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pisupsala · 1 year

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Of All The Stars in The Sky | 3 | Bradley ‘Rooster’ Bradshaw

Summary | War looks different from high above in the sky. But when Bradley finds himself on the ground, far behind enemy lines, it becomes a race against the clock to get out. And try not to look back at what he’s leaving behind.

Pairing | Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!reader / Bradley 'Rooster' Bradshaw x fem!oc (no use of y/n)

Warnings | Mature content | 18+ only [WWII AU] swearing, war, violence, death, explicit smut

Words | 5.2k

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Chapter 3 - Only My Loyal Shadow Goes With Me

“Hey.”

“Rooster.”

A soft voice floats through Bradley’s head. He’s so tired, the pillow is the fluffiest he’s felt in years, and his eyes feel too heavy to open.

“Wake up, Rooster.”

The words are slipping through his fingers like dandelion seeds on a gust of wind. It reminds him of the summer sun on the coast—a blue sky, a gentle breeze, and not a worry in the world. He doesn’t want to wake up. When he’s asleep, nothing hurts.

“Rooster…”

He likes that gentle voice, so close to him, so sweet—it’s with him in that comfortable spot between waking and dreaming. Everything feels like it’s warmed by the sun. He hears more words, but they are so far away, like they’re being pulled out by the tide.

He can hear the soft swash of waves, the cool gentle droplets of water from the breaking waves landing on his face. With it, the voice comes back to him.

“Please wake up.”

He doesn’t want to open his eyes, but the warm comfort of his dream-like state is melting away rapidly now. The droplets are cool fingers brushing a cloth over his flushed skin, and the soft words are finally landing in his consciousness.

Bradley cracks his eyes open a fraction, all he can muster.

“You are burning up.” Your face moves through his line of sight for a moment. “You need to drink something.”

“So tired…” He mumbles.

“I know,” Your voice is still so close. “But this will help.”

Bradley rubs his eyes, brushing the sleep from them. Your hands are moving over his shoulders now, helping him sit up. Fuck, the pain is coming back in full force now. As his senses are finally returning to him, spurred on by the pain, he realizes the room is a lot darker than it was before. He must have slept through the majority of the day. A chill has settled in the air of the room, the wind outside still howling. He can smell soup. Oh, he could do with some food.

“Drink slowly, or you’ll make yourself sick.” You instruct as you hand him a glass of water.

“Yes ma’am.”

Your eyelids flutter for a moment like you want to roll your eyes, but you’re stopping yourself from giving him that satisfaction.

So serious.

You bring him soup after—it’s a simple broth with potatoes. You seem apologetic, mumbling something about rationing.

Actually, you are not sure why you feel awkward about it. Rooster can have hardly missed it’s war, and with the tides turning on the Eastern Front at Stalingrad in favor of the Soviets, it’s hardly a surprise everything and more in the Reich is getting diverted to the war effort. The majority of the continent is struggling with food shortages.

“Did you already eat?” Bradley asks before you walk out again.

“A bit.” You reply, eyeing him curiously.

“Why don’t you sit with me?” He smiles at you. “We can talk, build trust, all that jazz.”

You blink. That’s not actually a bad idea. Yeah, you should build trust. He might have information from London. He might be able to smuggle out messages.

He could be a valuable asset.

But for that, you need to trust each other.

You turn and pull up a chair from the other room, setting it by the bed. You swiped yourself a slice of the bread too, so Rooster doesn’t have to eat alone. It’s only polite. Right?

“So, what are you doing here in a cabin all by yourself, Anna?” Rooster asks before blowing on his hot soup.

You shrug. “I’m on holiday—the mountain air is good for my health.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s all you need to know, Rooster.” You reply lightly, purposefully tacking on his stupid name to make sure there’s no room to argue. Information is best kept compartmentalized. It’s a safety measure. Under enough pressure and pain from torture or threats, most people will confess to anything, but if they don’t have the information they can at least not sell anyone out. It’s been a costly lesson.

“Fair enough.” Bradley is not put out by your answer. He didn’t really expect you to give him a full answer anyway—if anything, it actually confirms for him that you are probably doing something for the resistance here.

He takes a few careful sips of the steaming soup. It’s giving him some much-needed energy. His body still hurts, the muscles stiff, and the wounds on his face pull at this skin with every move. His head is slowly feeling better, the constant pounding has subsided.

