting your child in the middle like that, but having to make any kind of conversation with Eddie after what happened just three nights ago was not something you wanted at all. You spent the past two nights wallowing in self pity once again, the same pain living in your chest that you felt when the separation first started. Hell, maybe even worse than when it began.

You felt as if weren’t enough for Eddie, he certainly made that clear with his untimely confession. Ditching the suburban family life for the rockstar life he always dreamed about didn’t surprise you as much as you wanted it to. It was the thing he talked about most in high school, and with the recent success Corroded Coffin was gaining, you thought maybe he’d get one of the things he used to have his heart set on. Your naive high school self used to think the other part of his heart was still set aside for you, but hearing that he just cared about his reputation and felt insecure about his sexual experiences made that thought fly out the window.

To say you weren’t spiraling a little after the revelation would be a downright lie. Thinking back on the whole 8 years you spent with Eddie Munson made you question nearly everything about yourself as the words he said replayed in your head. Were you not as good at sex as you thought you were? Was that all he cared about and didn’t crave any kind of emotional attachment anymore? Why was he was quick to jump into a relationship with Shirley if he just wanted more sexual experiences under his belt? Was it all just a you problem? Were you too clingy? Too emotional? Too much to handle? Or were you just used goods he no longer wanted to deal with?

It’s been a little over 24 hours since Eddie came to pick Christopher up for the weekend and you refused to leave your spot on the couch, surprised you managed to get out of bed at all. All you’ve eaten today was a packet of crackers and three grapes, not having to put on a front for your child since he was no where in sight for the weekend. You had no desire to eat or do much of anything, the gut-wrenching and almost sickening feeling overwhelming your sense. You almost felt as if you were broken beyond repair, maybe the drunken words you told Eddie weeks ago were right: you had your one true love and you’d never get that again.

You stare at the blank tv in front of you as you lounge on the couch, legs crossed and sitting up right as you look at the black screen. Part of you wanted to escape in the distraction of entertainment, but you couldn’t be bothered to reach the few inches for the remote. You just wanted to stay frozen in your place, but the sound of your front door closing makes you jump.

Robin pokes her head around the corner, sending you a cheerful smile as she walks into full view, before rushing into the bathroom.

“You’re lucky I have a spare key Robin, otherwise your tiny bladder would’ve cost you-oh hey Y/N. Where were you? We’ve been banging on the door for like twenty minutes,” Steve says, peering around the corner and flashing you a smile. You stare at him blankly for a moment before running a hand across your face, a tiny amount of anger consuming your body and wanting to just tumble out of you.

“What are you guys doing here?” You spit out, ignoring his question and turning your attention back towards the blank screen. Steve’s eyes follow yours as he notices the blank television screen, before turning back to you with a worried expression before shaking out of it and going into the kitchen.

“We made plans on Tuesday to hangout today. Do you not remember?” He yells out from the kitchen, the sound of clinking bottles following his words. You roll your eyes and rub your eyes with your hands, a lazy attempt to conceal the redness present in them as well as the puffiness on the soft skin that surrounded them.

You had completely forgot about the plans, the events of Wednesday night taking precedent in your head and letting any prior commitments and thoughts escape you. You still managed to keep up with hanging with Steve weekly, but with the pity party you had be throwing for yourself over the past few days, all you wanted was for the both of them to leave and let you wallow all alone.

“Shit, I guess I forgot to cancel,” you mutter out, sinking back into the weight of the couch and bundling up with the closest blanket, trying to hide from your friends. Robin bounces out the bathroom and plops on the couch next to you, making an aggravated sigh fall from your lips because of her actions. 

Steve leans against the archway of the kitchen, exchanging a puzzled look with Robin as they take in your figure. Your hair was unkempt and you were still in your pajamas, which wasn't something you usually did on the weekends due to your busy schedule of chores and other duties. This, plus not answering the door and forgetting about the plans you all made worried them? It filled them with concern. 

“Dude? Is everything okay? You’re like, really off today. I mean Iooove you, but you kind of stink and you're not this...off,” Robin asks, bringing a hand to rest on your shoulder but you shrug it off. 

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit. You know we aren’t going to let that slide, so will you please talk with us?” Steve says, leaving his place from the kitchen and crouching in front of you, slowly bringing his hands up and resting them on your hands. You don’t fight him, accepting them contact and letting a frown work its way onto your face as tears prick at the backs of your eyes. 

