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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐒𝐈𝐍 𝐱 𝐘𝐎𝐔 (𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐀𝐋𝐄) 𝐱 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐘 𝐁𝐑𝐀𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐀𝐖 𝟖𝟎𝐒 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐀𝐔 𝐁𝐘 𝐑𝐎𝐎𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐁𝐑𝐔𝐈𝐒𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐇𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐋𝐘 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐋𝐈𝐂𝐈𝐓. 𝐌𝐈𝐍𝐎𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐁𝐒𝐎𝐋𝐔𝐓𝐄𝐋𝐘 𝐃𝐎 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐂𝐓. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐑𝐈𝐂𝐓𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟖+. 𝐒𝐎𝐌𝐄 𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐘 𝐁𝐄 𝐔𝐏𝐒𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐏𝐋𝐄𝐀𝐒𝐄 𝐓𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐒𝐄𝐋𝐅 𝐁𝐄𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆. 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐈𝐒 𝐀𝐍 𝟖𝟎𝐒 𝐒𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐈 𝐀𝐌 𝐀 𝐃𝐄𝐓𝐀𝐈𝐋-𝐎𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐑𝐈𝐓𝐄𝐑. 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄, 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄, 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐆𝐎𝐑𝐄. 𝐃𝐄𝐀𝐓𝐇, 𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃, 𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐋𝐄𝐍𝐂𝐄, 𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐑𝐎𝐑, 𝐒𝐌𝐔𝐓. 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃 𝐀𝐓 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐎𝐖𝐍 𝐑𝐈𝐒𝐊.

𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐅𝐈𝐑𝐒𝐓 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 𝐒𝐄𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐃 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭 𝐎𝐚𝐤𝐬, 𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕. 𝐀𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐧𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞 𝐚𝐭 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐀𝐫𝐜𝐚𝐝𝐢𝐚, 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐛𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐚𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐝 𝐤𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐩𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡 𝐬𝐰𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐲 𝐡𝐚𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞--𝐦𝐚𝐲𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐨𝐜𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐩 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐨𝐚𝐭. 𝐘𝐨𝐮'𝐯𝐞 𝐟𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐟𝐨𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐞 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐭𝐰𝐨 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐦𝐩 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐬, 𝐉𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐁𝐫𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐞𝐲, 𝐰𝐡𝐨 𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡 𝐭𝐫𝐲 𝐭𝐨 𝐰𝐨𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐬𝐞𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬. 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐝𝐲𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐜 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 '𝟖𝟕 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐨 𝐚 𝐬𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐞𝐜𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐥𝐭 𝐚𝐟𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐭𝐨𝐫𝐦 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧, 𝐰𝐡𝐢𝐜𝐡 𝐝𝐢𝐬𝐥𝐨𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐬𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐨 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐞. 𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞𝐭𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐧 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐩𝐚𝐥𝐩𝐚𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐚𝐭'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞-𝐛𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐯𝐞, 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐦𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐝𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐡𝐨𝐭 𝐰𝐞𝐞𝐤 𝐢𝐧 𝐉𝐮𝐥𝐲. 𝐓𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐤𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐦𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐛𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐢𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐬𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐞. 𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐦𝐢𝐝𝐬𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐩𝐚𝐧𝐢𝐜 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐢𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐨𝐫, 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐟𝐫𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐝𝐬, 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬. 𝐀𝐧𝐝 𝐰𝐡𝐞𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐢𝐦𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐤𝐞𝐞𝐩𝐬 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠--𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐞𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐠𝐞 𝐚𝐬 𝐚 𝐯𝐨𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐨𝐟 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐨𝐧. 𝐈𝐭'𝐬 𝐚 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥, 𝐜𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐞𝐫. 𝐎𝐫: 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐚𝐠𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐒𝐪𝐮𝐚𝐝 𝟖𝟎𝐬 𝐬𝐥𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐰𝐞 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐧𝐞𝐞𝐝

𝐏𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 —𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒 𝐆𝐀𝐙𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟓𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐎𝐍𝐄 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟕𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐎 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟖𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐑𝐄𝐄 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟏𝟗𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐕𝐄 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐗 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟎𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐄 𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 & 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟏𝐒𝐓, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃-𝟐𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐖𝐄𝐋𝐕𝐄 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟑𝐑𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐎𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟒𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 —𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 —𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐓. 𝟏 & 𝐏𝐓. 𝟐 —𝐒𝐓. 𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐌𝐀𝐈𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐇𝐎𝐒𝐏𝐈𝐓𝐀𝐋 —𝐀𝐏𝐑𝐈𝐋 𝟏𝟓𝐓𝐇, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟖

𝐃𝐈𝐑��𝐂𝐓𝐎𝐑'𝐒 𝐂𝐔𝐓 —𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐂𝐎𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐘.

617 notes · View notes

asteroidzzzn · 9 months

Text

souvenir | part 1

summary: you're sent to summer camp for two weeks and make an unexpected friend. unfortunately, all good things come to an end, but how could you ever say goodbye to her?

word count: 2.2k

warnings: cursing

a/n: summer camp aus have me in a chokehold i fear. here's a new series!! while i still haven't finished my smau!!!!! that's ok ill finish it eventually i just had this all come to me while i was in the car on a road trip, and im so excited to write it all (❁´◡`❁)

you stepped out of the cramped-up car, stretching your limbs after the four-hour ride. your energetic young cousins ran out immediately, making their way up the hill to their cabins.

you took in the gorgeous scenery around you. you were surrounded by towering trees. the wind softly grazed the bushes as a few squirrels scurried around.

"hey hun, you alright?" your aunt snapped you out of your trance with her hand on your shoulder and worry etched on her face.

"yeah...just getting used to the altitude," you brushed her concern off, heading to the trunk to take your bags out. your aunt helped you set down your items and hugged you goodbye.

you had to admit, you were very anxious. you were staying in a cabin with other girls your age for two weeks, and you didn't know a single one of them.

"call if you need anything, i'll be here eleven am on the dot in two weeks," she gave you a smile and wave before heading down the mountain.

your cousins had been going to this camp since they were old enough to be away from their mother longer than a few days, so they knew the campgrounds like the back of their hands. you eventually found your way into the dining hall to check yourself in, approaching a tall woman with a clipboard.

"name?" she chirped.

"y/n."

the woman glanced up from her clipboard, "have you been here before? i don't recognize you. got your last name on here, though."

"no, i haven't. but you probably know my cousins. they've been going here for years."

her face lit up, "ohh those kids!" she let out a chuckle, "always getting into trouble, but so much fun to have around. well, welcome, y/n!"

the woman flipped through a stack of papers and handed you a small slip with the times of events at camp. she looked over her shoulder and beckoned someone over.

a girl, about your age, with dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail strolled over, smiling at you.

"this is dina, she can give you a little tour," the woman's head tilted towards the camp. dina nodded and began to lead you out of the dining hall.

"hi, i'm y/n," you said while navigating around large rocks leading up to your cabin.

"nice to meet you, i'll introduce you to some of the others at the bonfire later."

you stepped into the cabin, immediately hit with the strong scent of citrus. you waved your hand in front of your nose, wincing slightly. dina chuckled at your action.

"yeah, sorry about the smell. it's just to keep the mosquitos out. chateau get's all the bugs because we're on the top of the hill. but woodrow, where i was two years ago, gets the rats, so it's better here, i guess."

your eyes widened. "that's terrifying, i hate rats. so you've been going here for a few years?"

dina nodded, guiding you to the bunks. there were only two open. one on the top near the window, and one on the bottom in the corner of the room.

"since i was six. so ten years now. do you wanna bunk with me?" she pointed to the bed on the bottom. it was embarrassing to admit, but you hated being on bottom bunks. it's been an irrational fear since you were young.

you swayed on your feet nervously, "it's dumb, but i don't like being on the bottom bunk. 'm scared it'll fall on top of me somehow."

