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kodaiki · 6 months

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꒰ 12:37 P.M. ꒱ ❛ hogwarts bbf!dan heng x reader ༉‧₊˚✧

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐒𝐈𝐓 𝐐𝐔𝐈𝐄𝐓𝐋𝐘, leaning against a stone column in the corner of the courtyard, the air around you crisp with the chill of winter. there's a chatter of voices among them as the hour of lunch passes you by. fellow students pass by, their footsteps muffled by the layer of snow from the storm a few nights prior. the atmosphere is hushed, the winter silence broken only by the distant sounds of laughter and the occasional gust of wind. lunch hour is in full swing, and while your housemates are likely warming up in the great hall, you're out here.

you would be –correction, should be – in the great hall, probably enjoying some warm food with your fellow house buddies and not freezing to death but alas, procrastination is your rival once again, taunting you as you scribble down the best you can your homework for herbology without any distractions. you gnaw your lip through your struggles, your hair falling in front of your face, slightly swaying from the brisk winter breeze painting your nose pink.

your quill moves across the parchment as you work on your herbology homework, your breath visible in the cold air when you take a deep sigh. the crunch of footsteps drawing near makes a presence known to you, but still, your eyes remain focused on your task at hand.

“and what’s my baby sister up to today?” a deep voice chimes from above you paired with a chuckle.

“work, go away,” is your curt response as you barely look up to meet your older brother’s amused glance your way.

“but where’s the fun in that?” blade muses, stepping closer to your sitting figure, his feet crushing the fallen leaves beneath his feet.

it’s when you look up to glare at your seventh year brother when you notice the other pair of eyes looking your way, quietly standing behind blade. your brows raise and eyes widen at the sight. when your eyes meet, the guy quickly averts his gaze and instead, turns his attention to grass.

"hey dan heng," you murmur a light greeting, your tone a blatant shift from the way you’d spoken to your brother. your chin dips into the striped scarf around your neck showing off your house's colors as you feel the winter air tickle your nose.

blade, in turn, rolls his eyes at the obviousness of your tone and softened gaze.

"hey," dan heng replies curtly, offering a nod of acknowledgment. blade swings an arm over his shoulder, shaking dan heng slightly as he hoists him closer, to which he makes a sour and slightly uncomfortable, expression.

"oh, now that i've found you, dear baby sis, we could probably use some advice," blade drawls with a sly smile on his face. in return, your face twists into slight confusion as you tilt your head to the side in question. it seems that you're the only who doesn't know what he's talking about because dan heng quite literally freezes, his throat bobbing slightly.

"advice about what?" you raise an eyebrow, now no longer the slightest bit interested in your homework due in a few short hours.

"well, the yule ball's coming up in a few weeks," blade begins, wiggling his brows knowingly. you nod along, scratching the side of your head, briefly glancing at dan heng, wondering how he could need advice from you of all people. "do you have a date?" your brother then asks. you can't tell if it's a genuine question or if he's looking for a reason to tease you.

"no, i don't," you answer simply, glancing back down at your homework. you miss the way blade turns to look at dan heng. "so, what advice do you need?"

"well, as you're well aware, i'm probably going to ask kafka, my near and dear best friend,” he drawls as if it’s obvious. your eyebrows raise, well aware of his platonic soulmate bond with the purple haired student. though, over time you truly wonder if it’s platonic or not. “but dan heng here is busy beating himself up wondering how to ask his crush," blade finishes, a mischievous glint in his eyes. he smirks knowingly, clearly enjoying the revelation that he just dropped on you.

your eyebrows shoot up in surprise and your eyes widen slightly at the implication that dan heng has someone in mind to ask to the yule ball. not only that, it must mean he has some form of a serious crush on someone, period. the air seems to thicken with an unspoken tension as you process blade's words. the image of dan heng asking someone to the yule ball takes on a new significance, and a strange mix of emotions swirls within you.

"dan heng, a crush?" you ask, trying to keep your tone casual even though your mind is buzzing with curiosity – and maybe some buried jealousy.

blade chuckles, enjoying the reaction he has stirred. "oh yeah. he's been overthinking it for days, probably even longer. poor guy doesn't know whether to go for a grand gesture or something simple. it's like watching a potions experiment gone wrong."

“oh,” you say in acknowledgment, glancing at dan heng with your softest-least-obvious smile his way. he rolls his eyes at blade's tone of words, obviously speaking as if he isn't standing right beside him.

“so that's what brings us to you, y/n. personally, how would you-” blade begins to ask in a light-toned, almost nonchalant voice when he's nudged in the gut by dan heng. “hey, rude,” blade grunts at him, but brushes off the elbow to his side. “how would you want to be asked to the ball? i can practically see the smoke coming out of his ears when he’s pacing around our room.”

“i don’t pace,” dan heng quickly cuts in and it’s the first time he’s spoken since he and blade arrived at the courtyard.

“sure you don’t,” blade rolls his eyes. your brother turns back to you. “so? how’d you wanna be asked?”

you swallow back the lump in your throat and avert your gaze to the parchment of your unfinished herbology homework, though your mind is no longer focused on the intricate details of magical plants at the moment. the subtle revelation that dan heng has someone in mind for the yule ball has captured your attention, and you can't help but wonder who the lucky girl might be, though it does leave a bitter taste in your mouth.

you have no reason to feel this way, of course. as far as you're concerned, dan heng is your older brother's best friend. you've only ever been around him for reason of association since blade just loves to tease and poke fun at you, and you've always seen dan heng as a reliable friend. yet, as you continue to feign interest in your herbology homework, the image of dan heng asking someone to the yule ball lingers in your mind.

"well," you begin, tapping the quill against the parchment thoughtfully, as you attempt to push whatever negative emotions are bubbling in your system, "i suppose a simple and sincere approach is always nice. maybe a heartfelt note or even a private conversation."

blade feigns a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand for dramatic effect. "bo-oring...and here i thought you'd go for something more grand and romantic. you know, like a surprise invitation under the stars or a magically enchanted message."

"well, those can be nice too, but sometimes simplicity holds its own charm. it's the thought and effort that count the most." you recall earlier in the week when march 7th was asked to the yule ball with a grandiose sign and flashmob in the middle of lunch. of course, she adored it, but you couldn't imaging sitting through that without feeling a little second hand embarrassment.

dan heng seems to be listening intently, though he's doing a poor job of pretending not to be. you catch his eyes briefly, and this time, he doesn't look away as quickly. there's a subtle warmth in his gaze that you can't quite decipher, but you offer him an encouraging smile.

blade, ever the perceptive older brother, grins knowingly. "i think that's some solid advice, don't you think?" he asks, nudging his friend beside him. it's almost like blade is staring through dan heng, and you can tell there's probably something you're unaware of that they're mentally communicating about.

dan heng, still recovering from the unexpected topic of asking his best friend's younger sister for love advice of all things, stumbles over his words. "i, uh, yeah. simple is good, got it."

"see? even dan heng agrees. thanks for the wisdom, dear sister." he offers a salute of gratitude as he turns to leave with his friend.

"hey, dan heng?" you ask before the've left ear shot. the two boys turn around to glance at you, blade raising an eyebrow with an imperceptible expression on his face.

"hm?" he hums, tilting his head slightly, his eyes boring into yours. you have to look away for a split second before you start to blush.

"good luck," you smile brightly. "no matter how you ask them, i'll sure they'll love it and say yes." the words tumble out before you can think. by the time you've said them, your cheeks are a warm pink, something you brush off as the cold winter air from sitting outside for too long.

"thanks, y/n," he says, offering a smile of his own, enough to illicit your brain to short circuit, which you don't have to recover from immediately because the boys then walk away. blade, of course, manages to sneak a teasing smile your way, well aware of what's probably going on in your head.

with that, blade drags dan heng away, likely to impart more "wisdom" in a less public setting. you could only assume what blade was busy whispering in his ear that makes him push him off while blade laughs. you're left alone against the tree, the courtyard now quieter as the lunch hour comes to an end.

the revelation that dan heng might be preparing to ask someone to the yule ball lingers in your thoughts. as you finally gather your books and stand up, ready to head inside and get warm instead of staying out in the cold for too long.

the day passes as you go through the rest of your classes. you hand in your poor attempt of your unfinished herbology homework, receiving a raised brow from professor sprout. still, she seems to give an equally as understanding expression, chalking up your less-than-ideal attempt having do with the excitement that relates to the yule ball.

you walk through the halls of hogwarts, hugging your books close to your chest on your way to dinner in the great hall, a much needed meal waiting for you after your long day. your eyes are trained at the tiled floor ahead of you as your mind is too preoccupied to focus on everything else. the corridors seem unusually crowded, filled with students excitedly discussing their plans for the upcoming event.

as you turn a corner on your way to your common room, your scattered and distracted thoughts make you unintentionally collide with someone, causing your books to scatter across the floor. flustered, you start gathering them, apologizing profusely without looking up. "sorry!"

a familiar voice responds, "no worries. i should have been more careful, too." you glance up, and there stands dan heng, a small smile playing on his lips as he bends down to help you collect your books.

"oh, hey again," you greet in a slight breathless tone, unsure whether you should feel more or less embarrassed that you collided right into him. "thanks," you say as he helps, feeling a strange warmth in the air as your hands accidentally brush against each other while reaching for the same book before you both quickly yank your hands back.

"no problem," he replies, handing you the last book. there's a brief moment where your eyes meet, and it feels like time stands still. there's unspoken tension, you think, and its palpable.

dan heng was never a man of many words, you know. then again, one glance from him can hold a million words. despite not being of many words, you never felt any less close to him than your own classmates who've talked your ear off on countless occasions. it might be an inappropriate crush, having one on your older brother's friend, but it's not like you can do anything about it now.

before you can say anything more, dan heng takes a step back, rubbing the back of his neck. "well, i better get going."

"right," you mumble, still caught in the lingering atmosphere between you two.

you watch as he turns away to leave you in the empty hall, but just as he's about to walk away, you notice him hesitate and pause in place. your face expresses confusion when he turns to face you again and looks back at you, a hint of nervousness in his eyes.

"everything okay?"

dan heng seems to struggle with his words for a moment, his gaze shifting as if he's trying to find the right way to express what's on his mind. it's a side of him you haven't seen before, and it leaves you both intrigued and a tad concerned.

"yeah," he finally says after a moment, his voice a touch lower than usual, like he's in deep thought. "i just wanted to say, um, about the yule ball..."

"oh! did you ask out who you wanted to?" your brows raise as your curiosity is piqued. your curiosity must be a masochist of sorts because why on earth are you so eager to find out something that will without doubt potentially ruin your night?

dan heng chuckles softly. "not quite," he says quietly. "i was just going to ask, did you really mean what you told blade and me earlier?"

"about what?" your head tilts to the side as you scrunch your eyebrows and a thoughtful frown is on your face.

"how you'd like to be asked," he clarifies. "something simple?"

"oh," you smile shyly. "well, yeah. i'm personally not one to love grand gestures of affection with the attention it garners," you laugh lightly to yourself. "why?"

"just wanted to make sure i'd get it right when i asked` you."

"hm," you hum to yourself with a nod, barely registering his words. a few seconds pass and your head jerks up a bit to meet his serious gaze, your face displaying perplexity. "wait, what?"

at your lost expression, dan heng smiles (smiles!) with an amused laugh through his nose. "the advice wasn't for me to ask someone else, y/n." he reveals in a . when you're still too shocked to say anything, he asks instead. "would you want to go to the yule ball with me?"

your heart skips a beat at the unexpected question. for a moment, a long moment, you're frozen in place, trying to process everything he just said. the realization dawns on you that the secret crush you harbored might not be so one-sided after all.

the courtyard conversation wasn't merely about hypotheticals for dan heng, you knew that, but not to this extent! not to mention, your brother blatantly asked you how you'd like to be asked (on behalf of all girls, but still) to the ball. you feel a little bamboozled, to be quite honest, but in the best way.

the air is thick with anticipation as you meet his eyes. the warmth in them is more evident now, and there's a vulnerability that you never expected to see from someone as composed as dan heng.

"really, me?" you ask, a genuine smile tugging at your lips.

"of course, you," he says like it's most obvious answer. after a few seconds, his expression turns serious, "if it's uncomfortable for you or if you don't want to, forgive me-"

"no-no, that's not it!" you quickly cut him off before he can finish, waving your hands in front of him. "i'd love to." you beam.

relief washes over him, and a smile breaks across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. "yeah?"

you nod in confirmation, still smiling widely. you jut your thumb in the direction of the great hall. "i was just heading to a late dinner. you wanna come?"

dan heng wordlessly nods with a smile and falls into step with you as you both begin walking through the long corridor.

"so...earlier today with blade..." you trail off, breaking the comfortable silence as you recall the courtyard conversation.

"all his idea," he sighs, rolling his eyes. "he knew i wouldn't have just asked so he just had an idea of his own."

"did blade know the whole time?" you ask.

"he's only been bothering me about it since the start of fifth year."

you pause in your step. "fifth year?" you ask, shyly peering at him through the corner of your eyes as you walk toward the great hall.