“Generally speaking, what is the situation here like?”

You sigh, averting your gaze, your fingers plucking at the crust of the bread you’re holding. “Generally speaking? Bad.”

“How bad?” Bradley looks at you, your eyes still trained on the slice in your hands.

“Tell me what you know first.” You counter boldly. “You’re stationed in Britain, right? What have you heard?” Just because he got the first question in, you’re not going to let him take the lead.

“Ah, you’ve been through my jacket, Anna?” Bradley grins. You shrug noncommittally, eyes only meeting his gaze for a moment. He didn’t really expect any differently, of course you would check out his ID and documents when you had the chance. It’s only smart.

“So?” You press him, pulling up an eyebrow.

“All I heard is that it’s gotten pretty quiet here after last year.” He starts, carefully studying your reaction. “After you guys assassinated the Reichsprotektor.”

“Pretty much.” You nod. “The home resistance helped the government in exile in London assassinated him, and the Nazi leadership killed hundreds of Czechs in retaliation.”

You hesitate for a moment, gathering your thoughts before continuing. “They wiped complete villages off the map, killing or deporting everyone, based on mere rumors, and rounded up the families of everyone who they even just suspected of being part of the plot. They murdered so many people so quickly, they eradicated the infrastructure of the resistance, whether by dumb luck or ruthless efficiency. We lost a lot of good people.”

Swallowing, your eyebrows knitting together in a small moment of vulnerability, you softly add: “I lost a lot of friends.”

You look up at Rooster, trying to push the memories away again. He’s looking at you with what you can only describe as understanding. He probably knows what it’s like to lose friends.

If you’re in the war long enough, you either die or watch those around you perish. Your expression turns neutral again. “So, essentially, you’ve picked the worst time and worst place to crash.” You conclude humorlessly.

“I sure know how to pick ‘em.” He replies sardonically, before his voice turning serious again. “I heard from some Czechoslovak pilots in the RAF all communication with the home resistance was lost.”

“Yeah. We’re currently still without a long-distance radio—our only remaining station was captured during the raids late last year.” You admit. The situation is pretty bleak. Without a radio, there is no way to contact London, who could be sending you material support and more agents to re-establish a foothold.

In a few days, that might change. But you’ll keep that to yourself right now.

“So, what’s the plan?” Bradley is kind of dreading the answer. But if there is no way for the resistance to contact the Allies, this might become a very long and very unpleasant experience. He’s seen the shape his fellow pilots were in after they came back from POW camps in Germany after prisoner exchanges. Skin over bones, dead eyes, marks of torture.

“First, you need to get well enough to move.” You reply, mulling over how much more you should tell Rooster. Staying here is not an option—mostly because others will come, and the fewer people know you are harboring an American pilot, the better. Also, because there is no good cover story for you being here. You have a job that you need to get back to.

“That’s easy enough.” Rooster replies smoothly, again, with such an effortless confidence that you find yourself wanting to believe him.

It will be anything but easy. Rooster will need to get transported to some other safe house. You spent the entire day almost pulling your hair out over your predicament. Getting him to another safe house is one thing, but then what? How are you supposed to get him out of the country?

What you are doing is treason.

If you get caught or someone rats you out, it’s the bullet for you. And your parents. And Your friend and roommate Eva. And most likely anyone who has been unlucky enough to associate with you. Ironically, Rooster has the best chance of survival as a bargaining chip.

You need to wait for Emil. He is the de facto leader of your group now, and he calls the shots these days when it comes to operations. He will decide what needs to be done. By late tomorrow or early the day after, he will arrive with the package, and you can make your way back to the capital and back to work before anyone misses you. It will be out of your hands then.

You sit in silence for a few moments, while Rooster eats his soup, and you tear small pieces off your bread, chewing slowly.

“Why is your nickname Rooster?” You can’t help but ask. You should ask him for more information about Allied operations. Maybe he’s heard what the government in exile is planning. Maybe one of the Czechoslovak pilots told him something. But annoyingly, his stupid name is the thing you are really curious about right now.

“It’s a call sign.” Bradley replies, not looking up from his soup.

“Oh.”

“But I suppose that’s kind of like a nickname,” Bradley admits. “All pilots get one.”