"it's all good, i'm the same way. so you'll bunk with my friend ellie, instead. she's nice. it's her fourth year here, i think."

you hurled your bags up to the bed on top of ellie's.

"speaking of, where is everyone else right now?" you pointed out, since the cabin was completely empty.

"they're down at the lake, do you wanna go see them?"

"yeah, sounds fun."

you slipped into a bathing suit and threw your towel over your shoulder, walking beside dina towards the lake. she told you about camp customs and traditions.

you laughed at the story of dina's friend, jesse, trying to swing into the lake but the rope broke, landing him in a pile of mud.

dina laughed with you, "yeah," she breathed, "not much going on up there," she knocked on her head, "but he's great."

"oh, get this! there's this thing we all do where we can send anonymous letters to people. we decorate the letters with stickers and cute hearts and send them off. people usually send love letters, but you can send them to anyone else you want."

you swerved your way through large trees, allowing your mind to wander. what would it be like to have a camp crush? maybe a summer fling? you pushed the idea down. it wasn't very likely there were other gay girls here. maybe summer love just wasn't for people like you.

dina continued, "one of the camp counselors, jeanette, got letters from this guy in the eagle cabin when she was our age. she found out it was him and they started dating. isn't that so cute?"

she nudged your shoulder after noticing you had zoned out, with your lips parted lost in thought.

"you good?"

you blinked, "mhm. i guess i'm just a bit nervous to meet your friends."

dina shook her head with a small chuckle, "don't be. i'm sure they'll like you."

the two of you approached a clearing, where you heard people laughing and water splashing.

the first person to catch your eye was a girl with auburn hair lazily pulled back into a ponytail. she wore baggy shorts with a sports bra, wrists decorated with bracelets and sharpie drawings of crude items. just when you wanted to study more of her features, she did a backflip off a towering ledge into the water, creating a splash which sent a large amount of water onto you.

dina let out a laugh, drawing the others attention to you.

a boy with jet black hair and a towel wrapped around his neck approached you, a smile on his face. there were two other girls and a boy sitting down, holding up pieces of paper with numbers written on them towards ellie who had just risen out of the water.

"fuck yeah! look dina, i got 10 out of 10!" ellie shouted towards dina, but once her eyes found you, water on your face and clothes, she pushed herself onto shore and stumbled on the dirt and wood until she was standing just in front of you.

"sorry about that. uh, i'm ellie, he's jesse," she pointed to the black haired boy beside her, "you friends with dina?"

you glanced towards dina, opening your mouth to speak, but you couldn't find the words. ellie's eyes were stuck on you, shining a beautiful green with the hot sun on her face. freckles were scattered across her face, leading all the way up to her ears, which had a star earring on her left, and moon on her left.

maybe, just maybe...you would have someone to send a letter to after all. then it hit you. this was the ellie you were sharing a bunk with for the next two weeks. living together, sleeping right next to each other.

you were fucked.

dina spoke for you, picking up that you were nervous, "it's her first year here, she doesn't know anyone except her cousins. they're the hudson twins," she wrapped her arm around your shoulder.

"oh shit, those things are your cousins?" ellie snickered, earning her a punch in the arm from one of the girl's who rose from the towels to greet you.

"be nice, ellie."

you let out a huff of air in amusement. "yeah, they're kind of crazy. i'm y/n, by the way."

each of them introduced themselves, and you found yourself smiling as you all walked back to the shoreline. you spent the next two hours swimming in the lake, jumping off ledges until you earned 10's all across the board to which you took a very proud bow, and simply laying in the sun, hearing stories from previous summers at camp.

they all sat in a circle as the sun slowly set, telling you their different perspectives on the most recent drama from last year. apparently, there was this girl who either fought or fell in love with a bear. they couldn't seem to decide which side of the story was true.

"no, she totally left out the snacks on purpose to get the bear to come to the cabin."

"maybe she was out to kill us!"

"or she wanted it all for herself..."

"ew, you're so gross!"

you all burst into a fit of giggles while jesse was genuinely contemplating how a relationship between a girl and a bear would work. you settled into comfortable silence, where you took a moment to gaze up at the sky.

"i love how you can see the stars so clearly from up here," you whispered only to yourself, but ellie heard from beside you.

the others found a new topic of conversation to argue playfully about, but ellie didn't join along with them. she stared at the starry sky above alongside you.

she hummed in agreement, "i know right, it's so beautiful," she suddenly gasped, turning to face you, "did dina tell you we have a massive telescope here? oh my god, it's amazing. you can see all the constellations and if you zoom in in the right place you can kind of see saturns rings, which is so fucking awesome—"

"ellie!" dina called her out of her ramble, "don't annoy her with all that space stuff."

"i don't mind it," you said quietly. ellie flashed you a small smile, which made your head spin for a moment. you had only just met this girl, but you were so captivated by everything about her.

"i take astronomy at my school, back at home. so i'm really into space, too," you told her.

ellie groaned, letting her head fall back. "i'm so jealous. that's the dream."

your barely noticeable grin grew wider. "yeah, it is."

crickets chirped and buzzed while the lake water gently washed over rocks. the night sky had fully turned black now, yet the campgrounds were still illuminated by the bright clusters of stars above.

all of you had packed your stuff up in a frenzy once you realized you had stayed out past curfew and missed dinner. you felt like you were breaking the rules by sneaking into the kitchen to grab some snacks. you were afraid of waking up the counselers that slept above the dining hall.

a girl named cat, removed on of the butterfly pins from her hair, and slipped it into the lock. it unclipped with a quiet snap, and the door creaked open.

"maybe they shouldn't make it so easy to break into if they don't want us here," she shrugged smugly, propping open the door.

you crept around the kitchen, searching through drawers, until you found a cabinet with bags of chips and candy.

"guys, look what i found!" you whisper-shouted.

everyone crowded around the cabinet, taking whatever they wanted. once they were content with the food they picked out, you all found the dining room and sat in a booth. cat placed a flickering yellow lantern in the middle of the table.

the only sound that bounced off the walls of the hall was quiet giggles and crinkling wrappers.

you stayed in the cramped booth, effortlessly making conversation with your new friends, until you felt a yawn creep up on you.

dina took a deep breath, "it's getting late, we should head back to the cabins."

everyone agreed, shuffling out of the booth and back out the kitchen door. you parted ways in the middle of the campgrounds, waving to jesse and dean who headed down the hill to the boys cabins, while you, dina, ellie, cat, and lara made your way up the trail in the opposite direction.

"sooo," dina nudged your shoulder with her own, "how was your first half-day at camp?"

you were beaming as you replied, "it was amazing. i'm excited for the volleyball court to open tomorrow."

"ooo, and you'll meet some of the boys tomorrow," cat teased with a smirk.

you scoffed, looking down at your feet as you balanced on a trail of rocks, "boys aren't really my thing right now."

"oh right, you live pretty far away from here, huh? what did you say ?jackson? i get it, i wouldn't have a fling with any boy if i could only see him during the summer," cat said with sympathy.

you took your bottom lip into your teeth, wondering if you should tell them the real reason why boys weren't your thing. the group of girls didn't seem like they would judge you at all, and it's not like you were ashamed of your sexuality. and yet, for some reason, you bit back a response, silently promising yourself you'd allow your friends to know that part of you one day.

"yeah, exactly," you muttered.

