#I’ve been in therapy since 2005

[r4v3nr0s3]

​therapy was never that people can’t be messy it was that you shouldn’t let your trauma make you cruel.

In her essay Less TikTok, More Screaming, Persinette writes that these e-therapists have turned healing into “a religion, a lifestyle, and above all, a brand” while promoting a culture of isolation and individual optimization. In this ecosystem, “...therapy has become a litmus test for social belonging and inherent goodness, a sign that one is aware of and has adapted to the newest standards of how to behave.”  The social standard this culture offers is one of controlled, placated solitude. Its narrative often insists that you’re surrounded by toxic people who are trying to hurt you, and the only way to ever become the person you’re meant to be is to cut them all off, retreat into a high-gloss cocoon of talk therapy and Notion templates, and emerge a non-emotive butterfly who will surely attract the relationships you’ve always deserved — relationships with other “healed” people, who don’t hurt you or depend on you or force you to feel difficult, taxing emotions. And finally, your life will be as frictionless and shiny as you, alone, have always deserved for it to be.

Rayne Fisher-Quann, no good alone

[tgmsunmontue]

Online & Anonymous 14/16

Hangster. Explicit. Years before they meet in person Bradley and Jake strike up a friends-with-benefits relationship online. And then something more like an actual relationship.

>>Bradley chatting (bold and italics)

>>Jake chatting (italics)

2005/2006 2007 2008 2009 2010 2011 2012 2013 2014 2015 2016 2017 2018

2019 – Bradley

                Reconnecting with Jas after nearly a year and a half of no contact feels like a fragile glass butterfly in his hands, one he’s scared to hold too firmly in his hands, terrified it will shatter if he moves wrong. He continues sending pictures of his morning cup of coffee, although it’s just with a heart emoji now; no daily apology. Simply an acknowledgement that he thinks of him pretty much as soon as he wakes up. He doesn’t always get one back immediately, but their time zones are very different right now. Jas has admitted that sometimes he takes the photo and saves it to send, so he can pretend they’re sharing, existing at the same time. Bradley admits to wanting to be able to make him coffee every morning. Knows exactly how he takes it.

                His leave has been approved for December, and he’s put in a cushion of an additional week either side to allow for missed flights and natural disasters and he’ll fucking go AWOL if he has to. He hasn’t shared his little contingency plan with Jas, but he will if worst comes to worst. He doesn’t let himself think about it too much, or look forward to it. Doesn’t want to build it all up for it to crumble down around him again. And he’s working very hard to ensure he doesn’t sabotage himself. Not this time. His therapist has given him a lot to think about and sometimes he really hates how right they are.

                Right now though he’s in Ramstein working with the Airforce, some cooperative training gig and he’s trying to use it as a cultural thing, but he feels like he could just be on a base somewhere, anywhere, back home. For some reason it makes him feel homesick for what he thinks must be the first time in his life. Last Christmas he’d spent it with Ice and his family for the first time since he was a teenager. Their relationship healed enough now for him to realize and regret how many years he’s lost. He guesses the maturity and therapy have probably helped, although he sometimes feels like a little kid again, seeking out attention and approval. One of Ice’s kids has kids themselves, and that is wild to him. Ice can’t talk very well, but considering how expressive his face can be when he chooses it to be he’d had entire silent conversation with Bradley while he’d been staying.

…            …            …

>>I’m in Germany.

>>Huh. I’m in Japan.

>>Oh. I like Japan.

>>We’ll have to go together sometime.

>>Wait.

>>What are you doing in Germany?

>>What do you mean?

>>I’m deployed here?

>>Uh. I know you’re Navy. I mean. Yeah.

>>You let it slip years ago.

>>Oh. Shit. Did I?

>>I didn’t realize.

>>Yeah.

>>So. Only seems fair to tell you I’m Navy too.

>>Shit. Really? God. What are the chances?

>>Well, I crunched the numbers few years ago, and they’re not that farfetched.

>>Of course you did.

>>And I’m in Germany helping out with a cooperative training exercise. Just a short four month stint and then back home in June.

>>You sure you don’t want more details?

>>Positive. I like the idea of us having some topics of conversation we haven’t covered.

                He desperately just wants to blurt it out, has in fact tapped out his name and exactly what he does, only to delete it all. He’ll respect Jas’s wishes, even if he doesn’t like them. Even now, knowing they’re both in the Navy and Bradley could, if he wasn’t respecting Jas’s personal boundaries, call Ice and ask him to pull every active-duty man with the initials JAS and born in 1986. Surely there aren’t that many.

>>Talking has never been something we’ve struggled with.

>>Have you seen the new How to Train your Dragon movie?

>>Weirdly, I have. Why?

>>Well, I’ve only been able to watch it in German. I think I understand what is happening, but can you run me through what exactly they were looking for? I didn’t get why it was so important.

                He wants to ask why Jas has seen a movie for kids, but he doesn’t, instead waits for Jas to fill in all the bits of plot Bradley missed due to watching the film in the nearby town with a German dub rather than watching it on base.

…            …            …

                “Bradshaw. The CO would like to see you.”

                He nods his head to acknowledge the words and heads off immediately. He doesn’t know why he’s being summoned but he’s not going to start disobeying orders or summons. He knocks on the door and waits to be called in.

                “Lieutenant. You’ve been called in for a special detachment. You leave for North Island at seventeen-hundred.”

                “Today sir?”

                “Yes. A matter of urgency it seems. A shame, you’re a damned good instructor and flier. I’ll be sure to have you back.”

                “Thank you sir.”

                He’s handed the papers, a mere formality now, he’ll have electronic ones sitting in his HR account. He’s got a few hours to pack, say some goodbyes. North Island. Of all places. Okay. He’s heading back stateside.

…            …            …

                He manages to get some sleep on the flight, then rest and report in. North Island is home and it also isn’t. He always feels mixed up emotionally when he’s here, too close to his parents and all his memories with Maverick growing up. He goes and collects the Bronco from storage, unsurprised to find a note telling him it’s been serviced and run, and he swings by to visit Ice, who doesn’t seem surprised to see him at all. He looks tired though, wearing a thick jacket and scarf despite the warm spring day. Bradley knows better to mention anything, Sarah having warned him. He stays for lunch, plays with the grandkids and then, because Ice is an angel amongst men, heads to the Hard Deck where he’s just been told his best friend probably is. The fact that she’s also been called to whatever this mission is fills him with pride, she’s a damned fine aviator, definitely better than him in some respects; and definitely able to make the most of having a back seater.

                Of course she’s pissed off with him for not telling him that he was going to be here, and he can’t exactly tell her he only knows because the COMPACFLT dropped him a message. He does mutter about being in a different country less than twenty-four hours ago but she just pulls a face at him and he knows she doesn’t accept it as a reason or an excuse. It hurts a little to see Seresin again. To think about the potential they had. He looks good though. Happy and confident, the little smirk always there just on the corner of his lips. He always wants to kiss it off, but it's not his place. Has never been his place. He plays it off, tries to anyway, and his mouth still takes off without him, brain distracted by looking and he really has to practice better self-control.

                “Hangman. You look… good.”

                There’s a flash of annoyance and Bradley winces. He’s glad he went with something as mundane as good, except him saying that has always been a lead into hooking up. He’d told himself he wasn’t going to do this. Not with anyone, but especially not with Seresin. They aren’t anything to each other, never were, never will be. He’ll apologize as soon as he can for the slip up.

                “I am good Rooster. I’m very good. In fact, I am too good to be true.”

                He rolls his eyes, but he deserves the sharp look, the slight meaness, although he also can’t ignore it, because Seresin is still an arrogant shit, for all his beautiful flying. Natasha is muttering under her breath, talking about not caring about dick sizes, and he has to stop himself from laughing as she blatantly and obviously changes the subject, the others grabbing the lifeline like drowning men. He focuses back in on the conversation just in time to hear Seresin again.

                “And which one of y’all has what it takes to follow me?”

                He snorts.

                “Hangman, the only place you’ll lead anyone is an early grave.”

                Fuck. He hadn’t meant that. Not like that. God. Another thing to apologize for. He’s opening a fucking tab.

                “Well, anyone who follows you is just gonna run out of fuel. But that’s just you, ain’t it, Rooster? You’re snug on that perch, waiting for just the right moment… That never comes.”

                He knows it’s a jibe about his fucking inability to commit to his relationship, and he’d like to prove him wrong by telling him that he’s very firmly back with his guy, but it feels empty when he flirted with him not even five minutes ago. What the hell is it with Seresin that always brings out the worst in him. He’s going to have to apologize but he’s going to hate every fucking second of it.

                “I love this song!”

                Right.

                He’ll apologize as soon as he no longer wants to punch him.

…            …            …

                Fortunately Natasha’s presence, the piano playing and singing force him to unwind and it shifts his mood considerably, exactly what his therapist has told him to do. Not that a piano is frequently available, but he’s working on it. He sees Seresin head out and he follows him quickly, ignores Natasha’s hissed warning to not get into a fight.

                “Hey! Seresin! Wait up!”

                “What do you want Rooster?”

                He sucks in a big breath. He can do this.

                “I just wanted to apologize. For flirting. I shouldn’t have done that. For several reasons, but it was shitty of me and I’ll work on it not happening again.”

                Seresin looks at him, expression tense and he’s worrying a toothpick which Bradley does his best to ignore.

                “Anything else you want to apologize for Bradshaw?”

                Bradley pauses, thinks back to what he said and pulls a face.

                “Fuck. Yeah. You won’t lead anyone into an early grave either. I didn’t mean that. It was a shitty thing to say. I’m sorry.”

                “Anything else?”

                Bradley blinks.

                “Uh. No… not that I can think of? Why?”

                The look Seresin is giving him is calculating, like he’s trying to figure something out; then Seresin is reaching out and tugging on his shirt.

                “Thought you might like to apologize for crimes against fashion. This is one godawful shirt you’re wearing…”

                “I like this shirt.”

                “Of course you do. Hmm.”

                “Are you going to apologize to me?”

                “For what?”

                “For calling me slow?”

                “Nothing wrong with slow Rooster…”

                The look on his face, the way he juts out his hip and licks his lips around the fucking toothpick… Bradley feels the flush hit his cheeks, can tell his neck and chest are also going warm and he steps back. He can’t and won’t engage with this. With him.

                “Was good seeing you Seresin. Have a good night.”

…            …            …

                He gets back inside the Hard Deck and he spies Natasha talking with Bob, knows she’s starting the process of getting to know her new back seater, which is usually to beat them soundly in whatever macho game they think they’re better at, and then to show them that she can and will fly, and fly well. Then she usually forces them into a self-care night of face masks and nails, for which Bradley is usually invited along to if he’s around, although he knows Coyote has been seconded into the roll a couple of times.

                “You look… whole,” Natasha says, and she reaches for his hand, inspects his knuckles and Bradley huffs in annoyance, pulling his hand back when he realizes what she’s doing.

                “I didn’t punch him.”

                “No. You just stalked out of here looking like you wanted to.”

                “I actually went and apologized to him.”

                Both her and Bob blink.

                “Seriously?”

                “What can I say, I’m the bigger man, admitting when I’m wrong and apologizing.”

                “I still feel like I should go outside and check for a body…”

                “It’s fine. I’m going to try and be nice.”

                “Yeah. Okay. Good luck with that.”

                “What she said,” Bob says.

…            …            …

                The thing is he does try, but he’s also completely thrown by the fact that Maverick is there and is apparently the one teaching them. His anger is bubbling fresh, like he never took it off the boil and he’s angry again with Ice for not fucking warning him. Maverick doesn’t look at all surprised to see him and that makes him feel even angrier. He desperately needs to either run, punch some pillows or angrily play out his feelings on a piano until he calms down. None of which he can do while he watches his godfather stand at the front of a makeshift classroom and tell them all that the mission success will come down to the pilot in the box.

…            …            …

                “So, Rooster, mind if I ask you a personal question?”

                Jesus Christ, one apology and the man is going to ask about his whole life history. Now is not the fucking time, not to mention the line is open and everyone can hear them. He scans the skies and screens for any sign of Maverick.

                “Would it matter if I did?”

                “What’s the story with you and Maverick?” Speak of the fucking devil… “It seems like he’s got you rattled.”

                “That’s none of your business. Now where the hell is he?”

                “Been here the whole time.”

                “Holy shit,” Seresin breathes and Bradley pulls a face, because that tone is also far too similar to what he sounds like in bed and he can not be thinking about that right now.

                He get’s shot down for a second time, knows he’s toeing the line of being an idiot, doesn’t need Natasha railing at him, or the four-hundred push-ups he insists on doing which leave his arms feeling like jelly and Hondo looking at him like he pities him. He goes back to his accommodation on base and stares at the key to his family home, wonders if he should do anything about it, ignores Natasha’s messages and falls into a fitful sleep without even changing out of his clothes.

…            …            …

                He wakes later, and his first instinct is to make coffee, except it’s late and he needs to get used to the time difference. So he makes himself a hot cocoa from the supplies, although the fat he has to chip away at the solid mass tells him it likely won’t be worth the effort. Still, it gives him something to do. He snaps a picture and sends it, just adds a jet lag is real over it and sends it. Jas has been unnaturally quiet the last couple of days and Bradley desperately wants to just pick up his phone and call him. Except he doesn’t have his number and he won’t ask for it.

                Calling was never an option in the beginning, not with the lack of service out on carriers, and the fact that exchanging numbers also meant exchanging names. Bradley has never not answered the phone with his whole name, so he’d never offered. He’s got so many regrets on so many fronts he feels like a twenty-sided dice.

>>Everything okay?

>>You’ve been kind of quiet these last couple of days.

>>You ever bump into someone and think that it was maybe me you were talking to?

>>Um. Actually yeah.

>>Once. Years ago.

>>But there just ended up being all these little facts that didn’t line up so I figured it wasn’t you.

>>Was he hot?

>>He was alright. Easy enough on the eyes.

>>Nothing happened. I was his instructor at the time.

>>You and your moral compass.

>>I’m rolling my eyes at you.

>>I’m not a saint.

>>Never accused you of that. Not sleeping with someone because you’re in a position of power. That’s pretty decent of you.

>>Got to try being a decent human right?

>>I guess.

>>Sometimes I fuck up but got to keep on trying.

>>Yeah. I guess you do.

…            …            …

                Internally he’s a mess. The fact that the mission seems impossible, has been called a suicide mission, he’s having to see Maverick everyday, and Seresin keeps looking at him like he’s trying to puzzle something out. Like how big the body bag needs to be maybe. Now he’s being told he isn’t flying fast enough, he’s going to get shot down and he’s going to be responsible for the death of his friends. Like any of them won’t suffer the exact same fate.

                “It’s not the plane, sir, it’s the pilot.”

                “Exactly!”

                “There’s more than one way to fly this mission.”

                “You really don’t get it. On this mission, a man flies like Maverick here, or a man does not come back. No offense intended.”

                “Yet somehow you always manage,” Bob murmurs and normally Bradley would smile at the comeback, but he can’t right now. His frustration and anger are carefully balanced and he doesn’t want either of them to tip over.

                “Look, I don’t mean to criticize. You’re conservative, that’s all.”

                “Lieutenant.”

                “We’re going into combat, son, on a level no living pilot’s ever seen. Not even him. That’s no time to be thinking about the past.”

                “What’s that supposed to mean?”

                “Rooster.”

                “I can’t be the only one that knows that Maverick flew with his old man.”

                “That’s enough.”

                “Or that Maverick was flying when his old man…”

                “Lieutenant, that’s enough!”

                “That’s enough.“

                “You son of a bitch!”

                “Hey, come on!”

                “I’m cool, I’m cool. Hey, hey.”

                “That’s enough.”

…            …            …

>>I have had an awful fucking day.

>>Tell me something to cheer me up?

                He doesn’t get an answer.

…            …            …

                He still doesn’t have an answer the next morning and he sends off his usual morning picture of his coffee, feels his entre body unclench when he gets a picture in response. There still isn’t any messages but it’s not complete radio silence. There is a message from his Captain, telling him to report to the Hard Deck in civvies appropriate for the beach and he lets out a long sigh. Sends a screen shot to Ice with a what the fuck is he thinking now? To which he gets back a line of laughing-crying emojis and your guess is as good as mine.

                Well. He has no idea where the hell Maverick dreamed up dog-fight football, but at least they’re not all getting drunk together. That would have been a recipe for several disasters. It’s not that warm, but once they’re all running around it heats them up enough and it feels good to simply run around and play, forget, even for a little while, that one or more of them might be dead in a couple of weeks.

…            …            …

                As if they needed reminders about just how dangerous their jobs are without the added aspects of the mission in front of them they have the day from hell and Bradley feels responsible. Thinking his verbal sparring with Hangman somehow made it a bad day he somehow jinxed them all. Having Coyote come so close to burning in because of g-Loc, and then Natasha… his best friend. Listening to Maverick yell eject at them over and over is going to be added nightmare fodder he’s sure will enter rotation, something he can look forward to. He sits in the quiet of the room, turning when he hears footsteps.

                Maverick.

                And no-one else around to act as a buffer.

                Well shit.

                He’s tired and already emotionally raw, doesn’t want to talk to him right now.

                “They’ll keep Phoenix and Bob in the hospital overnight for observation. They’re gonna be okay.”

                “That’s good. I’ve never lost a wing man.”

                “You’re lucky. Fly long enough, it’ll happen. There will be others.”

                “Easy for you to say,” Bradley bites out. “No wife. No kids. Nobody to mourn you when you burn in.”

                He feels detached from what he’s saying, but the anger is all still there, and he feels justified in that at least, although he’s also lying. As much as he might be angry, he’d still grieve Maverick if he died. Of course Maverick tries to be calm and rational and instead of calming him down it has the opposite effect, and he’s snapping out words again, and Maverick is snapping back and god, it’s a wonder Ice didn’t bang their heads together earlier.

                “Maverick,” Warlock says, stopping them from screaming more hurtful things in each other’s faces.

                Then he learns that Ice has died and of course bad things come in threes.

                He leaves Maverick with Warlock and heads off into the dark for his base housing.

…            …            …

>>You know how I told you about my uncle?

>>The one with cancer?

>>Yeah?

>>He died. His funeral will be in a couple of days and I’m going to have to somehow not cry in front of everyone.

>>Would you give me your mobile number?

>>Why?

>>Because I’d really like to hear your voice. Talk to you properly.

>>I wouldn’t call until you gave me the go ahead.

>>I just… I don’t want to be alone right now.

>>I feel very alone.

>>I thought the other day was bad, but today has been so much worse.

                He wanders around aimlessly, wonders if maybe he should bite the bullet and either go to the rec room and play the piano there, or see if the piano at his closed-up parent’s house is even playable. He’s half-dressed for bed, mind so far away he doesn’t register the knocking until it’s louder and more insistent and he heads to the door, opening it and half-expecting to find Maverick there.

                “Hangman?”

                “Rooster.”

                “Uh. What are doing here?”

                The look on Seresin’s face tells him he’s not exactly sure either, and the fact that he’s not certain is something he’s even more annoyed about.

                “I just… I know your dad flew with Admiral Kazansky. I... I thought that maybe you might know him more than just as the COMPACFLT and be... I thought you might want company.”

                “I...” Bradley starts, because he really does want the company right now, Natasha is in hospital, Coyote is with her because sometimes things like near-misses force you to reevaluate. Not that she can come, but he wouldn’t call her anyway, doesn’t want to rain on her happiness. Not when there is no guarantee of any future right now, the bird strike and g-Loc incidents both really driving home how dangerous their jobs are.

                “Not anything else, by the way… just company.”

