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#me myself and i and this deep disconnect between the three

infinitydivine · 2 months

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What can you expect in March? (PAC)

Hello everyone, I am back again with a new PAC reading. Thank you all for loving my previous PAC, I appreciate it.

*This reading is just for entertainment purposes*

If you could, please leave feedback as comments reblogs, or Asks. It helps me to improve myself. And if you want you can tip/book reading with me because I am saving up for my further education.

Choose your pile intuitively. Take what resonates and leave the other things. If you think this reading is not for you then choose another pile. If still it doesn't resonate then this might not be your reading. There are three Piles.

***If this reading resonates with you, DM me to book a reading with me. You can pay through Paypal or you can visit my Kofi shop too.

My Paid services Thank you for your support PAC Readings Love Special readings Paid Reading reviews

PILE 1

PILE 2-PILE 3

Hello Pile 1.

Four of Pentacles, Strength and Queen of Pentacles

General- This pile will be focused more on getting the 'money bag" and financial opportunities. You will be building resources and being more stable. This month's theme will be getting financially stable. This month will bring you the courage you need to face any difficulty you are finding to face and get over it. You will be more focused on self-care and self-confidence and how to build a strong foundation for yourself. You are being advised to remain compassionate and understanding, to everyone and yourself. A time of financial stability is coming for you.

Romance- A good month to put boundaries between you and your partner if you feel your partner has been crossing the limits. There could be an increased desire to build a stable and secure foundation in the relationship for both partners to feel safe and secure.

Career and finances- There will be more focus on financial stability. This phase will build a strong foundation for your upcoming future. Be careful and manage your stress.

Find the Extended reading here

Hello Pile 2

Hermit, Devil and Two of Pentacles

General- March will bring you into a self-isolation period but it is very much needed now for you especially if you have been dealing with burnout and fatigue. You will be shown that being alone is a necessary part of the cycle of life and relationships. You will be guided to go more inward to seek the answers you are looking for outside.

Romance- You might be disconnected from your romantic interest or partner this month to focus more on yourself and your inner journey. This will be an excellent opportunity for you to enhance the connection you have with yourself because March is all about self-love baby.

Career and Finances- March will be a good month for you to deep think about what you actually want from your career and what you actually want to do. If you are not satisfied with your job, you might be guided to take a step in this direction too.

Find the Extended reading here

Hello Pile 3,

Knight of wands, High Priestess, ten of Wands, and Eight of Wands

General- This month will fly past over you and you will barely notice it. Things are moving very fast for you this month. If you were in a stagnant position in life, this is your reminder that will be moving for you. You will come out of your shell. You will find yourself with enough passion to pursue your dreams. You will have a sudden outburst of motivation after being in a still position for over past few months/weeks.

Romance- Old romance might be ignited this month, with some past discoveries of events that you missed. If you have been unlucky in love before, March could bring a brand new romance for you. If in a relationship, you guys will be spending some quality time together and rekindling the deep connection you already have.

Career and Finances- This is a phase of changes and growth and you will notice it too. Oppurtunities will be knocking at your door and if you have been waiting for a financial opportunity, you could soon find it too. It’s a time to step up and showcase your skills, embracing leadership roles and initiating new projects with enthusiasm and courage.

Find the Extended reading here

Thank you.

Love, Infinity ❤️

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roosterbruiser · 1 year

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𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 ☾☽ 𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐕.𝐈𝐈

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

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

☾☽ 𝐋𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐬𝐥𝐢𝐝𝐞 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐫𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐛𝐫𝐮𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

☾☽ 𝐩𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

𝐄𝐩𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐠𝐮𝐞 𝐅𝐢𝐯𝐞.𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟕𝐭𝐡, 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟏

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

“Pressure,” I mutter, “burning.”

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

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

Sit tight. I hate sitting tight.

“I’m trying,” I whimper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Even my lips are quivering.

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

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

That’s when I start crying again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We leave the bags in the car.

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

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

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

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

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

“Need to stop?”

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

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

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

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

It feels like everything is moving at hyperspeed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Barely,” I mutter.

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

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

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

I nod, swaying endlessly.

“How you feel, honey?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I just shake my head. No, no epidural.

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

My throat is dry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley sighs, combing his fingers through my hair.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It prickles my skin, slaps me across the face.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley nods.

“Have to,” I say, my fingers shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The air in my lungs feels wet with sweat.

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

Nurse Kidrick echoes her statement, patting my calf.

I feel like a farm animal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley tenses beneath me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is only a few minutes later that it happens.

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

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

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

My chest is heaving. My legs are shaking.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Good job, mama! Congratulations!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Wait, are they--is it a girl?”

Nurse Kidrick is grinning.

“It’s a girl!”

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

I think I’ve known her all along.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me too,” I return softly.

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

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

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

“Uh huh,” I whisper, “I was there.”

Achingly there.

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

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

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

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

“What?” I whisper, raising my eyebrow.

He kisses my temple again.

“Breaking your water,” he says softly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mhm,” I whisper.

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

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

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

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

“Think so,” I whisper. “You ready?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

“Y’okay? Y’arlight, baby?”

Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip, I nod.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He laughs.

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

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

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

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

I point my phone at him, my cheeks pink.

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” I breathe.

“What is it?”

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

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

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

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

His first picture holding our daughter. Our nameless daughter.

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

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

“Checking me out, Ledger?”

I glance up at him. He’s smirking.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, leaning his head back against the chair.

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

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

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

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

Humming, I shake my head.

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

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

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

“Don’t,” I warn softly, yawning.

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

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

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

“I missed it,” I whisper.

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

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

The books.

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

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

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

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

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

“This one,” he whispers, nodding.

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

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

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

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

I do look like a mom: tired and lovesick.

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

His smile is bright.

“Lucky me.”

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

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

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

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

“Baby,” Bradley says quietly.

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

“Hmm?” I ask with my eyes closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh--there it is.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I shake my head, sighing.

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

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

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

I let another beat pass.

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

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

Boy, am I.

“Definitely,” I mutter.

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

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

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

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

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

“I did,” I return in a hushed tone.

He grunts in response.

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

I think he is, too.

He takes a shuddering breath.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh, don’t be. Don’t be.”

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

The vein across my nose is pulsing now.

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

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

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

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

He sniffles, sighing.

“Didn’t suffer, did you?”

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

He laughs--a wet kind of sad laugh.

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

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

He chokes--sputtering for a moment.

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

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

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

“But you did, right?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

A fist holds my heart as my spine prickles.

What a question.

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

He grunts, sighing.

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

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

My palms are sweating.

“I’ve always known that.”

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

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

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

I scoff.

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

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

“Hurts to laugh,” he mutters.

“I’m sorry,” I say, biting my lip.

He hums.

“Don’t be.”

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

“Faye,” he finally says, voice thin.

“Jake,” I whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Faye,” he cries softly.

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

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

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

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

“You call me later, okay?”

He sniffles again.

“I will,” he promises.

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

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

“Yes, Jake?”

He sighs.

“Congratulations, kid. She’s perfect.”

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

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

Bradley looks up at me, eyebrows knit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bradley chuckles. It makes my spine frigid.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I tut now, sighing.

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

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

“Are you okay, Faye?”

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

“I don’t know,” I whisper.

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

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

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

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

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

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

He grins.

“Good choice, mama,” he laughs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

November 17th, 2021

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Okay,” I whisper. “Money-shmoney.”

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

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

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

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

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

The notion makes me smile. As if.

“What’s she think?” I ask.

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

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

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

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

Bradley’s just grinning, cheeks pink.

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

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

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

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

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

He nods, his jaw squared.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My heart constricts.

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

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

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

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

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

Jake sighs, growing heavier against me.

“Aren’t we all?”

We both laugh--wincing in tandem.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jake rolls his eyes.

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

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

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

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

Forever by The Little Dippers is playing now.

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

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

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

I yawn, shaking my head softly.

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

Bradley nods, taking it in utter stride.

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

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

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

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

I tut, shaking my head.

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

He deflates slightly, sighing.

“Don’t remind me,” he groans.

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

Bradley kisses my shoulder, his lips warm and soft.

“Tired, baby?” he whispers.

I nod, yawning.

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

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

“Gearing up for it,” I sigh.

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

“Tip your head back, baby.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He holds me impossibly closer, sighing.

“No, baby,” he whispers. “S’all you.”

“You’re good to me,” I whisper.

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

“Y’make it easy.”

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

Landslide update!

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

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

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

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

☾☽ 𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫

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burninlovebutler · 2 years

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18 - Nothing There // Forever Winter // a.b x oc

warnings: mania, SAD, undisclosed mental illness(es), brief mention of non-consent, sexual themes, 18+ always, mdni, please don't hate me

18/? - Austin shows up to Elsie’s apartment in a panic with news that could shatter her heart, but it is something far more sinister that is the culprit of her heartache

see masterlist/summary for background info + chapter log

(NOT elvis!austin just fit the vibe // gif cred: @karamelcoveredolicity i think ?)

𝚂𝚘 𝙸 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚔 𝙸'𝚖 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚎𝚍, t𝚑𝚒𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚖𝚎 𝙸'𝚖 𝚜𝚞𝚛𝚎

𝙸𝚝'𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚏𝚏𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚗𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚊𝚗 𝚋𝚎𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚎

𝙱𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚘𝚗'𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚛𝚘𝚠 𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚖𝚎𝚍𝚜

'𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚑𝚊𝚍 𝚊 𝚐𝚘𝚘𝚍 𝚍𝚊𝚢

-ELSIE-

I sat on my bed folding some of Nox's work clothes that spread across the mattress. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t been feeling lonely without Austin. Even though I had Nox back, it wasn’t the same. Nox and I weren’t best friends. Despite what all my other friends said, I didn’t believe that I needed to be best friends with my partners. At least I never had been. There was a distinct line between relationship and friendship, no overlap.

I had been feeling so disconnected lately, not just from Austin, but from Nox, from everything. I made up with my boyfriend, but I still felt heartbroken. Maybe even more so than when I was at Austin’s.

I still loved Nox, but the feeling of him touching me wasn’t the same. It felt empty – boring, loveless. We’d only had sex maybe two times since I came home. He had tried, lord had he tried. But I fled from his touch every time. Nox could be vicious but something he’d never do is force me into anything I didn’t want to do. That was the biggest difference between him and my exes, sadly.

I couldn’t get that night out of my head. Austin was so much bigger than Nox, I didn’t need to feel him inside me to know that. Even just his touch was better than Nox. I never thought I could finish with another person – only ever by myself. I had accepted that men just couldn’t make me come, but Austin did – three times. And that wasn’t counting the times the thought of him helped me finish - alone.

What the fuck was wrong with me? Thinking this shit about my friend. It should feel weird to know what your best friend’s dick or tongue feels like - and well it did, kind of. Or maybe that was just how illicit it felt. Either way, it was more temping than anything.

Oh yeah – and of course there was the fact that I cheated on Nox. Well at least, I think? Were we even together after he kicked me out? Regardless of the technicalities, Nox could never find out about it. Even just the thought of his reaction was enough to scare the shit out of me.

But he wasn’t stupid, he picked up on the shift between us and relentlessly pressed me about it, until I finally gave in and told him a watered-down version of truth or dare. He wasn’t happy about it but surprisingly didn’t react as bad as I thought.

Yet after having a taste of what I could experience with someone else – the rigid, fast sex Nox offered was no longer enticing. But if I was going to save my relationship, I needed to forget all of it.

If I was going to save my friendship, I needed to forget it. Pretend it never happened.

Austin’s cold front could very well be a symptom of what we did. He might’ve seen it as a mistake. Whether that was a good or bad thing, I wasn’t sure.

I methodically pressed Nox's black button downs, taking extra care making sure they were creaseless and symmetrical. He had been a tyrant about organization lately which naturally meant I was deep cleaning the house and reorganizing everything.

Suddenly a frantic knock at the door yanked me out of the monotonous zone I had fallen into. I warily slid off the bed and went to the door, finding the frenzied knock quite odd for the middle of the day.

Standing on my tippy-toes I squinted an eye through the peep hole finding Austin on the other side. Both relief and anxiety rushed through me as I opened the door.

“Hey Aus-“ He dashed past me. “Whoa, what is going on?” I questioned, immediately noticing his outfit. An oversized t-shirt with sweatpants. It was like below 0 outside, what the fuck was he doing without a jacket.

“Elsie I am so sorry, but something happened.” He began pacing back and forth, “I saw something.” I genuinely had no idea what exactly I was perceiving in front of me and didn’t know what piece of it I needed to focus on first.