"it's ok," lara spoke up, "there are plenty of other things to be excited about. you'll have a lot of fun."

once you reached the cabin, you quickly prepared yourself for the night and wished the girls goodnight, climbing up to your bed.

it took a while to fall asleep with all the thoughts rushing through your mind, awaiting the next day, and the thirteen more to come.

a/n: hehehehe awwwwaejfnksdfnfd >.< teenage romance is so adorable i love this so far, hope u guys do as well!! comments, reblogs, likes, and feedback are, as always, very much appreciated ❤️❤️❤️ thanks for reading!

taglist: @ximtiredx @gold-dustwomxn @elliesinterlude @fireflyels @trulygnomed @deluluwh-0-re @elliewilliamsmissingfingerss @emluvselandabs @ariianelle @jokerpokimoon @lonelyfooryouonly @lil-elliesgf @yuaaa05 @ourautumn86 @ucannotcompare @lunarpretty @cassharass @uberyellowsheep @444na0m1

#ellie williams #tlou game #the last of us #tlou 2 #ellie williams x reader #wlw #ellie williams fluff #tlou part 2 #jesse tlou #dina woodward #the last of us fanfiction #lesbian #summer camp au

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roosterbruiser · 10 months

Text

𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍

—𝐃𝐄𝐒𝐂𝐑𝐈𝐏𝐓𝐈𝐎𝐍: 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐈𝐒 𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐀𝐋𝐄𝐃. —𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐒: 𝟖.𝟓𝐊 —𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐏𝐋𝐀𝐘𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 —𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐈𝐎𝐍 𝐁𝐎𝐀𝐑𝐃 —𝐏𝐑𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐎𝐔𝐒 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐍 𝐆𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐓 𝐎𝐀𝐊𝐒, 𝐌𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐏 𝐀𝐑𝐂𝐀𝐃𝐈𝐀 𝐉𝐔𝐋𝐘 𝟐𝟐𝐍𝐃, 𝟏𝟗𝟖𝟕

“Whose is it, birdie?” Bradley asks, eyes wide. "It's all over--whose blood is that?"

He hasn’t moved his hands from your warm and sticky face--he’s still cupping your cheeks, face contorted in anguish as his eyes pour into yours.

You drop the ax and the shotgun on the ground--they make a dull thump, one you can feel in the soles of your feet and in your pulsing head. There’s a lump in your throat so obstructive, so thick and overwhelming, that you can’t speak.

All you can do, as Rooster looks down at you while the swallows begin to swoop from roof to roof and the irises emit their sweet scent, is cry.

How can you explain to Rooster, who’s held it together this entire time, that you can’t hold it together right now because of what you just witnessed? How are you going to explain to him that you had the person cornered--that you could’ve shot him--and you didn’t because Paul needed help? And even then, even when you abandoned your firing position to help Paul, it was all fruitless because Paul is dead and his body is in the woods all on its lonesome.

“Birdie,” Rooster mutters. He smooths a hand through your hair, dirty with lake water and leaves and blood, and shakes his head softly. “Who’s bleeding?”

“Paul,” you finally choke, shaking your head. He thumbs your tears, but it’s for naught. “It--it was Paul’s.”

It was Paul’s.

Rooster looks you up and down--the blood is all over you. Up to your ankles and covering your shoes, all over your shins, dried up your legs, staining your poor dungarees again.

“Oh, baby,” he whispers to you. His bottom lip trembles. “Is he…?”

You nod--just barely.

Rooster doesn’t ask any more questions.

You think, suddenly and very clearly, that you’re not sure how much fight you have left in you. You’re not sure how much longer you can keep doing this.

Mable was right. There is no way out. You will bathe in your own blood and be torn limb by limb as the depths of Hell calls for you. There is no way out.

If you let go, if you give in, if you wait to die--then what will happen? Everyone else will die. No one else is as good a shot as you. No one else is willing to trek through the woods. No one else can suture a gash or staunch a wound or cauterize a limb.

So, you have to push forward. It’s a decision that is made with haste.Very swiftly, you realize you’re not going to lose your head now. You’re not going to break down again. You’re gonna keep going--you have to keep going.

“He…he said he’s back,” you whisper to Rooster, wiping your own cheeks now. “He said…he told me to--to run away. I didn’t think he was--I didn’t listen to him. He said that he’s back--he’s back, he’s back. I don’t know what he…”

You don’t rest your head on Rooster’s chest and you don’t lessen the burden of that lump in your throat. You’re in shock, you know--which is why the tears running down your face are involuntary.

“Who?” Rooster presses, eyebrows furrowed.

“I don’t know,” you whisper. Your head is spinning. “I don’t know.”

Only a moment before Rooster is going to pull you to him, only a moment before you’re going to ask him if he found anything in the woods, the walkie deep in your pocket comes to life.

“Gale!” Phoenix sobs through it. “Gale! Are you there? Oh, God--Gale, please!”

Scrambling to grab the walkie, Rooster leans down and takes the ax in his hands. It’s with his heart in a cold, cold puddle that he sees that it’s the ax from the mess hall. D.G. He says nothing to you, just holds onto the handle tight.

“I’m--I’m here,” you answer Phoenix, shuffling to grab the shotgun. You start for the bus barn, wiping your face clean of tears.

“It--it’s Bob,” Phoenix sobs. “I think he’s--I think he’s--!”

“I’m coming,” you tell her. “I’m coming.”

Phoenix, who’s trying desperately to blot the cold sweat from Bob’s face as Coyote sends all the children to the back of the bus, doesn’t feel relieved by your answer. She thought she would--if not to just know that you’re alive then simply because she won’t have to be alone with Bob anymore. Help will be on the way. Bob will be okay.

“I’m so--fuck, I’m so cold,” Bob whispers to her, lips quivering. “Can you start the fire?”

Phoenix’s tongue is dry.

“Bob, we’re on the bus,” she says, voice thin and flat. “There’s no fireplace.”

He’s confused. He’s been confused for a few hours now. Phoenix knows this is the infection--that it must be spreading. But still, she desperately runs her palms up and down his arms to try and get some friction. This cold that Bob feels, though--it’s not one she can fix. It’s not even one a fire could fix.

She pulls the walkie to her mouth again, breathing heavily.

“Gale, quick! Please!”

“I’m on my way,” you say back.

You don’t say I’m going as fast as I can, but I’m so tired. I’m so scared. I want to give up. I’m only coming because it’s you and it’s Bob and it’s Coyote and the campers. But that’s it, that’s all. I want to lie down. But it’s what you’re thinking.

And you’re by yourself suddenly as Rooster falls behind you, taking a glance at the perimeter of camp just in case Jake shows his face. He doesn’t fall in step with you again--he’s going to stay out here and guard. You think maybe it’s because Bradley isn’t brave enough to see it up close--Bob hurt, infected, writhing.

And, really, you don’t blame him.

You’d rather be anywhere else.

The sun is warm on your back. The blood is itchy on your skin. You’re running as fast you can, limping with tired, your temples throbbing. Your heart thumps in your ears.

At any moment, an ax could come whizzing out from the woods. There could be a hiding place just yonder, far enough away that you never see it coming. You could hear its noise, fast and sharp like a whip, and then that could be the end. An ax to the head, to the back, to the legs, and you’re down. A peculiar sensation prickles your spine, torments the swollen muscles in your legs and arms: you could die at any moment. Right here, at Camp Arcadia, on the gravel just outside the bus barn. No one could do a thing about it either.

Oh, God, you think. Where are you?

When you step onto the bus, you know.

It is quiet--so very quiet. No one knows what to say to a dying man and that is what Bob is. None of the campers are whispering and none of the counselors are rustling. Phoenix is sitting in the front seat with Bob over her lap, sobbing as Bob blinks up at her, only barely conscious. Coyote is kneeled beside them, his lip being sawed in half by his own teeth as he tries to keep from crying.

