#i could form my thoughts more clearly and critically but why should i do that
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oopsie
so the stream was a flop (ill need to solve that problem in the future but that was very weird cuz these settings worked with batdr before and i doubt batdr was easier to stream performance wise) but yall didnt miss out on anything cuz uh
basically in 15 minutes i was done with the part of the. "game". that was. actually kind of looking like one. you know i didn't expect any polish to this, it was free and all. that was the part with gaskette, it was. fine. i did not find it interesting but at least it wasnt what the rest of the game was
but you know what, i get it. finally i get it
they, or maybe just mike, but its released under their company so i will say they,
they hate theorists
they hate dataminers
alright, point taken, i guess
just push away the fans who were the most interested in playing your games, cuz that's smart
it's sad really but oh well have it your way
#i dont know how many 'i cant get out of this hyperfixation no matter what' i have in me#believe me i tried to fixate on something else#idk#that game was just a really upsetting experience honestly and i think that was the point#i could form my thoughts more clearly and critically but why should i do that#ough#its so jover man#tbh#i dont think im gonna check out their next games if thats the attitude theyre showing#maybe i should have stopped engaging with them already but yknow i was hoping itd get better#and i still really do enjoy interacting with other bendy fans#but its just too much man#halfpost#bendy spoilers#whatever
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‘cause no one breaks my heart like you
“Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.” or Bradley Bradshaw is terrified of commitment and he decides to stop being selfish (even though it’s hard to see).
A/N: Okay so EXTREMELY long time, no see! I’ve been working on this little project since the end of September and have been driving myself crazy in trying to sculpt the words the way that I wanted and how to make this seem as realistic as possible. I appreciate every single person who has been so patient with me and my inconsistent posting and hope you enjoy 19k words of our favorite guy in the sky.
(Year 3)
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me.
The strange thing about crying is never knowing when the tears will fall. There’s this burning sensation that comes with it; clearly juxtaposed to the watery mess your eyes want to produce. Your nose burns, your face is hot, and the all-consuming, mind-numbing squeeze of rubberband-like pressure around your temples makes you dizzy.
Whether the dizziness is because of the crossed wires in your psyche (the hurt feelings and the busted-up ego that comes along with it) or the metaphysical spiral that sent you into a breakdown in the first place is up to your discretion.
The thought pattern sometimes breaks you out of feeling so non-descriptively shitty.
Because the thing about being a twenty-something that you’ve come to uncover is that life is shitty. Paying rent is shitty. Paying an arm and leg for a pilates workout is shitty. Office jobs are shitty. Office jobs that house cruel know-it-all men are even shittier.
Shit, shit, and shit.
You used to pride yourself on having a more extensive vocabulary than one filled to the brim with the swear word, but as of late, you can’t be damned to care. It’s not like anything you said at the office held any value to anyone anyway.
You’re just a “kid” - “You and my sister are the same age!” And you’re also a woman; one of the fifteen employed by the grounds and building company you’re a consult for, and one of three on the fifth floor working on engineering consults and software materials for digital blueprinting.
And the preparation for working in an environment like this - one where mumbled insults at the findings of a mistake on your colleague's draft or small comments about your body being made in passing (never enough to be called harassment, but certainly enough to make you question why it was even being brought up) - wasn’t new.
The patent leather diploma propped up on the desk in your home office gave proof of it. Years spent with dreaded calculus exams and awkward office hours spent with even more awkward professors and snooty boys with poor attitudes served as the price you paid for the merit.
So who can even be put to blame for thinking that you could handle it?
The answer is definitely “you”, but accepting blame for these kinds of things - accepting the fact that in a way, you’re only reaping the consequences of your own actions - is never an easy thing to do.
And your lips are chewed raw from all the intrusive thoughts plaguing your brain and sometimes you wish that you didn’t have this overarching tendency to view things from “outside of your body.” Sometimes being so critical inwardly kicked your conscience into a God’s eye perspective.
The worry of if your work pants actually did make you look frumpy or if the makeup around your nose was caking like how it usually does if you blend it in before you let it get tacky. You worry if your hair sits the right way or if the secretary downstairs thinks you have a Dunkin’ Donuts addiction. And then that makes you worry if she notices the breakout forming on the left side of your face.
The worry then transpires from material to emotional and manifests in the form of the two things you’re most deathly terrified of; being a failure and being a failure who finds herself alone.
Because what if you fucked around and lost the information to the three billion dollar hospital that you’ve spent the better part of fifteen weeks working on? What if you got fired because your bosses realized how inaccurate your math was sometimes? What if everyone was constantly laughing at you and that’s why you struggle to find a commonality with your coworkers?
And what if, through this whole slue of hypotheticals that hadn’t happened yet but had the potential to happen, you found yourself in a position to be alone? What if your boyfriend - your darling, kind, and sweet boyfriend - finally saw you how you saw yourself? And what if what he sees makes him want to walk away?
Bradley would never, you try and rationalize, but the more your brain tries to force the pieces of the jumbled insecurities to fit, you aren’t too sure.
The fact that the same work colleagues who spark the flame of your self-doubt are the same age as he; thirty-somethings with wives and maybe a toddler or two. Your bosses who scare the shit out of you are in the same age range as the men Bradley knows and loves; his Uncle Maverick and Uncle Ice, and the commonalities are far-fetched but multiply the more you think.
The more you torture yourself, really.
And the excruciating rug-burn-like feeling slides its way from the depths of your stomach up your throat. When you were little, you used to imagine that it was slimy and plasmodia-esque. The Mucinex guy, you used to call it, and the feeling is so sickening and ugly and horrific, that the ugly little cartoon ploy almost seemed cute in comparison.
You’re not really sure how your emotions caught up with you today. From how you run from them and shove them down and turn them off, you forget that you have feelings sometimes.
But then you wake up freezing because Bradley took all the covers in the middle of the night and Dunkin fucked up your coffee and you spilled said fucked up coffee on your new work shirt that you know the stain is gonna be a bitch to get out.
On top of that, your hair seems frizzier than what you remembered when you left the house and your lips are chapped with not a damned chapstick in sight in the abomination that happens to be your purse.
David across the hall from your office says something about how you’re late and it’s probably because “You changed your outfit about six times. Know how you women are. My wife is the same way.” And that’s not the reason why you’re running behind at all, but you’re sure indulging in the fact that your boyfriend hopped in the shower with you uninvited and then proceeded to invite himself to bruise your cervix this morning isn’t exactly “safe for work” content.
And your vagina hurts like a bitch because Bradley went too rough and the report you had filed was sitting on your desk with an intimidating note about how the numbers were inaccurate (“Fuck you, Michael and Rick from downstairs,” you think).
Maybe it’s the fact that you’re so tired and that the cogwheels in your brain are doing that fucked up thing again where it sends you into overdrive and your entire body feels numb. Maybe it’s the fact that you know you can’t cry; that you can’t actually process what you’re feeling until after five when you leave the office today.
But the burning sensation doesn’t go away no matter how much ice water you drink or how many times you excuse yourself to the bathroom to splash your face with cold water.
It’s all one big, nasty, slimy feeling that clouds your conscience until you’re met with the front door of your safe haven; Bradley Bradshaw’s home. The sniffles scratch at your chest like a stray dog begging to be let in. The whimper you let out is pathetic and you would’ve laughed at yourself if you hadn’t been so concerned with getting inside.
Fuck. Was unlocking Bradley’s front door always this difficult?
Bradley can sense you before he has any indication that you’re home. He joked how he could feel you oceans away when he was on deployment and while you thought that he wasn’t serious (Bradley was a sap and had a tendency to be so tooth-achingly sweet) you know that there’s some truth to it.
It was odd how he was always so attuned to your needs; how he could always tell how you were feeling before you were even aware that you were feeling it. It was something that you had raved to your friends about in the earlier stages of your relationship. It was also certainly something that they had witnessed on nights out at the club when visiting you in San Diego.
Something inside Bradley loves you so deeply, but he also can’t deny the fact that he loves the praise; the reassurance that he’s a good guy who is always doing the right thing. He’s not doing it for brownie points, “per say”, but the praise does feel nice, and after having to fight tooth and nail to stand out - to be someone and mean something to someone other than his family - the good deeds and the compliments that arose because of them were satiating enough.
But if he’s being honest with himself, he had always been that way. Despite his innate desire to recreate his parents’ epic love story, being empathetic and filled with space to make homes of other people’s sorrow was just something he was born with.
Nothing new, and nothing special.
You force the door open and try and breathe; the cold air of Bradley’s living room hitting your face and the dry heat of Southern California constricting your lungs even more than they had been. You just need a moment, you think. You just need to breathe and you’ll be okay.
In, out. In, out. In, out.
Suddenly you’re too aware of your heart beating inside your chest; the anger and sadness and frustration demanding to be let out. You can feel your trachea eroding away with your sobs. Your eyes feel like salt had been poured into them. Your body is heavy with the weariness of your soul, and something about today’s events and your life, really, has made your legs feel like they weigh a billion pounds. Moving them would only land you flat on your face.
And then you’re made aware of your breathing and your heartbeat is out of sync. The feeling claws your insides and makes every fiber of your being sting.
Fuck.
In. In. In. In. In!
Bradley rounds the corner where your hallway extends into your living room. He has a basket of laundry in his arms. His chest is admonished with a shirt with a comically stretched “UVA” logo. Under different circumstances (one where you could breathe, for starters) you would have laughed at him and his expression reads that he’s prepared for it; the slight smile line near his mouth is quirked up on one side being his tell.
“Hey, baby!” he says before coming into full view of you.
You can see the light in his eyes leave and the bob of his Adam’s apple as he drinks in your appearance.
Your own eyes widen as you damn near suffocate in the doorway of Bradley’s home. Your sweet, sweet Bradley who you’re sure you’ve traumatized in the span of three seconds.
You’ve had episodes like this before, but never in the presence of another person.
They don’t happen frequently, and from various self-help Refinery29 articles and Google searches, you were certain that what you were experiencing - the sudden shortness of breath and the tunnel vision and the pent-up, white-hot frustration making your head woozy - was not normal in the slightest.
And if it was anyone else you would tell them to get help. You would tell them that what they were experiencing didn’t make them any less of who they were before and that it would be absurd to define someone by such a small fragment of their experiences. But what you say to others is different than what you feel about yourself, because admitting there is an issue that you can’t solve by yourself is equivalent to weakness in your mind.
Weakness isn’t something you’re allowed to show very often; not with Mikes and Bills breathing down your neck looking for something to boot your sorry ass out of the front doors of their company.
Bradley recognizes the look you have on your face. It resembles that of new recruits during hypoxia training and even those unfortunate ones that experience g-lock while up in the sky. He’s had his fair share of freakouts and anxieties and he knows that the feeling is awful. Something inside the shelf of him breaks when he sees the same glimmer of fear in your eyes and a call for help on your face.
He drops the laundry basket to the ground and rushes toward you. His feet move faster than his mind and if people on the base could see him now, it would be the last time they called him slow to react.
“Hey, hey, hey,” he whispers, softly grabbing your forearms and rubbing his thumbs over your wrists, “You’re okay. Breathe. Just breathe.”
His grip on your forearms drops to your waist as he subtly moves you into the entryway of his home. You can feel the vacuum of air behind you as he reaches around your back to shut the door and lock it.
Bradley’s pupils search your face for answers your mouth can’t give him. He sees the slight bloodshot hue in the whites of your eyes. He sees the slight flush to your cheeks and knows that the dewiness of the shade isn’t because of the heat outside or the blush he had watched you apply this morning. He sees the forced movement of your chest; your lungs overworking themselves to keep you standing.
Your eyes are staring right back at him but your brain can’t seem to register that you’re safe. You’re home. You’re with Bradley.
The longer he rubs his thumbs in the crease where your elbow meets your bicep, the more feeling you regain. Your heart rate has slowed a good deal and the air you’ve so desperately been engulfing has allowed itself to make itself useful to you.
He shushes you and steps closer, engulfing you in a wrap that could envy that of a boa constrictor with its prey. He peppers the top of your head with small kisses and he makes sure your ear is pushed up to his chest so you can hear the thump of his heart.
You don’t even realize that you’re crying until he moves your conjoined bodies so that his back is facing the door and you’re being held close to his front. Bradley slides down the navy blue painted oak so swiftly and carefully with you in his arms that you can’t even be sure when your view changed from his face to being at eye level with his coffee table.
His hold is comforting and the dam that you’ve worked so hard to maintain all day has finally hit its peak of pressure and broken completely.
“You’re safe, baby. I’m here.”
The sob that leaves your mouth is one that you don’t even recognize as yours. The last time you can remember hearing something remotely similar resonates in the memory of your niece throwing the biggest hissy fit ever known to man at her second birthday party last summer.
Man, if only she knew that her competition was you instead of her new baby brother.
“My sweet girl,” Bradley whispers into your hair, holding you as your body shakes so violently it jostles his large frame behind you. “You’re okay. It’s okay. Get it all out.”
And you don’t know when the crying stops and turns into shallow sniffles or when the sky changed from its yellowed hue to the dark navy that usually blankets your late-night talks with the man behind you, but all you know is that Bradley Bradshaw is a saint.
Your sweet, sweet Bradley who would stop the world from turning if that’s what you asked of him.
Because it’s what you would do if he had been the one to ask instead. That’s how love works.
He loves me. He loves me not.
He loves me.
(Year 4)
He loves me not. He loves me.
He loves me not.
Looking for blame was never your strong suit.
But as you look outside the passenger window of an inherited Bronco on a chilly November night, the fingers you always seem hesitant to point uncurl themselves from your fist without resistance. You have half the mind to not actually point at the culprit of your anger who manifests in the form of the six-foot-one man seething beside you.
The radio is clicked off and the joyous laughter and cacophony of faux karaoke is absent in the midnight blue starlight. The windows are down despite the air surrounding the coast bringing the atmosphere to a standing fifty-five outside, and the wind from how fast your lover is driving taking the temperature down to at least fifty degrees even.
Your eyes refuse to drink in his appearance for more than five seconds at a time because you know that you’re an angry crier who gets set off very easily. Exchanging looks with the fuel that set fire to the burning in your belly would not do you any good at this moment.
When you had pulled on the pretty little cocktail dress and left Bradley to his own devices in the living room of your apartment, the thought of the anger brewing between you like a hurricane didn’t cross your mind at all.
And how could it?
In the four years of being together, there were a fair share of disagreements but nothing that wasn’t just a product of stress or small tidbits of jealousy and hurt feelings that brewed into something bigger than it was ever intended to be. They were usually resolved with a mature conversation on the floor of whoever’s living room followed by cuddles and on a few occasions, fervent makeup sex on the floor.
It always gave you rug burn but you never complained. Having Bradley was something you craved so deeply that no consequence could ever outweigh the desire; even damn near purple knees and a sore ass from how domineering he could be.
Love has a way of making the world stop turning. Nothing truly matters besides the feel of a warm body holding you in bed and the promise of sweet nothings weighing you down lovingly. That always is (at least in your case) until too much pressure is applied and you begin to freak out - the ugly truth of how much love can hurt with each pained exhale that mimics simultaneous cries of pleasure and calls for help.
