#I got it done but my fucking god I feel like a shell of myself

[666bedbugs]

a few hours ago I was adding the final touches to my drawings for the art gallery so I could drop them off for printing, but the main app I use to make digital art started glitching out and fucking up my pieces right before I was going to put them on a usb and in that moment I think I actually felt my Chromebook suck the life out of my eyes and beat me across the face with it

[purpurussy]

.

[pyrriax]

ANYWHO goodnight tumblr i'll be back on the art grind tomorrow i think 🙏

[chiistarri]

imsoo normal about guys byw

[conanssummerchild]

writing a fic abt rick having an ed bcs why would i recover when i can just project all my issues onto fictional old men in cartoons and pretend everythings better now ‼️

tw eating disorder, minor self harm and vomit near the end

Morty stopped in the open doorway of the garage, watching Rick who was sat scribbling down some kind of invention idea, or equation, or whatever it was he did when Morty wasn't around, for all Morty knew he might well be writing fanfiction.

An involuntary smile pulled at his lips at the idea of his almost 70 year old genius grandfather spending his free time writing silly little stories at his work bench. What would he even write? Ball Fondlers fanfic? Maybe he wrote about his stoic bird friend, Rick had always been touchy with him and Rick wasn't touchy with anyone.

When Morty focused back on Rick he wasn't writing anymore, the slightly crumpled piece of paper shoved to the side as he fiddled with what looked like a small metal box with a bunch of brightly coloured wires poking out of the sides. A small spark shot out of one of the wires Rick was holding and he cursed loudly, shaking his hand.

"Fuck, Morty, are you just gonna– gonna stand there, or are you gonna pass me the fucking, uh– the thing."

Rick waved his hand in the general direction of the shelf nearest to Morty, but there were so many assorted trinkets on the shelves, Morty had no idea if Rick wanted a wrench, or a hammer, or one of his laser guns, maybe the box was like a new battery for them?

"W-what thing, Rick?"

"The thing, Morty! The fucking– the uh, destornillador."

"What? Rick, I don't know what that means. W-w-what is that?"

"Jeez, Morty, what are they teaching you at that crap school you love so much?" Rick scowled, tossing the box to the side and getting up to grab the screwdriver himself.

"I havent been to school in like a month, Rick!" Morty exclaimed. "And even then I only got to stay for like an hour before you were dragging me out again!"

"Whatever." Rick said with a burp, "School's dumb, Morty. I'll teach you Spanish myself. B-but, uh, not now."

He turned back to his box, done with the conversation, but Morty stayed hovering in the room, remembering what he had come for in the first place.

"Okay, um, w-w-well lunch is ready."

"I'm busy."

Morty sighed, having expected that answer already. "When's the last time you ate, Rick? Or slept? Or... showered?" Morty said, wrinkling his nose a little.

Rick ignored him, pulling at a blue wire.

"Rick!" Morty frowned.

"What, Morty? J-jesus christ, what the fuck do you want?"

"I want you to have lunch with the family."

"And I said no, so screw off."

"Rick, come on, it would make mom so happy."

Rick glared at him, not bothering with an answer.

"...Wouldn't y-you do it for your original Beth if you could?" Morty tried.

Rick slammed the box on the table, causing the thin metallic shell to crack, sparks flying from it, the sudden noise making Morty jump.

"The fuck did you just say?" Rick snarled.

"S-s-sorry!" Morty squeaked. "I didn't m-mean– mean it in a bad way!"

"Get the fuck out." Rick said icily, eyes blazing.

Morty stumbled out of the room, shutting the door behind him to the sound of something crashing. Probably Rick throwing the damaged box across the room.

Morty winced. In his defense he was worried about Rick, and sometimes, depending on his mood, something like that would've gotten Rick to cave, clearly he wasn't feeling so sentimental today, more annoyed and angry.

"What was that about?"

Morty startled a little and turned to see Summer looking at her phone behind him.

"Just, y'know, Rick being... Rick."

"Mhm, pro tip, don't bring up his dead daughter to try and blackmail him into something he hates." Summer drawled. "You can only do that if he's already half convinced, or if he's feeling especially depressed sometimes.

"Summer! That's– that's messed up!"

She quirked an eyebrow. "Oh, yeah, so only you can manipulate grandpa Rick?" Summer scoffed. "God forbid women do anything." She said sarcastically and turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Morty fidgeted with his hands. "Can you... help me? To get him to have lunch w-with us? Please?"

"Yes, but not now. He's already upset so if we double down on trying to get him to eat he's only gonna clam up."

Morty nodded. "I know that– but how do you? You don't spend as much time with Rick as I do."

"Because he's like mom. Who do you think got her to stop drinking before parent-teacher conferences at school?"

"Wow. That's pretty fucked up that you had to do that, though, y'know, Summer."

"Yeah, well, we're the Smiths, Morty. Is anyone in this house not disordered?"

Morty winced at the blunt statement, Rick really was rubbing off on her. But it was kind of true.

"Guess it runs in the family." He muttered

"Guess it does."

---

Morty hadn't been planning on seeing Rick again until the next day. He knew that when Rick got upset he needed his space. Morty didn't quite get it because when he was upset all he wanted was for someone to hug him and tell him everything was going to be okay, but Rick wasn't like him he supposed.

If he was being honest it made him nervous to leave Rick alone in those bad headspaces he got into. Rick was volatile and unpredictable and a borderline danger to himself and often others. He'd walked in on a couple... compromising situations where Rick had had to explain away why he was passed out in his chair or why there was blood on his hands and his lab coat despite being the only person in the room.

Morty pretended to believe him when he said he had been doing a messy dissection experiment or that "This isn't blood, this is Balorkian dust I mixed with red Squanchenite fluid from Planet Squanch, Morty." But truthfully those moments haunted him.

However, he didn't want to invade Rick's space, so he let him be and tried to eat and sleep until Rick emerged like nothing had happened, even though Morty knew what habits of his went on behind those closed doors.

Of course Morty's patience had it's limits, like when two hours after he had left Rick in the garage, angry, there was the sound of something smashing, closely followed by an unmistakable sound that Morty had grown too familiar with since Rick had moved in. The sound of a body thudding to the ground.

He was up from the sofa in a flash, at the garage door before Summer could even put down her phone, flinging it open.

He felt like he couldn't breathe, but the only sight that greeted him was a smashed bottle and rick lying on the floor next to it, not looking any more dead than usual, looking up at Morty blearily, cracking a smile.

"Oh, hi Morty. H-hey buddy." He slurred, clearly drunk out of his mind.

"Jesus fucking christ, Rick." Morty said weakly.

"What happened?" Summer breathed, now standing at his side.

"He's just drunk." Morty muttered, wrinkling his nose at the overpowering smell that he hadn't registered before between his state of panic and shallow breathing.

Summer ventured into the garage, picking up an empty bottle and sniffing it. "God, grandpa Rick, what the hell are you drinking in here, fucking rubbing alcohol?"

"Sum-Sum! 'M just having some– some fun drinks. Fun drinks just a lil' bit. Besides I only ever drank rub-rubbin' alcohol once, n' it was– tasted like shit."

"What? I was being sarcastic, why would you drink that?"

"Because I was sad... was sad 'nd lonely after B-b-blood Ridge, couldn't find anythin' else. But 'm not s-sad now."

"What's Blood Ridge?" Summer frowned, "Actually it doesn't matter right now, you need to sober up."

"Get him some water," Morty interjected. "I'll clean up the glass. I also know where he keeps all his hangover serums and stuff, but he told me not to let you into any of his drug stashes."

"Fair enough." Summer shrugged, leaving to get Rick some much needed water.

While she was gone, Morty felt along the wall until he found the small hidden panel under Rick's desk. He fished out the light blue vial of fluid for hangovers, the red one he'd forced Rick to make that would sober him up and a green one that basically equivalated to getting your stomach pumped if you took it, just in case he'd taken more than just alcohol.

He shut the panel securely and placed the three coloured vials on Rick's work bench, grabbing a purple tube-like gadget from a shelf. He pressed a button on the back of it and typed in "Broken Glass" on a small hologram keyboard that emerged, then pressed that first button again. A blue ray shot out, scanning the garage, and the pieces of smashed bottle disappeared in a matter of seconds.

Morty looked over at Rick, who was still lying on the floor, but now he was tracing his fingers along a crack in the cold ground, his expression so solemn he almost looked sober.

"Rick?" Morty asked hesitantly.

"I miss her." He said flatly. "I miss her s-so much."

His words were still a little slurred but his tone had lost all the previous levity.

"I tried to save her, Morty, I t-t-tried, but I couldn't bring her back. And no one could ever replace her." A rough sob escaped his throat. Morty felt frozen. "I'm a crappy fuckin'– piece of shit father but I didn't want to be. I was gonna fuckin' give– give up everything for them, and I would've been happy. I would've been so happy as long as I had them, but he fuckin' took that from me! I nnever even got a chance."

Rick was crying, he was crying so hard that his tears stained the concrete dark grey and snot ran down his face sideways. He was shaking like a leaf and gasping for air.

Morty crouched down next to him, fists clenching and unclenching, unsure if he should hug Rick, or if that would make it worse. What else could he do?

"Oh– oh shit, Rick, I–"

"My little girl, my baby." Rick continued between sobs. "She meant everything to me. S-so yeah, I would be better f-for her if I could, but she's gone. There's no point."

Rick's sudden fit of violent sobs was calming down, replaced by a look that Morty could only describe as pure hoplessness and defeat washing over his features.

"'S no point in anything."

Shit, this was bad. Rick didn't admit defeat, and he certainly didn't talk so openly about his feelings like this.

"Aw jeez, Rick, come on don't– don't– don't say that. we killed Rick Prime, remember?" Morty said, wringing his hands anxiously.

"Yeah, I remember." Rick said, tone now devoid of emotion. "I remember killin' him with my bare hands, watchin' the life drain out of his eyes as his blood dripped down my fists. And I remember nothing changing. W-w-what d'ya do when you achieve your life long goal and nothin's better? It didn't bring them back, it didn't– didn't give me closure or give me a reason to live. I still can't sleep, petrified he's in the fucking house, comin' for my new family, that he'll kill all of you to teach me that t-that's what happens when I-I care about people."

Rick wiped his face with his lab coat sleeve, rubbing away the snot, drool and dried tears while Morty just kneeled next to him, frozen and unsure what to say.

"Rick..." he started but then Summer stepped through the doorway and Rick's demeanour instantly changed.

"Summerfest!" he called out and Morty watched, a little shocked, as Rick's whole face changed in the blink of an eye, going back to the cheerful, goofy expression he'd been wearing when he and Summer first came in. It didn't look artificial to Morty at all, even now that he knew it was. How could Rick just switch it on and off just like that?

"I brought water and coffee." Was all Summer said, placing two mugs on the workbench. "And a cereal bar."

The second statement sounded a little more unsure and Morty could've sworn he saw Rick's jaw clench for a second.

"Gimmie coffee." Rick said, making grabby hands, still lying on the floor.

"Water first." Summer replied, handing him the larger of the two mugs.

Rick pouted a little but as soon as the mug was in his hands he drank thirstily, finishing the whole thing in one go.

"You want more?" Summer asked, taking the mug, but he just shook his head quietly.

"Okay," Morty cleared his throat when his voice came out a little shaky. "drink this."

He handed Rick the red 'get sober' vial and Rick chugged it obediently, making a face. "Tastes like– like shit." He offered.

While he seemed a little calmer after the water and serum, his eyes were still unfocused and his voice sounded thick, like his tongue didn't fit in his mouth properly, hints of his accent were slipping through too.

"Did you- are you on drugs r-right now?" Morty asked, reaching for the green vial of serum.

"Maybe." Rick mumbled. His eyelids were starting to droop a little and he curled up more comfortably on the floor.

"Hey, Rick, don't go to sleep okay? What did you take?" Summer asked, crouching down next to him, shaking him a little. He groaned. "Come on, we just have to make sure you're not overdosing and then you can sleep. Maybe not on the floor."

"'M not overdosing." Rick grumbled.

"What did you take?"

"I dunno. Just some random alien drugs I found i-in my pocket." He said dismissively with a burp. "Actually one of 'em was probably adderall. Look at me bein' all responsible an-and takin' my meds n' shit."

He of course immediately showed his 'responsibilty' by gagging and then throwing up on the floor.

Morty winced, reaching for the purple device again while Summer tried to coax him into drinking the green liquid, frowning deeply.

Finally Rick gave in, sipping from the small vial, and almost instantly his eyes began to clear up a little bit.

"Why'd I make these work so well?" He groaned. Then, "My head is killing me, I want coffee."

Summer passed him the second mug and he gestured toward the hangover serum, which Morty promptly passed to him and Rick poured it in his coffee.

He gulped down half the coffee and sighed, wiping his mouth with his already rather dirty sleeve. "Fuck, that's better."

He downed the rest of it and placed the mug on the ground, getting to his feet shakily. He swayed and nearly fell, leaning onto the wall to steady himself as the dizzy spell passed, and then stretched, his back cracking loudly.

He took a few wobbly steps towards the door but Summer blocked the way.

"Fuck– fuck off Summer I gotta– I'm gonna go take a nap."

"Could you maybe eat something first?" She asked firmly, holding up the cereal bar.

"No."

Rick tried to sidestep her but she blocked the way again.

"Summer, don't fucking piss me off right now, I'm serious."

She stood her ground. "Just eat the cereal bar, grandpa Rick. Please."

"Summer, for fuck's sake, I said no!"

"Grandpa," She sighed, the arm holding the bar dropping defeatedly back down to her side. "Do you have an eating disorder?"

The garage was deathly quiet for a second.

"Wha-What?! I'm not a teenage girl in a f-f-f– goddamn netflix drama, Summer." Rick snarled. "What the fuck kinda question is that?"

He gestured wildly, taking another step forwards, which quickly seemed to be the wrong option as a sudden wave of dizziness hit him hard, making him almost loose his balance. He blindly tried to grab onto the back of his chair somewhere behind him, but missed and fell on his ass.

"Rick!" Morty and Summer both rushed to his side, Morty's eyes beginning to well up a little from all the stress of the day.

"I'm fine, don't– don't fucking touch me." He said, shaking Summer's hand off his shoulder, which caused another wave of nausea to hit.

"Please eat this." Summer said nervously, voice shaking as she pushed the cereal bar into his left hand, his right one gripping at his hair.

"Summer, I promise you if I eat that shit right now I'm gonna throw the fuck up."

"Please?" Morty pouted, eyes big and teary.

All it took was one look at him, and with only a brief moment of hesitation Rick snatched the cereal bar from Summer, muttering angrily under his breath.

Morty only caught "Me cago en la puta." and "Maldito cabrón." which he more or less understood, more familiar with swear words than any other words in the Spanish language.

Rick peeled away the wrapper slowly with unsteady hands and took a small bite.

Morty and Summer watched in silence, not wanting to discourage him by saying the wrong thing—which with Rick could be anything—as Rick uncomfortably ate the cereal bar.

"There you fucking go." He said weakly, Throwing the now empty wrapper at Summer, but missing as it was too light to travel more than a couple centimetres, landing somewhere by his feet.

"Thank you." Summer almost whispered.

They sat in silence for a while, Morty sniffling and rubbing at his eyes and Summer shuffling a bit closer to him for both of their comfort.

Rick was sitting with his knees losely bent and his head braced in his hands, trying to overcome another hit of nausea.

He wouldn't exactly say he tried super hard to keep the cereal bar down, but it wasn't deliberate when he vomited it down the front of his shirt.

"Oh! Aw jeez..." Morty winced.

"I did warn you."

"In our defense, you had every reason to be lying to us."

"Fuck you, Summer." It sounded weak even to his own ears.

She sighed softly.

"Morty, get his shirt off. Do you have pijamas or do you sleep in jeans and a lab coat?"

"Jeans an-and a lab coat."

"...I was joking, but okay." Summer said, flipping the switch that opened Rick's garage closet and grabbing one of his sets of identical outfits.

Rick squirmed, making noises of complaint as Morty tried to take off his current shirt.

"Rick– stay still, you have vomit on your clothes."

"I'm not fucking two years old, Morty." He scowled. "I can change by myself."

Rick tried to sit up but wobbled and then slumped back against the wall, needing more time to recover. Morty reached for his shirt again and this time Rick let him pull it carefully up over his head without resisting. Morty took the new set of clothes from where Summer had left them on the floor next to him.

Summer wasn't looking but Morty still shielded Rick's body from sight with his own, pointedly not mentioning the raised scars and jagged, angry, red cuts littering his arms which he had already suspected would be there.

Rick shifted uncomfortably, seeming relieved when Morty didn't want to talk about it.

"Okay." Morty said, helping Rick pull on his clean lab coat too.

"I'm going to bed." Rick grumbled, not waiting for him to continue, just getting up slowly.