“Austin I’ve been trying to call you-“ I started before Austin cut me off again.

“Els I don’t know how to tell you this,” He halted his pacing for a second trying to catch his breath and shaking the cold out of his bare arms. His pale face made it seem like he’d seen a ghost.

“Austin breathe, please.” I walked to him, grabbing his frigid shoulders, “What is going on?” My eyes scanned his blues, desperately searching for an answer. They were unreadable, fogged with something that registered as familiar, but I couldn’t put a finger on what exactly.

He ripped out of my grasp and started to pace across my living room again. “I really don’t want to tell you this El, I really don’t” His movements gaining momentum as he spoke. “So, I went to Roast right? To work on my role, right?”

I cautiously nodded, “Right.”

“When I was walking home, I saw something.” His voice accelerating.

“Okay yes, and what did you see?” I probed to finally get to the point.

He inhaled a deep breath, stopped pacing and faced me, “I saw Nox with another girl.”

Immediately my heart dropped into my stomach. I had suspected him of cheating for a while but I never thought it was real. I thought it was just my own paranoia, my insecurities. “Are you sure it was him Austin?” He nodded.

“How sure are you?”

“Elsie, I saw him! It was him!” His voice strained.

“Okay but how do you know it was him for sure?”

“It just it was- Oh yeah I took a picture!” He scrambled to pull out his phone to show me. I braced myself for even further heartbreak. I didn’t know if I was prepared to see my boyfriend with someone else. “See look!” He shoved his phone in my face.

I let out a gasp before grabbing his phone and inspecting it. But, something wasn’t right. Before I could even process the photo, a distant but familiar wave of dread seeped into my bones. I turned my focus up at Austin taking in his appearance fully for the first time. His hair was messy, dark bags laid beneath his eyes, thick sweat across his forehead.

All the odd puzzle pieces from the past couple weeks began to piece together. The forgetfulness, the ignored calls, the poker faces, the mood swings. I was so stupid for not recognizing it sooner.

“Austin,” Words struggled to get past the lump in my throat, “Austin, this isn’t Nox.”

“I know it’s hard to believe, but its him. I saw him.” Annoyance pitched his voice.

“Austin that isn’t Nox.” I repeated delicately, “Are you feeling okay? Have you been sleeping?” My first instinct was to reach out to him, press my the back of my hand against his forehead - but I knew it'd only make him retract from me.

“Elsie c’mon I know it’s hard to believe but,” He snatched the phone from my hold and zoomed in on his hand. “Look that’s his tattoo! The dagger!” Austin pushed to convince me.

Leaning forward to once again examine the picture - it still wasn’t Nox. The swirling pit in my gut only grew heavier. I took a deep breath and struggled to remain calm. I had to avoid escalating the conversation so he’d actually listen to me. “Austin, that’s not a dagger.” I carefully handed the phone back to him, “There’s nothing there.”

“Are you blind Elsie? That’s a dagger! That’s Nox!”

I moved timidly closer him, not wanting to set him off, “Austin there’s nothing there, that man doesn’t even have a tattoo.”

I studied him further, all the dots connecting. The wide red eyes, the disheveled clothes, the rapid speech. I was close enough to have my nostrils filled with a smell I was well acquainted with. “Did you smoke today?” I asked softly, meeting his eyes. I tried my best to keep my tone from sounding accusatory.

He stuttered a bit, “Yeah I felt stressed and it helped. I feel better! I got a lot of work done.”

It wasn’t that I was against weed. I fucking love weed. Austin and I smoked all through university and I still smoke almost daily. But at some point, it began to affect him differently. After his break in college, since the incident.

In between the harsh divide of pro and anti-marijuana, there was a grey area that was rarely talked about. It IS an amazing healing plant for most, but not all. Especially with certain mental illnesses or addictions.

I stepped forward and took his cheeks carefully in my hands, “Austin you need to listen to me. I need you to sit down.”

“No you have to believe me.” His voice even quicker than before.

“Please Aus, for me, please sit down.” I begged, hearing my voice waver.

He huffed and reluctantly sat on a wooden dining chair. “You’re just in denial, why don’t you believe me?” His voice came out almost dejected, like he was genuinely hurt that I didn’t believe him. It stung so fucking bad. I just knew that he must be questioning just how much I actually trusted him. He would never lie to me, I knew that. He was just trying to help. A burning, tight feeling grew knowing that he was this upset over something imaginary.

I sat in a seat at the corner facing him asking, “Aus can I see the work you did today?”

“Yes! That’s a great idea!” He grinned wide drawing the silver laptop from his leather carrying case and lifted the top, then turning it to me, “See look!”

Tears welled in my eyes as I looked at the screen trying to decipher what I was looking at. As much as I attempted to hold tears back, one escaped down my cheek. I swiftly wiped it off so that he wouldn’t see. “Aus,” Hesitating, “Austin there’s nothing there.” My tone delicate, like when you have to tell a child their dog ran away.

“What the fuck are you talking about Elsie? I spent three hours studying today. I’ve worked all week on this.” Getting more and more frustrated.

“Austin, this is gibberish.” Swiveling the laptop back to him. The screen displayed an open Word document filled with absolute nonsense. 8617 words of nonsense.

“No no no, what are you talking about? Look I wrote notes, I wrote—” He went to read what he thought was a brilliant line but soon realized he couldn’t. “No Els, I swear I wrote so much,” He scrambled, “The file must’ve gotten corrupted or something.”

His fingers worked frantically on the keyboard looking for a something that didn’t exist. The vicious churn in my stomach was almost enough to make me throw up.

I remained silent, just watching his frenzied desperate movements. How the fuck was I supposed to handle this. We’d been in this situation numerous times, but it never got easier. I never got better at it. And it hadn’t happened in so long, I really thought he was doing good.

This was one of the worst parts about this, having to be the one rip him down from whatever fluffy cloud he was on. I hated it, hated it. These were some of the happiest times I saw him and I had to be the monster to pull the curtain down. Seeing your best friend so confident and happy for the first time in so long and then having to snatch it from him. Knowing that you were the one to trigger the inevitable comedown, watching the joy and euphoria pale from his face because of you.

“Did you take anything else after you smoked?” I questioned, there was no way this was solely induced by marijuana.

“No Elsie I told you I feel better! This isn’t about weed for fucks sake. I saw Nox with another girl. Why don’t you believe me? I literally showed you proof.” His speaking was overly animated, his hands following every word.

“Austin. You have to tell me if you took anything besides the weed.”

He paused, seemingly battling to answer. “Fine fine, I just took some Adderall to help me focus and keep me awake.”

“Austin! What the fuck, why would you do that!” At this point I was growing angry but knew it wouldn’t be helpful. I had no clue how to handle his hallucinations, none the less the pills.

Mental illness wasn’t anything new to me. Everyone I fucking knew including myself struggled with it. But Austin’s was more complicated, more extreme. His episodes terrified me and they were almost always followed with a relapse - sometimes with just one fix, sometimes all. I was even less equipped to handle those.

“El I needed to work, I needed to focus. And I did, this is the best I’ve been in weeks.” Trying so vehemently to convince me.

“Wait wait wait,” I full stopped, “Have you been taking your meds?”

He stayed quiet for a couple seconds looking everywhere but at me. “I just needed a break El, they weren’t helping. I just wanted to handle it myself.”

My hand found his boney wrist, giving it a small squeeze, “Austin you know you can’t do that. You have to call me when you feel like that.”

“I know but I couldn’t- I just couldn’t.”

“Why not?”

“I just… I just wanted to deal with it alone. I just needed to be alone.” He was lying. I just knew he was lying.

The heavy weight of guilt only added to the knots in my gut. Like all my intestines were folded into fortune cookies encasing just one message-

If I hadn’t left that day, this wouldn’t have happened. If I hadn’t acted the way I did – if we didn’t do what we did. None of this would’ve happened. He would’ve came to me.

I made a promise a long time ago that I wouldn’t let this happen, and this was precisely the reason. So things didn’t get messy, so that it wouldn’t come between us. So I could be there for him no matter what.

So I wouldn’t have to leave him, not even for a second.

“Austin. You’re manic.” The words came out bluntly, my voice stern but calm.

He stumbled over his words, “No that’s not what this is. Elsie, I swear to god I’ve never felt better.”

“Yes you are, you’re having an episode. We need to get you your meds.” My emotions were overridden by the sudden urgency of the situation.

He seemed to be lost in his head, ripping it apart for sane answers. I stood up cautiously and tilted his chin up to meet my eyes. “It’s going to be okay, I’m here. I’m gonna help you.”

His eyes were soft blue and full of pure defeat. When I pulled him into my arms, he pressed his head against my stomach. I kept an arm curled around his head and another rubbing his back “It’s gonna be okay, I promise.” I repeated in a whisper.

A quiet cracked voice muffled, “Don’t leave again, please.” The beg echoed a memory, one I had tried so viciously to forget.

“I won’t, not for a second.”

Not even for a second.

I brought Austin back to his loft and helped him sort out his medications, which ones he was supposed take and when. I even brought him one of those weekly medicine organizers. I finally convinced him to take his daily dose and had him show me his lifted tongue to make sure he swallowed.

He refused to let me stay over no matter how much I insisted.

I made him pinky promise to send me daily updates of when he took his meds.

He didn’t.

I blew up his phone every day for the past week.

No response.

Excruciating worry built up in my ribs until it became too much. I needed to devise a plan to get everyone on good terms, so I could stifle Austin’s touch just enough to be there for him completely. I wouldn’t have to avoid him because it was tense and awkward. I could keep an eye on him without being clouded by something else - something I didn’t understand and wasn't sure I wanted to.

So I wouldn’t have to leave. Not even for a second.

Next Chapter: 19 - Not Even For A Second

// i am so sorry for this chapter and for what i'm about to do to you in chp 19 just remember ily 🥲

as always thank you for any love shown for FW and for any like, reblog, comment 💜 it means the world to me truly

-M🥀 xx

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frame-to-frame · 2 years

Text

Reading for Redemption in Post-Golden Age Berserk

Below is some rambling thematic/character analysis and vague gay flapping about how Berserk could have *ahem* or should have ended. So please enjoy my little theory brain working on overdrive again (if you like) as I discuss how Griffith and Guts’s relationship could have been resolved through one decisive act... No it’s not killing Griffith, get out of here!

To follow are some ideas including (pearl clutch):

Griffith’s “redemption”

An act of love between Guts and Griffith

Guts becoming a shield instead of a sword as the culmination of his character arc

A second (!) sacrifice

This is a bit of a grasping-at-straws deep-dive into post-GA Berserk, but one that is I think actually surprisingly well-substantiated, that is if you’re willing to follow me into the vague realm of thematic parallels. For those of you who were unsatisfied with the way this latter part of the story treated G&G's relationship, I hope you might especially enjoy it.

Caution: I’m basically reading the entire post-GA story through the lens of Griffith and Guts’s relationship, because to me that’s the emotional and narrative heart of the story. I think we can in fact view a lot of post-GA relationships and characters through this lens, and the story becomes, imo, richer for it. Think Jill and Rosine, Serpico and Farnese, just for some easy ones.

Please keep in mind that this is obviously 1000% empty speculation and useless headcanon at this point, and it relies on drawing connections between seemingly disconnected scenes and characters, but it’s fun to think through this stuff, so I hope you enjoy this little journey into my sad gay heart and hopefully it’ll at least give you some food for thought by the end.

I’m also relying on previous meta written by myself and @bthump, so if you feel you’re missing context for any of this, please check out my previous two metas and basically bthump’s entire archive (an intimidating prospect that I assure you is totally worth it).

For all those simply interested in “Guts chops off Griffith’s stupid head”-esque discussions... Well, you’re welcome to stay... but strap in.

Part 1, On Post-Eclipse Griffith: Griffith Needs to be “Redeemed,” But What Does That Actually Mean?

The way I read NeoGriffith, and basically every moment post-Eclipse for Griffith generally, is that he is living his own personal hell. He is lonely, he is miserable, he’s playing prince charming in an empty and unfulfilling (heterosexual) relationship with Charlotte. He is loved and adored by everyone around him, he is the bearer of light, but I think it’s clear that in spite of this (and perhaps because of it) he still hates himself.

His last act as a human soul was to destroy himself by destroying those around him, and that moment was crystallized into the form of Femto.

And indeed, that shadowy other half remains very much present post-Eclipse. Femto and NeoGriffith are shown to be inextricable mirrors: the charming outward persona and the festering self-hatred beneath the mask. The two are halves of the same coin – Griffith’s two coping mechanisms, forever intertwined after the Eclipse.