“Does he really love me?” “Am I too much?” “Am I not enough?”
Insecurities upon insecurities and you really have no true basis for why you think this way or why you feel like you will never amount to what Bradley deserves. If you’re being honest, it’s all a jumble of things and it reminds you of the ABC spaghetti-o’s you used to beg your mom to buy.
Superficial and never really making sense, much like the word scramble of letters in your soup.
But despite you trying to tell yourself that you were being ridiculous - that the pit in your stomach that refused to move was nothing more than an overreaction - the ABC spaghetti-o mixture started to make sense of your anger and what may have caused it.
And the insecurity you had felt that you tried to push down inside of you; tried to deny the existence that it was there and was, in fact, so excruciatingly real made way at Rueben’s wedding shower.
It’s not like you hate being around Bradley’s friends - not like they’re strangers that you try and force small talk with so that the three-hour minimum interactions required for a get-together go by faster. Most of these gatherings have an imaginary itinerary that you’ve come up with and if you play the game right, you never come home with too bad of a hangover.
The first thirty minutes will be spent giving side hugs and enthusiastic “Hey! How are you?”’s being tossed around. You’re always grateful that the years of sorority recruitment have prepared you for holding “safe” conversations; ones that don’t deter any deeper than being happy to see each other and the San Diego weather that never seems to change.
Every now and again, one of the guys will hold up your left hand and inspect for an engagement ring before pushing Bradley’s shoulder slightly. A “You better lock her down before I do, Bradshaw,” nipping the air and making your cheeks turn slightly pink.
Hour one will entail being tucked beneath Bradley’s arm as he sips a Budweiser and joins the circle of regulars that you often go to the bar with or host for dinner parties at his place. Mickey and Rueben will give you friendly exchanges and ask about your work and siblings. Javy and Jake will give you a curt nod and then start to babble away with your boyfriend about whatever hazing-like endeavor they’ll pull on the new pupils in their class. And sweet ole Bob will stand to the side with his hands in his pockets before offering to show you the newest picture of his two-year-old niece, which you graciously partake in viewing because she’s a cutie.
You’ll slosh around the heavily poured margarita you’ve had in your hand for the past hour before Mickey will laugh and ask if you plan on drinking it at all, and you’ll give a faux introspective hum before shaking your head “no” and offering your drink to Bradley. And Bradley will ask what’s wrong with it and you’ll say it’s too strong and he’ll graciously take the glass and drop a sweet kiss on your temple.
And when he downs the drink with no grimace at the shit ton of tequila and triple sec poured into it, you’ll make note of how the margaritas you make at home are probably more of a mocktail than anything to him. You’ll then marvel at his ability to handle his alcohol, and recall asking him one time at the start of your relationship if a high alcohol tolerance was required to join the armed forces.
Hour one and a half would be spent with Natasha kidnapping you from the group of aviators Bradley has concerned himself with. “Sorry not sorry, Bradshaw. We got stuff to talk about,” she’ll say and then drag you across the room to another corner of aviators (thank God they’re all women this time). And then you get another round of “Hi! You look so good!”’s thrown at you and a mojito to replace the margarita on account of Cali. The funny stories of hookups and boyfriends paired with all the constant belly laughing are reminiscent of college roommates after a night out at the bars.
Hour two will include drunken karaoke (even if there isn’t a karaoke machine in sight) and some kind of serenade from Bradley. He always goes to the piano willingly (though it’s always anticipated that dear old Rooster is bound to end up there if the instrument is available) and he’ll pretend like he doesn’t enjoy it, but you know that his ego is inflated by everyone singing along and the praises sung to his playing.
Hour two and a half will bleed into hour three and usually ends with people starting to head out and “See you tomorrow!” being tossed around. Nat always gives you a tight squeeze and holds your shoulders before making you promise her to get lunch sometime soon. You’ll agree even though you know that your schedules will never align and it more than likely won’t happen, but the drunken stupor you’re both in creates a bubble of extroversion that neither of you can seem to put a cap on.
Bradley then takes you back to the car and turns on the radio. He’ll look over at you lovingly before kissing your forehead and rolling all the windows down. He knows that the sea breeze has made the air chillier than the number displayed on the weather app in your phone. You’ll groan as he gives you a, “C’mon, baby. You know I run hot!” with that cute laugh and head-shaking smile, and then you’re off down the interstate back to Bradley’s home, where you’ll stay the night and leave out back to yours around the same time he gets up for training.
That’s how the itinerary usually goes, and the comfortability of it all keeps you sane and acts as a warm blanket that keeps you distracted from the sheer differences between your boyfriend and his world.
But tonight was different, and the minute you step into the lavishly decorated venue, you know that your unofficial itinerary has no room to unravel despite the massive square footage of the party taking place around you.
You recognized Natasha alongside the other female aviators that you were friendly with but certainly not close to. Because of the occasion at hand, a few girlfriends and spouses were also huddled around them including Rueben’s fiance, Izzy.
And somewhere between the three glasses of champagne you had and Izzy’s stories about how she and Rueben were secretly “trying” but didn’t want anyone to know (you’re not sure how it’s a secret anymore because she blurted it out to her soon-to-be husband’s coworkers, but truly to each their own) planted a cherry pit of insecurity in your stomach. When you finished your glass of champagne and took note of how dizzy you were, the insecurity started to grow into the slimy monster that you were familiar with.
Then came the picking yourself apart.
Your eyes found the glimmer of engagement rings, baby bumps, and phones with family pictures as the home screen. Wearing your undergraduate alma mater’s class ring on your finger seemed infantile, and you made the conscience effort to slip it into the clutch you had been carrying with you the entire night.
Phoenix noticed the sudden stiffness in your spine and how your eyes had a glimmer of sadness in them; how they held sparkles of wishing that you could relate. It’s a look she remembered having during her time in flight school. And because she had taken it upon herself to act as your big sister turned good friend since you’ve been dating Bradley, she knew that you wouldn’t speak up or excuse yourself from the conversation.
Because you, much like her and so very much like Bradley, would rather suffer in silence and let the thoughts of not feeling good enough eat you alive until the joys of who you are become eroded to make room for the sorrows of who you aren’t.
It came as a surprise to feel her hand guide you away from the giggling women to the front table housing cupcakes and plastic water bottles with the cheesy Canva-designed “Hitched to Fitch” labels replacing the ones they had come with.
“Thank you,” you said, and she only nodded before handing you a bottle and grabbing one for herself off the table.
“M’gonna head to the bathroom and then go outside for a bit. Meet you there?” she asked and you agreed, your hands busied trying to twist the cap off of your water bottle.
Phoenix disappeared and your eyes started to search the room for Bradley. You’d even be satisfied to see some of the familiar faces that you’ve come to know via pool at Hard Deck or biweekly group dinners at your boyfriend’s house.
Your eyebrows furrowed as you scanned the room and realized that you didn’t see anyone you recognized for that matter. Instead of doing the smart thing and texting him about his whereabouts or trying to get some kind of idea about where he may have disappeared to, you did the opposite and headed outside to the back area where the sky swallowed any light in its darkness and the greenery around you smelled earthy.
The November breeze chilled your bones and it took everything within you to keep your teeth from chattering audibly. You internally scolded yourself for being insistent that you didn’t need to bring a jacket to wear with your cocktail dress. When the wind chill had been brought up when you were putting on your earrings, Bradley had only shaken his head and laughed before making sure to put on the baby blue suit coat of his that you loved. You both knew that you’d have it across your shoulders come nightfall when the sun had set and the late fall wind chill kicked in.
The back of your heels dug into the blisters that had formed sometime during the evening and your champagne-induced mind can’t force you to walk any farther. And your intention was never to wander off and not let anyone know. It was to find Bradley and get some air, and you fell short in finding your boyfriend, so the latter had to do for the time being.
Thoughts of the Law and Order episodes you watched leisurely slammed themselves into the forefront of your mind as the thought of a dangerous predator sent shivers up your spine. You chewed on your lips and crossed your arms over your chest; half thinking and half trying to preserve your body heat. You took a small step forward before your action was interrupted by the loud cacophonous laughter of the men that made up your boyfriend’s friend group.
You smiled fondly and decided to wait a moment longer before making your presence known. Not very often do they get to joke around like that.
“She’s letting you hit raw and you still haven’t knocked her up yet?” you heard an unfamiliar voice say, “Jesus, Fitch, are you broken?”
You can hear Bradley chuckle along with the other males making up the group as you remained standing hidden behind the archway of the garden. If you had common sense, you would hit the gopher of your curiosity on the head like some dumb carnival game and would reveal yourself; softly joining in on the conversation and maybe even getting to put a face to the voice you had just heard.
But instead, you stayed put and tried to flip through the catalog of voices that you had come to know.
Reuben was ruled out because the statement was about him. Mickey’s voice was naturally quieter and softer in nature. “Hit raw” would never come out of Bob’s mouth ever. Hangman is an actual menace to society, but would “Never use the Lord’s name in vain, sweetheart. Was raised better than that.” And Javy was on leave visiting his family in Ohio for the next three weeks, you remembered Bradley mentioning earlier.
So who could it be?
An instinct - that old know-it-all voice that was cemented into your subconscious from years of mistakes and warnings from your mother - told you that the curiosity would actually kill you this time. Part of you thought it would be best if you found the bathrooms and waited for Natasha there. Your frozen toes and embarrassingly hard nipples would certainly thank you, but yet you do the opposite of what your panicked brain is telling you (one thing that the ABC spaghetti-o’s made clear to prevent you from getting your feelings hurt).
You had decided to snoop some more and God, did you wish you could beat yourself upside the head to forget what you had heard. Maybe a concussion wouldn’t be that awful.
And by the time Natasha caught up to you, you had thanked God that the night sky concealed the sadness written on your face and that the cool air could be used as an excuse for your sniffles.
Bradley, your sweet Bradley, had betrayed you, and he wasn’t even aware of how deeply that had cut you yet.
As you and Natasha made your way to the group of men huddled outside, you could feel the energy from Bradley shift, and from one look at you, he can tell that something in you has changed. His eyes are softened from both the scotch in his system and the tenderness he held in his heart for your being. Something in you just won’t allow his hazel irises to bleed into you. You already have enough blood surrounding the metaphorical stab wound that he unknowingly caused you tonight to last you through the goddamn week.
He had reached out to bring you into him and tuck you into his front and wrap his arm around your torso. He knew that you were freezing and his suit jacket had been abandoned inside so blocking the wind with his body was the next best thing to warm you up, he had thought. His hand had grazed the goosebumps on your arms, but you pushed him away forcefully. He didn’t raise the question out loud, but when he turned to face you and saw the red tint on your cheeks and the straight line your lips were in, it confirmed what he had thought.
You were pissed off.
The thing about Bradley, though, is that he’ll never bring up someone else’s issue with him. He’s confrontational at heart but only about things that cut him deep; about things that stain his fingertips red with anguish and disappointment. And he knows that he has a lot of problems. He knows that what you had heard had to be beyond upsetting, and as you stood shivering with your arms folded over your chest and a good three feet put between you and him, he noted that the look on your face was something that he had caused.
But because he’s him and because you’re you, he decided to let you come forward and let you confront him with your problem because the absolute last thing he ever wanted to do was upset you, and he certainly fell short in avoiding that scenario tonight.
You stayed quiet and distant for the rest of the night. Your smiles and hugs and sarcastic quips were kept to a minimum and everyone noticed that something was off with you. When you had given Reuben and Izzy their parting hugs, he had whispered in your ear to “feel better soon.” Izzy had even made an effort (despite how “off her ass” drunk she was) to comfort you, and it was then that you realized that everyone had noticed you but Bradley.
Your sweet, sweet Bradley who always happily obliged to love you and make you feel known and seen no matter the cost, but clearly, that was short of a few oceans away and the contempt of what he had done took precedence of the space you held for him in your heart now.
All the realization did was piss you off more.
Bradley had tried to give you his suit coat but you had just brushed it off your shoulders and let it fall to the ground. Normally, you would profusely apologize and declare that the action was an accident, but you simply watched it fall, raised your eyebrows in a gesture of being unamused, and started making your way to his car.
He had opened the passenger side door for you, but you stared at him; a look of utter silent disbelief and frustration rampant in your eyes. He couldn’t even process all that he was seeing reflected in your face before you reached your hand out to slam the very door he opened. You slung it open again before damn near hauling your body into the leather interior of the seat.
He had half the mind to subconsciously reach out and shut the door for you until you started angrily buckling your seatbelt, to which he ultimately decided to back away and round about his vehicle with half caution and half emasculating retreat to the driver’s side.
The wheels of how you were acting and how he could even begin to tread the water of what exactly had made you so painstakingly angry. You wouldn’t look at him. You wouldn’t speak to him. You didn’t even acknowledge him, and through the years of being an only child with a mother who doted on him like no other, Bradley had to admit that he was selfish; that he always wanted attention and always had to have it. The older he had gotten, the better he had become at concealing this, of course (Well, that’s debatable, you would have said if you were speaking to him) but he doesn’t like to share. Never likes to be pushed aside to have to make room for something else if he can help it.
And his thinking is selfish…and absurd…and a “doorway for toxicity” (all things that his therapist had said before Bradley had stopped seeing him because he hates being called out), but he can’t help it, and despite keeping it at bay in his friendships, he certainly has a more than difficult time keeping it concealed in his relationships.
Bradley blames the scotch he downed before he said his goodbyes on why he felt so wounded; on why the guilt and embarrassment were eating him alive. Everyone had known something was wrong with you and it hurt his confidence that he couldn’t be the one to pinpoint what exactly had caused your sour mood. He certainly had an idea, but he’d come to learn throughout the years that assuming things would never do him any good.
The wound you had given his ego was further agitated by your show of slamming the door as soon as he turned on his heel to go to his side. Knowing eyes in the parking lot of the venue had made their presence known with hushed whispers and heeled footsteps walking faster to avoid running into him.
Your anger angered him, and instead of being open to the idea of criticism and accepting his party in making you miserable tonight, his need to deflect kicked in instead. Old habits die hard, and he just couldn’t resist.
He knew you would always forgive him; would always say sorry and mean it because you love him. He has a right to be mad too, he had thought. You let his suit coat fall to the ground on purpose. You refused his touch. You slammed the door to his Bronco not once, but twice. If anyone had a right to be angry, he knew it was you but who was to say that he wasn’t a second runner-up?
Bradley knows that he was so incredibly wrong for trying to play you; trying to play chess when you weren’t even aware that there was a game being played, but so help him God if he got into a massive blowout fight with you in the goddamn parking lot before the night was over.
And he’s pissed off but he isn’t an asshole (at least he doesn’t think he is intentionally). He settled for keeping his mouth shut because he knew it would keep your anger at a minimum with less material to be upset at.
He backed out of his parking space and put his hand behind your headrest, his fingers lightly grabbed the ends of curled pieces of hair that wrapped themselves on the wrong side of the seat. You can feel the wispy touches and you tried your best to shrug him off.