“Why is yours Rooster?” You press. Bradley looks over at you for a moment. You are sitting bent forward in the chair, elbow on your knee, hand on your chin as you nibble on a piece of bread. There is no hostility about you, only curiosity.

“I always had chicks around me.” Bradley chuckles dryly, turning back to his soup. He’s almost embarrassed to admit it now, while it never bothered him before. He takes another bite before his eyes travel over to you again.

You have that frown on your face, that small wrinkle between your eyebrows again as you pensively chew. He catches himself cringing at what you might be thinking. Of course, you didn’t laugh at his joke, but whatever little respect you might have had for him is probably gone now.

“So…,” You start tentatively. “You grew up on a farm?”

Bradley nearly chokes on his soup, but manages to swallow quickly. He coughs, trying to catch his breath as laughter bubbles up in him.

“Really?” He turns to you with a big grin, ready to burst out laughing, but stops short when he sees the sincere confusion in your eyes.

You are serious.

He falters, coughing awkwardly. Shit. Now he kind of feels like an asshole. He doesn’t want to make fun of you like that. He realizes only too well how lucky he is he actually managed to crash into someone that speaks his language so well. If you actually stop speaking to him, he’ll be pretty fucked. But by god, now that it’s out in the open, he also does really not want to explain to you what it actually means.

“Yeah, sure, a farm.” Bradley agrees quickly. You nod, satisfied, leaning back in your chair. He averts his gaze awkwardly when he hears it. A giggle, soft like a chime. Your fingers are pressed against your lips, and if it weren’t for the mirth in your eyes, Bradley would swear he imagined the sound.

You are fucking with him.

“You’re making fun of me.” Bradley accuses you mockingly.

“What? No.” Your voice is high, as you dramatically feign innocence. “Why would I do that, farm boy?”

It’s bringing you a little bit too much joy that you actually got back at him. For a moment, his mask almost slipped and Rooster actually looked unsure of himself—something you didn’t think he’d be capable of. It’s nice to see he is capable of some humility.

You vaguely wonder how many girls he entertained to earn him that nickname, because it must have been impressive enough to stand out. All the girls in high school dreamily stared after the boys in their uniforms as they came to say goodbye before leaving to their mandatory service after final exams. When one of your classmates, Jakub, showed up to the high school graduation ball in his new air force uniform, he pretty much stole everyone’s date just by walking through the door.

Bradley laughs, shaking his head. You really got him good. And he likes that you can still laugh—it melts the harshness out of your eyes for a moment. Eyes that have seen too much. He sees it in his fellow pilots, he saw in on the streets in London, and sometimes he sees it in the mirror. Everyone carries a heaviness beyond their years, like everyone has gone through several lifetimes over the span of a few years. God knows what you have seen.

He tries not to think about every plane he’s seen plummet from the sky, engines screaming, engulfed in fire, only thanking whatever powers that be that it wasn’t him.

But he can see it in his reflection when he stares too long.

“I have a question in return for you.” He starts, as he gently blows on his soup. “Where did you learn English?”

“I started studying it in high school and read English and international politics in university.” A small hint of pride creeps into your voice. There’s no harm in telling Rooster this. It feels like it happened a lifetime ago anyway. Almost like it was in a dream. “I had excellent teachers.”

You leave out how you would practice long hours in front of the mirror since your teens, talking to yourself, mimicking radio plays, and reading out loud from your books. Hours and hours you worked memorizing the cadence, getting a feel for the moving accents, and figuring how the hell articles worked. It drove your mother mad, complaining you’d forget how to speak your own language, but you had big plans.

“Impressive.” He nods. “When did you graduate?”

You still look so young.

“I didn’t,” You chuckle humorlessly, as you study the slice of bread in your hand. “The Reichsprotektor ordered all universities to close in 1939. I was just starting my second year.”

You are young.

“I’m sorry.” Bradley is not much older than you—three, four years at most, he guesses. He was just about out of flight school when the U.S. entered the war. He heard some things and read some things about occupied Europe, but it always seemed so far away. “Will you go back?”

You shrug. “I hope to.” A fleeting smile passes over your face like you’re thinking about a happy memory. In a blink, it’s gone again. “But who knows what tomorrow will bring.”

With that, you get up, popping the last piece of bread in your mouth. “You should get some more sleep. The sooner you’re healthy again, the better.”