We see this at play in “Backlighting” especially, where it’s made clear that Femto is always “with” NeoGriffith.

(Chapter 303, “Backlighting”)

(And side note, I hope to eventually post another meta about this motif of light/darkness in post-GA Berserk at some point… probably in like three years or something given my posting history lol)

In addition to this continued presence of Femto as an embodiment of Griffith’s self-loathing, we are also clearly shown his loneliness as NeoGriffith, and also his dissatisfaction with his life, in every panel where we see him standing alone/isolated from his new Band of the Hawk.

However – and this is where I begin my pitch for reading the entirety of Berserk through the Guts x Griffith lens – I think his mindset is also communicated to us as reader indirectly, through the voice of a different character entirely: the Pontiff. A minor character to be sure, but take a look at his inner monologue in Chapter 264. It’s both visually and rhetorically associated with Griffith.

See the parallels in the theme of repression of personal desires, a zealotry-based leadership role, light/darkness interplay and mirroring, castle and hawk wings imagery, and an assertion of worthlessness:

(Chapter 264, “Divine Revelation”)

Tell me that doesn’t sound suspiciously similar to someone else we know!

Now this is the type of thing that I find post-GA Berserk does a lot – it gives us these highly emotional moments about characters we really don’t know or care very much about as readers. It can lead to a bit of disconnect and feeling that the story has cheapened itself by highlighting these random characters. However, at least for me, this recurring pattern can be recontextualized by reading these charged moments as analogues for other characters, in that they are giving us insight through parallels with characters we know and care more about. I realize there is no in-text justification for doing this, but it provides a richer post-GA reading experience, at least for me, and hopefully for some of you as well.

So, through the Pontiff, I think we’re being granted a small glimpse into what Griffith might be feeling in his new life. Lest you think I am grasping at straws, which I totally am, nevertheless I offer you this: to Griffith too, the world in his new life has become a pretty painting, a castle on the wall, but he is left cold and lonely, stranded in the dark. “There was no love, hatred, nothing.” The absence of everything, specifically his everything, the world-shattering pain and love that Guts represents for him, remains a void in Griffith’s life.

(And as a bonus, also note the scene’s prominent light/dark reflection of the black and white Hawk – i.e., Femto and NeoGriffith, as visually paired and inverse)

Now, what does this have to do with Griffith’s capacity for “redemption”? Well, according to my previous readings of Griffith’s motivations behind sacrificing Guts and the Hawks, I do not believe that he feels any remorse or regret about the sacrifice. That’s because in order to feel regret, he would have to believe that both:

There was another choice he could have made

He deserves to feel something other than pain

I would offer that regret doesn’t belong in a headspace where Griffith thinks he is currently paying the price for his actions – with his emptiness, eternal suffering, repression, self harm, all of it. His life as NeoGriffith is, for him, both imprisonment and penance – it is the embodiment of the idea that he has to live as a monster. This is him reaping what he’s sown, "bear[ing] his evil and confront[ing] his destiny" as Void puts it.

In other words, he can’t regret his decision because he’s living with what he thinks he deserves. To admit otherwise is to admit that he doesn’t deserve this torment, which should be unthinkable to someone who still wears his self-loathing as a literal suit of armour.

And yes this perspective is extremely selfish, it’s not seeing the world from the perspective of those who he has harmed by his actions, but, evidently, that’s what self-loathing can do to people.

To conclude Griffith’s arc in a satisfying way, I would have liked to see him confront his actions, to experience regret, to repent from a non-selfish perspective. However, to do so, he would have to finally see himself as someone worthy of being loved, and to recognize that he in fact was that person once. That the sacrifice was a mistake after all, because he was loved by Guts all along.

The story has set up the fact that Griffith still absolutely needs Guts. Griffith at his most traumatized, at his moment of greatest despair needed (and now still needs) help to escape from the hell he’s living and thinks he deserves. And it’s all because he’s the victim of a misunderstanding that has led him to mistakenly believe he was never loved and was never worthy of love.

He chose the sacrifice because he was told by the Godhand that he is too dirty, too evil, to be redeemed or to be loved, in spite of Guts loving him all along. This is the belief that tore their relationship (and the world) apart. And it was a mistaken one! Guts is the one with the ability and the willingness to give him that: to right that narrative wrong. From this perspective, the only thing that will “save” Griffith, to allow him to repent and acknowledge what he’s done was a mistake, is an expression of love from Guts.

Now, I would have believed that this ending was unlikely or impossible except for the fact that Guts is not only aware that he fucked up with Griffith and is consumed with regret over it, but he has also spent the rest of the story trying to right that wrong in misguided ways (i.e., through Casca instead of through Griffith). And given Guts’s inability to fully embrace his hatred of Griffith, because he still loves him, I suspect that in fact all it would take to be swayed into redirecting this back to Griffith is for him to understand what Griffith is actually feeling (still human underneath, heart beating for him and otherwise dead inside, consumed by self loathing, believing he isn’t worthy of love).

I basically think the post-GA story was set up to end with Guts demonstrating his love for Griffith in some way. That’s the reason why the story continued after that point. And in fact, Guts being given a do-over has been foreshadowed explicitly – karma is a spiral, and “those children” have the chance to right the mistakes from the first time around.

(Chapter 222, “Claw Marks”)

Some sort of do-over seems both narratively and generically necessary here – Griffith has been operating since their second duel under a mistaken belief about how Guts felt about him all along, and Guts has the key to fix it.

If the narrative ended without righting that mistake, undoubtedly in the most juicy, melodramatic circumstances possible (e.g., perhaps it would be too late to matter as both are poised to die anyway), it would be both narratively unsatisfying and incomplete. This mistaken belief – that Guts never loved Griffith – lies, after all, at the heart of the story, it’s what made everything go wrong in the first place. Narratives about misunderstandings must correct them for the emotional payoff, I think it was simply a matter of when it happened and under what circumstances.

Part 2, On Foreshadowing: There Are Lots of Interesting Parallels Between Pre- and Post-GA Berserk, OK?

One idea for how this narrative resolution might have gone down I’m also taking from a non-directly G&G related plot beat in post-GA Berserk.

Now, we all know about the explicit and more subtle (read: gay) parallels between Rosine/Jill and Griffith/Guts drawn throughout the Lost Children Arc. But what if I were to suggest that the final note of their relationship, Jill throwing herself on top of Rosine, might have offered a thematic parallel to Griffith and Guts at the end of the story? Perhaps Guts might do the same in a moment of love and pain:

(Chapter 116, “The Way Home”)

This hope and a prayer (i.e., super amazing thematic prediction that isn’t based on any concrete evidence whatsoever) would have been a neat conclusion for the story, tying together a bunch of story threads in an incredibly simple and elegant way:

The narrative misunderstanding/wrong at the heart of the story (i.e., that Guts never loved Griffith) would finally be finally put right

It provides a neat resolution to both Griffith’s and Guts’ character arcs

The parallels are on point

To expand on this, in terms of character arcs, on Griffith’s end, a moment like this, perhaps where Guts bodily protects Griffith from a killing blow, would finally allow him to correct his fundamentally negative and damaging view of himself that has defined his entire character arc, the view that has led him to believe that he should bury himself under self hatred and repressed desires. Because if Guts sacrifices himself for him, it would not just tell but show Griffith that he was in fact loved all along. This act would finally provide him with a genuine sense of self and self worth through a love that is entirely reciprocated (instead of through dreams: either selfishly or selflessly pursued).

This would be incontrovertible evidence of Guts’s love for him; one of the main problems in resolving this narrative misunderstanding is to create a situation where Griffith can actually believe that Guts’s expression of love is genuine – how can he possibly believe this through anything other than an extreme, incontrovertible act? And so I offer Guts sacrificing his life for him.

On Guts’s end, it would finally allow him to take his life into his own hands and truly self actualize – he’s been passively reacting for most of the story, and this would be a chance for him to actively do something, to finally make a meaningful choice, and it would be an act that would allow him to unburden himself of hatred, regret, guilt, etc. It would also fulfill what I think of as one of Guts’ most deeply held personal values and beliefs – his desire to save someone through an act of love rather than through his sword (and yes I read Guts as fundamentally a caretaker at heart, more on this below).

In terms of parallels:

The theme Berserk often returns to about the merits of being with someone v. the burden of “protecting” someone would finally be resolved with Guts (likely) failing to protect his loved one, but also in doing so finally being with him in their (likely) dying together and finally fully coming to an understanding of each other.

Guts realizing that his life can mean something outside his sword (what he’s been looking for his whole life) – basically becoming a shield instead of a sword at the end of the story.

Griffith’s sacrifice at the end of the GA would finally be mirrored by a reciprocal act by Guts in the form of a second sacrifice, but this case one that is born out of love instead of hate. This idea in particular I need as a reader so badly, particularly because the acts they each took on behalf of the other across their relationship are so uneven – Guts has just been so passive overall and as a reader it would be incredibly satisfying to have him take up his role as the protagonist and take the final, decisive action to resolve their relationship. This is also why I can’t get on board with any resolution where Griffith has to take another action “for” Guts – imo the resolution of this arc should rest on Guts’ shoulders.

Basically, it would give both of their lives meaning in one swift move.

And what’s especially neat about this potential conclusion to the story is that I think the story gives us some really provocative small moments that foreshadow it, where we're shown that love can triumph over hatred.

At least some sort of reconciliation/act of love comes up again and again in the story, though in seemingly unrelated situations that imo just have too much in common with Guts/Griffith to dismiss outright. There’s of course the “karma is a spiral” moment and the Jill & Rosine parallels that I’ve mentioned, which suggest that it’s possible to still right a deep-seated wrong, to “save” (at least emotionally, if not physically) someone who has fallen into darkness through an act of love.

But there’s also the idea of saving one’s “other half” “from being torn to pieces in the storm” via Serpico and Farnese:

( Chapter 211, “Evil Horde Part 1”)

God, this passage. First off, I think Guts and Griffith's relationship is being explicitly paralleled through the word choices (“other half”/”half of me”), but also because this sentiment is basically echoing all of Guts’s paralysis and helplessness at the moment of the Eclipse.

Like Serpico, he too was unable to set his loved one free from a prison of darkness and hatred, something perfectly visualized in Guts trying in vain to pry his way in to Femto’s eggshell – as well as all the regret, hatred, and feelings of impotence (i.e., the darkness) that came along with that failure.

The “I didn’t think to try” aspect to this is also relevant and interesting given the changed context of pre- and post-Eclipse G&G. Guts during the GA didn’t see what Griffith was going through as leader of the Band of the Hawks as being a prison, a burden, or damaging to his sense of self; he simply thought he was “flying alone” above all of them but couldn’t conceive of how personally devastating that was for Griffith. Now though, after Guts has taken up the mantle as the RPG group leader, he’s probably in a better position to understand this and to also understand that something better is preferable for both of them, even if it seems like it’s forever out of reach.

And yet Serpico’s statement seems to be a really significant idea in light of all this – it’s suggesting that maybe this dilemma isn’t over – that maybe Guts can still see to it that his “other half isn’t torn to pieces” in some new storm that’s brewing.

I also submit Case B: Luca and her tribute to “the chick [child] that died within the egg”… Now, while she’s specifically addressing Eggman throughout this scene, this moment also explicitly parallels Griffith as a similar child who died within an “egg.” Compare:

(Chapter 83, “God of the Abyss” and Chapter 176, “Determination and Departure”)

This is a “sinner’s” tribute to a child who died too young, who is now buried and alone, who has no one to love or mourn him. Again, I think the parallels to both Griffith and Guts are there, telling us that even those people who have done terrible wrongs, who have lived shameful lives, can still be loved (i.e., mourned), and that trauma does not have to define you or your legacy.

And this connection doesn’t just appear through the language choices (sinner, chick) but also through mirrored imagery between the above scene and these ones:

(Chapter 59, “Devil Dogs Chapter 1” and Chapter 331, “Spring Flowers of Distant Days Part 3” although admittedly the latter one comes much later, so it only works as a retroactive parallel)

The essential thing that Luca’s tribute is telling us as readers, is that in mourning (a form of love) someone evil and despicable, love offers the counterpoint, specifically the remedy, to hatred.

Part 3, On Narrative Conclusions: Why a Second Sacrifice?

So, my dumb little brain is telling you that the conclusion of the story should have been a scene where Guts makes a sacrifice for Griffith. But why?