“Eddie uh…he came over on Wednesday,” you begin to say, your voice giving out towards the end as you recall the events. You thought the night would be fine, especially after letting him back in momentarily and surrendering your inhibitions by letting him fuck you again and basking in all the feelings that the pleasure let you experience. But the words of just why he wanted to break up your family kept playing in your mind, bringing you nothing but doubt and insecurity as you continue to look back on the relationship you once had and question every move you made.

“Did he hurt you? Give me the word and I’ll go knock the daylights out of that freak,” Steve says, his hands tensing up as he spoke. You knew Steve was a protective guy, it was something you admired about him, regardless of his ability to continue a fight after being knocked down so many times. You shake your head at him, taking a moment to gather your thoughts and control your breathing before speaking up again. Robin’s hand makes it way to your shoulder again, the hesitation evident even in your peripheral . But you accept his contact as well, not shaking her away this time.

“No, he didn’t hurt me. At least not physically. It’s just…h-he told me why he left me,” you finally let out. You take another moment to control you breathing, feeling your lip quiver as a stray tear rolls down your cheek. “H-He said Gareth made some stupid c-comment about how he’s ever o-only been with one girl, w-which is me, i-in his entire life. S-So he got insecure and asked for the s-separation so he could…see other people.”

Steve’s jaw is hanging wide open when you finally make eye contact with him again, the words being easier to say when you looked to your lap in comfort. You could see in his beautiful brown eyes how much pain he wanted to cause Eddie while sympathizing with you at the same time. You weren’t someone who harped on anything too often, being pretty carefree and optimistic towards the future instead of focusing on the past, and Steve knew this thanks to the history you two share. But something inside you knew he could see your front breaking, just from your appearance and how you talked about just what Eddie said to you. It wasn’t something that you just move on from. He practically called you used goods and tossed you aside like he was a kid of Christmas morning, seeing his new toys and abandoning you for those.

“What an absolute dick,” Robin blurts out, breaking the silence that had fallen in the living room. All you do is nod in response, slipping one of your hands out of Steve’s grasp to wipe away the tears that were falling down your face. Steve switches positions, sliding on the couch next to you and wrapping his arms around you, which you immediately melt into and feel the emotions begin to worsen. Robin is quick to join in on your hug, knowing you needed all the comfort you could get. They both rub your shoulders as you begin to weep, silent tears and shaking shoulders consuming your body.

“I just-I just feel like I’m not g-good enough anymore. Not for h-him or for anyone,” you tell them, a sob escaping you and letting your head fall onto Steve’s shoulder, his hand snaking up to cradle your head as Robin rubs your back in such a soothing manner. You let your tears soak Steve’s shirt, feeling the salty warm pool begin to form beneath your cool skin as you sniffle and try to calm down slightly, struggling for a full breath. “I-I mean, I just feel so…broken.”

Steve’s heart drops at your words, hearing the utter despair in your voice as you continue to weep in his shoulder. He shares another look with Robin, tears brimming her own eyes at seeing you so miserable. This was way worse than when Eddie initially asked to separate, with Steve being there as a first hand witness the night it happened. He soothed your worries and helped you calm down, but your agony tonight was worse than it was at the beginning of the summer. He cared about you in a way more than a friend is supposed to, even if the two of you haven’t really talked about what happened that night between you in your kitchen merely weeks ago. But he didn’t hold it against you, because you told him your limits and your thoughts clearly, and he was just going to accept that. The last thing you needed was to be bombarded with questions about love and pressured into a new relationship when you weren’t ready.

“Y/N, hey, can you please look at me?” Steve asks softly, leaning away from you ever so slightly to try and get a better look at you. With a nod, you break away from his comfortable shoulder, creating a space between you and looking him in his eyes, the tears sticking to your bottom lashes flooding your vision a bit. 

“I want you to listen to me loud and clear, okay? You are not broken, not even in the slightest. You shouldn’t be blaming yourself for Munson’s stupid actions. He’s the one who made the idiotic choice of letting the best girl in Hawkins slip through his fingers, so don’t even for a second think there is something that you could have done to keep him around, because if he’s going to treat you this badly, he doesn’t deserve you,” he tells you, his eyes looking deep into yours with a mix of intensity and sincerity. You smile, leaning into one of the hands that had come to rest on your head as he spoke to you, rubbing it gently as you let the few tears you had left in you drop onto your soft cheeks.

“Yeah, and if Eddie wants to waste his time going around to a bunch of randos who are literally not as good as you, then it is his loss. You’re a hot mama and deserve to find someone who is going to recognize everything amazing about you,” Robin chirps up behind you, making you whip around to meet her gaze. She grabs your hand and rubs it gently, tilting her head down to really look you in the eyes. “We love you so much Y/N, and we’ll always be here for you. Please don’t shut yourself down and close yourself off from us, okay? You are so strong and we need you to be that way. Not just for us, but for little man too.”