                “No. I... Yeah. Company would be good. Thanks.”

                “Also I figured I should take a leaf out of your book and apologize. I’m sorry. About bringing up your dad. That was a dick move.”

                Bradley blinks.

                “Um. Okay.”

                “Right. Sleeping right? You want me to cuddle you?”

                “Actually yeah, since you offered,” Bradley replies, giving Seresin a disparaging look but then takes in the fact that he’s dressed in sweats and a worn t-shirt, like he maybe come over after he’d already gotten ready for bed.

                “Come on then, finish getting ready. Always waiting for you to catch up Bradshaw…”

                “Yeah yeah, give me a minute.”

                He shuffles around, puts on a t-shirt in deference to the fact that Seresin seems seriously intent on hopping into bed with him, and not for sex. He brushes his teeth and washes his face, unable to bring himself to do any more. His mind is thinking about Sarah and the kids and grandkids. Funerals, oh which he feels like he’s been to too many. He folds himself into the bed, his head and body already feel heavy and weighed down and he cannot believe he’s watching Seresin of all people turn off the lights and then slide into bed beside him, his arm settling over his waist like a drag sail.

                “Go to sleep Bradshaw, I’m not planning on going anywhere.”

…            …            …

                Despite everything he has one of the best nights’ sleep he’s had in a long time, and he can’t put it down to the sheer emotional exhaustion of the last couple of days. He woke up several times during the night, not used to having someone else in the bed, but each time Seresin had been there, arm settled around Bradley like he was holding him together. He’s not there now though, but Bradley can hear someone in the kitchen and it can’t be anyone else but Seresin. He stands and stretches, feels his back and neck click and reaches for his phone, feels a little swoop of happiness when he sees he has a message.

>>I don’t want you to be alone right now either.

                He grins and quickly types out a response as he heads to the kitchen.

                “Hey, morning.”

                “Morning. How are you feeling?”

                “Uh. Better. Thanks,” Bradley offers, because he’s a little unsettled by this softer and more accommodating version of Seresin.

                “Here,” Seresin says, and he slides a mug of coffee across to him. It’s not his usual mug, but that’s okay. The mug isn’t the important part, and he snaps a quick picture.

                “What are you doing?”

                “Um. Just taking a photo of my coffee,” Bradley states, looking up as Seresin makes a slight choking sound. “Thanks by the way, for the coffee and for staying last night. I really needed the company.”

                “Yeah. Uh. Anytime. I’ve got to go. Glad you’re feeling better Bradshaw.”

                “Uh, yeah. Thanks… see you later…” Bradley says, voice trailing off as Hangman flees like he’s on fire.

                Weird.

                He takes a sip of his coffee and blinks in surprise.

                It’s perfect.

…            …            …

                He drags himself through his morning routine and heads to Ice’s house, needs to see Sarah and the others, the only family he has. Or at least that he’s currently talking to in civil tones. He lets himself get hugged as he hugs them all in return, they’re all talking in soft mumbles with empty platitudes he knows don’t ease the grief. But being with others who are also grieving helps. He’s allowed to feel sad and miss him when he’s surrounded by people who feel exactly the same way.

                Sarah is poised and calm, her red eyes the only thing belying the fact that she’s been crying plenty. He’s sitting down talking to Samantha, Ice’s eldest daughter, when Sarah finds him and presses an envelope into his hands.

                “He wanted me to give this to you as quickly as possible after his passing. I think he was adding it to it just yesterday…”

                His throat goes tight and he runs his fingers along the crisp edge of the envelope, swallows and then gives up, lets the tears fall and hugs her back tightly as she presses a kiss to the top of his head, feels Samantha hug him from the side. He guesses he has some reading to do.

…            …            …

Dear Bradley,

If you are reading this it’s because I’m dead. Now, as outcomes go, this isn’t what either of us wanted, I’m sure. I’m glad I only had one rule with you as a teenager, and that you listened to me. This is the natural progression of things, children having to bury their parents. I am sorry that you have had to do this so often though, your life has not often been fair to you. There is one silver lining of being a dead man, and that’s getting a dying wish. Your mother had a dying wish you see, and I didn’t agree with what she wanted, but I had to respect it. It was her dying wish after all. And now this is mine, so if I meet her in the afterlife, then I know she’s not going to be able to hold it over me.

I want you to know that she never wanted you to fly.

She asked Maverick to pull your papers.

I tried to convince both of them that it was a terrible idea. But your mother became very difficult to argue with, being dead and all, and well, Maverick is one of the most stubborn and pig-headed men I’ve ever had the pleasure of knowing. I’m glad I’ve been able to count him as being a friend, because having him as an enemy would be ten times worse (and it was already pretty trying some days, as you can imagine). Anyway, I could already envision what would happen, you get your own stubborn and pig-headedness honestly at least, and it was then polished by being raised by Maverick after your mom passed.

Now, I am not asking you to forgive Maverick. However I am asking you to try. He loves you and cares for you, but what he is most terrified about is failing both of your parents. He thinks they’d be perfect parents, so holds himself up to that ideal. He thinks he needs to be perfect. Being a parent myself I know that’s impossible, I’ve just tried my best to make decisions based from a place of love and support. Maverick has always tried to make his decisions based on what he thinks your parents would want for you. Your mom didn’t want you to fly and yet here you are. And Maverick has to see that and know he failed her. And he failed you. And he will always believe he failed your father.

I never had to second guess my parenting decisions, even if I would later make a different decision with hindsight. I knew I made the best decision I could at the time with the information I had, making it from a place of love, then I couldn’t really regret it. Maverick second guesses everything when it comes to you. For all his don’t think, just do bullshit, he overthinks everything when it comes to you.

One of your parents gave you anything and everything you wanted, because he only saw you for a few months of your entire life. In between all the training and deployments, it just wasn’t enough. He loved you, do not ever doubt that, and he’d be so proud of the man you are today. I believe he would have supported you going to USNA with his whole heart. He’d be proud of you being a naval aviator. He would love that you were a pilot.

Your mother had to become both parents and then manage your early teen years and at the same time she wanted to protect you from everything bad in the world. She couldn’t protect you from losing your father, or then losing her, and I am sure she thought she was protecting you by asking Maverick to pull your USNA papers. However neither of your parents knew you as well as Maverick knew you, and yet he tasked himself with an impossible task.

So you have had a parent who only knew you really as a baby, another as a child, then another as a young man and now you’re an adult with a life and career of his own. You might have a better chance of getting Maverick into therapy than I ever did, simply by asking him. I am proud that you go. That you listened and took my advice. It’s always nice to be right. It’s been a pleasure watching you grow into the man you are today, and I know you will continue to grow.

Having you back in my life has been one of my joys. Getting to know you again, share stories with you. I’ve written a lot more down for you, and there’s a box with your name on it. Lots of photos because I’m old and we had film cameras. Make all the old jokes you want, I’m dead and I don’t care. Growing old is a luxury for some, and I am glad I got as far as I did. Anyway, I think Samantha might be digitizing the photos. Ask her. Please stay in touch with them all. You are a part of our family, even if it didn’t feel that way for you for some years. You are always welcome, never forget that. I want you to be in each other’s lives again. Maverick’s as well. You need him even if you think you don’t. And he needs you too. You’re both going to get invitations to Kazansky family gatherings, and it’s going to be awkward if you’re not talking to each other. At least give it a try. That’s all I’m asking.

Never forget how loved you are Bradley.

By all of your parents.

Ice

Saw you flying today. Made me so proud. Also made me wish I could have flown with you. Watching you fly is like watching the best of myself and Maverick. He is very unhappy with me about the mission. Doesn’t want to have to make the choice. He views it as lose-lose all round, which might be true. I hope it isn’t, for both your sakes. If I have any say in it you’ll all return safely home. I’m tired, so I’m going to go to bed now. Love you kid.

…            …            …

                They’ve been given the day off, which seems a little ridiculous considering how close the mission is. He’s immeasurably glad though, he feels shaky and emotionally raw, and he still has to get through the funeral and somehow process the whole shifting worldview that his mom made Maverick promise. That Maverick wouldn’t just tell him that confuses him, what would he do? Hate his mom for wanting to keep him safe? He just doesn’t get it. He opens his phone, not really having had a chance to look at it since the morning after he’d sent his coffee picture. Jas hadn’t replied by the time he left to go to Ice’s house, but when he opens his phone now he can see he has a couple of new notifications. The coffee cup in reply looks familiar and he realizes it’s his coffee cup. The one he usually uses except this morning… What the hell?

                He opens up Grindr and clicks on the new message, is pretty sure he knows what to expect when it displays and there it is.

>>I’m in the Dagger Squad.

                Just like that his world tilts on its axis again and he stares at the five words. Closes it and then reopens the app. Reads the words again. Actually turns off his phone and forces it to re-start. The words stay the same.

                JAS.

                Born in 1986.

                Texan.

                God he’s an idiot.

                Not just in the navy, he’s a Naval aviator.

                A photo of his own coffee cup sent back to him from this morning.

                He’s laughing at his own stupidity and he’s already cried so much today but he feels like he might just burst into tears again, his emotions all too exposed and he needs to find out where Jas-Jake-Seresin, (what the hell does he call him now?), lives. He rings Natasha, knows she’s still with Coyote. Coyote will know where Jake, (Jake feels right? Maybe?), lives. Because it’s not on base. Of course Coyote won’t give him the address and Bradley feels like screaming. Tells him to ask Jake, then to text it through to him when he gives it to him. He’s that certain Jake will give it to him. He could just ask himself, but he also doesn’t want to give Jake an opportunity to ignore him. Not that he thinks he will.

                Last night suddenly makes a lot more sense, now that he thinks about it. No one else would have known about Ice passing, and yet Jake turned up, because he’d figured it out. God. When did he figure it out? He’s trying to reconcile Jas and Jake Seresin in his head. The brash confident and arrogant naval aviator he knows and has had plenty of sex with, and Jas, the open, vulnerable and sweetly-sassy man that he’s… also had plenty of sex with. Well. At least he knows they can handle the long-distance aspect of any relationship. God he really wants to see him now.

                The address comes through and he taps it into his phone, following the directions as he drives, wishes it was closer. He doesn’t bother telling Jake he’s on his way, he already knows because Coyote has given Bradley his address. With permission. He pulls up and it’s a newly built block of condos, and he has to look for a carpark for too long before he finds one. He lets himself feel annoyed at the poor planning, grateful that it pushes the grief and shocked-joy just to the side for a moment, no matter how brief. It allows him to gather his bearings as he walks up the pavement and knocks on the door. While he waits for an answer, he wonders if he should send a message. Why the hell not.

>>Answer the door Jas.

>>Give me one good reason.

>>I love you.

>>Now please answer the door.

                “Hi.”

                “Hi.”

                He stands there and just… looks. Jake’s wearing exactly the same clothes as when he left Bradley’s place earlier today, and he looks soft. A little scared and Bradley realizes that he’s maybe worried that Bradley might be disappointed somehow. He reaches out, slow enough that Jake can stop him, or step away; cups his cheek in his hand, runs a thumb over the apple of his cheek. Wants to enfold him in a hug and be hugged in return.

                “Thank you.”

                “Uh. You’re welcome?”

                “You want to know what I’m thanking you for?”

                “Sure.”

                “My second chance. Always planned on thanking you in person.”

                “Um. Yeah.”

                Bradley bites his lip, won’t mention aloud the groveling and body worship that Jas had mentioned, is sure that Jake might not yet be in a place to hear him say words out loud. Written word is something completely different. He wants to kiss him, definitely wants to carry out the body worship, but he feels like they’re all the way at the beginning, needing to feel each other out a little bit, emotionally that is.

                “Can I hug you?”

                “Yeah, of course. Come in and close the door.”

                Of all the hugs he’s had today this one feels the best, firm, grounding and warm. Both of Jake’s arms around him, head resting against Bradley’s shoulder while his nose and mouth press against the side of his head. He presses a kiss to the top of his head.

                “When did you figure it out?” Bradley asks.

                “When did I suspect, or when did I know? Because there’s kind of different stages I went through…”

                “Yeah? Want to share? Because I… needed you to point it out apparently.”

                “Always a little slow Bradshaw…”

                “Oh my god I’m never going to live this down am I?”

                “Nope. Probably not.”

                “Okay. I’m okay with that. Come on. Blow me away with your superior intellect…”

                “You want to have this conversation while we hug in my entryway?”

                “I don’t want to let you go.”

                “Oh. I have a sofa? Or a, uh, bed?”

                “How about we start on the sofa. Can we both fit?”

                “Worth a try…”

                He makes himself comfortable in the corner and then holds out his arms, silently inviting Jake to curl up in them, to settle himself in the v of his legs. He desperately wants to be holding him again and hopes he equally wants to be held. Fortunately Jake seems to, relaxes against him and Bradley feels a sense of contentedness well up inside him. They’re both facing the same direction and part of him is glad; feels like it might be a little too overwhelming to have this coming conversation face-to-face. It’s like a compromise between being online versus facing each other.

                “So… what was your first clue?”

                “Uh, your shirt at the Hard Deck. Payback made a comment about how it wouldn’t be possible to miss seeing you arrive and it pinged something in my mind, about when we were meant to met up. You said I wouldn’t miss you…”

                “Ugh. You mean the time I stood you up to sleep with… you. I’m still very sorry about that by the way.”

                “Well, I’ve sort of made my peace with it. I mean, I can stop being jealous about the other guy at least…”

                Bradley huffs in amusement, tightens his arms around him a little.

                “Oh… When you asked whether I was going to apologize about fashion crimes. That was you sounding me out.”

                “Trying at least. You blanked me so I figured it was just a coincidence.”

                “Okay… then what?”

                “Um. I saw a photo of your dad. Nicholas Bradshaw.”

                “Nick.”

                “And Bradley Bradshaw. NickNick. Stupid double-barreled names. Then I remembered your first username, and you hating the name Pete… And how you really don’t like Maverick. Lots of coincidences that just suddenly were too many to just ignore and they made sense.”

                “Yeah…” Bradley breathes, smiling against Jake’s hair. He likes that Jake has been paying such close attention, would never have thought it of Seresin or Hangman, but it’s definitely Jake through and through.

                “So… Uh. I suspected and then seeing that photo kind of confirmed it. Your moustache and how you said you look like him. Your dad I mean. You do look a lot like him. Anyway, I thought you knew who I was, and you were making fun of me.”

                “What? Never...”

                Jake twists to give him a look, eyebrow raised in disbelief and Bradley shakes his head.

                “Not about this,” Bradley stresses.

                “So, I suspected, and then I thought you knew and hadn't told me and I got so angry...”

                “You picked a fight,” Bradley says with dawning realization, because he’s fucking been there and done the same thing, like picking at a wound.

                “I wanted to hurt you. I'm sorry.”

                “I swear I had no idea.”

                “Oh yeah, I know that now. Last night when I turned up... I almost asked you. Last night was when I started to realize that you really had no idea.”

                “Gorgeous and smart…” Bradley says, and he’s never seen Jake blush before, but he’s doing it now, his face going pink from the corner of Bradley’s eye. “And then my coffee cup picture from this morning... Shit. That’s when you really realized I was truly fucking clueless.”

                “Yeah. And I needed to figure out a way of telling you but I had no idea how…”

                “Well, you did a good job telling me. You made my coffee perfectly and I still didn’t put it all together.”

                “Still took you long enough to get here though.”

                “Oh, I didn’t check the messages until about an hour ago. I messaged Coyote pretty much immediately. Did you think it took me that long to figure it out after you told me you were in the Dagger Squad?”

                “Well, it has been about four hours.”

                “No! I’ve been at Ice’s all morning. Spending time with the family.”

                Jake makes a choking sound.

                “You’re actually… family?”

                “Yeah,” Bradley says with a quiet sigh. “After my mom died and when Mav was deployed I lived with Ice and his family. When I left Mav I pretty much left Ice too. I made up with him a few years ago. Here. Read this…”

                He shifts awkwardly and pulls the letter out of his pocket, pulling Jake back into his arms and handing it to him.

                “Are you sure?”

                “Yeah. I have literally no secrets from you.”

                He reads it again over Jake’s shoulder, let’s himself cry again and tries to not feel self-conscious about the fact that he’s holding Jake and crying. He’s allowed to feel emotions. He’s not an automaton.

                “Jesus Bradley…”

                It’s the first time Jake has said his name and he lets out another little hiccupping cry, but it has happiness behind it this time, not that Jake can tell and he lets out a little laugh of just how ridiculous the whole situation is.

                “Yeah. Ever had emotional whiplash? I think that’s what I’m experiencing today. It’s pretty fucking rough.”

                “Stay here tonight. Hell. Did you sleep okay last night? You said you didn’t want to be alone…”

                “Last night was great. Exactly what I needed thank you. And yeah, I’ll stay here. Might need to borrow some clothes.”

                “Or we can just… go to bed.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “Ni-, Ro, Bradley… I do not want to waste any more time, especially considering how much time we might not have.”

                Fuck. Now there’s a depressing thought. Although it also seems like Jake is having the same internal battle about what to call him as he’s been having.

                “What’s your middle name?”

                “What?”

                “I’ve been calling you Jas in my head for so long, when I get angry with you I’m going to need to full name you…”

                “Jacob Andrew Seresin.”

                “Bradley Peter Bradshaw. Nice to meet you.”

                “You’re an idiot,” Jake says, but he’s turning, shifting to face him and Bradley smiles, knows he probably looks messy with fresh tear tracks, but he’s smiling at him and Jake is smiling back.

                “We were so close so many times weren’t we…”

                “Yep. Think it had some silver linings though.”

                “Yeah? Like what?” Bradley asks, because he’s curious.

                “Don’t want to think about some of them right now. Want to take you to bed.”

                “Yeah. Lead the way…”

…            …            …                 Every touch is reverent, and he hasn’t slept with anyone in a long while, not since he last slept with Jake in fact, which has him realizing that he hasn’t done anything sexual with anyone but Jake for… nearly three years. Huh. He’ll share that little tidbit of information later, when he’s not sliding his hands under Jake’s t-shirt and working it up off his body. Jake’s working Bradley’s clothes off, and he doesn’t usually feel the need to check in, not when it’s the middle of the day, both completely sober, but he still needs to, the emotions of everything making it a necessity.

                “Okay?”

                “Yeah, yeah. It's okay. This isn’t our first fucking time…”

                Bradley grins, lets himself press his body against Jake’s, letting them both lower their bodies into Jake’s bed. He’ll pay more attention to Jake’s room and bed when he no longer wants to give absolutely every bit of his attention to the man under his hands and mouth.

                “Sorry if I want to cater to my body worshipping kink…”

                “Selfish,” Jake says, his voice breathy and Bradley bites at his collarbone lightly.

                “Yeah. Very selfish. You should totally kick me to the curb.”

                “Mmm. See if you can convince me otherwise…”

                He feels a happy and excited swoop of pleasure that Jake seems playful, happy in himself to have Bradley in his bed, to stay in his bed for more than just sex.

                “I love you,” Bradley murmurs, and he kisses a trail down Jake's neck, then back up. Lets his fingers touch everywhere he can reach, captures Jake’s mouth in a kiss as he grinds his hips down, feels Jake’s mouth gasp open and he licks into it. They’ve had sex with each other a lot, but it’s never quite felt this heavy. Like every touch, every shift of their bodies against each other, carries with it a little bit extra weight, extra meaning.

                “I love you.”

                There are definite benefits to already being familiar with Jake’s body, knowing how he responds, what he likes. It’s been long enough since they last slept together than it’s all novel and new, while also having the deep-rooted feeling of familiarity and sense of homecoming. He wants to worship every inch of him, Jake seems more than willing to let him. The fact he can pepper his actions with I love you is exhilarating, being able to both show Jake and tell him in equal measure.