Well, most importantly I think it offers a crucial structural parallel to the other sacrifices we've seen throughout the story. That's because there are some important distinctions to make between this sacrifice and earlier ones. This sacrifice would not be with a behelit. It would not be the consequence of magic or the gods meddling, the strings of fate, or an action born of hatred. It would not be a sacrifice that destroys people but instead one that actualizes them.

I think this is the best possible ending to the story, in large part because Guts demonstrating his love for Griffith is what was been set up to unburden both of them from their current armours (see: Femto) of imprisonment and their respective “shackles” of hatred.

(Chapter 202, “Magic Stone”)

Now, on a character level I think it would be overly simplistic to say that the story is telling us that Guts will forgive Griffith. I think both characters too far gone for simple forgiveness between the two of them, I don’t think that was ever a realistic outcome to their story.

What they need instead is shared understanding and a shared declaration of love to help them realize who they are as people (loved and worth loving). That's why I think the Jill/Rosine parallel works so well, because it only needs to be an irrational action on Guts’s part (like throwing himself in front of Griffith to protect him) as a definitive expression about what Guts wants to do, outside of his usual waffling as well as any obligations or duties he might feel. A sacrifice by Guts would be a simple action, one taken because of him following his heart.

Guts making a genuine sacrifice for his “other half,” to save him, to finally know himself and know another person, creating a deeply honest a connection through an expression of love… tell me that’s not a perfect conclusion to a story about trauma and its devastating impacts on people and their relationships with each other.

Because I think it’s clear that the idea of not being able to truly hate Griffith is just as relevant to Guts as it is to Rickert:

(Chapter 336, “Pandemonium”)

Guts says this to Rickert while looking sad, not angry. Maybe, just maybe, Guts is aware of his own feelings on the matter too. Perhaps he's as much speaking aloud as to himself here.

The wrench in Guts’ desire for that all-consuming hatred is, of course, that residual love he feels, the structural equivalent to Griffith’s own bthumping heart. In that light, that love could very well make Guts do something spontaneous and irrational, essentially bursting through his own darkness to definitively break the hold of the hatred that’s shackling him. Especially if he somehow comes to understand the pain and love that Griffith is still feeling too.

Now to be clear, I don’t think forgiveness necessarily needs to come into the equation here, and I think it’s psychologically reductive to say that Guts can overcome his trauma this way. I think those wounds run too deep, but conversely I think that his love does too. Basically I think the resolution to their arc absolutely could and should have remained messy as fuck. An act of love born from a crippling wound is as honest as it gets for these characters.

Now, the narrative explicitly tells us after it declares that Guts is shackling himself to hatred through his sword, that that the way Guts will go about this unburdening/unshackling of his hatred is through Casca, by taking up the sword for her sake as a “protection against hellfire” AKA as a protection against his own hatred:

(Chapter 203, “Elementals”)

But we see repeatedly that this is simply a “path [he’s] chosen,” not necessarily the only path or, indeed, necessarily the correct one. In fact, we see that this path is not actually succeeding at protecting him or Casca from anything. And that’s because when we look at Guts’s actions, he isn’t actually working to protect himself from his own hatred, because he can’t help but be reminded of his own trauma as a result of Casca’s trauma:

(Chapter 287, “Bubbles of Futility”)

“At the end, it’s always.” Trauma lies at the end of this road named Casca. And I think that’s because Casca is no longer really an independent person to him; she is a symbol, a burden, and a force that keeps The Struggle alive; she’s a means, not an end in itself. At the end, instead, it’s always that wound, and purposefully so. (And this interpretation is of course aided by her being a veritable doll throughout the majority of the rest of the story).

The Struggle and Casca herself aren’t presented as what Guts objectively wants as an end consequence of his actions – they are presented as the means towards something else.

The story drills into us the idea that this goal of restoring Casca is based on neither a positive and altruistic motive on Guts’ part, nor is it something that’s destined for jolly good things. See: the ominous foreshadowing with “The power to protect someone and the power to be with someone are different,” “fixing” Casca despite her own wishes, and Casca also seeing Guts as a monster from the Eclipse in her own right. In this light, I think it’s very appropriate that Casca views Guts in exactly the same way:

(Chapter 359, “A Wall”)

The “path [he’s] chosen” – The Struggle, the burden, the guilt, or everything that Casca is to him – isn’t good for Guts. It’s a path shackled, and it’s one that makes his sword heavy with guilt, anger, and hatred.

(Chapter 188, “Winter Journey Part 2”)

But we’re told that this isn’t a path that’s been set in stone (re: “those children are not bound to choose the same paths you and I did”). Guts has the power to choose differently than continuing to fight as a sword.

To sum up, I read Guts as explicitly thinking of Casca as a duty/chain/burden rather than as something personally fulfilling or as a genuine escape from his hatred. At the end, it’s always. And that’s why the conclusion to his story, at least imo, should lie somewhere else.

(And sidenote, this dynamic between duty and desire (giri and ninjō) is a huge part of the Japanese cultural (literary, dramatic, and cinematic) tradition, and I think it’s pretty clearly at play here, where Casca represents duty, Griffith represents desire).

To me, this is the whole point of Guts still being “bound” to Griffith, because in his heart of hearts, he still wants to be, because can’t ever truly hate Griffith, because he’ll always love him/be in love with him. And accordingly, any act Guts takes for Griffith at the end of the story will not happen because he feels obligated or burdened, like he does with Casca, but because on some level he genuinely wants to embrace love and be free of the burden of his Struggle and hatred.

Small tangent on Guts: the question of what Guts actually wants is obviously crucial to the story, he’s the protagonist after all. But what does he want? To save Casca? Well, he did his part there. What now? To live with Casca? Continue The Struggle? To kill Griffith? Honestly, this question is actually really fucking ambiguous, which is kind of shocking for a protagonist (supposedly) three-quarters of the way through his story. (My headcanon reason for this ambiguity is that Miura wanted to maintain plausible deniability that this story is gay AF, which is also the reason behind Griffith’s motivations being so ambiguous as well).

To make this question a bit more abstract, if Guts was free to do whatever he wanted – as in, if he didn’t feel obligated to do what he’s supposed to – what would he do? If we can’t answer that question, I think we can’t truly understand Guts as a character.

My own answer to this question lies in reading those moments we see him as a caretaker as the most genuine senses of who Guts is as a person.

(Chapter 1, “The Golden Age”)

Those desperate moments of grabbing his mother’s hand as well as him trying to return the flower spirit to its home are the moments I think he is acting in line with the person he genuinely wants to be outside of any expectations of what he thinks he’s good at or what he’s “supposed” to be, or in terms of obligations in trying to impress someone or doing what he thinks is expected of him… He just does these things instinctively, because I think fundamentally he’s a loving person who essentially just wants to be loved back.

These moments are especially important to highlight I think, because in these moments Guts has no external motivating factors. He is a child who loves his mother, who wants to reassure her and be reassured in turn; he is a young man who wants to repay an act of kindness out of genuine good heartedness.

I will submit also the following, as a pretty clear crystallization of what Guts is about:

(Chapter 33, “One Snowy Night”)

If he ended up sacrificing his life for Griffith at the story’s conclusion, it would be exactly in line with this same impulse: to love and be loved. This is what has always, at least imo, defined Guts beneath all the shame, and rage, and guilt, and shackles of duty, and his feelings of inadequacy.

In becoming Griffith’s shield, he wouldn’t be protecting him through his sword, he would be saving him through an act of love.

And OK, what I see as the smoking gun for this weird little theory comes from this very innocuous page from a random, seemingly unrelated story thread and chapter.

(Chapter 206, “Troll Raid”)

This page is framed in such an aesthetically significant way – a full page spread given to such a small line, like why unless it’s about more than some random townspeople.

The key that saves us lies in those we are trying to forget.

Guts has been trying to forget Griffith, to move on, for basically half of the story – this line very easily could be read as directly commenting on Guts’ journey and his inability to unburden himself.

BUT this line goes further – it’s not only suggesting that Guts trying to forget his past is not a good thing, it’s also suggesting that Guts needs to be saved somehow, and that it can happen through the one he’s “trying to forget.”

What does Guts need to be saved from? Well, from the burden of The Struggle, from berserking, from his sword, his regret, his hatred. And how can he do this through Griffith? By giving his love/life to him, as a shield instead of as a sword… It’s just too perfect!@!

So yeah, while this is all entirely wishful thinking, I also don’t think Guts sacrificing his life for Griffith is totally unreasonable or “out there” spec – I do legitimately see this as a once-possible and honestly pretty perfect ending to the story. So that’s what I’m fucking going with, goddammit.

Part 4, Conclusions

Imo Guts making a sacrifice for Griffith would be the most important theme Berserk could ultimately endorse – because, in my reading at least, Griffith has entirely defined his choices around the belief that he does not deserve absolution (reminder: I think he ultimately made the sacrifice because the Godhand convinced him there was no coming back from what he already was, and so as a result he doubles down on that belief by agreeing to the sacrifice). For someone who believes that he isn’t worthy of love to be loved nonetheless, outside of those cycles of worth, exchange, and self loathing that he is so bound within, that would be a pretty damn powerful message. And for a character who is defined by his trauma to decide that love is ultimately more important? That's what I want from this story.

And as I noted above, on a character level, I can absolutely buy that Guts would make a sacrifice for Griffith, because I read this as being in line with Guts’s most fundamental desires as a person, and because I think Guts feels personally responsible for what happened to Griffith and still desperately wants to right that wrong, he just doesn’t know how to do so.

However, on a broader narrative level, I think this is more difficult to make a case for because to a lot of readers Griffith seems beyond redemption.

And honestly I think if Miura had wanted to do a classic redemption arc, where Griffith comes to realize that he regrets his original decision to make the sacrifice (as in a reading where he chose the dream and has now come to be dissatisfied with his current situation), this arc would have started long ago and it would have been made abundantly clear to readers.

If Miura had been gearing up for Griffith to come to realize that he did the wrong thing and eventually at the end of the story planned to have him take another action on Guts’s behalf to redeem himself, I think for a turn like this to work effectively, his emotional state wouldn’t still be so ambiguous to us – Miura would have been showing us his incremental but explicit realizations that this is not in fact what he wants in order to get us to root for his redemption. If Miura was in fact headed in that direction, it just seems like it was too little too late at this point.

OTOH, though, if Griffith already knows what he did was wrong, as with my reading, then the thing he needs to come to understand in order to be redeemed isn’t that he made the wrong choice, it’s that he doesn’t have to hate himself. And for that, he needs to be told that he is loveable, and indeed, is and was loved even at his most despicable. It’s Guts’s love he needs, narratively and emotionally, and such a realization could come right at the very end of the story, no build up on Griff’s end necessary.

To put this in slightly different terms, Griffith’s redemption involves him coming to realize that the sacrifice was the wrong choice, but not because he realizes he never actually wanted the dream after all, but because he comes to realize that he never had to punish and hate himself for all his prior actions, because he was loved all along – that his sacrifice/act of suicide was wrong because it was never “necessary” in the first place.

Basically, whether he’s chosen the dream or the sacrifice yields different stakes for Griffith’s redemption – they hinge on fundamentally different things, and I don’t buy that the first one was possible given post-GA characterizations, but the second seems not only possible but necessary to bring this interpretation of the story to a satisfying resolution.

And I think there are different scales of redemption that are possible to admit here. But I do think both Guts and Griffith need some sort of redemption for the story overall to be satisfying – they’ve both done atrocious things, but the story has also expressly shown us that neither of them are a lost cause.

Both are still fundamentally broken, vulnerable, and fragile people; especially because both still need each other, after all, they’re both still in love with each other. This isn’t the characterization of people who are fundamentally beyond some kind of redemptive final act(s). It also helps that Griffith is basically treated as a deuteragonist post-Conviction Arc.

And ultimately I think Miura has shown us that this is a state that the apostles/“monsters” of the story all have in common. I’m thinking here of this moment we see at the very beginning of the story:

(Chapter 4, “Guardians of Desire”)

As Puck says here, apostles are very much still fragile humans. The most fragile, in fact. Their deformed bodies are proof of their having broken themselves. The clearest demonstration of this is of course Griffith, who as an apostle became what he always hated. These are “fallen” people, unloved, hiding from themselves and from the world. If that’s not someone who is in need of mercy and redemption, I don’t know who is.