The ghost of his fingertips on your body drove you up the wall. Instead of harshly pulling your head away from him, you bend down to unbuckle the strap of your heel. You were sure you almost saw the tail end of a frown when you had come back up, but he was absolutely the last thing you wanted to look at for the time being.
You could feel his stare on your face. His eyes traced your collarbone and followed the labyrinth of shadows up to your jawline. The temptation to give him some grace, to entertain his worries for just a second rang the bell inside your heart, but you were stronger than that. You deserved better than that.
He didn’t care about you in front of his coworkers, so why should he get the privilege of caring about you now?
Bradley, obviously attuned to your every move and gesture, sensed your subtle attempt at fleeing from him. He never knew how far away someone could feel from another despite being stuck in the confined space of a front seat.
He could tell that you were digging your heels in; doing your best to avoid him and remove your brain from the peanut butter-thick tension that plagued the scene. It didn’t stop him from searching the side of your face for answers - for any indication that the metaphorical distance you’ve created between you two actually exists and isn’t just a figment of his chronic overthinking.
The radio was tuned to some 80s throwback station, a Bob Seger song that you knew the melody of but certainly not the words to, which filled the uncomfortable silence. The age gap between you and your boyfriend was further cemented as he sang the song quietly as if he had written it himself.
You’re sure you would have spiraled all the way down to the abyss located in the treacherous unknown of the Pacific Ocean if you were given the chance to. Anywhere would be better than here, you had thought.
Bradley’s hand slipped to the heat to turn it on amidst the chilly fifty-degree fall air that had you shaking in the passenger seat. Your anger was so rampant and rage-induced that your body felt like it was on fire. Your annoyance has no place to go, as he didn’t even bother to lower the windows in the car this time. He had known that the routine of you two going out was thrown off, and trying to keep a small sliver of expectancy would do you both no good.
Bradley could be so observant yet so self-absorbed at the same time, and it drove you absolutely nuts.
And you started to spiral and the heat that was being blasted in your face crafted a tornado of grievances that you weren’t even aware you were holding against him.
Bradley is a blanket stealer. He always gets the wrong kind of grapes for you at the grocery store. He can never tell the difference between Alexandra Cabot and Casey Novak no matter how many times you force him to watch Law and Order: SVU. He always gets an absurd amount of water on the bathroom floor when he showers. He never fills up the Brita filter after he uses it. He always places his shoes sideways on the rack near his front door; not quite crooked enough for you to say something about it but always slightly slanted enough for you to notice it.
Most of all, he hurt your feelings tonight and he had yet to acknowledge that he was the cause of it. Yet here he is, trying to get in your good graces because the guilt of knowing that he had done something was chewing him up and spitting him out currently.
So attuned to your needs but never to your feelings. Same old Bradley.
His hand traveled to the bare skin of your knee; his large palm cupping the bone before moving it upward so his fingertips could trace the shallow gaps where your joints were relaxed. Your breath hitched in your throat and if it would have been acceptable to scream - ie; your boyfriend not currently driving you both across a narrow two-lanes-of-traffic bridge over the ocean - you would have.
His touch burned you. Made your heart volcanic. Sent fiery tears streaming down your face. His touch had betrayed you. Made you small. Made you insignificant. Made you feel like he never cared.
If you could’ve caught a glimpse at yourself you would know that you were beet red. You could feel yourself visibly shaking with anger and you knew Bradley could feel it too. You smacked his hand away as if you were smacking a blood-sucking mosquito off your body in the suffocating heat of June.
Except this wasn’t a mosquito. This wasn’t the soft glow of a summer sunset with a pesky little bug slurping down your blood. This wasn’t a fond moment that you would laugh at later.
You’d been bruised; so deeply hurt. Made to feel so goddamn stupid for ever thinking that he loved you. That he respected you. Fuck him for making you feel the same way you do at your 9 to 5 every weekday.
Bradley reached and turned the radio off. The deep exhale and the pink flush that crawled up his neck was his tell of truly being pissed off. You had only seen it happen a handful of times. Most of the time Maverick or Hangman served as memorable faces to cause the reaction.
But this time, the time that extended your handful into two handfuls, was because of you. Part of you is prideful of that fact. Now he can feel what you’ve felt the entire night.
“What the actual fuck is your problem?” he griped at you. He shifted in his seat and his left hand gripped the steering wheel significantly harder. “Been acting like a pissed-off toddler all night.”
The desire to roll your eyes bated you with knowing it would satiate you in getting your point across. But the desire to do him one better, to see if you could irritate him more, took over. You know that nothing gets under Bradley’s skin more than someone taking the high road; someone one-upping him in his “noble and kind” act.
“I’m not starting a screaming match with you in the car,” you deadpanned. You heard him huff beside you, still avoiding his presence with your eyes.
“Would rather you fight with me than take an oath of silence.” He cracked his neck and stiffened his back against his seat. “More grown-up ways to go about telling me you’re mad, you know.”
The anger ran up your spine and reared its head in your ears. “Hmm,” you sneered pensively, “More grown up than my pussy then, huh?”
Bradley slammed on the breaks of the Bronco. His sudden change in speed caused you both to jerk forward. He thanked God that the road was dark and no one was directly behind him. His abrupt decision could have resulted in disaster. But even if someone would have rear-ended his prized possession, his biggest fear at the moment would have to be the fact that his suspicion was confirmed.
You had heard them and that’s why you were so royally pissed off.
He simply swallowed and pushed his foot on the gas pedal, the car slowly starting to move forward. He turned the radio off completely and his raised brows to signify that he was deep in thought.
How the hell was he going to get himself out of this now?
“You weren’t supposed to hear that.”
The scoff you let out rumbled in his ears; eardrums rubbed raw from how accusatory the pitch of your laughter sounded. “Does it fucking matter that I did?” Your voice sounded thick and the puff of air you blew out of your mouth told him that you were seconds away from angry tears.
“You’re laughing, Bradshaw but what about that youngin’ you brought tonight? She even old enough to drink yet?” his friend and old squadron partner, Yankee, had laughed.
Bradley had forgotten how loud-mouthed Yankee could be. Completely unafraid of asking the questions everyone was dying to know the answers to and unapologetically crass (even more so than Hangman, believe it or not). Call sign given to him by how goddamn opinionated he was about the MLB and how much of a ride-or-die fan of the New York Yankees he was.
Yankee was one of those people who you didn’t tell your personal business to because he was bound to have some opinion about it; whether it was if he could tell that your flight suit was slightly stained or if you were making the right choice about proposing to your long-term partner.
Come to think of it, Yankee was one of the friends Bradley had that he was sure he would never be caught dead hanging out with one-on-one. Something about the two never aligned. Bradley never found Yankee’s jokes to be funny and more often than not found his demeanor to be beyond annoying. But he can't help who his friends liked, and Yankee had never brought anything up against Bradley that made him want to beat him to a pulp, so he was found in the same hand-shaking and bar-hopping circle of friends with Yankee until the other pilot was moved to Corpus Christi.
“Hey, Rooster’s girl is at least twenty-three. Old enough for a master’s, but can’t hold her liquor for shit,” Hangman declared, sipping the Budweiser he had been holding by its neck.
You stuffed Bradley’s suit coat that was sitting over your lap on the middle console; desperate to have any part of him away from you. You hadn’t even noticed you were crying until you felt your tears fall into the dip of your collarbone.
The anger and sadness that bubbled inside you warmed your insides; turned your volcanic heart into lava. The heat from the vents of your boyfriend’s car blasted in your face and made you feel even sicker than you had previously. Your thighs stuck to the worn leather and itched due to your increased adrenaline.
You fidgeted about in the seat. Bradley adjusted his posture, leaning his head on his fist that rested on the window sill on his left side. He wanted to drop the whole thing. He wanted to return back to your good tequila-shot-induced moods before the night turned to shit.
He flipped the heat to a lower setting when he noticed your discomfort next to him. He haphazardly leaned over to close the vent on your side before he saw them; the tears streaming down your face and the pitiful pout adorning your lips. You looked so hurt. So broken. So done with him. Like maybe, just possibly, the love you had for him had finally given out.
He figured no one was to blame but him.
He tried his best to make you comfortable but the silence looming like a shadow from your side of the car sparked a wick of anxiety inside of him. His hands kept adjusting the temperature and checking your face as he turned the knob back and forth, the temperature going up and down. The air vents opened and closed as if they were playing some infantile game of peek-a-boo with you.
“Jesus - fuck -, Bradley,” you hissed, “Can you quit it?” The tears had turned from anger to sadness to annoyance and you wondered if it was possible for the primary purpose of tears to switch that quickly.
Bradley let out a soft sigh before flicking the heat off completely and rolling down both windows. “Sorry.” The meekness on his face wrote regret for all that had taken place.
“You don’t say,” Yankee joked, “Ole Rooster’s been scoping out the playground still, I see.”
The group of men laugh, none of them in the know of the impending doom of the night about to take place. It always started like this with Yankee. One second, everyone would be laughing and having a good time. The next, he would say some “balls-to-the-wall” asshole-ish comment that even made Hangman grind his teeth in their offending nature.
“I would say more ‘Babysitters Club’ and less ‘Sesame Street.’ Have to at least be in middle school now for Bradshaw,” Hangman fires back, and although the jokes being made about his taste in women and dating habits were being made fun of, nothing truly offensive had been said yet, so Bradley continued to laugh and nod his head with subtle “Fuck you”’s thrown in every now and again.
Bradley had been in the Navy since he was twenty-one years old. He knows the way that Navy men talk. He knows the way that most Navy men think. “Swear like a sailor” is the common saying and the various time he’s spent on deployments or on carrier ships provided that it was true. He certainly isn’t blind to the nature of how these men viewed women from how they talked about them when there weren’t female ears around or when they didn’t have a warm body to go home to at night.
And he’s not proud of it - knew that his mother and father would bury him alive for some of the things he’s said - but the guilt of his parents’ imminent disapproval had since been disbarred from his conscience. When it came down to it, no one gave a fuck who he had fucked the night before or what he had said about the women he was sleeping with. Not when he was miles away from home in an undisclosed location on a suicide mission with no one to go home to if he happened to make it back.
So many other people whom he had befriended felt the same way and Bradley had figured that this is why locker-room talk still exists in the military. Some of the things he heard he was sure could have been said at a random run-of-the-mill suburban high school in any part of the continental United States. All that was changed was the bass in the voices and the number of hairs on their chests.
It’s hard to be polite when preserving your life is the action item at hand.
“You know Bradshaw, I always knew you were smart,” the other pilot swishes around his scotch on the rocks in his hand, “They’re always so horny when they’re that young.”
Laughter rang around the room and he joyously partook in it. “Well, I do get laid pretty frequently if you may ask,” he added before taking a sip of the beer he had in his hand.
His gaze caught Bob’s eyes. Sweet, innocent Bob who thought the world of everyone. Sweet, innocent Bob who knew that Bradley was digging his own grave, but continued sipping his glass of red wine. The gawky metal frames that rimmed his friend’s eyes bore into his soul, almost magnifying the wrongfulness of what he was saying.
Bradley had broken their eye contact, his arm coming up to cover his mouth as he cleared his throat and a shaky hand bringing the neck of his bottle up to his lips. He had known that Bob would never say anything, that he wasn’t one for confrontation or calling people out even when they deserved it. But that was the good thing about Bob. He always let people make their own mistakes and never really offered much to say about it afterward.
“I knew it! You seemed looser than the last time I talked to you.” Bradley catches Bob’s eyes again, his friend’s eyebrows slightly raising in a scolding manner. “Now tell, she the tightest pussy you’ve ever had?”
The atmosphere thickened as the side conversations had come to a screeching halt. He would be lying if he told himself that the lump in his throat was from the lack of water he had drank that night rather than the uneasiness of knowing he was in the wrong.
And he knew he shouldn’t. He knew that he should keep his mouth shut; that he owed you the small price of privacy, that you wouldn’t like the mechanics of your sex life being discussed with men who were probably making paper mache volcanoes for their middle school science fairs when you were born. He knew that Bob wasn’t giving him a warning look for no reason and that Mickey didn’t wander back into the venue for no reason at all.
But despite his better judgment (or lack of coherent judgment at all), he opened his big, fat mouth. He had sped up the ends to his means without hesitation; without regard for your feelings.
“Tightest thing I’ve ever put my dick in.”
His friends nod their heads and laugh. Some of them chuckled to avoid the awkwardness and others in agreeance with what was being said.
Bob scooted himself closer to Bradley and shook his head with a deep sigh. “C’mon, Rooster.” A clammy hand had come to lay gently on Bradley’s shoulder.
He had pretended not to hear him. He knew the minute that he let Bob’s words register that he would drop to his knees and beg you for forgiveness. He hated peer pressure. He hated the way he was acting. He hated the way he was treating you behind your back. He hated the way his friends were laughing.
He hated himself more for doing it because you deserved so much better. But clearly, he didn’t feel bad enough to stop.
The sobs that wracked your chest shook you like an earthquake. The more you pondered on why he would say the things that he had said - why he would laugh and demean you behind your back - sent you into a frenzy.
Had he always thought of you this way? Were you always talked about so grossly? So demeaningly? Were you really anything to him other than a warm vagina to pummel his dick in when he was horny?
The questions remained unanswered as you tried to stifle your cries. You hated crying in front of people anyway, but crying in front of Bradley always made you feel awful. Tears always made him uncomfortable and your tears made him upset. Whenever the waterworks started from you, he drove himself mad trying to remedy your issue. You had used to think it was because he cared, but now you started to wonder if it was because he didn’t know how to tell you that he didn’t want to deal with it; that you were being a bother.
Your hand is bitten raw from trying to hold in your pathetic cries. The alligator tears that ran down your face at a rapid speed and the shaking of your shoulders did little to mask the fact that you were sobbing. Years of being told that your emotions would hinder your credibility at work, months of pent-up frustration, hours of disrespect, minutes of unkindness, and seconds of insecurity create an atomic bomb on the merits of the lesson you had been told throughout your entire lifetime; there will never be enough room for your emotions.
And you believed it. You took people for their word. You made narratives and internalized them from how people acted. You read between the lines and the margins of what you interpret carve doubt into your heart; carve the failure that you’re so deathly terrified of so close to your lifeline of needing to please everyone all the time.
The trait is toxic - an unfavorable condition - your therapist would say but it had become such a compulsion, you’re sure you would die without it. Something about approval is so intimately invasive and the shower thoughts you conjured up while thinking about this never seemed to uncover the answer as to why.
Why it matters. Why it doesn’t matter. Who the fuck would even care. (You, of course, but the world is so much larger than you are and your selfishness would be disappointing, you think.)
You wish your boyfriend could read your mind and see the twenty-five cent bouncy ball-like thoughts hitting every crevice of your brain right now. You wish that your hurt feelings could be seen by him with x-ray vision or some fictional superhero-like ability. Most of all, you wished that he had known that the events that had taken place throughout the entire night were tearing you up right beside him.
If he felt that way about you, felt like you were around just for your body and not for you, what did everyone else think? Was Natasha only friendly because she thought you were too immature to be left alone at gatherings? Did Rueben and Mickey actually give a shit about what you had to say when they asked about your work? Did Jake and Javy even know your name?