                He knows he can make Jake come twice, wants to take him apart and hold him together, give him absolutely everything. God, all the things he’s fantasized about are now potential things they can explore together and he grins into the jut of Jake’s hips, sucks little kisses as he teases along the band of his underwear.

                “Off off, get them off…”

                “It’s been months, or years, depending on how you count. What’s a few more minutes? You know I like the anticipation and building up.”

                “Fuck off, you can edge me another time. I know you want to. Right now I want you to make me come.”

                “Demanding.”

                “Damn right.”

                He pulls Jake’s underwear down and sucks the head of his cock into his mouth as he continues to work the underwear down his thighs. It’s a little uncoordinated, Jake trying to help by thrusting his hips up, his cock hitting the back of Bradley’s throat so suddenly he gags, unprepared, digs his fingers into his hip to stop him from doing it again as he pulls the underwear off and throws it elsewhere. He feels Jake’s fingers running through his hair, deliberately ignores the subtle direction to go faster, slows down and grins when he hears Jake groan and mumble asshole under his breath. Jake groans again, his whole body tensing then relaxing under him and Bradley lets himself finally speed up.

                He shifts, kneels between Jake’s spread legs so he can get an unobstructed view up his torso, can watch his face as Bradley gets his hands and mouth all over him. His fingers encircle Jake’s cock and he works fast, mouth and tongue licking over his balls before sucking the head back into his mouth. Jake is watching him, mouth open, chest shuddering with broken breaths and Bradley feels a swell of sudden and immense gratitude that he gets to have this. That Jake is allowing him to have it.

                “I love you,” he says, his eyes not leaving Jake’s as he opens his mouth and sucks Jake down again, lets Jake’s hips thrust up, ready for it this time and shivers at how gorgeous Jake sounds saying his name. He works his hand faster, presses a knuckle against his perinium, licks and sucks his balls and it’s a tight fit but Jake just stretches his legs wider to give him more space to work. He sees the muscles in Jake’s stomach clench, loves that he knows that that’s one of Jake’s tells, that he’s close to coming. Then he is, shooting up over Bradley’s fist, hitting his chest and stomach.

                “I love you,” Bradley says again, it becomes like a prayer as he runs his hands over his calves and thighs, presses kisses up his inner thigh and his balls again. His eyes haven’t left Jake’s. He licks up Jake’s stomach, cleaning up Jake’s come as he goes, smirks at the little broken sound Jake makes. Wonders if he should have said something about the lack of condom this time, but hopes that Jake simply trusts him. Three fucking years.

                “God I love you…” Bradley whisper, wants, needs, Jake to know the truth of him. Jake kisses him, tongue seeking out every groove between his teeth, moaning against him and he realizes he’s maybe getting off on the taste of himself in Bradley’s mouth. God they’re going to be able to explore and try so much more now that they have the trust that exists between them. Something he knew he wanted, and to have it, he feels so damn lucky.

                Both of Jake’s hands are in his hair, he’s being kissed so thoroughly, Jake’s grinding his hips up against him where he’s partially holding himself above him. Then one of Jake’s hands is on his ass, gripping and pulling and oh. He grinds down, presses his erection against Jake and grins into his mouth.

                “Why are you still wearing underwear?” Jake complains.

                “Mmm… was too busy getting reacquainted with your body.”

                He loves the torn expression on Jake’s face, clearly wants to argue some point, but also can’t think of anything that he can argue about. Instead he digs his fingers into Bradley’s ass cheek and rolls his hips and Bradley moans, much closer than he thought he was. He wants to drag this out, continue re-learning every inch of Jake’s body with all his years of knowledge he’s acquired.

                “Come on, want to get my mouth on you… take you fucking underwear off.”

                Oh. This isn’t quite going the way he had planned in his head, but he stands and quickly strips off the garment which Jake has been scowling at. He’s more than okay doing what Jake wants as well. He follows Jake’s annoyed muttering directions until he’s straddling his chest, head of his cock a mere inch above Jake’s mouth. It’s a fucking gorgeous sight and his mouth is dry as he watches Jake, eyes dark, and then the tight warm heat of Jake’s mouth takes him in and he groans, his hips twitching reflexively. Then Jake’s hands are on his hips, encouraging him and his eyes fall shut as he lets himself start rolling his hips, the suction around his cock tight and warm. He opens his eyes to look at Jake, to give himself a visual to what he’s feeling and experiencing and –

                “Oh god… Jake. Fuck.”

                He pulls out sharply, not able to give any warning before he’s coming. Not that coming all over Jake’s face and neck is any better than coming in his mouth, but he’s not going to assume. His breath is coming in panting gasps, his body shaking and he puts a hand down to hold himself up, stares and Jake’s eyes carefully open and Bradley shifts down, needs to be kissing him again. He cleans up his own come this time, peppers his licks with kisses and murmured I love yous against the shell of Jake’s ear. It’s not what he had planned maybe, but it’s no less perfect. They’re going to need a shower, and he can’t wait to introduce that new level of intimacy into their relationship. He settles beside him, pulls up the sheet and reaches out to place a hand on his waist, fingers brushing softly.

                “So… It’s nice to finally meet you. Properly I mean…” Bradley says, eyes searching Jake’s face and he’s smiling and feeling fond and content. Soft, he realizes, thinking about Natasha’s word she uses to describe him sometimes, especially the last couple of years when he’s been working at getting better at being more in touch with his emotions.

                “I love you,” Jake says, and like hearing his name for the first time Bradley feels like he’s going to burst. At the same time it’s like Jake Hangman Seresin melts away and Jas is there, eyes wet with unshed tears and he kisses him again, feels the wetness slide over the pad of his thumb.

                “I love you so much.”

                “Can’t believe it took us this long.”

                “You know we could have avoided all this if we'd just told each other our names...” Bradley says, because he’s definitely going to dig a little. He’s still him.

                “Names? We could have sent each other photos of our faces…”

                “Neither of which you wanted by the way. So I’m making you take the blame for just how long it took. But you also get the credit for figuring it out…”

                “Damn right I do.”

                “Love you Jake…”

                “God you’re a sap…”

                “Only with you.”

                Jake blushes and Bradley smirks, because genuine sincerity is apparently the way to make him a complete mess.

…            …            …

                Their day back at training after Ice’s funeral he feels more settled and is immediately thrown off balance again by the fact that Maverick isn’t there. He sits there in disbelief as he hears Admiral Simpson outline new parameters and agrees with every muttered and under-the-breath comment. A little distracted by the noise coming in over the radio.

                “Uh, Maverick, range control, uh, green range is confirmed. I don’t see an event scheduled for you, sir.”

                “Well, I’m going anyway.”

                “Nice,” Natasha murmurs and Bradley rolls his eyes. Of fucking course everyone is already impressed with him. He hasn’t even fucking done anything yet.

                “Setting time to target: Two minutes fifteen seconds.”

                “Two-fifteen? That’s impossible.”

                Bradley agrees in principle, however he also knows that Maverick knows himself. He wouldn’t set a time like that if he didn’t truly believe he could fly it. Jake turns around and smirks at him, as if to say this is your fucked up family and Bradley subtly gives him the finger, although inwardly he feels thrilled that he has someone with him, that knows him so well and his whole bullshit relationship with Mav. It’s such a relief, especially now that Ice is gone.

                “Final attack point. Maverick’s inbound.”

                He looks around the room, and he understands why everyone is so invested. If Maverick can do this then it proves it’s actually possible. He already knows it is, Maverick wouldn’t be trying to teach them if he didn’t think it wasn’t possible. But the others need to know it. Know it like he does.

                “Popping in three, two, one.”

                He leans forward, can feel the tension in the room mounting.

                “Bombs away.”

                Seconds tick by.

                “Bull’s-eye!” “Holy shit!” “Yes.”

                “Damn.”

                Damn indeed.

                He knows then, looking at Cyclone and Warlock’s faces that they’re probably going to send Maverick. Make him team lead. Which means either he's going, or Jake is going. There aren’t any guarantees and he can't believe their actual time together may only be counted in days.

…            …            …

                By mutual agreement they don’t talk about it. They also don’t mention anything to anyone else, instead sequestering themselves away at his family home that no-one knows about except Mav, who definitely won’t be looking. They have to air it out, and deal with the dust and cobwebs, but’s it’s not as bad as it could be and he wonders if he has something else to retroactively thank Ice for, even if he can’t anymore. They buy new sheets and pillows and the entire house soon smells of them and sex and takeout food, neither of them wanting to waste time cooking when they can just be holding each other.

                He keeps up his morning cup of coffee picture, tells Jake he doesn’t ever want him to doubt how he feels about him, even when he’s lying in bed and the cup of coffee in question is brought to him by a nearly naked Jake. Tells him the view that comes with his morning cup of coffee is much improved. The time they have together might be short but he’s going to make the most of every moment they have together.

…            …            …

                “It has been an honor flying with you. Each one of you represents the best of the best. This is a very specific mission. My choice is a reflection of that and nothing more.”

                He feels sick. He doesn’t care about flying and proving Mav wrong. Not anymore. He just doesn’t want Jake to go and then not come back. He has no idea who Mav will choose, and he knows Jake feels the same about him going. They’re both good. But there are so many things that can go wrong. There’s a reason why Mav has been listing off fucking miracles.

                “Choose your two foxtrot teams.”

                “Payback and Fanboy. Phoenix and Bob.”

                “And your wing man?”

                “Rooster.”

                The relief he feels is immediate, knowing that Jake is going to be safe. Is going to live. It’s immense. The look of on Jake’s makes him feel sick though, because he knows it’s exactly what he’d be feeling if Jake had just been named Maverick’s wingman instead. They find a quiet spot and Jake kisses him like he’s trying to climb inside his body, Bradley presses them together like he’d let him climb inside if he could. Then they’re having to head up on deck.

                “Give em hell,” Jake says, and he doesn’t need to say any more, he can see the unspoken words in his eyes and tense line of his jaw. You come back to me, you have to come back to me. He nods in understanding, an unspoken promise.

…            …            …

                He can’t lose his last parent, not now.

                God.

                If he survives this Jake is definitely going to kill him.

                And he’s probably going to get kicked out of the Navy.

                He hopes Jake will be okay with him being unemployed.

…            …            …

                “You all right?”

                “Yeah, I’m good. You all right?”

                Then he’s being pushed to the ground and he winces at the pain in his ribs, his head swimming a bit. Fuck. He thinks he has a concussion.

                “What the hell?”

                “What are you doing here?”

                “What am I doing here?

                “You think I took that missile so you could be down here with me? You should be back on the carrier by now!”

                “I saved your life!”

                “I saved your life! That’s the whole point! What the hell were you even thinking?”

                “You told me not to think!” Bradley snaps, because he’s got tone on him now, the fucking self-righteous asshole. They both pant, catching their breath and just stare at each other for a few moments, and he still doesn’t really know how he’s going to relearn how to not be constantly angry or upset with Maverick.

                “Well, it’s good to see you.”

                “It’s good to see you too,” Bradley states, because he’s meant to be building bridges, not yelling, no matter how much of an idiot he thinks Maverick is.

          ��     “So what’s the plan?”

                Maverick is insane.

                That’s the plan.

                No sane person would think this was somehow feasible.

                “You’re not serious.”

                He’s thinking about Ice’s letter, talking about how he was always glad to have Maverick on his side, because it beat having Maverick as an enemy and god he hopes that still remains true. That Maverick has some infinite well of good luck. Or a guardian angel. Hopefully both.

                “You’ve got to be shitting me. An F-14?”

                “I shot down three migs in one of those.”

                “We don’t even know if that bag of ass can fly.”

                “Let’s find out.”

                “Mav!” Bradley calls out, but he’s already hustling away. “Oh for fucks’ sake…” Bradley mutters under his breath as he heaves his aching body up and convinces himself that he has to follow Mav. Does he not have pain receptors? Surely he’s aching at least half as badly as Bradley is.

                “There’s guys up there, Mav.”

                “Yeah.”

                “There’s more over there.”

                “Okay. Let’s start running.”

                “Yeah, run. Run.”

                He feels like he’s stepped back in time, the hangar holding the enemy F14 rusty. His body coursing with adrenaline and Maverick is looking crazy-eyed. Bradley knows the feeling.

                “Once… once I give you the signal for air, you’re gonna flip this switch until the needle gets to 120. When the engine starts, you got to pull out the pins and disconnect everything. You understand?”

                “Yeah.”

                Then Maverick is running around and Bradley’s glad that he apparently knows what he’s doing. He thinks of Ice and how he’d always said how crazy Maverick was. He’d always sort of thought he was exaggerating for the sake of telling a good story but is starting to think he downplayed some of the more dangerous shit that Mav has taken part of. It’s a little terrifying to think about. He hops into the back of the F-14 and stares at all the dials and little screens, only vaguely familiar. Maybe from a visit to a fucking museum. He’s starting to really believe that Mav lives the not thinking aspect of his motto, because when he questions the wings coming out, raises entirely valid concerns about it being a taxiway he is just plain ignored. No. He gets told to hang on, like he has another option or any say in the matter.

                “Holy shit!”

                Holy shit seems to be his inner and outer mantra for the next few moments, Maverick intent on having a one-sided conversation that he doesn’t need to contribute to, which is just as well because he has nothing of value to add. The way Maverick asks him to get in touch with the boat is infuriating, like it’s a simple press of a button like a kid’s walkie-talkie. Nothing is fucking working, and he doesn’t know enough to get it working. He has to ask, feels like Mav is teaching him how to drive all over again, and that was an unmitigated disaster until Ice and Sarah took over.

                “Throw the, uh… The uhf-2 circuit breaker. Try that.”

                “There’s 300 breakers back here. Anything more specific?”

                “I don’t know. That was your dad’s department.”

                “I’ll figure it out,” Bradley mutters, and he continues looking, only to see something out of the corner of his eye and he freezes for a micro-second. “Mav, tally two, five o’clock low. What do we do?”

                No one is ever going to believe him that Mav’s plan here is wave and smile. He follows the instructions though, can hardly believe that it somehow buys enough time for Mav’s brain to speed through however many options he thinks he has. Bradley doesn’t know how many he’s got, he can’t get past the idea that he’s going to die. Again. The idea of dying. Not actual dying. Maybe it’s just a day where he’s going to constantly think he’s going to die, but never actually does. Fuck he really really hopes so. He will live with the nightmares if he doesn’t actually have to die.

                “All right, listen up. When I tell you, you grab those rings above your head. That’s the ejection handle.”

                “Mav, can we outrun these guys?”

                “Not their missiles and guns.”

                “Then it’s a dogfight.”

                “An F-14 against fifth-gen fighters?”

                “It’s not the plane, it’s the pilot. You’d go after them if I wasn’t here,” Bradley states, absolutely certain of the fact. The taxiway was apparently easy and not risky at all. Holy shit his mind supplies.

                “But you are here,” Mav counters.

                “Come on, Mav. Don’t think. Just do.”

                God he hopes he doesn’t die. Then Mav has shot one of them down and he can’t believe it, warns him about the next one, feels helpless without the option to fire his own missiles. Watching the fifth-gen fighter in action is unreal and god he wants to fly one. Then they’re getting low and heading back into the canyon area, heading out toward the sea, so at least in the general direction of the boat at least. He’s grateful that the terrain does seem to confuse the targeting system, that they still haven’t been shot down and he knows if he lives through this he will need to thank Mav every day. Fuck. If Ice is somehow watching he’ll make sure it happens just to ensure they make up. It would be a power move from him for sure.

                When the second fifth-gen plane goes down, the pilot ejecting just before it smashes into the side of the canyon walls Bradley feels his heart start beating again, like his entire body has been in stasis for however long that all took. It probably wasn’t longer than a couple of minutes, but it feels like a lifetime and the briefest moment in time all at once. Through some miracle he gets the radio working, and if anyone asks him what he did he won’t be able to tell them. He attempts to get in touch with the boat, but he’s not sure if it’s working two-way, too distracted by the sudden beeping indicating the location of a bogey and he looks for it, knows he needs to be another set of eyes. Why can they not catch a fucking break? The fifth generation fighter appearing on their nose is a blow, as is them running out ammo, then flares. Nothing left to offer even the smallest splinter of hope. The plane is taking hits and he’s glad they built them to withstand hits because they would be dead by now. Then Mav is talking about gaining altitude and ejecting and he listens this time, pulls the handles desperately, his stomach sinking when nothing happens, the ejection function clearly broken.

                “I’m sorry, Goose.”

                Oh shit. He can almost feel the waves of Mav’s guilt, that his death is going to be as his back seater just like his dad. He feels like throwing up, not advisable and he’s not going to be alive to have to do anything about it –

                BOOM.

                The explosion, cloud of black smoke, vibrations and then the new jet appearing all happen simultaneously. Then the most beautiful sound he’s ever heard.

                “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. This is your savior speaking. Please fasten your seat belts, return your tray tables to their locked and upright positions… And prepare for landing.”

                “Hey, Hangman, you look good.”

                “I am good, Rooster. I’m very good. I’ll see you back on deck.”

                He’s pretty sure there’s a threat in there but he could cry he’s so relieved and happy. Soon the adrenaline coursing through his body is going to stop and he’s going to hit a wall but Jake will be there. Mav will be there.

                He’s alive.

                Nothing else matters.

…            …            …

                Having working engines to land matter.

                He’s once again very glad that Mav is the one flying.

                Fuck this shit.

…            …            …

                He’s never crash landed on a deck before and he never wants to do it again. He wonders if people have bucket lists of things they don’t want to have happen, but which have happened anyway. Sounds like it might make for depressing lists.

                “You good?”

                “Yeah. I’m good,” Bradley says, but he’s already thinking about saying similar words to Jake. Searches for him as he steps down from the F-14, his legs wobbly, body aching and head starting to pitch like he’s in a storm. He spies Jake, can’t help but smile at him goofily. He looks so good and he wants to kiss him. It’s probably not a good idea.

                “Chalked yourself another kill.”

                “That makes two,” Jake says, and Bradley will save the fact that he now technically has three for a day when he needs to bring Jake down a peg. Or when he needs to remind him that he had no choice, because taking life is not a thrill either of them particularly want.

                “Mav has five. Makes him an ace.”

                Bradley shakes his head, because he’s pretty sure Mav doesn’t like the idea that he’s killed people either, although again he expects similar sage advice to don’t think if he ever asks him about it. Maybe he might surprise him though. He calls out to him, glad they’re at least going to have a chance of mending their relationship and he smiles, starting to feel the world tilt again.

                “Thank you for saving my life.

                “It’s what my dad would’ve done,” Bradley says, and he knows it’s the truth. The hug he gets has him wincing and Jake hasn’t stepped further away than a couple of feet, has clearly been watching him carefully, is pushing his way towards him, his hands running over Bradley's face and torso in concern and he presses his face into his hand, suddenly feeling like sleep would be a really good thing to do right now.

                “You need to go to the fucking sickbay.”

                “Uh… Something you want to share with the class Hangman?” Natasha asks.

                “Yeah. I just saved his life, don't want him to fall off the fucking carrier and waste all my hard work.”

                “Come on, take me to sickbay.”

                “Okay, that’s weird... Maybe he's concussed,” Natasha says.

                “Oh, he’s definitely concussed,” Maverick says, and Bradley wants to argue, but Jake’s arm is around his waist and supporting him, leading him away from the noise.

                Then they’re going down some steps, Jake turns at the bottom and reaches for him, kisses him and Bradley smiles and hums appreciatively, even with his brain feeling like it’s swimming in soup he’ll never turn down being kissed by Jake.