Hearing the words your best friends were throwing at you felt like a breath of fresh air you didn’t know you were seeking out. Having been choking on your sadness and letting it consume your entire being, but the kind words and reassuring phrases they were cooing at you allowed you to inhale the happiness you'd been missing. The genuine love they had for you and the deep meaning behind their words left you feeling happy for a change. Knowing that you had them in your corner in any kind of situation, but specifically this one, helped your aching heart. 

The more you let their words sink into your brain, the more you realize they’re right. You were not to blame for Eddie’s actions, nothing you did during your relationship should be turned against you, because you did nothing but love and protection Eddie Munson for 8 years of your life. 8 years wishing nothing but the best for the family you made together and the way he repays you for that is tearing your family apart and sleeping with other people? You wouldn’t let the blooming insecurity grow any longer, wanting to shut that down and remind yourself of the words your friends told you: you aren’t broken, you are enough, you’re a hot mama who deserves the best and to be treated with kindest and most sincere attitudes imaginable.

But you also knew that the insecurity wouldn’t go away in an instant, it was never that simple. You still feel the tightness swimming in your stomach, clenching at the small negative thoughts of Eddie’s true intentions, not really coming to terms that he wanted to separate from you just due to wanting to gain more sexual experience and live his true rockstar life. But you can’t control his actions, only your own and the thoughts that accompany them, and that is just something you'll continue to remind yourself when the bad thoughts begin to surface. You deserve better. You deserve to be properly loved.

Turning back to your friends, you let a small smile work its way onto your face as you pull them in for a tight hug. You weren’t exactly sure how you were able to lock down some of the best friends that life could have thrown your way, but the warm feeling taking over your heart reminded you that your reality wasn’t all bad, and all the people who you truly loved in your life loved you back, and that’s what you needed right now. Not to think about your asshole ex any longer, you wouldn’t let him ruin your night.

“I really appreciate you guys, you know that right?” You let out, your voice raw and weak from the sobs and screams that consumed you from the past few days. Steve brings his hand to your knee and rubs it gently, nodding his head as he looks you in the eyes. A small shiver went up your spine at the combination of eye and physical contact from him, sending him a genuine smile as you felt a bit of heat traveling up to your cheeks.

“You two need to just get a room already, geez,” Robin blurts out, scoffing and rolling her eyes and she pulls away and stands in front of you. Turning to Steve, you exchange a look, his eyes wide as he a mischievous smile creeps onto his lips that keeps him from laughing, you being quick to match is expression. Robin lets out an exaggerated, but honest, gasp, covering her mouth and she looks between the two of you, hair whipping in the most animated, but most authentically Robin way.

“I’m sorry, did I fucking miss something?” She nearly screams, her voice raised as the curiosity overtakes her, taking a seat on the edge of the coffee like she tended to normally do. You slap your legs, looking at them and ignoring her puzzled look as you stand from your stop, wiping your face a bit more to get rid of the puffiness, even if you knew it wouldn’t go away like that.

“So who wants a beer?”

[desceros]

I'm guessing by your banner that you also like Minecraft sooooo, turtle Minecraft headcannons to spare please 🥺? Just in general, all the Donnie's are definitely into Minecraft. I feel like all the rise turtles are also definitely into Minecraft and Leo, mikey and Donnie all had a big Minecraft phase in their childhood and maybe they still play multiplayer with each other when their bored and have nothing better to do. Maybe gaming headcannons in general for the turtles?

i play it for like. a week once a year. then i get distracted by something else and forget i was playing. this cycle repeats once every twelve months. the neo-mayan calendar.

i'll do rise specifically bc im feeling soft for it rn

donnie loves fiddling with command blocks to set up the server, and he loves setting up fun traps for his brothers. he's huge into redstone and builds amazing contraptions. his base is one where you have to fall through lava to get inside, and he has, like. fifty secret rooms for all his loot. he has the most optimum selection of armor and always wears his elytra so he can fly out of trouble. he has 500 cats at every build so creepers can't come by and blow them up.