"yeah," he says, scratching the back of his neck as his ears go red. "apparently i wasn't subtle enough for your brother to notice. it took him a while for me to admit it..."

you laugh, recalling on your own side how your own brother taunted you for staring extra long at his friend. was he playing matchmaker this whole time? "does that mean we'll have to thank him at some point?" you can only imagine the shit-eating grin on his face, all by his own behind the scenes doing.

there's a brief silence between you two and you come to the same answer.

"no."

"absolutely not."

.... so that's the first fic im back with! i know im rusty so pls let me be...plots will get better i swear <3 ty for reading! also we just gonna go w dan heng and blade being besties it's an alternate universe ok

#blade is def ooc but idc hes my baby so ill write him that way <3 #im so so rusty so dont look if its bad :")#honkai star rail #hsr x reader #honkai x reader #honkai dan heng #dan heng x reader #dan heng x you #dan heng #dan heng x fem reader #hsr dan heng #star rail #star rail x reader #star rail x you #hsr fluff #hsr timestamp #dan heng fluff #honkai star rail x reader

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youwouldntdownloadapizza · 4 months

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The Gates of Jackson | Joel Miller x F!Reader | Chapter 2 - Patrol

masterlist | ao3 | follow @youwouldntdownloadapizza and turn on notifications for updates

You showed up at the gates of Jackson with hands covered in blood and no memory of how you got there. That was two years ago. Since then, you've become Maria's right-hand woman and the person in charge of Jackson's logistical backend. Patrol schedules, inventory—all your purview. When a patrol gone wrong forces you to get to know Joel, memories of your past begin resurfacing—along with their consequences.

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pairing: joel miller x f!reader

rating: 18+, minors DNI

word count: 1.0k

tags: no use of y/n, eventual smut, no beta we die like sarah, jackson era, other additional tags to be added, slow burn, ellie needs a hug, joel lives, good parent joel, reader-insert, reader insert, forced proximity, only one bed trope, nightmares, childbirth, hurt/comfort, emotional hurt/comfort, angst with a happy ending, soft joel, cuddling & snuggling, fluff, masturbation, pining, joel falls first, possibly demisexual reader (tbd), ptsd, ptsd flashbacks, panic attacks, amnesia, sexual braiding

chapter warnings: childbirth (mentioned)

chapter summary: A detour finds you and Joel lost in the woods and in need of shelter for the night.

Chapter 2 - Patrol

It was foggy today. Cold and foggy. You resented the low visibility, but Joel didn’t seem to mind. He followed behind you on Chestnut, an older mare named for her lovely, dark coat. While you focused on the trail, he watched the trees. Even if infected were rare out here, he wasn’t about to be caught off guard.

You made it about four miles before dust began to mix with the fog, making you cough until you pulled your shirt over your mouth and nose to block out the debris.

“Rockslide,” you called back to Joel, the sound of pebbles still clattering to the ground confirming your assessment. “We need to find an alternate route. I usually send patrols up this way three times a week, but no one’s come up this way since last Thursday. It’s overdue for a checkup.”

Joel was unfazed. “The river narrows to a stream about a mile back. We can cross over, loop around.”

You nodded, “Lead the way, Miller.”

Letting Joel lead was a mistake. Between the detour and the fog, you were hopelessly, utterly lost.

“If we die out here, I’m gonna kill you,” you told him, your annoyance beginning to slip towards downright anger.

“We’re not gonna die out here, Doe. Calm down.”

“We need to find high ground—figure out where we are, get above all this fog,” you said.

Luckily, you were headed uphill. But uphill didn’t last. Just as the fog began to thin, you reached a lake. Beside it stood a cabin, one you hadn’t seen on your patrols before.

The siding had once been painted a bright, cheery yellow, but time and the elements had stripped away much of the color. There were no signs of life, no broken windows. It had probably been abandoned long before the outbreak. Either that, or occupied by people who knew how to keep a low profile.

You eyed Joel, and with a sharp nod, he dismounted. You tied the horses just inside the treeline and approached, slowly and quietly climbing the stairs to the enclosed porch.

You squatted down to pull out your lock pick, but before you could even retrieve it, Joel was winding up to kick the door down. You stopped him with a gentle hand on his thigh. He looked down at you, eyes wide, and you answered his unspoken question by raising your lock pick.

You made quick work of the lock, standing to push the door open. You motioned for Joel to head inside, but he opted to hold the door for you instead. “After you, ma’am.”

You were tempted to roll your eyes at that, but honestly, you kind of liked it. You led the way, clicking on your flashlight to investigate.

It wasn’t untouched, like you had initially suspected. There were signs of past occupants between the outbreak and now, but whoever it was hadn’t stayed long. The cabinets were still mostly stocked, though none of the cans were of your preferred variety. The curtains were drawn and dusty, having been left that way for some time. You opened them, letting in a dull beam of late-afternoon light. It glinted off liquor bottles strewn across the carpet by the couch.

“Looks like somebody hunkered down here for a bender,” Joel said, toeing a half-empty bottle with his boot.

“You got all that from liquor bottles and a carpet covered in dried vomit? Very observant, Miller,” you teased, taking a seat on an old barstool.

“I’m surprised they didn’t start breaking shit.”

“Not every drunk’s a violent one, Joel. Some of them just get sad. Or horny.”

“Or both.”

You huffed at that. He wasn’t wrong. You were stretching your neck when Joel made the call.

“It’s getting late,” he said. “We should settle in here for the night.”

“That’s not–” you started, before realizing he was probably right. If you kept going, you’d likely end up going in circles, just getting more lost than you already were. And even with all the floor vomit, that couch looked comfy. “Fine,” you sighed. “Get a fire going, figure out some food. I’m gonna head up to the roof, see if I can get a radio signal.”

Joel nodded, setting his pack down by the fireplace. You climbed the ladder up to the small loft space, looking for roof access. There was a small skylight, and with luck, it pushed open.

You crawled out onto the roof, leaning back against a weathered gable. You could just barely get a signal on your long-range radio.

“Doe to base camp, come in,” you spoke into the mouthpiece.

“Copy, Doe. This is Mike at the main gate. Over,” a voice crackled through the speaker.

“Joel and I hit a rockslide along the Mountain View lodge trail earlier. We took a detour and got lost in all the fog. We’re at a cabin near some lake up here. Looks like we’re gonna be stuck here for the night. Over.”

“But you’re alright otherwise? No injuries or anything? Over.”

“Fine, Mike. We’re fine. Should probably get a group out this way soon, though. The place is well-stocked, practically untouched. We’ll probably be back sometime tomorrow afternoon, assuming this fog clears and we can get our bearings. Over.”

“Copy that, Doe. All good over here.”

“Copy. Over and out.”

“Over and out.”

You scrubbed a hand over your face, your bones heavy with exhaustion. It had been a very long day.

“Soup’s on!” Joel called up from the living room.

“Be right there!”

You gathered your things, starting your haphazard slide back toward the skylight when a thought hit you.

“Hey, Mike?” you asked into the radio.

“Yeah?”

“How’s Maria?”

You waited anxiously for his reply. Childbirth had never been without its risks, but in the apocalypse, it was easy for things to go wrong.

“She’s good,” Mike said, “Delivery went smoothly.”

Good, you thought, letting out a sigh of relief. That’s good.

The radio crackled back on, and Mike added one last detail to his report.

“It’s a girl.”

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#joel miller x reader #joel miller x you #joel miller smut #joel miller fluff #joel miller angst #joel miller series #joel miller fic #the last of us #tlou #joel x reader #joel x you #no use of y/n #joel miller x f!reader #jackson era #joel lives #ao3 #fanfic #fanfiction

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silverskye13 · 1 month

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I am turning EB around in my head like a microwave and I have a couple questions:

What is EB and EX's relationship like? I know they view each other as family and EX gets EB's booth, but will we see how they interact more?

Did anyone wind up telling EB that hels!zedaph is dead? If not, does he have suspicions that he is?

and a more general Hels question (that is totally not related no siree) - what is the upkeep for the remembrance walls like?

EB and EX are on friendly terms! They previously saw each other,,, not as rivals in the traditional sense. They didn't openly attack or oppose each other. But EB viewed EX as a challenge: How do I stay distinct from my brother's shadow? Anyone looking for it would find it obvious. EB got Bigger and Louder whenever EX was around, and he used to be much bigger and much louder than he currently is. It's less that he was mean, and more that he was prideful. Becoming friends with Helsknight changed him for the better in that regard. Since he's mellowed out, he and his brother have become closer. They enjoy visiting with each other during Colosseum matches [EB will often stand with EX in the box and talk both before the events, and during intermission] and EX invites EB to a lot of parties, where they shit talk the guests together. We'll see them together once during RnS, but EB is a secondary character, and outside of the one appearance, I don't intend to have EX very involved in the story. He's kind of the unspoken god of the world: he gets a lot of mentions because he's very important to hels, but he's not very important to the plot lol.

Someone did wind up telling EB about hels!zedaph, though yes, he did suspect before he was told. EB hadn't gone looking for HZ for a reason. He didn't want to be the one to find out he was gone. If I can't see it, maybe its not really there.

And the Remembrance Wall Ramble got long so its under the cut!

[Hello future me cutting in here because I just realized you were probably talking about what individuals like EB would do to upkeep a name of a loved one. Mostly it involves regular visits. Keeping the stone clean, replacing it if it gets cracked, making sure it doesn't wear down. Nether bricks to me are a bit brittle, and the ones on the bottoms of the walls will crumble and break down over time. Most of the time, the Order of Remembrance is pretty good at getting them replaced, though they encourage individuals to do it themselves, to decorate the stones, paint or carve them, and overall keep the care personal. People will also sometimes leave gifts of food, flowers, and favored items at walls where loved ones names are kept. Walls are very colorful spots in hels, full of a lot of care.]

The Remembrance walls are, basically, graveyards. Alongside friends and family, who will make sure loved ones names are put down and remembered, the Order of Remembrance manages all Remembrance Walls in the city. We'll get into it a little in the upcoming chapters, but the Order of Remembrance church, and its knights, have a very active presence in hels. They are the cloaks seen most often roaming the streets, in twos and threes. They have regular routes they walk, with walls they are assigned to tend. They make sure the stones are stacked straight and don't fall, replace broken ones, and help people carve names. Many knights have prayer chants where they intentionally try to memorize every name on the wall. Their focus is on the idea that no helsmet is truly gone as long as some memory remains of them. They welcome helsmets approaching them with fond memories of loved ones, and will take testimony from people who know their time is coming. Their church is a glorified library and house of memorization. Part of their worship in remembrance of people is also in the remembrance of history, and they have at least one copy of every book, memoir, and journal in hels they can get their hands on. They have one private collection in the church, and one public library in hels, which they regularly update with copies of originals from the church library.

The only place outside the Order of Remembrance's domain is the shady side of town where Cleo's gangs keep the peace. For control reasons, Cleo doesn't like any opposing force on her claimed land, which includes Order of Remembrance knights. She does still have Remembrance Walls on her side of town, but they are up-kept by the people that live there as a community project. People get together once every few weeks, make food, talk about those that are gone, and make sure none of the stones are broken or stolen.

Erasing memory is a big taboo in hels, understandably. The universe is already cruel enough in taking people, and people, once taken, are woefully easy to forget [they were never meant to exist in the first place, after all]. On the sides of town where the Order of Remembrance upkeeps the walls, anyone caught stealing or destroying stones is tracked down by their paladins, and subjected to community service under close supervision. They're often roughed up in the process, but the paladins won't kill you for breaking a stone. Depending on whose stone you break, and how angry hels is that day, the same can't be said for anyone else who catches you. Repeat offenders, or people who destroy many stones at once with the express intent of erasing memory, are branded by the Order with a mark somewhere visible, normally on the hands. Anyone with that unlucky brand will see increased hostility from their peers, ostricization, lost of livelihood and home -- it's a great way to make everyone in hels hate you. Anyone on Cleo's side of town caught destroying a stone is hunted actively in the streets, and leaving her side of town will not save them. She offers high bounties for that kind of thing.

#rns asks #evil xisuma #evil beezuma #remembrance walls #hels #hels worldbuilding #aloe-vera-ghost #sorry you activated my trap card #i have a lot of thoughts on the Order of Remembrance #They're very very good guys #They're some of the few people in hels everyone likes #There is also an unspoken rule you don't mess with [attack or rob] Remembrance knights #because if you do that gives them a reason to forget you #and to make sure the world forgets you #to anyones knowledge they've never done that before #but then again -- if they did how would you know?

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roboticchibitan · 1 month

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Trying dyeing in the oven following this knitpicks tutorial (undyed yarn is in sale this month at knitpicks so they sent out a link to this tutorial). I've been looking for a good oven dyeing tutorial so I can dye more than two skeins of hand painted yarn at a time since my dye pot with the steamer tray only fits 2 skeins of yarn at a time. I currently have six skeins in the oven! Like a cat that has learned a new trick I am now unstoppable hohohohohoho.