                “I thought you were taking me to sickbay?”

                “I am, but first I’m going to kiss you because I am so happy to see you alive. And I won’t yell at you, because I’m pretty sure you’ve got a concussion –”

                “And broken ribs,” Bradley adds, because he’s pretty that where the pain is coming from.

                “Jesus Rooster. I am so angry with you. How dare you risk yourself like that. You’re an idiot!”

                “Your idiot though. I hope?”

                “Yes you’re mine. Damn it. Come on, sickbay.”

                “Thought you were going to kiss me?”

                “I did, but then you mentioned broken ribs. And I’m thinking we’re going to have to get creative for a little bit while you mend… come on.”

…            …            …

                Of course Mav ends up in the sick bay too, being forced to be looked over by an exasperated Cyclone and amused looking Warlock. Both clearly relieved that everyone is back alive, even if not well.

                “So, how long have you two been together then?” Mav asks, and Bradley follows his gaze to his and Jake’s linked fingers. The fact that Jake hasn’t left his side. Yeah. That’s not subtle at all. He guesses they’re done with keeping it from everyone then. He’s more than okay with that.

                “Couple of days.”

                “Over a decade.”

                They look at each other and both pull a face.

                “It's complicated.”

                Maverick looks between them and simply nods his head.

…            …            …

                Jake doesn’t leave him alone, only when Natasha arrives and tells Jake to go and eat and have a shower does he actually go, kissing him quickly and throwing Natasha a wink as he leaves. She looks a bit worried and confused and he’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much.

                “So… you finally giving up on your penpal huh? Settling with Hangman?”

                “What?”

                “Your online boyfriend. You giving the thing with Hangman a go instead now? I thought you were… going with the guy online.”

                “Uh. Not exactly. Jake is my online boyfriend.”

                “What?”

                “Yeah.”

                “The guy you’ve been… holy shit. You’ve been together for years and you’ve only just figured it out?”

                Oh fuck, he realizes his mistake then, realizes he’s never going to hear the end of it. From both her and Jake both. And probably fucking Coyote too.

                “Haven’t the two of you been fucking each other for like, the last three years?”

                “Natasha!”

                “Oh no, I have heard too many drunken ramblings about his ass to let this go. You owe me so many foot massages if you want me to keep this quiet.”

                “Fuck.”

 …           …            …

>>I need to tell you something.

>>Through Grindr?

>>Yeah well, it’s relevant I guess.

>>Wanted to tell you before I delete it off my phone.

>>I haven’t hooked up with anyone but you since 2016.

>>I mean, it’s either been you in person, or you on here. So no one but you.

                “Really?” Jake asks, voice loud in the quiet of the room.

                “Yeah, really.”

                “Oh.”

                “Mmm. You’re my first choice online and you’re my first choice in person so pretty much makes you my only choice…”

                “Good. Just the way I like it.”

                “Me too.”

2019 - Jake's POV

[lauralot89]

Transition and Athletics

Before her own transition in 2004, Harper expected that her 10,000-meter race time might increase by "a minute or two" as her testosterone level dropped and she slowed. But in less than a year, Harper was running a full 5 minutes slower than her personal best. "It just blew me away, and it very much piqued my interest as a scientist."

In 2005, Harper realized her experience wasn't unique after reading an article in Runner's World about another transgender female runner who had also become significantly slower. But when Harper searched for studies about the physiology of transitioning, she found none. So on nights and weekends, she began to moonlight on a research project.

Harper showed that the athletes' age grades before and after hormone therapy remained nearly the same. That is, the women were as competitive with their age- and sex-matched peers as they had been when competing against men. They weren't, in other words, likely to dominate women's races. "No one had previously looked at actual performance of transgender athletes pre- and posttransition," Vilain says.

Harper has since shown similar results for a transgender rower, a cyclist, and a sprinter. Together, the findings make a case that previous exposure to male levels of testosterone does not confer an enduring athletic advantage.

— "This scientist is racing to discover how gender transitions alter athletic performance—including her own" Science.org

Additionally, the hormone-replacement therapy—which starts before surgery can occur and is taken by many who don’t choose to have surgery—also has a tremendous impact on athletic performance. The extent to which testosterone blockers (given to transgender women in conjunction with estradiol, a form of estrogen) erode a runner’s strength and stamina is hard to measure, says Dr. Wylie Hembree, a New York–based endocrinologist who has been treating transgender patients for 20 years. He says, “Anecdotally, I have had avid runners say to me that they can no longer run the distances and speeds they could run before, and one can presume that that could be due to the reduction in testosterone levels.”

Gapin noticed that despite putting in the same effort, she was running slower, losing a minute or even two per mile fairly soon after starting on hormones. She also experienced a significant decrease in her vitamin D levels (although this is not a common side effect of hormone-replacement therapy), which went undiagnosed for two years and greatly affected her training. “When I started taking supplements to raise my vitamin D levels, I’d get to a point in my running where I’d just be crushing it and running 50 miles a week, and then again, I would plummet to 6 miles, so I was yo-yoing back and forth,” she says.

In the three-plus years she has been on hormones, Liston believes she has lost around 10 percent of her running speed; working her way back up to where she was before is no easy feat. “But I’ve also come to accept some of that as part of aging,” she says. “My body at 47 is different than my body at 40, and despite the hormones—I now wear a B cup—and my stamina being less, I also don’t have the same goals with my running that I used to before my transition, when I was running with anger and frustration. Now, running is much more soothing to me.”

— "Being Transgender and What It Means for a Runner," Women's Running

She used to be able to run 5:30s. Now she can’t. She trains, she pushes herself, she uses everything she has; it doesn’t matter. On the weekend-morning group runs, when serious Marin runners gather near trailheads to pace each other up the dirt roads that climb Tamalpais, Janet starts with the pack, as she has nearly every Saturday and Sunday for 25 years. “Usually there are a lot of guys,” she says. “They start slow. I stay with them for the first mile. Then I start falling away. They’re chatting. They don’t even notice.”

When she was Jim Furman, a 5’11”, 148-pound middle-aged man in excellent physical shape, she kept up.

As Janet Furman Bowman, a 5’11”, 148-pound middle-aged woman in excellent physical shape, she’s too slow.

That, to her astonishment and irritation and unceasing soft regret, is the permanent price she has paid.

— "A 6-Minute Difference," Runner's World

or basically

[kennyomegasweave]

8 Shows to Get to Know Me

The rules seem pretty simple, just to list 8 shows to get to know me. Some people have explanations and some don't so we'll see.

I was tagged by @negrowhat.

Teen Wolf (2011-2016, 2023) Okay, I'm not necessarily proud of this one, but it was my favorite show when it was on for it's five seasons and I unironically loved the movie this year. Did it have LOTS of problems? Yes. Do I care? No. Scott McCall is one of my favorite characters of all time. Derek Hale was a flop his entire life and I loved him for it. I legit have two arrow tattoos cause of this show dammit, lol.

Shameless (2011-2021) I'm ghetto white trash. I come from two lines of Slavs and American poor. I will always love it. Was it outlandish? Yeah. Did it show some real ass shit? Yeah. Did I cry at it more than once? Yeah. Did Ian and Mickey getting married heal my heart? No, but it was very nice to see. I legit live in my childhood home on the southside. I am a gay with bipolar. I am technically on probation right now. I don't think I need to say anymore.

OZ (1997-2003) I started watching this show way too young. It was the most ridiculous, dramatic, ain't shit, had no business show. And yet I still own the DVDs and made my best friend start watching it. She's mad as hell at it, but she agreed to watch it knowing she would be mad as hell. And she's now the one being like "fuck we can watch another season, I hate this fuckass show but I want to watch." A win is a win.

Generation Kill (2008) Yes, the American military complex is bad af. But this show is funny as fuck. It didn't hesitate to show these dudes are just regular ass dudes. There was no hero worship. My bestie and I still quote it to each other all the time. Plus the HBO War fandom was amazing back in the day. So many good edits and fics.

Queer As Folk (2000-2005) Okay this show did not hold up well at all. What with the, you know, main relationship that we all loved and rooted for being Brian (29) and Justin (17). But we didn't have anything else back then okay! I still love this show, but maturing is watching it and realizing Ben and Michael were the best couple, Melanie was never wrong and should have left Lindsay, Lindsay was bisexual and needed therapy to stop being dickmatized by her gay best friend she never got to sleep with because he's a gay man, Justin also needed therapy for so many reasons like so many, and Brian needed to like just stop just stop in general.  Also, it legit took 5 YEARS and Justin also almost being killed for Brian to say "I love you" and we all just celebrated that like it was the greatest thing despite it taking FIVE YEARS. Again, it was all we had. But I still love how it showed gay people having sex and enjoying it and not really much shame or whatever. And the "admit the truth, you love him" speech is something I STILL quote for my ships to this day. Like it was very "we're here, we're queer, get used to it" and that was AMAZING for 14 year old baby gay Clyde.

South Park (1997-Present) It's ain't shit to it's core. It's hilarious. It's still my humor. I've been watching since season 7. Sometimes I don't agree with the takes, but lots of times I do. And when it's not even trying to have a take it's just straight funny. When I'm in a low cycle, I put it on and can at least get some laughs, which is hard to do when I can't even get myself to shower and leave my house.

South of Nowhere (2005-2008) Okay. Listen. I'm a gay lady. I wasn’t really coming to terms with it in my teens, despite having a whole ass friend I was having sex with despite being like THIS MEANS NOTHING THIS IS NORMAL IT'S NORMAL TO GET NAKED WITH YOUR HOMIE RIGHT and then she moved and I gay panicked and didn't return her calls ever and ignored her on myspace, then this show came out and I was like ...oh. Oh I see. So yeah. The N had a show about a teenage lesbian realizing she was a lesbian cause she fell in love with her out bisexual friend. And then they had a relationship! And they stayed in it! And like they had sex and it was normal and fine and just yeah. This show meant a lot to me.

TharnType (2019-2021) Honestly I haven't had this show for very long personally but it is one of my favorites. I've watched it twice in less than a year. It's a hot ass mess. It's perfect. It's problematic and toxic and everything I love. Type is on that "I can hit my bitch" gay energy from back in the late-00s, which is bad don't get me wrong, but it's so delicious to watch because he's just so small, angry, and hopelessly in love. He really got the D one time ONE TIME and stayed gagging for it for the REST OF HIS LIFE. That is amazing. That is art. If you can't see how that's not the greatest thing you've ever seen, I'm sorry I can't help you. Techno remains my favorite friend in all of the BL shows I've watched now because everything he did, EVERYTHING, was gold. Lhong was BATSHIT INSANE and it was the greatest thing I've ever witnessed. My bestie has ZERO interest in any of my "gay Thai shows" but she has said she will watch this one with me because "it sounds ridiculous and it's just gonna make me mad, but you already have me watching OZ and that makes me mad so let's do it." Plus it's got "her boy" Mew. It's amazing. I'm making my straight bestie watch it and I am already so ready to watch her watch this show. I even liked the sequel. Type and Techno were really out here like IS HE CHEATING ON YOU WITH THIS GIRL like Tharn was not a whole ass homosexual who already had the convo back in college about trying pussy once and going ew. He really put on a fire fit to scare off a woman claiming his GAY man. Amazing. How could anyone hate this show. I don't understand. lol

Tagging: @whitehinagiku, @maibpenrai, @yourrescuemission, @ohnegroplease

[findusinaweek]

Top 10 movies

Tagged by @aeide​ like....29 days ago. Cool. A lot of stuff happened lately and also I had to think about this and remake the list at least 7 (now 9) times. So. This is probably not true but it has old favorites and current bias and I’ve put far too much thought into this. Under cut because of gifs causing loading/flashing. Uhhhhh. I feel weird about tagging this, since it’s been so long. I can’t remember who has done it and who hasn’t. Gonna tag folks who I don’t remember seeing. If you’ve done it, or you don’t want to, that’s cool! Sorry I took forever with it. @blue-mono​, @cataliinaa​, @whereforartthoumisthios​, @fikali​, anyone else who wants?

1) The Hours

It has music by Philip Glass! Meryl Streep plays a queer woman and that was important to me as a teenager. It’s very sad but it is always there for me when I feel bleak. It’s just a part of my psyche and I can’t really explain it at this point.

2)  Lord of the Rings 2: The Two Towers (Extended Version)

Every Thursday for about 8 years the closest group of cousins and I would watch a movie while we had our piano lessons and most of those years we just watched LOTR 2 and 3 extended versions. Every Thursday. For about 8 years. 2/4 people (including me) are most likely autistic, yes. 2/4 (not including me) can play the piano. We are very annoying about LOTR. Anyways, look! It’s Haldir! The first man I loved to die of a weapon through the head. Yeah. I love that guy. Also, this film has great french horn!

3) Pride and Prejudice (2005)

I cannot express how much I love this movie. I cannot explain all the things about it I love. I cannot. Music is by Dario Marianelli (I can play to the second page of the score to “Living Sculptures of Pemberly” on piano. It only took 5 years), Directed by Joe Wright, Kiera Knightley stars as Elizabeth Bennett. I adore the dresses, the hair, the casting, the music, the fact that Simon Wood’s hair continued growing red after filming, the statues in Pemberly, the tiling on the floors in Pemberly, the way Mary plays the piano, Georgiana, Darcy’s sideburns, the HAND FLEX, the weird pig scene, The flower Tom Hollander holds, the nod to Henry Purcell, ect. 4) Anna Karenina (2012)

Dario, Joe, Kiera, and a train walk into a movie. Do not get me started.

5) The Parent Trap (1998)

I saw this as a kid and made my mom watch it with me over and over and over again. She didn’t mind. She thinks she’s like Chessy, but she’s not. She doesn’t cook, for one. And she doesn’t wear a denim shirt. I do though. We still quote this to each other. Formative.

6) A Place Promised in Our Early Days

An earlier Makoto Shinkai movie. The plot is confusing and boring if I’m honest. The background animations are breathtaking. If you like anime but also like  realism in art, I’d highly recommend any Makoto Shinkai movie for visuals.

7) The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)

Do you ever just want to eat a sandwich and listen to old italian music and watch your enemy best friend and lover drown? No? huh. Amazing soundtrack! Spy drama! COSTUMING. It makes me laugh! Henry Cavill! Solo/Kuryakin/Teller should be canon. I was pretty upset about the whole Armie Hammer thing, tbh, because I really wanted a sequel to this. But I’m ok with that not happening.

8) Fly Away Home

The first media I wallowed in. Would rewind to the scene with Mary Chapin Carpenter’s “10,000′s miles” and sit way too close to the screen. When we got it on dvd my life changed. I could just press the button!? I didn’t care about the geese, really. I cared about the deep grief this kid was having. Someone probably should have questioned why I was watching it on repeat and gotten me into therapy a lot earlier. All in all, it’s a pretty movie.

9) A Single Man

I love this movie but I gotta admit I skip around watching it. It’s so depressing, I can’t watch it all at the same time. I like the music a lot, good cello. I love watching Colin Firth be miserable. I like crying with George. I don’t give a shit about Charley (except for her house and dress. Sorry Julianne Moore.) I hate Kenny. I want to live in George’s house. I want to live there. It is the J.W. Schaffer House. It’s a modernist house built in 1949 by John Lautner. I want to lick touch that woodwork. UGH. The glass. UGH. I love it. UGH. It’s such an impractical house. UGH. It’s so dumb. UGh. I want to go lay down on the floor, surrounded by books, in that house. uGH.

10) Underworld

What a dumb movie. Somewhere in my mom’s house is a Windows XP with a folder of photos of Selene that I thought were really cool, for some reason that I couldn’t figure out. That computer also has viruses from badly pirating the movie in 2008. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen and probably the first R rated movie I snuck. On this list because of the family computer destruction. And the ‘armor’, if you can call it that.

[brightbeautifulthings]

Ordinary People by Judith Guest

"The things which hurt instruct--Benjamin Franklin. That was one of Arnold's favorites. Not true, though. The things which hurt don't always instruct. Sometimes they merely hurt."

Year Read: 2005, 2015, 2023

Rating: 5/5

About: The Jarrets are a typical upper-middle class family living in Lake Forest, Illinois. Cal is a tax attorney and the provider for his family, Beth the organized, efficient housewife. They have one son, Conrad, although they used to have two. Ordinary People presents a family isolated by grief and learning to find their way through it. The following triggers play major roles in the plot/themes of the novel and are discussed at length in the narrative and the following review. Trigger warnings: child/sibling death, suicide attempt (graphic), suicidal ideation, drowning, violence, blood, depression, grief, guilt, self-loathing.

Thoughts: I read this for the first time in high school, and like most assigned reading back then, I adored it while everyone else hated it. After nearly fifty years since it's been published, there are certainly books out there that handle suicide, depression, therapy, and grief better than this one (I've even read some of them), but Ordinary People was the first book I ever read that talked directly about those issues. I've never forgotten it or the way it attempts to both bring attention to and normalize them--it’s right there in the title. These are ordinary people, struggling with things that could and do happen to anyone. Occasionally, it can come over a bit dated, but on the whole I think it's survived time really well. It's not hard to picture the Jarret family in any decade.

I've read this so many times that Guest's writing is like slipping on a comfortable sweater. I enjoy the way the narrative slowly uncovers the history of the Jarret family, how they got the way they are, and why they think and behave the way they do. The relationships are complicated and interesting, particularly among the three family members: Conrad, the teenage son, Cal, the father, and Beth, the mother. Their relationships with Buck, the older son who is no longer there, also play a major role in the story.

The narrative switches between Con and Cal (which I think was a mistake, making their names so similar; even being familiar with this story, I mixed them up a few times). As a teenager, I found it easy to relate to Con and the pressure of simply getting through a normal day. His arc in the story is arguably the best as we watch him work through school, home, and therapy in the wake of a suicide attempt. Guest makes no attempt to gloss over the grim reality of those issues, the fact that they may be lifelong struggles, or that they often don't end in recovery. There is a slight privilege issue, given that Con comes from a upper-middle class suburban family that can afford treatment.

I thought I would find myself relating more to Cal as an adult, but the character I actually sympathized with more on this read was Beth. We don't have the benefit of her perspective (for good reason-- she's as isolated from the reader as she is from her family) and she acts quite selfishly, but I could better see the way grief divides her from her husband and son. Sometimes, the only person you can save is yourself. I cry every time I read it because it's so personal and so human, but it's ultimately a book I reach for when I need to be reminded that there's hope at the end of grief. Anyone who has ever been through something similar will see something of themselves in it.

[ravenheartxvi]

So I've had this Tumbler for a while now, long time lurker and rarely posting. Just thought I'd give a little better introduction of myself than what my bio says.

I mostly prefer to keep to myself so excuse my sparse social interactions, haha. You can call me Charlie and I am definitely female. I was born the year Dr. Robert Ballard discovered the remains of the Titanic and for some inexplicable reason, I feel a connection to the “unsinkable” ocean liner. I had a minor obsession with the ship as a teen, and tend to enjoy reading about it, or watching documentaries or youtube videos of it. I am also a lover of Tudor history. 

My main interest here on Tumbler surrounds the Sims and fanfiction. I’ve been an avid simmer since the original Sims came out. I don’t know about anyone else, but for some reason I can get a kind of god complex when I play the sims, lol. I discovered mods during the Sims 3 and have been hooked ever since. My two favorite mods are MC command center and Wicked Whims. I’ve also used the extreme violence mod before and some of the sims storylines I created with these mods are rather, ahem, interesting. I would be willing to share if anyone is interested, just fair warning, these interesting sims stories are NSFW. 