The smell comes first--that distinct perfume, so familiar and pungent with musk. It’s the rot, you know. It’s the body shutting down, the organs giving in, the skin infected. But to you, it just smells like death. The two of you are thick as thieves.

And then, when you look at Bob and everyone else looks at you to save the day, saliva gathers underneath your tongue and your lashes begin to quiver. Pennies settle beneath your tongue.

“I’m here,” you whisper, your throat burning. “I’m here now.”

Phoenix doesn’t understand why you’re not rushing to Bob’s aid. She doesn’t understand why you’re not suturing or cleaning or wrapping or whatever else the fuck you’re suppoosed to do to save him. You should be ordering everyone around, saving Bob. You should be stony right now--but your face is soft and wet.

“Help him,” she cries. “Get over here--help him! Help him, he’s dying!”

Coyote knows when he looks at you. The sun is just barely puncturing the bus barn, just barely lighting the side of your face. You’re covered in blood, limply holding the shotgun, looking down at Bob with an agonized sense of forbearance. You cannot save him. Nobody can--he is too far gone. Coyote bows his head and that is when the tears come.

“Phe,” Coyote whispers. He sets a hand on her elbow. She jerks away from him, looking at him as if he’s just burned her. Her eyes are wild with grief. “Phe, there’s nothing--!”

“--Fuck you,” Phoenix spits at Coyote, her face split in half by anguish. She’s never felt this way before--she’s never felt this mind-splitting, chest-numbing pain. But it’s suddenly drowning her and she feels that no one is throwing her a life preserver. You’re all watching her flounder. “Please…please…”

Slowly, you kneel beside Coyote. Everything smells like sweat and dust, but this close to Bob, you are practically rubbing noses with death. You can see the freckles on its cheeks.

You carefully place your hand on Bob’s leg. He looks down at you, pale as white-sand and shaking. Cold sweat covers his face, stains his shirt. His eyes are focused, but untrained.

“Bob,” you whisper. “We’re here.”

That’s about all you can say to him. Not just hold on, we’ll fix you up. Not only another minute, it’s okay, it’s alright. Not help is on the way. You’re going to make it.

He’s so cold--so, so cold. And he’s been cold since he went out into the night, since he was struck. He’s known, from the very beginning, that he’s dying. He just didn’t know how to tell anyone else. And he knew everyone else was too afraid to tell him.

But when you say that--we’re here--something grows warm in Bob. He’s been in and out of fitful dreams, sometimes dreaming about his father’s fingers on the strings of a guitar and sometimes dreaming about his less than stellar date with Michelle Johnson. It’s peculiar--he never thought dying would be so slow, so tedious.

“Payback and Fanboy haven’t walkied,” Coyote whispers to you. The only recognition you show is a slow blink. “Maybe they’re close.”

“Maybe,” you whisper back.

The both of you know that it wouldn’t matter, anyhow. By the time the tree is moved, by the time the brigade is here if they’re coming, Bob will be gone.

Reaching up, you take Phoenix’s hand. She looks at you, brown eyes wide with horror, and almost pulls away. But then Bob, with the last bit of his strength, puts his hand over hers, too.

“Thank you,” he tells Phoenix. She looks down at him, shaking her head with her eyes wide. He doesn’t break their gaze, lips trembling. “You’re my best friend.”

“Stop that,” Phoenix demands softly. “Cut it out, Bob! You’re fine!”

“I’m dying,” he whispers. He swallows hard. His throat is so very dry. “I didn’t know how to…how to tell you.”

Phoenix sobs.

“No,” she whispers. She blinks hard, shaking her head. “Bob, I can’t--please, please, please…”

Leaning down, she holds Bob’s body against hers. He blinks a few times, the sunlight coming over his face just barely. It’s good to feel warm, he thinks.

“I know…I know you hate Cutting Crew,” Bob starts. With the last bit of his strength, he smiles. It’s a barely-there, strained thing. But it’s there. “But they wrote our song, huh?”

It takes a moment for everyone to register what Bob’s saying. For a second, you think he’s delirious. But then Coyote chokes out a loud laugh, a few stray tears running down his face.

Phoenix looks up, puzzled, and then it dawns on her.

(I Just) Died In Your Arms. Cutting Crew. She groans every time it comes on the radio just before tuning to another station. She’s literally left coffee shops over the song. Bob knows this. But now it’s the song that will make her think of Bob because he’s willed it so. It’s the song that will remind her of this exact instance--sitting on the bus, terrified, dirty, holding her best friend as he dies.

“Bob,” Coyote laughs. He’s about to say that he’s a sly, sly dog. That he’s got the jokes. But just the sound of his name falling off his lips is enough to halt Coyote. That is the last time he will ever call Bob’s name and have Bob answer to it. “I…I love you, man.”

Bob smiles.

“I love you, too, man,” Bob whispers. “Don’t tell Phoenix.”

And then Bob is looking at you. You with your eyes heavy with tears and your face a calm and placid sea. He doesn’t know how you’ve done it--he doesn’t know how you haven’t given up yet. But he knows that he loves you for it.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper to Bob, tears pouring down your face. You sniffle and sigh. “I’m really, really sorry Bob. More sorry than I’ve ever been.”

He knows what you’re apologizing for: not saving him.

“No hard feelings,” he whispers to you. Another meek smile tugs on his lips. “You did good.”

You did good.

Choking on your grief, you can hardly stand to look at him anymore. You can hardly stand kneeling here, breathing in all this death. But you know this is where you’re supposed to be.

Just as Phoenix is about to sob again, a meager voice finds place in the stale air around everyone.

“Can I pray for you, Mister Bob?” Mable asks softly. There are tears in her eyes as she blinks at everyone. “If that’s okay…”

You glance at Phoenix, who looks like she never wants to see Mable Brandt’s face ever again in her long, long life without Bob. Bob was born Godless and will die Godless. But then Bob is nodding.

“That’d be swell, kid,” he whispers. A shuddering breath falls from his lips. “Make it out to Bob Dylan, would ya?”

Mable sniffles. She rests her hands on your shoulders because you, out of everyone here, are the only one that can hold her up. And you let her hold you--even close your eyes and feel the heat of her body against you and fall into a dreamless, sleepless state.

“Dear Heavenly Dylan,” Mable starts. Bob lets out a quiet laugh--a weezy, tired thing. It is the last time he will ever laugh. “Please take Mister Bob’s pain away--he’s been in an awful lot of it since the attack and I think he’s tired now. He’s a real nice guy--he never yelled at me or anyone else. I don’t think it’s very fair that he’s got so many boo-boo’s.”

No one speaks as Mable continues praying, everyone’s head slightly bowed and eyes drifted shut. Everyone’s face is wet with tears that are shining in the yellow light.

“And we know that you’ll have a place for him when he gets to where he’s going, alright? So, make sure it’s nice and clean. And make sure there’s aspirin there because Mister Bob doesn’t feel so hot right now. But most of all--keep him safe on his way. Miss Nightingale and Miss Phoenix did the best they could. It’s your turn now.”

An overwhelming sense of peace finds Bob. His fingers are numb--he wonders, strangely, if they’re already dead. Maybe when you die, it’s piece by piece, a little at a time. And maybe his fingers went first.

“I’m scared,” Phoenix whispers to Bob, looking down at his pale cheeks. “I can’t…I can’t never see you again.”

He takes a deep breath. His lungs are warm, very warm.

“I’ve been here the whole time,” he whispers to her. “You’ll manage.”