I used 16 oz of each color of dye liquid per 300g of yarn. I probably could've used another 4 oz of chartreuse dye liquid but that's okay. I did an intensity of 1TSP chartreuse dye per 8oz and 1/2 TSP emerald dye (Jacquard acid dye color names) per 8oz of water. So all total for 6 skeins I used 4 TSP chartreuse dye and 2 TSP emerald dye.

They both bled blueish green or just flat out blue. I left the emerald in the center a bit mottled on purpose because I am using this yarn to test my moss stitch shawl I'm designing and I thought the mottled look would add to the overall texture I am going for. I can't wait for them to dry so I can wind a skein into a cake and see how it looks! Definitely should've tied it off a couple more times because this came with only two ties in the skein. It's really annoying that knitpick's undyed yarn comes with only one or two tie offs. That's not enough.

Anyway, I'm having the time of my life dyeing yarn. This is art for me. It's like painting except after you do the painting you get to use the thing to make more art. It's the best!

#v's fiber arts tag #dyeing #oh to be covered in moss

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queers-gambit · 2 years

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Gone with the Sin

prompt: he loves another, and your fate is sealed.

pairing: Eddie Munson x female!reader

fandom masterlist: Stranger Things

word count: 8.9k

note: Eddie's 19, readers 18+, Chrissy's 17-18 years old. also, 400 points to your Hogwarts House if you can tell me the band that sings the title song without cheating. AGAIN - not responsible for your therapy bills! additionally, there is an intensional shift at the end, where i got from "you" to "her". i hope it makes more sense when you read it.

warnings: Hanahaki Disease AU, cursing, character death, angst - again, ANGST!!! this gets gritty and dark and detailed, people - proceed with caution and maturity. NO SHAME in skipping this if you cannot handle it!! AGAIN - character death!! this gets sad. ✅ no spoilers

other Eddie Munson Hanahaki Disease AU fics: Cherry Blossom Colored Kisses Tears in the Rain

Spring has sprung in Hawkins, Indiana, and with the approaching warm weather came the thunderstorms. It felt appropriate that the harsh winds and piercing bullets of rain ruined all of Mother Nature's hard work; storm in your heart mimicking the storm outside. It ripped fresh leaves from trees, pretty petals from newly sprouted stems, and sent animals to seek shelter; for unattended trash cans to blow over and children to be rushed inside.

You stood on your front porch, glancing up and down the barren street to find it empty. Your fingers worked together in nervous knots as something sick crept up your throat; winds whipping away the sounds of your struggling breath, and spraying the blood that was coughed out pathetically.

Tears ruined mascara down your cheeks, blood dribbling down your chin, and still, no headlights flashed onto your street. Never had you felt so terrible or sick, never had you felt so stupid; turning for your front door and staggering into your home only to let your eyes scan across the clock hanging in the foyer.

8:50 pm

He promised to pick you up at 6:30, and now you knew, he wasn't coming due to simple, excused forgetfulness. He just wasn't coming. Your hands shot out to catch your body when your coughing became gut-wrenching, doubling over as your lungs tried in vain to pull air in while expelling whatever clogged them upon exhale. No such luck, and black dots started to dance in your vision; the storm masking the sounds of your body falling into your mother's end table; sending picture frames, a book, and lamp shattering to the floor.

Broken bits of glass represented the state of your being and the ends of your floor-length dress scattered the shards as high-heeled feet tried to stumble towards the staircase.

If you could get upstairs, you'd be fine...

But energy was harder to come by, rational thought swept away with the raging storm, and oxygen was no longer available to you - forcing your legs to give up at the base of the staircase and careen your bare skin into the glass shards. You didn't register the pain because the worst of it was concentrated in your chest and heart, hands reaching out to drag your body up the first three steps.

Before you could pull yourself up to the fourth, your ears rang with a piercing whine and your eye lids fluttered heavily as lead weighed your limbs down. Your manicured hand reached up in the hope of grasping anything, never finding purchase, and thumping limply down with your cheek pressed to the carpet. Blood splatter painted the floor beside you before drooling in a puddle from your opened mouth.

You swear you saw his face in that moment, but your mind wasn't trustworthy - larger, darker spots clouding any sight.

• 4 WEEKS EARLIER •

"So, is Johnny Boy flying in for prom?" you asked Nancy, forking a bit of homemade chicken salad to your mouth. The cafeteria was loud with the usual bustle of kids, most of the seniors clamoring to talk prom details; the dance only weeks away.

Nancy Wheeler, probably your oldest standing friend, blushed under the make-up she'd already applied, "Yes. He's renting a tux and everything."

Robin chuckled with you, asking, "He's renting a tux?"

"He doesn't exactly own one," she defended her California-dwelling boyfriend. "And I'm just relieved he's actually coming that I don't care what he wears."

"Well, it's a big deal... I guess," Robin rolled her eyes to you.

"He buy a plane ticket yet?" You asked the girl across the table instead.

"He bought one last night," she blushed harder, still feeling like a giddy school girl with a silly crush at the thought of her boyfriend. However, you wondered if it was just because she was excited to get laid but hey! If she was happy, who cares! You and Robin both cooed obnoxiously, poking fun at the Wheeler girl as she became flustered and waved us off. But she couldn't dodge the half-eaten baby carrot Robin shot at her, scolding, "You're both children!"

Your shoulders shrugged dramatically, "We're fun."

"Unhinged, is more like it."

You and Robin shared a look before nodding dramatically. You assured Nancy with another shrug, "We can live with that."

She scoffed, "Whatever. Well, look, what about you two?"

"What about us?" Robin asked, glancing at you in feigned confusion.

"Who are you guys going with?"

"To what?" You asked dumbly.

She glared, "Prom! God! You're both so annoying, you know that, right?"

You couldn't fight off the taunting chuckle, "We're messing with you, Nance. We know what you're talking about, but we're not going."

"You're not?" Nancy squeaked.

"Nah, it's not - "

"I'm going."

"You are!?" You gasped at the girl beside you. "You're flaking on me? On the night we're supposed to finally watch Scarface? You traitor..."

"Well," she flushed slightly, "I just... I-I brought it up - you know, the whole prom thing - to Vickie, and she was receptive to all of it, and-and-and next thing I know, right, because she's, like, looking at me with these beautiful wide eyes that I just end up blurting it all out, and we know me, I'm not exactly quiet, or subtle, and I-I might've, like, spit on her face a little because I was so nervous and my mouth was sweating because I was doing that thing that I do when I ramble, but it was okay because she, like, totally laughed, and then, BOOM!" Her hands clapped together, "She nodded and, like, then she-she-she's saying yes!" Robin yelped, eyes wide to look between us. "To prom! With me!"

"She said yes?" You grinned, feeling genuine elation for your friend.

"She said yes - to me!"

"Well, that's not hard to believe, sweet cheeks, I mean, who could say no to that faaaaace?" Your hand reached out to pinch her cheeks, puckering her lips; making her swat away at you with a small giggle.

"Yeah, seriously, Robin," Nancy smiled, sending you a look; mother hen letting her eyes tell you to settle down. "That's really great news! We're so happy for you - that's so amazing. You guys are gonna have so much fun!" Her eyes shifted to you, and her voice dimmed, "And since Robin's going with Vickie, maybe Steve could take you?"

Your eyes rolled, "Oof, babe, pawning me off on Harrington as a pity date? No thank you - I'll happily stay home, order in, watch my movies. My parents are supposed to be gone the week of prom, so, I'll have the house to myself to smoke."

"Well, that doesn't sound totally sad."

"Bitch, you were literally going to do the same with me until you accidentally asked Vickie out to the prom."

Robin shrugged, "Yeah, but now I'm going and you're gonna be all alone? While the rest of us are partying? C'mon, that's no fun. You don't even need a date, who cares about all that - why don't we all just, like, go together, or something? Right? People do that, go in groups? I-I mean, not that it matters if it's a thing to do or not, 'cause who cares - okay - so, let's just do it, you know?"

"I'm flattered, really," you pouted at the two girls. "I mean, it's not everyday I'm offered to third wheel on two different dates at the same time. It's an honor to just be nominated, really."

Nancy rolled her eyes and tossed the half-eaten carrot at you.

However, that wasn't the last time prom was brought up that day. Usually you did all you could to avoid the "sappy, teenage stupid shit" but it followed you around the halls, into the lunch room, bathrooms, to your locker, and inside the classrooms.

And the one person you never expected to, asked you, "You goin' to prom?"

Your head lulled to glare over at your best friend since 6th grade, Edward 'the Freak' Munson. "Oh, my God. C'mon, not you too." Your eyes glared at the ceiling, hands pointing dramatically, "Gimme a break, man!"

"What?" he shrugged innocently. "Can't I ask a simple question? Jeez, didn't know you were so touchy, babe."

"You seriously want to talk about prom? You? Who literally made himself throw up but pretending to throw up so hard when I started talking about the Snow Ball when we were in 8th grade?" Your eyes rolled, neck cracked, and you slumped further into your chair.

Class was about to begin, students filtering in to take their seats.

"Well, yeah, you see, typically when someone asks a question, they want an answer, so, sure," he chuckled, mimicking your position and making you smile lightly, "let's talk about prom, princess. So? You going?"

"Nope."

"Why not? Thought all girls dreamed of going to prom and all that frilly shit."

"Not I, Mr. Munson. Haven't you learned by now?"

He mocked, "I know, I know, you're not like other girls."

"Exactly, so, no, I don't care about prom. Spend money on a hair style that'll hold for only 3 hours if I'm lucky, get my nails done before I pick them off from how annoying they are - and then what? Spend over $100 on a dress I'll only wear for a single night? I promise, there's better things to spend my money on." He nodded slowly, you changing the subject, "Speaking of spending money on better things, are you carrying?"

"When aren't I, princess?" he snorted lightly.

The last class of the day passed slowly for you two, but before long (and to your pleasure), you were free to rush out of the room with the sounds of the last bell; stop at both your lockers, load up your bags that Eddie hoisted up his shoulder, and make a beeline for Eddie's van. Tuesdays were only for you and Eddie since you had other obligations on other weekdays, and he had Hellfire on Friday's; so, you both were quick to get in the front seats.

"All right," he cleared his throat, pulling out the black, buckled pail he used for drug deals and flipped the lid, "how can I serve you this time, pretty girl?"

"An ounce, please."

He shot you a cautious look before chuckling dryly, "Celebrating something?"

You slapped the agreed upon cash to his hand and snatched the baggie of green from him, "Possibly."

"Wanna tell me?"

"Wanna celebrate with me?"

"Only if you answer a question for me."

"Depends on the question, but... Proceed with caution and ask me."

"Go to prom with me?"

You glared, jaw clenching, "No."

"What?" he whined, "C'mon, why not?"

Because I've been uselessly and helplessly in love with you since we were kids and I don't want your pity date, you thought sadly.

"Because it's literally stupid and a waste of time, energy, and money. Besides, I thought you didn't want to go - you've never gone before. What happened to all that bullshit about it being a 'conforming brainwash to distract us from the manipulative realities of life after graduation'?"

"Okay, yes, fine, sure, okay, whatever, you got it - I said that," he sighed, rolling his eyes lightly. "But I also might've already bought two tickets, and they're nonrefundable..."

Confusion swirled in your mind, pinning him with a softer look, "Why would you buy two tickets?"

Because I wanted Chrissy Cunningham to say yes and figured she would if I showed her the two tickets - for me and her. Show her I was serious about this, about us, Eddie thought to himself.

Instead of voicing the truth, he lied, "Well, one for you, and one for me, pretty girl, see, that's how two tickets are usually split between two people. Maybe - it's possible - I could've wanted to spend the last night of high school with my best friend. C'mon, please?" He pouted lightly. "Bet we both clean up real nice."

You felt suspicious, "Why would you...?"

"C'mon, doll, don't we both deserve a bit of a break?" he smiled lightly. "Just you, me, a few joints, and really bad music. We can hang for 10 minutes and leave if it's really as bad as we thought. Hmm? Is that an okay deal?"

"If I say yes, will you shut up and drive us home already?"

He grinned, "Yep."

"Fine."

"Fine what, pretty girl?"

You glared, huffing through your nose before relenting, "All right - fine, Eddie. Fine, I will..." Your eyes rolled, "I'll go to prom with you."

Eddie grinned and leaned over, letting his arm hook around your neck and yank you closer to press his lips to your cheek in rapid kisses. You whined lightly and pushed him back, trying to fight down the warmth spreading in your chest from his actions.

Nobody knew you like he did, making you feel safe and vulnerable with only him. High school was a weird time for you and you didn't really get many dates, maybe being in part why you and Eddie were so close. Time spent together meant a lot of walls were dismantled brick by brick and it was hard not to fall in love with someone like him; with his soft hands, kind words, charismatic attitude...

Sure, the drug dealing was a bit... Less than ideal, but still! Eddie was Eddie and you've loved him for what felt like eternity.