Did your boyfriend even like you?
The questions imploding like fireworks in your head made you cry harder, and you couldn’t help but let the sobs out now. Bradley looked over at you. His hand brushed your knee, his palm cupped it and his fingers spread out to rub soothing circles on the lower part of your thigh.
“Don’t cry, baby. I’m so sorry,” he begged, his voice quiet. Small. Unsure. All the things he had made you. “Please don’t cry.”
The rubber band inside of you finally breached the capacity of tension it was able to withstand. The fact that you needed comfort more than anything and the person who usually supplies it for you with no bounds is the one who is violating that comfort made your head spin.
“She’s got that young pussy,” Yankee continued. “Gotta fuck ‘em before they turn into moms. Not as tight anymore.”
Bradley’s ears turned red upon hearing Yankee’s declaration. Knowing that you fucked up and realizing that you fucked up are two vastly different things and the realization hit when he heard Jake Seresin (of all fucking people) tsk and shake his head.
“That’s fucked up, man. Have some respect.” Ever the Southern fucking gentleman.
The sandy-haired pilot’s mouth gaped open before closing; the words loose in his psyche but ceasing to exist in real-time. He finally thought that he had a handle on what he wanted to say. Something noble. Something dignity preserving. Something along the lines of “What the hell?” and “Shut the fuck up.”, but either or never making its way out between his lips.
Waiting for the perfect moment that never comes, he thought, and upon further internalized reflection, he realized that it posed itself as true. Jake wasn’t entirely wrong for saying that about him all that time ago.
The clicking of heels on the ground announced Phoenix and his dashing girlfriend’s presence with the group of men and snapped Bradley out of his thoughts. Something in the way she was carrying herself, something about the way that her crossed arms over her chest blocked her usually sunny aura, told Bradley that something was wrong.
He brought his lips down to her ear when he hugged her from behind and almost built up the courage to ask what was wrong. But he fell short when he was called away to do another round of shots with Rueben and Natasha. He had settled for a kiss to your temple instead before he bolted off.
“Fuck you,” you manage to spit.
Bradley raises his eyebrows. The curse word sends him into immediate fight or flight. “What did you just say to me?”
You know that you’re teetering the line of too much. Toeing the line of immaturity. Testing if your boyfriend liked you enough to put up with your explosion of emotions. “I said fuck you.” The definitive tone in your voice that you attempt scares you with how much it resembles your mother’s.
Bradley scoffs and squirms in his seat some more. His inability to sit still is his tell of guilt. “I told you it wasn’t like that.”
“What the fuck else was it supposed to be then, Bradley?” Your head snaps to look at his side profile.
The cream-colored polo shirt that you had bought him months ago was worn tonight with a different ending in a mind; one where he sped home and kissed your lips swollen and then had you withering beneath him as he fucked up into you on the wall of his foyer. Certainly not the narrative that was currently unfolding in front of him.
“I don’t know what you want me to say.”
Now it’s your turn to laugh cruelly. “Well, what I didn’t want you to say was that I was the tightest thing you’ve ever stuck your dick in? That I’m insatiably horny? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?” You turn your body to face him completely, heart beating in your ears and chest starting to heave with the upset of Bradley’s attitude toward you. “How the hell is Jake Seresin defending me before you even thought to?”
“Leave him out of this.” His face turns red and anger starts to bubble over inside him. Rooster always sweats whenever he gets flustered; so pissed off and angry that the heat inside of him has nowhere to go. The muggy threshold of the heat being flicked on minutes before pairs vexatiously with the aggravation that sits between the both of you.
He rolls the windows in the car all the way down but remembers to roll yours down enough for the smallest gusts of wind to be let in. Even though you had made him angry and he knows that you’re completely justified in the case that’s been built against him, he still cares about you.
He knows that you never like your window being all the way down unless the heat of the summer is unbearable and you were going on a beloved sunset drive with him; your shared playlist playing through his speakers and the top of the Bronco being taken off.
The way that your hair dances in the wind remind him of when you’re carefree enough to lean your head backward outside of the car while driving down a backroad, the words of a Paramore song exiting your lungs with such clarity that he could question if Hayley Williams had written the song or you.
But it’s not the heat of mid-June’s sunburn heating up his cheeks and your screams aren’t accompanied by the laughter of him poking your sides. Summer-salted air is replaced with a frigid fall breeze and your happy moods are burdened by your own frustrations.
“Wish I could tell you the same about our sex life, but obviously too little too late.”
His hand comes up to wipe at his nose. His eyebrows are furrowed. “What the fuck do you think we talk about then? Huh?” Bradley’s pointed tone sends a slight sliver of fear down your spine at his annoyance. “Do you think we sit on those fucking carrier ships in the middle of the fucking ocean for eight months at a time and talk about what? Girl power and Title IX? How much we love AOC?”
The tears dripping down your face continue to fall.
“I’m not saying that you have to sacrifice your conversations with the “bros” about jet fuel and g-forces and whatever the fuck else you always seem to insist is so goddamn important, but my vagina is not a conversation topic to have over a fucking draft beer with your buddies.”
Bradley rolls his eyes at your mention of the word “buddies.” If only you knew how he really felt about Yankee.
“And I’m so fucking sorry that my lack of not wanting to be disrespected disrupted what you think is a party conversation starter. Would you like my apology half-assed like yours or sincere with a complimentary blowjob because that seems to be all you think I’m good for?”
“I said I was sorry and I meant it!”
“You said you were sorry because you want me to accept your apology, but what next, Bradley? Are you actually gonna fix it?”
He rolls his eyes and lets out a deep exhale. “Don’t act like I won’t do anything you fucking ask of me,” his hand comes up to rub at his temples.“ I love you more than life itself and you know that.”
“So why are you acting like you don’t then?”
He starts driving down the stretch of road that leads to his home. The yellow glow of the street lights makes you want to ask him to take you back to your place. You can’t stand to be sitting next to him in his car's front seat, let alone sleeping in the same bed with him tonight.
“Take it back,” he says dismissively.
“Show me different and maybe I’ll consider.” He pulls the car into his garage and you throw the door open before he can come to a complete stop.
“Hard to when every little thing that slightly offends you sends you into a goddamn spiral.”
Your weakness. He’s got you there.
“Fuck you, Rooster,” you say weakly, stomping away inside to his bedroom as fast as you can with the heels you have on.
“Grow up,” you hear him say behind you, hot on your tail before turning around to head to the kitchen.
You spend the next two hours separate from each other, toeing around the house petrified of seeing the other’s face. No fight you had gotten into with one another had ever been this bad in the four years you had been dating, and part of you wonders if this is how relationships begin to fade; how people start to realize that maybe their person wasn’t their person.
But you think Bradley is it for you. You’ve always felt that way since coming to know him. Be with him. Have him in the same way he has you. You don’t think you can function without him no matter how much of an ass he’s being to you right now. And sure, you’re independent to a fault and yeah, you don’t always know what’s good for you, but you know one thing definitively, and that thing is that Bradley Bradshaw checks all your boxes despite driving you slightly insane at times.
You look up at yourself in his bathroom mirror as you finally scooped yourself off of the floor of his bedroom and made the decision to scrub your makeup off (or what was left of it after your meltdown, really). The patch of stress acne near the side of your forehead from the new project you had been put on at work and the ball of anxiety over what to wear to the wedding shower tonight made itself known. You realized that you had run out of makeup remover and face wash at Bradley’s house a couple of days ago, and the regret of not bringing some or asking him to drop you off at your own apartment started to settle with the burden of your hurt feelings and the freakout your skin was bound to have come tomorrow morning.
A sigh had left your mouth and Bradley’s bathroom cabinet opened as you decided to skip washing your face in favor of only brushing your teeth. But when you go to grab the lilac-handled toothbrush from its holder, you notice the two brand-new bottles of makeup remover and face wash that you certainly didn’t bring, and then you’re reminded of how sweet your boyfriend can be. How caring he is.
The soft spot in your heart that he owns starts to warm again.
After you manage to wash your face and brush your teeth, you run into the problem of only bringing a sleep shirt. Bradley keeps his house on sixty-five no matter the weather outside. He always claims that he runs hot despite some of the wind chill San Diego experiences at night during the fall and winter months. And while you have clothes at Bradley’s, most of them fall into the business casual garb you wear to work or are borrowed (more like stolen, he likes to joke) and no matter how cold you may be, your pride has so much more precedence than it would allow you to give in.
Bradley’s Chicago Bears hoodie sits folded in your designated drawer, but you bypass putting it on. The embarrassingly large t-shirt (albeit free t-shirt) that repped a random student organization from your undergrad institution would have to do tonight.
You waltz out of Bradley’s bedroom quietly. Not only to go undetected, but to be polite in case he had already fallen asleep on his declared refuge of the couch. The soft sound of Breaking Bad playing told you that he was still awake. He can never fall asleep with the TV on; no matter how tired he is.
“Baby?” Bradley calls out from the couch.
Shit. Were you really that loud?
Your feet move faster than your brain; something about Bradley is so magnetizing. You’ll follow him to the end of the Earth if you knew that he needed you. Your puffy-eyed, pantless form moves to stand in front of him. His form still wears the clothes he had worn tonight. The only thing different was the UVA throw blanket you had gotten him last month “just because” over his lap and his printed airplane-socked feet sticking out from underneath it.
Your gaze looks towards the shoe rack near the front door and you chuckle to yourself as you see them exactly how you imagined them. Tucked away where he wouldn’t trip on them, but slightly askew.
His hand comes up to grab yours that lies limply at your side. “C’mere,” he whispers, testing the waters to see how much damage he had done.
You give his hand a small squeeze, the coldness of yours allowing you to feel every callous on his palms. “Jesus, you’re freezing.”
He opens the blanket on his lap and guides you to straddle him. He closes the blanket and immediate warmth covers you. Bradley’s hands sit on your lower back above your tailbone, soothing circles being rubbed on the bone there, and his head coming to rest on top of yours. You breathe in his scent, your face snuggled into his neck.
“I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry,” he speaks and you exhale. You bite your lip, the tears welling up again and wetting his neck.
“It’s okay,” you weep brokenly. “I’m sorry, too.”
He presses gentle kisses on the top of your hair. The sadness that fills the room; the culmination of utter sorrow and confirmation of your insecurities makes the room heavy and eats away at you. Bradley does his best to comfort you until your sobs quiet to hiccups.
And as much as you love Bradley, as much as you want to be satisfied with his apology (or lack of a sincere one, thereof), you realize that sincerity was perhaps not one of his defining characteristics. But instead of calling him out, you so stupidly and cowardly accepted it and apologized right back.
He’s apologizing for the sake of saying sorry. For the sake of diminishing your anger. For the sake of being able to be truthful about never going to bed angry if someone asks. For the sake of doing so because if you accept, he’s still allowed to stay the same and he never has to change.
But you’re saying sorry for being a nuisance. For embarrassing him. For bruising his ego and for being accusatory that he never gave a damn about you.
And what you don’t realize is that you should really be saying sorry to yourself, because while you’re boxing yourself up to make space for him, he’s not sorry about forcing you to do it.
Boxes are heavier when they’re filled with resentment, you learn, and the weight becomes unbearable when sorrows are thrown out to sea with no lifesaver near in sight.
Love is all about sacrifice and banged-up feelings; even if that means that the love of the man you would do anything for suffocates you as you lay curled into his side with a heat made by his chest and his soft snores in your ear.
“Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind. Love is patient. Love is kind.”
And for the first time in the four years you had spent together, you truly start to wonder if Bradley really does love you. The hot coffee on the nightstand when you wake up and the discovery of his thermostat being turned up to seventy degrees confuses you when you get up to head back to your apartment in the morning when you compare his treatment of you now to he had treated you the night before.
He loves me not. He loves me.
He loves me not.
(Year 5)
He loves me. He loves me not.
His mother used to tell him that women always knew.
And she would say it over the sound of a cheaply made General Hospital episode that she had taped so they could watch it together during their evening “wind down time.” His pencil would be scratching away at a Calculus problem from the AP Calc booklet his teacher had passed out at school that day and the soft clink of his mother’s knitting needles would grace his ears.
He would nod his head as he sat by his mother’s feet on the floor of their living room and wouldn’t say a word. The cocoon that the soft yellow glow of the lamp gave off wrapped him in a moment of security; a moment of comfort that he was never allowed very often.
And he had never really thought anything of it at the time. He had figured it was just some chock-full wisdom that would blossom into a useful tool for his adult life; one where his mom wasn’t dying and he was married with maybe a few kids and a beautiful house with a backyard and a bay window.
“Women always know,” his mom said as the female lead had discovered her husband cheating on her long before she had traveled home to catch him in the act.
“Women always know,” his mom said as she would catch him trying to sneak a girl into his teenage bedroom at half past three in the morning.
“Women always know,” his mom said as she comforted him when she had declared to an eighteen-year-old Bradley that she no longer wanted to continue with chemotherapy. She died not even two days later.
“Women always know,” he can hear his mom’s voice in the back of his head as he watches you tiptoe around him when you come home from work.
The door closes with a soft click and your keys are grasped tightly in your hand to prevent them from jingling. The bags underneath your eyes beg the question of when the last time you had gotten a full eight hours of sleep was, but you both would rather not inquire out loud.
The answer would shock both of your consciences.
The tossing and turning you had done the night before was cruel. The anxieties of your day had breached unknown territory; the pit of your stomach hollow and your chest tight. Your mind was so frazzled with fear you couldn’t bear to stay still because the lack of movement gave way for your thoughts to be caught; for your fear and anxiousness to swallow you whole.
Bradley would normally stir in his sleep the minute your eyes had popped open in the middle of the night, but instead, he had elected to turn over and cuddle his face more into his own pillow. The action tacked itself onto the mile-long list of things you were upset about - things that you found unfathomable that your brain scrambled together.
And when you had finally gotten to sleep, your alarm clock blared beside you. Your heart had started to race and the monster of nerves you had successfully defeated for an hour and a half resurrected itself.
When you had turned to face Bradley, you found him still fast asleep and that’s when you knew.
You’re not stupid. You’re not oblivious. In fact, you’re always so painfully aware that it kills you sometimes. You notice how he’s been pulling away. You notice how he’s seemed more reserved and despondent than usual. You notice how he doesn’t kiss your forehead anymore or ask to join you in the shower when you’re both spending your mornings at home together on the weekends.
Conversations at the dinner table are neither here nor there as most nights he can’t be damned to make it home to eat with you. For the first time in five years, you had run out of face wash and had to write a note to yourself on your phone to pick some more up from the store the next time you went shopping. Bradley had watched you type it out and his sagging shoulders wore disappointment on them.
You knew.
You knew he was both feet out of the door with your relationship; his hand still on the doorknob to close it but not having the guts to lock the door while he’s at it.
You know.