My other love includes fanfiction. I first got involved in 2001 and was introduced in a now defunct Harry Potter site. My earliest fics are now lost. I later became prolific on fanfiction.net and you can still see my works there through the link in my profile. In 2005 I switched from Harry Potter over to Star Wars. For a brief time I had drifted into Gilmore Girls before drifting back to Harry Potter and back to Star Wars where I am currently firmly based. I have grown annoyed with fanfiction.net and decided to switch over to Archive of Our Own where all my current fics are being posted. 

My favorite fic trope is time travel/ time travel fix-its. 

I enjoy a variety of AU’s Such as: Anakin doesn’t fall, Darth Vader/Padme Amidala fics where Anakin was raised as a Sith, Character X doesn’t die, Luke and Leia were raised by at least one of their parents, and a multitude of variations of these tropes. In recent months I’ve gotten into modern au anidala fics, a trope that I’ve avoided for a while. 

My ships include:

Harry Potter/Hermione Granger

Rory Gilmore/Logan Huntzberger

Anakin Skywalker(Darth Vader)/Padme Amidala

Luke Skywalker/Mara Jade

Leia Organa/Han Solo

Ships that give me the willies but I wont judge those who enjoy them:

Anakin Skywalker/Obi-Wan Kenobi * Because they literally equate each other as brothers/family and have both said so more than once. 

Anakin Skywalker/Ahsoka Tano * These two have a big brother/little sister dynamic and nothing anyone says can dissuade me. 

Hermione Granger/ anyone who is a Death Eater. * Because, WTF? You know what I’m talking about, don’t lie.

Psychology is an interest of mine and I enjoy incorporating it into my works in recent years. If I could pass math and had the finances, I would pursue a degree in the subject. Mental Illness is a subject that is very important to me and I like to consider myself an advocate for the support of mental illness and fully believe in the benefits of therapy. So I do not, under any circumstances, tolerate the use of words like crazy and all its synonyms as a form of insult. Everyone struggles with something so a little kindness and understanding, compassion, is something we should extend to everyone around us, including those who have wronged us. I am very open with talking about my own struggles, in the hopes that I can help someone else struggling in whatever way I can. Sometimes, it helps to know that you are not alone in your struggles. 

I am not perfect, in any way, but I try to be a decent person with integrity. I make mistakes and often struggle in how to fix those mistakes. Often, I need people to come to me and tell me if I have hurt or offended them due to my own lack of a filter and impulsivity. I am very open to listening to grievances and to finding a way to work through those grievances. However, what I will never do is blast those grievances or work through them in a public forum. I prefer not to stir drama on the internet. It is preferable, IMHO, to work through any issues privately rather than air it all publicly. I have seen a lot of examples when grievances are aired online and it only ever invites people outside the situation to insert themselves into the situation and stir the drama even further. I have no interest in participating in such situations, it is way too stressful. This is why I have distanced myself from facebook. I would much rather save this account for stress relief fun. 

And here, I feel that I should reiterate another point I made in my profile. I very rarely, if ever, check my messages here on tumbler. When I first joined and for quite a while, the only messages I would receive was porn spam. So I found myself avoiding my messages here. I have zero interest in accepting porn spam. No, I will not check out your webcam. No, I am not interested in watching hot women or connecting with hot women. While I appreciate the female form and have had some celebrity girl crushes, I am very interested in men. And no, I am also not interested in unsolicited penis pictures either. Why do I appear to be interested in this shit? 

Back to a fun topic. My love for history, sims, fanfiction and geeky stuff is also accompanied by my love for music. My two favorite genres of music are Rock and Classical. I have a wide variety of music tastes but I can’t stand country music and disco. Ick…lol! I was exposed to a wide variety growing up so of course I love music. I listen to music during a majority of everyday tasks and while I read and write. My music library is absolutely huge! 

If Interested, I have compiled a personal playlist that expresses my life through song. You can check it out here:

[charnelhouse]

flesh

Pairing: Ransom Drysdale x F!Reader Wordcount: 5K Warnings: Graphic Gore. Mentions of torture. Serious trauma. Very upsetting thoughts. Bad therapy. DARK subject matter. Smut. Angst. Ransom is probs OOC. Cheating. Drinking. Drug Use. The use of cunt in a mean way. This is bleak (sort of happy ending though :)) Summary: Ransom agrees to a road trip. A/N: I wrote a Ransom Drysdale/Texas Chainsaw Massacre mash-up. Don't ask me why. I started this a couple weeks ago after reading Kin and just had to get it done. Sometimes idk where my mind goes lmao. this is pretty messy bc I haven’t beta’d it. Tis a writing exercise

Ransom didn’t do road trips. He definitely didn’t do them when the whole ride was bathed in swampy heat. The air was so thick it stuck to the asphalt. They're in the middle of nowhere. Texas, maybe? He’d been drunk for most of it. He stashed expensive scotch in the trunk. Three bottles.

It’s a double date. You’re his childhood friend - a girl he’s known since he was ten years old. Harlan's goddaughter.

It’s the kind of friendship that was birthed out of necessity - force. Their parents did yearly vacations together and they just had to make something of it. Twenty years later and it’s him and it’s you and this girl, Lauren, he fucked like three times and then your somewhat-steady dimwit of a boyfriend, Paul.

Paul…the name gives him a rash.

Ransom appraises him from the backseat. The loser is tapping his fingers across the steering wheel as he hums to the music. He's like a ken doll with golden hair and tan skin and a baby-face. Ew. Lauren is riding shotgun because Ransom can’t deal with her right now. He’s just not in the mood to play his part for her today. He doesn't need her rubbing up against him as he tries to drown out whatever the hell is going spoiled in the interior of this car.

Why the fuck did he come here?

Ransom.

What?

You owe me.

For?

The millions of times that I’ve saved your ass from shit dates.

What do you want?

A road trip. New Orleans and all the way to Santa Fe. It’ll be fun.

You and me? How romantic.

No…no…bring someone.

He didn’t really bust your ass about it. He assumed that you thought that a one-on-one car ride with your kind-of-sort-of-boyfriend was just too much too soon. It’s not as if he had important things to do. He’d spent the entirety of the summer doing nothing, but jacking off to pornhub and developing a drinking problem.

As the red stain of the Texas sun bludgeons through his sunglasses, he takes another heavy swallow. The burn is more subtle now that he's reached a calming level of not-sober. It warms his esophagus, expanding throughout the shell of his chest. He’s buzzed and jittery and he can smell your flower market perfume.

At least - he was developing a drinking problem in motion rather than stretched out on his bed back in Boston.

Lauren reaches for him behind the seat - her long pink nails outstretched and waiting. He rolls his eyes and grasps her hand. He squeezes before letting go just as quickly.

You cast him an amused glance before staring past him and out toward the churning green-gold mass of the grass and fields and pale-blue sky.

Ransom can’t help but notice that you're sporting blunt nails and dark blue polish. Ugh. Lauren had been fine. She blew him in the backseat while you and 2005’s Abercrombie & Fitch rep were cuddling at a diner when they stopped in Round Rock. Lauren didn’t seem all that jealous of the fact that his closest friend was a chick and a hot one at that.

Wasn’t his fault that you grew into your face.

Also - wasn’t his fault that he’d fucked you a couple times.

It was easy for them. They were good with each other. They’d never gone beyond that because, quite frankly, he was a fucking bastard and you didn’t have the patience.

It's better this way Ransom. You'd drive me insane. We're too volatile.

You mean I'm too volatile.

Yes.

You don't complain about that when I have you on my cock.

Jesus. You're impossible.

He just liked you. He had memorized you. He knew your scent and your skin and the exact way you liked to come. Plus - you swallowed.

***

He may or may not have screwed you in the hotel back in New Orleans. They’d been out all day. Ransom had a sunburn and was surviving off a single beignet and a belly full of alcohol. Paul and Lauren had gone out to get more beers to bring back. Ransom had slipped Paul a bundle of cash to see if he could find any blow. He'd need it if he was going to get through the night.

You’d been lying next to him on the hotel’s garish crimson comforter. Both of them drunk off too many hurricanes as they rubbed against each other in that subtle way where they meant it to be platonic, but it turned into something too warm and too intimate. Your gaze met his and it happened as it always did.

His pants around his ankles and your shorts yanked off one leg so he could open you up. He spread your thighs wide and rocked into you in long, lazy strokes.

“You should break up with that guy,” he husked as he licked your jaw. The bed creaked and every punch of his cock made breathy little moans pop out of your mouth.

You didn’t answer him, but you did flex your cunt around his length so that he choked.

“Brat,” he growled as he hitched your knees over his shoulders and bent you in half. The room spun with the salt of their sweat and the wet slap of skin and his rumbling grunts. He pounded into your slick heat, feeling like he could die like this.

“C’mon, baby,” he taunted - his voice rich and smug. “You can’t tell me that someone gives it better to you than I do.”

You shook your head - eyes widening as he ground his pelvic bone into your clit. He really could make you cock dumb when he wanted. You’d be all noises - desperate uh uh uh ohmygod ohfuck ohshit -

“Ransom,” you gasped and he fucked you harder.

“That’s it,” he urged as he felt your pussy begin to spasm and twitch - milk him. He brushed his knuckles over your cheek. You were so warm - almost feverish. “That feels good, yeah? Fuck - you take my cock like you were made for it.”

It was the same song and dance. They’d date other people and then fuck once in a blue moon, which only served to remind them how sexually compatible they were. He claimed you. You claimed him. But all the rest - the emotional fallout - was sprinkled in the shadows outside the bed. Their friendship was too much to risk.

You dragged your fingers through his hair - the blunt nails scraping his scalp - before you lifted your hips so that he could plunge deeper. “Come for me, Ransom. Please…please…”

Afterward - they slowly fixed themselves. The air curiously sober. He glanced at your cunt - flushed and swollen and leaking the load he’d just filled you with. He traced his finger through your folds - making you shiver. He pushed his come back inside - his flaccid dick throbbing when you clamped around his knuckles.

“Do you use a condom with Paul?” He said his name like it was trash - like he was some nasty bothersome insect between them.

You blinked at him and the corner of your lips quirked. “What do you think?” There was no guilt in your eyes - no shock at what they'd done. This was just how it was with them. He wondered that if he ever got married - would he still keep fucking you? Probably. Your pussy was just too good. “I think they’re coming back,” you remarked with your legs still spread - your body boneless and your expression contemplative like it wouldn’t even matter if they did come back in and see them like this. He gripped the denim shorts and lacy pink underwear around your ankle and started tugging them up your leg - over the bump of your knee.

He kissed you - wet and messy and with too much tongue - until he heard the key card ping at the hotel door.

***

Ransom drops his forehead against the glass. It’s too hot here. Too sour with humidity. He shoots you a sidelong glance - grimacing as a wave of dizziness overtakes him. You're lounging against the other window, studying your phone. Weren’t you supposed to be enjoying the grand ole USA?

He swallows his spit. Too much alcohol had left him with cotton-mouth.

He wants to fuck you. Again. He wants to ditch Lauren and Paul and go back to a hotel and order expensive wine and lick your cunt.

He tips his bottle back and he feels the heat of you at his bare arm. You'd scooted closer when he wasn't looking. He’s dressed so casually. Jeans and a v-neck and he hasn’t shaved in a while because you said you liked it.

He takes another sip. Scotch really doesn’t fucking mesh with this thick Texas heat.

“You’re enjoying that,” you observe as you tap the bottle with your index finger.

You don’t chastise him. You never give him shit, which is why they work. It’s always just: Ransom. Ransom. Ransom. You’re a mess.

Sometimes you call him Hugh to really piss him off.

He smacks his lips and offers you a crooked smile. “It’s doing wonders for my boredom.”

“I heard this back way has some interesting spots,” Paul shouts over his shoulder - against the loud rolling beat of Semisonic. Lauren’s got her feet on the dash and the dude doesn’t say a word. It’s his car. If it had been Ransom’s he would have swatted her. But Ransom wouldn’t drive an SUV and Ransom wouldn’t fucking be here if it wasn’t for the girl beside him.

I can’t say no to you.

You’ve said no to me a thousand times.

Well - I don’t remember those.

You squeeze his thigh - cocking your head with a mischievous sort of gleam in your eyes. “Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

He shoves his hand under your ass and prods you through your jeans. You yelp. “I’d rather be up your back way.”

You punch him hard in the shoulder and he hisses. “Fuck you gotta lay off those boxing classes. That hurt.”

You laugh - completely unfazed by his dirty mouth. He catches Paul’s narrowed glare in the rearview mirror and smirks. Dork.

“I’m down,” Lauren yells over Third Eye Blind. Ransom winces. He wonders if he could get Paul to fuck Lauren. He already doesn’t like him for you. He’s not good enough. Too clean cut. He’s wearing a fucking polo.

Paul twists the wheel to the left and starts driving down a narrow dusty road. Ransom frowns.

Texas is too flat. It’s all long grass. It’s all sky. He misses the city and his $10k mattress and the Italian spot he could order $30 spaghetti from.

“We’re gonna get eaten by cannibals,” he grumbles but doesn’t protest. He’s really getting drunk and a part of him thinks he’s about to blow this whole thing up. He’s going to fondle you or kiss you or finger you regardless of Lauren or Paul. You lean toward him - your warm breath fanning across his face. You’d been chewing bubble gum and he savors the sweet artificial bite to it. “I’ll protect you.”

He’s definitely gonna fuck you again.

“You’re good at that.”

“I’ve got decades of practice.”

He pushes the bottle into your hands. “Get drunk with me.”

You take a sip - a second - a third. He could lurch forward and tug your bottom lip between his teeth. He’s hoping the look he’s sending you reads: fuck me fuck me fuck me.

There’s no one else in this car, but them and Stephen Jenkins.

You wipe your chin and hand him the bottle back. His mouth sticks to the print of your lip gloss around the neck. He downs another shot. The car bounces over the unpaved road.

“I feel like this is a bad idea,” he mutters.

You shrug. “You and I do nothing, but bad ideas.”

“Touché, bestie.”

***

Eight months later - he still can’t sleep through the night. He hates open doors. He always catches figures strolling through the hallway outside his bedroom. Shadows. The smell of rotting meat.The buzz of flies.

Sometimes he looks in the mirror and flinches because he sees another Ransom. His eyes bloody - the vessels blown and turning the sclera to red. He grips the sink until his knuckles turn white. He can’t breathe. His chest is so tight that it shudders and twitches and his lungs won't inflate the way that they should.

He crawls into your bed when it gets too bad, which is pretty much every night. You’d moved in with him after your parents had finally allowed you to. Your mom stays over more often than not. Sometimes his mom stays over, which is a shock in itself. Joni brings them healing crystals, which makes you laugh (not a nice laugh either). Meg won’t shut up about how often they’re on the news until he finally blocks her number. It’s not like it matters. Nothing really matters to him anymore, but you and the hard thrum of your heart when it beats beneath his ear.

You had been soaked in blood and he had tasted it.

Now they are in his sumptuous bedroom with its dark green walls and linen sheets. Egyptian cotton. The taste of riches and everything - everything - is ash.

“How are we here?” he murmurs into your neck - his fingers twisting around yours - careful of the dull nub of flesh where one used to be. You had screamed when it had happened and it had gutted him.

I can’t get to you. I can’t get to you. I’m sorry.

“Because we got out,” you shrug like it’s not a big deal - like they hadn’t been on the very cusp of death. Not even death. It had been an event. It had been oily and disgusting. The scent of rot and old fat and so much blood. He’d never realized that blood could literally have a smell and a taste as it filled a room. Metallic. Bitter. Like licking rusty pipes.

“Did we?” he asks. “Doesn’t feel that way sometimes.”

You don’t reply. You curl your fingers into his shirt. The Henley is soft on his skin. He can’t stand anything not soft. Starched fabric and paper gowns had caught on his stitches. They'd left him cold and shivering and vulnerable. Sometimes you’ll take his shirt off to drag your touch across the newly closed wounds - still pink and angry. His torso was going to be nothing, but scars. His muscles - so carefully built by his trainer and his protein shakes - had lost their thickness. They had to shave his chest when they attended to him at that horrific hospital in Texas. It’s all barely growing back.

His throat works. He wraps his arms around your waist - pressing the side of his face to your breast where he can feel your lungs expand.

“Do you think they know where we are?”

You make a soft, contemplative sound.

“Do you dream of them? Do you remember?”

“Yes,” you reply in a tight voice - your entire body locking up in Ransom’s hold. He’s a little loopy from his meds. He’d gotten bottles of anti-anxiety solutions: Xanax. Klonopin. Zoloft. Ambien.

He has a lot of doctors.

All the orange bottles stand on his bedside table like toy soldiers. He can’t drink Scotch anymore.

***

He’s not sure how you manage. You’d gotten the worst of it.

At least he’s pretty sure you did. You’d looked like something not living when you’d crawled toward him. They’d been separated into different rooms. Wooden backwoods huts. The monsters who’d done it were all yellowed teeth and greasy hair and yet there’d been something like mischief in their eyes when they took him apart - like this was all a game - it was all so fun -

“Whaddya say, Drysdale? Want to go the back way?”

You had come out stronger. He was tortured - unable to make sense. Sick. You were bitter and pissed off and so fucking quiet even though you had saved him. You had ripped yourself out of those chains and clawed your way to him. Your body broken. Your mouth bleeding. Your beautiful face distorted into something...unreal.

Your hands are warm on his cheeks and he flinches. He hurts everywhere. Agony in his stomach. He’d been stabbed more than once. He thinks. He can’t feel his feet. He hangs like a sack of meat. That’s what they are. They’re cattle. Pigs. He’s half-carved up. He’s missing something. He knows he is. His teeth even hurt. He doesn’t want to look down.

Ransom. Ransom. We have to get out of here.

Look at me, Drysdale.

His eyes are swollen shut, but he manages to peel one lid open. He tries to. For you. Your expression is horrific - disfigured. Still lovely, though. He can't fucking imagine what monsters do to beautiful things. He wishes he’d taken you to that hotel. Something hot and loud screams in your pupils. Your swollen lips curl into a terrifying sort of smile. There's blood in your perfect white teeth.

I killed one of them. We don’t have much time. I’m gonna get you down.

He’s missing two fingers and three toes and you’re missing fragments in vital places. Chunks. A screw loose. You’ll never be the same again and neither will he and that somehow works. They hadn’t fit together before. He was too sharp and narcissistic and you were too rounded and sweet.

Apparently, he’d been a coward and you’d been built for disaster. You’d thrived in it - blossomed and unfurled into something those pieces of shit could be scared of.

Ransom thinks they mold now - slip into each other’s openings. He’s honestly glad that he fucked you in that New Orleans hotel before they’d gone down that wrong road in bum fuck nowhere. He’s glad he got to have you as you were before. It’s always before now. Before that. Before the fall. Before Ransom discovered what true fear really felt like.

He’s glad he got to have you because now he can compare. The girl - the woman - he has now is galaxies removed from who she’d been. You are brighter regardless of what you are missing. You’re his. He tastes your grief when he drinks from you because it’s his, as well. They share this. There is no one else who’d understand because the others died almost immediately.

It should have been me. I should have saved you.

You didn’t have the opening that I did. I’m sure you would have if you got the chance.

He doesn’t have the same faith in himself that you do. He’d been pretty ready to die after your screams started to go quiet and he had lost track of the flesh he was losing.

***

A year passes and his grandfather strips him for stories. He’s not blunt or mean about it, but he does ask out of his own morbid curiosity.

Harlan waits for what he must think is the appropriate amount of time. He tries to shove his questions into his concerned observations at the dinner table

“My god - you’re lucky to be alive, Ransom! You poor boy. What did they use?”

What did they use?