He’s accepted this. This is okay. He is looking up at his best friend in the world and it is the last thing his eyes will ever see. And he thinks, with a sudden swell of pride, that he did good. She’s really the cream of the crop--the best friend he could have asked for.

Something flickers behind his eyes, bright yellow and aquamarine and jet black--memories. They flutter past his vision, clear and crisp, like he’s pulling the little plastic lever on a viewfinder of his own life.

The smell of his mama’s hotcakes on late Sunday mornings, Bob sleepy and syrupy and reaching for more butter despite his mother’s tutting. Lazing around the pool with his kid brother, Neil Young humming on the radio as his daddy grills. Sitting in the movie theater during Star Wars, too engrossed in the movie to realize that Lisa Patterson is making googly eyes at him. Finally kissing Michelle Johnson at the roller rink, her tight curls gleaming beneath the disco ball, her skin shining blue and pink. Reading Kurt Vonnegut in his car before class, holding in tears when the profoundness struck him over the head like a brick. Holding hands with Phoenix during games of Red Rover, their mouths wide open, their hairlines dotted with sweat. Swimming in the lake after tipsy bonfires, bobbing his head beneath the water, listening to the muted sound of you squealing when Jake pulls you up on his shoulders. His toes in cold, cold mud. His face against the warm, warm sun. The first snow of the year blanketing the front lawn. His dorm room, which always smells like crayons for some reason. His best friends pedaling down the street, swerving at cars and whooping and hollering, switching gears up the big hill on Freemont. His daddy taking his mama’s hands and dancing her around the wrapping-paper covered living room, her new necklace gleaming on her throat like a personal star on a silver chain. Holding his baby cousin for the first time, breath caught in his throat and arms stiff because he’s never held anything so tiny. Cutting his knees on concrete. Hitting his head on that shelf in the living room. Learning how to change a tire. Driving down his street for the first time. Playing his guitar in his room, shutting his eyes, and quietly whispering Bob Dylan songs.

He can hear it now--Bob Dylan is playing. And it isn’t him singing and it isn’t him playing the guitar. He doesn’t know where it’s coming from or why it’s so loud, so clear, so sudden. But there it is--clear as the day is blue. It’s like there’s a private concert just for Bob and he’s in the front row, the sun warm on his face and shoulders, his arms raised in ecstasy.

That long black cloud is comin' down

I feel I'm knockin' on heaven's door

He always wanted to be front row at a Bob Dylan concert. He was saving up to take him and Phoenix.

Funny how life works that way, he thinks.

Oh, well. So it goes.

“Please, if you could make it easy, we would all really appreciate it. And in Bob Dylan’s name we pray…amen.”

And then, with a final shuddering breath, Bob Floyd dies in his best friend’s arms on a disjunct bus on the worst Thursday of anyone’s life. He was the newest counselor at Camp Arcadia. This was only his second summer.

“Bob?” Phoenix asks. Panic shoots up and grabs onto her ears, tugging hard. His lips are parted, his eyes are open. He is not moving. “Bob! Wake up! Wake the fuck up!”

Mable leans down to your ear. You’re so thoroughly covered in blood that you look like something that crawled out of a horror film--she can make out the tracks of your tears as the salt cuts through the gore on your cheeks. It’s an image that will stay with her for the rest of her life, one she’ll doodle inside book covers and on the backs of restaurant napkins. She’s so young now that when she’s older, she’ll wonder if her juvenile mind was exaggerating just how gory you look. But it is not an exaggeration at all.

“You have to fight it,” she whispers in your ear. Her cut begins to bleed. “It’s here.”

When you look up, your eyes fluttering open again after seemingly being pasted shut, you see another dead body. Your second this morning. There is less blood and more sunlight, but it is still there right before you.

As if a mortar has suddenly gone off beside your cheek, your ears are hollowed out and ringing. You can see Phoenix screaming, can see her patting Bob’s cheeks, but you can’t hear her shrill tone or the lifeless thumps on his skin. Coyote touches your shoulder and you think maybe he’s saying something to you, but you don’t look at him.

Vision beginning to vignette, you stand slowly. And then you turn and walk all the way off the bus, the blood on your shoes matted with dirt and grime. You take a few stumbling steps, the gun clenched tightly in your hands. Then you open the doors, let the sunlight in. If someone was running full-speed at you, intent on cutting you down, you wouldn’t hear it. And you think you wouldn’t fight it either.

The only way you know you’re on the ground is when the gravel slices your knees open. It is not from brute strength that you have fallen--no one has hit you. It is because you are drained. Entirely, completely, wholly drained.

Bradley finds you only a few moments later.

You’re on your hands and knees just outside the bus barn, clutching the gravel with the gun laid out just beside you. Your back bows, curved like the neck of a preening swan, and you suddenly heave. Vomit spews across the rocks--all stomach acid.

Oh, he realizes. Bob’s dead.

He stops where he is, only a few paces from you, and watches all of your humanness from afar. Surely you’ve seen dead bodies before in your line of work--in fact, he knows you have--but maybe you’ve never seen it this close. And it has never, ever been a friend. That must be what’s different about this one, he thinks. That’s it. That must be it.

And then he watches you stop. You suddenly swallow hard and wipe your mouth with the back of your hand, eyebrows furrowed and lips trembling. Then you fight to your feet, wobbling and quivering, leaning over once more to grab the gun and hold it to your body.

As if you knew he was there the entire time, you look at Bradley. He can see it from where he is, dazed and heartbroken and lovesick: there is fight in your eyes. It is dim, it is full, it is small, it is hazy--but it’s there, gleaming in the early morning light.

You have to fight it. It’s here.

“We have to find him,” you tell Bradley. Your voice is ragged and thin. You swallow hard, shaking your head. “No one else is dying today, alright?”

Bradley nods at you, dumbfounded and grief-stricken. His throat is tight.

“Alright,” he answers. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs.“Birdie, I…I think I might have an idea.”

♀

“What do you mean?” Coyote asks. “You two are gonna just…play music? And get him to come? Like…a dog or something?”

“So he knows where we are,” Bradley defends, his voice hard and serious. “We’re not, like, whistling for him.”

“And you think that’ll make him come?” Coyote asks, brow perched.

He glances at you. You’re not looking at him.

“He’ll come. He’ll come if he knows Gale’s there.”

Coyote opens his mouth to argue, but then you quietly add, “What other option do we have? I can’t…I’m not strong enough to go back out in the woods.”

“I could go,” Coyote offers.

You shake your head.

“I’m the good shot,” you whisper. And all that responsibility weighs down on you again. “It would have to be me. And you’re hurt.”

Coyote knows you’re right. He carefully touches the back of his head, wincing when the gash stings beneath his fingers.

Phoenix’s eyes are on the floor. Her throat hurts too bad to say anything. She won’t look up at you and Bradley as you stand outside the bus with Coyote, relaying the plan.

“And when he--if he comes, then what?” Coyote asks. He swallows hard, his head pulsing. “You’re gonna…?”

“Wait. For help,” you whisper.

Coyote looks at your face--still covered in blood, but stained with a detached sort of anger. You’re resolute and morose all wrapped up in bloody dungarees.

“Back to square one, then, huh?” He asks softly.

“What’s the alternative?” Bradley counters. “Killing him?”

“No one else is dying today,” you say matter-of-factly. You look at the two men, who are looking at you already with their mouths flat and their chests heaving. “I mean it, alright? No one else.”

“Alright,” Coyote answers. “So, Phoenix and I should just hang around? Wait?”

You nod. Coyote shudders at the thought of just waiting.