As to whether both Guts and Griffith still need to “pay,” narratively and morally, for their actions, this is not something I have a strong personal opinion about – I think both of them have already suffered hugely. That being said, I do think a second sacrifice narratively should lead to both of their deaths at the end of the story. That’s for two reasons, one because I think they both would both probably view death as a release more than anything, and two because it would function as the narrative consequence for their actions, especially if they were to get taken out by Apostle!Casca, who has also suffered hugely at the hands of both of these men.

Death would be what finally frees both Guts and Griffith from their pretty fucking miserable/doomed lives and would finally provide them some kind of peace as well as self-actualization – in that sense Casca’s actions could be read in the mode of both mercy and vengeance. So that’s why I lean in that direction, but then again I’ve always been more interested in mercy/forgiveness/redemption as story tropes than revenge/punishment, though I think the story was set up to be able to balance both in a really interesting way.

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed my senseless ramblings. If I had my druthers this is how the story would have ended, and I guess it gets to live in my headcanon forever, and maybe yours too if you like my interpretation of the story.

Sorry for any of you who were waiting for another post from me – the news of Miura’s death really kept me from thinking about Berserk for a while, for obvious reasons. But the story is what we make of it, especially now, so I hope this maybe gave you a bit of solace too.

As always, feedback, discussion, etc. is welcome.

#since it's all fanon now i figured why not throw my hat in the ring #yes im hating the continuation series #also I've been sitting on this post for literal years #how did that happen seriously wtf #this post has been about gay stuff #as per usual #berserk #berserkmeta #berserk meta #griffith #griffith meta #and even some #guts meta #!!!#im really branching out

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panicdeleter · 9 months

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the unfortunate experience of having dissociative identity disorder diagnosed young is that I go to a fucking psych hospital tell them I have DID and they just, don't believe me. I had fucking Fuge. Motherfucking fuge. Nowhere online can I even find a description of what fuge looks like during the process other than "bewildered wandering" and these psychs definitely got the abnormal psych class at the local college that I've been told by someone who took the class "doesn't even mention the disorder" so my *absolutely has had dyskinesia like 6 times because my first doctor gave me 5mg of abilify as a 5 year old and wrecked my brain* having ass bitch got put on antipsychotics and because I was also age regressed out the ass, and totally disconnected from reality and deep in some antichrist demon boyfriend fantasy (I have... interesting power fantasies when totally unable to cope that apparently just, took over? like I *was* the maladaptive daydream) yeah I just, I want to go on, I can't I don't have the energy to pop back three stages of disconnected connected thoughts. This is just, how I think. I had a point but the amnesia kicked in and now I'll have to walk back through the thought process to find the idea and pick it back up with a new thread of self. I feel like I'm mostly fragment and not even alter. It's fucking atrocious in here guys. I am sorry for the incoherency. I'm tired of doctors not knowing what this disorder even is while also contradicting themselves by believing they're capable of distinguishing between "true" and "false" did like anyone would honestly pretend to be like this... like BPD and DID... I've met several people diagnosed BPD and like, low and behold after a while of hanging out and just, talking about myself and them BPD, CPTSD, and DID all feel like a spectrum of the same fucking thing. It's the same shit. I have at least one friend who's a diagnosed autistic narcisist and she's *also* dealing with the same underlying shit. Like it's all fucking trauma. I'm fucking pissed about how little information there is about DID vs Schizophrenia and how people don't have enough training to recognize did.... which doesn't respond to medications and shouldn't be medicated in the first place... and it takes 5-12 years on average to get diagnosed. That's 5-12 years of intense psychiatric drugs. 5-12 years of being a fucking hostage to a system that isn't educated about you, being passed from psych to psych as they slowly realize they don't know what's wrong with you, from therapist to therapist as they say they *aren't qualified to help*, direct quote from a therapist of mine. I have no idea how to emphasize on top of this how exausting this all is. How much each intake appointment means ripping into your history of trauma and telling them your entire backstory as much as you can. Every bubble sheet filling how much you struggle. Every psych eval... after psych eval after psych eval. I must have had at least 20. I'm tired. This is a major injustice no one gives a shit about. It won't improve, because unlike autism we don't have marketable devices, unlike schizophrenia we don't seem scary or dangerous, unlike chronic illness we can't be scienced in imperical ways, we can't be examined through the lenses of biopsy and genetic testing... what little research is even out there is mostly about detecting "fakers"... when a commonly known symptom of did is dissociating about your dissociation. I want help. I really, truly want help. There just *isn't help*.

#disability #plural #dissociative identity disorder #disability rights #I wish I had access to a dissociative identity disorder friend group #but like the plural tag is 90% syscourse #fuck it it's going on this post anyway #traumagenic #fuge

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dazaiapologism · 10 months

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hey wanna see something crazy.

There are vast swaths of my life I do not remember. Things just didn’t stick as well then, when I was so deeply fucking lost in the sauce of my own goals. I remember outcomes, momentary frustrations and even the occasional divine revelation. But do I remember washing the dishes in college? Did we even cook as much back then?

I remember being miserable - not all the time, but in bursts of short-lived realization. That I was being held back. That I could go so much further on my own. That I didn’t know how to say no when it was causing me problems. Or rather, that I chose to persist in spite of these problems, chasing an idealistic sense of self.

I didn’t understand at the time what I was letting go of, maybe because I’d never really had a chance to hold it properly in my hands in the first place. I knew I wanted it, I was so sure emotionally that I was ready for it. So when someone came to me, asking for it, promising it in return, how could I have said no. How could I have turned away from it then when we were so young and so scared and so horribly out of our depth and so unable in our own distinct ways to acknowledge that there were parts of it we couldn’t handle alone.

(this is exactly what I mean by a mind-body moment.)

We really were too much the same, in ways I didn’t see back then. Maybe I learned some of who I was through watching him - and its important to note here that I don’t mean that I took on his mannerisms, I more mean that in seeing him act I understood that that was how I had been wanting to act all along.

I didn’t mean to get this far into it, to be honest. I just wanted to ground myself a little before committing to something (probably my job at this point, though I had hoped to do dishes first I don’t think I really have the time now). I think I can though. I think it’s childish of me to refer to my job as my job, when I know damn well that I have three people’s interview feedback pending and everyone deserves a timely response and yes I am caught up in the disconnect between my ideal self and the things I can accomplish but I also know I’ve been wasting a lot of time too, so today I want to close that gap a little. Because I can. It will require sustained focus and commitment to a task but look at you! You wrote 850 honestly pretty fucking good words.

Deep breath. Remember, a deep breath stimulates the vagus nerve, helps stabilize the autonomic nervous system.

Tendency towards catastrophe is just a tendency, you can reroute those emotions productively whenever you want.

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cuuno-moved · 2 years

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did you ever finish the oc story? i love them a lot

oh fuck, i did!

here:

It was Acamar's idea, of course.

It had been so excited about it, insisting on surprising the other two, and refusing to tell them what the big surprise was.

Rose had been less than optimistic.

"Being lured by a strange adult in a mask into the woods," He muttered bitterly. "Sounds fun."

"It's a veil, not a mask," Acamar said, its voice deep and grating and endlessly patient. "And I'm no stranger than you."

"Besides, what better things do you have to be doing?" Cilantro hissed by his side, and he jolted a little as the rodent slipped into pace with him. "You say you have been spending too much time inside, yes?"

"I could have messaged Noel. Or Glyphie and Cal. Hell, I could have just gone on a walk alone."

"But they cannot provide you with this much joy," Cilantro muttered, with what sounded like a rare hint of sarcasm. "An hour in the woods and you haven't stopped whining. Whine whine whine."

Rose opened his mouth to argue, but Acamar raised a hand, stopping dead in its tracks. "We're here."

Here looked to be a tiny clearing, with a campfire and a table with three chairs in the center. On the table was a little wooden case.

"Let me guess," Rose said, dryly. "There's a decapitated head in the case."

"No," Acamar sighed, exasperated. "It's a tea set. We're here for a tea party."

"I don't like tea," Declared Cilantro. "May I go home?"

"No," Snapped Acamar, grabbing the back of Cilantro's cape with one hand and Rose's hand with the other. "Let's go. Tea party time."

It sat them down at the table, daintily opening the tea set. It was lovely, very clearly Dawnish in origin, with elegant gold details on the cream colored set. Rose found himself impressed, despite his best efforts to be unmoved.

Cilantro seemed to feel the same. "Honeybee, how much did this cost you?"

"Oh, not much," Acamar shrugged, obviously lying. "It was just lying around, I'd figured I'd put it to good use."

It lit the campfire, setting a golden kettle over it and brought out a bottle of water, making a show of pouring it in.

Cilantro and Rose made eye contact.

"Mid life crisis." Rose mouthed.

"Senile." Cilantro breathed in the same second.

Acamar glanced at them, obviously having heard them, but it did nothing about it. What could it even say? It was more than twice Rose's age, and while they weren't exactly sure how old Cilantro was, it was likely a good bit older.

"So, what kind of tea do you guys want?" It rumbled, clapping its hands, although its gloves all but muted the gesture. "I've got green, black, chai, herbal…"

"Have you, by chance, any lettuce?" Cilantro asked.

"Lettuce… lettuce tea?"

"Yes."

Acamar looked between Cilantro and Rose, who shrugged his shoulders helplessly. "Um. No I don't think I do."

"Shame. I'll see myself out." Cilantro began to rise, but was grabbed by the cloak by Rose.

"I think the fuck not," The human snapped. "It's family time."

"Family?" The rodent spit the word like a slur. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Family is when there's a group of people who are usually related -" Acamar began, but was cut off by Cilantro practically hissing at it.

"I know what a family is, you stupid imbecile. I meant what Rosalyn meant by calling us a family."

"Well, it makes sense. Acamar is the dad. I'm it's kid. You're our pet rat-"

"-I am not a rat-"

"-Rose, be nice-"

"-I was joking, I was joking," Rose said, then, quietly: "Kinda."

"Wait, you see me as a father figure?" Acamar said, flattered, taking the kettle from the fire. "That's awfully sweet of you."

"Well," Rose shrugged. "I mean, it's whatever."

Cilantro huffed. "I am not a rat."

"Okay, you're my sibling then."

"I don't wish to be your sibling," Cilantro said, firmly. "I wish to be disconnected from this inane house play."

"Too late," Acamar said, removing the whistling kettle from the fire. "I'm your father now."

Cilantro's tail thrashed unhappily, but the rodent didn't say anything as Acamar poured some water into a tea pot.

"I'm just going to make some green tea, if either of you want anything different-"

"Wait, I want chai-" Rose said, abruptly.

"-You can keep your mouths shut." Acamar finished. "We just need to let this brew for a few minutes."

"Have you brought any grain?" Cilantro said, teeth clicking as bulging yellow eyes searched the table. "As a snack."

"Yes, I do. A bag of barley for you, a box of biscuits for me and a tub of raspberries for Rose."

"You really thought of everything, didn't you?" Rose said, impressed.

"Well, it is a special occasion."

Immediately both Rose and Cilantro froze, staring at each other. A special occasion? Surely it couldn't be Acamar's birthday, that was in the Autumn.

Right?

"You've forgotten, haven't you," Acamar says, and it doesn't sound disappointed or even surprised. "Both of you."

"Happy-" Cilantro starts, before falling silent again. "Merry-?"

Acamar laughs, pouring the tea into their cups, adding a dash of cream and a single sugar to its own. "Think hard. What is it today?"

"It's… Tuesday?" Rose asks.

"Wrong, it's Wednesday. What else?"

"It's… August 3rd?"

"And what happens next week?"

"Goblin City school starts?" Rose guessed.

"And what did we do last year to celebrate your last week of Summer?"

Rose snapped, sitting upright. "We went to the river bank in Sanctuary and found Cilantro."

Cilantro looked up from lapping at the tea like a dog to blink at them. "Me?"

"Cilantro, it's your birthday!" Rose beamed at his friend, who's nose twitched in confusion.

"It is not, my birthday is in the month of May-"

"It's the anniversary of us finding you," Acamar said, softly. "It's your… your found day."

"I was found before then," Cilantro mutters, but both of them spot the blush crawling up furry cheeks. "I do not need coddling."

"Let us celebrate," Rose said, exasperated. "You've made the last year a hell and a half, you owe us."

"Well here is not where I want to be either-!"

Acamar leaned in, pressing it's lower face to the top of Cilantro's head with an audible "Mwah!" and the rodent's mouth snapped shut.

"We're happy you're here," Acamar said, softly, gathering Cilantro in its arms and squeezing. "Thank you for everything."

Rose stood too, rubbing his knuckles against Cilantro's head and laughing as he was snapped at. "Yeah, for real. You really do mean a lot to us."