What did they NOT use?

The question sends him right back to those manacles and those wooden walls and all that blood. He glares at the chicken on his plate. Vomit curdles in his throat. Something pinches behind his nose - his eyes.

Ransom starts crying and his grandfather shuts up - horrified. Marta even stares at him with something akin to pity - sorrow - as if he’s just a flattened animal on the road. His mother does this strange thing where she opens and closes her mouth like a dying carp.

You act quickly - scooting out of your chair, rushing toward him, and sweeping him up with the intensity of a rogue wave. You cradle his face to your warm soft tits and he hates that he’s thinking of your tits while you’re trying to rescue him from a panic attack - but then he thinks:

Shit - that’s somewhat close to who I was before.

His hand comes to rest on your ass and he inhales your cashmere sweater - the plush smell of detergent. He’d like to be inside you. He’d like to push himself into you and watch your face change as you stretch around him.

He’s suddenly overwhelmed with the thought of sex.

Yes - that’s a relief. Bits of Ransom still remain.

***

In his nightmares, he still hears the chains clink and tick. They’d hung from the roof of that shack. Rusted hooks. His wrists had been chafed to raw, red tissue.

The tires of Paul’s SUV had been torn to shreds. Ransom remembers stumbling out of the car and seeing the sun glint off a spike strip in the distance.

“Something’s wrong,” he said more to himself than anyone else. He’d sobered up almost immediately.

They’d trekked a mile until they’d come upon the lone house. He’d gotten a sick feeling, but he’d blamed it on the alcohol. The Scotch churned in his gut. Sweat sheeted down his shoulders and into the back of his jeans.

The house was dilapidated. Peeling white paint. A splintering porch. A threadbare rope swing in the trees.

They’d knocked on the door and Lauren was the first to die. Ransom still remembers the shock of seeing a skull get crushed in by a mallet. It had felt far away as if he didn’t know that the body in front of him was Lauren - that the wet spray that touched his face was blood and tissue and brain. Not sweat.

The sound stuck with him though. He can’t forget it. He can't eat melons anymore.

At that moment, he hadn’t really thought. He’d grabbed your wrist and yanked you down the stairs of that shitty porch and ran.

***

They sleepover at his grandfather’s because he doesn’t feel like driving home. He’s stunned that he had cried in front of them. He didn’t do that. He hasn’t cried in front of anyone since he was eight.

“Let’s go to bed,” you murmur as you touch his shoulder. He stares at the scarred tissue where your index finger was and grimaces.

They sleep together and no one says a word because that’s just how it is now. It’s you. It’s me.

***

Their parents are pleased that they’re together now. It's what they've assumed since they don't leave each other's side. Maybe - it really is true. That day had sewn them into one single body. They'd been close before. You were closer than anyone had ever been to Ransom. But, now, they were stuck. They were mated.

"We always knew you two would end up like this," his mother smiled before frowning - perhaps realizing what she'd said and what it implied seeing as they'd had to crawl through Hell to get there. "I just - I just meant that you're a couple. You're finally a couple. I always thought she was good for you-“

"Shut up, mom." Ransom hissed. "Just shut up."

Funny that no one in the family realized they’d been fucking since they were teenagers. The first time had been in the sand on Nantucket and you hadn’t even been beautiful then. You’d just been awkward and soft and it felt like a good idea. They’d shared ice cream afterward.

He stares up at the ceiling as you lie beside him. Your breathing is even and comforting. Harlan’s house makes too many noises, but Ransom likes the fact that it’s filled with people. Staff. His mother who had become overly maternal since Ransom nearly died. It was strange because it didn't fit her. She wasn’t the shape of a mother.

Without looking at you - he places his hand on your stomach. You jerk a bit before you relax. You put your palm on the top of his hand.

“I love you,” he declares like he declared it a year ago.

***

He hadn’t been the hero. You’d saved him. You’d gotten loose and shoved a shard of wood through one of their eyes and then had dragged him to the road. You had thick splinters stuck in the tender meat of your fingers.

Come on. Come on. Come on, Ransom. You have to work with me here. I can’t lift you.

Yes - yeah good job just like that. Fuck - don’t stop. The others might come back.

A selfish part of him - the old envious part - wondered if you would have saved Paul had he been alive. He doubts it. He hadn’t even thought of anyone else when he had tried to run from the house with your wrist in his hand. Paul didn’t exist. Lauren was definitely dead (there'd been brain on his shirt to prove it) and even if she had been alive, it still would have been you he tried to protect.

He could barely see. His eyes were swollen and blood sluiced down his brow from a cut reopening. He had broken ribs. A punctured lung. He was sure of it. He gritted his teeth against the pain and kept his focus on the dead grass and dirt beneath their feet. You'd had pink toenail polish. He was missing toes.

From behind them, orange light filtered over the green and danced across the white wispy cotton. He tried to look over his shoulder.

"Don't," you hissed as you wrapped your arm tighter around his waist - his bones shifting together. He bit back a howl. "Don't look. Just move."

He had smelled smoke. Acrid and harsh on top of the hundred-plus heat.

"Did you burn the house down?" he managed to ask - a caustic laugh riding his tongue. It was the first thing he had said since you'd freed him from the chains. He was grateful his tongue worked. His throat was violently dry.

"Hopefully," You growl. He never asked how you were able to do it.

He thinks they may have run a mile though "run" was probably not the apt term. Crawled. Stumbled. Jerked. Neither of them had shoes and they had to walk beside the road because the asphalt was too hot. A pick-up slowed. The driver had nearly screamed at the sight of them until Ransom had gripped him roughly around his overalls - staining the denim with dark black blood.

"Hospital.” He grunted. "Hospital. Now."

"Get in," the driver wheezed - fingers trembling around the steering wheel. Thank. Fuck.

Ransom nodded and turned toward you. You blinked owlishly at him as if you couldn't quite remember where you were. It took a moment before your face completely crumpled.

"Shit," he cursed in a low voice before grasping your waist. "C'mon, baby. I've got you."

You went limp - deflating with the final sparks of your adrenaline. He used his last bit of strength to lift you up and drop you into the truck's bed.

“They’re still coming,” you mumbled as you grabbed at Ransom - tugging him in after you. “They could still be coming.”

He stared at the horizon - where they had escaped from. The great stain of smoke rushed toward the sun from the burning house. He thought he saw figures in the distance. He might have. He also could barely see three feet in front of him due to his crushed eye socket.

"No one is coming," he assured you. "No one."

You were shivering. Your skin like ice. Your lower lip quivered in a way that made him inhale sharply.

The bed of the truck was covered in rope and a plastic tarp. It reeked of a farm: manure and cattle. He missed the city.

He collapsed, resting his head in your wet lap. Blood in his hair. The house - those rooms - had painted them in their smell: meat, urine and sweat. There were those splinters in your palm as you stroked his face - your breathing hurried and panicked. He said your name. Repeated it.

It was no longer about him. It was no longer him at all. It was you. It was only you and the sun felt raw and white against his closed lids. At the time, he really thought he was dying. He could have been. The hospital had said both of them were in critical condition when they’d finally arrived. He had been going cold - the heat in his chest beginning to dissipate. His mouth was dry as wool as he struggled for each gasp of oxygen. His blood was leaving him too quickly.

“I love you,” he said as he tangled his gore-ridden fingers around yours.

“You’re not dying,” you replied bluntly. There’d been no room for argument.

***

It had been that way ever since. It was a push and pull. It was an equilibrium of sorts. You went dark and he found you - yanking you to the surface. He broke down and you shoved him back together.

He was still selfish in so many ways. The only difference was that his selfishness was now projected onto you. His entire fucking existence revolved around your well-being. It was probably unhealthy. His therapist, Dr. Stephens, had used words like "co-dependent" and "love addiction".

Dr. Stephens had also pointed out all the things that triggered him like when he threw up at the sight of the Christmas Roast or when he sat in his closet for an hour because he heard the rumble of a chainsaw. The gardeners were just cutting down a tree in the front yard.

"Don't you think she's a reminder for you? You both dealt with so much that day. You're relying on her to the point where you can't function without her presence."

Ransom's mouth parted - his fingers digging into the armrests of the velvet chair. His lungs shriveled. His chest tightened. Blood pounded at his temples. His fury knocked him flat. It had been shades of the old him - bursting forth and off his tongue and it spilled out of his veins and guts and brain. The very idea of removing you from his life made him sick.

"She saved me, you dumb cunt."

He stood up and walked out the door and found another therapist.

***

He sits back on his heels - studying your face - your body - painted across his bed like Ophelia in that Millais painting.

He uses one hand to clasp your waist as he braces his other hand beside your head. You’ve lost so much weight from anxiety. You look like you’ve been carved out. The memories split your mask in two and this is the face you give him. The real one. The burnt-out one.

I'm tired, Ransom. I'm really fucking tired.

The terror for them had been just as real as the agony those maniacs had inflicted.

I know. I know.

He’s gentle about it. He slowly tugs your pajama shorts off. He tastes the skin of your stomach - drags his mouth over your hip and inner thigh before he slips his tongue between your legs. You even taste different - like there’s the tiniest flicker of spice at the base of you. There are scars and he kisses them and he thinks that he will now always see you as that girl who had yanked him out of that shack - coated in a thick film of blood - eyes wild and feral and furious as you led him to safety.

He’s very careful when he sinks into you. He covers your mouth with his so he can lap at the moan that escapes from your throat. It’s a slow pace. He draws his cock back before he pushes in again. The mattress creaks. You bury your nose into his neck and sigh with each stroke he delivers.

“Is this okay?” he asks as he peppers kisses across the edge of your jaw.

He doesn’t remember how to fuck hard - how to be rough and unyielding. He doesn't remember how to be a piece of shit asshole or how to wear his Rolex again (they had taken it and his mother had bought him a new one). What he does remember is how to make you burst around him - he remembers your tells and your kinks and your wants before you need to voice them.

“Are you okay?” he repeats to be sure.

“Yes,” You spread your thighs wider. You dig your nails into his ass to force him deeper.

He quickens his movements. He sneaks his arm between them and uses his thumb to circle your clit. Your breathing becomes more hurried - your lashes fluttering - sweat collecting at your hairline. Your eyes glassy with all the bushes tears you save for him. “Ransom,” you plead in a way that is nearly a sob. “Please.”

He claims your lips just as you come. Your pussy contracting around him - your knees tightening at his hips. He is soon to follow - wrung dry by your body as you swallow him whole. He rolls onto his back, bringing you along so that you’re lying flat on top of him. Chest to chest.

“I don’t feel like sleeping.” You trace the gnarled flesh of his shoulder where a dirty blade had pierced him and given him tetanus. He grabs a handful of your ass. You’re so warm - feverish with the afterglow of sex. Your heart pounds against his. He touches you all over sometimes. Just to make sure.

“Get drunk with me?” he proposes and it reminds him of the last time he had said that. His lungs wrinkle and distort. His stomach turns over. You lift yourself up to gaze down at him - fully aware of where his mind has gone. You clasp his chin to wrench his face to yours.

“Let’s do it,” You steal his breath with a harsh, desperate kiss that burns right through him. It kind of hurts and he kind of likes it. No surprise that their relationship to pain has been thoroughly fucked.

“No Scotch,” He brushes his knuckles over your cheek - right where another scar stretches under your eye.

“No Scotch,” you agree.

He smirks and it tastes like himself.

[aqpippin]

I had an existential crisis last night and I think I’m sabotaging myself this semester at uni and am lowkey enjoying the risk of technical fails bc I’m afraid to not be studying next year after 16 years of formal education 😌🙃

[specialagentsergio]

rationalizations

rationalizations: a defense mechanism in which one makes up a false but reassuring explanation to explain their behavior and/or feelings to both themselves and others, thus avoiding the reality of why they are really acting or feeling as they do.

summary: You’re the psych evaluation for Spencer. You think he’s full of shit, so you refuse to sign his clearance form until he actually tells the truth.

pairing: spencer reid x f!reader

category: angst (happy ending)

content warnings: spencer’s canonical trauma, flashbacks, mentions of suicide and suicidal ideation, swearing

a/n: i wrote this for @imagining-in-the-margins‘ enemies to lovers event. it’s not my favorite trope, but one of the prompts sparked inspiration for me. i also took a good amount of inspiration from meredith’s various therapy scenes in grey’s anatomy, so if some of it feels familiar, that’s why! i swear i intended to make this cute and funny, but, well… here we are lmao.

word count: 3.6k

masterlist

Spencer throws his bag onto his desk with a frustrated huff. It thumps loudly, startling JJ at her desk across from his. She gives him a sympathetic look regardless. “Still not cleared yet?”

“No!” Forgetting that it’s wheeled, he drops himself into his chair. It skids backwards and he has to scramble to grab something to keep from falling out of it.

“Careful there,” JJ says, trying valiantly to suppress a laugh. “That psychologist's got you really worked up, huh?”

“I don’t know what she wants from me!” he complains. “It’s been nearly a month! Hotch’s ex-wife was murdered by an unsub, but they cleared him. I was only shot in the neck.”

“I mean, that’s still kind of a big deal,” she says. “You could’ve died, from the gunshot, or from the nurse that tried to kill you afterwards.”

“Speaking of that nurse,” he starts, “Garcia is the one who shot him and she’s been a wreck over it. She insisted on going to the guy’s execution. But the therapist cleared her!”

“Penelope’s not in the field,” JJ points out.

He crosses his arms. “Still. This isn’t the first time I’ve been shot. That possibility is part of the job. It’s not like it came out of nowhere and I was completely unprepared for it.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Spence,” she says. “Just keep all of your appointments and I’m sure you’ll be cleared soon.”

He pulls a stack of papers on his desk towards him. Paperwork—one of the things he’s actually allowed to do. “I better be,” he mutters.

---

“And it was really scary, you know?” Spencer wipes at his eyes with a tissue. “Not knowing if I was going to live or die.”

“Mm-hmm.”

He takes a deep breath. “But… it’s over now. The preacher who shot me died in the same shootout. Owen McGregor, the leader of the corrupt deputies, died later that night, in another shootout. And Greg Baylor, the one who posed as a nurse and tried to kill me, was sentenced to death row and he’s gone now, too.”

His psychologist makes a note on the paper in front of her, but doesn’t say anything, so he continues.

“I… I feel better now, just letting that out.” He takes a new tissue and dries his nose. “I feel ready now. Ready to go back to work.”

She nods slowly, considering him. But she doesn’t even look towards her desk where the clearance form sits, frustrating him to no end. After five minutes of silence, he breaks.

“You can’t be serious.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I’ve been coming to these sessions for over a month, and I’m still not cleared to be in the field. I…” He musters up more tears and makes sure his voice wavers during his next words. “I just don’t know what you want? I’ve tried everything.”

“No, you haven’t,” she says plainly.

He blinks in surprise, sending some of the crocodile tears down his cheeks. “What?”

She crosses her legs. “You’re full of shit.”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re not being honest with me, and I don’t think you’re being honest with yourself either,” she says. “You’re a great actor. I can see how you’ve gotten clearances easily before. But that stops with me.”

Spencer stares at her. “I don’t understand.”

She moves her notebook to the side. “What happened in Texas isn’t the first time your life’s been in danger. Why do you think that is?”

“Wh—that’s part of my job,” he argues, fake crying long since forgotten.

“Not to the extent that you take it. I’ve read your file,” she says. “You take unnecessary risks with regularity.”

The tissues crumple in his hand as he clenches it. “I do not.”

“Let’s go back to the beginning.”

“The beginning of what?”

“Of your career.” Yet she doesn’t take out his file, or look at her notes. She speaks from memory. “2005. The BAU is assisting with a hostage situation. You go into the train, posing as someone who is there to remove a microchip from the unsub, but the first thing you do? You take off your bulletproof vest.”

“Okay, clearly you don’t understand what the situation was,” Spencer cuts in. “Ted Bryar was suffering from a psychotic break. He was somewhat unpredictable, and he told me to take off the vest.”

“And you just listened?”

“He—he had a gun, and was threatening both me and the other passengers with it!” he says. “What was I supposed to do, not listen?”

“Uh, yeah,” she replies. “You easily played into his delusions just a few minutes later to distract him. Why not do that to keep yourself safe?”

“I was twenty-four and was running on adrenaline,” he says defensively. “And it was my first time doing something like that. You can’t expect me to think of everything.”

“You’re right, I can’t,” she agrees. “So let’s jump forward a few years. How about the time you approached a teenager who was wielding an assault rifle with no protection, not even your own firearm?” she challenges.

“You mean Owen Savage? That was a unique situation,” he protests. “I knew I could talk him down.”

“No, you didn’t. You thought you had a good chance, but there’s no way to be one hundred percent sure of that. He was volatile, and on a killing spree,” she counters. “You didn’t know if you’d succeed--”

“I did!” He startles himself by unconsciously raising his voice, but he doesn’t apologize. “I did, because….”

“Because you related to him,” she fills in. “And that’s fine. Having empathy for an unsub doesn’t suggest something’s wrong in and of itself. But you still put yourself, and the rest of your team, in danger, didn’t you?”

He crosses his arms. “I got that lecture from Hotch when it happened, okay?”

“So then why’d you confront an unsub alone a few years later in Miami?” she asks. “You didn’t even tell anyone where you were going. You left your vest behind and just ran off.”

“I was having a head—wait, how do you even know that happened?” he questions. “It wasn’t in the report.”

“Well, first of all, you just confirmed it,” she points out, and he wants to kick himself. “Secondly, I can read between the lines.”

“I was having a headache,” he repeats. “I wasn’t thinking all that clearly. I just knew Julio’s life was in immediate danger, so I went to help him.”

“Uh-huh. More recently,” she says, brushing past his excuse, “You confronted your girlfriend’s stalker without your vest or gun.”

Spencer’s getting angry now. “I was trying to save Maeve. She asked me to leave them behind.”

“And you simply listened. Do you see the pattern I’m drawing here, Dr. Reid?” she asks. “These are just a few of the instances that stand out. Time and time again, you put yourself in unnecessary danger. So I’ll ask you again. Why do you think that is?”

Spencer looks over her—really looks over her, trying to understand what she’s getting at. “Are… are you suggesting that I’m suicidal?” he asks quietly.

She looks him straight in the eye. “You don’t act like someone who wants to be alive.”

It’s like she set off a bomb in his brain. Memories, and the feelings attached to them, emerge—Elle handcuffed to a seat, a teenager with a rifle, a blinding headache, Maeve and blood on the warehouse floor.

“Here’s what I see,” she says. “I see a man who’s been through so, so much. Your mother is mentally ill, your father left--”

His father is packing a suitcase. Spencer doesn’t know what he’s supposed to do or say, so he falls back on what he knows.

“Statistically, children who grow up in two-parent households attain three more years of higher education than children from single-parent households.”

It doesn’t help. “We’re not statistics, Spencer.”

“Your file says she’s staying at an institution, and with your father out of the picture, I can only assume you were the one who had her admitted--”

“Spencer, please don’t do this to me!” she cries as she’s escorted out of the house by Bennington Sanitarium’s transport staff.

“A few years into your work here at the FBI, you were kidnapped, tortured and drugged--”

He’s tired and cold and his whole body aches. Tobias—the real Tobias—looms over him with a syringe.

“Please. I don’t want it,” he pleads of his captor. “I don’t want it, please.”

The needle punctures his skin regardless.

“—you were held hostage by a cult leader--”

Emily sits across from him on the plane with a black eye. “What Cyrus did to me is not your fault.”

He pretends to agree.

“—you went through the death and reappearance of Agent Prentiss--”

He’s tried to make it clear to Jennifer that he wants to be left alone, but she won’t stop trying to talk about it with him, and he’s had enough.