You returned home on cloud nine and while it made your heart sing with glory over being asked to the senior prom with your long-time-crush-slash-best-friend, for the strangest reason, that night, you started coughing. It was a wet, rattling cough that made you think you had a flu, a cough growing in intensity that made you double at the waist and stumble towards your bathroom. You coughed more as you filled a plastic cup with tap water, choking as you tried to clear your throat by gulping down whatever was stuck. It worked for a few moments, cup drained as you lowered it before the violent attack began again.

This time, it drove you to your knees; hacking until you spit something from your tongue. Amongst the foam of your saliva, were bits of torn-up peach-pink petals. Your eyes glared at the odd sight before you figured it was too late to go to a doctor - how the hell would I even explain this one? At least last time, it all made sense what was wrong and how the doctors were gonna fix everything.

You rationalized it in your head that you would "go to the Emergency Room" if this persisted, which was an outright LIE because you had this developmental phobia of hospitals. It wasn't something you liked to discuss but long story short, when you were younger, you had a near-fatal medical emergency that resulted in a 6-part surgery, 109-day hospital stay - curating your fear.

Every appointment thereafter only solidified this fear. And your parents understood the trauma you experienced, never pushing you into anymore appointments because you agreed to a yearly examine that would confirm you were still out of danger.

So, when the next week rolled around and you were huffing fucking flower petals from your mouth and lungs, you kept your mouth shut... Unless to pick petals out - then, obviously, your mouth was open. However, that whole week, you felt... Run down. Disconnected. Confused. Scared. And pretty pissed off - the coughing was toe-curling painful and you weren't a fan of it interrupting your day.

Nancy and Robin noticed, and the Wheeler girl brought you cough-drops to suck on.

And that whole week, Eddie was distracted. He caught himself staring off in the cafeteria, eyes glued on Chrissy Cunningham's figure. You'd noticed the heart eyes he made and rolled your own, nudging him, "C'mon, man, knock it off and quit staring before Jason kicks your ass again."

He scoffs and crosses his arms, "I'm not staring."

"Oh, yeah? And I'm the Queen of Sheba," you retorted. "I could get you a pair of binoculars if that makes it easier," you teased, ignoring the way your heart now thumped with unease. Discomfort... Pain. "Maybe you can even crawl up the tree in her yard, watch her in her bedroom. Fucking creeper, stop staring at her, Jesus Christ!"

Eddie's then laughing at you, "You're literally an idiot."

"And you're staring at a girl who's boyfriend looks for reasons to pick on you," you retaliated with an unimpressed stare. "C'mon, Eddie, be practical."

"Be practical?"

"She's with Jason - has been since, what? Freshman year?" You sighed, arms crossing in the hope of relieving the pressure in your chest but found it was only getting harder to breath. "Staring at her is gonna get your shit rocked, and I'm not cleaning you up again."

"You're right," he sighed, shaking his head as his arms slowly crossed over your chest. "Hey, uh... Did you want to match at prom?"

"Match?" you repeated, laughing after you realized it was his poor attempt at changing the subject. "Wh-What? Like wear the same color and all that goofy shit?"

"Well, yeah, that goofy shit, c'mon, we gotta do it up all the way, baby," he smiled at you. "C'mon, you look so beautiful in red."

"Oh, I look good in it? Has nothing to do with the fact it's your favorite color?"

He grinned now, "Nothing at all."

You sighed and leaned back in your chair, admitting, "I'm going dress shopping with Nance and Robin this weekend."

"You are? Look at you!" He cooed, "Being all girly and shit! I'm proud of you!"

"Don't push me, there's still plenty of time for me to back out of this date," you warned, trying not to let your heart drop too low when his smile lessened upon hearing the word 'date'.

That weekend, you did go dress shopping but you didn't buy that pretty red number - you chose this pale silvery color that made your skin nearly twinkle. Robin had gushed over how good you looked, and Nancy refused to let you leave the store without it. You three went to a few other stores and you decided on a pair of shining red heels; Nancy buying a pretty lilac dress with silver heels, and Robin chose a sultry blue color, with white heels.

2 weeks before prom, you were starting to feel the pressure but not like everyone else as your peers ran around like headless chickens. All around school, girls complained about needing to "lose weight" or "buy a whole new dress" because "the original color was atrocious" or even how their boyfriends "made a reservation at Antonio's - as if I'd ever eat there!"

Boys complained, "I have to rent a tux in this God-awful blue color," or the ever present, "what the fuck is a corsage?" and the occasional, "what's wrong with Antonio's - they've got the best burgers, man!"

You listened mutely, worrying something was wrong with you because you didn't feel that overwhelming panic they did. Instead, your breathing got worse and your skin started to dull as life was virtually sucked out of you, prom seeming so fucking stupid - and yet, it was keeping you going. You hated to admit it, but your feelings for Eddie were finally coming to a head and you were debating if this "date" meant something more, or if it was just your stupid girly heart wanting something impractical.

That was the week your symptoms changed; the same week Eddie was seen speaking in low voices to Chrissy Cunningham at her locker when everyone else was in class. When nobody else was in the hall to see their close proximity, to see their whispers and longing looks.

Nobody else in the hall except you - but you were on a mission.

You didn't say anything to them because you were rushing to the bathroom, skidding to your knees on the dirty floors in front of a toilet as blood was being heaved out of your mouth. "No! God, no, please, God, holy shit!" You gargled through pain, spitting, retching, and sobbing as you were being shredded from the inside.

But God didn't have business in the girl's dirty bathroom of Hawkins High School, and apparently, he didn't have business with you.

Inside the toilet bowl were short sticks of floral blooms and leafy greens, but no matter how hard you looked, you couldn't identify the flower floating at the top. As disgusting as it was, you reached in and fished the bloody plants from the water, turned to the sinks, and rinsed them off; lifting your gaze slowly and hating the reflection that stared back at you.

Deep, bruising bags lined in rings around your eyes; iris' dull; skin tired and dry to the touch; hair brittle and lacking any health or shine. Your fingers were bonier, collarbones sticking out from under your shirt, and you began to wonder when the last time you could stomach a full meal was. You looked like a ghost, a stranger in the reflection; someone who looked like they'd sell their left kidney for a guaranteed hour-long nap.

Shaking your head and adverting your eyes, the flowers were rinsed of blood clots but it didn't do anything to answer your questions as the only identifying factor was the four-petal pinwheel. You jumped in fright when the door opened, turning wide, fearful eyes to look at Chrissy slowing her stride. She blinked a few times before worry etched across her face, "Oh, my God. A-Are you okay?"

"What?"

She pointed to her lips, "You're bleeding."

Your eyes cut back to the mirror and widened to see the blood smears, reaching for a few paper towels to hastily wipe at your face. Your nose sniffled sharply, "Yeah, Chris, all good, thanks."

"You don't look good," her brows were crinkled and eyes wide with worry. "Do you need the nurse? Or, um... I don't know, someone to talk to?"

"What I need, you can't give me," you whispered, shaking your head before using a dry paper towel to wrap up the small brown stick. "Excuse me," you rushed, pushing past her and running down the hall, shoving out of the school doors, and bolting for your car.

In your driver's seat, you opened the paper towel and got a look at the meat caught between thick thorns that didn't wash off down the drain, and fought off an anxiety attack.

Every day that week, you went to different plant nurseries, botanical shops, hardware stores - anywhere you thought someone could identify the flowers you were coughing out. You knew now you couldn't go to a hospital, it was futile; but the stems were morphing and it was becoming increasingly painful. Plus, if you were coughing out flowers, why wouldn't you go to someone who knew plants?

Well, the only thing you were able to do was identify the flower. Something called The Crown of Thorns - a durable, drought-tolerant flower with a range of colors, but all with a range of thorns in size and consistency.

However, on that Friday, luck turned around and you had hopped a few towns over to check out an old botanical shop. The wooden shop was lathered in books and plants, the smell of leather circulating around you as your eyes took in the antique decor. You prayed this was the shop to be in for something as strange as puking flowers - and you were right. The aging shopkeep listened to your hushed words, explaining your symptoms, before frowning deeply and turning silently to a bookshelf. She reached up and pulled a little blue book down before opening the passage, sticking a bookmark in, and handing it to you.

The old woman wished you luck and pushed you out of her door, never once accepting the money you tried to hand her. You laid in bed for the weekend, reading the entire book front to back; drops of blood saturating the thin, old yellowed pages.

The waste bin at home was soon stuffed to the brim with broken stems, loose petals, and bloody tissues. Your mother didn't notice the change in you because she was so focused on her up-coming business trip, your father choosing to go with her as a make-shift vacation to Chicago. In fact, you barely saw them in that week, leading you to seek solitude with a backpack full of magazines Nancy had shoved into your arms earlier.

She told you to have a hair and glam look picked out by prom because you, Robin, and she were going to get ready together. You tried to save blood from dripping onto the pages but the nose bleeds snuck up on you; discoloring the glossy images under your fingers. Tears often blurred the images as you could do nothing but cry through the harrowing pain, not knowing that Jason Carver was screaming at Chrissy Cunningham... And the cheerleader was calling Eddie Munson, in tears, asking him to talk.

You didn't know he agreed easily and was sneaking over to her house, being extra quiet because of her mother as he came in through her window; while you bruised your knees from the force you hit them when thicker blooms were being regurgitated through globs of thick blood clots. Shredded bits of your throat still stuck in the thorns.

The week of prom, you had resorted to taking liquid Benadryl just to sleep. It was doing enough of the trick, and you were sleeping 3-4 hours a night; but you woke up each morning, on your side, a large puddle of blood staining your bed sheets. But hey, at least it was PROM WEEK!

Right?

Banners lined the school.

Energy of the student body was higher than ever before, gossip echoing down the hall and in your ears.

Yet, you were just tired. Being in a constant state of pain took every ounce of energy you had and the Benadryl could only help so much before your coughs woke you, forcing you to hack out flowers. Your eyes burned with exhaustion, Eddie seemingly taking slight pity and letting your head rest on his shoulder during classes you shared. He even did your classwork, the sweetheart.

When you woke to the last bell dismissing everyone for the weekend, you were sluggishly lifting off of Eddie to pack away your backpack. "Hey," the boy beside you spoke quietly, "you feeling okay?"

"Yeah."

"Don't lie to me, you look exhausted."

"Great observation, Eds," you muttered. "I'm just not sleeping well."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, I'm sure. Now, hey, um, I'm gonna get a ride home with Nancy, okay? We're getting our nails done."

Eddie's lips stretched in a bright grin as we stood from our desks and his hands took my backpack wordlessly to hike up his shoulder. "You're gonna get your nails done?"

"Um... Y-Yeah?"

"That's really cool, doll," he assured, nudging your arm gently. "Do you need money? I can give you some - "

"No, God no," you refused, shaking your head rapidly. "Um, yeah, you know, I asked Daddy and he gave me enough to treat Nancy too, so, I'm good."

He chuckled, "The pros of being a Daddy's Girl, huh?"

"Watch your mouth, Munson," you warned.

His hands rose, "All right, hey, I'm kidding, it's a good thing. Well, if I'm not driving you home, guess I'll just... See you tomorrow?"

You gulped as you approached your locker, rocking on your toes as you dialed your combo. "Right, yeah, sure... I'll uh... I don't know," you breathed, shaking your head slightly. "Nancy and Robin want to get ready together."

"Cool," he smiled, "I'll pick you up at Wheeler's, okay? 6:30 sound cool?"

"Yeah, totally cool," you nodded.

Eddie smiled and leaned in, one hand holding your cheek as his lips kissed your other. "Perfect," he breathed against your skin, pulling back to smile at you. "Just remember, it's only me, okay? We're gonna have a good time - no need to be nervous - 'cause we're gonna be together. Right?"

"Right," you nodded in agreement, his hand falling away as he straightened up. You looked to your feet, and Eddie's eyes jutted up to catch Chrissy as her locker - watching the two of you intently. When she caught Eddie's gaze, the cheerleader blushed and turned away. "So, I'll just - yeah, okay. See you tomorrow."

"I'll be the one in red," he joked, handing over your schoolbag. "Bye, pretty girl."

After you stuffed everything you didn't need in your locker, you pulled out whatever you did need, slammed it shut, and rushed for the front of the school. "Hey," Robin beamed when she saw you, linking arms instantly. "Nancy's at her car."

"Great..."

"C'mon, lighten up!" Robin jostled your arm but frowned when she looked at you. "Dude, your nose."

Your hand shot into your pocket and pulled out a trusted tissue, using it to mop up the red liquid, "Sorry, yeah, just... I don't know, dry air or something."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, sure, all good. Um, hey, have you ever gotten your nails done?"

"Me? No - couldn't afford it."

"Well, Daddy gave me money, so... I could pay?"

"You'd do that?" Robin breathed.

"Of course," you assured. "C'mon, you know he gave me more than I need, and Nance already worked this into her budget. Please? I don't wanna be the only one sitting there like 'what the fuck is happening?'"

Robin laughed, "All right, fine, good point. All right, cool, you can totally treat me and spend your money on me."

"Good," you perked a brow with a smirk.

The rest of the afternoon was spent at the nail salon. It was a fucking experience - a weird fucking experience because you didn't like hospitals, or people touching your feet. Nancy assured you that it was okay, this was part of the process; holding your hand when you flinched and made the nail tech glare up at you.