He felt weak and shaky and his brittle old bones weren't exactly helping out. Despite his thousands of cybernetic implants he was still human, much to his dismay, and he couldn't treat his body as badly as he did when he was 30. Not that that ever seemed to stop him, managing to still maintain the same shitty habits he'd had for years at the ripe age of 67.

He stumbled through the dining room, Morty and Summer trailing after him, not discouraged by the glare he sent their way.

As soon as he reached his room, he slumped onto his bed with a groan.

"R-rick?"

"Fuck off, Morty." He snapped into his pillow, a little muffled by it.

Morty hesitated, exchanging a glance with Summer, who shrugged.

"...Ookay, Rick. Uh, see– see you at dinner, today? maybe?'

"Don't count on it."

Summer frowned, Starting to say something, but Rick interrupted, "I'm gonna apply my room's Lock Protocols in ten seconds, so i-if you're still in here, I'm not letting you out until I'm done sleeping. A-a-and if you're standing in the doorway, you're gonna get fucking squashed in the doors."

"Whatever, Rick, fuck you too." Summer huffed, pulling Morty out of the doorway with her.

"Room, activate Sensory Protocol 2. And t-tell Summer to go fuck herself."

"Sensory Protocol 2 activated." Came the mechanical voice and a heavy metal door snapped shut. "Go fuck yourself, Summer."

Summer scoffed. "Dick." Followed by a sigh. "What are we gonna do?"

"I-I don't know." Morty admitted. "There's not much we can do if Rick won't accept help. And he won't."

"So what? We just give up on him?" Summer asked accusingly, putting her hands on her hips.

"No, Summer, J-jeez. I just– We're gonna have to get creative."

"Fuck."

---

thats it thats the end i didnt know how tf to end this but my goal wasnt to rewrite like the bible idfk it was just to put rick through shit and put completely unfair expectations on summer and mortys shoulders so that they could ALL suffer in this fic !! :3 also this is so mf long i sincerely apologise if u read all that

[iwoulddothingstothisman]

For the First Time I Feel

"Dude, you're fucked," Sam said right after Dean asked which fabric softener he thought Cas would like better.

"Shut the fuck up." Dean snapped back and put back the vanilla one, settling on petrichor and cinnamon.

"I don't even know if he has the same sense of smell the people do."

"I'm pretty sure he does, mainly because he said I smelt like grease the other day, he didn't even hug me!" Dean exclaimed.

"Oh no, the horror. I'm sure that means he doesn't love you anymore."

"Piss off."

Dean stalked away from Sam, leaving him in the laundry aisle. He had planned on leaving the store after that until he saw the baking aisle. How long had it been since he baked himself a pie instead of getting shitty store bought or half cold pie from dodgy service stations. With a sharp turn he went down the aisle until he found the pre-made pie shells, because he loves pie but not enough to make the shell from scratch. Next was the produce aisle, he grabbed a half dozen green apples, then a sheet of puff pastry followed by travel sized packs of cinnamon, vanilla essence and brown sugar.

Eventually Sam found him while he was lined up at the checkout waiting to cash out with a shopping basket that was 20 bucks dearer than planned. Sam simply raised an eyebrow when he saw the contents of the basket.

"What, I figured it was time I made a pie myself again. It always tastes better when you make it ya'self." Dean defended.

"If you say so." Sam agreed with a sceptical frown.

Dean was cursing up a storm in the shitty motel kitchen, he forgot to buy flour so the pastry was sticking to everything, the motel peeler was as sharp as a marble, eventually it got to the point where he asked (pleaded) for Sam to peel the last three apples for him then the shell didn't want to unstick from the plastic it was wrapped in which Dean eventually cut off. The only thing that seemed to be going right was making the syrup-eques mixture he had simmering away in a pot that was half full with water, brown sugar, cinnamon and vanilla that he was going to soften the apples in once he finally got them cut up then pour it all in the pie shell. (Please know this isn't a recipe this is just how I would assume it's done and am appropriating my apple crumble skills, if someone wants to try this please let me know how it goes.) Once he finally got the pastry strips crossed over the pie and then got the bastard in the oven he had decided he was never doing this again.

"I'm tellin' ya, Sammy, if I ever say I want to do this again I want you to laugh at me."

He set the oven timer for 45 minutes, then cleaned the mess he'd made of the kitchen and went for his shower, in an attempt to get the everything off him.

By the time he had finished and was walking out, his towel draped over his head, covering his still wet hair, the pie was done and Cas and Sam were sitting at the table chatting about art history of all things.

"Good god, I'm gone for 20 minutes and you two join the geek squad," Dean teased while glancing over to the stove top where the pie was resting.

"Says the guy that can recite Return of the Jedi right along with Mark Hamill," Sam said, rocking back in his chair.

"Shut up." He mumbled while shuffling over to press a kiss to the crown of Cas' head before checking out the pie.

"It went off just before you came out." Sam said.

Dean grabbed three plates and forks and a shitty knife from around the kitchen before cutting three slices of pie and passing one each to Sam and Cas before sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

Sam muttered his thanks before digging in and Dean was halfway through the slice when Cas spoke up.

"Dean… you do realise I don't need to eat, nor can I taste most things." He said squinting at Dean.

"I know." Dean barely looked up from his plate before replying.

"Then why did you give me some?"

"Because it would've felt weird just getting some for Sammy and I, plus maybe you might be able to taste this." Dean gave him a small smile and a shrug. This apparently was enough convincing for Cas because he dug in right after.

At first Cas couldn't taste anything, just feel the weight of the pie in his mouth and as it travelled do his throat. After another two bites however something changed. Some little part of his brain told him it was sweet. He didn't know how he knew that, he just did.

"I- I can taste it." He said in equal parts shock and delight.

"Wait seriously?" Dean perked up.

"Yes, it's sweet, right?" Cas asked.

"Yeah, it is." Dean said with a massive grin while walking over to stand next to Cas. He hesitated for a second before engulfing him in a tight hug.

All Sam could do was watch his brother's dumb boyfriend hold onto his dumber brother, he knew that things would go wrong and the happiness wouldn't last but while it did he was content to watch them relish in it. 

Is this heinously late? Yes.

Do I care? Not really.

I am going to be finishing this, it's probably just gonna take a while.

[lucystark12]

GUYS holy shit i am literally obsessed with this app good god because your theories have given me faith in good writing again AHH just like AHH hello!?!

here’s what is cannon to me about stranger things season five as of three days ago when i made my tumblr account (this is some stuff i riffed on from other theories and some things i came up with by myself):

- vecna has been singling out will from the beginning because of his connection to joyce when he was still henry creel as seen in the stranger things play

- vecna won’t be using will for the same purpose he did max and chrissy and others, he’ll be using him to turn into a second version of him, because it was henry who got sent into the upside down randomly as a little kid and got powers. will was kidnapped by henry and will be getting powers.

- vecna is going to drive will fucking insane. SO many reasons to believe this. he isn’t even going to be remotely like himself anymore, he will be so far gone. he’s not going to be evil, just like a shell of what he once was

- some of this insane driving will be done during episode four when we get the little will flashbacks.

- the reason will wont succumb to vecna is because he’s got a community of love and support. however, joyce and jonathan and el and the party won’t be quite enough to do it- it’s going to be byler that really gets will out of his trance. it’s going to be essentially a true love’s kiss situation because that’s another thing henry never had

- said kiss or confession will be done “on the other side” (a.k.a the upside down) per what was said in the bowie lyric in heroes. heroes acoustic always plays when mike loses will, and i have serious reason to believe that the actual bowie version of the song will play when we get the confession

- the painting is literally the most important part of mike and will’s entire season because the truth about it is going force mike to confront the situation in a deliberate, intentional way that he’s never had to before because before this point he’s never had will say to him specifically anything about his feelings

- as far as stancy vs jancy goes, i’d prefer jancy of course because i adore my girl nancy (look at my pfp for goodness sake), but i’m starting to think stancy is more likely. jonathan spent most of season four a little bit dumbed down by the writers unfortunately. i think they’re doing this to try and get our heads as the viewers around him not being there. i can see jonathan’s death as another way for vecna to fuck with will, and then there maybe being some kind of reconciliation plot between nancy and steve at the end of the season. i don’t know nearly as much about stancy/jancy as i do byler/mileven, so if anybody has a different perspective lmk!

- i saw a post saying alone by heart and listen to your heart by roxette will play in in this season and i kid you not both of those have been two of my favorite songs since i was like nine (emphasis on alone by heart) so like i would literally die

anyways these theories have just made me more excited for season five so it’s like omg

[roosterbruiser]

𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐕.𝐈𝐈

☾☽ 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲 "𝐑𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫" 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐬𝐡𝐚𝐰 𝐱 𝐅𝐚𝐲𝐞 "𝐂𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫" 𝐋𝐞𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫

☾☽ 𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐢𝐩𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧: It’s been almost three years since the accident that took half of her, and Faye “Clover” Ledger seems fine, really. She loves her old house, she has a perpetually expanding vinyl collection, she’s got a job she likes on base, and she is only a short drive from the beach. She’s grounded--literally. Bradley “Rooster” Bradshaw feels like he’s been homesick his entire life. He’s always on the move;  jumping from one squadron to another, living one mission to the next. Somewhere in between losing both his parents and carving a successful career as a Naval aviator, he’s never found himself a home. When a call to serve on a high-priority mission with an elite squadron brings Rooster back to Miramar, he finds that home. Except it’s not a house that he finds--it’s the former backseater that observes and records the mission for the Official Navy Record. 

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞.𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

“Tell me what you’re feeling, baby,” he commands. 

“Pressure,” I mutter, “burning.” 

He holds my hand tight--maybe tighter than he ever has before, tight like he’s afraid I’m fading. But I’m not--I’m achingly here, in this sore body as my daughter tries to untether herself from me. 

“Almost there, okay? Doing great, baby, just sit tight for me. Sit tight, baby.”

Sit tight. I hate sitting tight.

“I’m trying,” I whimper. 

He squeezes my hand. I know, baby. I know.   

Like I bumped into a switch, the pain begins again. There is no steady incline anymore, it’s just an immediate shock, reaching its peak quicker than I can even fill my lungs. 

Moaning, I sway my hips, desperate for some sort of relief from this pressure bearing so low and deep. It doesn’t help--it still feels like my whole body is going to be turned inside out, still feels like I’m going to wither away right here. 

“Do I need to pull over?” He asks this without wavering--urgent, but serious. 

“Just get there,” I moan, shaking my head. “Please.” 

I don’t even feel like myself--this pain has made me someone else, someone that is only a shell of Faye. Maybe this is when it starts; when the person I have been my entire life disconnected from who I’m about to become.  

“You tell me if we need to pull over, okay?” 

What he means is: he’ll deliver the baby himself if that’s what I need him to do. 

My spine tingles. No, no. I just want to get to the hospital, just want this to be over, just want even an edge to be taken off this pain. I just want to be done.  

“S’not in the birth plan,” I groan, burying my face in the seat. 

Even my lips are quivering.

“Fuck the birth plan,” he says, scoffing and squeezing my hand. “Fuck the playlist, too. It was mainly Bruce Springsteen anyway. Just gonna do what you need, okay? And if you need me to pull over, Faye-baby, I’ll fucking do it. I’ll do whatever you need me to do.” 

Oh, God. We haven’t followed the birth plan at all, the one we printed out and made copies of. I haven’t done any of my lamaze or affirmations. I haven’t been munching on ice chips and sipping pedialyte. There hasn’t been low lighting and soft rock playing. It’s all been a blur, every single bit of it. To think about pulling over, to think about Bradley delivering our first child on the side of the road in my car, it makes my tongue dry. 

That’s when I start crying again.

“I’m really scared,” I sob, “I’m really--fuck, oh, God--I’m-I’m, I don’t wanna have a baby in the car. Please, please, please don’t let me have her in the car, Bradley!” 

I know I sound like a child, I know it. But I can’t help it. I need to be soothed. I am a motherless child about to become a mother. And it feels like it’s going to happen right here, right now. 

“Faye, s’alright, take a deep breath. C’mon, take a breath.” 

The breath I take even hurts as it stretches my lungs. It’s a sopping and pathetic thing, quivering in my mouth. 

“Atta girl, good girl,” he soothes, “you’re gonna be just fine, alright? We’re so close, baby--just a couple minutes. Everything’s gonna be just fine. I won’t let anything happen to either of you, baby. Promise it, okay? Promise.” 

I’m in the middle of another contraction when he opens the passenger door in the hospital parking lot. He doesn’t try to interrupt it, doesn’t try to move me, doesn’t ask me to get out of the car. He leans down, kisses the top of my head, presses against my back in a desperate attempt to alleviate pressure. 

“Good girl,” he whispers against my scalp, barely audible above my low moans, “we made it, baby.”

I know he’s relieved. Entirely, thoroughly, completely relieved that he did not have to deliver olive on the side of the road.  

We leave the bags in the car. 

He tries to hurry us without dragging me along while I try to catch my breath, try to do anything except live from one endless contraction to the next, try to feel the November breeze all around me. But I feel like an ember glowing red-hot in the darkness all around us, feel like I’m going to collapse before we even make it to the entrance. 

He’s holding my waist, letting me lean against him, holding all the weight I give him. 

“Good job, baby,” he says, “almost there, so close. S’all good, we’re almost there.”

“Oh,” I cry, an unbearable pressure growing between my legs.

I want to stop--want to stop right here and make everyone come to me. But I can’t--I have to keep moving, even with the pressure, even with the agony.

“Need to stop?”

Shaking my head, I suck my bottom lip between my teeth and bite down hard enough to taste salt and metal. 

“My hero,” he mumbles, kissing my temple.

Just before we walk through the automatic doors, just before we come into this hospital as expectant parents, I tilt my head back and open my eyes for what feels like the first time since getting out of the car. There they are, just like they always have been and will be: stars. They’re twinkling, dazzling, hung very high up above in the onyx sky. 

And even though I feel like I’m being ripped apart, even though I feel like I’m about to be split in half; I feel like everything’s going to be okay. It’s a waxing crescent moon and these are the same stars Maggie looked at. This sky knows me and very soon, my daughter too. 

It feels like everything is moving at hyperspeed.

As soon as we’re through the doors of the hospital, there are a million hands on me. My temperature is being taken, my blood pressure checked, my pulse measured. I’m being pushed down into a wheelchair and wheeled down a white-washed hallway. I’m under bright fluorescents and being asked questions I can’t answer. And then we’re finally--finally--in a hospital room and I can stand up, lean against the bed, sway my hips. My eyes are still screwed closed--I don’t even know what the hospital room looks like. I don’t know how many people are in the room, but it feels like too many. I just want it to be me and Bradley, who’s holding tightly to my hips. 

“First baby?” Someone--a woman--asks. She doesn’t sound panicked--she sounds jovial. Bitch. Fucking bitch. 

“Yeah,” Bradley says, sounding tired and excited and scared, “does it show?” 

There’s a chorus of laughter as machines clatter and latex gloves snap. I was right--there are too many people in here. And even with my eyes shut, I know it’s too bright. And that awful stench is in here--like it’s so filthy that they’re masking the scent with intense cleaner and bleach. It smells sick. 

“Still alive?” Bradley coos, tucking my hair behind my ears. 

I still can’t open my eyes. I can’t move my forearms from the bed, can’t speak. 

“Barely,” I mutter.

“Doing great, baby,” he soothes, “incredible, really. They’re talking about naming a wing in the hospital after you.” 

If I could do anything except grind my teeth, I’d laugh. 

“Alright, Miss Faye, we’re gonna take real good care of you. Vitals are looking real good, just the way we like ‘em. I’m Nurse Reese and my trusty pal there is Nurse Kidrick,” a soft, feminine voice says beside me. “Dr. Sandoval is on her way up now, shouldn’t be long ‘til she’s here.” 

I nod, swaying endlessly.

“How you feel, honey?” 

There are a million words I could say right now, none of them pretty. 

“Close,” I mutter because it’s true. I feel very, very close. 

More laughter--like something is funny. Maybe something is funny and I don’t know because I am so outside of my body, so blind to anything else but pain. 

“We’ll check on that in just a minute.”

Bradley’s warm breath fans across the back of my neck.  

“So, mama--think you have it in you to change into a gown or are we getting down and dirty?” The very jovial woman asks. I think she’s Nurse Kidrick--Nurse Reese’s trusty pal. 

She lays a hand in the middle of my back; even through her latex gloves, her hand is very warm--but my skin is hot, burning hot.

“And dad--was mama wanting an epidural?” Nurse Reese asks. 

Our birth plan--we planned on one, if that’s what I wanted. But I can hardly sit still. I think it would be entirely impossible to sit still long enough for it to be administered. I think I have passed a certain point of no return, too--this pressure bearing down is too consuming to be numbed. I feel too close and I don’t know how I know, but I do know it. 

“What do you say, baby?” Bradley asks quietly, rubbing my back. “Ball’s in your court.”

I just shake my head. No, no epidural.