You know that you’re going to break up. You know that Bradley is the one who will be taking the initiative and doing it. You know that he’s been thinking about it for a while. The absent gasps whenever you do happen to catch dinner with him say so, and all you can think about is his mouth opening and closing like a goddamn goldfish as he searches for the words to bring it up. The thought makes the actions of the inevitable seem more bearable.
But yet you cling to what little time you know you have left with him.
How you know that you’ll never get to sleep beside him again. How you know that you’ll never get to snuggle into his UVA blanket. How you know that you’ll never visit the Hard Deck or the base or any spaces where Rooster Bradshaw exists freely.
How you know that things will never be the same and that your sweet, sweet Bradley will soon become a sweet, sweet stranger.
So you try to prolong it.
You never linger in the same space as him for too long for fear of the dreadful topic being brought up. You bite your tongue a lot more than you usually do. You keep your stuff neat and tidy; praying for some miracle that he didn’t see your hairbrush on his bathroom counter and that it would buy you another day with him.
You know it can’t last forever but the stupid, naive part of you thinks you can stretch the time to infinity and it’ll be some Groundhog Day-type plot.
You had started planning your arrival home around his schedule months prior. You aimed for leaving the office when you knew he had already left base about an hour earlier. If Bradley was anything, it was predictable, and he would either be in the shower when you had made your way home or cooped up in the home office he had made of the spare bedroom.
You nearly jump out of your skin when you see him standing in front of you; hands drying the ceramic plates Penny and Mav had bought you as a housewarming gift whenever he bit the bullet and moved you both into his parents’ old house last summer. Gray running shorts are low on his hips and a New York Yankees long-sleeve looks damn near painted on his biceps. You swallow the lump in your throat that travels down to your stomach.
Your brain can’t even begin to think of what to do or say but Bradley beats you to it.
“Hi,” he speaks, breaking the ice of your anxiety that freezes you both over. He knows that you can feel that something is off. He knows that you’ve felt it for a long time. He also knows that he’s about to shatter you completely and he’s not sure if he can watch as he does it.
“Hi,” your voice quietly sounds. Your hands start to shake and Bradley’s eyebrows upturn with sympathy as he drinks in your appearance.
“What’s wrong?” he asks. He places the plate down and steps towards you. “C’mere.”
His arms stretch to accommodate you. His heart beats wildly as he approaches. He thinks you can sense it because you slam your ear against his chest. There’s no way you can’t feel the rise and fall and frenzied thumping coming from his pectoral.
“Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her. Don’t hurt her,” his heart begs, but his brain knows that either way, hurting you is inevitable.
He wishes there was another way but he knows wishful thinking will only put you both in a landmine of resentment; a world of a loveless marriage and three kids who will eventually have to pack their bags for their respective weekends with you and him on opposite sides of town. He doesn’t want that for you. He doesn’t want that for him. He sure as hell doesn’t want that for them. So he pushes aside his selfish desire to keep you close and does what he always does.
He decides to walk away.
“Just get it over with,” you say weakly from his chest. He plants a gentle kiss on the crown of your head. His thumbs rub soothing circles on the backs of both shoulders. Your stomach is cold and the rest of your body is left scorching.
“What are you talking about?” his chin comes to rest on top of your head. His hold on you unintentionally shoves your face deeper into his chest.
“Don’t make me say it. Please don’t.”
“I can’t talk about it unless you tell me what you’re gettin’ at, babydoll.”
“Don’t play stupid, Bradley,” you release yourself from his grip, “You’re going to break up with me. We both know it so please, just do it already.”
The words that you say steer clear of the convoluted plan he had in mind. Breaking up is no easy task and the guilt of the thought even crossing his mind had been weighing on him for ages. It wasn’t like he sat down with himself and crunched the numbers of the housing market to see when the best time would be for you to move out or that he had a set itinerary of how the conversation was going to play out. He wasn’t even sure he was going to do it today until you had left for work, and it seems to him that you had figured it out without having to mention it to you.
Women always know.
“Don’t say it like I’m just trying to throw you away.” You flinch at his words. He realizes that his tone had come off more aggressive than he intended it to be when he notices the slight watering in your eyes.
“Isn’t that what a break up is?” you want to ask, but you’re so stunned you can’t get your vocal cords to carve out the shape of the letters, let alone thrust any sound out.
He takes your hand and leads you to your shared bedroom. The white duvet and navy blue bordered throw pillows remind you of when he used to take the time to hold you before you fell asleep at night. The hardwood of the floors tell the secrets shared between the two of you as hushed and giggled whispers; pointless gossip and serious confessions alike. The framed pictures on the dresser show you and him in various moments of your five years together.
Easter spent at your parents’ with your siblings and nieces and nephews this past spring. Thanksgiving with Mav, Penny, and Amelia three years prior. A selfie you forced him to take with you at Phoenix’s wedding last year. A candid shot taken by one of your friends of you two curled up on the beach; blissfully in love and lost in each other’s eyes at the start of your relationship.
The photos and the room had seen so much of you two. Various deployments and promotions. A canvas of emotions and intimate moments. Laughter and tears. Petty fights and teenaged makeout sessions. So many things that had written the story of you and Bradley long before you had moved in and long after. The thoughts of the memories fill you with excitement.
But the thought of him not feeling the same way - the fact that he’s bringing you to a room with the story of you both written exclusively in every crevice to end things - brings a waterfall of tears down your face.
The story of creation and its impending graveyard.
Another pang of anguish surges through you and the coldness in your stomach spreads to your feet.
He sits down on the foot of the bed first. He looks up at you with worry written in his irises. Bradley can sense your discomfort; the sadness and panic bouncing off of your aura in waves of deep indigo blue - the color that he’s assigned depression. He doesn’t know why (and he thinks that if he were you, he would slap himself across the face) but he offers his hand to you.
There’s no hesitation and his hand guides you to sit on his lap like how he always does when you’re upset and need comfort.
You sit down and push your face into the side of his neck. The stinging sensation from the hot salt water tears leaking into a cut he had given himself from shaving that morning makes the nature of the situation all the more realistic. This is the last time he will hold you like this. This is the last time he will know you as well as he does. This is the last time he will ever have the chance to make you miserable.
Last times always make him uneasy. He thinks that he should be used to it by now from his track record of being abandoned (willfully or “out of their control” situations alike). None of this should hurt him as deeply anymore.
But the feeling of disappointment is just so intense this time. He’s sure it doesn’t even fall within the scope of what could be considered “hurt feelings.” He would classify this as torture, and he can’t help his own quiet sobs racking his chest as he holds your crying and shrunken-in form in his arms.
“I don’t want to break up, Bradley,” you weep, “I just don’t want to.”
He shakes his head and wipes his own eyes. “We need to.”
There’s something so personal about failure. It’s not a stranger to you. It’s not a monster or fear or the Mucinex man that you try to boil it down to be. It’s something that you can’t obsessively try to avoid anymore because it’s right here in your face.
Except this time, it takes the shape of Bradley’s red-rimmed eyes and gray hairs on the border of his hairline that you hadn’t noticed before.
Bradley isn’t one for bragging. He can’t stand bragging, actually, and he wonders if that’s why he has such a hard time trusting his judgment. He considers that to be the reason why he’s always teetering on the edge of uncertainty, but he knows deep down that this time, he’s right. He’s so spot on and as much as it kills him, it would be more of a crime to deny it than to just admit that he’s right.
He knows it. You know it. He’s sure God does, too.
“No, you want to,” you stubbornly sniffle.
Ever the most hard-headed person to exist, but a sweetheart when it comes down to it. He almost cracks a smile at your attitude, but then he runs into it like a wall of bricks. You’re breaking up. This is the last time he’ll ever get to see your bull-headedness in full effect. The thought makes him whimper and he prays that you didn’t hear the infliction of it in his voice.
“That’s not true, sweet girl,” he sighs, fingers tracing the seam of your work pants, “I can’t make you miserable anymore. We need to.”
“Who said I was miserable?”
He pauses. He knows that the statement he’s about to make will send an uncomfortable chill down his spine. He knows that it’ll make him feel that way because he’s being called out.
“I don’t want to get married and you do. That’s miserable.”
Your ears burn more than they already had because he’s right. You’ve been waiting around for a stupid diamond on a stupid gold band; for reassurance that he wants you to be his as much as you love the idea of being his forever.
Five years and you know how he takes his coffee in the morning. Five years and you compromise regularly about what to keep the thermostat on. Five years and nine weddings you had attended with him. Five years of loving each other and knowing one another in ways that only fiction writers can dream of having someone know them. Five years of feeling like you would die without him.
Five years and he’s ready to throw it all away because he doesn’t think you both want the same things. Five years down the drain.
You think being kicked in the face would hurt a hell of a lot less than this does.
“Uh-uh. No,” you say. You paw at your eyes with your hand ferociously. “No! You don’t get to do that. You know that’s not fair!” You spring up from his lap like he was a fire that had just licked your skin with white-hot heat.
He grabs at your wrist, his eyes pleading with you to not leave him. His touch burns you but you give in. “It’s not fair to keep doing this to you.” His arms envelop you once again and you feel like you can’t breathe.
You push at his chest. “This isn’t fair.” Your arms try and pry Bradley’s arms off of you. “You can’t - I can’t just let you throw us away like this. It’s not fair!”
Bradley swallows down the lump in his throat. His eyes produce more tears the more he watches you struggle against him. He’s scared that if he lets you go that you’ll lose it completely. Part of him knows keeping you near is helping him hold it together too, but he tries to rationalize the overall shittiness of the entire situation by telling himself that he’s appealing to your needs - that you need him, but he also knows that he needs you.
“I love you so much,” he whispers into your hair.
“Then why are you hurting me?” The question explodes in the air, It’s something that he thought he was prepared to hear from the pep talk he had given himself on the ride to work this morning, but it still stuns him.
“I’m hurting you by keeping you with me.”
You scoff and cry harder. The fight inside of you hasn’t ceased yet. Such a stubborn girl, he thinks. It’s one of the things he loves the most about you.
“You’re hurting me now.”
Bradley swallows his comment. His mind ping pongs back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on how to tell you why he knows this is for the best. The truth is, he doesn’t know it. He just thinks it, and the worry of having to follow his instincts, to have to be guided by something so material and un-cemented, scares him to death. But he knows that you deserve the word and the world is something he knows that he’ll never be capable of giving anyone.
“You deserve someone that will marry you.” The words taste bitter in his mouth. “Someone who will make you so happy that you won’t even think of us anymore. Someone who can give you that house in La Jolla and a huge wedding and babies and a dog.”
“Someone who won’t blow up in flames while they’re in the sky,” he almost adds, but he closes his mouth instead. The conversation was already heavy. There’s no need to tack on his death that is always in the cards.
“I deserve you,” you say, tone dripping with determination and assurance.
He’s full-on sobbing now. “You deserve so much better, baby. Why can’t you see it?”
You chew on your lips so hard that they start to split. The salt of the blood in your mouth is vile but you would rather taste that than the tears that have been roaming down your face.
“Why can’t you just be better then?”
He feels like you stabbed him in the heart. He guesses that he deserves that. “I can’t be better if you deserve the world. I know I can’t give you that.”
The room fills itself with hiccuped breaths. His heart cracks and yours disintegrates. Bradley moves himself to the headboard to support his back. If you weren’t so concerned with your world crashing down, you would have made a joke about how his age was catching up with him. But trying to force yourself to smile feels like a crime.
Bradley has experienced loss. He’s experienced disappointment. He’s experienced heartbreak. He thought he was prepared for what he was choosing to do, but he never had thought of how he would feel when he was experiencing all of these things at once.
His abs hurt from how hard he’s crying. The hair on the crown of your head is soaked from his tears but you don’t mind nor do you notice. The chest of his long sleeve is stained black from your own tears. You both cling to each other even though being close is what causes you to ache.
The bright white of the linen duvet reflects cornflower blue in the moonlight. Your throat is dry from your heaving. His head hurts from his racing thoughts. Both of your eyes sting uncomfortably; you seeing the world as if you were underwater. Not only because of your uncontrollable sobbing but because the focus of your life - the love you so willingly gave that has illuminated your world for the past five years - has finally dimmed.
The hours spent holding each other felt like seconds and you finally muster up the courage to say something; to put on a brave face and revel in one of your lasts with him.
“Bradley?” you croak. He clears his throat and presses a timid kiss to the top of your head as if he’s scared that his lips are more of a weapon than a tool of comfort.
“Yes, baby?”
“Will we still be friends in a few weeks?”
He sucks on his lips. He wants to say that you’ll always be friends. That no one that comes after you will ever hold a candle to you and what you both had. That you’re his beginning and end, but he can’t keep dragging you along with a false promise of giving you what you actually want. He can’t make himself want to be a husband even though he knows that it’s what he needs to be to keep you. Wanting you just isn’t enough anymore.
The risk is contemplated, but he never wants to prey on you and your vulnerability. He settles for the safe option.
“Depends on if you still wanna be, sweet girl.”
You plant a soft kiss on the wet spot on his chest your tears have created. The answer is sweet but not what you want. You wish it would’ve broken his resolve; would’ve reversed your relationship ending. You know that he knows better than to do that.
The silence sets in again before you speak up.
“Bradley?”
“Yes, baby?”
“Will you still call me every night before I go to sleep so I can hear your voice?”
“I can for a little while, baby.”
His answer is the right thing to say, you know, but you can’t help the fact that the statement breaks your heart even more. “Why only a little bit?”
He sighs. You’re not making this easy for him. “Babe, you know why.”
“Right,” you whisper, shifting in his lap to wrap your arms around his neck. You peer into his eyes. The hazel in them is dimmed. There’s no sparkle left. “M’sorry for asking.”
“Don’t be sorry,” he reassures, “Just think that maybe that won't be healthy if we do it for too long.”
It kills him to say that, but he knows that he’s doing the right thing. It certainly doesn’t feel as such, and he would think that nearly twenty years of service in the Navy would help him separate the bad feelings from the nobility.
Breaks up just don’t work like that, he figures. No amount of experience or preparation can concoct an easy way out where no one gets hurt.
He gets lost in his thoughts before he hears your voice again.
“Bradley?”
Broken. Timid. Inquisitive. A test to see if he still cares enough about you to answer. He knows how you are and that you’re reverting back to old patterns that you had lost during your time with him. He has to push aside his feelings of being slightly offended that you’ve put the wall back up so quickly, but he doesn’t say anything. He’s done enough damage to last a lifetime. He just wishes that you didn’t think he could fall out of love with you this easily.
“Hmm, baby?”
“You’re my best friend.”
“My best friend too,” he exhales, the pang in his chest valiant in letting him know that this is the end, “Always will be.”
You pause and tailor your next statement carefully. Part of you takes it slow to prevent yourself from breaking down again but part of you takes your time to keep him near; to keep him from walking away from you. And you don’t want to do this to him. You don’t want to anger him or upset him and that’s the fucked up thing about it.
He’s hurting you and you don’t want to hurt him back.
“Yeah, but what happens when you date another girl and she’s your best friend instead of me?” The thought makes your skin crawl and you dig half moons into the skin of your hand with your thumb to prevent yourself from letting out a chest-wracking sob. “What am I supposed to do then?”