Your toes were painted a bright cherry red, matching the red French tip you got on your fingernails. Nancy chose a classic French tip on both hands and feet, and Robin got classic, sleek, shining blue that matched her dress color perfectly. You had to admit, once you got over the whole 'someone touching your feet' thing, it was nice to feel pampered... It was nice to feel like a "real" girl.

You rejected Nancy's proposal of a sleepover because you couldn't handle explaining to her or Robin why there was a puddle of blood under your mouth. Why you were hacking violently at 2 am. Why your breathing became wet and ragged, why you needed to take a shot of Benadryl before bed.

The next day, all hell broke loose because you were 20 minutes late to Nancy's house, and she almost instantly pushed you into a shower when you made it there. You three ladies got a real groove on where Nancy did all of your make-up, Robin did hair, and you - well, you were just there for the thrill because this was 100% out of your realm of comfort.

And when 6 pm came around, you three were shimmying into your dresses; tying each other in; lacing heels on, and fixing any out-of-place strands of hair. Jewelry was latched, perfume sprayed, and last minute details worried over. You packed your clutch purses with whatever necessities you needed (yours literally nothing but tissues) before being declared ready.

All the parents took a plethora of photos, your parents having begged the Wheelers to take extras for them to have a copy. It was mildly embarrassing to take photos alone, but you knew Eddie was just running late because he was never on time. Right? That's all this was, Eddie lost track of time and he was gonna be here any minute.

"Um, hey," Jonathan checked his watch, "dance starts soon, we should head out."

Nancy turned her worried gaze to you - who instantly lifted your arms to wave her off, "All good, I'll wait for Eddie at my house. The idiot probably got high and lost track of time, or something."

"Are you sure?" she worried. "Just come with us - he can meet you there."

"No, it's cool, my house is on the way to the school," you again, waved her off. "I'm really sure, I forgot the necklace I wanted to wear at home anyways," you tried to laugh off, but the truth was, your chest was caving in. After some mild convincing from Robin and Nancy, you stuck to your guns that you could wait at home, and as your friends got in their rides, you asked Mrs. Wheeler that if a long-haired, van-driving metalhead showed up to tell him you were at your house.

She nodded and handed you the Polaroids for your parents, leaving you to pack up in your own car and make the short drive to your house as dark storm clouds were rolling into town. When 7:30 struck, so did the first crack of thunder.

And unknown to you, who waited uselessly on your front porch, Eddie was getting read to head out his door - with every intention of being on time - when suddenly, as he ripped it open, Chrissy Cunningham was revealed on the other side. Her fist was raised as if to knock, gasping and jumping nervously when Eddie opened the door. "Chrissy," he breathed in shock, eyes wide. "Um... W-What're you doing here?"

As you waited, Chrissy explained she and Jason had the biggest fight they've ever had - cursing, screaming, and the blonde boy storming away with both prom tickets in his suit pocket. You waited, and Chrissy told Eddie she felt safe with him, needed the comfort, and had changed her mind about going to prom with Eddie, and as she confessed her long-harbored feelings for the Dungeon Master, you wiped blood from your mouth as you waited.

He ended up inviting her inside in home, both sitting on his couch with his hands in hers as he listened - something Jason never did to her. He complimented her, finding her red dress outstandingly beautiful on her pale skin; finding the blush on her cheeks something he wanted to see more of. He became tongue-tied and confused when she admitted she had a fight with Jason because of him - because Jason accused her of having a "thing for the Freak!"

And they broke up because Jason was right, and Chrissy told him that. She broke up with Jason because she loved Eddie and wasn't afraid of her feelings anymore; rushing to his house in a long red dress before prom because she needed him to know.

Chrissy loves me, he thought impossibly; staring at the cheerleader with shock and awe because this was all he's ever wanted. And Eddie didn't often think he deserved the things he wanted.

Nothing else was on his mind except the pretty strawberry blonde, lifting his hand to gently caress her cheek as any rational thought evaporated when her lips parted to push a breath over his chin. When Eddie leaned in to kiss Chrissy for the first time, nothing else mattered because he had all he ever could've wanted right here, right now.

They showed up to prom at 8 pm; both wearing bright, gleaming smiles as their outfits were matched perfectly. He had given her a corsage, and she pinned a boutonnière to his rented tux jacket; hands laced together tightly as they arrived at the Hawkins High gym and warranted all of the attention.

Everyone stared because the sight of head cheerleader, Chrissy Cunningham, showing up at prom looking like a fucking princess with Eddie Munson - the Freak, who, admittedly, cleaned up very nice.

The prom was enchanting with fake billowing arrangements of loose vines, flowers, and candles. The lights were dimmed, and the music already off to a rocky start by Eddie's standards. However, the snack table was in full-swing, the punch bowl already spiked, and Eddie couldn't want anything more as he let his hands wrap around Chrissy's waist.

They swayed to a slow song, enraptured with one another.

He lost himself in the music; in the smell of her perfume and feel of her body pressed against his. She let him kiss her, muttered she loved him, then pushed her hand into his hair to gently twist strands around her fingers.

Eddie was in bliss.

He was so fucking happy.

Nothing could ruin this for him.

Until, "What the fuck are you doing, Munson!?"

He jumped and turned, seeing an enraged Robin Buckley glaring at him. "Robin?" he questioned dumbly, seeing Nancy Wheeler charging up to them. "Oh, um, hi Nancy - "

"What the fuck are you doing here!?" Robin demanded, eyes ablaze.

"Dancing...?" He looked nervously around, keeping an arm around Chrissy.

"We can see that - but why're you dancing with Chrissy?" Nancy snapped.

"What am I missing right now?" Eddie asked desperately, hating the way they looked at him now.

Robin snapped your name, and all color drained from Eddie's face. "She's waiting on you, you fucking dickhead!" Robin raged, Vickie stepping in to pull her date's arms back a little.

"She got all excited," Nancy sneered. "She didn't want to come to this, she was content to be alone and do her own thing. We were gonna convince her to come with us - but then you asked her. So why're you here? Huh? Why're you here with Chrissy when she's waiting on you?"

"She bought a dress, new heels, new make-up! Got her nails done, got dolled up, looks so fucking pretty! And for what!? For you to, what, Eddie?"

"I-I," his bottom lip trembled as tears filled his eyes, "oh, my God, I forgot. I forgot her."

"No shit!" Robin, Vickie, Jonathan, and Nancy all snapped; making Chrissy jump a little into Eddie's embrace.

"You've gotta go, man!" Jonathan encoruaged.

"And pray she forgives you!" Robin sneered. "'Cause I sure as hell wouldn't! What happened? Huh?" Eddie shook his head, sniffling. "Jesus Christ, you're pathetic - what happened, Chrissy shows you a little attention and you forget about the one girl who's only ever loved you unconditionally?"

"GO!" the teenagers raged in sync again.

"I'm sorry," He looked down to Chrissy, pulling away, "I-I have to go."

"Of course, go, go," she nodded, giving him a little push as Eddie turned and sprinted out of the gym.

He sprinted into the rain, away from the school.

Down streets.

Through puddles.

Around honking cars.

All the way to your house, finding only your car in the driveway and lights on in your house. Panic swelled when he caught sight of the opened front door, sprinting up the driveway; taking the porch stairs two at a time, and as he burst over the threshold, came to a skidding halt.

A blood curdling scream fell on deaf ears as Eddie registered the sight before him - begging your name like a desperate prayer and dropping to his knees beside you. He sobbed harder than ever before, pulling you into his lap as blood was smeared up and down your nose, cheeks, and chin; mingling with the rain water that dripped off him, and onto you.

"No, no, no, no! C'mon, pretty girl, c'mon, open your eyes, please, please," he whispered, caressing your cheek and seeing your eyes flutter. "That's it, baby, c'mon, come back to me. Please, wake up, I'm right here, I'm here, I've got you... I'm so sorry. Oh, my God, what's happening, baby, please, what's wrong? What's going on?" he sobbed, cradling you against his chest and watching as your arm weakly rose to point behind him. "What? What is it?" He sniffled, looking back to the floor and seeing the littering of glass, broken lamp, and then... An old, bloody blue book.

"T-The book?" he asked you, seeing the faintest nod as your hand shook and gave up in strength. "No, no, no, no, hey, hey! No, baby, you've gotta stay with me, please," he sobbed, shaking you again as he tried to pull you in closer. "Just stay strong for a little while longer, oh, fuck - I'm so sorry! Please, don't give up, okay? I'm right here, please, I'm right here, I have you, please, baby, I-I don't understand what's wrong. Please, sweetheart, just tell me what's wrong! Don't leave me, please, I-I can't do this - I can't do this without you! NO! GOD - YOU CAN'T TAKE HER YET!" He screamed bloody murder over the sounds of the raging storm, watching your eyes flutter back into your skull and any energy in your body completely deflated.

"Y-You were - you pointed at the book, baby, why? Please! Why the book, please, stay with me, okay? Why the book? You're - shit, it's okay, you're gonna be okay, but you have to stay with me, please, please! Just tell me about the book, baby, please! Talk to me - please! Fuck!" He sniffled, trying to wake you but from the way your eyes remained unseeing, he knew you weren't with him anymore; the way your mouth was gently parted but not passing air, he knew you were gone. "Please, God, no," Eddie whimpered, a hand raising to pet his fingers down her soft cheek.

Eddie screamed until his throat went raw; never knowing that the inside of her throat still dripped blood into her stomach. Tears soaked down his cheeks, rocking her with him as snot bubbled at his nostrils, but he could only beg, "COME BACK! NO! I'M SORRY - COME BACK! Please! Please," his voice cracked, "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, baby. I didn't mean - I'm so sorry. No, no, no, please, just - just come back! I'm sorry! Come back to me," his hand caressed her cheek, "please."

Nothing made sense and his head throbbed; looking around desperately as his mind couldn't fathom what he'd discovered - but his eyes could only scan over that fucking book she spent her last moments of life pointing at. Her skin was cooling, and there was no pulse at the point of her neck; Eddie's calloused hands shaking as he tried to still wake her up.

Then, he caught sight of something in her mouth, behind the ruby-red painted lips. As terrible and disgusting as it was, he gently pulled her stiff jaw down and used his pointer finger and thumb to reach in, pinch something soft, pulling it out. "Please, God, what is this!?" He sobbed, setting the small, thickly-thorned flower to the side of him as the feeling of her sticky blood was making him feel sick. "Please, please, please wake up," he still begged, shaking his head. "I'm so sorry," he sniffled, sopping wet hair dripping water over her still face. "I'm so sorry - I should've been here. I'm so sorry, I should've - I should've done something! FUCK!"

He sobbed as he set her down to rush for the phone, dial 911, and explain the situation. He returned to pull her body back into his lap; rocking like it was soothing someone - whether her, or him, he wasn't sure. But Eddie had to do something, so he tried CPR - but stopped when each compression of her chest sent a splatter of blood over her smooth skin.

Eddie went in the ambulance with her body, tattered book in his hand; using the other to hold her cooling hand even when the EMT's pronounced her dead on the scene.

This wasn't happening - this wasn't real.

Eddie waited for hours as an autopsy was performed - telling the morgue he wasn't leaving until he had answers, and planting himself on the sidewalk as he vapidly read the book she wanted him to take. The pages that answered all of his questions were dotted with dried drops of her blood; allowing Eddie to assume she was suffering for longer than he could've imagined. It's where Jonathan and Nancy found him when they were cruising through town, looking for any sign of their friends. When they arrived and sat beside him, softly asking Eddie what was wrong and what happened, he just pulled his knees in and sobbed loudly.

They waited with him.

16 hours after he found her, her parents were coming to a screeching halt in their car before bolting for the morgue's front doors. Eddie picked his head up, waiting; wondering; watching for any movement.

His hand fisted the book in a white-knuckle grip, the other wiping his eyes of stinging, guilty tears.

18 hours after he found her, her parents were shakily exiting the morgue with grim looks of acute distress. Her Daddy caught Eddie's eyes and after assisting his wife into the passenger seat, turned for the young man who his daughter loved more than anyone. Nancy and Jonathan shared a nervous look as Eddie couldn't stop crying, looking to her father through red eyes.

"I was told that... You found her?" Her Daddy whispered.

"I-I did," Eddie whispered.

He nodded, "She was still in her dress, all dolled up."

"Sh-She looked beautiful in that dress," Eddie sobbed, a hand slapping over his mouth.

"Docs know what happened," he nodded, clearing his throat. "Said there were Crowns of Thorns crowding in her lungs. Said it made it almost impossible to breath, said-said that the thorns were cutting her from the inside; said she was in a lot of pain from all that."

Eddie hated the idea of her suffering, opening the withered book to show her Daddy the folklore she'd discovered. Nancy and Jonathan shuffled down the sidewalk a little, watching as her father turned and dropped to the concrete beside Eddie; backs against the morgue building as he read the inked words through dried blood. Her father gingerly leafed through a few pages before sighing sadly, nodding in acceptance.