Cilantro blushed a little deeper, muttering something in Spanish and wiggling halfheartedly, but ended up giving in.

#dave's author arc #rose kent #acamar #cilantro

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casspurrjoybell-17 · 4 months

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Heart’s Choice - Chapter 38 - Part 1

*Warning Adult Content*

Safe in John's arms, I dream.

Occasionally, like some creature of the deep surfacing for a breath of air, I glimpse the waking world before slipping back beneath heavy waves of sleep.

These brief glimpses, like a series of disconnected snapshots, tell a disjointed tale, John almost flying through the night as he carries me far from the scene of terror, a red pickup truck and familiar voices raised in concern, a frantic phone call and finally the safety and comfort of John's bed.

After that, the glimpses grow less frequent, until only quiet darkness remains.

An unknown time later, consciousness creeps back, slow as the brightening sky at dawn.

At last, I open my eyes and find myself lying in an enormous bed, staring at the ceiling of an equally enormous room, neither of which I've ever seen before.

It beats waking up in a hospital, which is what I'd have expected after getting shot and losing most of my blood but still disorienting.

Rousing myself, I take stock.

I'm naked to the waist, dressed only in a pair of silk boxers.

They're not mine and probably cost at least three times as much as any pair I own.

Interestingly and alarmingly they're not John's style, either.

Neither is the rest of the room, from the ornate bed frame to the fine art hanging on the walls.

A bandage wraps my chest and left shoulder and from the concavity of my abdomen and the sharp definition of my hips, it looks like I've lost some weight.

Wondering how long I've been asleep, I sit up a little.

A painful pinch alerts me to the presence of an IV line trailing from the inside of my right elbow and leading to a bag of clear liquid hanging from a stand.

It looks like a saline drip but I'm clearly not in a hospital and without knowing for sure, I'd rather not have strange liquids entering my veins.

I start to peel off the tape holding it in place, when a smooth, vaguely familiar voice speaks close at hand.

"Do leave that in place. It's only electrolytes and hydration. You have my word."

Whipping my head towards the other side of the bed so quickly I nearly snap my own neck, I see David's powerful form reclining in a large, leather-upholstered chair.

He remains seated, perhaps so as not to alarm me and regards me with a sharp, blue-eyed gaze and what he probably thinks is a reassuring smile.

"You do that every time you wake up, you know. It's quite troublesome."

"Where am I?" my voice sounds thin and raspy in my own ears, as if I haven't used it recently, and my throat is painfully dry.

"You are at my penthouse apartment in San Francisco. John brought you here."

I sit up a little more, the sheets falling in a silky pool at my waist.

"Where is he? Is he here? Is he alright?"

Memories flash through my mind: the possession, Rafael and Rexi's demise, John sinking sharp teeth into my flesh, the strange sensation of floating as my life drained away and the demon's parting gift.

David watches me with predatory keenness, not missing so much as the flicker of an eyelash.

"John is in seclusion. Though he survived the transformation with his humanity intact, it is not an easy transition. Fortunately, the first few days are the most difficult and he is past that now. Challenges remain, however."

Exploring the side of my neck with a tentative touch, I discover another, smaller bandage taped over the place where John bit me.

"What kind of challenges?"

David rests his elbow on the arm of the chair and his chin on his hand.

"In embracing a full turn, John has essentially given up one life for another. A period of adjustment... of mourning even... is to be expected. He is fortunate to have you to anchor him. You have been fortunate as well, the infection has taken hold and you have come through the worst of it. You will recover and become as John was... neither human nor vampire but something in between."

Feeling strangely shy beneath David's gaze, I pull the silk sheet up to the base of my ribs and cast my restless gaze over the spacious room.

"How long have I been here?"

"Three days," he replies.

Rising slowly, he pours water from a pitcher on the bedside table into a tall glass and holds it out to me.

"It is four since the events at the theater. John called me the moment he reached his house, and I came as quickly as I could. You were in a coma by the time I arrived."

"A coma?" I nearly choke on a sip of water, spilling a bit down my chin, and glance at the IV bag, wondering if I ought to be in a hospital, after all.

"Are you a doctor?"

"I was once... little of my medical 'knowledge' would still be considered useful, I fear. But rest assured, you are in good hands. The coma is but a natural defense as the infection takes hold."

"Infection?"

He nods.

"Yes. Perhaps you have heard that there are tales of 'vampires' in many cultures around the world?"

Vaguely recalling something to that effect, I nod.

"And have you heard of the term 'recurrent evolution?'"

He's got me there.

"Re... what?"

"Recurrent evolution is the phenomenon of the same trait evolving multiple times in the same lineage, often in response to a similar problem or 'pressure.' Stripes, flight, adaptations towards a certain diet, climate, or environment, for example."

"Okay... and?"

"And 'vampirism' has 'evolved' many times, and in many forms, throughout history. You will find that you have more in common with some vampires than with others. The particular variety with which I, and now you and John, are afflicted, carries more hallmarks of the traditional, 'Old World' lore than some of the newer strains. I will not burst into flames if touched by sunlight but I do suffer from painful photosensitivity, as now will John."

"Can you turn into a bat?"

He arches an elegant brow at me.

"No. I do, however, require human blood in order to regenerate my own cells... which will continue to regenerate ad infinitum, so long as I feed, thus making me effectively immortal."

I swallow.

"Okay and what else?"

'Besides a penchant for explaining things like Mr. Spock.'

David rises and approaches the bed.

It takes an effort of will not to shrink away from him and to hold still when he reaches for the bandage on the side of my neck and peels off the tape holding it in place.

"Speed, strength, rapid healing," he murmurs, most of his attention on his task.

"You will share these gifts as well, though to a lesser degree."

Setting the bandage aside, he places two fingers alongside my jaw and gently turns my head so he can inspect the wound.

"Ah and here is proof... not even a scar. Now, let us see the rest."

I do my best not to shiver as he unwraps the bandages encircling my chest with his cold, pale fingers.

He nods, apparently pleased with what he sees.

"You may have 'inherited' an even stronger gift from John than he did from me but I suppose that is to be expected. You and he already shared a bond."

Looking down at myself, I see nothing but a small area of pink, freshly healed skin where Rexi's bullet entered my shoulder.

I crane my neck and inspect the back but find no corresponding exit wound.

"Fortunately, I was able to remove the bullet," David says, confirming my suspicion.

"However, we almost lost you again in the process. It was 'touch and go' as they say. It is a good thing you and John share such a strong bond but as with all good things, there is... a cost."

"What kind of cost?"

David withdraws his hand and shrugs.

"Sometimes, the greater the advantage, the longer the shadow it casts. Enhanced vision and eyes that see well at night result in a greater sensitivity to light, for example. This is why many but not all, vampires adopt a more nocturnal lifestyle."

I flinch, imagining John and I sleeping side by side in matching caskets.

"Do I need to go coffin shopping?"

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aprayerforclarity · 4 months

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12/18

Card: Three of Cups

I've taken a fiction writing class and read and compiled resources and notes about writing fiction prose and the processes that that looks like for many writers. For my own writing process I've outlined the frames of a story structure, I've started writing character bio pages for each character, and I've explicitly written out any of the themes or ideas I would like to convey in a story.

I feel like I've tried to structure and rationalize my writing process as much as possible, just like how in general in my life I try to rationalize and find the answers and meanings to things and systems all throughout my life. I think I'm realizing is that writing, and creative expression in general, is a much more organic process. It is much more abstract and just sort of flows out of someone making something, maybe initially without much thought.

Some of my favorite things I've written are all just stream of consciousness. They sound the most natural and I feel like I only have to modify the prose a little bit in my revisions instead of when I'm trying to convey a specific idea or concept in a fictional situation or in an accessible or entertaining way.

I guess what I'm curious about is my current disconnect between the art or writing that I want to create vs. what I naturally do create, and how I should bridge the gap between those two, or if I even should try to bridge that gap between the two.

I've talked to several of my artist friends who write music and they have all shared the same sentiments where they have an initial vision for something, but then it changes drastically in the making of it, and sometimes that's just for the better. Even thought I naturally have a story I'd like to tell, a lot of the times it completely naturally comes out of me in a totally different way. What should I do to start changing the natural tendencies I have into the works I want to make? Or should I just abandon that idea altogether??? Maybe I just need to keep writing more and just let what wants to come out of me just naturally flow out, until I get to what I really want to say deep down. In the meantime I feel like it'll just be comedic nonsense and disgusting stories, but that does make me laugh and satisfy some part of myself, even though I aspire to write much more complex and intellectually stimulating things.

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declanowo · 7 months

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31 Days of Horror - Day 11 - The Outwaters

11/10/23

Today was an incredibly long day! I was helping my friend prepare to move house, which involved a lot of concentration, some heavy lifting and the adoption of a cat for the next few days! She’s sitting under my bed as I write this, and took no interest in the film today, but maybe she will find herself more interested with the coming films! I think Friday has a fun cat themed movie awaiting me :)

When I arrived home, I spun the wheel hoping for a nice easy watch to relax to! The Outwaters was not that. This found footage film, directed by Robbie Banfitch, who also stars as our protagonist, was released this year, and is a constant assault to the senses.

I was unsure how I would feel about this one! The reviews are so split, with many people hating it, while a lot of people commend it for what everyone else hates. That appears to be the way with analog horror, Skinamarink comes to mind when discussing this film, which I adored! As mentioned a few days ago, I also love Marble Hornets, which is also analog horror, alongside things like Local 58. This is all to say, I love the genre, and have since I was young(er).

So this takes us to The Outwaters. There is no simple way to discuss this film, it is experimental by nature, and the storyline is difficult to understand at the best of times, so I guess instead I will talk about features of the film I like and don’t like!

Starting with the analog genre and tropes as a whole, which I do really love. There is something so fun about this style, it is so rewarding to me - nothing ever makes full sense, yet putting pieces together makes it enjoyable after finishing the film as the puzzle pieces float around in my mind - they don’t line up with each other too well, but sometimes they melt into one, and that moment is deeply satisfying. I will gladly admit I had a plot summary up while watching this film, glancing across at it constantly to ensure that I understood the basic throughline of this movie, but that is what I enjoy about the genre so much!

Linking into the found footage idea, I love the framing device of the three SD cards, it’s a nice three act structure that shows the status of the characters throughout! The first one builds the characters, and was certainly the least interesting to me, maybe because it feels so disconnected from the horror of this film, which makes a lot of sense! The second one is the point of no return, it shows the odd occurrences and slowly builds up the madness, until the third entirely destroys any hope, it is bloody and gross to its core, and there is no happy ending for anyone here. A true good for no one movie.

The gore worked a lot of the time for me, I guess sometimes the blood bathed characters felt almost pointless, I found myself deeply desensitised to it, especially because the carnage that creates this is off screen, but ultimately, this kind of adds to it, we are constantly seeing the effects, but not the cause, which works nicely in placing us in a similar disorientated mindset to the characters, who are clueless as to what is happening. A real gnarly sequence sees our protagonist Robbie, cut through his skin with an animal tooth, the gore here is great, and a great climactic end that pushes the film up from blood coated to gore infested. In that aspect, the film is great!

Similarly, the disorientation is added to by the camera work and lighting. Constantly we switch between harshly lit days, they feel scorching and overbearing, to pitch black nights, where we’re guided solely by the dim flashlight showing us only a small dose of the carnage at hand. Sometimes, I was desperate just to see, which means the film is doing its job well, it wants us to be drawn deep into curiosity, yet we are left confused and lost. In a sense, we are the forth friend on this trip.

Moving onto the stuff that I didn’t love as much, firstly being the pacing. Man, the length of this film hurt me a little! I am okay with slow burns, which this film definitely is, but I struggled to connect with the characters during the slower opening of this film. Maybe that was just a me problem, but the opening was divided in a very interesting way! Sure, I like that, it makes the opening curious to watch, piecing together what is happening, yet the jumpy nature simply made it tricky for me to piece things together. I’m glad this film was as long as it was, I think it adds to the piece as a whole, but it made it a bit tricky for me to concentrate on when sometimes it felt like nothing was happening!

Returning to the characters, they didn’t do much for me :( I’ve heard that the two thirty minute companion pieces to this flesh out the film more, so maybe I will watch those at some point, but just viewing this on its own, the characters let me down as far as the story was concerned! Sure, I love the ending, and the way that pans out, which I’ll discuss more in a minute, but it didn’t make me feel any sorrow for these characters. That doesn’t feel much like it’s the point, but I guess it’s difficult to focus on the film when the first thirty minutes are devoted to showing us what the characters are like!