Bradley sighs. The thought of you moving on is selfish but he knows that it’s inevitable. He wishes that no one will ever get to know you the same ways that he’s gotten to, but shakes the thought as soon as he realizes how selfish it is - a declaration of love or the right answer.
He does the latter.
“You’ll find someone who’s an even better best friend than I am,” he sniffles. He hadn’t even noticed that he had started crying again. “Someone who doesn’t make you cry.”
Your breath hitches and it triggers more tears to stream down your face. He’s hurting, too. You never want to see him hurt like this, but then you realize that after today, you will never have to ever again. The thought makes your body ache; withdrawal symptoms before any withdrawal had actually begun.
“You promise we’ll still talk?” you speak in a watery voice.
“Yes, babydoll,” he wipes his eyes and sniffles some more, “ We’ll still talk.”
You start to play with his hands. Your finger runs across a faint scar on his index, the freckle on his pinky, the empty space where you wish a gold wedding band would be on his ring finger. The tips of your own fingers start to burn when you realize that his disinterest in ever wanting to wear one is why you’re breaking up.
You push the thought to the side and continue on in the conversation.
“About life stuff?”
He gives a soft chuckle, the one he usually gives you when he’s playing into your amusements. Part of him is never serious when he does it, but there’s a new wave of promise that he has to keep.
“About anything you want.”
The crying dies down again. The energy in the room is constantly going up and down like the waves on the beach near the back of the house.
“Bradley?” you interrupt the quietness again. The lack of sound makes you even more anxious than you already are.
“Yes?” He curses himself as the statement leaves his mouth. He knows you’re picking apart his lack of use of a pet name; that you’re convincing yourself that you’re an inconvenience to him and that he never cared for you the way you wanted him to.
Bradley almost tacks one on, but the pause between adding it and answering would have been too broad and you would have noticed and called him out on it. He decides against it. He also starts to wonder when he became so decisive all of a sudden.
Turmoil does that to someone, he guesses.
“My heart hurts so bad and I don’t know how I’ll fix it.”
The energy in the room spikes again. The tension you can feel radiating off of him like an unbearable heat makes your eyes water. Crying was something you did often but not something you enjoyed. You’re in for some long, painstakingly miserable months, you think.
“Mine does too but we’ll do what we always do, right?” You shift in his lap and curl into him more. You know he’s right, but it doesn’t mean that what he’s saying is what you wanted to hear. “We’ll figure it out.”
“I - I don’t think I kn-know how to d-do that anymore.”
He moves his chin from the top of your head to actually look at you. He had been avoiding it for the fear that he would be too cowardly and would retreat back to keeping you in this miserable, hopeless search for a marriage that he was never planning on partaking in. He can’t go back. He can’t undo what he had just done. Even if he were to announce that he wanted you to stay, it being brought up in the first place will forever have torn an irreparable hole in the fabric of your relationship.
Bradley’s hands cup your face and he smacks his lips on your forehead. He thumbs away the tears that had been endlessly streaming all night. He rubs soft circles back and forth on your cheekbones. The pressure you get in your cheeks from crying always gives you a massive headache, he knows.
The fact that someone else will know that about you sends him into a spiral of guilt. A spiral of weakness. A spiral of wanting to undo what he had just done.
But he doesn’t.
Do the right thing. Do the right thing. Do the right thing.
And so he does.
“Bullshit, baby. You’re the smartest woman I know. You’ll figure it out.” Truthful words, but not truthful feelings. He’s never been good at deciphering those.
“Bradley?”
“Yes, baby?”
The words get stuck in your throat. You never want to make him feel bad because you know how hard he is on himself. You’re not sure if saying what you want to say is even worth it but - from the way he’s holding your face, from the way you’ve gotten to know and love him, from the way that he will always be your sweet, sweet Bradley - you determine that he needs to hear it.
“You’re the kindest man that I know even though you stomped on my heart.”
He sends you a soft smile and delivers a soft kiss to your lips; the first one of the night despite being so close to him all evening.
“I learned how to be because of you.”
You don’t know how long you both stay like that - wrapped up in each other with waves of tears coming and going as they please. The soft whimpers leave your mouth and the sniffled breaths that leave his paint each corner of the bedroom with an ending.
One where you don’t get the ring and the house and the babies. One where he doesn’t get the girl and the family and the happily ever after. One where you both don’t have a soulmate anymore.
He knows that he shouldn’t say it. He knows that it’s probably the last thing you want to hear. He knows that he’s not ready for you to leave and he says it hoping that maybe, he can take back what had happened; that maybe you can steer the conversation in talks of staying together and compromising and “working it out.”
“I love you. I’ll always love you.”
You look up at him brokenly. His heart stops beating when you open your mouth to speak.
“But you’ll never love me enough to try.”
Bradley closes his mouth and exhales deeply through his nose. The point you made is compelling and it stings to know that it’s completely truthful. He sits with you on his lap, subtly rocking you back and forth until the sky turns from the midnight blue of nightfall to the yellow-tinted wisteria of sunrise.
Women always know. And he would be foolish to pretend like your gut feeling was wrong.
He loves me. He loves me not.
None of it matters if he doesn’t love you enough to be what you need.
#bradley bradshaw#bradley rooster bradshaw#rooster bradshaw#rooster#bradley bradshaw x reader#bradley bradshaw fanfic#rooster x reader#rooster top gun#bradley rooster bradshaw x reader#rooster x you#top gun#top gun maverick#miles teller#mt#rooster bradshaw fic#rooster bradshaw fanfic#rooster fanfic#rooster x y/n#bradley bradshaw smut#rooster bradshaw smut#rooster smut#top gun smut#top gun maverick smut#rooster angst#rooster bradshaw angst#bradley bradshaw angst#literally stole the title from pool by paramore#can you tell that i adore paramore
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hii, can I request fyodor and sigma (separated) with a reader who suffers from paranoia? It's totally okay if you don't feel comfortable writing it!! 🫶
Of course I can write this!! Ty for the request, anon<3
I apologize if any of the information I put is incorrect, as I do not have any forms of paranoia, although I do know a fair amount about them because I study psychology🙏 I wasn’t sure if you had a type of paranoia that makes you have breakdowns, but I decided to assume you did. I needed to compromise a little here:’)
Fyodor:
Contains: gn reader, drabble format, the reader is afraid that Fyodor is gonna hurt them, lots of kisses, fluff, hurt/comfort
Fyodor was well aware of your paranoia. He may have found it difficult to deal with your symptoms at first, but he’s grown to know how to treat you. He’s gentle with you, and with his criticism despite his rather blunt personality, as he wants to make sure you’re comfortable and don’t break down.
He tries his hardest to understand you, but he still struggles to comfort you when you were dealing with breakdowns, or you were shutting down in some way. He never was the most emotionally available person. He tried his hardest, though.
So now that he’s here, and he’s entered your shared house to see you on your guys’ bed, staring at the ceiling, clearly deep in thought, he knew you were thinking about something that made you act up. It made a frown fall to his face. What was bothering you?
Fyodor knew to comfort you gently and slowly whenever he saw you like this, so he slowly walked up to the bed and placed his hand on your back. It made you jump.
“Hello, милый, what’s on your mind?”
“Nothing,” your response was short and it made Fyodor worry, his face getting more concerned.
“You don’t have to tell me, but if you’re comfortable, I’d like you to tell me what’s wrong.” He knew he had to be persistent with you, you two wouldn’t get anywhere if he wasn’t.
You nodded, curling in on yourself, facing Fyodor. You placed your hand on his arm to help ground yourself, which Fyodor took notice to. He gently ran his hand through your hair, scratching your scalp. You melted into his touch, pulling him closer.
“It’s dumb,”
“I doubt it,” Fyodor mumbled as he rested his hand in your hair, “what’s on your mind?”
You finally decided to talk to him, sighing and petting his arm.
“I’m scared, scared that you’ll drop me once I fulfill my role in your plan. I’m horrified that you may kill me.”
Fyodor looked taken aback, his eyes widening. He knew he should have kept all his dirty work to himself. You never should’ve known that he’s willing to betray just about anyone.
Besides you.
“If that’s what you’re worried about, there’s no need to worry. I’ll never hurt you.”
“I’m not just worried, I’m scared to fall asleep next to you anymore. Scared you might hurt me.”
The frown on Fyodor’s face kept growing, and he gripped your chin. Why couldn’t you realize that he would never hurt you? You’re the most important person to him. He’s doing all of this for you.
“Do you know why I’m doing all of this? Why I’m getting rid of all the gifted?”
You shook your head no, nuzzling into his sleeve.
“It’s to give me and you a better life. So we can live in a world free of sin, just the two of us.”
“That’s a dark thing to say with such a romantic tone,” you giggled into his arm, “I believe you.”
Fyodor smiled softly at this, kissing along your arm before reaching your hand, and leaving one final kiss to your palm.
He knew he could never fully help you with your paranoia, but he could definitely try.
Wc - 0.5k
Sigma:
Contains: gn reader, fluff, hurt/comfort, reader is afraid that Sigma is gonna die, also lots of kisses
Your chest hurts. Everything hurts. You knew Sigma could protect himself, you knew he was more than capable, but God, were you nervous. He had practically an entire organization after him and all he had to protect him was the Sky Casino.
Your thoughts were reeling, your mind running races, your thoughts bouncing around your own skull. What if he got hurt? What if he was hurt right now? All these thoughts were making you have a headache.
That was until Sigma walked through the door to your bedroom, back from his shift, and completely unharmed. Of course you were just overthinking it.
Nonetheless, you ran up to him and hugged him as soon as he walked through the door. The actions were sudden, but not unwanted. He jumped slightly when you wrapped your arms around him, before reciprocating the hug.
“Well hello. Nice to see you too.” Sigma giggled.
“Are you hurt anywhere?” You blurted out.
The question confused Sigma, and he looked around the room for a few moments.
“Uhh, no? Am I supposed to be?”
“No, but..”
As confused as he was at first, he was beginning to piece everything together.
“What’s got you paranoid? Did something happen?”
“Not specifically..but how could you even tell I’m paranoid?”
“We’ve been together for almost a year now, that’s how.”
You nodded, continuing your vent.
“Nothing really happened, it’s just that you’re practically being hunted down by the Decay of Angels, and I don’t know what to do. I never wanna leave your side because I’m scared you won’t come back.”
Sigma looked taken aback. He was honestly very nervous about what may happen to him as well, but he knew he had to stay strong, if not for him, than for you. Sigma knelt down in front of you, holding your hands and kissing your fingertips, before holding them close to his face.
“I’m not going anywhere. I may not talk about it often, but I have resources. I’m more than safe. And so are you.”
“Resources?”
“Well, I guess a better word for it is allies.”
That sounded just like something Sigma would say.
“Like who?”
“Well, to start, the Armed Detective Agency. I also don’t employ people I don’t trust.”
You ran your hand through Sigma’s hair, pulling him close. He was still on his knees, so the hug was very imbalanced.
But you wouldn’t change it for the world.
Wc - 0.4k
#bungou stray dogs#bsd x reader#bungou stray dogs x reader#bsd#fyodor x y/n#fyodor dostoyevsky x reader#fyodor x reader#fyodor dostoyevsky bsd#fyodor dostoevsky#bsd fyodor#bungou stray dogs fyodor#fyodor x you#sigma x you#sigma bungou stray dogs#bsd sigma#sigma bsd#sigma x reader
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I've found my first review-worthy book of the year!
Eve by Cat Bohannon is a female-focused history of human evolution and a synthesis of pretty much every research field as it pertains to women. It's also readable and witty and one of those rare science books where I actively had to stop myself reading because I had to, say, go to bed.
Simply taking all the scientific research and turning it into layperson language would get this book praise. (You should see how many studies get cited.) Taking that research, relating it readably, and then drawing overarching conclusions? For instance, studies on how and when cis-female bodies produce sex hormones, and studies on how sex hormones affect neurology, and then saying something like, "this is why pregnant people are moodier"? That takes the whole thing to another level.
And it covers so much! It starts with the first mammals, moves through early primates and hominins, draws in studies of mice and apes and history and economics, talks about language and aging, and ends with the evolution of social relationships and thoughts on the future. There's a lot that I found enlightening, engaging, and validating, and a lot of moments where she reframed something and changed my thinking. And she's very comfortable calling out cultures and researchers and ways of thinking (and ducks and chimpanzees) for how they treat their species.
But like all books, it isn't perfect, though with such a subject, it probably couldn't be. For instance, because Bohannon is focusing so much on the average (i.e., cis-perisex) female body, trans and intersex folks don't come up much, though she's very clear that trans women are women, trans men are men, and intersex conditions are not problems. (Also, I'm sure the lack of info correlates strongly to a lack of studies, but she only mentions this a time or two.) *
More importantly, though, given that this is science writing and one expects scientists and writers to back up their claims, she doesn't always. Most of the time when she doesn't, it's clearly speculation or synthesis or some form of "if X, then Y" but sometimes it's less clear. I keep going back here to her statement that the first hominin culture with midwifery had exclusively female midwives. I would absolutely buy this, especially based on some of her points later in the chapter, but she never says why there couldn't have been the odd male. After all, later in the book she also mentions how men-who-help-women could have shifted the dynamics of the band/tribe/group closer to what we see today and that this probably started around the same time. To be fair, jumps like this are fairly rare but they do make me question if there were others I missed or more statements I should have questioned.
So basically, I'm saying this is an important book, and a good book, and a book that should be read by a lot of people, but also a book to read a little critically. Bohannon makes a lot of really great points and relates a lot of intriguing facts and tells some compelling stories about who we are and how we got here. She's done good work with this book and should be proud of it. But also, there might be some spots where her arguments could be tighter.
*she also prioritizes words like "she" and "mother" and "woman" over words like "parent" and "person", which I can see not being great for some trans people even though I understand that she's trying to upend the notion that the average human is a cis male and show that female/afab bodies are pretty important.
#booklr#bookblr#adult booklr#science writing#book reviews#human evolution#hominins#cat bohannon#eve#my photos#read in 2024#non-fiction#book recommendations
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If I recall correctly, weren’t you a pretty big fan of Bill Clinton for some time? I recall a lot of posts from you about him that were fairly favorable. When did you finally accept that he was a creep? Do you think there’s finally a chance of accountability?
I am truly asking from a place of empathy as I know what it’s like to have someone you looked up turn out to be not so great.
No, you're 100% correct. I was a fan of Bill Clinton for a long time. He was President from the time I was 13 until I was 21, and for a kid who was into Presidential history and Democratic politics, he was a major presence in my life. I still think that he is probably the most naturally-gifted politician of my lifetime. Nobody that I've watched has been able to explain public policy or instantly breeze through complicated press conference questions like Bill Clinton. For years after he left office, I said that he should just be the guy who explains how things work to America; he's remarkably smart.
One of the craziest examples of Clinton's intelligence is that he had to figure out ways to make it look like he doesn't have the answer to everything immediately. Clinton's political advisers thought he came across at times like a know-it-all and that it wasn't a good look on the campaign trail. You know how one of the famous mannerisms of Clinton is how he'll pause while he's speaking and bite his lip, like this?