“We’ll come get you when it’s…” you start, trailing off with your brows furrowed.

“Over. We’ll come get you when it’s over,” Bradley answers. “Don’t open the doors for anyone but us, okay?”

“Yeah,” Coyote answers. He takes a long, deep breath. His head hurts. “Okay. Are you sure you don’t want me to help? Strength in numbers, right?”

You glance at Phoenix. She’s still holding Bob. Though now that the tears have stopped, she’s completely quiet. You fear, suddenly and completely, that she’ll never speak again.

“Yeah,” you whisper. “Stay here with her.”

Glancing up at the bus, you see all the campers already looking at you. Knives in their little hands, fear in their little teary eyes. Their faces are almost begging, you think.

Fight it. Fight it. Fight it.

Toes numb with panic, you look back at Coyote. He’s already looking at you.

“Don’t let anyone in,” you say again. You think of last night when something tried to get into the mess hall--just how close they came. “And if they do get in…corner them. Get them.”

Coyote nods firmly. You can count on him. He can count on you. The two of you have never bullshitted each other before.

“I will,” he says. “I’ll die fighting if I have to. No one’s touching those kids.”

Die fighting. How silly that phrase seemed before, when you’d throw it around at random. And now there’s two dead bodies and three missing counselors at Camp Arcadia. You hope you don’t die fighting like Paul, like Bob. But it would be a valiant way to go.

“Let’s go,” Bradley says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. You’re rigid underneath his hands--it stains him, wounds him. But he doesn’t punish you for it. How could he? “We’ll be right back.”

Coyote swallows hard. His heart is pounding.

“Don’t say that,” Coyote pleads. “Haven’t you ever seen a horror movie? Ever?”

“This is real life,” Bradley argues. “Not some story.”

But it was a story--before, at the bonfire.

Damien and the Devil. Six counselors, one nurse. Slashed. Dead, gone, buried, away.

Saying nothing more, you turn on your heel.

It’s time to end this.

The walk back to the mess hall is very quiet. Underneath the bright yellow sun and the clear blue sky, you and Bradley say almost nothing to each other. You’re holding the gun, trying to keep your heart from beating out of your chest. He’s holding the ax, the one that killed Paul, and the other one he took into the woods with him. He’s glancing around the perimeter to make sure nothing’s sneaking up on the two of you.

You’re stumbling slightly when you step--Bradley isn’t sure if it’s because you’re tired or if it’s because of the gashes on your knees or if it’s because of your shock. He does know you’re in shock--that you’ve been in shock since you tumbled out of the woods covered in Paul’s blood. You look shell-shocked, but brave. Like you know the bomb is about to drop, but you’re ready to arm yourself against whatever’s coming even if it’s for naught. Do svidaniya.

Ears still ringing, stomach still churning, you feel like the walk is too quick. Suddenly you aren't outside anymore--you’re in the mess hall in all its disarray, walking towards the kitchen with the intent of grabbing more ammunition.

Bradley’s closing the buckshot-broken doors, brows furrowed as he examines the shots. Shit. You really did it. Something in his belly feels better knowing that you’ll shoot. You’ll pull the trigger.

As soon as you’re through the kitchen doors, your heart stops. There on the dingy tiles is what remains of Bob’s blood--it’s smeared, dried, browned. But you can still see where he laid. And just beside the bucket, which is still full of bloody water, are Bob’s broken glasses.

Leaning down, legs shaking, you pick the glasses up and hold them up to your face. They’re broken--the glass is cracked and the frames are bent.

But it’s okay. He doesn’t need them anymore.

“Oh, Bob,” you whisper. You grip the glasses hard. Tipping your head forward, you let the metal fall against your closed mouth. A sob ripples through you. “I’m so sorry.”

“Gale?” Rooster calls. He turns--sees your form frozen in the doorway, kneeling with your head bent. Starting for you, he swallows hard. “Birdie?”

His presence behind you is warm and solid, like standing against a water heater. His chest just barely grazes your back. It brings you back a little bit--his steady and even breaths. You can count them--you can count on them. They’re there, steady, as you look down at Bob’s glasses.

Rooster, his jaw squared, sighs gently.

He tugs under your armpits until you’re standing on your feet again.

“Are you…are you, like, alright?”

Dumb question, he thinks. Jesus. Dumb, dumb question.

Shaking your head, you let your eyes fall shut.

“I’m numb,” you whisper. “I can’t…I don’t think I can…I can’t feel anything at all.”

A pang of pain radiates in Rooster’s chest. You’re so quiet, so drawn into yourself. Maybe this is your surrender. Maybe this is when you give up. Maybe this is when you call it a day and lay down and just wait for the end to come. Rooster can’t have that.

“Can you feel this?” Rooster asks.

And you’re about to crane your neck to look at him, about to ask him what he’s doing, when the very softest of kisses lands just below your left ear.

Oh. You can feel that. His warm lips, full of blood and live cells and made up of skin, send a shiver down your spine.

“Yes,” you mutter. “I can.”

Another kiss--this time in the middle of your neck. Rooster can still faintly smell jasmine on your skin. It makes him ache all over.

“That?” He whispers.

You nod, choked up.

And then he’s very carefully brushing your hair off your shoulders, pushing it aside so he can see your throat and the curve of your jaw. It’s covered in blood, flaking off whenever it’s disturbed. He doesn’t care.

He kisses a trail down the back of your neck, his own eyes fluttered shut in just a moment of peace. And your body is growing softer beneath him--so soft that when he reaches around and pulls the gun from your hands, you don’t fight it. You just let your head fall to the side, eyes flickering shut.

His palms splay on your hips. He holds you tight, pulls you until your back is flush against his chest. And your mind is buzzing and your body is growing warmer and warmer, but you cannot deny the pleasure of this encounter. This is the most human you’ve felt since all of this began, since you jumped out of bed naked when Phoenix came into your cabin.

And even though you’re suddenly crying, even though you’re gripping his hands, you know that you need this to keep moving forward. You cannot fight if you feel like there’s nothing left to fight for--maybe the faces of the campers, stained with fear, aren’t enough for you. Maybe seeing Phoenix holding Bob still isn’t enough for you. Maybe you need this--to be touched and held. To be reminded that you can feel still. To be reminded that when this is over, there will be life to live and sex to have and jobs to hate and cars to drive and stars to gaze upon.

This, right here, is proof of that.

��Hold me,” you whisper, suddenly desperate. “Hold me, please.”

You cannot remember the last time you asked someone to hold you. Rigidity sometimes feels like your natural state. Steeling yourself against death, against blood and hurt and pain. And now you’re so soft as Rooster wraps his arms around you.

He holds you so tight that all the air leaves your lungs.

You’re stuck still, breath stilted, lungs empty.

Yes, you think. This is how tightly I need to be held.

Rooster buries his nose in your neck. He can feel the tears dripping down your cheeks as they land in his hair and he only holds you tighter. He can feel that he’s squeezing the life out of you, but for some reason, he knows you want it like that.

“I’ve got you,” he mutters to you. “I won’t let you go.”

But just as quickly as you found comfort in his arms, in his heat, against his pumping heart and hot skin, you become uneasy. It’s the thought of seeing his dead body, it’s him calling you hysterical, it’s the spit flinging out of his mouth as he called Jake the killer, it’s his naked body you left behind to find Bob.

All of it comes at once, slaps your face until your cheeks are raw.

Wriggling your way out of his grip, you take a half-step away from him and grab the shotgun again. Rooster, slightly stunned, watches you with his mouth ajar.

“Set the music up,” you whisper. You sniffle. “I’m gonna reload and…and get in position.”