Bradley nods, handing you his empty bowl, and settling back into his pillow, not feeling tired the slightest.

“I don’t suppose you brought something to read?” He deadpans, fully expecting you to hand him something in Czech and telling him to knock himself out, literally.

“Well…” You shift on your feet awkwardly in the doorway. “I brought one English book, but I was planning on reading it myself.”

It would be only fair to lend it to Rooster, but you selfishly don’t want to.

“Want to take turns reading from it?” He offers. It reminds him of the long journey from the U.S. to Britain, when every sailor and aviator on the boat deeply underestimated how long it would take, and how boring it would be, so books were in short supply. It was not his favorite thing—he much prefers reading himself, if only because most of his fellow crewmen were objectively bad at reading out loud.

“Sure.” You are not smiling, but your eyes glint happily in the twilight of the room.

When you return, you bring more tea for you both, and a small worn book tucked under your arm. Wordlessly, you hand him the book as you sit down, and Bradley can’t help but to laugh.

“The Grapes of Wrath?” He teases. “Some light reading in difficult times, yeah?”

“Possibly.” You yawn, stretching in the chair. “But it’s portable. And unlike Hemingway, Fitzgerald or even Kafka, it won’t get me arrested, you know?” There is no cut to your words, only stating the obvious.

“I kind of expected you to pull out a romance novel.” He continues jauntily, as he flips through the yellowed pages of the book. You scoff.

“I’ll bring you one next time, okay?” Your voice is painfully neutral, and if Bradley hadn’t glanced over at you, he wouldn’t even be sure you are joking again. But in contrast to your words, your posture is relaxed, as you inspect your nails with feigned disinterest, lightly biting your lip again to keep yourself from smiling. “Is Gone With the Wind more your style, lieutenant Rooster?”

“I was a great Scarlett when we read that book on our passage to Britain.” Bradley laughs, putting a hand on his chest dramatically. “I do a mean southern accent.” He adds haughtily.

“I’m sure you’re the star of every show.” You tease back. He seems like just that kind of person—not in a bad way, you concede—that has a certain magnetism and drive for showmanship. It’s probably a trait fighter pilots share. Every guy that you know (okay, you know a grand total of two) that joined the air force with the explicit goal to fly was more or less like that, a show-off.

Settling in, leaning your elbow on the mattress, you prop your head up on your hand. “Go on, put on a show then.” You needle Rooster. He rolls his eyes at you, almost indulgently, as he opens the book at the beginning.

Most of your records with radio plays got damaged or just destroyed in that Gestapo raid two years ago, so you’ve had nothing to listen to but yourself. You’re actually a little excited at the prospect of Rooster reading to you.

As he starts reading, you hate to admit—he is actually good at it. Really good. Rooster’s voice is so pleasant to listen to, deep and rich, with a slight rasp. He reads clearly, not too slow, not too fast, and doesn’t stumble over any words.

Maybe it’s not all so bad.

***

It’s the middle of the night. It’s pitch-black in the bedroom, but Bradley is wide awake, his mouth drier than a desert. You left him a glass of water before you went to sleep, but that has done nothing to quench his thirst. He’s been sweating, his fever breaking. He needs to re-hydrate.

As he quietly moves off the bed, the floorboards softly creaking under his socked feet. It’s cold. He feels more alert now, the fuzziness finally ebbing away.

His body still hurts, ankle especially right now. He should really take a look at it tomorrow in daylight, although there’s probably nothing that really can be done, except wait for it to heal. He hobbles, as quietly as he can, to the door.

Bradley realizes he doesn’t actually know how big the cabin is—where do you sleep? He doesn’t really want to end up sneaking up on you, because something tells him you will be armed.

The room looks empty. He can only make out the vague outlines of the sparse furniture, moonlight reflection off the snow outside. You don’t seem to be here. Leaning against the wall, Bradley shuffles towards the small kitchen. There is a pitcher next to the wood stove, and he hopes it has water. He’s so thirsty it’s making his throat hurt.

He walks past the table, leaning heavily on it, before he finally reaches the pitcher and takes a sniff. Thank fuck, it’s water. Bradley doesn’t even bother with looking for a glass, just gulping the water down straight. Shit, that’s the best water he ever tasted. It’s like every mouthful is bringing his strength back.

A soft click brings him out of his reverie.