Well, that was done on purpose. Clinton's advisers thought that his quick, completely formed answers to complicated questions was unnatural and that he needed to make himself seem more thoughtful, so he'd pause and bite his lip almost as an intellectual speed bump. Paul Begala, one of the most important architects of Clinton's 1992 campaign explained:
"He was so smart about so many things but also could connect. The whole thing about his biting his lip -- that was coached. Because he would answer so fast. We'd say, 'Take a beat. Pretend you're thinking about it. Pretend you haven't already got an answer.' It was a studied thing to give himself a second to force himself to slow down."
So, things like that were why I was always so impressed and appreciative of Clinton's skills and political gifts.
But, obviously, as I've gotten older and come to understand his personal actions a lot better, it's really hard not to consider him a creep. I mean, the Epstein thing is obviously impossible to reconcile. Even if it there hasn't been any suggestion of Clinton actually abusing any of the girls in the way that Epstein did, he spent a lot of time around Epstein and it's gross. I think one of Epstein's victims said that Clinton was a "total gentleman" and didn't do anything wrong to her, but that photo of a very young girl giving him a neck message in what looks like an airport terminal is a really bad look. That was clearly after he left office, so that was post-Monica Lewinsky and Clinton should have had the awareness to not even put himself near that type of situation with a girl that young (or any woman who was not his wife) -- even if it was just a neck massage that lasted a short amount of time. Even if the girl offered to do it willingly and had no issues with it, that's not a situation that Clinton -- who was impeached and could have been removed from office because he had an affair with a young woman -- should have have felt comfortable with.
But beyond that, as I've gotten older and as we've all gotten better about recognizing these things, his relationship with Monica Lewinsky is what bothers me because of the position that he put Monica in. She was in her early 20s -- barely older than Clinton's own daughter at the time -- and he was President of the United States. Listen, I don't have any room to criticize someone for dating younger women (seriously), but it's the power dynamic and the manner in which he treated Monica when things started to get difficult for him. That poor girl was in such an unimaginably nightmarish place because of what Clinton did and how he -- the incumbent President of the United States -- spoke about her publicly and treated her privately. When you think about it in terms of a relationship, it's just a crazy situation. And the poise that Monica Lewinsky had then and now speaks volumes about the person she is and has become, so it just makes Clinton look that much more terrible in comparison.
It is disappointing because I was a fan of President Clinton for most of my life. And, like Richard Nixon, he was so gifted when it came to his intellectual powers and, in Clinton's case, his political skills, that his flaws and his actions were overlooked for too long. I don't know what kind of accountability there might be for Clinton now that he's been out of office for nearly 25 years and is a few years away from his 80th birthday. But I can say that I feel like I know who he is now and "creep" seems like a pretty fitting description.
#Bill Clinton#President Clinton#History#Presidents#Politics#Presidential Scandals#Monica Lewinsky#Jeffrey Epstein#Impeachment of Bill Clinton#Clinton Impeachment#Clinton Administration
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the sweet things in life (tsukishima x reader)
previous || next
chapter 8: back gym
After dinner later in the day, you helped the other managers with the dishes before taking your leave and heading back out to where the guys were. You saw Tsukishima sitting by himself and decided to go sit with him.
"Where are all your friends?" you joked as you took a seat across from him. He merely glanced at you and rolled his eyes.
"I don't see yours here either" he retorted.
"Where's Yamaguchi?"
"I don't know. Don't really care either," he said, avoiding eye contact. He looked back at you and smirked, clearly just trying to get a reaction out of you.
"Be nice!" you scoffed and swatted his arm.
The two of you decided to have a look around the school (it was more your idea than Tsukishima's, but he wasn't objecting). The two of you were walking past one of the gyms when a voice suddenly shouted out in your general direction.
"Hey, you Karasuno" a voice came, "would you jump some blocks for us?"
Kuroo eyed you up and down before commenting:
"Your little manager can watch." Your heart slightly dropped hearing that. His naturally suggestive tone made your face heat up and caused you to look up to see Tsukishima's answer.
"Whatever," he muttered and walked in, as you followed close behind. You decided to sit up against the wall so you could watch him. He made sure that you were fine before he handed his water bottle to you and headed over to the net. You acted merely as a spectator, for once not being obligated to do anything manager related outside of being in charge of his water. It was always mesmerizing to watch the players up close. Bokuto had very powerful swings, and Akaashi was just a beautiful specimen in every aspect of his game. You of course paid attention to Tsukishima mostly, for both personal and manager reasons. It was important for you to see how your team played and you also just liked to watch his tall form.
"You know four-eyes, you're great at reading attacks, but your blocks are pretty weak" Bokuto said. Tsukishima looked pissed. "Like, your arms are so frail I feel like I'm gonna break them". Kuroo only added on to the criticism with a similar sentiment, causing Tsukishima's blood to boil.
"It's just a sport anyway, why should I care?" he retorted. The others tried to further explain that they were trying to help him improve, but he was hearing none of it.
He grabbed you and walked out. Evidently, he was very upset and you weren't really sure to what extent. The two of you walked in silence for a little while, before you stopped. He kept walking before noticing you were no longer next to him, and he turned around. The questioning, annoyed look on his face made your heart drop, but you wanted to know more.
"Why do you never push yourself to get better, or practice more Tsukki? You make such a big deal out of volleyball not being important to you even though you're so gifted," you question him.
He didn't respond to you at first. You wondered if he'd even heard you at all, but he walked over to you and grabbed your hands in his. You looked up at him to see his head down, face forlorn and clear devastation in his eyes. He was trying to put into words the emotional turmoil he had been in for years. Unbeknownst to you, it was something he had never told anyone, not even Yamaguchi knew all of it. You squeezed his hands in support, which seemed to bring him back to you. You sadly smiled at him and encouraged him that he could tell you anything.
"Akiteru... my brother." he paused, "At one time, I looked up to him. He was the ace of his team when he was in middle school, and I thought it was so cool. I was proud to be 'the ace's brother'. He's the one who got me in to volleyball." he told you. You nodded to show that you were listening and urged him to continue.
"When he got to Karasuno, he started telling me not to come to his games anymore, because it would make him too nervous to know he had family there watching. I should have known better then, but I was just a dumb kid. I actually believed him for a while, then I decided to show up to a game." he hesitated, seemingly reliving the memory. "He wasn't starting. He wasn't even on the team. He had lied to me and made a fool out of me. Even now it's the reason I can't ever trust anyone. And I definitely can't let myself see volleyball as more than a stupid club," he spoke bitterly, "because when you care so much, and try so hard, you suffer later" he shut his eyes. Your heart broke for him. It was obvious he had been carrying this with him for a long time. He seemed like he wanted to cry, but he was holding it in and there was no physical sign of tears. You wanted to do as much as you could to make him feel better.
"Oh Kei," you removed one of your hands from his and pressed it to his cheek. He leaned his face against it appreciatively. You reached up and kissed his other cheek and softly spoke to him in the hope that you could make him feel better. You weren't likely to have this opportunity of him opening up like this again anytime soon.
"I know you can do it. You won't end up like your brother just because you work hard. You need to find the thing that makes you want to keep playing and get better" you told him. The warm summer breeze blew his hair a little bit. The look he was giving you was filled with affection, admiration, and intrigue.
The two of you stared into each others eyes for what felt like minutes. A chill runs down your spine from both the feeling of his stare and a small gust of wind, breaking the trance and causing Tsukishima to step forward. It would have been a nice time for a kiss, you couldn't help but think. But you also didn't want him to be dealing with negative emotions when and if it ever happened, so it was probably a good thing it didn't.
"Let me walk you back to your room" he offered, grabbing your hand.
"How sweet" you responded. Your cheeky smile made him scoff.
"Shut it before I regret it" he playfully threatened. He wouldn't regret it either way, though. After walking for another minute, you reached the outside of the managers room. You reached up and wrapped your arms around him, which he quickly returned. You were already addicted to his embraces despite this only being the second one.
"Goodnight (y/n)" he said, letting go of you and giving you the smallest of smiles. You could barely even consider it a smile, but for him there was no doubt it was true. The use of your first name combined with a genuine smile from him made your heart flutter, and you wished you could spend even longer with him. You hadn't expected any of this from him, but you liked it a lot and wanted this side of him more often.
"Night, Kei" you returned his smile.
You opened the door and waved goodbye, watching him walk off. The big grin you had had wouldn't come off of your face. You shut the door and turned around, only to nearly jump out of your skin due to all of the other managers standing around you.
"Sooo, (L/n)'s got a boyfriend hm?" Kaori slyly said.
"We aren't dating guys" you hurriedly explained. You already knew the direction this was heading in and attempted to shut it down before it went off the rails.
"That's so cute! Look, she's all flustered" Miyanoshita squealed excitedly.
All of you sat down on your respective futons and they began to question you about the 'tall, blond, jerkish Karasuno first year'. You decided to humor them, and figured it would be nice to talk to the girls about the guy you liked.
"I don't know, I get that he's a little rough and rude around the edges, but he's really not like that when you get to know him" you told them. Some of the girls responded positively, while others still wondered exactly what you saw in him.
That didn't surprise you, to be fair. To a lot of people, Tsukishima was unlikeable and unreachable. He was cold, snarky, straight up cruel at times, and overall it didn't seem like he had any interest in making new friendships. To you, though, you appreciated how logical he was, he never sugarcoated anything. You never had to question if he was lying to you because he would say exactly what he thought, regardless of whether it was hard to swallow. You felt special that you were one of the only people that could see the softer, sweeter side of him. It had been amazing to break down his walls and become closer with him, and you could honestly say you trusted him more than nearly every other guy in school.
You gave the abridged version of your thoughts (you didn't want to tell them everything), and the girls all had pretty positive reactions. There were 'awws' and managers commenting on how cute it was that you two were seemingly opposites on the outside, but managed to contrast each other in a good way.
Each of the girls were pretty talkative about the whole thing, save for one. It didn't go unnoticed by the other girls, however.
"Say, Yachi, you've been awfully quiet ever since we started talking about Tsukishima" Mako notices. She raised her eyebrow in question.
"No I haven't!" she hissed. It was kind of uncharacteristic of her to get so defensive over something seemingly so trivial. Unless...
"Yachi, do you also like him?" Yukie questioned.
Honestly, that wasn't something you had considered before. You felt a strange feeling in your stomach hearing that. Jealousy? You had the urge to claim he was yours right then and there, pretend that you had been lying and that the two of you actually were dating. It made you start to overthink, had Tsukki ever shown a preference for her? Were you misreading his actions towards you as truly affectionate? You didn't want to dislike Yachi, but you were nervous at the possible competition you would face if she also liked him.
"No! N-no I don't, I promise!" she quickly stuttered out, making terrified eye contact with you for a split second before turning away. It was likely she had noticed your harsh, silent stare. She then got a little quiet, "there's actually someone else I like".
You breathed a sigh of relief as the other girls all started to interrogate her.
"Who? Please tell us!"
"Is he from your school?! Or Nekoma maybe?"
"It's- it's Yamaguchi" she trailed off, and couldn't really be heard. The other girls questioned her again.
"Yamaguchi!" she said louder this time. Now you were more interested in the conversation. "Awww, that's so cute!"
You pictured the two and had to admit, it actually might be kind of cute to see them together. If they actually did get together, then you really would have to get closer with her. Yamaguchi was Tsukishima's best friend, after all.
"That's great Yachi" you spoke. Her head turned to you with a shocked look. You gave her a kind smile before the moment was interrupted by one of the Fukurodani managers.
"You first years are so adorable! Young love is a beautiful thing" Kaori swooned dramatically. She was kidding, of course, but you still retaliated.
"You're young too!" You pointed out. Kiyoko laughed at your comment and you understood why the guys always tried their hardest to impress her.
After all the excitement, the rest of the night went well. Your phone had buzzed and you saw a short 'thanks' message from Kei, which made your heart happy. You played games and talked until all of you were exhausted and you finally curled up on your futons. You drifted off to sleep to dreamlike thoughts of dancing, with a tall blond holding you in his arms.
#haikyuu#haikyuu x reader#tsukishima x reader#tsukishima kei#bokuto koutarou#bokuto#akaashi keiji#kuroo tetsurou#back gym
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winter break
Hermann has never met Newton’s family. But after a falling out with his own father and a month’s holiday looming on the horizon, that’s about to change.
Tackled yet another prompt while my students were doing their free writing. Not sure why I chose the holiday season when it’s nearly the middle of May, but here we are~ Possibly from the same universe as Nelson’s Lake. 1.331 words.
"I’m just saying- You haven't met my family."
Hermann feels his expression quirk into that familiar doubt that Newton seems to so easily trigger, activated this time by the truly ominous tone said biologist had chosen to employ. Prone to theatrics, a perfect countermeasure to Hermann's ceaseless criticisms. "Newton, I'm certain that your father and uncle are perfectly decent people."
After all, nothing could be worse than-
Well.
He didn't warrant any more of Hermann's time.
Newton's eyes had turned to study Hermann's, peripherals still keeping firmly to the road beyond the spider-webbed fractures of the windshield. "See, you say that now, but you don't know them like I do, Herms. They're-"
Newton's focus turns fully back to the road, right hand lifting in a vague gesture that, in Geiszlerian Interpretation, roughly translates to: It's a complicated matter, and I'm not going to waste time trying to explain every minute detail proving exactly why it's complicated.
Hermann's unsure when exactly he became fluent.
Unwilling to continue with this particular tirade, and most definitely wanting to avoid a discourse that would eventually leave them both frustrated, he offers his own form of a truce. "Every family is complicated. But for you to care for them this much, I'm certain they're good people."
Newton doesn't react at first, but then comes a jerking smile, a quick glance towards the passenger seat, and Hermann knows the compliment- I trust your judgement.- was picked up after all.
For a few moments, the conversation wanes, the only sounds coming from the balding tires on neglected tar-patched asphalt, the slight squeak of the serpentine belt, and the nearly silent hum of a J-Rock CD Mako had gifted Newton five years ago.
It's... surprisingly peaceful.
In another life, in another time, another place- Hermann would have flinched away from the very idea. Joining his best friend- and God help him if Newton ever heard him admit it- for holiday instead of returning home, neglecting his familial obligations?
Inconceivable.
Inexcusable.
Batshit insane, as Newton would say.
But after the recent fallout with Lars, Hermann had absolutely no desire to return home for the winter holiday. Frankly, he had no desire to ever return to that place.
And then Newton- wild, spontaneous, caring Newton- had not-so-casually mentioned a spare bedroom, an offer that Hermann hadn't thought twice about accepting.
Clearly, the other was rubbing off on him.
For their part, both Jacob and Illia were allegedly delighted to have Newton's part-time colleague, full-time flatmate joining them, leaving Newton to run reconnaissance back-and-forth between his family and his- frankly, bemused- friend about allergies, traditions, and- worryingly; Hermann recalled several truly alarming Hanukkah jumpers hidden deep in the photos of Newton's Facebook- favorite colors.
Several times, he had nearly reconsidered, awash with a familiar anxiousness which followed him whenever meeting new people, particularly those of some level of authority.