Finally, I want to discuss the ending, which I adored. Plainly put, it is delightfully dark, a real treat for those who stuck with the film for sure. The imagery is exceptionally fun, the heads on stakes is a gorgeous shot, and the final shot of the movie also is exceptional, as we watch the broken and bloody Robbie reach out to the sky, his intestines spilling out. Although I predicted the plot twist as soon as we first met the axe wielding figure, I still basked in being correct, the concept of doppelgangers has long been one of my favourites, so seeing it played out in the film was super fun for me.

I forgot to mention that deserts are maybe one of my least favourite settings, but it worked for me in this film! Despite several scenes being nothing more than bloody feet on sand.

As I draw this one to a close, I must say I understand why it is so divisive! I was definitely bored at some points of this film, while desperately captivated at others. Definitely worth the watch though, and I’m glad I stuck with it, despite a few thoughts of turning it off and watching something else as the first act came to an end. A fun one for sure, and I can’t wait to see what else the director makes in the future!

At the beginning of this I mentioned the cat I was looking after, and how she had been sitting under my bed, curled into an excellent loaf. While writing this little discussion, she has hopped up onto my bed, and is currently sitting in another pretty perfect loaf! A slow burn for sure, but much like The Outwaters, one worth waiting until the end for :)

6/10!

#horror #horror movies #analog horror #found footage #review #halloween #creative writing #literature #reviews

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thefanficmonster · 3 years

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Love For The Faceless

Corpse Husband x Youtuber!Reader(Female)

Warnings: Swearing

Genre: Fluff

Summary: Y/N is a YouTube gamer who has recently gained a much larger following thanks to the streams she does with her friends. Naturally, considering her faceless and bodiless nature, people are starting to get curious about her. When she finally follows her friend Corpse’s example, a lot more than her hands is revealed.

Requested by anon, you know who you are 😉 Thank you so much for placing a request and hope this fic fulfills the expectations you have for it.

“Hey!“ I greet the lobby as I finally hop into the Discord call after quickly saying ‘hi‘ to my audience.

I’ve been a YouTuber for four years now and I’ve only recently started streaming, encouraged to do so by my best friend Rae. She’s the one who got me in multiplayer games such as Among Us and Phasmophobia which led me to meet her amazing gaming squad that consists of some of the most famous names on the platform. They are all wonderful people and I will forever be in Rae’s debt for introducing me to them. However, becoming friends with Felix, Sean and the rest of the team brought not only a more fulfilled life, but also a small boost in following. Who am I kidding, it wasn’t small. It was overwhelming, terrifying even.

My YouTube channel had a little over a million subscribers at the start of quarantine and now....now it’s closer to three million. Speaking of three million, I’m about to reach it any day now and it’s really hard to believe. I’m a gaming youtuber and I’ve never considered changing my genre despite expecting to not get any attention whatsoever, with all the big names on the platform. I was convinced not even as many as a hundred people would stumble across my videos and now here we are.

My OG subscribers are very supportive of my sudden growth and are defending me when my newer fans ask for a face reveal or whatnot. While we’re on that topic I might have to mention that not even my YouTube friends, and that includes Rae have seen my face. I’ve been faceless and bodiless for the entirety of my time on social media. Some claim I do it to grab more attention or for dramatic effect, but the reason is beyond that. I’m not shallow. Actually, shallow people are the reason I don’t show my face. I’ve never been the prettiest, but my middle school bully thought that I wasn’t lacking self confidence enough. As a result, I ended up with a not so handsome scar on my right cheek that starts from the corner of my mouth and nearly misses my eye. Yeah, it’s a long and pretty noticeable scar that has thankfully become less and less obvious as the years have progressed. Still, it’s not something I’d like to show to my viewers.

Eight ‘hi’s greet me back, each making my smile grow wider. “Sorry I’m late guys. Technical difficulties.”

“Don’t worry.“ Rae’s voice dominates over the rest, “Corpse still isn’t here so we’re waiting for him.“

I mute myself on the Discord call and take a look at my comments. I’m most flattered by the comments about my voice. Seeing as how they don’t have much to compliment about me other than my content, they make the nicest comments about my voice, personality and humor. Those comments are the ones who warm my heart most. Even when people in my day to day life compliment my appearance I can’t find it in me to believe they are being genuine. I’d like to believe these amazing people are being one hundred percent honest when they tell me they like me for who I am and not for what I might look like.

“Sorry I’m late guys.“ A deep voice causes me to even physically jolt, switching my focus from the comments to the Among Us lobby where my eyes land on the newly materialized black avatar.

“Hi Corpse.“ Rae greets him.

“Hello mister who broke Twitter!“ Sean laughs, provoking the laughter of the rest of the players.

“Yeah, congratulations man. That’s a big deal.“ Felix chimes in.

“Thanks guys, but I think you’re forgetting we’re talking about a picture of my hand.“ Corpse chuckles timidly. I have noticed how shy he gets when someone gives him a compliment - like a snail slowly withdrawing in its shell. I find it adorable.

“That’s what makes it even better!“ I unmute my mic, sending my own congratulations.

“While we’re on that topic...“ Rae begins, waiting for the rest of us to shut our traps, suggesting she has something important to say. “Y/N, do you ever plan on doing a reveal like that? Not a face reveal. Just a body part reveal.“

I have no problem talking about the subject with friends but I get nervous when I’m supposed to discuss it with my fans. Seeing as how everyone, including myself, is streaming right now, I get a bit of a stutter in my speech. “Haven’t thought about it yet. But I guess a body part reveal is harmless.” I cringe immediately after letting the words leave my mouth, “That sounds so weird.”

Rae knows that I’m not too fond of my face, but I haven’t told her about my scar yet. I let almost all people I’ve met online think I’m using my lack of appearance for effect. For the mystery of it all. Mysteries attract people which equals attention. Attention equals views and the domino effect continues.

“Just a suggestion. No pressure.“ Rae adds quickly, knowing full well I get anxious when the subject is brought up in front of cameras. “Let’s get this game started, shall we.”

* * *

The idea dwells in my mind, sitting on the back burner even after I disconnect from the Discord call. I’m sitting in my gaming chair, which was a gift for my two million milestone, and weighing out the pros and cons of the action Rae suggested I take.

“It’s a picture of your fucking hand, dummy. How bad can it turn out?“ I say out loud, shaking my head at my indecisiveness. “You’ll be fine.”

In a blur, two pictures are already posted on my Instagram. The first one captioned ‘Took a leaf from my friend’s book. Did I do it right @ corpsehusband?’ and the second ‘Thanks, Rae. These are on you.’

Rae’s POV

As I’m watching a movie in my living room, I get a notification from Instagram, informing me that Y/N has posted for the first time in a while.

I scoff, “More like the first time in forever.”

The first thing that comes to my mind is the possibility of her reaching that three million milestone that’s been long time coming. I bring the glass of water that’s sitting on my coffee table to my lips, taking a sip as I tap the notification. The picture I see makes me hurry to put the glass back down so I don’t drop it. Y/N’s hand. Her fingers are covered with several thin rings each. And here I thought Corpse had too many rings, this girl has at least two on every finger!

Then my eyes land on the second picture she has posted only minutes after the first and my heart drops. I struggle to get the water that’s been sitting in my moth down my esophagus while my mind is struggling with the task to comprehend the picture I’m looking at.

Another hand is resting on top of Y/N’s. A hand also covered in rings but fewer and larger. The nails are painted black.

I think I know who it belongs to.

Before I can even finish the thought, I’m dialing Y/N. She picks up after the second ring, sound cheery as ever as she greets me. “Hey Rae!”

“Don’t you ‘Hey Rae’ me!” I practically scream. I hate being kept in the dark about anything ever so this is just driving me mad. On top of all, she’s my best friend, for fuck’s sake. “Is that Corpse in the photo with you?!”

“Ugh....“ the cheeriness to her voice is all but gone now.

I go on with my rant, not giving her the time to reply. Not that she would reply. I bet she doesn’t know what to say. “So he knows where you live?! Or was the picture taken at his place?! He knows what you look like?! You have seen him! He has seen you in real life but me, your best friend, haven’t!!! You are breaking Covid 19 protection laws to take pictures?! Are you fucking serious, Y/N?!”

There’s a long moment of silence which frustrates me even more but I literally have run out of things to yell and the power to be angry. I mean, I still am, I just can’t express it.

“Rae, sweetheart, please calm down. You’re scary when you’re mad.“ This girl has some fucking nerve! She’s on the verge of laughing!

“Listen here you...“

“Rae, please stop scaring my girlfriend.“ That oh so distinguishable, oh so familiar voice interrupts me.

I am flabbergasted, for a lack of a better term.

“Now that we’ve got you quiet, I can explain.“ Y/N pics up the conversation, “Corpse and I have been dating for six, almost seven months now. We started dating around Easter after talking for quite some time. We moved in together at the end of September. All thanks to you, Rae. You’re the best.” She pauses to breathe in real quick, “There, all caught up?“

I’m in no less shock than I was before she explained. Actually, I think I might be even more confused now. It all just feels like a fever dream. “Yes...no. I don’t fucking know! I need details, Y/N!”

“Details later.“ Corpse makes his presence known once again, “We’re watching Family Guy right now. Talk to you later.“

“Love you, Rae!“ Y/N calls out before the line goes dead.

My arm goes limp, dropping my phone on the couch next to me.

“Motherfuckers” I mumble under my breath.

Y/N’s POV

It’s been a week since Rae has stopped talking to both Corpse and me. I know she just needs some time to cool off. In the meantime, the rest of our friends were informed and, as oppose to Rae, were nothing but supportive and overjoyed. I bet Rae feels the same way though. Sean, Dave and the rest of the gang have confirmed that she’s incredibly happy for us and says she noticed a spark between me and him since day one, but she can’t help but be mad at us, and especially me, for not telling her sooner.

“Any regrets?“ I remember Corpse asking me when we hung up on her after dropping the bomb.

“Not being able to see her face when she saw the picture.“ I beam at him, feeling as content as ever.

He laughs, agreeing with me before leaning down to kiss me.

@susceptible-but-siriusexual @simonsbluee @save-the-sky @hacker-ghost @itsminniekat @bi-andready-tocry @imtiredaffff @jazzkaurtheglorious @hereforbeebo @fandomgirl17 @chrysanthykios

#corpse #corpse husband #corpsehusband #husband #corpse husband fanfic #corpse simp #corpse husband fanficiton #corpse fanfiction #corpse fanfic #corpse x reader #corpse husband x y/n #corpse husband x reader #x reader #reader #request #requests open

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emilylaj · 3 years

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Post 5: What Is My Aromantic Label?

This is a brief/incomplete guide. Visit lgbta.wikia.org/wiki/Aromantic_Spectrum to learn more and find more labels!

Happy Aromantic Spectrum Awareness Week 2021 💚🖤

Each day I’ll be posting something to spread awareness and positivity about aros!

Post 1: It’s a Spectrum; Post 2: Aromantics Aren’t Broken; Post 3: What Not To Say to Aros; Post 4: Aros Are Awesome; Post 6 (Final Post): Have Pride!

[ID: A infographic with arrows pointing to rounded corner blocks that have the name and definition of a aromantic spectrum label based on factors and yes/no questions. From the title block “What is my aromantic label?” four arrows point to four blocks, two on each side. First block on the left is “Alicoromantic: I know I’m somewhere on the Aro-spec but no Aro-spec label fits or I don’t know which Aro-spec fits me best”. Second block, below first, is “Aroallo: I am aro or aro-spec and also allosexual (not asexual)”. On the right the first block is “Greyromantic: I relate with aromanticism, yet feel there are parts of my experience that aren't fully described by the word aromantic”. Second block, below first, is “Quoiromantic: I challenge or reject romantic orientation as not personally useful, don’t know my romantic orientation, or don’t want to define my orientation”.