“I came to your house for ten weeks in a row crying over losing a friend, and not once did you have the decency to tell me the truth.”

“—and your girlfriend was shot in front of you.”

“Who’s Thomas Merton? Who is he?” Diane demands, gun pressed against Maeve’s head.

“He’s the one thing you can never take from us,” Maeve replies, and Spencer’s heart drops. Thomas Merton is Maeve’s way of saying goodbye—she’s giving up.

“Wait!” he cries out, but it’s too late.

“This is just some of the more traumatic stuff. And then there’s what happened last month, which is why you’re here. You present a face of not being bothered by all of this, because that’s what you’ve been doing all your life, but I think you are bothered. You really, really are. And you don’t want to admit to anyone just how much it all has affected you. Maybe you don’t even want yourself to know.” Her expression and tone of voice are certain.

Spencer can’t take it anymore. The whirlwind of emotions and memories is overwhelming.

“The number of times you’ve almost died is staggering--”

“Yeah, and sometimes I wish I had!” He glares at her, breathing heavily. “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

But she doesn’t seem intimidated or alarmed at all. She leans back in her armchair. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

The response only serves to make him angrier. She questioned him relentlessly and made him admit something he swore in the dark hours of sleepless nights that he’d never think again, never voice, let alone admit to anyone. She forced it out of him, forced. She made him say it against his will.

So why does he feel a sense of relief?

“I…” Tears well up in his eyes—real ones this time. “I’m done,” he chokes out.

He pushes himself off of the couch and out the door, slamming it shut behind him.

---

He storms in Hotch’s office and demands to see a different psychologist. But she was one step ahead of him—a few hours before the appointment, she had emailed Hotch and told him that under no circumstances should Spencer be allowed to get a clearance from someone else.

“And you’re going to believe her?” he cries.

“She’s doing her job, Reid.”

“You barely know her! You’ve known me for a decade!”

“Yes, I have,” Hotch agrees. “And you’ve told me yourself that you’ve fooled psychologists and therapists before. So if this one is saying you’re not ready yet, I’m inclined to believe her.”

Spencer just stares at him, but as usual, Hotch doesn’t blink.

“Unbelievable,” Spencer eventually mutters.

“Take the rest of the day off,” Hotch replies, glancing down at fists Spencer hadn’t realized he was clenching.

“Fine.”

Too agitated to stand in the elevator, he takes the stairs. As he stomps down them, he swears he’ll never go back to her office, even if it means never going into the field again.

A week passes, then two, and he hasn’t seen the psychologist since. But he doesn’t feel any better—he actually feels worse. It’s like her words broke a dam in his mind, in his gut, and feelings of unease and uncertainty won’t pass. It keeps him up at night. Her words echo in his head. “You don’t act like someone who wants to be alive.”

Spencer’s had yet another sleepless night and is struggling not to doze off at his desk despite the coffee he’s drinking. He stands up with the intention of splashing some water from the bathroom sink on his face, but his feet take him somewhere else.

He stares at the nameplate on the door. He swore he’d never go back, yet he feels compelled to knock.

It only takes her a few moments to answer. “Dr. Reid. Can I help you?” she asks.

“I…” He sighs. “Are you busy?”

“No. Come on in.” She steps to the side, opening the door wider to let him pass. He sits down on the couch.

She waits patiently. She doesn’t rush him. She lets him speak first.

He wrings his hands in his lap, staring down at them. “Something you said is bothering me.”

“What was it?”

“About… living,” he admits quietly. “I… I think you might have been right.”

When he gets the courage to glance up at her, he finds a soft smile on her face. “Would you like to talk about it?”

Spencer hadn’t realized he was expecting judgment and disdain until it didn’t happen. His shoulders slump down in relief. “Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, I think I would.”

---

“You’re still thinking about her, aren’t you?”

Spencer looks up from his paperwork, slightly out of it, to find Derek watching him. His coworker had, indeed, caught him thinking about her again. His psychologist. Well, former psychologist. After his second session back with her, she’d handed over a clearance form and a referral to a therapist outside the bureau to see long-term.

“And you better follow up with that,” she’d told him, the corner of her mouth turning up despite her serious tone of voice. “I’ll know if you don’t.”

He’d promised that he would, and had followed through. But despite the progress he was making with the new therapist, he was feeling a little disappointed that he didn’t get to see her anymore. He only saw her in passing, sometimes in the elevator or walking down the hallways of the building. They would exchange hellos, she would ask how he was doing, then give him a little wave as she left. Each time his heart would skip a beat, and he’d feel an urge to follow her to wherever she was going.

Yet he hadn’t quite realized why he seemed to be preoccupied with her until a dream he had a few weeks ago—a dream in which he found himself kissing her. Despite being alone in his bedroom, he’d woken up feeling embarrassed. He promised himself that he would put her out of his mind. Having a crush on his psychologist? It was ridiculous.

But then he saw her in the elevator a few days later and he couldn’t help but analyze her body language. It was open, and she twirled her hair around a finger while she looked at him to ask him how he was. A few other people entered the elevator on the next floor, but her attention remained on him. They were subtle signs, but signs that he recognized nonetheless—signs of attraction. And once he started seeing them, he couldn’t stop.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Spencer tells Derek, picking back up the pen he hadn’t noticed he dropped.

“You can’t pull that on me, kid,” he replies. “It’s your psychologist. You can’t stop thinking about her, can you?”

Spencer sighs. “So what if I can’t?”

“So go ask her out already!” Derek says like it’s obvious.

“You don’t think that’s just a little inappropriate?”

“You’re not seeing her as a client anymore, are you?” he points out. “Go for it, kid. You’ll regret it if you don’t.”

Spencer takes the advice—as soon as Derek said it, he knew he was right. He would regret not taking a chance on her and the connection he felt. Sure, she’d helped him with therapy, but it went deeper than that. It feels like she knows him.

He leaves the bullpen ten minutes early that evening, hoping to catch her before she leaves for the day. On her doorstep, he feels just as nervous as he did on the day he admitted that she was right, but it’s a different kind of nervous. An excited nervous. He knocks on the door.

She’s surprised when she seems him. He watches as her pupils dilate, and it boosts his confidence. “Dr. Reid. Can I help you?”

“You can. I’d like to talk,” he says.

“Oh. Well, I guess I could do that,” she says. “I thought things were going well with the therapist I referred you to, though.”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t mean I want an appointment.”

Her eyebrows come together in confusion. “Okay, then, what do you want?”

Spencer doesn’t hesitate. “I want to take you out to dinner.”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“I really like you, and I think we’re meant to be together,” he replies, voice softening a bit.

She pauses before answering. When she does, her voice is gentle. “Dr. Reid, sometimes a medical professional’s care can start to feel like affection over a period of time, but--”

“No one has ever listened to me like you do,” he interrupts.

“That’s my job,” she points out.

“I’ve seen therapists before, but none of them have been like you,” he counters. “You understand me.”

She sighs. “Well, I’m glad I was a good fit and was able to help you. But that doesn’t mean that I see you as anything more than a client.”

“You’re lying.”

“Excuse me?”

“You do feel something more for me,” he says firmly, but then backtracks a little. “Well, I know you’re attracted to me at least.”

She blinks and shakes her head slightly, take aback. “Dr. Reid, this is not appropriate--”

“Please call me Spencer,” he says, then jumps into his explanation. “See, when we’re attracted to someone, our bodies display involuntary signals, and I’ve seen you do some of them when you’re around me. Whenever we run into each other here, your body will turn a little towards me and you’ll play with your hair. Your attention is almost entirely focused on me. And, when you see me, your pupils dilate. They did it when you opened the door just a few minutes ago. Oh, and I’m attracted to you, by the way,” he adds as he realizes how one-sided he’s been. “I imagine my pupils probably dilate when I see you, too.”

Her mouth opens and closes a few times, like she wants to speak but doesn’t know what to say. She looks flustered, and he wonders if maybe he’s pushed it too far or said too much, but he can’t turn back now. “So, please, let me take you out,” he says quietly. “Just… just give it a chance.”

She bites her lip and looks at the ground. There’s a crease between her eyebrows, which he’s come to learn means she’s thinking. She speaks seriously when she looks back up. “If I go out with you, I can’t treat you anymore. If you ever need another evaluation or session, you’d have to get it from someone else.”

“I know,” he says. “I get along well with the therapist you referred me to, though. And having to get clearance from a different psychologist at the bureau is something I’m willing to give up in favor of getting to know you better.”

She considers him. “You’re serious about this,” she states.

It’s not a question, but he answers it anyways. “I am.”

She tilts her head to the side, eyes unfocusing as she ponders the situation. Eventually, she says, “Let me think about it.”

It’s not exactly the answer he was hoping for, but he’ll take it.

---

It’s only six PM, but Spencer is already exhausted. He unlocks his apartment door, fully intending to collapse onto his bed, but instead receives a pleasant surprise in the form of his girlfriend waiting for him on the couch. He can’t help but smile.

“Sweetie, what are you doing here?” he asks, then adds, “Not that I’m complaining.”

“Penelope told me it was a bit of a rough case,” she replies. “And I missed you.”

She holds out her arms and he takes the invitation, joining her on the couch and laying down between her legs, placing his head on her chest. “I missed you, too.”

Her next words are overly familiar. “Do you want to talk about it?”

“Hey, we agreed to no therapy,” he says. “Something about I can’t be your client anymore?”

She huffs. “This isn’t therapy. This is being a good partner.”

Spencer smiles into the fabric of her shirt, snuggling in closer. “I know, I’m just teasing you. I don’t need to talk about the case,” he says, finally answering her original question. “I feel fine now that I’m here with you.”

She lets out a pleased hum and starts running her fingers through his hair. “I ordered take-out for dinner, by the way.”

“Where from?”

“You know where.”

A wide grin spreads across his face. She must have ordered take-out from the restaurant he took her to on their first date. He lifts his head to look her in the eye. “Aren’t you glad you said yes to me all those months ago?”

“Oh, I suppose,” she says with pretend annoyance, rolling her eyes.

Then she kisses him.

Spencer’s never been so happy to be alive.

---------------

tell me what you thought here!

please note that i DO NOT ENDORSE asking out your therapist/former therapist. this is fanfiction. thank you.

general taglist: @calm-and-doctor​ , @spencerreid9​

[explorationsoftheid]

My favourite form of retail therapy

I decide I want a thing, but the thing needs to be unavailable. Best of all when the thing is supposed to come out in a few months to a year, but nothing is really known for sure. Then I can get all of my special interest muscles going and can really hyper focus on the thing that I want. I’m happily learning all about it but but it doesn’t cost me a dime.

Right now I’ve decided to get an electric motorcycle. I don’t want something hugely expensive or powerful. Just a little ride that I can run around town on doing errands. It’ll replace the 17 year old car I’m currently driving. (Relax it’s a 2005 Prius, so it’s at least reasonably efficient.) I don’t need 100MPH or two hundred mile range. Most of all I don’t want to spend $20k+ on it. My budget is ~$5k or less.

Does anyone make such a thing?

Well yes, I found this online:

It’s cute, it’s inexpensive, but best of all it’s not sold in Canada. So I know the thing exists, just not here.

Honda and Yamaha have said they are going to start selling models in the next few months. Honda has been saying this since 2009. There are rumours of other’s coming out. There’s a lot of buzz in the press. But as far as actually having one I could get? No, not at all.

So I’m happily spending time reading about them, and watching videos about them, and having desktop wallpaper about them, and learning all about them. I get to do all the shopping, just can’t buy one. It’s not costing me a cent.

It’s my favourite form of retail therapy.

[peony-pearl]

I really wish I could go back and experience Avatar with fresh eyes. But I’m also glad I was exposed to it when it first aired.

I vaguely remember some advertising for it’s premiere and, at the time, I know I was in deep with my Kingdom Hearts hyperfixation. The first Avatar episode I saw was the day after prom in my Junior year when a girl in the friend group I was in turned on a rerun in April or May 2005. For some reason my mind is convinced the episode was Cave of Two Lovers, but it hadn’t aired yet. I’m not surprised I can’t remember the episode because at the time I was eyeballs deep in heavy OCD symptoms and kind of in the early stages of a huge mental breakdown haha. I’d had visible OCD symptoms for years but had no idea I had it; then barely a month later I was hospitalized and diagnosed because of my intrusive thoughts and ruminations. It kinda sucked lmao.

Over the next couple of years I was exposed to Avatar mostly because of my Uncle. He adored the series. He was an avid cartoon fan who loved art and comics and drawing and had the bones of one of his own comics but became ill and passed away before he could finish it. I appreciated Avatar for what it was, but didn’t really have the heart to get invested. There was a point that I did make an oc and drew some art and wrote a bit but it lasted like maybe 2 weeks tops. 2005-late 2007 was a minefield period of time that was mixed with me trying to reconfigure my whole personality (right around the time I turned 18 so THAT was good timing) and trying to enjoy the things I loved before my breakdown. I was desperate to be who I was before everything happened.

However, I did keep up with the series after moving to another state and the third season began airing. I remember watching Day of Black Sun and then the finale. I just kept up with it out of interest. Then years went by and I finally started moving forward. I found new interests that helped me become creative again, all while making the painful realization that my mental health was a permanent thing after believing I had ‘conquered’ my OCD. I also unknowingly had ADHD, which I was finally diagnosed with this year, which exacerbates my OCD and intrusive thoughts and ruminating.

Years went by, I went through college, I’ve had so many different jobs, I paid off my student loans late 2020 and then in 2021 my mental health got so bad again I finally sought out therapy for the first time in ten years. I started taking medicine for depression and mood swings. Almost all I was doing was working. I lived with my parents, which wasn’t a bad thing; but the strict schedule and my night shift meant I had little chances of doing much, and I gained weight from stress eating for dopamine.

Then almost a year ago I moved out for the first time; hence my DBZ hyperfixation. I wanted some nostalgia, and I’d had a 2 year period where that series was my bread and butter in 2002-2004. However, I moved again earlier this year, and at first it was all about adjustment; but I was beginning to realize I just didn’t do anything. I still have that issue. But in trying to wonder what it was exactly that I wanted or didn’t want, I started to realize if I’m going to live, I may as well start seeking out things to do.

I was tired of just existing, so I finally set up violin lessons, and I’ve been attending them weekly (save missing one here or there) since April. I’ve learned what I have the power to do, even if I often lack the motivation and drive. I’m becoming more and more content, even if there are the off-times when things are iffy.

I was absolutely not expecting my re-introduction to Avatar to be a gifset of Iroh threatening Zhao in the Spirit Oasis; a scene I was unfamiliar with. I think I had watched the series on Netflix some years ago, but again, I’ve lacked the commitment to it. The punch of that scene with a character I had associated with benevolence after being lukewarm towards the series intrigued me, and I fell down the rabbit hole lol

And I’ve realized that, after getting older, the show is actually a lot more meaningful; and after stumbling upon a gifset of Iroh’s quote ‘Life happens wherever you are, whether you make it or not’; that hit me. That was exactly what I’d started trying to live by over the past couple of months. Zuko’s strive to figure out who he wants to be hits home too, as I often struggle, even at 34, with what I want or who I want to be. (granted, I need to find a new therapist but that’s another story lmao)

After seeing all this merch pop up and be like ‘oh yeah Avatar that’s a good show’ and being disconnected, I now adore it. I know the bones of it but I’m still learning all of the smaller details and worldbuilding and lore. I’m a newbie but at the same time I know what it is and watched the premieres of The Awakening, The Day of Black Sun, and Sozin’s Comet.

I’ve always appreciated the series for it’s creativity and how it avoided talking down to it’s audience (yeah it had kid moments but it was a Nickelodeon show). And even as an adult so many messages ring true. I definitely  put it on the same page as Gargoyles (because 1. I’m biased and 2. both are intricately woven stories that treat it’s audience as adults; I wish Gargoyles had gotten the same closure Avatar did, but for what it is it’s still an amazing show and I’ll always adore it and I’m so glad a show like Avatar did get it’s story completed for the most part)

And yet it’s Iroh’s line ‘whatever you do to that spirit, I’ll unleash on you tenfold’ is the one that kind of brings tears to my eyes; because it rings of conviction and fortitude to do the right thing, and is what brought me back to a little piece of fandom that, even if I already know all of the twists and turns and spoilers, was there for me to pick back up on when I needed it and to help me continue to move forward.

[adultswim2021]

Tom Goes to the Mayor #9: “Re-Birth” | June 6, 2005 – 12:15AM | S01E12

Did you know that when you resize your browser window on tumblr’s desktop GUI that it makes the text window morph slightly and then EVERYTHING YOU TYPED FUCKING DISAPPEARS FOREVER? So, forgive me if I’m a little salty. To be honest, I didn’t lose that much (mostly notes), so I’m gonna have to freestyle a thing here.

This one’s pretty solid. Pretty story-driven, from what I remember. I don’t remember too much in the way of sublime/weird moments that I crave from a Tom, but I’m more than 24 hours out from viewing the episode I’m afraid and I SHANT rewatch it. This is I how I repay this wretched website for deleting my rough outline! BURN IN HELL, TUMBLR!

In this one Tom needs to have his family “legalized” in a convoluted process called Re-Birth, which involves annoying therapy methods like a convoluted VR game where you have to hug your sons and collect coins (and get electrocuted when you collect strawberries by mistake), an elaborate birthing re-enactment where you force your illegitimate children to pretend they are of your seed and pass through a giant uterus. They are imprisoned for the duration of this process. There’s a final step that Tom doesn’t even need to do, because it’s revealed that the whole ordeal was a clerical error caused by computer malfunction. But the mayor browbeats him into completing it, repeating a suicide statistic related to men who don’t finish this re-birth ceremony.

The last step? Tom and Joy must have a public display of their love. So, the Mayor forces Tom into filming a porno with his wife, which he also distributes on DVD. This whole process was in the name of Tom getting a business license, and the whole ordeal forces him to give up said business due to the public backlash that his sexual antics cause him. The last joke: the Mayor asks Tom if he can store some pallets of DVDs in his storage unit he was planning to operate out of, which includes a cardboard standee of Tom in his pizza boy outfit (again - the most referenced porn trope ever).”Oh, hello!” Tom says cheerfully to his own cardboard cut-out.

What an ending! That is so fucking funny. There’s other good stuff in here, but again, it’s been over 24 hours since I watched this. SO! Instead I’ll talk about this: This episode and it’s pornographic climax caused this one to get held back from airing right away. For completely arbitrary reasons I’ve decided to number this episode using the production #s even though the airing order is good enough, if not better. I remember this one being held back at the time. I can’t imagine the problem was real. I’m sure somebody just assumed they used their obtuse animation style to sneak in secret dirty stuff and it took standards and practices longer to deliberate that the sex scene wasn’t actually graphic. I bet that’s what happened. The commentary track doesn’t specify either way.

Two other things: there’s a live-action doctor guy who is a guy I only know from this. His comedic style is a little hammy in a way that almost clashes with the show, but it works well enough. The other other thing: There’s some continuity on display here. Early episodes had Tom refer to his sons by name, and I thought “oh, I see, they changed the sons names at some point”, because I remember them being called like Brandon, Brendon, and Brindon. In early episodes they have more conventional different-from-each-other names. I forgot that this episode has Tom rename his step boys as part of the Re-Birth process. So there you go! Actual continuity!