"I killed her," Eddie whispered. "I-I couldn't see that she was suffering, and... And I killed her."

"You didn't - "

"Didn't you read what I did?" Eddie snipped, sunken, haunted eyes staring at her father and begged him to understand. "Sh-She got sick because she loved me, and I couldn't love her back. She's gone - because of me."

"Unrequited love is never really anyone's fault," her father sighed, closing the book and handing it back to Eddie. "I just... I just hate my little girl suffered."

Eddie's heart shattered, nodding before whispering, "Me too. I didn't help her," Eddie wobbled. "I-I promised I'd always help her, I promised I'd always be there for her - an-and I wasn't." His eyes filled with tears as he admitted, "I forgot her, and went to prom with another girl - "

However, this made her father bristle, and he snapped, "Don't you say another word if you want us to keep our good opinion of you. Because if I find out that you're telling me that... That my little girl was waiting on you, and that she died alone, I'm going to lose it, Eddie. You hear me?" The younger man swallowed thickly and nodded. Her father nodded once, "Good."

Eddie had to remind himself that the man just lost his daughter, and his 180 attitude change was completely warranted. If Eddie were in her father's place, he was sure he wouldn't know what to do either except hate whoever was responsible.

"Could I ask you for a favor?" Eddie asked through his tears; Steve Harrington pulling up with his car loaded with Freshman, plus Robin, and Vickie - and yeah, even Chrissy - only to pause and watch the scene on the sidewalk.

"What is it, boy?"

Eddie reached up and pulled the necklace from around his neck, handing it over with a shaking hand, "Y-Your daughter got me this pick when I first told her I wanted to learn the guitar when were were kids. She, uh... She always knew how to make me feel supported, so, I just... I don't know," Eddie's voice cracked painfully and tears poured down his cheeks, "I just thought she should have it back... Just to... Have a little piece of us wherever she ends up."

Her father swallowed and shook his head, "I'm not burying my only child with a keepsake from the man who killed her." Eddie's eyes widened and his hand retracted, pulling the necklace into his chest as her father's red-rimmed eyes turned to him, "We'll tolerate you going to the funeral, we might let you read something, too. After that, make no mistake, we want nothing to do with you. She was..." Her father shook his head as the words stuck in his throat like flower petals had done to her's, "She was the best of us, and you ruined her. I hope you know that all she did was love you, and I hope the guilt sticks with you, kid. Because her mother and I will never know peace... You took that from us when you decided to take another girl to prom and forget about my innocent baby girl. Now, I get to identify her body and instead of picking out a graduation dress, I get to pick out a casket." The two men held eye contact for another minute, her father shaking his head, "Never thought it'd be you, boy, but... I've been disappointed by you before."

"I'm sorry," Eddie gasped through his emotion. "I'm so sorry, I feel terrible, please, please know that I'm so fucking sorry."

"Sorry don't bring the dead back. Sorry won't fix my girl, I can't ever get her back and you? You get to live a long, happy life... Love many girls... And my little girl? My only child? My ray of sunshine in this shitty, cursed town?" Her father scoffed, "She got a cruel and unusual punishment that made her suffer because you could never get your head outta your ass long enough to see how she felt. She didn't deserve that."

"She didn't," Eddie agreed brokenly. His guilt felt insurmountable, but increased tenfold to understand her parents blamed him - that was okay, because he blamed himself.

Her father stood to his feet and sniffled, nodding at Nancy Wheeler and Jonathan Byers (still in their prom clothes). Before he could walk away, Eddie's best friend's father nodded down at a defeated Eddie, leaving him with one last comment, "Now you're seeing clearly, and now, you'll only get to only see her from inside a coffin. Some best friend you are."

Eddie sobbed on the sidewalk for at least another hour, everyone surrounding him and passing the blood-splattered book around that explained her untimely end. Both your friends cracked with emotion; Steve leaning in to hold Robin as Nancy sobbed into Jonathan's shoulders, the kids with tears just silently falling down their cheeks.

However, despite knowing he deserved it, the others didn't blame him, and instead, tried to offer a small amount of comfort to the distressed metalhead who had held his dying best friend in his arms, in her final moments. He didn't know about her feelings, and she never voiced them openly - nobody could blame him for wanting to date. Nobody could blame him for not knowing his best friend harbored deep secrets.

Still, while his friends didn't, Eddie blamed himself.

Damn near the whole town went to her funeral.

Damn near everyone - except the boy who killed her; who chose to wait at the graveyard, wait until her casket was lowered, wait until everyone left, and wait until the dirt was pushed back into the hole she'd been lowered into before he approached. He did so slowly, hands in his prom suit pants pockets that now doubled as funeral attire; a bouquet of flowers silently laid on her grave.

Eddie dropped to his knees in the dirt; sobbing until his chest hurt, and then sobbing some more.

He begged her spirit to forgive him - despite knowing he never deserved it. Nothing made sense to him, and he hated how empty his life was without her. He agonized over the last few weeks the two of you had together, cursing himself for not noticing; and hating himself more for forgetting.

Every single Tuesday, Eddie visited her grave. Like when you two were in school, you hung out together on Tuesdays, and Eddie kept the tradition. He brought new flowers every other week, and started to keep a journal so he could easily update her about his life, as if there were only distance between them - and not transcending planes of the living and dead. He and Chrissy eventually got married, and never once did she try to interrupt his Tuesday plans because even after she were gone, Chrissy knew there was no replacing her as Eddie's best friend - not even Chrissy could fill that void.

Her parents eventually moved to Tennessee to live with other family, dropping off only a box of her things they figured Eddie would want, but he could never leave Hawkins. He couldn't - not when she were buried there. He couldn't - not when that's the town he met her in. He couldn't - not when this was both of your homes, and the only town you both ever knew. He couldn't - not when his guilt was preventing him from ever considering moving on.

Chrissy hated watching him suffer but there was nothing that could alleviate the stress and guilt Eddie felt. There was nothing to do but let him disappear to the graveyard every single Tuesday because it seemed to be the only thing that brought him the smallest sliver of comfort. He felt close to her on those Tuesdays, and nothing would deter him - not even that crazy wicked snow storm of '91.

He never left Hawkins because Eddie had forgotten you once, and it cost him everything - so, he promised to never forget you again.

i'm sorry

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson imagine #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson angst #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fics #eddie munson fanfic #eddie munson oneshot #eddie munson series #stranger things season 4 #stranger things 4 #stranger things #stranger things x reader #requests open

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miraculousninja-345 · 5 days

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New world, New beginnings

I really really hope we have a flashback or nod of some kind to how they met. Or even getting their apartment together.

I made a small fic to go along with it, it's decently edited not the best I made it last night before heading to bed!

Arin should leave the bench. His parents would show up eventually to find him. Three months ago he got lost in a big supermarket, his parents arrived right after rush hour and most people were leaving.

Once he got the okay, he rushed over to the toy aisle. There were rows of plushies, off-brand action figures, and brick sets. He didn't care for anything other than the ninja.

The plushies, the low-quality mask, and the action figures with very bad paint on the low-quality molds. He reached up with all his might to grab a green ninja action figure. He looked to the back and beamed being greeted with a big green 7$ sticker.

He rushed back to meet his parents at the front of the store only to stop in the middle of the bigger aisle. He turned left, then another right only to end up near the clothing department. Tears bundled up in his eyes then rushed back to the toys aisle.

He only remembered a little but the one thing he remembered was what to do if he got lost. 'Stay where you are, so me and daddy can find you' and just like that he was found. His parents probably knew where he was already, but the memory and idea still comforted him.

"Don't think about being lost. Think about something else." He said to himself. The grass was pretty green. It was scattered around like puddles on a rainy day. It seemed like whatever happened transported him to a desert.

He knew about the desert far from Ninjago City but never traveled with his parents to see it. He stretched the fabric of the green ninja's mask, removed the light green fabric, and wrapped it around his forward like the ninjas' jungle gi's.

"Hey." Another voice called out "Hello!"

Arin perked up, he bounced off the bench and whirled around to look for the person calling out. They sounded young and confused like he was when the merge happened. Arin spun around twice before seeing her.

A girl in a white top and black pants and shoes was trudging through the sand. Her hair was styled into twin buns like many girls in his school and colored pink he'd only seen for crayons.

Arin slipped the hood over his head and rushed over to greet her. "Hi!" he yelled halfway.

This time the girl perked up, relief washed over her face when she saw Arin. She stumbled over to greet him in the middle. She halted however once she came near a grassy patch.

"Hi," Arin exclaimed somewhat out of breath "I'm Arin."

"I'm..." the girl trailed off for a moment, she was ready to speak before letting a small wince of the pain out instead. "I'm a little hurt. I twist my ankle while running."

Arin took her hand and helped her back to the bench.

"What were you running from? A monster?" Asked arin

"No. I was just running for fun."

"Fun?"

"Yeah. At first, I was running to get away. Then I started running because it was nice, the wind felt nice.” The girl smiled, “ My name’s Sora.”

#ninjago #rans art #ninjago arin #ninjago sora #ninjago dragons rising #they were just the cuest kids who deserve better

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spacenintendogs · 2 months

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what the gang has for Transportation in my modern au

hiccup has a motorcycle he built himself basically from the ground up and he completed it his senior year of high school. he showed up to school riding it with the parking pass to go to the student lot and taped it to the handle bars. painted the same color as toothless. very much built for Speed. side pouch for toothless to sit in. it honestly breaks down a lot and he has to always fix it lmao

astrid owns a car that's got good gas mileage. i think it'd be a toyota corolla. it's silver and is covered with stickers on the back with varying messages ranging from the gym she goes to's logo to "if you can read this get off my ass" type shit. stormfly loves sticking her head out the window as astrid drives and if she's with astrid, she gets the front seat no questions.

fishlegs owns a volkswagen beetle. bright green. stickers all over the back of it with varying messages ranging from stuff about saving the planet, having a gronckle on board, and a bunch of stickers stuck on by the rest of the gang as jokes and otherwise. you immediately know it's his car. everyone always plays punch buggie when they see his car despite hiccup's insistence to knock it off because it doesn't count when they see it 24/7. meatlug has a specific seat just for her in the front :) baby on board!!

snotlout owns a Harley Davidson motorcycle with the fucking spread handlebars and everything. probably has flames painted on the side of it bc he's like that. has a saddlebag on both sides. hookfang will sit in the saddlebag and when he grows bigger (hee :)) snotlout will eventually get a sidecar that hookfang sits in :)

ruffnut drives a an old chevy silvarado pick-up truck. it's got a lot of miles on it but it runs very well. not a huge truck but it is good when they have sizeable loads to move lol. the back is also covered in stickers of varying messages but her favorite is one of those stupid ones with calvin from calvin and hobbes pissing on a logo of some random sports team she doesn't give a shit about. it just makes her laugh. the seats are torn at the seams because of 1. how old it is and 2. barf and belch like to Shred.

tuffnut also drives the old silverado but he also has a bicycle he likes to use. he loves using it!! it's bright blue with cool ass stickers all over it. he sometimes has ribbons coming out of the handlebars for pizazz. he just loves having the wind in his hair!! very serious about bicycle user safety stuff!! he knows all the hand signals!! the gang think he's weird for it but he'll always get whereever they're going first and they do not understand how (bikes = driving through small areas off road :)) he wears a special backpack that barf and belch sit in!!!

#dragons off the coast au #httyd modern au #httyd headcanons #httyd #hiccup haddock #astrid hofferson #fishlegs ingerman #snotlout jorgenson #ruffnut thorston #tuffnut thorston #rose rambles #this has been in my drafts in december 2023 and it is finally Free

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roosterbruiser · 8 months

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𝐂𝐑𝐔𝐄𝐋 𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐄𝐑 — 𝐄𝐏𝐈𝐋𝐎𝐆𝐔𝐄 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐓𝐖𝐎

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Flames over flesh.

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

♀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maverick shakes his head.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Touché,” you breathe.

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

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

But you just smile at him.

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

He points at you, eyebrows coming together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cry about it,” you say.

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

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

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

It feels like a challenge.

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

He claps to draw both of your gazes to him.

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

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

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

He crosses his arms, stepping closer to you.

“The others,” he says.

“The others?” You mock. “Ominous.”

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

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

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

“Guess,” he simply says.

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

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

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

“Bingo,” he tells you.

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

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

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

Swallowing hard, you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shrugging, you sigh.

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

He licks his lips.

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

You nod, pretending to zip your lips.

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

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

Cringing, you sigh through your clenched jaw.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grins down at you.

“Everywhere,” he says.

Smiling, warm from the sun, you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Got any Blue Nun?” You tease.

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

You nod.

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

“It’s vintage,” he tells you.

“What year?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your face is hot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

You hum, shaking your head.

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

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

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

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

Rooster smiles.

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

You grin.

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

“Yeah, no kidding,” Rooster laughs.

You pause suddenly when Sugar Mountain by Neil Young begins.

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

“What?” You ask.

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

Warm all over, you nod.

“Loud and proud,” you say.