“You sure, honey? Hardest part is yet to come,” Nurse Reese says.  

My throat is dry. 

I could do without hearing how difficult it’s going to be from everyone. 

“She said no. She’ll just stay in her sweatshirt, too,” he tells them, his voice even and steady. I open my mouth to thank him, even if it’s just mutely, but all that comes out is a strangled moan--the pressure is overbearing, overwhelming, cruel. Bradley’s palms are warm when he lets them rest on my back, thumbs pressing into the bottom of my spine most pleasantly. “Can someone check her now, please? She said she feels close.” 

It makes my heart stutter--listening to him advocate for me, listening to him be my voice when I can’t use mine.  

“It’s like you know my next move! Let’s get you on the bed, honey,” Nurse Kidrick says, squeezing my shoulder.

The thought of moving, of climbing onto the bed, of lying on my back nauseates me.

All I can do is shake my head, sucking in a labored breath. 

Bradley sighs, combing his fingers through my hair.  

“She’s really only comfortable if she’s moving,” he tells them, pressing into my hips again. “How can we do both?” 

He’s such a leader, even when he’s vulnerable, even when he’s excited--obsessive about preservation and comfort. It makes my heart throb, makes me want to swoon despite everything. 

The nurses say nothing for a moment. All I can hear is the blood rushing in my ears. 

“I can hold you,” he tells me very seriously. “Can you do that, baby?” 

I lean back wordlessly, finally straightening my spine, and he wraps his arms around me. He’s solid behind me, more solid than anything I’ve ever leaned on in my life. His arms are strong, strong enough to hold ten of me and olive. And I just lean against him, just try to keep my breaths even despite how shallow they feel. He hooks his arms beneath my armpits, secures me against him. This is good--this feels good. I like to be held by him, like to lay my head on his shoulder and let him keep me upright. He’s so very good at it--always has been. 

One of the nurses takes my pants off, but I’m so far past the point of caring that I would be pantsless in front of the whole world and not even blink. Then they’re nudging my legs apart and I’m giving more weight to Bradley, trying to hold still when another contraction begins. 

“Atta girl,” Bradley whispers to me, “doing great, baby. Just perfect.”

The pressure is not something I feel like I’m going to live through--it’s too much, far too much. It’s so bad that it makes me want to bear down, makes me want to just push and push until I’m done and everything’s over. 

There’s a glove between my legs, pressing up and up until I gasp out. 

“Oh--you weren’t kiddin’. Close is right! Nurse Reese, would you please tell Dr. Sandoval that we’re gonna be delivering a baby in the next ten minutes with or without her?”

It prickles my skin, slaps me across the face. 

In the next ten minutes, our baby is going to be born. 

Bradley squeezes me. His heart is racing--I’m sure he’s flushed, too. He presses kisses to my temple, my cheeks. 

“Well, you sure don’t waste time, do you?” Nurse Kidrick laughs.

Something is gnawing on my brainstem--something between thought and feeling, something smarting and utterly true. It washes over me like a rainstorm. 

“Think I have to--oh, God, I think I have to push,” I cry, burying my nails in Bradley’s hands, leaning against him. 

It’s a blur: Bradley sitting on the edge of the bed and pressing my back against his chest, securing my body tight. The contractions never-ending, the pressure to push becoming almost impossible to suppress. The nurses running around, getting blankets, getting suction, getting the doctor in there. Spreading my legs, gripping my thighs, gritting my teeth. Trying to hear anything except my own heartbeat, trying to feel Bradley’s lips on the top of my head, trying to breathe. 

And I want to meet my daughter and I want to be a mother, but I’m afraid. I’m afraid that things are going to be irreversibly different and that this is the last moment in my life I’ll ever just be Faye. And I’m scared to raise a daughter without my mother and my sister. And I’m scared to rip in half and bleed out. And I’m scared that Jake is really, really hurt and things won’t ever be the same for him. I can’t say any of it, though, can’t do anything except moan and throw my head against Bradley’s shoulder. 

“Good to see you two--Faye, Bradley! Let’s make this the Bradshaw part of three, huh?”

Even with my eyes screwed shut, I know that it’s Dr. Sandoval speaking to me. She has a very deep and velvety voice, which is muffled by a mask now. I like her--I’ve always liked her. But right now I just want everything to be over and done with. And I’m tired of everyone being so chirpy--it certainly doesn’t feel like there’s anything to be chirpy about. 

“Vitals are great, no sign of infection, and her water broke at approximately seven o’clock,” Nurse Kidrick tells Sandoval. “She came in fully dilated! Barely made it!” 

There’s more conversation, but it’s drowned out when another contraction swallows me. Each one is begging me to push, bearing down low, threatening to slice me wide open. I need to--I want to, I have to. It’s just something that is. 

“Ohh,” I moan, shaking my head, biting my lip hard. 

There’s commotion and I think everyone is settling between my legs, think everyone is getting things ready for olive, think everyone is preparing themselves. 

“I know that sound,” Dr. Sandoval says. “Go on and push if you feel the urge, Faye.”

“Mama’s comfortable?” Nurse Reese asks. “This how she wants to push?” 

Bradley nods. 

“Have to,” I say, my fingers shaking.   

“Just lean into it, baby,” Bradley tells me, his breath warm. “Listen to your body.” 

God, if I wasn't in so much blinding pain, I’d laugh. Of course he knows exactly what to say; he’d better have after all the reading he did. 

But I do lean into it, I do listen to my body. I can’t do anything but. It’s just something that’s happening. And the pressure is growing, growing, growing. It’s all happening now, only ten minutes after we got to the hospital, only a few hours after my water broke. Only a few hours after we found out about Jake in North Carolina. And God, we haven’t heard anything from Admiral Byron and he was supposed to call my number, he was supposed to keep us updated on Jake--

“Focus, baby,” Bradley says quietly, kissing my cheek. If I could hold my own weight, I know he’d bring his hand to my face and smooth the crease between my brows. “C’mon, s’alright. Everything’s gonna be just fine. C’mon now--push, baby.” 

A cry rips from my throat--it’s raw, doesn’t sound like me. It pierces everyone’s ears I’m sure, that pitiful sound.  

“Good,” Dr. Sandoval praises, “keep going, keep going, keep going!” 

So I do--I hold my breath, push, ignore the searing burn.

It’s worse than getting ripped in half. It’s worse than ejecting from an F-18 and getting a concussion and broken ribs and slicing my jaw and bursting my eardrum and frost bite on my fingers and bruised vocal cords and a dislocated shoulder and a sprained wrist. It’s if someone held all that pain under a magnifying glass beneath the California sun, let it catch fire, let it all burn and wither away in a hot gust of wind. But it doesn’t hurt more than reaching the ground, doesn’t hurt more than seeing Maggie there waiting for me, her eyes wide open and unseeing. This pain is one of life--I know that. I can tell. It is a serious pain because it is going to be a serious life. 

“You’re doing it, you’re doing it!” Bradley says, lips attached to the shell of my ear. “C’mon, baby, keep going! Good job, good job!”

It’s strange--strange that this is the last time olive will be attached to me, kept entirely safe by the armor of my body. All this skin and fat and muscle and tissue that held her will never hold her again, not on the inside, not where she grew. 

“Oh,” I exhale, face hot as a kettle. I rest against Bradley’s shoulder, gulping air, trying to fill my lungs. “Mmm.” 

He’s peppering my face in kisses, the nurses are patting my thighs like they would a trusty dog, Sandoval has her hand pressed against my heat. So many people are touching me, so much is happening.

“You’re doing perfect, baby,” Bradley says, his voice teary as he brushes hair off my forehead. “M’so proud of you. Almost there, okay? Almost done.” 

This is how it goes. My feet are firmly planted on the ground, my nails permanently embedded in Bradley’s thighs, my eyes sealed shut. I’m holding my breath and pushing, moaning and throwing my head back against Bradley’s shoulder. He’s kissing my face, telling me how good I am, how perfect I’m doing. The nurses are holding my thighs and I feel like I’m genuinely being shredded. And it smells like a hospital in here so badly that it makes me ache all over.

“Take a breath,” Bradley says, pushing my hair off my face, stroking my hot cheek. “You’re doing so fucking great, baby. Take a breath. Breathe, baby.” 

The air in my lungs feels wet with sweat. 

“Good job, mama!” Nurse Reese says, rubbing my thigh. 

Nurse Kidrick echoes her statement, patting my calf. 

I feel like a farm animal. 

“So close,” Dr. Sandoval promises, her gloves bloodied. “Gimme everything you’ve got!” 

I am giving her everything I’ve got. It’s an overwhelming urge, something that I’m not even sure that I have control of. It feels like the hardest thing I’ve ever done and also something my body is doing on autopilot. 

“Trying,” I whimper, shaking my head as tears roll down my cheeks. 

I am so exhausted--so tired that I think I could fall asleep on a bed of rusty nails.

Bradley kisses my temple when I fling my head into his chest again, chest heaving, body on fire, cheeks swollen and red. His face is wet too--I don’t think he can help crying. It would be strangely dismal to watch the love of your life in agony to usher in a new, precious life.

The tears on my cheeks are fat now--if I had even an ounce more of energy, I would allow myself the luxury of sobbing openly. But I don’t--so I just lay my head there, try and catch my breath, and let the tears roll rapidly down my face. 

“You’re so close, keep going!” Kidrick exclaims. 

Bradley tenses beneath me. 

“Give her a second,” Dr. Sandoval says before Bradley can. “Let’s get her some water.”

One of the nurses brings a straw to my lip--I can hardly get myself to swallow the icy water, but I do it, collapsing into Bradley again. He strokes my hair carefully, kissing my temple again.

“Babies always come out, honey. Okay?” I think it’s Nurse Kidrick that says this, still sounding jovial as ever. 

Now I wish that Maggie was here vehemently. She would’ve been the one holding my thigh instead of Nurse Kidrick and she wouldn’t be so chirpy while I’m in the throes of labor. And if she heard Nurse Kidrick say that to me, she’d snort something bitter at her before I’d even have a chance to process her tone. 

“No shit,” I whisper, voice haggard and hardly audible.  

“You just lean on me, Faye-baby,” Bradley soothes, nuzzling his nose against me. “S’okay to cry, I know s’hard. Almost through, I promise. Almost finished.”

It is only a few minutes later that it happens.     

That little baby that was the size of an olive when I found her, that little baby that kicked Bradley’s cheek on the beach in California, that little baby that came and then stayed, that little baby that likes tea, that little baby that hiccupped and startled--they’re born at 11:59PM, slipping from my body with a final gush.

An immediate, overwhelming emptiness floods my being. I feel the precise moment that she detaches from me, separating our bodies forever. It’s the closest I’ve ever been to anyone since Maggie. 

“Oh, my God!” Bradley cries. “You did it, baby! You did it!”

My chest is heaving. My legs are shaking. 

“I did it,” I whisper, hardly audible to even my own ears.

My ears are ringing, temple pounding. Bradley’s laughing through his tears in shock, I think--kissing my face all over, never minding the sweat or tears. He’s grinning, happier than I’ve seen him all day.

“M’so fucking proud of you,” he promises. “Oh, baby, I love you s’much.”

That emptiness is freezing my fingertips. I’m not even sure my voice works anymore. It’s like a bomb went off beside my ear, shattered my body, rendered me voiceless.    

“Open your eyes, open your eyes!” Nurse Reese says, patting my thigh. 

I didn’t even realize that my eyes were closed. I do open them--and there they are, my baby. They’re a tiny, red little thing, squirming in Dr. Sandoval’s gloved hands, tiny mouth wide open. They have hair--a whole head of it. And they’re the smallest thing I’ve ever seen, glistening beneath the harsh fluorescents.  

“Oh my God,” Bradley says tearfully, kissing my temple again despite the sheen of sweat. “Oh, you did it, baby. You did it. You did so fucking perfect, baby. Oh my God!”

Dr. Sandoval doesn’t give me a choice--she reaches up and thrusts the baby into my arms. And I reach for them, pulling them up to rest on my sweatshirt covered chest, putting my palm against their head and neck and it is so strange. I think I’m in shock when their skin touches mine for the first time, when I feel that slick and soft body that I made and protected. I hold them against me, against the UVA sweatshirt that will probably be stained forever, tuck their head close to my chin. 

“C’mon,” Nurse Kidrick coos, rubbing the baby’s back, “give us a wail, honey.” 

They haven’t cried yet--God, they haven’t cried yet. 

I pat their back, blinking rapidly at the lights, at the blood on the tile, at my wobbly legs, at Dr. Sandoval kneeling between them and patting my knee.

Bradley reaches around, gives a few soft pats against their little back, coos something that I can’t hear over the blood rushing in my ears. 

“C’mon, sweet thing,” he tells them. “C’mon, let us hear it.” 

There it is--a piercing wail, one that just needed a moment. They just needed their dad to pat their back. And when I hear it for the first time, it sounds like my sister’s laugh; it sounds like those few fleeting moments of amplified static before a record starts. Like it is winding up to something bigger, like the silence is full of sound. They’re bawling--howling--into the air in this big hospital room, taking those first sweet breaths outside the womb. 

“Oh, there we go!” Nurse Kidrick exclaims, petting my hair. Her hand is still warm. “Only time you’ll wanna hear them cry, I bet!”

Nurse Reese quickly puts a pink and blue striped cotton blanket over me and olive, covers their naked body, squeezes my arm. 

“Good job, mama! Congratulations!” 

Bradley’s shaking behind me--weeping, I think. His tears are wetting my hair, his breaths wet and deep. He’s holding their back, stroking their wet skin, sniffling. 

“M’so fucking proud of you,” he praises, pressing sopping kisses to my hair and face as he sets his chin on my shoulder. “Oh my God, m’so happy, baby. Y’alright, y’okay?” 

He’s still holding me upright. My body is aching. I’m still contracting. I’m so fucking tired. My heart hurts. I wish my sister was here. And I really need Jake to be okay. But above all of that, above all the whirlwind hours we’ve lived through, I’m so fucking happy. Blindingly, stupidly happy.  

And it makes me burst into tears as I bring my lips down onto the wet hair of that precious, precious baby. My baby--my child. The first and most precious thing my body has ever made from pure, unadulterated love. Even those cries--they’re sweet. They’re perfect. 

“Hey you,” I whisper to them, tears pouring down my cheeks and onto their hair. “My little hiccup-er. Hi, sweet thing.”

“Congratulations! Glad you two made it in time,” Dr. Sandoval says, still muffled behind her mask. Her honey-colored eyes are crinkled, though--she’s smiling up at me, still on her knees in her black scrubs. “That’s a sweet baby, but goodness--they were in a hurry!” 

“Oh, you were,” I whisper to them, sniffling. “That’s okay, though. That’s alright--I was excited to meet you, too.”

Everything around us feels like white noise: the nurses shuffling around, Sandoval getting things situated, the 80s music playing at the nurses station just outside, a wailing ambulance, the flickering light in the hall, the crying, the wailing. All of the things that I hardly heard before with my eyes closed.

“Gosh, I usually ask this before, but we didn’t have the time! What are we gonna name this little girl?” 

My spine prickles. Bradley looks up at Nurse Kidrick and Nurse Reese with wide eyes, parted lips. As if we didn’t already know.   

“Wait, are they--is it a girl?” 

Nurse Kidrick is grinning. 

“It’s a girl!”

“I knew it,” I cry softly, stroking her hair. “I knew you.” 

I think I’ve known her all along.

Bradley is peppering my face with kisses, pulling me close to him, his strength not faltering once. 

“You did, baby. You’re perfect--you did so good, so fucking good. I love you, Faye,” he sobs, shaking his head. “We have a daughter!”

I can’t sleep. Even with this exhaustion that cuts to the bone, even though my eyes are aching beneath the bright lamplight, even though I feel like a washrag that’s been wrung and drained--I can’t close my eyes for even more than a minute. After all the excitement, all the measuring, all the blood, all the questions, all the praising, all the adjusting, all the moving, all the solving, all the tears, all the pictures, all the celebrating things are finally quiet now.  

It’s dark in here, the black night shining in from the bay window. There are machines and IV stands and an incubator dotted around the sprawling tile floor. The walls are a cream color with a Pepto Bismol-pink stripe running along. It’s really an ugly room, so big that it’s strange that it’s so empty, but it doesn’t bother me. This is the room where I gave birth to my first daughter and I love it for that alone, will dream of this place in terms of softness and longing. It’s a quiet room, our heavy door closed, the overhead lights turned off.  

It must be past three in the morning now, maybe even closer to four, but time feels like a silly thing right now. Time isn’t real in this big hospital room that smells too clean, on this bed with Bradley tucked beside me, in my linen pajamas. I’m warm because he’s wrapped around me and I’m nestled against his chest, the scratchy sheets pulled over us. 

If she wasn’t here against my chest, her swollen eyelids fluttered shut, then I would feel very empty still. I have held her weight with my body for such a long time, spanning out across almost an entire year. All even six pounds and eighteen inches of her. She’s in my arms now, a sweet and tiny thing that isn’t crying anymore. 