Jake’s trudging back towards camp, openly weeping. He hasn’t openly wept since his toddlerhood, he thinks. But he is right now: shoulders shaking, spine curving, snot dripping, tears pouring open-mouthed weeping. There’s bile covering the front of his shirt and blood on his hands, which is why he won’t look down, which is why he’s stumbling.

He’s been walking all night long--ducking behind trees, stumbling over jagged roots. He’s so tired that his bones feel brittle. He’s so thoroughly exhausted that he’s stumbling towards the mess hall now, even though he knows it’s a trap, even though he knows this might be his final location.

Kate Bush is playing over the loudspeaker--it was loud enough for him to hear where he was just before in a puddle of blood, vomiting and swatting away swarming flies. Through his heaving, through his tears, he knew immediately that he had to go to where you were calling him from.

Do you wanna feel how it feels?

You must be there. You must be the one calling out to him. He wonders if maybe it’s a call for help. But no--it must be a trap. Maybe Bradley swayed you. Maybe everyone swayed you. Maybe you want him dead. Maybe, as soon as his feet cross the threshold, you’re going to shoot him in the chest. He wouldn’t be angry with you. But, boy--would he miss you if he died.

But all he wants, as his stuttering footsteps grow nearer and nearer to the mess hall, is to keep you safe. And if you’re with him--if you’re even near him--you aren’t safe.

Limping, he approaches the doors to the mess hall. They’re closed, but damaged. You already shot through them, Jake sees. And there’s blood dotting the doors--so much of it that he knows you must’ve really got ‘em.

Atta girl, he thinks.

“Jake?” Your voice comes from inside, echoing in the empty mess hall. “Is that…is that you?”

Instead of answering, he opens the door.

You

It's you and me

And there you are. Standing a few paces ahead of him, holding the shotgun like you’ve held it a million times before, eyes narrowed and focused on him. You’re covered in blood, even your heavy eyelids, and sniffling as you cry quietly. But even through your tears, you’re strong. He can see the fight still tugging on the ends of your hair and straining in your wobbling thighs.

Bradley is just behind you, armed with an ax, sneering at Jake.

“Don’t you come any closer,” Bradley demands. He rears back so the ax is in position to swing down at any given moment. “I mean it, you fuck!”

Jake stumbles slightly as he steps into the mess hall.

“Jake,” you whisper, shaking your head. Your throat aches with grief. “Where have you been?”

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

It all comes rushing back to him, a wave of grief and exhaustion and derangement. Taking a shuddering breath, he tries to communicate with you, his words coming out like a fluttering and distant bird that flies right over your head.

“Get away from him,” he whispers.

You furrow your brows, straining to hear him over Running Up That Hill (A Deal With God).

“He’s got a weapon,” Bradley whispers to you. His heart is pounding. “Gale, he’s got an ax.”

Fingers numb with panic, with pain, you shake your head at Jake.

You don't wanna hurt me (yeah, yeah, yo)

“Where did you get that?” You demand quietly, nodding to the ax in Jake’s hand.

Jake glances down at the ax. He got this just a few miles outside of camp. He pried it out of Fanboy’s hands--his cold, dead hands. And then he promptly spewed vomit onto the rocks just beside his body and Payback’s. He found them, their bodies hacked, lying together. They never left each other’s sides. Not for one moment.

“I…” Jake whispers. He swallows, head pounding. “Get away from Bradley. Please, baby, please get away from him.”

The hairs on the back of your neck prickle your skin as they raise.

“Can it,” Bradley spits. You don’t have to see him to know how angry Bradley is right now, sneering and snarling at Jake. “You--you fucking son of a bitch! Bob is dead! You fucking killed Bob!”

“Stop,” you beg softly, the gun shaking in your unsteady grasp. “Jake, just…just put the ax down, alright? And then we can talk.”

“Talk? Fuck that,” Bradley yells. “He killed Bob!”

“You did,” Jake utters. “You killed him, Rooster.”

Is there so much hate for the ones we love?

You hear him loud and clear as if he’s just whispered in your ear. Heart pounding, you shake your head. Fuck. Fuck.

“He’s lying,” Bradley laughs bitterly. “You fuck--you stupid fuck! You really think she’s gonna fall for that? You think she’s gonna believe you? You destroyed the fucking cabin and went AWOL and then people started dying!”

But Jake isn’t responding to Bradley. He’s just staring at you, cowering where he stands, defeated and terrified. His shirt is ripped and his hair is messy and there’s blood underneath his fingernails.

“Just drop the ax,” you tell him. “I don’t want to--I’m not gonna hurt you. We’re not going to hurt each other, right? Just drop it.”

It's you and me

Jake drops it--it clatters onto the floor unceremoniously. Your lungs deflate.

“Nightingale,” Jake whispers. His eyes are pouring into yours, red-rimmed and wide. “You have to get away from him, baby. He’s gonna hurt you.”

Panic is pulsing in your chest now. You’re desperately clinging to reality right now--even though you’re not sure what that is.

“He’s trying to confuse you,” Bradley whispers. “Don’t let him.”

“Gale,” Jake begs, sobbing. He steps closer to you. You reposition your fingers so they’re not sitting on the trigger anymore. “Please…please…just get away from him! Please!”

Eyes wide, you watch as he stumbles closer. Bradley is grunting behind you, rearing the ax up further and further.

“Don’t you fucking touch her,” Bradley sneers. “I mean it, man! Stay the fuck away!”

“Jake,” you whisper. “Please. Please just stay where you are.”

“Where’d you even get the ax?” Bradley asks. His voice echoes.

Jake is still looking into your eyes, openly weeping. Bile dribbles down his chin.

“They’re dead,” he whispers. “I--oh, God, they’re dead. I found ‘em. I found them together.”

Be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

You immediately know that he means Fanboy and Payback. They’re dead. They’re gone. They haven’t been answering the walkie calls. They’re not close to town at all--they’re just dead.

A sharp and punctuated sob ripples through your entire body. Goddammit.

“Who?” Bradley demands. “Who the fuck are you--?”

“--You know what you did,” Jake whispers to Bradley. Suddenly, Jake isn’t deflated. He’s almost close enough to reach out and touch you. Your finger isn’t on the trigger. His chest puffs up and his shoulders roll back. He can protect you. He can do that. “Don’t you fucking touch her, man. Don’t you fucking ax her like you axed them! You--you fucking got ‘em when they were sleeping, didn’t you? You’re a fucking coward.”

Eyes wide, you begin to beg Jake to move back.

“It’s you,” Bradley spits. “You’re the fucking killer!

Oh, come on, baby (yeah)

Oh, come on, darlin' (yo)

“Enough,” you try desperately. “We’re gonna sit here and-and wait for Mav and Penny to come get us, alright? All of us!” But they’re not listening to you. Jake is staring at Bradley and Bradley is staring at Jake. “No one else is dying, okay?”

“Who else is dead?” Jake asks. “Who else did he kill?”

Your mind is racing. You don’t know what’s happening. You don’t know who’s telling the truth. All you know right now is that Jake seems earnest and Bradley seems angry and the truth is lying somewhere between them in no-man’s-land.

“You know damn well Paul is dead,” Bradley sneers. You see it--Jake’s shock. Thoroughly, in your bones, you can tell that no, Jake did not know that. Your spine tingles. “You fucking killed him! And you cut Mable, didn’t you? Snuck out while Gale was sleeping, right? You coward.”

Swallowing hard, Jake looks at you. His face is very serious, very anguished.