“Bold,” he tells you. “Super bold.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh. You nod. Okay. Cool.

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

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

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

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

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

“Let me see,” he insists.

You do--immediately.

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

“It’s not deep,” he says.

“I know,” you say with a soft smile.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What makes this time different?” You whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t understand,” you tell him.

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

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

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

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

“Rooster, I--!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You’re in-between.

A blizzard in April.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods solemnly, chewing on his bottom lip.

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

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

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

He laughs--his eyes are wet.

“Yeah, I bet,” he says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you show them?” He whispers.

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

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

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

“Runs in the family,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

“I’m cold,” you whisper to Bradley.

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

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

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

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

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

Belly turning, fingers quivering, you nod.

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

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

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

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

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

“I wish you could, too,” you whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

“Not a single one?” You whisper.

Now he solemnly shakes his head.

“Afraid not,” he whispers back.

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

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

Lived with himself. You both know it.

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

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

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

The song is almost over.

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

“Is he good to you?” Rooster whispers.

He’s talking about Jake.

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

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

Rooster is choked up.

“Birdie?” He whispers.

“Yeah?” You whisper.

“Can I hold you?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Who?” You ask.

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

“Our daughter.”

♀

Two days blink by.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Delivery!” The nurse sang.

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

“What--?”

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

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

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

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

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

Baby Girl Seresin.

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

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

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

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

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

But you weren’t.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake didn’t know what to say or do.

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

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

“Ask me that tomorrow,” you whisper.

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

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

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

Jake nodded flatly.

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

Jake’s jaw trembled.

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

The nurse smiled at him, prideful by proxy.

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

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

The nurse nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake didn’t look away from you.

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

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

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

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

Jake swallowed hard, reeling.

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

She glanced up at him, nodding.

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

She pointed to the crutches.

Jake swallowed hard, his tongue suddenly made of sandpaper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

♀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nothing. No response. Just sleep.

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

Now he looks back at you. No change again.

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

But no change.

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

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

“Just wake up. Please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Did they find cancer or something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you okay?” You ask Jake.

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

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

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

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

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

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

A daughter.

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

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

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

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

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

“Is she…?”

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

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

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

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

Unable to speak, you just shake your head.

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

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

Jake follows your gaze.

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

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

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

Jake nods, kissing your forehead again.

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

♀

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A very quiet whine breaks your gaze from your belly.

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

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

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

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

It becomes shrill--finally, you move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“More of the same,” you whisper.

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

He kisses your temple again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, you think. It’s finally morning.

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

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

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

𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

𝐂𝐋𝐔𝐄𝐒

𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐒:

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thatone-brightstar · 1 year

Text

The Bear & The Fox (Carmy Berzatto x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 13: Epilogue

Words: .9 k

a/n: super long and sappy a/n at the end if you wanna stick around!

There’s something about the way the setting sun rays bounce off the moving water, creating little twinkles over the surface that you find extremely mesmerizing. You can’t tell how long you’ve been standing on the soft grass and staring out into the lake, the watch on your wrist has been replaced by a thin gold bracelet and the dress didn’t really come with pockets to carry your phone. The music is still playing behind you though, and no announcements for the toast have yet broken your peace.

‘It’s probably best to head back inside’ you think as the late autumn wind has slowly been numbing the bare skin of your forearms. But you make no effort to move your heels from the ground, instead wrapping your arms tightly around yourself with eyes fixed on the changing colors of the sky above.

The fabric that falls over your shoulders is soft and the familiar smell of his body wash and cigarettes has strings pulling at the corners of your lips. He kisses your temple, warm lips burning a print on the cold skin under.

“Joyce asked me to come get you…” Carmy whispers over the shell of your ear, erupting more goosebumps over your flesh than the frigid wind ever could. “It’s almost time.”

“Hmm, do you think she’ll notice if we bail?”

He snickers and wraps his arms around you and the jacket to keep you warm. “I’m pretty sure she’ll notice her maid of honor’s missin’.”

“Nah, I think she’s too in love right now to care.” You turn in his grasp and lock your hands behind his neck. “We could… head home early? All this love’s made me horny and you look fucking great in a suit.”

Another snicker vibrates in his chest and blows clouds of steam over your face. He leans down to trap your lips in his for what feels like the hundredth time today, but no amount of repetition could ever make you tired of having him this close.

You sway from side to side with the breeze and the music floating in the air while your lips take their own rhythm, sweet and gentle and everything you hoped to receive one day. Carmy follows your light movements with his own awkward steps, clumsy outside of his comfort zone but enthusiastic in his own little way.

“Speaking of-'' He pecks your lips between words. “I wanna ask you somethin’...”

“Oh baby, it’s too soon for marriage don’t you think?”

“Ha ha, very funny…” He bickers back, sliding his palms under the jacket and spreading over your back.

“I mean, we could try but I don’t think my last name would look too good on you-”

“So in this scenario, I take your last name?”

“What, d’you expect me to take yours?” You pull away with a teasing smile, but keep a hold of his shoulders as you slow down your movements. “Ah-ah, sorry, my love but no. Mine just has more…personality.”

“And is that before or after we move in together?”

“Oh, definitely after we… wait what?”

His words make you stop in your tracks to concentrate on his nervous expression, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallows too many times.

Your teasing smile turns soft under the careful gaze of his sapphire blues. “You serious?”

He nods too quickly and takes each of your hands in his. “Uh… yeah. Is that something you’d want to do… with me?”

You pull your hands from his hold and for a speck of a second you see fear flash behind his eyes, then it soon disappears when he feels their cold palms rest above his cheeks.

“Carmy Berzatto, it would be my absolute honor… to be your roomie.”

He groans, rolling his eyes and letting his head fall forward, softly hitting your forehead as it lands.

“I’m sorry baby, you just made it too easy!” You say through a soft laugh. “Besides, I thought we already did… I spend more time at yours than mine.”

“I know but I meant it, like officially. Like a place for the both of us, y’know? A space where you can hang your paintings and for all my shit. You can make your art and I’ll cook a-and I won’t have to worry if you’ll be there when I get home cause it’ll also be your home too…”

You stare up at him in full admiration, head clouded with love and all the little scenarios of a life you could share together. With your heart full in your chest, you raise your lips to press a kiss on his nose and make him open his eyes down to you.

“That sounds absolutely lovely, mi vida.”

“Yeah?” He whispers with a spark of hope that floods his eyes.

You nod back, lip trapped between your teeth. “...yeah.”

Hi!

oh my god, we made it!! Thank you so much to everyone who's commented, liked, reposted and ranted with me over these two wonderful idiots. This is the first time I've ever finished anything I've written and the overall love its received makes me so excited!

This is some sort of a series, so don't be too bummed that some questions have not been resolved yet, don't worry they will be ;)

This has been such a great experience and I’m so happy I found so many of you who embraced my characters and love Carmy and the show as much as me. I can’t wait for the second season and to see what’s in store for these fools in love.

My dms and asks are always open if you ever wanna talk or rant cause I'm always open to rants about this man!

Thank you again,

Amy xx

Taglist: @pearlstiare @teteminne, @beebslebobs, @harrysmatcha, @yum-yahgurt, @pussy-f41ry, @kirakombat and that’s it lmao

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iznsfw · 1 year

Note

Any plans for Eunbi smut? Or Kkura? Or Hyewon?? Lots of love for iznsfw! ❤️❤️❤️

Mon Chef-D'oeuvre

IZ Days of Christmas: Day 3 - Kang Hyewon

IZ*ONE's Kang Hyewon x Male Reader Smut

4235 words

Categories: biography-style fic, muse!Hyewon, haunted_artist!Reader, cunnilingus, cockwarming, riding

T/W: suicide, cancer/sickness, self-deprecating thoughts

The smut parts are quite short, but I was leaning on a more emotional side of the story, so I apologize if it is not fulfilling.

MASTERPIECE AND MADNESS: A LOOK INTO THE LIFE OF KANG SEUNGWOON, THE MOURNFUL ARTIST

Excerpts from page 99-102

[...] Grief was a major theme in Kang’s paintings. In Secret Story of the Swan (figure 5.5), created in 1916 hung in the Louvre in 1920, he takes a twist on the classic children’s story of The Ugly Duckling. He depicts the mother of the duckling as a rejected, brutalized victim at the hands of her husband. When asked about how he took the harsh criticism from the public for this controversial artwork by the Korea Times, he stated: “There is no right or wrong way to tell a story [...] it is fiction, it does not matter. All of life is a fictional construct. I say the world was simply not prepared for it.”

He presented this artwork in muted colors as he did not have formal materials until his graduation from the Iz School of Creative Art in November 1917. But it is safe to say the painting presented the emotions as much as any vibrant colors could, although it was met by praise and critical acclaim as late as the birth of the twenty-first century.

Another artwork of his in the category of grief is Winter Poem (see Figure 5.6), made shortly after his muse and wife, Kang Hyewon, passed.

Kang first met her at the university from which he took art and graduated at the top of the class. She was described as an “innocent girl with a pure face”. Quoted from Kang from his journals, which were released to the public in 2014: “She had the beauty of an angel. I think she really was an angel. I felt that I did not deserve her.”

You graduated at the top of your class, with honors and awards for everything you have ever painted in school. They hung your artworks around and gladly presented them to the wealthy visitors looking to enroll their children in there, as if to say, "This is what your child can make if you enter them in our school." They all saw you as the best painter in class, the one with instinctive and natural talent that comes to you as easily as the wind.

So, why are you so sad?

The joy of these moments have lost their effect on you. Maybe it is because you are growing up. As one grows up, things slowly lose meaning. Birthdays are not as exciting as they used to be, and even if the events were big things such as this: your graduation, not one smile paints itself on your sullen face.

Your mother once told you that all things were temporary. “Gifts, birthdays, parties…” she had listed out for you the examples thoughtfully. “They’re all temporary just like we are. So you have to enjoy them while you can.” But you cannot take her advice, and now, you feel as if you have disappointed her.

The tears drop despite your efforts to remain a stoic face. But what is done is done. All you have to do is to go home with your diploma in hand, and probably encase it with glass. It will be a good thing to add to your resume as well as the credentials you list when people commission you. If, and only if, there is a slim possibility anyone would want you to make them something. You have never been the best artist out there, although you have strived to be.

“Seungwoon-ah!” Turn to the direction you hear the yell from to meet the happy face of Choi Yena. She is one of your fellow honor graduates. Her smile is wide as she asks you, “Are you coming to the grad party tonight?”

Choi Yena is a social butterfly. She can make friends with simply the use of her smile, adding to the fact that she is so naturally cheerful. Nothing can get to her. Sometimes, you wish you were born in her shoes, to have the luxury to be so effortlessly happy.

“I’ll pass,” you tell her. She was kind enough to invite you, the weird outcast, but you will have to turn her offer down. You are not good at big events. You either stutter too much or remain without a plus one. You have learned over the years to save yourself from your own embarrassment. “Congratulations, though!”

“You, too!” Yena beams. The anxious part of your heart tells you that the beam is caused by the fact that you are not going. The rational part tells you, of course, the rational side to the story: Yena is a bubbly girl. She will smile at anything, even if you present her the ugliest thing in the world. But you decide to believe the former, anyway. You always do.

You go away from all of the crowds. They are becoming too much for you. Everyone is jumping and screaming as a famous singer takes the stage and sings a song everyone is obsessed over. You recognize the song but cannot remember its title, but you know it is something along the lines of “I’m gonna make it smile, smile, smile away.” Something like that. You would have liked to ponder over it more, but right now, all you want to do is go home. Probably heat a hot chocolate and read a book before sleeping. It’s getting late, anyway.

You turn the curve to go to the parking spaces. Everything is jammed; every brand of vehicle in existence is cramped in the small, ugly space your university reserves for events like these. All the money in the world from profiting off of the tuition fees and they still cannot invest in bigger hectares. How pathetic.

The richer kids own the Ferraris parked cleanly in the corner, while yours is an old truck your dad used to drive around. You yearn for a better car like those; yours is almost broken down due to the engine, and it isn’t exactly a pretty sight. But you mustn’t let your jealousy overtake you. It is a terrible habit not too many people recognize.

And that is when you see her.

You are rarely starstruck. Models come into your classrooms everyday as references for your art. A lot of them enter in the nude, except for underwear. However, none of them had an effect on you like she did.

She is the girl standing near your car, observing its structure and wheels. She is dressed casually, despite the occasion. A lit cigarette hangs from between her full, pink lips. Her arms form two curves near her hips’. And in that moment, you forget all about what you said negatively about love at first sight. You swear you haven’t felt so stupidly in love.

She takes art classes on the side in the summer. She comes there sometimes, and you see her paint dutifully, pencil tucked behind her ear, to produce a pretty artwork. She rarely laughs nor smiles, but when she does, every person in the room is captured by the neck, including you.

She is the most beautiful girl in the world. And she introduces herself to you as Kang Hyewon.

You knew you were done for when you saw that smirk.