She’s sleeping, a quiet heaviness in my arms. Her little eyelids are fluttering softly, her fingers still and wrapped around Bradley’s finger. 

Bradley’s stroking my hair, which he’s been doing carefully and easily for the past few hours. He hasn’t stopped touching me at all--a hand on my hip, his forearm beneath my palms, hoisting me up with his arms around my waist, kissing my forehead. 

“So little,” I whisper--my voice is ragged from labor, tired and sagging. 

He hums and the vibrations of it on his chest ease a tense muscle in my chest, make it go slack with peace. 

“I think I’m in shock,” Bradley whispers, shaking his head. 

“Me too,” I return softly. 

He sighs, kisses my head, brings his hand down to softly cradle our daughter’s head. His hand looks so big, her head hardly even big enough to fill out his palm. And all that precious dark blonde hair, her whole head of it, is almost as tan as his skin. 

“You almost gave birth on the side of the road,” he says softly, his voice strained with disbelief and incredulity. “Baby, you almost gave birth on the side of the road.”

I’m too tired to laugh so I just smile. 

“Uh huh,” I whisper, “I was there.”

Achingly there. 

He chuckles, shaking his head. He’s stroking her forehead with that sweet thumb, a comforting and constant movement over her skin. 

“What was the rush, little lady? Couldn’t wait to meet us?”

Little lady. Our little lady. He says it very softly, his voice deep and whispered, husky and tired. I wish I could hear him with her ears; the love of a father, his words shining with devotion and awe. How lucky she is already to have him, to be stroked and touched by him.

“Jake’s never gonna live it down,” Bradley follows after a moment, chuckling dryly. 

“What?” I whisper, raising my eyebrow. 

He kisses my temple again. 

“Breaking your water,” he says softly. 

It makes me laugh--and God, it hurts to laugh. 

“S’gonna go straight to his head,” I whisper. 

He sighs--I can feel the smile tugging at his lips. 

But then a different kind of quiet falls over us, prickles our spines. Through all the picture taking and cooing and amazement, we haven’t checked our phones at all. And now we’re too busy holding our daughter, too busy memorizing her little face and gawking at her little fingernails. For all we know, I have a thousand missed calls from Admiral Byron. For all we know, Jake could be calling Bradley nonstop. It almost makes me sick to my stomach just to consider it. 

“Do you think he’s…” I’m not sure how to finish my sentence. So I just let it hang in the warm air. 

“S’okay,” Bradley whispers, pressing his nose into my cheek. “I’ll check our phones in a minute, okay? M’sure he’s just fine.” 

I have to crane my neck to look up at him, but when I do he’s already looking at me. Even in the shadows of this dark room, his eyes are wide and swimming--I think his pupils might even be heart-shaped. He’s smiling softly, his hair and mustache messy and endearing, his cheeks tear-stained and flushed. His hand stops moving--just lays to rest on the back of my head, fingers still and palm warm. 

“Hold her,” I whisper to him, nodding very small. 

His breathing hitches--his chest stutters, his mouth parts. He’s searching my face, looking for something to latch onto, but I just keep looking at his whiskey-colored eyes. They’re watery and glazed, very heavy. But he nods after a moment, tucking his bottom lip between his teeth. 

He hasn’t held her yet--no, not with all the excitement happening. She has been entirely in my arms from the moment she slipped from me and into this world. 

“Okay,” he says softly, blinking a few times. His brows furrow. “Are you sure?”

I would laugh any other time--my sweet pilot suddenly unsure and panicky at the sheer prospect of holding a tiny, six pound thing. But he’s trying to ground himself in the confines of my gaze, trying to pick out a piece of comfort from my half-shut eyelids and twitching lips. 

“So sure,” I say softly. “Like stupid, vapid sure.”

He smiles--a short and fleeting thing. He kisses me twice, patting the back of my head.

He carefully detangles himself from me, hesitantly placing his socked feet on the ground. At his full height, all that broad and tan muscle, he looks achingly good even for not having slept in close to twenty hours now. His clothes are wrinkled and unkempt, probably from bending around my frame--but it doesn’t take away even a fraction of his beauty.  

“Skin to skin, right?” He asks, like he doesn’t already know. He was the one who told me about the benefits of skin to skin as we brushed our teeth a few months ago. 

“Mhm,” I whisper.

The baby stirs. It is so strange that she is outside of my body now, so strange that I can watch her mouth move and her eyes flutter. But she’s here in my arms, a pale little thing with round cheeks and tiny heart-shaped lips that are the color of a primrose. She’s curled up into herself, even swaddled in the blanket I crocheted, just in a tiny diaper. 

Bradley leans over the bed, his sweatshirt discarded, his chest flooded with red. He kisses my temple again, squeezes my bicep. 

“Y’alright?” He asks for the thousandth time. 

I’m more alright than I’ve ever been, but also not okay at all. 

“Think so,” I whisper. “You ready?”

He nods--it’s a barely-there movement of his head, but I see it. 

He helps me sit up, taking all the weight I give him, whispering softly for me to take my time as he adjusts the pillows behind me. And then he hesitantly holds his hands out, towards her, towards our daughter. 

“Birthday girl,” I say softly, delicately ghosting my fingers over her plush cheek. 

She twitches--a quick tensing of her muscles that she hasn’t quite figured out yet. And then she whines behind her closed lips, a small and sweet sound that makes my chest ache. 

“God dammit, that was cute,” Bradley mutters, shaking his head. 

I put her in his arms very carefully--putting her little head in the crook of his elbow, letting her tiny body rest against his forearm, tucking her little blanket on my lap. 

“Like this?” He asks--like he wasn’t the only father-to-be in our parenting classes who knew to support the newborn doll’s head. 

I just nod, my arms feeling suddenly very empty, my body feeling very deflated. But how could I not smile, how could I not melt, seeing him stand beside my hospital bed with that tiny little thing against his skin? She’s so small--so small that I don’t even understand how she’s a real thing and not a doll. 

Bradley’s breathing is shallow, like he’s really trying to measure his breaths while he holds her. His arms are secure, but not too constricting as he holds her against him. He’s tense--I can see it from here, can see the stiffness of his shoulders, the crinkle between his brow. 

“Perfect,” I whisper, leaning against the mattress. “You’re a natural.”

She suddenly whines--a quiet and itty-bitty noise in her throat. But that’s enough to make his face change entirely; gone is the stress and the anxiety and in its place is a bleary-eyed grin. He moves carefully, holding her closer, relaxing his body. They melt into each other, her cheek against his chest, his hand over her little back. 

“Oh, baby,” Bradley whispers suddenly, glancing down at me with wide eyes. “I love her so much. Like I really, really love her.”    

A fist squeezes my gushing heart--overwhelms me entirely. Tears prickle my eyes and my lips are warm and swollen, my fingers very warm as they wrap around my daughter’s body. God, my whole body feels it when I cry: my aching cunt, my throbbing breasts, my empty belly. It feels like my insides have been scooped out and heaved away, but I would choose--over and over and over again--to be here in this body right now.

“She’s pretty unbelievable,” I whisper, wiping my cheeks. 

Bradley is looking down at her, face awash with love. 

“She’s just the tiniest thing I’ve ever seen in my life,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Maybe we should name her Little Bit.”

“Little Bit Bradshaw,” I whisper, shaking my head. “A little on the nose, isn’t it?” 

He strokes her cheek softly, eyebrows knit. Her skin is the softest thing I’ve ever touched in my life, like softened butter or a conditioned feather. I know that’s what he’s thinking. 

“What is your name, little bit?” Bradley asks her.

He sinks into the chair beside the bed, reclining so her little body can rest between his pecs, holding his hands over her little diaper.

“Let me know if she tells you,” I whisper. 

He smiles.

When I throw my legs over the side of the bed and sink so my feet are touching the floor, he’s eyeing me carefully from his spot. I can feel the burn of his gaze, the knit between his brow, the spring just below his feet that’s only sequestered by our slumbering daughter. 

“You be careful now, baby,” he warns quietly. “Don’t overdo it. Why don’t you wait until I’m up and I can help you--?”

I’m not overdoing it. I stood up for the first time post-birth two hours ago, clinging onto Bradley’s forearms with Nurse Reese watching closely on standby. It’s difficult and I’m wobbly, but it isn’t impossible. 

“I’ve got it,” I whisper. “Promise I’ve got it.”

A jolt of pain wraps itself around my body when I let all my weight on my feet--pain deep enough to vibrate my spine, but nothing compared to the car ride to the hospital. 

“Y’okay? Y’arlight, baby?” 

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I nod. 

“Just fine,” I whisper, shuffling towards him across the tiles. “Here.”

I lay the crochet blanket across them, carefully tucking it over her neck and across his bare arms. She’s sleeping very soundly, lulled by the beat of his heart and strength in his arms. 

Bradley’s looking up at me, chewing his bottom lip as I stroke the tufts of hair on the back of her head. Even her hair feels like a soft blanket or piece of cotton.  

“Did she tell you her name?” I ask, my voice thin.

He sighs, tucking his chin to his chest to look down at her slumbering form. 

“No,” he sighs, “she’s got a Hell of a poker face, too.”

Humming, I just nod. She is the best pain reliever I’ve ever had--all that ache fades and is replaced with unpitied warmth whenever I look at her cheek against his chest. 

“Pictures,” I whisper, shuffling over to our bags laid haphazardly in the corner. “Gotta take pictures.”

Bradley’s humming now, tucking his chin against his chest to just look at her, a fond smile tugging at his lips. He’s very softly stroking the back of her tiny neck with his thumb, making her twitch against him as she slumbers. How entirely relaxed she must be on her daddy’s chest. 

“I wanna have, like, ten of these things,” he mumbles, sighing.

My body aches in response as I dig through my purse, fishing past chapstick and tissue packets for my phone. 

“All those books and parenting classes and not one of them warned against saying that to me right now?” I mumble, shaking my head. 

He laughs. 

“You made it look easy,” he defends. I can feel his grin from here as he watches me pad around. “Rapid labor, surviving a forty-five minute car ride, pushing a baby out standing up? C’mon, it was nothing for you! Just another day for Faye Bradshaw.” 

I’m shaking my head, but I can’t fight the smile tugging at my lips. There’s a bubble of excitement in my chest, ready to burst. 

“Well, I feel like I got run over by a semi-truck,” I tell him, finally grabbing my phone.

“You’re the sexiest roadkill I’ve ever seen, then,” Bradley chortles quietly. 

I point my phone at him, my cheeks pink. 

“You really didn’t learn a thing in those classes, huh? Hey, baby--pop out nine more of my babies. You’re my little mangled raccoon.” 

Bradley’s biting his lip, a teasing gleam in his eyes. 

“Baby--please,” he starts, cocking a brow, “if you’re anything, you’re a squirrel. C’mon now!”

I have to bite my lip to keep from dignifying him with laughter. 

Then my phone vibrates. I look down at it and there they are: all those missed calls and text messages. It’s overwhelming really, how many there are. Almost seventy-four messages in the Dagger group chat, two missed calls from Bob, one from Phoenix, one from Javy. A few private texts from Bob, a couple from Penny. One missed call from Admiral Byron, I think. 

“Oh,” I breathe. 

“What is it?” 

“My phone,” I start softly, “I--there’s a lot of messages.” 

The Dagger group chat messages are mostly things that Bradley’s already read out loud to me, just everyone sending their well wishes to Jake and asking him to reach out if he needs anything. Jake hasn’t responded to any of the messages, though. Bob didn’t leave a voicemail, but both he and Penny messaged to ask if I was doing okay and asked if there was anything they could do. Javy said that he wouldn’t be able to get leave. No voicemail from Admiral Byron, though. 

It’s too late now--it’s 3:29 AM. So I pad back over to Bradley and the baby, take a few sweet pictures. It’s when I’m coming close to take a shot of his hand cradling her little head that it washes over me again: we have a daughter. The realization keeps occurring, keeps prickling my spine, keeps warming my fingers, keeps accelerating my heart. We have a daughter. I’m a mother. Bradley is a father. This is our baby.

“These are good,” I whisper, scrolling through the pictures. 

His first picture holding our daughter. Our nameless daughter. 

“I’ve got some good pictures of you on my phone,” he tells me, carefully snagging it from his pocket and handing it to me. 

His lock screen makes me smile: it’s a photo of me and him on my 29th birthday. I’m wearing his Hawaiian shirt, unbuttoned below my breasts so my belly sits out. I’m sitting on Bradley’s lap, my head tipped back in laughter and my cheeks flushed. He’s grinning at me, hand splayed over my belly, nose scrunched and cheek pressed against my chest. It’s sweet--it was a good birthday.

“Checking me out, Ledger?” 

I glance up at him. He’s smirking. 

“It’s Ledger-Bradshaw to you,” I whisper, unlocking his phone. 

He’s beaming at me, chuckling. It’s a good sound in this room that is otherwise just filled with odd beeps and distant rickety wheels and old music on the radio. 

There are a lot of pictures from today. Even a few sneaky ones I didn’t even notice--me in front of the fire, one my knees, rocking myself through a contraction. Me bent over the bed in the hospital room, clutching the sheets, eyes shut tight. Me with the sweatshirt tucked under my chin, still almost entirely naked, cradling the baby at my breast. Then there are the ones I posed for: me beaming at the camera with tears still rolling down my cheeks, holding our naked baby against me, flushed with utter joy; me finally in my linen pajamas, laying in the hospital bed with the baby tucked in my arms, my eyes very tired; me holding the baby’s nose up to mine, giving her our first ever nose kiss. 

I look tired, sure--but I also look ecstatic. I look so loved up that I couldn’t look put out if I tried, even if my eyes are closed or halfway there in most of the photographs. 

“Quite the photographer,” I whisper, scrolling through them again. 

He nods, leaning his head back against the chair. 

“Had to capture it all,” he says. “Think this has been the most precious night of my life.”

My heart stutters. Warmth floods me, coursing through me like a herd of wild hot-blooded animals. He’s right--that’s what this night was. It was terrifying and agonizing and difficult, but above all else it was precious. 

“Yes,” I whisper finally, trying to make my voice even. “Me too.”  

“You really are my hero,” Bradley says softly after a beat. “Not kidding around ‘bout that, baby.” 

Humming, I shake my head. 

“I’d do it again,” I tell him, which I think is true. “If it meant I could have a billion of those babies.”

I’m telling the truth--which makes the vein across my nose throb, makes my breasts feel even heavier, makes lightning strike my deflating belly. Stupid, stupid woman.  

He’s smirking--I know what he’s going to say before he says it. 

“Don’t,” I warn softly, yawning.

Bradley grins, yawning too. Bradley jolts suddenly, glancing down at the baby, his face awash with the gushiest expression of devotion I’ve ever seen.  

“She just fucking yawned,” he whispers, shaking his head in disbelief. “Oh, my God--Faye, I think my heart is genuinely going to explode.”

Frowning, I step closer. He reaches out without breaking his gaze from her slacked face and hooks his arm around my thigh, pulling me close.  

“I missed it,” I whisper.

Her first yawn and I was across the room--not even looking at her.  

“Yawning is much more common in newborns,” he tells me very seriously. “I’m sure it’ll happen again tonight, even. Don’t fret, baby.” 

The books. 

“Still not sure if you were made in a lab,” I mumble, rubbing my eyes. “Too perfect sometimes.”

He sighs, glancing up at me. There’s a smile tugging at his lips. He looks very prideful right now, like he has nowhere else in the world he would rather be than right here with this sweet baby in his arms in that terrible chair. 

“Mmm, let me show you my favorite picture, sleepy mama.” 

He scrolls for only a moment, squinting at the light of his phone, humming very softly. His thumb is still stroking the baby’s head very gently, a careful sweeping motion across her tiny neck and over her light hair. It’s already so second-nature for him, even if he’s distractedly searching through his phone’s gallery, even if he’s trying to show me something else.

When he hands the phone to me again, his cheeks are pink and his smiling lips are wet. Fuck, he looks beautiful here--even in this poorly lit hospital room with no sleep and messy hair and wrinkled clothes. 

“This one,” he whispers, nodding. 

It knocks the breath out of my lungs when I take the phone into my hands. It’s the photographic equivalent to the calm after the storm: I’m lying in bed in my pajamas, the baby laid out before me on my thighs. I’m grinning at her, tears still rolling down my cheeks, but am none the wiser that Bradley was taking a picture. I look tired and lovesick--my eyes are drooping, my shoulders are sloped, my skin is flushed, my tears are fat, my lips are molded around my teeth, my chest is heavy, my hands are delicately grazing the baby’s belly.

“Why this one?” I ask as I lean over and stroke his hair. 

He lets the weight of his head press into my fingers, a low moan sounding in his throat. His hair is soft and unkempt--very soft beneath the pads of my fingers.  

“Y’look like a mom,” he whispers simply.

I do look like a mom: tired and lovesick.