He knows it’s you without turning around, because that click was a gun. Putting the pitcher back, he lazily puts his hand up before turning around.

“Look, Anna-” His voice is gravelly from thirst, but the words die in his throat when he sees you. You are pointing a gun at him, annoyed and bleary-eyed, and absolutely drowning in his leather jacket. The fingertips of your free hand barely peek out of the sleeve, and the thick collar is flipped up, hiding the majority of your face.

“What are you doing?” You grind out, voice shaking, eyes wide. The gun is moving with every tremor that courses through your body.

“Just getting a drink, Anna.” Bradley replies gently, not wanting to spook you further. “You can put away the gun now.”

You hold him under shot a moment longer, before lowering your gun suddenly. Softly swearing, you turn away, pinching the bridge of your nose and trying to get your heartbeat under control. Your whole body is quacking.

Leaning your hands on the table to steady yourself, the gun clangs against the wood noisily in the otherwise silent room.

“Are you okay?” Bradley ventures carefully, only hearing you mumble something in response. He pushes himself off the counter, taking an unsteady step towards you.

“Yeah, fine.” You bite out, not looking up. “You scared me.”

Terrified you, more like. People walking around at night are seldom a good thing, and in your sleepy confusion you forgot you were not alone anymore.

“I’m sorry,” He takes another step towards you, brow knitted in worry. Finally, you turn to look at him, only your tired and angry eyes peeking out over the collar of his jacket. “My jacket looks good on you, though.” Bradley add lightly, attempting to add some levity to the situation.

Your eyes flutter in that way again, like you're diverting all your strength not roll your eyes at him.

“Well, it’s cold.” You reply tersely, but your words lack edge. The adrenaline is ebbing away, but you’re too wired—it’s like every muscle in your body is tense and the strange knot in your chest won’t go away. “Now that I’m taking your stuff anyway, mind if I take another cigarette?”

“How can I possibly say no to you?” The corner’s of his mouth quirk up as he approaches you slowly. Your eyes flash dangerously at him. “You’re still the one with a gun.” He adds, smirking lightly.

He hears you sigh and say something under your breath tiredly, by your tone he assumes you’re cursing him to hell. But you are merely asking for mercy as you bend down.

“Mind if I join you for one?” Bradley asks as he reaches you, leaning against the table now to keep the weight off his ankle, watching you with rising interest as you sit on your knees next to the table.

“They’re your cigarettes.” You say lightly. “But yeah, come here.”

Bradley frowns as he watches you disappear under the table. Why are you under the table? As he carefully squats down, he sees you made a little nest—a thin sleeping mat on the floor, your folded cardigan for a pillow, and your own coat as a blanket. No wonder you were cold. Your book, a mug and a neat pile of documents including his military ID that you pulled from his jacket lie next to your makeshift pillow.

“Why were you sleeping under the table?” He asks, incredulously, as he slides next to you onto the sleeping mat, wincing from pain. Is there not a second bed? He needs to keep his head bent down at a weird angle, as he’s too tall to sit up straight under the table.

“It’s the only place no once can see me from outside.” You reply easily, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, sitting down and pulling your knees up. “Just in case someone is passing by.”

“You think that’s likely to happen?” Bradley asks seriously.

You shrug, as you pull out a cigarette out of the carton and offer it to him. “Probably not,” He takes it from you, twirling it in his fingers for a moment, as he regards you while you focus on the pack of Lucky’s in your hands. Even in the darkness, sitting shoulder to shoulder under a table, he can see the emotions play out in your eyes. “But it’s the kind of mistake you only get to make once.”

Bradley doesn’t reply. It resonates with him. Every time he takes off for another sortie, he never thinks about how it might be his last flight. The fact that he is still here means he so far never made the kind of mistake you only get to make once. He’s been close to it more often than he would like to admit.

You put a cigarette between your lips, and meet his gaze. “But on the other hand, you suddenly showed up here, so there’s that.” You deadpan. Bradley chuckles.

Your fingers are still shaking visibly as you try to light a match. You flex your wrist, that little wrinkle appearing between your eyebrows again. When at the third attempt you’re still hitting a dud, Bradley gently takes the matchbox from you. He says nothing, and neither do you. You don’t feel like arguing, and you are grateful he’s not actually needling you again.