From the title block an arrow points upward to “Am I repulsed by/aversed to romance?”. “Kinda” points upward to “Acoromantic: I want to act on my romantic attraction but I have a strong aversion to do so because of apprehension or bad experiences with romantic relationships or activities”. “Yes” points to the right, then up, then right again to two blocks, with “or” in between them (all multiple blocks have “or” between them). First block is “Apothiromantic: I am romance repulsed, either for myself or in general. I don’t seek out romantic relationships and dislike romantically coded acts like kissing or cuddling”. Above it, second block is “Omniaromantic: I do not feel romantic attraction under any circumstances, I am not interested in engaging in romantic activities or relationships, and I don’t wish to talk about romance or romantic activities”. “No” points to the left to “Do I desire romantic relationships?”. “Yes” points up to “Cupioromantic: I do not experience romantic attraction but I still desire a romantic relationship. I may also sometimes feel romantic attraction but want a relationship even without that attraction”. “No” points to the left, then up, then to the right, and then down to two blocks. First block is “Aegoromantic: I enjoy the concept of romance but have a disconnect between myself and romance. I enjoy romance in media, but don’t desire a relationship. My romantic fantasies may be viewed from a third-person perspective where I'm just a disembodied observer”. Second block is “Bellusromantic: I am interested in traditionally romantic activities, like kissing/cuddling, but not in the context of a romantic relationship. I don’t feel romantic attraction and don’t want a romantic relationship”.

From the title block an arrow points downward to “Dependent romantic attraction” which an arrow then points to the right to “Aliquaromantic: I only experience romantic attraction under certain circumstances. This can be considered an umbrella term”. Arrow points down to “Is my attraction dependent on other’s feelings?” and “Yes” points downward to three blocks. First block is “Apresromantic: I experience romantic attraction only after another attraction is felt, such as platonic, aesthetic, sensual, and/or sexual attraction”. Second block is “Demiromantic: I don’t experience romantic attraction until I have formed a deep emotional connection (platonic, sexual, or other) with someone”. Third block is “Frayromantic: I only experience romantic attraction towards those that I am not deeply connected with, and I lose that attraction as I get to know the person”. “No” points to left and then down to three blocks. First block is “Lithromantic: I may experience romantic attraction but I do not want it reciprocated, and I am uncomfortable at the thought of someone being romantically attracted to me”. Second block is “Proculromantic: I only feel romantic attraction to those who I can never be in a relationship with, such as fictional characters, or celebrities”. Third block is “Recipromantic: I do not experience romantic attraction unless I know that the other person is romantically attracted to me first”. From title block an arrow points down and then left to “Fluctuating aromanticism” and another arrow points to three blocks below it. First block is “Aroflux: My romantic orientation fluctuates but generally stays on the aromantic spectrum. I may feel very strongly aromantic one day and less aromantic another day”. Second block is “Aro-jump: I am normally alloromantic, but I experience sudden and intense brief spikes of aromanticism before returning just as suddenly to my normal alloromanticism”. Third block is “Arospike: I experience rare and sudden spikes of romantic attraction for a varied amount of time (one day to months) before returning to my normal level of aromanticism”.

In the middle of the infographic at the top there is a block titled “Neurodivergent”. Arrow points up to “Arovague: My orientation is partially or fully influenced by my neurodivergency”. From main block arrow points right, then up, and then right again to “Nebularomantic: I can’t distinguish the difference between romantic and platonic attraction”. "Neurotypical?” points downward to “Platoniromantic”. From main block arrow points down to “Requisromantic: I have limited or no romantic attraction, interest, or activity due to emotional exhaustion from romantic experiences, dealing with romance, or from something else that is emotionally draining”. End description.]

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aroaceconfessions · 2 years

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I'm an aroace girl. The thing is, I just find myself connecting deeply with wlw. Like, I feel a profound disconnect to straight people, which is fairly normal I guess since I'm not straight, but also to men in general. I do have some male friends but all of them are queer and we're not that close. All the friends I actually hang out with on a regular basis are queer women. And I don't know why. I don't make it a criteria, every time I make a friend she just turns out to be queer, including my childhood friends that I met in kindergarten, before any of us had any idea what it even meant to be queer. I mainly want friends who won't be obsessed with sex and romance so it makes sense that 2/5 of my closest friends are ace and the rest know not to bother me about it but I just cannot figure out why I never make straight friends. I am utterly bored by love stories in general but somehow wlw ones feel less... wrong ? Like, I still cannot relate to the feelings shown and described, I don't wish I were in the shoes of either characters involved but a deep emotional connection to a woman just resonates with me deeply and I have a hard time imagining that with a man, or even a straight woman. Do I just not vibe with the amatonormativity I associate with straight people and the unhealthy concept of masculinity drilled into men's heads ? That wouldn't explain why I don't connect as much with the flamboyant queer men among my friends.

Like, whenever I'm enjoying a show with a female protagonist then I always want her to not have a romance but if the romance seems inevitable then I always root for her to get with another woman.

It's actually the reason I thought I was a lesbian for three years. I saw a lesbian romance on screen for the first time and got invested in it. And since I'd never been invested in a love story before I thought it meant I was gay.

And, weirdly, it's the opposite with sex. I'm neutral to sex in general, repulsed by the very thought of my involvement in it but seeing sex scenes between men bothers me less than straight ones and even less than lesbian ones.

So basically, I'm very confused and I was wondering if anyone had a similar experience.

#aromantic #asexual #aroace #wlw #friends #friendship

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rishi-eel · 3 years

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thinking (yet again!) about the differences between the bad batch story reels and the season seven arc and like... some changes just blow my mind because all it did, really, was make the bad batch less likable.

lets star with the whole “reg” thing. if i remember correctly, in the originals “regs” is said twice. the first instance is by crosshair when taunting jesse in the LAAT. the second is said by hunter: he tells tech (who’s hacking into the cyber center) that he and wrecker are going to “go get the regs” (i.e. rex and jesse). that is, hunter only used it among his squad when the others were not present (much like how cody informs that the bad batch are defective clones out of earshot. these words are descriptors, but there’s also an offense associated to being referred to by them). the idea that hunter has restraint referring to regular clones this way in their faces connects, i think, to how hunter was a tad more apologetic to jesse in the original script. ��he means regular clones. don’t take it personal. it’s just that we don’t always follow protocol” carried an actual sense of hunter trying to convince jesse that it’s nothing to do with him.

it’s interesting, i think, that in a context where you have clones and defective clones, that the bad batch (as defective clones) would find a way to talk about other clones in reference to themselves in a way that normalizes their own existence. it also introduces the idea that the bad batch experience a level of disconnect, and even animosity, in regards to other clones. all that can be conveyed by only using the word twice. the season seven episodes added three more instances, and in all of them the bad batch members comfortably throw the word around the clones who “are regs.” the sense of separateness (which, again, was already established/achieved by using it just two times) is only made stronger (thus more needs to be done to portray a sense of reconciliation or coming together. the reels succeed this to an extent because that barrier wasn’t built up as high).

so yeah in the original... wrecker didn’t say “we always get shot down when we travel with regs,” he kept quiet as he helped people out of the wrecked gunship (in fact, wrecker lost a lot of subtlety going from the reels to the final eps, which i’ll get back to). hunter didn’t fake-compliment rex with a “not bad, for a reg”! and oh boy crosshair’s comment implying that echo is worthless and expendable because he’s a “reg”... yeah that was not in the reels either. in fact, not only does crosshair not call echo a reg, the meaning of his original dialogue was completely different.

in the original, after hunter voices his suspicions echo might be dead, crosshair suggests that if alive echo could be cooperating with the enemy, making him a traitor. rex takes this as an attack on echo’s character and crosshair explains that no, he’s not intending to insult echo, by saying: “oh i don’t blame him, if i were left for dead, i wouldn’t be so loyal.” and like!!!!! that’s such a radically different line of dialogue because crosshair seems to blame rex for having left echo behind, actually. if you betrayed the republic to survive, or even out of spite, i don’t blame you even if you now present a threat to myself and my family, is such an interesting, empathetic sentiment. and that contrasts with the lack of regard given to rex, making it read like he’s condemning rex for leaving someone behind. crosshair doesn’t seem to understand, as an experimental commando clone, the pressures rex as a legion captain is under, because he’s seen a less expandable (they’re a specially trained four man team, if one dies that’s 25% of the unit gone. is there a replacement for that member? you get the idea). so you’ve got a clash between different povs, but also crosshair being shown as having a set of morals, chief among them being that you do not leave anyone behind. so remember when rex says to move out and crosshair goes “commander cody is in no position to move” yeah i’d say that’s crosshair making sure cody isn’t being left behind. when crosshair saves anakin? that’s because he saw anakin go off on his own and followed him. because you don’t leave people behind. and like... the idea that yeah crosshair is an asshole. he’s unpleasant and that’s deliberate. he doesn’t care if people like him and he’s not trying to be liked. but that he values the lives of other people and looks out for them? that makes an interesting, flawed and multifaceted character. that got lost in the dialogue change because its no longer suggested that crosshair holds these values.

as for what i said earlier about wrecker: he lost subtle, nonverbal moments through the addition of lines that are either anticlimactic or only serve to make him seem loud or ditzy in an exaggerated fashion. he didn’t laugh when the LAAT came down. he was quiet as he helped people out of the downed gunship (no comment about regs!). he didn’t say “boom” when the ship exploded in the background after he flipped it over (the difference? a character moment that’s actually cool and impressive vs something that’s corny). when wrecker comes to crosshair’s aid by picking rex off of him, there was no quippy one liner. there was no need for anything to be said for it to be understood that wrecker is acting as a barrier and it trying to intimidate rex. when he’s afraid to get onto the elevator? that’s conveyed visually through camera angles and through hunter picking up on the fact that he’s scared. he doesn’t scream (if you can call a comical “aah what is that thing oh no its going to get me” a scream) when the organic decimator almost gets him. when they walk across the pipe? wrecker doesn’t whimper or talk to himself for comfort. he is scared of heights, that’s already been established, but he’s also a grown man and a soldier like he’s keeping that to himself? like we see wrecker hesitating to walk on the ledge but doing it anyway because he has to. in a piece of dialogue that was cut, tech said “does anyone want to know the odds of us making it across alive?” to which wrecker (who’s you know already having a bad time) interrupts with “don’t even think about it, tech” (if ur curious, this exchange was replaced with: wrecker: “keep walking tech!” tech: “that’s fine, but if you fall don’t take me with you” which???? uuh weird exchange). also, the fact that wrecker was mostly dealing with his fear silently means that when hunter tells wrecker to hold on because they’re almost there... that’s because hunter knows he’s scared and is checking up on him. basically... any kind of serious moment was cheapened by having wrecker talk in them. now i don’t want to say that DBB is a bad voice actor, but his expertise is making animal noises. he’s not able to do a realistic, deep voice, meaning that whenever wrecker talks he kind of sounds like a joke. it’s fine when wrecker is actual being lighthearted and jokey, but otherwise? the emotion just does not come across as genuine, which breaks the stakes or weakens credibility.

and god the whole plot point about the bad batch being suspicious of echo was nonexistent in the reels. the “don’t worry, echo says he’s got a plan”/”that makes me feel so much better” exchange between rex and tech is in the original, but tech’s sarcasm isn’t from doubting echo’s allegiance, it’s because they’re planning to land on admiral trench’s ship and echo having a plan (that he himself doesn’t know) doesn’t exactly soothe his anxieties. rex acts like tech’s being a big joker and playfully shoves him, telling him to get on board. which is an interesting interaction because these characters are kind of starting to bond?? as for tech and echo, they kinda become nerdy friends really quick. like when tech warns echo not to send the signal right away because he first needs to make it look like it’s coming from skako minor, echo’s like “oh yeah good thinking tech.” and when echo figures out a way to shut down all the droids at once tech is impressed and lightly shoves his shoulder. again there is none of that “oooh maybe echo’s a traitor maybe he’s with the techno union” shit. like i understand that the writers wanted to up the stakes but it falls flat because the idea of echo being a traitor isn’t credible. it does not seem like an actual risk or possibility. so all it did was make the bad batch seem like assholes, cutting away at some very nice character moments.

ok this is a long post and you might ask yourself “but tumblr user rishi-eel, why do you care so much about the story reels, this stuff isn’t canon now” and there are a couple reasons, first, i think it managed to tell a better story overall. so the question is: why is that? because you would expect that writers reworking the plot would add improvements and not downgrades. and to be fair, the s7 episodes had a bunch of upgrades, but not when it came to the characterization of the bad batch. another thing to consider is that changes were made in the context of setting the bad batch up as future protagonists of their own spinoff series (something the original arc was not intended to do because there were no plans for a bad batch series). were the characters made flatter and more archetypal to add to marketability? was the reg/defective clone rivalry (and dichotomy, even) amplified because this separateness serves a narrative in which the bad batch are heroes and the other clones villains?

#long post #clone force 99 #the bad batch #it's late and i haven't proof read so there might be typos and stuff but. here are my thoughts #rishi-outposts.txt

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