“M’always gonna look like a mom now, I reckon,” I whisper to him. 

His smile is bright. 

“Lucky me.” 

My exhaustion is so thorough that even just combing through his hair makes me want to fall asleep standing up. That repetitive, sweeping motion and the soft locks between my fingers--it’s making my chest grow heavy.  

“Send a picture,” Bradley says suddenly, smiling up at me, his eyes teary. “Surprise everyone.”

It tickles me--the thought of everyone waking up to a picture of me holding a baby in a hospital room. Surely, Bob would call early in the morning anyway to check in on me and find out then if his sixth sense isn’t already tingling. And maybe this is what everyone needs after the fitful night of rest everyone surely got. Maybe it will even raise Jake’s spirits.  

So I do send a picture; one where I’m smiling and there’s not very much blood and the baby is still pink from birth. I caption it very simply: Here’s a 6lb, 18in surprise for your Monday morning! It’s a girl and she didn’t come with a name--all suggestions welcome! 

“Baby,” Bradley says quietly. 

I’m still swaying on my feet, brushing his hair. 

“Hmm?” I ask with my eyes closed. 

“Do me a favor and go to bed,” he says softly. “Not gonna be long until she needs another feed and you’ve gotta get some rest before then, okay, baby? I’ve got it--I’m gonna stay up. You just rest, alright? Sleep.”

“Pictures,” I just whisper to him, settling our phones on the arm of the chair. “Don’t wanna miss anything, okay? Please.” 

He turns his head swiftly, kisses my fingers, nuzzles his nose against my palm. 

“You have my word, Faye-baby. Sleep. You deserve it.” 

When I wake up, I’m not sure what time it is. There is yellow sunlight drenching the room, the plasticky curtains pulled back and tied to reveal the wispy clouds drifting across the cyan sky. There are those terrible hospital noises all around me still: the beeping, the monitoring, the crying, the music, the distant sound of a rumbling ice machine. 

I turn my cheek, squinting at the sun, and that’s when I realize it: I’m alone in the room. The chair beside the bed where Bradley had been just before I fell asleep is completely void of him or the baby, the only indicator of their presence the crochet blanket left in a heap on the cushion. 

Not only am I alone, but my chest is wet, my nipples throbbing. I’m leaking, have drenched the linen pajama top and part of the scratchy sheet. Here on my chest is direct evidence of the baby I birthed hours ago, but she is nowhere to be found. 

“Oh,” I whisper, gripping the bed rails and hoisting myself up. 

Fuck--pain is still radiating through my entire body. Sleep did little to relinquish the ache in my bones and my belly and my cunt, but at least my eyes aren’t so heavy now. Blindly, I reach for my phone, pulling it into my grasp and standing up. 

Oh--there it is. 

Tramp: Hoping you don’t wake up before we’re back, but in case you do--everything’s good. They’re giving Little Bit the run-around, but she’s being a trooper. Real Sophie’s choice deciding between staying with you or going with her. Figured you’d want me to stick with her, though. Love you, mama! 

Okay. Okay, everything is okay. I just have to change clothes. 

It’s only a little past eleven when I settle back in the hospital bed in a pair of cotton pajamas, chest dry but still aching. It’s good to sit--makes the air in my lungs not feel so entirely thick.

It feels like I have a thousand missed calls and messages when I finally open my phone again. Congratulating, cooing, crying, calling--everyone is ecstatic. While I was sleeping, Bradley sent a few more pictures of her and told everyone that I was just fine. There’s texts from Cyclone, Maverick, Penny, Amelia, Warlock--everyone. Bradley was busy while I was sleeping--I’m sure he made a dozen phone calls and took a million pictures. 

But now that I’m here, all alone in this brightly-lit ugly hospital room, that queer strangeness has crept back into my body. I know there’s life happening all around me, I know Bradley and the baby are somewhere down the hall, I know that I could call anyone and they’d drop everything to talk with me. But this emptiness, this aloneness, can’t be subdued from a phone call. My sister isn’t here to sit with me while Bradley stays with the baby. Neither is my mom or my dad. No in-laws, either. It’s just me here in this room with an agonizingly empty belly and swollen breasts. Maybe this is what motherhood feels like; bringing a baby into the world through sheer grit and bloody strength then sitting alone in a quiet room in soaked-through pajamas. 

That’s the precise moment that my phone rings--just as I tip my head towards the drop-ceiling and start counting the tiles as gloom carves a hole in my chest and makes a nest below my heart. It’s burrowing deeper and deeper as I blindly reach for my phone, sniffing hard as I answer and bring it to my face without checking the caller ID.

“I’m fine,” I say to Bob, closing my eyes. “Were your spidey-senses tingling?” 

There’s a quietness on the other line--a hollow sounding one. 

“Not Bob,” Jake says softly. “Sorry to disappoint.” 

I shoot straight up in the bed, spine stiff, fingers numb with cold. My heart is hammering and I let it because I don’t have to think about it hurting olive anymore. My body is mine again. It’s mine to let go stiff with panic, mine to let my belly turn. 

“Oh,” I whisper, running my hand over my face. “You son of a bitch.” 

He huffs out a breath--something close to a laugh, but not quite. Even just that sound, that little human sound, is so good to hear. The gloom is beginning to retreat, replaced by something between relief and regret.

“It’s good to hear your voice, kid. Really.” 

I’m shaking my head even though he can’t see me. 

“You scared me,” I say, hardly audible. “Jake, you really, really scared me.” 

“I know,” he whispers. “I know. I’m sorry, Faye.” 

I shake my head, sighing. 

“Don’t say sorry to me. Don’t be sorry at all,” I tell him. A beat passes before I continue. “I’m not gonna ask if you’re okay. But are you surviving?” 

It’s what I wish people would’ve asked me when I lost Maggie. I had to keep telling people that I was okay because that’s what they wanted to hear. There’s no room for honesty when you’re trying to appease someone’s guilty conscience. People can’t begin to understand the intricacy of seeing death so up close, of losing someone so achingly near--and they don’t want to. 

“Kinda,” he returns, sucking in a sharp breath. I’m imagining him adjusting on the hospital bed, his complexion pasty in whatever terrible gown they have him in, his hair unusually unkempt, his eyes glassy. I’m sure he hurts all over--just like I do. “But not very well.” 

I let another beat pass. 

“Are you in pain?” I ask even though I already know the answer.

“Yeah,” he answers gruffly. “Are you?” 

Boy, am I. 

“Definitely,” I mutter. 

There’s a bit of shuffling, a few sniffles. Maybe he’s trying to get comfortable on the hospital bed with all his injuries, trying to adjust. It’s fruitless, I’m sure; there’s no way of getting comfortable with his leg in a cast, with the three-to-six months he’ll have to spend on the ground stretching out before him defiantly.

“Aren’t we a pair?” He asks, a humorless laugh falling from his mouth. 

Swallowing hard, I nod. I feel like he can see me somehow all the way from Greensboro.  

“You had a baby,” he says quietly after a moment. 

It chokes me up. I have to take a deep breath before I respond, blinking at the sunshine. 

“I did,” I return in a hushed tone. 

He grunts in response. 

There are a million and seven things we should be saying to each other--but I’m not sure where to begin. I’m looking at this thing between us, this thing that’s been here since he said what he did, and trying to pinpoint any weak spots. I’m trying to find the best place for me to press my thumb into the tissue, the bruise on the apple, the pulpy piece of skin. 

I think he is, too. 

He takes a shuddering breath. 

“I know things have been weird between us,” he starts, his voice thick with upset, “and I know that me getting hurt doesn’t magically fix-fix everything, kid. But I’ve had a really, really shitty couple a’days. And you don’t owe me anything, nothin’ at all, but think you’ve got it in you to tell me all about your day? Tell me all about that baby, Faye.” 

This is a good place to start--this feels familiar. He’s not pushing and I’m not pulling.

There are already tears rolling down my face and I don’t move to wipe them away. They’re warm--they make my cheeks warm. 

“Well,” I start softly, trying to add a chipper edge to my flat voice, “Sunday was uneventful. The usual farmer’s market run, cat-nap, and bath situation. I was so pregnant that everyone’s telling me their horrific birth stories--unprompted. And everyone’s telling me that if I take a spoonful of castor oil, the baby’ll slip right out. Everyone wants to cop a feel, everyone has something to say. Nothing out of the ordinary.” 

Jake hums. I know he’s crying, too. I won’t say anything about it, though. 

“Then I got a phone call from a North Carolina number around dinnertime,” I’m treading very lightly as I say this, careful not to bring up everything he’s lost since yesterday. “Byron said I was your emergency contact.” 

He shifts--I can hear the rustling of the sheets and the grunt in his throat. 

“Only number I have memorized,” he says softly. “I’m sorry.” 

Sighing, I let my eyes fall shut. They’re swollen from crying, probably rimmed in pink. 

“Oh, don’t be. Don’t be.” 

My heart is aching inside my chest--I’m the only number he has memorized? Out of every single person on the planet--his family, his friends, his coworkers, his romantic partners--I’m the only number he’s ever cared to memorize? 

The vein across my nose is pulsing now.

“You’re not upset?” He sounds dejected. 

“No,” I whisper. “I’m not upset. I’ll be your emergency contact.” 

He doesn’t say anything--nothing at all--but when he sucks in a quiet breath and sobs into his fist very wetly, I can hear it. I know he doesn’t want me to hear it, know that he wants to keep it to himself, know that he wants me to just keep talking. So I do--for him, for myself. 

“Well, the phone call was upsetting. Upsetting enough to break my water,” I laugh softly. I suck in a breath, brows coming together as I reminisce on the start of my labor--which feels like more than sixteen hours ago. “It was a quick labor.”

He sniffles, sighing. 

“Didn’t suffer, did you?” 

 “Oh, I did,” I say. It’s quiet on the other end for a moment. “Was a great distraction, though.” 

He laughs--a wet kind of sad laugh.

“No shit,” he whispers, clearing his throat. 

“Almost gave birth in the car,” I tell him, sighing. 

He chokes--sputtering for a moment. 

“Faye, you didn’t,” he says softly, incredulous. 

“Very nearly did. Bradley was asking me if he needed to pull over. It was--it was scary. I was scared. Didn’t know if we’d make it.” 

It sounds very serious suddenly--having babies. It was precious, really; something I know that I will do as many times as I can. But it was the most frightening car ride of my entire life. The fear was thick like molasses slathering my body on my knees in the car late last night. 

“But you did, right?”

“We did,” I sigh, wiping a tear from my chin. “Just in the knick of time. She was born maybe twenty minutes after we got to the hospital.” 

“How’d Bradshaw fair during the whole thing?”

I roll the sheets between my fingers, breasts growing heavy at the sound of his tearful voice. The baby will need to feed soon--or I might burst. 

“Perfectly,” I breathe, pursing my lips. “Overachiever.”

He snorts softly. I can imagine him rolling his eyes, shaking his head. 

“Of course,” he mumbles. “And you’re--you’re okay, kid?” 

A fist holds my heart as my spine prickles.  

What a question. 

“Think so,” I whisper--my voice cracking. “I mean, it happened so fast. I was in labor for five hours and some change. Didn’t have a whole lot of time to process what was happening--was just kind of experiencing it.”

He grunts, sighing. 

“You’re tough, kid,” he tells me softly.

“Found that out the hard way,” I whisper. 

My palms are sweating.  

“I’ve always known that.” 

Biting my lip hard, I sit up a little straighter, glancing at the door that is cracked. No sign of Bradley or the baby. God, I miss them--can feel the ache for them in my bones. 

“She’s perfect,” I tell Jake softly. “I know all parents say that about their baby, but I’m telling the truth. She’s just--mm, she’s everything.” 

“The pictures I saw were sweet--she does look perfect,” he says. “You don’t look too bad yourself either, kid.” 

I scoff.

“Oh, please,” I whisper. “I haven’t washed my face or brushed my hair. And I’m covered in milk.” 

There’s another laugh--a louder one, a better one. But then he groans. 

“Hurts to laugh,” he mutters. 

“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my lip. 

He hums. 

“Don’t be.” 

There’s another moment of quiet between us--neither of us doing anything except breathing and brushing rolling tears off our cheeks. I wish so vehemently that he wasn’t alone right now--that when we get off the phone, he’ll have a hand to hold his. 

“Faye,” he finally says, voice thin. 

“Jake,” I whisper. 

There’s a harsh noise--a sharp intake of breath, a quivering kind of noise. 

“I’m so fucked up right now,” he chokes out. “I-I don’t know what to do.” 

My heart is sitting in a heap in my belly, swimming in cold dread for Jake. I know what he feels like--how is he going to move on, much less move forward? He is maimed physically, emotionally, mentally, personally. It’s not just the concussion and the broken bones--it’s the life that was stolen fifteen thousand feet above the ground, the Blue Ridge Mountain sitting in its path. 

“How would anyone know what to do?” I ask quietly. “You’re doing what you can and you’ll keep doing what you can.”

He’s openly sobbing now--the sound is a wretched one. It’s wet and snotty and deep, vibrating his body. His ribs must be aching right now, his whole body must be aching right now. 

“Oh, God,” he weeps. “Faye, I--I don’t know what I’m gonna do. I fucking--I fucking, I just--!” 

“Jake,” I soothe softly, swallowing hard and steadying my voice, “whatever you do, you’re not going to do it without me. I’m here--we’re all here--and we’re not going anywhere.” 

He’s still weeping, but it sounds less grueling now. 

“Faye,” he cries softly. 

It’s like my name is some sort of desperate call. 

“Just breathe,” I tell him, taking a deep breath myself. “You’re gonna hurt yourself, cowboy.” 

It takes a long time for his breathing to return to normal. He cries for a very, very long time. I stay on the line, pressing the phone to my cheek, letting my eyes fall shut. I try to ignore the heaviness in my chest--but it is starting to ache severely, especially hearing his tears over the phone. 

When it gets quiet again, when his breaths are more or less even, when I can hear the heart monitor that is attached to him--that’s when my face goes slack finally. There are still many, many things we’re going to have to say to each other eventually. But right now, the day after my daughter was born and the day after his accident, this is enough. We can let time pass now. 

“You call me later, okay?” 

He sniffles again. 

“I will,” he promises. 

“You’re not alone,” I tell him. “We’re here.” 

“Thank you,” he whispers. After a moment, he continues. “Faye?” 

“Yes, Jake?” 

He sighs. 

“Congratulations, kid. She’s perfect.”

That’s the precise moment that the door opens , the precise moment Bradley and the baby walk back through the doorway. Bradley’s beaming, cradling her in his arms, speaking to her very softly. He’s even walking with a bounce in his step, stroking her cheek. His cheeks are pink, his frame dwarfing her tiny body. 

“Thank you,” I choke. “You get some rest now, okay?” 

Bradley looks up at me, eyebrows knit. 

I hang up, let my phone fall to the mattress. 

“Missed you two,” I say and I’m suddenly crying again, reaching out for Bradley and the baby. “Don’t leave me again, okay?”

“Not gonna leave you again,” he whispers softly, his voice gruff. “M’sorry, baby. Thought you’d want me to go with her.”  

Bradley’s brows are sloped, his lips suddenly turned towards the white tiles.

“I did--I do. I’m glad. I just don’t wanna be alone,” I cry, wiping my cheeks. “And I’m leaking.”

He’s nodding already, swiftly coming to my bedside, very carefully handing me Little Bit. God, just holding her in my arms again--it makes the tears multiply. Her heaviness is such a sweet one, something that I shouldn’t have been able to live without before. She molds into my arm very easily, little eyes cracked, her fluffy hair resting in the crook of my arm. Her tiny pink lips are parted, opening and closing carefully. 

“M’sorry, baby,” Bradley whispers, smoothing my hair and pressing a few kisses to the top of my head. “You won’t be alone again, okay? Passed all her tests with flying colors. Said she was the best baby they’ve ever had. Slept through her hearing screening.” 

A laugh bubbles up in my chest--but then it’s replaced with something that feels very familiar to guilt. She’s been on this earth for eleven hours and I was asleep for eight of them. I’ve missed so much already--so many yawns, so many noises, her newborn screening, her stretches, a few feedings. And it just makes me cry harder when she grunts mutely in my arms, nuzzling against my chest.

Bradley wipes my cheeks and nose, pressing his thumbs beneath my eyes. He’s still kissing the top of my head, stroking my hair. 

“What’re the tears for, baby?” He asks carefully.

I’m struggling to unbutton my shirt while holding her, my fingers fumbling. 

“I feel like I’ve missed so much,” I cry, shaking my head. A tear falls on her head and it makes me cry even harder as I thumb it away. She doesn’t seem to notice, doesn’t seem to mind. She’s just blinking up at me, trying to find my breast.

Bradley chuckles. It makes my spine frigid. 

“Honey, you were sleeping. You have to sleep.”

“You didn’t sleep,” I hiss tearfully, still trying to unbutton my shirt. 