Kang Hyewon was born in Busan and resided there until she was thirteen years old. From then on, she moved to Seoul and took art classes while pursuing photography at the same university Seungwoon graduated from. They met after his graduation, and began dating casually after two months. Historians doubt this, saying that Seungwoon was a shy man and would have taken longer to charm her, but the journals are concrete evidence that support the widely accepted timeline. They married on 4 July 1922, on Hyewon's twenty-third birthday.

She inspired Seungwoon’s decision to make his first attempt at photography. His first photos consisted of Hyewon herself. According to Dr. Lee’s book on Han Seungwoon and his muses over the years, he “did not see why Hyewon was the photographer rather than the model herself; she was very easy on the eyes.”

Some of Kang’s photographs of Hyewon are shown below:

Contemplation, 1919

A Snack to Go By, 1920

A Camera for the camera, 1922

Seungwoon was not only skilled in painting, but also mathematics, geometry, and science. So it was not long until he had been talented in the field of photography as well. While Hyewon taught him the rules and aspects of it, he gave her advice on her drawings. She inspired and modelled for his one of his last paintings of her: Taste. The story behind the title of the painting or the artwork itself is unknown.

She has been your muse from the moment you first saw her.

Of course, the first thing that can be attributed to her being your muse is her undeniable beauty. It is kind of ridiculous how pretty Kang Hyewon is. Her features are soft, yet full: doe eyes, paired with two full lips, and a perfectly shaped nose that can make her look like a lovingly-carved statue if you used your gray paint on her. She looks good in anything you request her to wear, anything she wears when she enters your studio with a new inquiry about art. Any photograph taken of her comes out prettily. She is just naturally photogenic, naturally beautiful.

She is also naturally kind. You are the moody one in the pair, always grumping about a new day without a cup of coffee to start it. But Hyewon… Hyewon is patient. You try not to be too much for her, with the amount of space your art and materials take and all, yet she always tells you it is okay. It is fine, she says, because she knows you more than anyone and loves you more than anyone. She knows exactly what to make you calm down after a disappointed commissioner, or a day where things are simply too gloomy for you to go on. And you truly do not want to say it out loud in fears of being ridiculed, but you cannot live without her. She is your solace, and if, by any cursed chance, she disappears from this world, you would join her. You would challenge death to return her to you and laugh in its skull face. You would do anything, just to be by her side forever.

You never exaggerate except in paintings. You would honestly do all things those things for Hyewon if needed. You are a blessed man for being able to have her take your last name as her own, live in the same home as her and have her as your muse.

"These are gorgeous," she says. Hyewon looked around your studio, observing the hues and the dues, the bright and the dull. A lot of your drafts have filled the room, and you are a little embarrassed to have your wife look at them.

"You are far more gorgeous than any of them. There is a reason why people like my paintings of you more."

"My husband is so charming," says Hyewon, throwing you a sweet smile. It is only semi-sarcastic, and it looks pretty with her clothes for this shoot. She is wearing your blue polo under a white vest, along with two gray socks that are almost thigh-high. Her visuals affect you a little too much today, but you try to ignore it. Focus on applying the curves of her face on your semi-finished canvas. You have added stripes of brown to show the strands of Hyewon's hair, and alternated between white and light blue to draw her polo.

"How can I not be when you look so..."

Go over Hyewon's whole look and you get even more worked up. Her hair is styled into two buns, while her thighs are generously shown by the skirt that folds around them. Her eyes are wide and curious as she waits for you to continue. But she knows what you are going to say anyway. She is not as innocent as she used to be, being your muse and all.

She spreads her legs a little wider. "Why don't you come and charm me even more?"

Your palette and brush drop to the ground. Suddenly, your arms around Hyewon and you are diligently kissing her. Her lips always taste of sweetness. You can never go without her.

Hyewon cannot go without you either. Her firm kisses and caresses all over the sides of your head and body just show that if you love her, she loves you more. She loves your artwork and your talent and the sleepy face you have as you get up in the morning. She loves your diligence and your kisses and the taut bulge that rubs against her core. She loves you, and after you put her on one of your sturdier desks, you are determined to show that your adoration for her is greater.

Which is why you are glad to tear the vest off of her. She looks hotter in the polo alone, yet you take that one off as well. Her bare, beautiful breasts are presented to you. The brush you pick up once the idea entered your mind dances along their soft mountains. Hyewon lets out a soft whimper. Her sensitivity is at a great height at which she is rendered helpless; she does not know what to do without moaning.

"God, I love you, Hyem," you say breathily.

"Sounds like you're talking to my tits rather than me," laughs Hyewon.

"Fine. I love you." Kiss her again and again. She giggles in between moans. Start from her forehead and end on her breasts. Lick a stripe on their nipples, and squeeze them happily in your hands. "I love you more than anything."

You mean it. You mean it with every pump of blood your heart creates, with every bit of your troubled soul.

Hyewon's thighs shudder as the brush tickles and caresses them. You run kisses along each trail your brush has swiped upon. But soon you are kissing something else, and Hyewon is reduced to moans.

The only clue at what you are doing is her underwear that you have thrown carelessly near the doorway.

"Oh my god, hon," whispers Hyewon, trying to keep a straight face. She raises her head out of view with her eyes closed and a firm bite on her lower lip. "You always eat me so well."

Hyewon loves being eaten out. It is such a divine experience for her. Every session is like the first, when she was particularly delicate and inexperienced. That is why the first suck already brings forth a rush of wetness and her thighs squirm on the sides of your head.

Hyewon remains a beauty, even in her unruly state. Her soft moans are like comforting tunes, motivating even. They coax you to take her harder—lap a teasing tongue up between her folds and wiggle it around, give smacks on her ass above the blue skirt, and suck the pretty nub with more diligence. Hyewon's legs never stop their quivering, and her fingers never stop trying to push you away and keep you licking her. The onslaught of stimulation has her breathless; how does it still feel so new and good?

You spread her legs far apart. Afterwards, stop the thrust of your tongue and go with offering sharp laps on her clitoris. It pulses with need, and so does Hyewon's heart, which beats so fast against her chest that she feels weak. But you are too good at this. She can do nothing but moan and let you fire blunt flicks at her erogenous zone.

"Hmnn... hah! Oh my god, baby!"

She herself is surprised by how early she came. But it is too late; your tongue is already delved deep inside her spasming core, catching the continuous leak of feminine orgasm. And it still feels so good. Sparks keep her on the edge of the desk and her toes curl tightly in response to her rough climax.

Continue the waves of your tongue while you keep her closely to your lips. You are determined to take advantage of the heightened sensitivity of her orgasm and make her feel even more good. You kiss her clit as if it were her own full lips. Give it open-mouthed smooches. By now, Hyewon's moans, which are usually soft and almost silent, have grown and spread inside the studio like a wildfire. Her hips are a force to be reckoned with, bucking against your mouth in search for more and pushing its center into your face. It is no problem for you; you are glad to give more.

You would give anything, in fact, just to see your wife's beautiful and blissful face.

Seungwoon took many photographs: of birds, nature, and sometimes his paintings. Many of these were formally released, yet the photos of his wife, although many, were not as abundantly shown to people. He took many pictures of her and kept a large amount for himself. He explained that he felt as if the public did not deserve to see "another side" of Hyewon. Hyewon also said that she would like to keep it that way.

His penultimate photograph of her that we know of is one wherein she reads her books to him. He entitled it A timely read [...]

Hyewon's thighs are snug in your lap, yet your cock rather explores in the hole in between them. Its pleasure tells and makes you bounce your own thigh up and down, creating a fulfilling process of her hole squeezing onto your shaft as you enter and exit.

Her fingers lose their assured squeeze on the book. "H-hah, you really aren't going to make this easy for me, are you?" she asks in between moans.

Shake your head; of course not. With her slick entrance ready for the taking, you have all day to plug yourself inside of her.

"Just keep reading, Hyewon-ah," you tell her, sweetly nibbling on her earlobe. She whimpers quietly, but does as you say.

Your thigh rises and falls to let your cock probe further inside her. Her tight, sweet body writhes with each bounce, yet she keeps on reading. She is your good girl, after all. Your muse.

But muses are not as desperate for you as she is. No muse drops to her knees and begs for "just one touch, please," say Hyewon with fearful eyes. "Just this time."

Her breast is fit for pearls /

Hyewon opens her mouth to read once more. However, your hand finds her breast before she can get a word out. From there, she can only make soft, whimpery sounds. Her chirps of pleasure are as pleasant as any songbirds. You love Hyewon's voice. She sings softly round the house, smiling giddily when you catch her, yet she claims that she is as never as good as Jo Yuri, the famous singer at the time. But that doesn't matter to you. You love Hyewon's voice.

Most of all, you love Hyewon.

But I was not a "Diver"— /

It does not matter anyway into her neck. Several counts of delicate cries leave her full lips. But Hyewon loves it. She loves being yours. She loves the way you make her feel, especially with the sword you unsheathe and sheathe again in the depths of her core, as if you are not certain if you should keep it inside or not. She likes it better inside her anyway.

Her brow is fit for pearls /

But I have not a crest.

Hyewon leans back in your shoulder. Kiss her beaded brow lovingly. She has stopped trying to read. It is a setup challenge anyway, designed to make her fail. What, with your cock's rainy adventures in between her wet folds, it was not a fair game from the beginning. But she is your loser, and because you love her, you would give her the prize anyway.

Your lips and Hyewon's collide. Hers are full and soft; there is a reason why you love it when she drops to her knees for you. Both carnal pleasures are hard to choose from, but you'd rather kiss her till you are out of breath than have her mouth somewhere else.

She hums a song of bliss, and you fashion yours with a grunt. Her thighs shake above your lap. Your fingers catch the release she makes. It floods on your hand; Hyewon blushes at your touch lingering on her vagina, and cums even more. It is a flood that you do not mind having assault you.

Because...

Her heart is fit for home /

Not one of your artworks can live up to her undeniable beauty. A studio full of the world's greatest paintings can easily be beaten by her. She is one created with duty and love—a soft yet intimate masterpiece, whose colors you make yourself comfortable in, even as she rests your head on your heart and closes her eyes.

I—a sparrow—build there

Sweet of twigs and twine

My perennial nest.

The little bird sleeps.

[...] while his last photograph of her is given the name The last stroll in the yards of life.

You do not want to live anymore.

It is as simple as that. Death is something that you would not refuse after the inevitable death she will have to take on. In fact, you welcome it. You urge it to come early despite your youthful age. You challenge it, even. You spit in the face of death and tell him to come get a piece of you.

Before you know it, you are crying again. Your tears blot what was supposed to be a masterpiece, making the colors drip down unpleasantly the canvas into one, big, rainbow mess. But your current state is a bigger mess than your artwork, and so is your life. Your wife will soon leave you, and just thinking about it makes you want to leave first.

If only you did not love her so much. If you didn't, it would not be this hard for the two of you.

"Oh, honey."

Her voice is as sweet as the nickname, but it does not pacify you. Not when you know the arms bound around your quivering form will soon melt away. Not when the scent from her hair and neck directly under your nose will leave along with her, only letting behind few sprays throughout rooms that will drive you crazy for days on end.

And she is so fucking pretty that it hurts.

"Hey," she tells you softly, with a smile that betrays the fear that she feels as well. Her brown sweater is beautiful; it matches the colors of the crops and grass around you. Hyewon truly looks like the love of your life. "It's okay. I'm still here. I haven't gone anywhere yet."

Yet. The word hangs in your mind like a noose. You want to take its rounded syllable ropes and execute yourself with them.

"You look so beautiful, Hyewon," you say, wrapping your arms around her like she does. "I love you so much."

"I love you, too. I love you, too."

You know you sound pathetic, but you go on with it anyway. There is little time left in the hourglass, and each grain of sand counts. "C-can you promise me something?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"P-promise me that you will try to hold on for as long as you can. I—I know it sounds selfish, and it is, but I can't see a life without you, Hyewon. I just can't. I truly think I'll die without you."

Hyewon's eyes are blurred with tears now, just like you. She hates knowing that she can do nothing about you feeling terrible about her dying. She hates knowing that you have felt this way from the moment you knew about her death.

She herself is still not ready for it. She does not know when she will be. Hyewon will always have to look over her shoulder in the afterlife, making sure that you do not follow.

"I promise," she says quietly. She closes her eyes, takes in a deep breath, and exhales through her nose. "I promise with all my heart."

Kang Hyewon died on December 23rd, 1924. She succumbed to cancer the night before Seungwoon's first exhibition. It can be deduced that Seungwoon called off his exhibition to mourn his wife and have time for himself. He did not set a date for the day on which the exhibition was supposedly postponed to.

After a week, he shot himself in his studio and died alone. In his suicide note, he asked that he be buried next to his wife and his paintings are formally taken by the university. In 1945, the university showcased his paintings—the famous, the lesser known, finished and unfinished—in one of its biggest exhibitions.

It is safe to say that Kang Seungwoon's artwork maintains its provision of inspiration to people today. People now talk about his paintings, love, and his tragic death as a source of reassurance and motivation. His famous quote still makes its rounds today: "There is no sculpture or painting that has lived up to the chef-d'oeuvre of true love."

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