Oh, come on, angel

Come on, come on, darlin'

“Don’t let him confuse you,” Jake begs. He’s desperate, shaking his head at you. “I’m still me. I’d never--you know that I’d never--!”

“--You’re sick,” Bradley screams. His voice booms, drowns out the music. “You’re worshiping the same twisted demon Gwyar did, aren’t you? Or is it that--that you’re worshiping Gwyar? Him and his fucking ax and his sick fucking game! Feeding on everyone’s fear, scaring the tar out of everyone! Or is it that you’re cutting down anyone that gets too close to Gale? Huh? Is that it? You sick fuck!”

Furrowing his brows, Jake looks at you. And you know that he doesn’t know what Bradley is talking about at all.

You’re getting lightheaded.

“Gale,” Jake whispers. It’s a desperate, desperate plea. “Get away from him, baby. Please, please, please. I won’t even--I won’t even touch you. Just get away from him. Point the gun at him.”

And here it is: you’re getting ripped apart. You didn’t even make it to the end of summer.

But then Jake is falling to his knees, sobs tearing him to bits, looking up at you like a depraved and despaired. It’s horrific--having Jake there before you.

“If you’ve ever done anything in your life, listen to me right now,” Jake sobs. “Please, Gale--get the fuck away from him. I’m not the killer, baby--Bradley is. You’re not safe!”

Your fingers are shaking.

And if I only could

I'd make a deal with God

And I'd get Him to swap our places

“Enough,” you try. “Please, Jake--Bradley! Just stop!”

Head swarmed, you look at Jake with wide eyes.

“Maybe you’re possessed,” Bradley says, laughing humorlessly. “Maybe you couldn’t help yourself. You were drawn to it…you found the ax ‘cause it called for you, didn’t it?”

Bradley’s chest is hot with rage. He wants to get Jake away from you--now.

And then Jake isn’t just on his knees before you, he’s throwing himself forward and against your legs. But your feet are planted so firmly that you don’t shake, you don’t fall. He isn’t trying to knock you over--he’s just hugging himself against your thighs, burying his face in the bottom of your belly and looking up at you.

“I’d never hurt anyone,” Jake pleads with you. “You know that…baby, you know that. I don’t even know what he’s talking about! I don’t know who Gwyar is! I’m so confused…Gale, please…we have to get away from him!”

“Get the fuck away from--!”

“Stop!” You cry desperately. Jake is holding you so tight that you can’t breathe. “Stop it!”

But they’re not listening to you.

I'd be runnin' up that road

Be runnin' up that hill

“It isn’t me!” Jake sobs. “We have to get away from here!”

“You fuck,” Bradley continues. “It took your blood! It wanted you! Sliced your hand when you were chopping that tree down!”

The song ends.

Your hearing goes out--fuzzy and fading. Every muscle beneath your sizzling skin is locked in place. A noose of fear wraps itself around your neck and tightens, tightens until you cannot breathe at all. Your lungs are stunted at a deep exhale. And you can’t close your eyes for even a millisecond to blink. Sulfur floods your nostrils--abundantly clear and thick in the air.

Jake stares up at you, horrified. He watches, in real time, as the realization dawns on you.

He was telling the truth. Bradley is the killer.

“Bradley…” you whisper, voice quivering. Just barely, you turn your head. And Bradley is behind you, still looking like himself but ugly with rage and red with anger. “You cut your hand on the ax.”

At first, his face contorts in confusion. He stutters, mouth parted. Brows furrowed, he attempts to say something. But his tongue is dry. But when he sees the fear in your eyes and hears Jake’s sobs, he knows the jig is up. He just gave himself away.

You watch, in utter terror, as his face drops completely. And for the first time, as you stare at him, you see it: the pure, unadulterated evil. It’s there in the black in his pupils. The flecks of gold in his amber eyes are faded, gone. His smile is wide and broad, but it isn’t the smile you saw at the beginning of the summer. It is wicked--dry and nefarious.

“Damn,” he says, sighing. He beams at you wickedly. So wicked that your arms go limp, the gun falling onto the floor. Good. He’s got you where he wants you. “I was doing so well, too.”

Lips open wide in shock, two stray tears fall down your face.

And it is not a moment later that he brings the ax down.

Jake, with all the gall and gumption of the soldier his father wanted him to be, acts fast. So fast that he doesn’t even think--he just does.

“Gale!”

Closing your eyes, you accept it at once. You will die at the hand of Bradley--he’s killing you and you don’t know why other than he’s sick. And you’re already covered in blood, you already saw two dead bodies today. People are dying. You’re going to be another one to add to the pile. Your body will be covered with a sheet and your father will identify you with tears in his eyes and he will wonder why and you will die not knowing why.

When you hit the ground, head slamming against the hardwood floors and neck cracking, you’re waiting for the pain to come. The first hit, the first hack. You’re waiting for release.

But instead, you just feel heavy--something is brushing your nose because it is so close to you. And when you open your eyes, you’re staring into Jake’s. His eyes are wide in shock, his mouth, too.

For a moment, you’re not sure what’s happened. Then you hear the strangled moan he releases, the barely-there and quiet thing. A steady stream of blood floods out from his parted lips and into your mouth.

“Jake?” You whimper, terror flooding your body until you’re cold with it.

And he’s so heavy on top of you and so warm--deadweight. And the warmth, it isn’t just his body heat. No, no…it is a wet and slick warmth. It is his blood that is leaking from his body and onto yours.

Choking out a sob, your spit red with his blood spewing onto his face, you try desperately to move your arms. He has you pinned--and he’s so heavy that you can’t move.

“My, my, my…” Bradley laughs. He leans down, wraps his hands around the handle of the ax and steadies himself by pressing his foot on Jake’s back, and rips the ax from his back. Jake coughs--blood spews across your face and you whimper aloud, stunned. Bradley totes the ax over his shoulder like it is as friendly and unassuming as his guitar. “Sacrificing his life. Now, that’s love, huh?”

Jake can’t feel anything. Not the gash on his back or the blood he’s losing. He can’t feel your body beneath him or the sobs ripping through your shocked form. He can’t feel any of it. He’s just looking at your face, his mouth wide open and gaping, and praying that Bradley will go.

“Jake,” you sob again. You can’t breathe. You can’t move. “Jake! Jake!”

If Jake could speak, he’d tell you that he loves you and that he’s sorry he can’t do more. But he can’t, so he just slowly lowers his head until it falls into your neck. He stops moving.

Bradley watches from above you. He rolls his shoulders, cracks his neck, sighs deeply. It feels good to be out in the open like this--no more lying, no more sneaking around. Just him, just you, just Jake. And he’s about to finish off the two of you and head to the bus barn. He’ll finish what was started thirty years ago--almost to the date, that sly dog.

“Jake,” you keep whispering, shocked, stunned, horrified. Your body vibrates with panic. You don’t care about Bradley hovering over you. You care about Jake and the way his green eyes are losing the color, the way his cheeks are becoming pale. He can do nothing but stare at you, his vision beginning to blacken around the edges. “Jake, I…”

And then Bradley kicks the shotgun--it slides across the floor and clatters against the wall. As if you weren’t already defenseless. You look up, quivering, and Bradley grins down at you.

“I’m more of an ax guy myself,” he says, smiling. He leans down, settling the ax beside him. And then he strokes your hair back from your face, relishing in the horror that crosses your features. “Don’t wig out yet, baby. Let’s chat before I book it to the bus barn, huh? I can spare a few minutes for my best girl.”

𝐅𝐎𝐎𝐓𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐄:

BOB BE LIKE:

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐍𝐄𝐗𝐓 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

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