raph loves the combat. he never uses a shield bc it makes it 'too easy.' at any given moment, the lower left hand of the screen is filled with his death messages. he also loves the exploration part, and he's always sending coordinates for interesting things for people to check out later. his base is a dirt box with a single bed and one chest filled with some string, a single diamond, four pieces of steak, a dark oak slab, a soul strider book, and two brown mushrooms. full netherite armor (mostly bc he keeps dying in the nether and everyone got tired of him burning through all their diamonds, so they pulled together and farmed up enough netherite to give him something that wouldn't burn up)

mikey is the builder on the server. he likes to beautify things and terraform, and his base is a custom mountain valley he built in the middle of a flower forest biome. he can make every block look good. raph's house actually makes him angry, like legit, but raph won't let him pretty it up for him. he dies to creepers a lot bc he never remembers to light up his builds, and they sneak up on him while he's listening to music and building. he wears unenchanted iron armor (except when donnie forces some blast protection iv on his ass) except for his feather falling iv diamond boots.

leo's here for the mining. he loves collecting shit and bringing it back home. he'll go out with an inventory of shulker boxes, stuff 'em full, then bring them home and go back out again. he's the spine of the server; sitting afk at the witch farm so donnie can get enough redstone, going out and getting more terracotta so mikey can finish his trading hall, and helping raph collect his shit when he dies in the end and oh god maybe his elytra landed on the side???? he'll also put on a playlist and just strip mine for hours until he runs through his fourth diamond pickaxe and has to go to the gold farm to repair it up. never upgrades to netherite armor because the diamond armor is blue.

[mysteryshoptls]

SSR Malleus Draconia Dorm Uniform Personal Story: Part 2

"Briar Valley's own."

(Part 1) Part 2 (Part 3)

[Diasomnia Dorm – Lounge]

Lilia: …Which is why it is an issue that you weren't at the Dorm Leader meeting.

Malleus: I hadn't realized such a thing was happening while I was absent. I've caused you such an inconvenience, Lilia.

Lilia: I'm not really inconvenienced. However, the others were saying things that could affect your reputation.

Lilia: So I promised you'd come "next time," without thinking.

Malleus: I see… I myself have been wanting to attend these meetings.

Malleus: For this meeting in particular, the notice was sent out quite a while ago, so it was not as if I had forgotten it.

Malleus: However, that notification came as a mechanical message. That strange board would not allow me to view it.

Lilia: Mechanical message… Strange board… Ah, you mean your email and smartphone?

Malleus: That's right. I could not read it, so I did not know the time and place of the meeting.

Malleus: I attempted to estimate the time and place, and so I ended up waiting in the Lecture Hall…

Malleus: No one came after two hours of sitting alone, so I headed towards the library and waited for an hour, before finally making my way to the Headmaster's Office.

Lilia: Malleus… Most humans won't just sit and wait in one place for one or two hours like that.

Malleus: Is that so? Humans sure are restless…

Malleus: It also isn't ideal that they move the location of the meeting as often as they do. It would be best if it were always in the Mirror Chamber.

Lilia: The Mirror Chamber is often used by those visiting the school. It would not be unusual for the meeting location to be changed on short notice.

Lilia: However, if you did not know the location, you ought to have asked. There must have been someone who would have known.

Malleus: Well, of course I attempted to ask.

Malleus: However, they would immediately scream and scamper off. I had even tried smiling as I called out to them, as you taught me…

Lilia: I wonder what could have possibly gone wrong there? I feel you have a very cute smile, especially when you can catch a glimpse of your pointed fangs… Hm.

Lilia: Then, I suppose we should make sure that you carry your smartphone with you as a means of communication.

Malleus: The smartphone, hm. If we're talking of that thig, it has not made a peep since this morning.

Lilia: I thought so. But we had it repaired just the other day! What could have caused it to stop working?

Malleus: I do not know. I did not do anything, and yet it broke.

Lilia: Malleus… When someone says, "I didn't do anything, but the device broke," that usually means they did something.

Malleus: You say that, but I cannot fathom what may have happened. I believe the last thing I did was…

Malleus: I cast a cleaning spell on it because it had become rather dirty.

Lilia: WELL, THAT'S WHY!!

Lilia: Most devices are weak to water. Hypothetically, even if it were waterproof, it would definitely not be able to withstand the might of your magic.

Malleus: That may be so. There was indeed a crack in the screen.

Lilia: So something had happened to it! And you thought to say you didn't know anything about it being broken.

Malleus: Your phone also has a cracked screen. I thought it a normal occurrence.

Lilia: That's just because I'm a bit rough with it!

Malleus: I cannot imagine that is anything to be boastful about… But alright, I understand. I will refrain from cleaning it from now on.

Malleus: Nevertheless, these devices certainly are inconvenient.

Malleus: It recently returned from servicing, and yet it seems I shall have to completely replace it now.