It doesn’t escape your notice how warm his fingers are against yours. It’s like a small shock to the system.

Smoothly, he lights the match, leaning closer to you to light your cigarette. You can feel his breath brush on the side of your face. The moment is over before you know it, as he turns away to light his own cigarette.

You feel strangely flustered, like you’re only now realizing you are wearing his jacket, while sitting shoulder to shoulder, hidden under a table like teenagers smoking a sneaky cigarette. Now you are hyperaware of how his muscular arm rubs against yours with every move, how his broad shoulder would be so easy to lean your head on, how nice and warm it must be tucked against his side.

Your mind wanders. In different time, in a different life…

But it’s not.

“They always come before daybreak.” The words escape you in a sudden urge to explain yourself, your voice wavering painfully at the end of the sentence. Objectively, it’s really weird to sleep under a table, but you know you are not crazy. Just prepared. And somehow it matters to your ego that Rooster understands that you weren’t always like this—so on edge, so scared and paranoid. He turns to you with a sympathetic look on his face, as you stare ahead into the darkness.

“The police, followed closely by the Gestapo.” You clarify as you exhale, the smoke dissipating into the darkness. “They’ll sneak in, and when they find whom they’re looking for, they’ll make sure damn you know they are there. They stomp, they yell, they rampage through the building as warning.” You take another long drag from your cigarette to calm your nerves. “Just so you know you can be next.”

Rooster is still looking at you intently, smoking quietly, waiting for you to continue. There are mercifully no smart quips.

“They came for my neighbors like that one night. Dragged them out of their beds in their night clothes, screaming. Parents, children, grandmother. When my father went to look, they beat him and trashed our apartment for good measure. A Gestapo officer dragged me from my bed, down two flights of stone stairs and onto the street, laughing the whole time.”

“He aimed his gun at my head, and that’s the first time I thought: I’m going to die now.” You look finally at Rooster. He looks sad, but you also know he understands. There is no need to say out loud: he’s felt the same, under different circumstances probably, but the core experience is the same. That small moment, when time seems to stop and everything goes quiet in your head, and you feel it in your bones, your heart knows. You have no choice but to accept it. This is it.

And then it’s not. You’re still here. Rooster is still here. How do you continue living after you’ve looked death in the eye?

You fight back. A little bit harder, a little bit more, each and every time. Until it’s truly the last time.

Neither of you has anything to say after that, so you just sit there together in your own small world under the table, lightly leaning into each other, ashing your cigarettes in the mug on the floor. With every exhale, the anxiety is leaving your body.

Rooster suddenly shudders, goosebumps springing up over his arms. He quickly rubs his palm over his arm to warm up.

“Shit, take your jacket back, sorry.” You say hurriedly, starting to slip it off, planting your cigarette between your lips. Really, you should have offered it to him immediately, and put on your own coat, but really—the jacket is so comfortable, so warm, and it smells so nice.

Bradley stills for a moment as he watches you shrug the jacket off, exposing your bare shoulders. He cannot help but let sight roam over the skin of your arms, imagining how soft it would be.

You look so disarmingly cute at that moment — the worried look on your face, your hair messy from sleeping, the cigarette carelessly hanging from your lips—and completely innocently and unabashedly pulling the jacket off. Regaining his senses just in time before you strip it off completely, leaving you just in your camisole, he leans over, grabbing the collar of the jacket and pulling it back over your arms.

You sit rooted in place as Rooster’s face is suddenly so near yours again, cigarette in the corner of his mouth, his hands close to your throat as he wraps the jacket around you. He doesn’t move back immediately, but you can see his eyes crinkling as he smiles.

“Keep it on.” He says simply. You nod, barely managing a whispered thank-you, afraid he might feel how hard your heart is suddenly beating again. Too soon, it grinds your gears you think it’s too soon, he moves back again, turning away from you, finishing his cigarette.

“I should probably be a gentleman, and offer you the bed...” He starts.

“Absolutely not.” You cut him off.

“Well, I wasn’t going to,” He continues levelly. You bristle—you walked right into that one. “But then it only seems fair you get to keep my jacket.”

“Besides,” The smirk is so evident in his voice, you almost dread to look at him. “It looks much better on you anyway.”

***

note | I'm prepping for my trip next week, so I might not update regularly for a bit. When I have something ready, you will of course be the first to know!

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