He nods, softly pushing my fingers away and carefully unbuttoning my shirt. He does it in one go, doesn’t fumble at all. 

“I didn’t push the baby out,” he reminds me. “You needed to sleep.”

He softly pushes the shirt away from my chest, coaxing it down my shoulder.  

God, even my breast is weeping. It’s swollen and hard, the ache deep and almost nauseating. But she finds it almost immediately, latching as I cup myself. It’s a strange sensation still, foreign enough to make me pull into myself but relieving enough to make my head fall into the pillow behind me. 

Bradley sits on the edge of the bed, stroking my hair, gaze fixed on the baby’s suckling mouth and puffed cheeks. I’m still crying--can’t stop it, can’t help it. 

“I woke up alone,” I whisper, blinking at the ceiling. “And I’d leaked all the way through my shirt. It was weird to feel in my body that I had a baby, but not see her. Made me sad.” 

Bradley tuts, scooting closer to me, cupping my cheeks. He looks tired--his eyes drooping, his mustache uncombed, his lips chapped. But drenched in the afternoon sun, he still looks so beautiful, more beautiful than I’ll ever be or ever have been. Even with his brows furrowed and a frown planted firmly on his lips, he’s beautiful.  

“M’so sorry, baby,” he coos, shaking his head. “Don’t want you to wake up alone. Should’ve woken you up.” 

I tut now, sighing. 

“No, you didn’t do anything wrong. You never do anything wrong. It’s just--maybe everything’s catching up with me now. And-and Jake called.” 

He’s stroking my cheek with the rough pad of his index finger, nodding, kissing my nose. He pinches a fingerful of snot from my top lip and says nothing when I narrow my eyes at him. 

“Are you okay, Faye?” 

I’ll always be Faye first to him--even now, even as I feed our daughter from my breast in this hospital room. 

“I don’t know,” I whisper. 

Because, really--I don’t. I feel like I’m standing at the bottom of the ocean and things keep passing by me overhead, too far above for me to touch, just far away from me to still see. Things are unclear and dizzying--nothing is simple right now, nothing at all.

He nods. His jaw is squared, but his eyes are soft. He silently turns from me, letting his hand fall from my face. I’m shaken for a moment--reeling at the loss of his skin on mine. But then the baby is whining very quietly against my breast, her little hands curled up by her belly. 

There’s a heavy sound--Bradley’s shut the door. He takes his shoes off, moves the wet sheet I pooled at the bottom of the bed to the hamper. He pads around the room, refilling my water bottle, slipping into a hoodie, grabbing another blanket. Then he comes back to the bed, very softly hooking his arms beneath my knee and around my back to pull me to one side of the bed. He crawls in beside me, nudges my head against his chest and tangles his hand in my hair. 

“I love you so much,” he tells me, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Now, what do you wanna listen to?” 

Before I can answer, he brings the water bottle to my lips and tells me to drink as he tilts it back softly. He swipes a bead of water from my chin, kisses my temple, and brings the blanket over us. 

“Let’s listen to that labor and delivery playlist,” I say as he thumbs the last of my tears. 

He grins. 

“Good choice, mama,” he laughs. 

Born in the U.S.A. by Bruce Springsteen floods the echoey hospital room. 

I’m laughing then--it just bursts out of me as easily as the tears did. Bradley’s beaming, too, pulling me back against him. He’s as solid as he’s ever been, cradling me and our daughter alike. 

“Oh, you’re ridiculous,” I mumble, sniffling. 

“She was born in the U.S.A., baby,” he defends, chuckling. “How could I not?” 

Even right now--I feel so much better. The ache in my breasts has dulled. My tears have dried. My baby is back in my arms. Bradley is lying just beside me, holding me. It’s warm beneath the blanket, warm beside Bradley.

It’s only a few quiet minutes after that when the baby turns her cheek away from my breast, moving her mouth lazily, her eyes heavy. Bradley is quick to button my shirt as I bring the baby to rest on my chest, lying back against the mattress.

It’s one of my favorite things in the world, I think--holding her like this on my chest. She’s so very docile, so very calm when she lays atop my breasts and listens to my heartbeat. It must be such a familiar sound to her--those beats I tried to keep steady for her, this body that she grew inside of. She’s pulled into herself, little red cheek squished against my sternum as she blinks at Bradley.

I pat her back very softly, smoothing my fingers across her little shoulder blades and kissing the tufts of hair on her head. She’s very warm, very soft--she smells like Bob. A freshly-washed baby. And it makes something swell up in my body, something big and good and happy. I’ve known her all along. 

Bradley’s staring at her, a grin tugging at his lips. 

“She used to be the size of an olive,” he whispers incredulously, exhaling. 

He kisses her wrinkly little forehead, his mustache making her grunt softly. 

But something tingles in my toes when he says it: olive. That’s what we’ve called her all along, what I’ve called her in all my thoughts, what I’ve called out in my dreams of her. She’s our little olive. That’s her name. 

“Olive,” I parrot, glancing at Bradley with wide eyes. 

He looks at me for a moment, lip tucked between his teeth. He registers it with a crinkle between his brow, glancing back down at the baby’s face, gingerly putting his pinky finger in her palm. All five of her perfect fingers wrap around his finger reflexively--he nearly melts. 

“Olive,” he whispers to her. Then he beams, nodding. “Olive.”

We have a name for her--we finally have a name for her. Our little Olive Maggie Bradshaw, born just before midnight and almost in the car. 

“Sweet thing,” I mumble to her. “Sweet little Olive-baby.” 

November 17th, 2021

The fire emanates a sweet heat in the dark living room, crackling and popping softly. The sun is low in the west, painting the sky a most delicate shade of marigold. It’s cold outside now; cold enough for Bradley and I to wear sweaters and thick socks around the house. Beside the fire, Buttercup is curled up with her snout angled towards my seat on the couch. Stevie is perched at the top of the stairs, licking her paws, preening. And Marmalade is standing watch at my feet with her clumsy little puppy paws firmly planted on the hardwood. 

I think I could stay in this exact spot forever. The couch is plush, so plush that I sink into it every time I breathe too deeply. And my body, though still sore but healing rapidly, is greedily accepting anything soft against it. And the sweater and cotton pants I’m wearing are direct proof of this. 

It’s quiet in here for the most part--a lull that fell over the expansive living room somewhere between Olive’s feed just a few minutes ago and the dinner we had delivered. Everything feels right: my body is clean, my clothes are free from spit-up, my breasts aren’t aching, and Olive is safe and sound. But I know this time is fleeting in some senses; come the end of the month and Bradley won’t be here all hours of the day anymore. He’ll be back on base, instructing and flying. Only a little while longer of this peace, this beautiful quiet. 

“Don’t go back to work,” I say quietly, sighing at Bradley.

He glances up at me, a frown tugging at his lips, his whiskey-colored eyes wide and swimming. Maybe it’s a cruel thing to say to him--but I can’t help it.    

“I’m gonna quit my job,” Bradley whispers from the piano bench, holding Olive’s sleeping form on his forearms. He carefully strokes her head, little hairs under his big thumbs. 

Smiling, I pull my legs up to myself and nod. I pet Marmie’s head softly, scratching behind her ear. 

“Okay,” I whisper. “Money-shmoney.” 

Bradley’s face is awash with love and firelight. I know because it is how he looks at me--how he’s always looked at me. His eyes are very soft as he gazes down at our daughter, his lips smiling. It’s how he always looks at her--even when it’s three in the morning and she’s been cluster feeding all night, even when it’s her third soiled diaper in two hours. He is thoroughly in love with her. 

 “We’ll charge Hangman rent,” he says teasingly, eyes flickering to mine. They linger there for a moment, gauging the smile tugging on my lips and the blush on my cheeks. 

“You’re a mean daddy,” I whisper, shaking my head. “He’s a guest.”

He turns, carefully cradling Olive--who only whines softly in return--and presses down on a few keys. She doesn’t stir; she likes music, likes loud noises. She’s definitely my daughter. The notes he plays are close to resembling a song, but stunted by the use of only one of his hands. 

“What do you think, Olive?” He asks her softly, pressing down on a few more keys sporadically. “Think Uncle Bagman is gonna change any diapers?” 

The notion makes me smile. As if. 

“What’s she think?” I ask. 

Bradley turns his ear to her little mouth, furrowing his brows and nodding. Then he looks back up at me with a sly smile. 

“Said she thinks we oughta put him on the night shift,” Bradley smiles. “Sorry, Jake. She calls the shots around here. Olive leads with an iron fist.”

From the other end of the couch, with his casted foot propped up on Stevie’s favorite ottoman, Hangman just shakes his head softly. His eyes are closed, head resting on the back of the couch, and he’s smiling very faintly even though it’s almost time for another dose of his pain medication. We’re sharing a blanket, draped lazily across my feet and his thighs. 

“Having a baby has somehow turned you into a bigger goofball than you already were,” Jake sighs, peering at Bradley through half-shut eyes. “Which I didn’t think was scientifically possible.”

Bradley’s just grinning, cheeks pink. 

“Like you’d even give up the night shift anyway,” I smile softly, gaze fixed on the top of Olive’s head in the crease of Bradley’s arms. 

Bradley likes the night shift--already out of bed and hovering Olive’s bassinet at the first sound of crying, cradling her against his bare chest. He changes the diapers without complaint, kissing her palms and her little fingernails. And when she’s hungry, he’s gentle with me: helping me sit up, pressing kisses to my face, unbuttoning my shirt, letting me rest against him. He’s fallen into everything very easily, like I knew he would. 

“She’s right,” Jake says softly, eyebrows raised.

When I move to put my feet on the floor and Marmie bumps into the couch in excitement, Jake winces. Leaning over, I hold his wrist, squinting at his watch. It’s almost seven.  

“Want another dose?” I ask softly, patting his hand. His skin is hot, but he is relaxed beneath my touch. 

He nods, his jaw squared. 

“I’ve got it, baby,” Bradley tells me softly, padding across the room to put Olive in my arms. He kisses the top of my head before wandering into the kitchen with a smile lingering on his lips. 

Olive’s waking up; slow-blinking up at me, shaking her head jerkily, yawning. She stretched her little arms and legs, whining out as I press her against me, humming. And feeling my skin and the vibration of my voice, she settles instantly.

“Look at those eyes,” I whisper, very softly stroking her pink cheek. “Hi, Ollie. Hi, baby. Look at you--so awake, aren’t you? Big girl.” 

She focuses on my face, those hazel eyes glowing in the firelight, her lips parting to yawn again. My heart squeezes deliciously--so deliciously that I’m afraid I’m going to snuggle her too hard or hold her too close.

“Oh, you’re so pretty,” I whisper to her, nuzzling her nose against mine. “So sweet and so little.” 

Glancing at Jake, I’m taken back when he’s already facing me. No doubt that he’s in pain--he’s only been here for a few days, but it’s easy to tell when his entire face is eaten by a grimace. There are cuts and bruises littering his face--the worst of which situated just above his left eyebrow; a nasty gash held together by two stitches. Despite the crinkle between his brows and the tight line of his lips, his eyes are soft as he gazes down at Olive. 

“Thinking about how having a baby has made me too gushy?” I ask softly. 

His eyes flicker up to meet mine and the crease between his brows dissipates entirely. 

“No,” he tells me, shaking his head. “Motherhood looks good on you. Natural.”

My heart constricts. 

“Thanks,” I say quietly. “She’s made it easy.” 

He hums, nodding, leaning over very carefully to look at her. I sit up so he can come closer to her. He’s straining--I know that it hurts to bend with his broken ribs. So very softly, I press my shoulder against him and brace myself against his weight. Silently, he allows it--sighs audibly when his muscles go slack. 

“She’s pretty perfect,” Jake admits, shaking his head. “When’s she gonna start doin’ stuff?” 

Stroking her cheek, I hum. She’s falling asleep now, her eyes heavy and blinking slowly. 

“A while,” I sigh. “She’s still adjusting to life on the outside.”

Jake sighs, growing heavier against me. 

“Aren’t we all?” 

We both laugh--wincing in tandem. 

He clears his throat, moving to press his index finger in Olive’s palm--she wraps her fingers around him safely. This pleases him, I think--I can feel the smile growing on his lips. 

“Bob gonna be pissed I got to meet her first?” He asks. 

Yes--he is. But he won’t say a word about it, not when Jake is injured, not when Jake’s here for the foreseeable future and grounded indefinitely. Bob will smile with tight lips until he gets Olive in his arms--then he’ll go completely slack. He’ll melt when he meets her, which is something I just know indefinitely. 

“It’s Bob,” I whisper, shrugging. “Of course he is.” 

Bradley pads back into the room with a closed fist and a glass of water. 

“Uncle Bagman,” he says softly, dropping the pills in Hangman’s open palm before handing him the water. 

Jake rolls his eyes. 

“Please,” Hangman starts after swallowing the first pill, “just call me anythin’ except that.” 

Bradley pats Marmalade before he moves to sit beside me kissing Olive’s head softly. 

“No can do,” Bradley sighs, grinning at Jake, stroking her little fingers still wrapped around Hangman’s. “Talk to the boss.”

Olive is a good sleeper--especially at night. She sleeps soundlessly in the bassinet in our bedroom, swaddled tightly and carefully by Bradley. She’s such a good sleeper that we merely leave the door open when we shower, ears open for any sound beside the music playing lowly from my phone or Buttercup yawning at the door. 

Forever by The Little Dippers is playing now. 

I know he’s tired, too. If not because his affection for taking the night shift with Olive and insisting upon being there for every feed and diaper change, then because it’s rather difficult to get Jake settled in the office at night. Not because of Jake, of course--who stoically grips Bradley’s shoulders as I help to situate him on the bed we moved into Bradley’s office. The office, which was almost entirely ornamental anyway, is Jake’s makeshift bedroom while he stays with us. He still can’t do stairs--won’t be able to for quite some time. Although Jake’s been nothing but stoic and grateful since flying in from Greensboro, offering to help where he can when he can, I know this is going to be a long and hard process. If not because of the physical therapy and the healing and the casts and the check-ups, then because I’m not sure Jake remembers what it’s like to not be a pilot. 

When we first brought the idea to him--which was more insistence on my part--Jake more or less agreed instantaneously. I’m sure the prospect of being so wounded on his own in some crumby military housing in North Carolina was worrisome--even for him and his unflappable confidence. He’s quieter now that he’s here and I’m not sure if it’s because of the pain I know he’s in nearly constantly or if he’s trying to get acclimated to our quiet domesticity. 

“What’re you thinking about, Faye-baby?”

I yawn, shaking my head softly. 

“Jake,” I admit, sighing. “Worried about him.” 

Bradley nods, taking it in utter stride. 

“Yeah,” he agrees quietly, “I’m worried about him, too. He’s been so quiet.” 

“I know,” I whisper, sighing. “I’m glad he’s here, but I just--just feel like there’s a million things happening right now.” 

He hums, kissing my cheek, pushing hair off my shoulder. 

“You’re a good person, baby,” he tells me softly. “If this is too much, you know that we could talk to him about it. He’d understand--we just had a baby. S’a lot.” 

I tut, shaking my head. 

“No. No--I’m really glad he’s here. It’s just a lot of adapting,” I explain quietly. “But I can do it. We can do it. It’ll be nice to have an extra set of hands when you go back to work.” 

He deflates slightly, sighing. 

“Don’t remind me,” he groans. 

“Sorry,” I whisper, wrinkling my nose and yawning.      

Bradley kisses my shoulder, his lips warm and soft. 

“Tired, baby?” he whispers. 

I nod, yawning. 

“Gonna wash your hair?” He asks, pulling me closer to him. 

He is somehow warmer than the steady stream of hot water raining down on us, over my aching muscles and my deflating belly and my hands over his. 

“Gearing up for it,” I sigh. 

He detaches himself from me wordlessly, chuckling when I gasp lightly. 

“Tip your head back, baby.” 

And then he washes my hair. He shampoos all the long blonde locks, massages my scalp. He rubs cream rinse through the ends and clips it to the top of my head. Then he washes my body very delicately, taking special care to press kisses to all the places that stretched when Olive grew in my body--which is almost everywhere. 

And when I’m clean, when I feel brand new, he just holds me against him. We stay there for a very long time, just breathing in tandem, leaning into each other. 

“Have I told you that you’re my best friend?” He asks, kissing the shell of my ear and my throat. 

“Once or twice,” I hum, leaning back against his shoulder. 

“Good,” he sighs. “You’re blowing me away, baby. You make it look so natural.”

Now I’m blushing, heart stuttering at the mere thought of Olive slumbering in the bedroom. Sweet girl--my daughter. 

“S’never been so easy to love anyone before,” I admit. “Must get that from you.”

He holds me impossibly closer, sighing. 

“No, baby,” he whispers. “S’all you.”

“You’re good to me,” I whisper. 

The kisses against my face are endless, very sweet and soft. 

“Y’make it easy.”  