EPHEMERA CORNER:

Christine Lee's Burger King “Have It Your Way” Lineup (May 29th 2005)

Hey, I remember this night pretty well actually. I am pretty sure I entered this contest, and boy did I want to win. Burger King sponsored this (their motto was “Have It Your Way” at the time. Is it still?). One lucky winner to to program An entire night of Adult Swim. I am pretty sure we saw the announcement of who won and racistly assumed she’d program nothing but anime, and then in the first bump she put those fears to rest. This was a fun night and I watched a fair amount of it. This was the first place where I watched Venture Bros. and actually thought “hey, this is a good show, actually”. I am not sure why but there would still be ANOTHER inciting incident for me to get FULLY into it, but I’ll elaborate when I get there.

Here’s the schedule, thank you swimpedia for being such a great resource:

11:00 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: Ol' Drippy

11:15 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: Universal Remonster

11:30 - The Venture Bros.: Eeney, Meeney, Miney... Magic!

12:00 - The Venture Bros.: The Incredible Mr. Brisby

12:30 - The Venture Bros.: Tag-Sale — You're It!

1:00 - Futurama: Leela's Homeworld

1:30 - Home Movies: The Adventures of Cho & Amy Lee

2:00 - The Venture Bros.: Are You There God, It's Me, Dean

2:30 - Family Guy: One If by Clam, Two If by Sea

3:00 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: Mayhem of the Mooninites

3:15 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: The South Bronx Paradise Diet

3:30 - Futurama: The Devil's Hands Are Idle Playthings

4:00 - Family Guy: Brian Wallows and Peter's Swallows

4:30 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: The Shaving

4:45 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force: eDork

5:00 - Home Movies: Life Through a Fisheye Lens

5:30 - The Venture Bros.: Return to Spider-Skull Island

Me making my own era-appropriate list of how I personally would’ve selected my block would be not only childish, but joyless. I am, as we speak, creating a big list of favorite episodes that I could easily pull from and partially spoil. Actually, you know what? Fuck it. Here’s my O.J. Simpsons “If I did it”. I’m approximating the inclusion of Space Ghost which I have yet to rank all of, and I’m also assuming I wouldn’t have included any Venture Bros. because I didn’t like it at the time. Finally, I’m assuming that for some reason my list had to be submitted ahead of time and therefore no 2005 episodes were allowed. I’m also trying to approximate what 2004 me would have picked and not what current day me would have picked. Okay: Here’s my PERFECT SCHEDULE:

11:00 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #4: Mayhem of the Mooninites

11:15 - Sealab 2021 #1: I Robot

11:30 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #11: Story Book House

11:45 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #13: Dumber Dolls

12:00 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #25: Freak Show

12:15 - Home Movies #27: Shore Leave

12:45 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #33: Woody Allen's Fall Project

1:15 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #14: Interfection

1:30 - Sealab 2021 #4: Chickmate

1:45 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #35: Gallagher

2:00 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #30: Universal Remonster

2:15 - Tom Goes to the Mayor #1: Bear Trap Brothers

2:30 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #48: Pavement

2:45 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #33: Frat Aliens

3:00 - Sealab 2021 #10: Murphy Murph and the Feng Shui Bunch

3:15 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #75: Fire Ant

3:45 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #35: The Shaving

4:00 - Home Movies #35: Storm Warning

4:30 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #76: King Dead

4:45 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #38: The Clowning

5:00 - Sealab 2021 #16: 7211

5:15 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #77: Kentucky Nightmare

5:30 - Aqua Teen Hunger Force #41: The Cloning

5:45 - Space Ghost Coast to Coast #77b: Mommentary

PS: I’m not going to do this every year. Okay

MAIL BAG

A big ass mail bag, what a treat!

Robot Chicken seems like it would've been more at home on The WB in between episodes of Charmed and The O.C. or whatever that channel played. They could've even done their own "dubba dubba" promo where Michigan J. gets violently killed by cool guy!

I agree, furthermore it should have aired as commercial bumpers instead of be a TV show. Robot Chicken SUCKS

If you like Ray's Day Out check out Mr. Magoo. It's wild that Seth thought that was an original idea.

I really do need to see that movie before I die (soon)

I don't know anything about a terror drome but how about a technodrome...Let's Kick Shell!

Just like Mario! :)

[96thdayofrage]

The mental and physical impacts of solitary confinement have been clear for two centuries. In 1829, Pennsylvania Quakers opened the first prison designed for solitary, hoping to inspire reflection in the inmates. Instead, many went crazy or committed suicide. Thirteen years later, Charles Dickens made his first trip to America, and after seeing it first hand, solitary confinement shocked a writer whose bleak perspective inspired an adjective for intolerable suffering. “He is a man buried alive,” he wrote.

In the century and a half since, multiple international agreements have codified the practice as inhumane. In 2011, Juan Mendez, the U.N. special rapporteur on torture — who was himself jailed and tortured by the Argentinean military dictatorship for more than a year in the 1970s — declared that more than 15 days in solitary constitutes torture.

“Solitary confinement is recognized as difficult to withstand; indeed, psychological stressors such as isolation can be as clinically distressing as physical torture,” wrote Jeffrey L. Metzner and Jamie Fellnerin in the Journal of the American Academy of Psychiatry and the Law, in a paper about the medical ethics of physicians who participate in punitive isolation measures.

According to a report by Citizens for Prison Reform, there are 3,200 people in isolation in Michigan for more than 20 hours a day among the state prison population, like Richard Goddard, who has been in isolation for 47 years; James Miller, who has been segregated from the general population for about 36; and Daniel Henry, for 12. Clarence Henderon, who at 67 had been in isolation has been confined to a wheelchair due to severe arthritis. He allegedly goes months without going outside. “It’s just torture,” says Mario Lee, who goes by the name Akesi and has been incarcerated since 2005, currently serving time at the Ionia Correctional Facility.

Chris Gautz, a spokesperson for the MDOC, denies that the department regularly keeps inmates in solitary confinement for years. (A request for comment on the whereabouts of the individuals in Silenced was forwarded to the state’s FOIA office, and we’ll update if we hear back). “As of February of this year, there was one prisoner who has been in [administrative segregation] for more than one year, but less than two, out of 32,000 prisoners,” Gautz said. But Jessica Sandoval, senior campaign strategist with the national Unlock the Box campaign, says the MDOC fudges those numbers by labeling isolation a variety of technical terms, like Mental Health Unit; Observation; temporary segregation. And Alternative to Segregation (START program).

Akesi, who was recently moved to the START program, says the difference is meaningless. “The program is classified as general population. In reality, it’s administrative [segregation]. The only distinguishing features is that we are required to attend and participate in one hour of group therapy sessions once a week,” he says. “On the other hand, the similarities to seg are many. We are allowed one hour of outdoor recreation five days a week, confined to individual enclosures with concrete floors and enclosed by a steel and wire mesh cage.” He says they’re denied access to any congregate activities including religious services. “We spend between 23 and 24 hours per day in our cells. By no stretch of the imagination can the department of corrections claim that this program is general population or otherwise an alternative to segregation.”

“As social (i.e. human beings) one of the most severe punishments humanly possible that society can mete out to a human is to banish and condemn us to the tombs for the living — or otherwise subject us to extreme social isolation and sensory deprivation,” Akesi wrote in 2020 from the Ionia Correctional Facility in Ionia, Michigan. “It’s endless torture, psychological and physical.”

“This is the techno jargon that keeps the system opaque. All these euphemisms are for essentially solitary confinement,” Sandoval says. She says anything that forces an inmate to stay in isolation for longer than sleeping hours should be defined as solitary. (Gautz told Rolling Stone he didn’t have that information and forwarded the query to the department’s FOIA office.) The Michigan Department of Corrections counts 835 inmates in administrative, or long-term segregation, and 130 in punitive solitary detention, as a short term punishment. The race breakdown is stark: more than 70 percent of inmates placed in long term solitary are Black.

The prisoners’ descriptions are remarkably consistent: they describe severe mental health problems arising from solitary, from hallucinations to paranoia to suicidal ideation. One inmate reports losing his vision after staring at nothing in the near distance for so long. Another, Williams says, was screaming on the phone; he’d forgotten how to talk at a normal volume.

Williams points out that it’s not just the “worst of the worst” being held in isolation — Hannibal Lecters who would wreak havoc if they weren’t segregated. Inmates can get thrown in the hole for any reason, she says, or no reason at all. She claims it’s entirely based on the whim of the guards. “One man was sent to isolation unit after knocking over a glass of water,” she claims. (Gautz, the MDOC spokesperson, denied that guards put prisoners in solitary without due process or a just reason.)

Williams also notes that many facilities are in rural, almost entirely white towns: in some cases, the prison is the main industry. “You’re taking Black people to extremely isolated places. The town survives off of these Black bodies.”

“The further you go up North… its like some parts of the South in the 50’s and 60’s,” writes inmate Andraus McCloud. “The KKK turned in their robes for MDOC uniforms,” writes inmate Anthony Richardson. “Nobody is watching while they do their hate practices.”

When Danielle Dunn, a real estate broker, spoke to her little brother, 38-year-old Jonathan Lancaster, in February of 2019, he whispered the entire time. “There was a change in his voice. Clearly he was having mental health issues,” she tells Rolling Stone. Lancaster had been thrown in solitary after a scuffle with another inmate, and had become increasingly paranoid. “He was saying there was gas pumped into his cell. That his food was being poisoned. I said, ‘Are you OK? It sounds like you’re cracking up a little bit.” Lancaster got silent, Dunn recalls. “Then he whispered again, ‘They’re going to kill me.’”

Even as Lancaster started losing weight and continued to act erratically — he suffered from a variety of mental illnesses, his sister says, including schizophrenia — his sister alleges that prison staff failed to get Lancaster proper medical treatment. He began to hallucinate, crouch in the fetal position, and refused food and water. The Detroit Free Press reported that he lost 26 percent of his body weight in three weeks, dropping 51 pounds, according to the lawsuit.

“They didn’t even know why he was still in solitary confinement,” Dunn says. She begged staff to give him proper care but claims she was told he was “physically fine.” March 8th, 2019, he was pepper sprayed and put in an observation room, where he didn’t have access to water, according to the lawsuit. On March 11th, they cleared him for a hospital visit. Early that morning, they strapped him into a restraint chair and left him in his cell for several hours. At 12:50 he was found unresponsive and later declared dead. (Lancaster’s family is suing MDOC staff for wrongful death; Gautz declined to comment on the ongoing litigation.)

“My brother was severely tortured,” Dunn says, tearing up. “They beat him. There were bruises all over him. Pepper sprayed, beat, when he was unresponsive. They sat there and they literally watched him suffer and die.” Her mother was put in a mental health hospital. “It’s all but killed my mother. She’s suffering terribly.”

“The cruelty, leaving him to die in his own waste, suffering,” Dunn says, of her brother.

Surviving in solitary can be its own cruelty. Daniel Henry has spent more than a decade in segregation and, he says, he’s been told he’s never getting out. “It’s been a long 12 years in solitary at ICF and I have learned so much about the darker side of human nature and how cruel people can become when there is no real accountability or oversight,” Henry wrote to Willams. “I have also learned a lot about myself. And I’ve met many people in here and out there who have taught me how to sympathize with the next man’s pain and suffering.”

“Other countries do not utilize solitary confinement like we do let alone incarcerate their citizens for such lengthy sentences that virtually remove any hope for a future life outside of the criminal justice system,” Henry added.

He, and others, worry about Richard Goddard, who’s spent almost 50 years in isolation. “The man is the most kind, caring and humble human being I’ve ever met and he clearly presents no threat to either himself or the MDOC any longer,” says Henry. “The appearance is that they want us to suffer as much as possible on top of being confined to a small space for years.”

Williams hopes to turn outrage over conditions into action; the website has a “Take Action” page that lets people share their stories and lobby political leaders, like Michigan’s Democratic Governor Gretchen Whitmer.

“I am hoping that public pressure makes the MDOC admit that there’s a huge problem, and actually work toward fixing it,” she tells Rolling Stone.

She wishes elected officials could really see the conditions they perpetuate with their inaction. “I want legislators to visit these prisons in July or August, to step inside of a segregation cell and close the door when it’s over 100 degrees and see how long they last.”

[not-poignant]

Book recs on autism/add/CPTSD?

Aside from the books I recced here ages ago, which are mostly PTSD and dissociative disorder focused, nope. There’s one book in there on autism, but it’s specifically for partner workshopping, and that’s it.

Part of the reason I don’t have any book recs on C-PTSD is that there is not a ton of great books out there on C-PTSD, and this is partly because it’s not officially recognised in most of the world’s major diagnostic manuals. People can’t decide exactly what it is, or whether it’s a combination of comorbidities. They can’t decide if they want to call it C-PTSD or DES-NOS or something else. Not only that, but a serious push was made to include DES-NOS and DTD (C-PTSD related acronyms) in the latest revision of the DSM, and all were pushed back/rejected for just being insufficiently presented as conditions. Imho, I don’t think the DSM was wrong to reject what was put forward as the disorder.

I followed research around C-PTSD closely (because my symptoms match the description of it closely) around 1994 and in the decade afterwards. A lot of the time it was described as PTSD made additionally complicated by a dissociative disorder or alternatively, a personality disorder like Borderline or Bipolar Personality Disorder. It was used to distinguish from say, one-off rape-triggered PTSD, and PTSD that might be triggered by hundreds of rapes over a prolonged period since childhood (understanding that obviously, these would create different types of severity in the post-trauma spectrum, and require different treatments and expectations of recovery), and as with all disorders, a lot of people began self-diagnosing with C-PTSD who may have been dealing with comorbidities (PTSD + BPD as an example) that felt or looked similar.

Anyway, as a result, the literature on it outside of Herman’s work (which is in my stack of books) is like... mmmm. Hit and miss. It’s mostly articles.

Over time, with more research, it’s become less popular as a diagnostic disorder over time and not more popular, partly because a lot of the symptoms can be accounted for by pre-existing other conditions (ditto the treatments recommended). That isn’t to say it doesn’t exist, or that people can’t feel like that’s where they belong in terms of a label - I used the label myself for like 9 years before I decided against it - but the research around it shows more holes than anything solid, and there’s still a lot missing in the understanding of what is trying to be attained in the description of C-PTSD in the first place. It kind of had a golden age from like 1995-2005, dropped off the face of the planet, and then got picked up again during the renaissance of Tumblr (and social media) self-diagnosis and post-trauma social media vlogs etc.

The gold standard for C-PTSD discussion was still what was put forth by Judith Herman in Trauma and Recovery in 1992. There’s a reason even the Wiki article doesn’t step out much past that; there’s not that much good scientific work that’s been done in the field since that’s consistent or proves the existence of the disorder in the first place. :/ Traumatology science is complicated, but...things are not looking good for C-PTSD and it’s related acronyms DES-NOS (Disorders of Extreme Stress Not Otherwise Specified) and DTD (Developmental Trauma Disorder, for the childhood equivalent of C-PTSD) joining the DSM any time soon. So I kind of...dropped off with that research myself.

I have a lot of feelings about the C-PTSD diagnosis because I’ve had therapists diagnose me with it. But for the most part, it doesn’t change your treatment protocol anymore than if you had severe PTSD from prolonged trauma complicated with other mental and physiological disorders. As a result, I’m satisfied with the books on PTSD that I already have. I don’t set out to write characters with ‘C-PTSD’ - I write characters with PTSD complicated with other issues a lot of the time; if that reads as C-PTSD, that’s fine, but that’s actually just what PTSD complicated with other issues looks like as well.

I don’t have any book recs on ADHD or ADD, partly for selfish reasons - I don’t have it. I do have a lot of the symptoms, because there’s a lot of crossover between ADHD symptoms and severe PTSD symptoms and autism symptoms. (Fun fact, people with trauma who think they have ADHD or get diagnosed with ADHD first, often don’t realise that 70% of their symptoms can all be explained by PTSD. There are quite a few folks out there diagnosed with the latter, who might do better with treatment protocols for the former added in - many people don’t realise that mental illnesses trend in the mental health community. For like ten years it was bipolar and rapid cycling bipolar, for the last five years it’s been ADHD, some of those people have...you guessed it...PTSD, lol; when a disorder is trending, it gets diagnosed way more often whether the person has it or not - that’s why a differential diagnosis is so important).

I relate to almost every ADHD meme I see, because I have severe PTSD, lmao.

I’ve read a lot of articles on ADHD over the years because I have many friends who have it, but I don’t bookmark stuff like that so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯  I apologise! I mostly just pass them onto friends who have it and have appointed me their ‘research friend’ and that’s that.

And as for autism, I’ve never felt particularly compelled to read up on it, weirdly, outside of like the practical book that I’ve got in my collection (which I do, actually, recommend). Again, a lot of the symptoms between Asperger’s and severe PTSD actually are comorbid with each other, so again, a lot of the stuff covered in my PTSD research and therapy actually gave me adequate tools to deal with my autism.

But also just... most books on autism focus on boys with autism and focus on AMAB people and AMAB presentations and AMAB research and are less useful to me than like, articles and websites that specifically talk about AFAB autism presentation etc. The world of published autism books has a ways to go when it comes to not being like, sexist/misogynist in its presentation.

[blackswallowtailbutterfly]

In the 15-year period of 2005 through 2019, canines killed 521 Americans. Pit bulls contributed to 66% (346) of these deaths. As a radical feminist, you are a woman who believes in biology, science, and statistics, even when the loud misinformed people scream that you are wrong. Pit bull advocates act and sound a lot like TRAs in their rhetoric. “That never happens!” is the rallying cry for both groups.

I don’t know of anyone claiming pitbull attacks never happen. I’ve been bitten twice as a child--once by a pitbull, once by a husky/lab mix. My sister was also bitten by the husky/lab mix. I can tell you what both dogs had in common: rough treatment since puppyhood. I’m well-acquainted with another pitbull who’s an old boy now and has never bitten anyone in his life, despite being around two children. Can you guess what the difference in treatment was?

Pitbulls are the dogs most often used in dog fights. Men (and some women) who get pitbulls often treat them badly and encourage aggressive behaviour. Dogs are domesticated gray wolves--that is, they’re not even considered a separate species; they’re just another subspecies of gray wolf like the arctic wolf, the Arabian wolf, etc.. Domestic dogs are sweet, and loving, and social, but if you treat them badly and encourage aggressive behaviour, you find out very quickly that the medium and large ones can be dangerous.

If pitbulls are dangerous most often it’s because they’re treated like shit most often. Because here is the difference: dogs are sentient, they are not sapient. They do not make a choice to hurt people based on a fetish. They do not pretend to be labrador retrievers (which absolutely will bite if you treat them like shit). They are not campaigning for the right to be in the homes of people who are uncomfortable with them. They are just dogs. Treat them well, and they’re just big babies who like to sleep between your feet and sing along to instruments. Treat them poorly and someone is going to suffer for it, be it you or an unsuspecting child.

Trans-identified men are at best delusional gay men whose internalized homophobia pushed them to drastic measures, and they need therapy, not validation for their delusion, and not access to spaces that weren’t made for them. These are the small minority of men who identify as women today. At worst TIMs are violent and predatory men of any sexual orientation (mostly straight) who want access to a steady victim supply. Men are not treated worse than women, so poor treatment in childhood doesn’t hold up as an explanation for why they behave that way. Most victims of child sexual abuse are girls and yet most perpetrators of child sexual abuse are men.

Trans-identified men, like men in general, have a terrible sense of self-entitlement which makes them believe they must be the centre of attention at all times, that their feelings should come at the expense of women and children’s safety, that getting laid is a human right for them, that “no” is oppression, and that they should be allowed to view child pornography, to rape women and children (and some men), commit physical assault and murder with impunity. For predatory men, identifying as women is just another way to possess us.

If you really think pitbull advocates are the same as trans advocates I really don’t know how else to tell you that an abused, non-sapient dog and a predatory sapient human are not the same thing.