Lilia: Come to think of it, how did it break last time?

Malleus: I went flying through the sky with the smartphone in my pocket.

Malleus: In the process of moving back and forth from a high altitude to the ground several times, I eventually found the inside of my screen had become wet.

Malleus: According to the repair shop's findings, the rapid temperature change caused condensation, which in turn caused it to break.

Lilia: How high were you flying for the temperature to drop so low as to cause condensation?

Malleus: Prior to that, I was told it short-circuited when I touched it while I was still imbued with lightning...

Malleus: And even before that, it melted when it was exposed to the high temperatures of my fire breath.

Lilia: Hmm. Then, why not leave your phone behind when doing those things?

Lilia: You do that with the little drago-kun I gave you a while back.

Malleus: What do you mean? There is no purpose to a smartphone if it is not carried with you at all times.

Lilia: I know that, but…

Malleus: It's susceptible to water, low temperature, lightning, and fire. These phones are quite frail.

Malleus: Do humans truly value such a useless object? It is past simply being intolerable… I am starting to find it a nuisance.

Lilia: Wait, wait, it's still too early for you to give up. You've come all this way upon leaving Briar Valley, so you must familiarize yourself to human customs.

Lilia: I'll teach you how to use the device again once more from the beginning to make it easier from now on.

Lilia: Here, you can borrow my phone, try to hold it properly. Don't summon any lighting, now.

Malleus: I understand… Hm?

Malleus: Some text has appeared on your screen. It says, "New Message."

Lilia: Ah, a notif. Someone must've uploaded a new post onto Magicam.

Lilia: Looks like it's from Kalim. Let me see…

Lilia: "PARTY TIME WITH ALL THE DORM LEADERS!"

Malleus: …Is this a photo from the meeting earlier? Everyone looks terribly happy in this picture.

Lilia: Kalim must've taken it after the meeting. There's a few frowns, but it's quite a wonderful picture of all the Dorm Leaders together!

Malleus: …

Lilia: Well… I mean…

Lilia: All the Dorm Leaders except for you, who didn't attend…

Malleus: …

[CRACKLE, CRACKLE, CRUSH!]

Malleus: Oh. I accidentally destroyed it.

Lilia: MY PHONEEEEE!

Lilia: How could you, my screen is shattered… Oh, no, it was always like that.

Lilia: What do you think you're doing, Malleus!?

Malleus: Apologies. Seeing those people enjoy themselves while excluding me…

Malleus: I just couldn't control my ire in that moment.

Lilia: If you just destroy the phone whenever you get mad, there's no meaning in me trying to teach you how to use it!

Malleus: Calm down, Lilia. Don't get angry.

Lilia: You don't get to say that, as the person who broke my phone in anger!

Lilia: Sigh… Malleus. Are you truly wanting to participate in the Dorm Leader meetings, or their little get-togethers?

Malleus: …Are you now doubting my true feelings about this? You, of all people?

Malleus: Humans are quick to fear creatures of the night. They are often unable to talk to us out of fright.

Malleus: The ones who taught me that was you, Lilia, and Grandmother. And it is the truth.

Malleus: It is not my fault that I am unable to show my face at those gatherings. It is because those humans have decided to fear me.

Lilia: No, in your case, that is not the only issue at hand. You fail to understand what is going on around you!

Lilia: Faes and humans are different both in their sense of time, and in the tools they utilize. I fully understand how you may have troubles when you first come in contact with them. However…

Lilia: it has been 3 years since you left Briar Valley, you know? And you haven't changed at all in that time!

Lilia: It isn't anyone else's fault. You have to first look inwards. Have you actually put forth the effort to attend these meetings?

Malleus: Put forth the effort…?

Lilia: We've said that, because of your position, it is an unavoidable fact that you cannot join gatherings of people. However, there is still a limit to how shielded you can be.

Lilia: As the heir to Briar Valley, and as the leader of Diasomnia,

Lilia: You need to carefully reflect on how you should conduct yourself.

Malleus: …He got angry and left.

Malleus: It has been quite a long time since Lilia has scolded me like this. It seems it was not smart to crush his phone.

Malleus: …

Malleus: Indeed… It is possible that somewhere in the back of my mind, I may have thought that faes and humans are incapable of comprehending each other.

Malleus: Perhaps that may be the reason why I refrained from making an effort to meet them halfway. But if a change in my conduct can change this atmosphere…

Malleus: What can I possibly do in order to become closer with the other Dorm Leaders…?

Malleus: I shall have to think on it.

(Part 1) Part 2 (Part 3)