☾☽ 𝐚/𝐧: and finally they are PARENTS!! how are we liking the name Olive? it's been my plan from the dawn of time for them to name her Olive--I just think it's so cute!!

Landslide update!

good day, besties :) just wanted to let you know that Epilogue V will probably be the last Landslide update for a while! the final epilogue will give away too much/spoil my new OC x Jake story! so here's the deal!!

I'm going to start working on a mini what-if series where it's Jake x Faye! I will probably upload that as frequently as I can get it done! but I'm also going to be switching gears and working on Silver Springs now! I know everyone loves Faye and Bradley, but I promise that you'll love Sookie and Jake too!!

was also considering writing another series of the dynamic between Faye, Bradley, and Jake after Olive's born and Jake moves in with them....let me know if you're interested in that!!?

feel free to dm me or send an ask fro anything you want or need!!

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

[a-tame-brat]

Apparently I have an egg-nancy kink now. Thanks a lot, @eggedbellies. Now all I can think about is being a freelance incubator.

Anyway, here's a couple thousand words that spawned from an anon ask I saw. Eggs, non-humans, oviposition, egg laying, mind-altering. IDK. Probably not for everyone, so read at your own risk.

I’ve carried eggs for several species, from squishy little amphibian eggs that make my womb feel like a stress ball before they hatch inside me, to little clutches of leathery reptilian eggs; I’ve even carried a few hard-shelled eggs that come out over the course of a few days and, once, a massive dragon egg that took me a month to recover from. I charge extra for dragons now. My policy is to let the parents decide how much they want to be involved; my contracts stipulate that I’ll stay in good physical health and not do or eat anything that might harm the eggs, but I’m perfectly capable of handling each incubation and laying by myself. (I’m not proud of it, but I’ve used the phrase “strong independent incubator who don’t need do parents” more than once). And it’s a good gig; the pay is incredible, the oviposition is usually amazing, and the laying- god, there’s nothing like my cunt stretching around an egg, nothing like the squirmy feeling of live young crawling out of me.

But this client… ugh. I’ve never carried for her species before, and this girl got her eggs fertilized gods only know where- and I don’t think she has any idea what to expect. The deposition was pleasant enough, with 18 good-sized eggs squeezing through my cunt and cervix to fill my womb with that perfect weight, but she’s been a pain in my ass ever since. It’s her first clutch, you see, and she’s hovering over me like it’s my first, too. Every time I try to stand up, she’s telling me to rest. Girl, I need to stretch my legs! Use the can! Get fresh air! Eventually, I’ll probably get the urge to settle into the nest she’s trying to build me, but for now? I’m not so heavy I can’t walk, and I’d rather be home with a book. But, she’s the client, and the pay is pretty good. At least she’s cute, and her ovipositor is better than a cock. That is a definite benefit. She loves fucking me with it, feeling her tip nudging against my plugged cervix. And my friends think I’m an idiot for complaining about laying around being fed and cleaned and doted on all day. She doesn’t know how long the clutch needs to incubate, though, so I’m a little peeved. On the application, she said it was just two months, but I’ve been gravid for two and a half now! I had a regular client who was planning to use my services, but this client made me miss the deadline. I liked that other client! Easy eggs, very hands-off until the laying. But no. I’m stuck with this clueless newbie.

I can feel the change. The eggs feel heavier somehow, they feel ready. I’ve commandeered the my client built for me and transformed it to my needs, and I’m a lot more willing to accept her help with my day to day needs. It took a lot longer than I expected- months longer. At least the sex is good. And she’s really not so bad, she just wants to be a good mother, and take good care of her incubator. But then, during a lazy morning fuck, her tip plunges through my cervix. I’m completely calm. It’s laying time, nothing I haven’t done before. But my client… she’s a wreck. You’d think she was about to squeeze out a couple dozen hard-shelled eggs, not me! I get onto my hands and knees and tell her to get ready to catch, since that’s what she wants to do. Bless her, she even licks my cunt while the first egg passes through my cervix and out my channel. The stretch is delicious, it’s just right, and I climax right when the large end pressed against my clit. I might have to contract with her again for the next batch. Eggs just a little bigger than a chicken egg are, frankly, my favorite to lay. Once the first egg is safely deposited in the nest, she returns and fucks me until she feels the next egg against the tip of her ovipositor. She’s so caring, so enthusiastic, I can almost forgive her for the incessant hovering. She just wants her babies to be safe.

We’re five eggs in when I realize that something’s not quite right. Each egg stretches me just as much as the first one. I mean, I usually loosen up after the first few, but these feel like the very first one each time. And my belly is still just as big as it was before. Usually, I’d start to feel my skin relaxing, getting soft and saggy instead of taut and stretched as the clutch empties out. But… that’s not happening. I jokingly ask if the eggs are getting bigger and almost shit myself when she says that they are. Then, she has the gall to ask if eggs aren't supposed to get bigger.

No, no they’re not! That’s never happened to me! It’s supposed to get easier as I lay, not harder! But she brings the newest egg up for me to see, and damn if it’s not a fucking goose egg, big as a softball. I’m panting with the effort of holding myself up at this point, but I manage to gasp at the size of it. And there’s so many more inside me still!

By the twelfth egg, the damn things are as big as an emu egg and I’m slumped over a small mountain of pillows instead of trying to hold myself up. Fuck, this is going to be the dragon egg all over again! My hips feel loose, my pelvis has relaxed, but I’m not sure I can keep doing this. She’s telling me that there’s six more eggs! My panic seems to be rubbing off on her, and she’s licking and fingering my gaping cunt like there’s no tomorrow. And it’s helping, it is, being blissed out with pleasure usually makes things easier, but it might be better if I just had a minute alone to breathe. But when I try to ask her to leave me alone, she bursts into tears. She can’t leave me alone, I’m her precious incubator! She’s going to take care of me, and I don’t have to worry. That alone worries me. After the eggs are out and I’ve recovered enough to take care of myself again, I’m going home. Take a little holiday, rest up, and find my next client. Maybe an amphibian this time- much smaller eggs. The next egg breaches my cervix and I’m wailing in pain, then pleasure as the massive shell pushes against my clit's internal nerves before it’s even all the way into my vagina. I feel liquid dripping down my legs from the gush of slick I’ve produced mixing with my cum. But my client licks it all up like it’s the most precious, delicious ambrosia, kisses at my stretching lips, massages my taint to keep it from tearing.

She says it's the last egg. My precious mate had been with me through every moment of this incubation and labor, and I can't imagine doing it without her. She promises me that she'll get me through this, "this" being an egg bigger than that fucking dragon egg. I know she will, I know it. At this point in my labor, I'm sweating buckets. My love keeps my face clean, though, keeps the sweat out of my eyes even as she fingers my gaping channel and works the egg through my cervix. It hurts so badly that I think I must have torn, but then the egg feels so good, so perfect while it passes through me. My pussy lips do tear a little, but my darling soothes the pain with her tongue, pressing on my belly to help. I'm worried that I'll be too stretched to recover fully, but she promises that I'll recover, and that she'd never want another incubator even if I did stay loose. She tells me how perfect I am, how she never could have hoped for such a big egg out of a human, that I was made to be hers. I was, I think. I know I'm delirious from pleasure and pain, but I don't care. I believe her. I never want anyone but her to touch me again, no one else's eggs will ever swell my belly. I love her, I can never be away from her again! The final egg slides out and I clench around nothing, feeling utterly empty. My mate caresses my face, my cunt, my whole body, tells me how perfect I am, and kisses the tears from my face. She'll never leave me alone. I was meant to come to her, all the others were just practice for this. Just preparation for us to be together, for me to be hers, her perfect incubating mate. She can't wait to raise our children together.

Our eggs are all out, curing in the warm air. They should hatch in a few days, and I’ll get to meet my sweet babies. My mate- I can’t believe I ever thought of her as just a client- is holding me carefully. She put my hips back into joint while I was still blissed out from the last egg, and she’s got her ovipositor resting in my cunt, waiting to feel me tighten up around her. My cervix is still so stretched out that her squishy tip actually sits inside my empty womb. I tried to convince her to fill me up right away, that I don’t feel right without her eggs inside me, but she insists that I heal fully first. She doesn’t want me to hurt, not unless it’s from the glorious stretch of our eggs. She needs me healthy if I’m going to carry another clutch each year, after all. In fact, our next clutch is almost ready for fertilization, and she’s going to bring me with her to meet the new sperm donor. She says they have wonderful cocks, even better than her ovipositor, and she wants to see me stuffed with cock, high on their hallucinogenic sperm. I have my doubts about anything being better than her ovipositor, but if it will make her happy, I’ll do anything. She’s usually right about everything, after all. She was right about me belonging to her.

[bleedchan]

went through all my weed way quicker than i was expecting 😵‍💫 on the bright side if i can come up with just $5 i’ll have enough for weed again lol. kms

vivian burning through all her weed too quickly is a common theme, but lately it’s been because, well… a couple months ago (thanks to acid) i realized i’m into a Really Bad fictional thing, and i started being able to have a libido again and stuff. like prior i thought i was asexual or it was my hormones or something because i was going like 3 months without masturbating etc, lol.

without getting into it i don’t think i’m harmful because like i’m extremely meek and i find irl humans repulsive and i don’t like the idea of even talking about it with other people or externalizing it because i can barely get past the feeling of being into something so enthusiastically universally loathed long enough to be able to like stimulate myself to completion. like when you get abused (especially sexually abused) it really messes you up sometimes, and like, unfortunately it’s been a long, long struggle only to figure out that the only way i can cum anymore is to like seclude myself in a locked room by myself and quietly think about my disgusting thing lol

i don’t even like hinting at it or anything. like without being dramatic i think it would be extremely easy to get me to kill myself, and unfortunately my brain got changed by sexual abuse such that something i really don’t want to get horny about is just about the only thing that works lol. it’s honestly really funny in a cosmic sense. like the way things have gone in my life thus far i think i either really pissed off god in a past life, or he has a really insane sense of humor and this will all somehow be worth it if i just tough it out and don’t be harmful until i die naturally. like we’ll both just laugh and laugh

but anyway, i already felt disconnected from everyone due to being fundamentally weird/damaged and that’s definitely intensified lol. it’s not something i want to try to cure or redirect either because it’s like literally the first signs of life after having a completely dead libido and just going through the motions or letting myself get lovebombed and manipulated and fucked by random horrible guys for years. like either i can have orgasms and afterglow again or i can go back to never experiencing sexual pleasure on top of how horrible my life already is. i’d honestly prefer genital mutilation and suicide at that point lol. like what’s the fucking point of anything. almost everyone would enthusiastically agree i should kill myself for having a yucky cartoon fetish due to abuse and if i internalized that as the morally correct stance like what’s the fucking point, i should just start a gofundme to buy a shotgun and one shell and just kill myself now, right? idk. i feel awkward even trying to advocate for the idea that i shouldn’t kill myself, and i’m not sure how i’m supposed to not internalize feelings like that unless i completely avoid social media

on top of that i’ve been a little worried i have something like bile duct cancer lol. the gi couldn’t rule it out and while her bedside manner was fantastic and she didn’t bring that up and she reassured me for a long time, i still have to get a bunch of imaging done soon lol. like hopefully it’s nothing, but if that happens on top of everything (bile duct cancer is apparently super incurable lol) then i’ll be convinced i’m part of some big cosmic joke.

at least acid seems to help with the trauma and existential agony, so i’m looking forward to shrooms next month. the feeling once a psychedelic trip starts kicking in and it feels like the internal scar tissue is softening and colors and patterns start looking more pretty and i can’t help but laugh because it feels like i’ve been let in on this big cosmic joke and i feel like i’m being petted by god and like i can enjoy things i used to 15 years ago again—it’s really unlike any other substance. it’s definitely what i was looking for the whole time.

weed is kind of more of a bandaid, and a very temporary one. it’s definitely the best readily available thing at least—i have to get blackout drunk to get where i need to be (not uncommon for people with ptsd!) and alcohol is way rougher on your body. with weed i just get really outgoing and annoying and chatty about like art and music, and when i run out i get like chills and nausea and that’s it. and like i’ve tried living sober but i end up not being able to get out of bed or do anything for half a year lol. like not to get too into it but i also have like chronic exhaustion and pain and stuff that doctors just sort of gave up on, so idk if that’s like related to ptsd or depression or whatever. honestly the only things that have worked at all are weed and lsd 😵‍💫

[blueeyesfilledwithpassion]

HI REN 🎶

By Artist Ren.

Hi there Ren  Its been a little while,  Did you miss me?  You thought you'd buried me, didn't you? Risky...  Because I always come back  Deep down you know that...  Deep down you know I'm always in periphery  Ren aren't you pleased to see me?  It's been weeks since we spoke bro, you know you need me  You're the sheep, I'm the shepherd  Not your place to lead me  Not your place to be biting off the hand that feeds me

Hi Ren  I've been taking some time to be distant  I've been taking some time to be still  I've been taking some time to be by myself  Since my therapist told me I'm ill  I've been making some progress lately,  And I've learnt some new coping skills  So I haven't really needed you much man  I think we need to just step back and chill

Ren, you sound more insane than I do  You think that those doctors are really there to guide you?  Been through this a million times  Your civilian mind is so perfect at always being lied to  Okay, take another pill boy  Drown yourself in the sound of white noise  Follow this 10 step program, rejoice!  All your problems will be gone! Fucking dumb boy

Nah mate, this time it's different man trust me  I feel like things might be falling in place  And my music's been kinda doing bits too  Like I actually might do something great  And when I'm gone maybe I'll be remembered  For doing something special with myself  That's why I don't think that we should talk man  Cause when your with me it never seems to help

You think that you can amputate me?  I am you, you are me, you are I, I am we  We are one, split in two that makes one so you see  You got to kill you if you wanna kill me.  I'm not left over dinner, I'm not scraps on the side,  Oh your music is thriving? Delusional guy!  Where's your top ten hit? Where's your interview with Oprah?  Where are your grammies Ren?  Nowhere!

Yeah but, my music's not commercial like that  I never chased numbers, statistics or stats  I Never write hooks for the radio, they never even play me  So why would I concern myself with that?  But my music is really connecting,  And the people who find it respect it,  And for me that's enough 'cause this life's been tough  So it gives me a purpose I can rest in

Man you sound so pretentious!  Ren your music is so self centred,  No one wants to hear another song about  How much you hate yourself... trust me  You should be so lucky having me inside you to guide you,  Remind you to manage expectations,  Provide you perspective, that thing you neglected, I get it  You wana be a big deal... Next jimi hendrix? forget it

Man it's not like that

Man it's just like that I'm inside you you twat

Nah it's not man your wrong, when I write I belong

Let me break the fourth wall by acknowledging this song  Ren sits down,  Has a stroke of genius,  He wants to write a song that was not done previous  A battle with his subconscious...  Eminem did it

Played on guitar

Plan B did it  Man your not original you criminal, rip off artist,  The pinnacle of your success is stealing other people's material  Ren mate we've heard it all before  Ohh "she sell sea shells on the sea shore"

Fuck you I don't need you, I don't need to hear this,  Cause I'm fine by myself, I'm a genius!  And I will be great, and I will make waves  And I'll shake up the whole world beneath us

That's right speak your truth,  Your fucking god complex leaks out of you  It's refreshing to actually hear you say it!  In stead of down play it...  "Oh the music Is all about the creative process  And if people can find something to relate to  Within that then that's just a bonus"

Fuck you ima fucking kill you Ren

Well fucking kill me then  Let's fucking have you Ren

I'm a do it, watch me prove it, who are you to doubt my music?  'Cause I call the shots I choose if you die  Yeah I call the shots and so i who choose who survives  I'll tie you up in knots then I'll lock you inside

News flash...  I was created at the dawn of creation,  I am temptation  I am the snake in Eden,  I am the reason for treason  Beheading all Kings,  I am sin with no rhyme or reason,  Sun of the morning, Lucifer,  Antichrist, father of lies,  Mestophilies,  Truth in a blender,  Deceitful pretender,  The Banished avenger,  The righteous surrender  When standing in-front of my solar eclipse,  My name it is stitched to your lips so see  I won't bow to the will of a mortal, feeble and normal  You wana kill me? I'm enteral, immortal  I live in every decision that catalysed chaos  That causes division  I live inside death, the beginning of ends  I am you, you are me, I am you Ren

Hi Ren... I've been taking some time to be distant,  I've been taking some time to be still  I've been taking some time to be by myself  And I've spent half my life ill  But just as sure as the tide start turning  Just as sure as the night has dawn  Just as sure as rain fall soon runs dry  When you stand in the eye of the storm

I was made to be tested and twisted  I was made to be broken and beat  And you know me my will is eternal  And you know me you've met Me before  Face to with a beast I will rise from the east  And I'll settle on the ocean floor  And I go by many names also  Some people know me as hope  Some people know me as the voice that you hear  When u loosen the noose on the rope  And you know how I know how I know that I'll prosper?  Because I stand here beside you today  I have stood in the flames that cremated my brain  And I didn't once flinch or shake  So cower at the man I've become  When I sing from the top of my lungs  That I won't retire I'll stand in your fire  Inspire the weak to be strong  And when I am gone I will rise  In the music that I left behind  Ferocious persistent, immortal like you  We're a coin with two different sides

[wispstalk]

Tagged by @dirty-bosmer and @nuwanders for this tag game to share lines from my fics, which are under the cut.

Rules are to post examples of your writing for the orange lines. (you don't have to make them orange I just did for ease of reading)

Tagging back: @ehlnofay @da3drat @druidx @jiubilant @thealterscrolls @profanetools @larkscribbles @everybodyknows-everybodydies @ervona no obligation, some may have already seen/done this, and anyone I forgot to tag who wants to join in please @ me

A line from your fic that makes you laugh

“I doubt Baurus will be laughing,” [Jauffre] says wryly. “But I will,” [Coradri] trills, and sets the helmet aside.

From this one shot. It's mildly funny in context but when I read this out loud to my bf, I did a sing-song voice for Coradris line and cracked myself up so bad I could barely get through the sentence 🫣

A line from your fic that makes you sad

The water is leaking from his face again. He never knows when this is going to start up, and he doesn't know how to make it stop. 

From The Nature of Fire

A line from your fic you’re proud of

 An echo of warmth still lives in his hand where they had touched, where they exchanged glimpses of some fundamental inner part of the other. What had the priest sensed? He can hardly guess, but he knows what he saw. That soft-spoken, soft-hearted, soft-handed priest has a will like the ocean in a storm.

From Idle in their Thrones

A line from your fic you think could have been better

A small task. Sewing is easy for him. The rest — trying to dredge up some understanding of the mess he's gotten himself into — will take a little more effort.

From IITT, during the confrontation at the mythic dawn cave. Got the idea across but there's pieces missing... that whole chapter came out a little hamfisted.

A line from your fic that makes you want to punch a character

“The Chalice of Reversal,” [Thadon] wails, and clutches at Tanis’s sleeve. “You must retrieve it, champion, or else..."

From TNOF. Fuck Syl for stealing it but man like YOU gave out these drugs it's on you to keep ye olde magickal naloxone on hand

A line from your fic that makes you go ‘aww’

[Rona] lays a gentling hand on [Little Makob's] arm. “Mind your volume, tadpole. Come, why don’t you fetch me my crutch and we can go sit by the fire and talk?”

A line from your fic that’s full of symbolism

From this one-shot. Something something people who are patient and gentle with upset children

When the Black Hound is off the leash, his people used to say, pick a god and start praying.

In TNOF but first referenced in IITT. The reader only sees Tanis past his "prime" mercenary days, so it's meant to take on a little different timbre when it comes up in the stories. And blah blah blah the themes the themes

A line from your fic that contains an Easter egg

But Irathi put them up at a nice inn, and they spent their evenings drinking with a crazy old alchemist who lived in the basement.

From IITT. Sinderion :)

A line from your fic that’s shocking

The hot smell of offal presses the back of his throat like a blunt, insistent finger.

From TNOF. Discovered recently I like writing stuff that is gross and I grossed myself out with this one.

A line from your fic you want to talk about more

“My little beasts of inspiration,” Tall-Trees-Falling explains drily, as she affixes a spiral shell to one of them, forming a claw. “Perhaps one will strike you.”

Tall-Trees-Falling is a one-note character in the Shivering Isles DLC who mostly stands around lamenting that she sucks at writing. Relatable, but I thought of all the time I spent unable to write or draw....i wasn't just, like, doing nothing. So I made her a sculptor.

But it's a funny thing where if you're not doing The Creative Act that you have tied to your identity, it can sometimes feel like it doesn't count. She's like "oh I build life-size fantastical creatures out of trash and shit I find on the beach but it's whatever." I'm a little like this with my hobbies. I spent years learning different fiber arts and gardening techniques and fucking CARPENTRY but it only recently occurred to me that I was referring to that period as some kind of creative dead zone because I wasn't drawing. Anyway her gag is that she is making immobile sculptures so they can't strike, but she keeps at it anyway.

[haejjoon]

BARKBARK I LOVE TRANS HCS im not trans myself but when i see how happy they make my trans friends & my partner???? TOSSES THEM AROUND LIKE CANDY u get a trans hc! u get a trans hc! WE ALL GET TRANS HCS

also may i say. adhd/autistic phantoms ? good shit

also ur mention of how trans goro is more common than trans akiren makes me wanna pop off about infantilization in fandoms and how it ties into misogyny, trans-misogyny and nsfw content and its characterizations and just fjbvkfnb. im a social sciences major and i LOVE discussing infantilization in the context of sex and gender and disability i love that shit. anyway idk where i was going with this but tldr i love ur characterization of goro <3

OHHHHH ANON YOU HAVE NO IDEA WHAT YOU JUST STARTED.....

prefacing this by saying: i have adhd. although i haven't been able to be properly diagnosed (with the things hooked up to my head etc etc) thanks to america's stunning healthcare, i am like.. 99.999999% sure i have it. my therapist, who i used to see regularly, agrees that i probably have it.

NOW. i'm sure we all know that futaba sakura our favorite gremlin girl ever exhibits some clear symptoms of autism. i don't need to get into it because there's a million and one analyses out there about her behavior, but i will say that i both love/hate how atlus depicted her. on one hand i love that the group just.. accepts her for who she is, i love that they don't try to change her, i love that they don't fall into the "ooh you're so smart though so your disability MUST be a superpower!" trap, and that they mold around her to suit her, and not the other way around.

THAT BEING SAID.....

i have SUCH a bone to pick with how they decided to go about her 'healing' arc. the phantom thieves give her a week--a WEEK--to readjust to society. and yeah i guess that while you could argue that she's just had her trauma supernaturally lobotomized out of her, it doesn't change the fact that she's... still gone through it, you know? just because she learned to stop hating herself for things out of her control doesn't mean her social anxiety disappears in a snap. she turns out alright by the end but the extremely pushy nature of the thieves to get her out of her shell ALWAYS rubbed me wrong. taking things slow and one step at a time is wonderful, and i'm glad they decided to go about that approach instead of just throwing her to the beach like they originally wanted, but they still should have taken it... slower. one week is HARDLY enough.

also, i fucking hate how they constantly talk about her while she's in the same room as them, as if she can't hear what they're saying. they said things like, "oh she's pretty normal, huh" and "she can hold a conversation just fine!" and while their behavior isn't one completely out of the ordinary for dumb teenagers to exhibit, it still really, really pisses me off that they do it wiht her in the SAME ROOM. im sure it wasn't meant to come off this way, but i always got the feeling that they attributed her 'quirkiness' to her not understanding how groups worked at all, which is why they were so open about discussing HER MENTAL HEALTH without including her in the conversation.

okay i'm done with futaba--quick hcs im throwing out there: ryuji has adhd, yusuke also has autism, mishima has autism, goro has ocd. boom bam bop, you've been hit by the 'tism beam.

PLEASE DO POP OFF ABOUT THE INFANTILISM it's honestly such a gross sight.... the amount of times ive seen goro depicted as some small, feminine twink is genuinely staggering, and it's always left such a bad taste in my mouth because i KNOW it's because his character, at least for the majority of the plot, is polite and soft spoken.

not to mention how incredibly fetishizing it feels. i won't get too into it, but the amount of shuakeshu ive seen where one is drawn/written as larger than life/confident/suave and the other is meek/skinny/easily embarrassed? ohhh my god. please. akiren isn't some smooth jerk who makes goro blush with a well-placed quip, and goro isn't a crazed yandere who shuts akiren away from the rest of the world. they're both fucking losers who don't know how to process their feelings for the other because of their very, very embarrassing rivalry. stop degrading one to fit your perfect mlm narrative.

sigh i didn't mean for this to become a social commentary or anything, but .. lo and behold... here we are. i'd love to hear your thoughts on my takes, anon, and i'd love to hear the thoughts for anyone who read thru this too! while i do have adhd/am trans i can't speak for those who fall under the autism spectrum or for cis gay men, so if you'd like to correct me in my thinking PLEASE go ahead and do so, i'd love to be educated on topics i don't fully understand. have a good one <3

[moth-yknowtheartist]

> ... oh god, not you. Not right now.

do You want to TALK?

> ......

> ... how are you doing that?

doing What?

> Anything. That corrosion did a lot of damage, you said it yourself, I don't know how you've still been FUNCTIONING for so long. How you're even coherent. I know I didn't do THAT good of a job.

does It matter?

> To me. Yeah.

don't Know what you want me to TELL YOU. im not Looking a GIFT HORSE in the Mouth.

> Why are you here?

i'Ve been STAYING INFORMED. wanted To HELP.

> Why?

impu.lse. does It matter?

> Have you seen Gale?

no. I Found you first. can we GET ON with This?

> ... you can sit down.

> ...

> so?

what Happened, MOTH?

> .... I messed it all up. Everything. Gale- they pressed me on it, I got more- remembered more and- they confirmed the worst.

it Was an Accident, then? not Peep?

> .... It was my fault. Yeah. It all- it all is.

> I did something stupid, and I paid for it and I died, I left everyone behind and it hurt everyone I care about and- and that's not even it. I'm the reason you're around, I made you, and on top of that I was silly enough not to properly secure you- god, I bet whatever made you how you are wasn't even super complex, probably some easy vulnerability I could've patched early if I actually thought.

> You've gotten EVERYONE I care about caught up in this- this fucking web, and it all comes back to me.

> .... I shouldn't even be here. I ruined everything, it's- it's all my fault.

hm. YEAH. it IS.

> ...

what? im NOT going To SUGARCOAT It. you Explained it PRETTY WELL. you Catalyzed this. it is Your fault, on a basic Cause and Effect level.

> Great, so you're just here to make me feel worse or something, then??

no. I'm Helping. ignoring The TRUTH isn't Helpful no matter How much YOU don't like it.

> ... it's weird talking to you.

yeaH?

> You're- it's, for one this isn't supposed to be happening on a basic level I never really expected this, and for two it's like- it's like talking to myself, but also you're so far removed from me I can't even say it feels that way. It's such an uncanny familiarity it's so hard to parse.

imagine How it feels for ME.

> -true.

.... not Everyone you care about, y'know. got Caught in It. some People managed to STAY OUT of it, for the Most part. unfortunatE for ME- but good News for You, probably.

people like GA.LE just happened To be. intensely Unlucky.

> ... Who?

NAT, for ONE.

> Nat's okay?

she Doesn't KNOW. about your DEATH. i received a LETTER.

> I- yeah we- we're pen pals. It's fun. She doesn't- She thinks I'm alive? That everything's okay?

probably. she May have been DISCONCERTED somewhat from when I talked to Her BEFORE. but.

I was going to WRITE her BACK. as You. but I don't Want to be You ANYMORE. it hasn't Served me LATELY, and I've constructed Something NEW anyway.

[A crinkling and fluttering of paper.]

take It. you Respond. do What you WILL.

> I- um- ... thank you. You didn't have to tell me. I would've never known, or at least not for a while.

makes Things EASIER for Me.

> .... what about with Gale? The damage is done there. Shell's been through all the stuff you put shell through, been so terrified, scared of losing shells humanity, close to dying so many times, and- it's all because of me, in the end. Shell blames me, and- god, I can't fix that. I don't even think I can go back, I can't- can't look shell in the eye or-

so You left them?

> -Wh?

you Left them instead? you Decided the BETTER ROUTE was to Leave Gale Alone, in the Forest? you Do know I used that as a Tactic to get them SO UPSET they Shut Me Down, right? you Think that'll make things BETTER?

> ... Gale said he wished he left me in hell. He doesn't want me around.

HAHAHAHA WHAT- he wanted you Around SO BAD he got ATTACHED to a MURDEROUS SCALE REPLICA. which tried To KILL HIM. oh my God and You BELIEVED That???

> ........ oh.

YEAH.

> Ohhhhhh oh my god no you're right. Oh god.

so? you're Gonna keep hiding Out then, or?

> No, nonono, I need to- shit, I need to fix this.

good. then I'VE done MY PART.

> .... you are, like- like thank you, obviously, but your style of HELPING is an enigma to me, you are just- you're confusing. How are you confusing me I made you.

> ...

> I should- I should start trying to retrace my steps. Find Gale. I went pretty far, I think.

good Luck. I won't Be too FAR BEHIND. close enough To LISTEN.

> Ominous, okay, I don't- there's not even a reason to be ominous right- AGAIN, CONFUSING.

> But. Thanks, um. Acher.

[supraventriculart]

That validation starved feeling of having a new piece to post

And it's this one idea thats kept me going the farthest/

"When I grow up I wanna be a martial artist"/

And as I made my way there, I found which obstacle was the hardest/

When my brain got in my way and stuck me to the floor like a starfish/

I took a shot at it. Didn't fancy myself as a quitter/

But childhood is nothing gained when you had no babysitter/

So big surprise that it huffed my flame and left me cold and bitter/

Many days spent fighting myself instead of fighting in the bigger picture/

Pulled myself to the mats every day but that floor seemed harder than any/

That investment from my masters felt good. But I didn't pay back a penny/

And here I stand. Still with that old helmet he lent me/

And there I land. Knowing hell was the way I sent me/

Weaponized myself when the guns werent enough/

A porcupine with a shell so that they couldn't see nothing to love/

This sword of mine gives me help from those insecurities that're rough/

A quarter to nine shadow in the pm is when I'm up/

And if you use it you lose it, and I have no idea where it went/

The truth is I'm abusing myself into paying me rent/

I'm loose when I'm zooted, but thats just leaving me bent/

I'm cruising to losing and giving up my life for lint/

So then it was this one idea thats kept me going the farthest/

"When I grow up, I wanna be the greatest musical artist!"/

And all of us know that as an indication that something scarred us/

Kinda hard to feel hurt when you turn yourself into stardust/

But fuck it. Writing dosent require no fitness/

You can be as fucked as you want. Just gives more reason to pen this/

Melt your brain like styrofoam so you can get worse and fit in this/

Ain't like you were going anywhere in this fighting business/

And why not let yourself die, you'll at least have done your part/

Blow your brains and scar your parents, but romanticized as art/

That's all it is right? It's just it's a door to a universes start/

Like that window through your head that shows us where your hair would part/

It's not mentally unhealthy if it means that you can profit/

And your friends are just your haters when they beg you please to stop it/

So tie yourself into your page, bury it and lock it/

And maybe you'll get to cut a little more before they spot it/

Notice how these insane people are the ones that you admire/

And that losing your mind is the biggest place that you aspire/

You done chose to take the lit match and turn your brain into pyre/

God forbid what the medics find when you set your brain on fire/

And I've had one last idea that's kept me going the farthest/

"Y'know when I grow up, I wanna be a dead artist!"/

And fuck all you people that contributed to start this/

I'll burn in hell on your behalf, show you which ones the smartest/

[nardonotes]

23 oct '24

7:25pm

woke up at 5pm today did absolutely nothing,, ( ;´ - `;) ended up cancelling on my friend because i was so fucking tired and just drained out man... i feel like i've been saying that i'm drained out forever now. BUT I REALLY AM!! like i have no motivation to do anything and my sleep has gotten so fucking bad to the point where i cant even just relax anymore. idk. this is literally seasonal depression hitting me bad!!!!!!

honestly, thank god im still writing these though,, cause the second i dont... oh it's over. ദ്ദി ༎ຶ‿༎ຶ ) but we hold on tight yall........ im getting there even though i am actually really struggling to keep myself intact LOL.. !!

anyways, after i ate some TACOS WITH SOFT SHELL TACOSSSSS ദ്ദി(ᵔᗜᵔ) i went to get my film developed YIPPIE!! im so happy,, i can't wait for them to come through, they'll probably be done tomorrow at around 11am, and im gonna pick them up during my lunch !! and i also bought mini baby cokes with my sister because my mum wanted them :33

now im bored as shit!! like -_-" what do i do? should i catch up on school work like i said? or should i rot like the stupid piece of shit i am........ i hate knowing i have potential to be better but being too lazy because i know i got that potential inside me which is like the only thing keeping me from falling far deep inasense idk anyways.

im going to write in my journal a bit and bujo... i also want to edit some pics but im going to do that another time. DAMN I REALLY JUST BE SAYING WHAT I WANT TO DO AND NOT DO THEM FFUCKKK!!!!!!! (*꒦ິ꒳꒦ີ)

also dreading the fact that i have work experience on friday... like i really hate that for me bro. like i REALLY HATE THAT. even though it's only for a few hours. -.- im so lazy.

im gonna pretend to be productive now. bye and goodnight. watch me not be able to sleep at all tonight. i might just fucking pull an all nighter.. fix my sleep again. who knows. i am unpredictable.(ᴗ_ ᴗ。)

song of the day: Fantasy by JADE ⭑.ᐟ