But thoughts of his father filled him with a nauseating sense of ill-will, and he knew that, should he submit to Bastian's pleading emails and Karla's angered texts, a small war would be fought on the home front.
No, for everyone's sake, it was best to avoid darkening Lars' doorway this season.
It's begun flurrying. Newton curses under his breath as he starts the wipers, lips twisting into something resembling displeasure as he switches on the headlights.
Hermann feels a small smile. He misses the snow, remembers when, not so long ago, drifts left from late November would cling to the landscape through mid-February, each winter bringing him a whole new world to explore, to study, to catalogue, to master in that way in which only children can.
These days, winter was warm, a small blessing as his muscles despised the cold weather. But a small, whimsical part of him still misses the snow- its crisp, polished gleam as sunlight dances above and below, the world frozen in a space beyond Time, beyond beauty.
"Ya know, when I was a kid, I used to stand out on our back porch every time we got snow. I'd spend forever just staring up at the sky, pretending I was flyin' through the Milky Way. Onkel Illia used to get so mad at me for it cause I'd get sick every frickin' time."
Hermann smiles fully at the image. "I'm sure you were a terror."
Newton snickers, not denying the accusation. "What do ya mean 'were?' Still am, dude."
Hermann feigns a put-upon sigh. "A fact I am intimately familiar with, alas."
"'Alas,' he says, like he fell out of some 19th century novel."
Hermann gives his driver a mildly irritated scowl. "Must we rehash such a ridiculous argument, Geiszler?"
Newton smirks, eyes practically sparkling in mischievous intent. Hermann finds himself rolling his own, exasperation not so exaggerated at this juncture. "Please, whatever it is you are thinking of, do not. The last impression I want to make is-"
Newton's expression falls into something less menacing, almost... sincere. "Dude, you don't have to worry, alright? I promise Dad and Illia already love you. There's literally nothing you could do to change that."
Hermann frowns, nearly scoffs in disbelief. "Be sensible, Newton. You can't love someone you've not even spoken to."
Newton offers one of his half-shrugs- a gesture that mimics a consideration for Hermann's words, but one that indicates that Newton is fully confident in his own stance and isn't truly absorbing what the other is trying to say. "Like I said earlier, Herms: you haven't met my family."
That-
That is reasonable. Newton is, after all, drawing his conclusions from nearly 30 years worth of data, and Hermann-
He cuts those thoughts off immediately, determined to find familiar footing. "And not even 10 moments ago, you were lamenting how overwhelming they can be."
Newton shoots him a grin. "What can I say, Herms? I contain multitudes."
The remainder of the car ride is relatively quiet, Hermann and Newton both taking turns to point out the various houses with holiday themed decor- some beyond garish, others beyond excessive, and in the case of one pink house with an astonishing amount of plastic flamingos out front, both.
Americans, Hermann thinks to himself, distracted by the way Newton's begun tapping out a frantic rhythm against the steering wheel, buzzing with excited energy.
For Newton, this is a homecoming.
There may come squabbling and disagreements over snack foods and bickering over who used the last of the hot water, but it would be from a place of unconditional love, foundations only strengthened as the years progressed, the bond only growing fonder.
And now, pulling into the drive of a mostly nondescript house- apart from the nearly four-meters-tall Godzilla replica bedazzled in holiday lights and a Santa hat-
Hermann finds himself almost envious.
An envy that is soon forgotten- lost, abandoned- somewhere between Jacob's engulfing hugs and Illia's quiet asides and Newton's endless ribbing.
He's surprised at how easily he is pulled into the fold, barely has a moment to wonder at how fluidly he is woven into conversation.
Hours, and one long dinner, later, and Illia has dragged him into a particularly heated debate about their favorite Fußball clubs, a debate which has earned the mockery of both other Geiszlers, a not-so-polite gesture from a slightly tipsy Hermann directed to a certain other (now allegedly affronted) professor, a warm laugh from his host, and a bright grin from his debate partner. Soon after, Illia is rising, kitchen-bound in the perilous quest for more drinks.
Hermann takes the lull as an opportunity to check his phone.
He's missed several texts from each of his siblings, multiple calls from his father, and there is a blinking red light not-so-kindly informing him that he has several voicemails waiting to be heard.
For a moment, he nearly submits to his sense of duty, but it's aborted immediately.
In a frankly Geiszler-esque gesture, Hermann tosses his phone away to the furthest recesses of the sectional and starts in on another snickerdoodle.
Lars' lecture can wait til morning.
Thanks for reading!
#i can't get these scientists off my mind#to all my followers who came here for hetalia: i am so sorry. i'm trying.#Pacific Rim#pacrim#newton geiszler#newt geiszler#hermann gottlieb#jacob geiszler#illia geiszler#newmann#sorta?#i'm still teetering on the fence about whether i read them as strictly platonic or with something more?#alternate universe#holidays#holiday season#hello lovelies!#fanfiction#fanfic
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Paperback - Cale x Reader
a/n: this is pretty trash forgive me. i'm just trying to function like a normal human again after elections
Warnings: probably ooc Cale, smudge of angst
English isn’t my first language so there will be grammatical errors
Pls don't repost my work anywhere without my permission
If there's something missing in the warnings let me know so I can add it
Any form of interaction toward the post is appreciated <333
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Caressing the spine of a book, you slowly take it out, not paying attention to the redhead sitting inside your room right now. Cale knows you hear him, he knows you see him in the corner of your eyes. Yet you choose to ignore him as if a ghost was whispering in the wind.
“You know better than anyone that I’ll be fine, so why did you do that?”
Despite your obvious reluctance to acknowledge him and his words, the commander still insists on talking to you.
Finally, after minutes of trying you spared him a short glance. It may not have lasted a second but it’s enough to let Cale know that you’re now ready to talk things over. You’ll finally say the reasons for your actions that the poor man has been mulling over for a couple of days now.
As you opened the book in your hands, you finally sat on the opposite side of the couch he was sitting on. Your gaze is more focused on the bookmark delicately placed on the page you opened on than the man in front of you.
“I know you’re fine, I know you wouldn’t do anything that would cause you too much harm. I know that best. I drilled it in my head. All the things you’ll say, your thoughts, your plans, your next moves. I can probably cite it word for word.”
Cale can’t see anything on the open book you are holding in front of him. Even though the book was wide open for him all he could see were blank pages and the pretty bookmark made with the dried up flowers from the first bouquet he gifted you.
It may look like that to him, but he knows what you see is different. From your perspective, the book is filled with words. Words you were so familiar with, words you have been reading over and over again even before you were brought into this world.
“But at the same time, I’ve read it from your point of view. And if there’s one thing I learned from reading this very long book was that you’re the worst self critic I have ever met.”
The redhead swallowed the arguments bubbling from his throat and waited for you to speak again.
“You don’t get just how worried people are for you because they don’t know the context. You simply don’t get all the love they hold for you. I get it, as your reader I get why you’re like that. I get that you ensure that you’ll be fine with your every action. I know too well how smart and cunning you are.”
You close the book and hand it over to Cale. ‘Lout of the Count’s Family’ were the words written in Korean the transmigrator can read clearly. Even though the rest of the book was just a bunch of blank pages to him and everyone else, he can still read the title cover and the back synopsis.
“Yet you don’t regard yourself as high as you should. You think that as long as you’re breathing everything should be fine. Despite knowing that the world has brought you up that way it doesn’t make it hurt less you know. Knowing things in advance only litters me with more anxiety. Knowing that I can’t do anything to change your mind once it has been set has me looking for alternatives.”
Your most precious book that Cale is currently holding used to be your favorite book back when you were on Earth. It’s also the only belonging you had brought when you were placed in this new world. The book is still your favorite of course, but now a little anxiety always washes over you whenever you see it.
“Don’t get me wrong, I fully appreciate all the efforts you have done for me, for us. I also now understand a bit where you are coming from. Still, I can’t just excuse how you deliberately got hurt by White Star and his army. You sustained a graver injury than what I would have if ever.”
None of you know how to go from here. Both parties have already said the things bothering them.
A deafening silence can be heard. The book in the middle resting on top of the coffee table bearing witness to all of this.
“I… I’m sorry”
“I apologize too. I’ll try to make more rational decisions from now on.”
You know to yourself that even though he said that, everything would probably still go according to what you’ve read. That’s just how Cale is, and as much as it hurts you, you can’t do anything about it.
“I’ll be going first, Alberu must be waiting for me.”
Cale stood up and left the room first. You merely watched as he disappeared from the room, not forgetting to close the door behind him.
Opening the book again, you started reading. You must check once more the contents of the future as you plan on how to help everyone. Lessen the casualties, and lessen the pain and burden Cale is carrying on his back. That’s something you promised to yourself that you must do.
Even if it costs you your everything.
#trash of the count's family#lout of the count’s family#tcf#cale henituse#lcf#alberu crossman#not just a clown but a whole circus#lotcf#totcf#lcf x reader#tcf x reader#cale x reader#cale henituse x reader
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The workshop thing wasn't great in that respect but it wasn't that bad either because it was so clear that people were jealous when they were being harsher than the professors, who did step in at points when it veered from critiquing stylistic choices into doing exactly what people who think tagging fics on that post is okay are doing. It didn't discourage me from writing but it did solidify my decision not to major in creative writing (this is probably also why I in particular was a target: it wasn't my major, it was a hobby, but I was as qualified as them and got as much praise as they did and even one time more than them on the very first exercise of my first workshop, which probably didn't sit right with them, but only fueled me further because I am nothing if not a creature of spite).
And that's the thing too: so many people can't grasp that there's a huge difference between "this isn't for me" and "this has a lot of issues". Which to preface, unless someone's asked you to beta for them keep your mouth shut. They're doing this for free. Exit out if there are too many errors or whatever (and errors isn't even exactly the word I want but I'm exhausted and didn't sleep enough last night). Not that those people SHOULD beta either even if they were asked, honestly, because they clearly do not have a grasp on what constructive criticism actually is or how it works. You don't need a workshop to learn that either, just basic human decency and Google.
But like anyways. In the workshops I read plenty of things I just Did Not Vibe With, but were objectively very, very good art and you could tell how much care the author put into them. Sometimes things just aren't for you and the author didn't poorly execute that concept, actually.
I ran into this a lot in Performance World, too, back when I was trying to get a singing/stage performing career off the ground. There are SO many threads of that part of my life I can relate to this discussion and it would take far too long to explain them all, but there VERY much was a culture of perfectionism. Jealousy and extreme competition were incredibly prevalent, lots of "stay in your box," lots of complaining if people didn't stay in their box. Even when we were learning (or doing community theatre just to stay in practice or build up a resume), the stakes always seemed astronomically high. Someone could do a passable or even genuinely good job; but if it wasn't good in the "right" way, then it was still seen as meaningless.
For courtesy's sake, I'm putting the rest of my thoughts under a cut, because. Well. This got long. As answers by me are wont to do.
There also was a lot of "pick a genre" and "this is the only MEANINGFUL type of music/art/etc." The opera crowd hated that I liked musicals and pop music because those styles were all "stupid" and "frivolous" and "simple" (which isn't. even true, no art form is a monolith, and what those words mean is going to be different for every person, but, you know). Everyone else hated that I sang opera because it was a "pretentious art form" and "boring" and "sexist/racist/etc." (Those first two are incredibly subjective, and plenty of modern opera works exist that seeks to not uphold those forms of prejudice.) There was "if you look like [x], then you can't do [y performance type]." "If your voice sounds like this, then you can't EVER pursue ANY roles outside of this small pool of stuff because you need to know your place; if you don't, people will think you're making Bad Art." And then you, at best, get shamed, and, at worst, can't make a living.
All of this, of course, was a matter of opinion. Most of it, like you said, boiled down to the fact that people were doing things that weren't, actually, bad or untalented or ineffective--they just didn't work for people. They didn't meet some arbitrary, subjective standard that had no real, concrete, actual meaning. But when people with any degree of power start taking their artistic opinions as immovable fact, we end up with...well, we end up with the current theatre climate, and we end up with whatever is happening in fandom communities right now. (Because just as there are some people who, for insisting on a lack of constructive criticism, should not be beta readers, there are some who should not be educators or directors.)
There were a lot of reasons that I eventually stopped performing publicly/on stage. But a big part of it was that I just didn't want to deal with that culture anymore. When I made the decision to walk away, I had gotten to the point where I'd started to hate singing. My primary form of expression, of catharsis, of solace, since I was eight or nine years old. And luckily, withdrawing from a professional pursuit of art has helped me get some of that back. But I see those same issues--that same negativity, that same judgment--starting to pop up in something that isn't even meant to be for money or a career or anything other than personal expression. I see so many people getting discouraged, starting to lose the love they had for that expression. My love of art was almost taken away from me, to the point where for a very long time I couldn't even do it for fun, alone, in the private comfort of my house. And if I can do anything to prevent that from happening to someone else, I sure as hell will.
I'm glad that you were still able to get some good out of that workshop, because that's not always easy to do when the people around you are acting like that. (And kudos to realizing that you didn't want to do this as a major/career, that's not always easy to do either.) And I know I've talked more about professional art, but this is so prevalent in the way people talk about community theatre, too. Being upset that a student production doesn't have Super Stellar Voices/Acting, ragging on amateur singers just for posting a karaoke video on their personal Facebook page, expecting Met-opera-level singing quality or Shakespeare-scholar levels of acting text analysis from a group of volunteers who are spending their precious few after-work hours to put on a musical, just because they want to share that story with people. I've seen lots of comments that it's not meaningful because it's "bad." When. I've done a lot of community theatre. Plenty of it is not bad, actually. If you hate it that much, you don't have to attend a production. (Just like how. if you hate a fic. you can hit the back button.) And even if it is "bad." It's still going to be meaningful to someone. Even in a "bad" production, at least ONE of the actors or crew members will have a good time helping create it. And at least ONE audience member is going to have a good time; whether that be because they simply love theatre, someone they love is involved with the production, or because they don't care about an arbitrary "quality" measurement. And I absolutely think the same thing is true of writing, and of fanfiction especially.
If, for example, someone goes to karaoke and screams "I Dreamed A Dream" from Les Mis extremely off-key and grating, because they're experiencing a shitty situation and just need some catharsis? I don't have the right to rag on them for that, I would be an asshole. If someone posts a cover for fun on YouTube of...I don't know, "Take On Me" and can't hit the high notes, but wants to pay tribute to a song they love, who the fuck would I be to take that away from them? So if someone writes a "silly" or "stupid" or oh-God-forbid "cringe" piece of fanfiction (which. AGAIN. do not have any concrete meaning because those are SUBJECTIVE TERMS) to get some feelings out or to talk about how much they love a fictional character. Well, I think if you call them names over that and try to publicly shame or harass them, then, quite frankly, you are engaging in pointless, cruel, and braincell-less behavior. And you can stay 10,000 feet away from me.
#mc13 lore#oh my god this is so long I'm so sorry#multi t(ASK)ing#amateur art#fanfiction#taking my life in my own hands by putting this in something other than just my ask tag but so be it#there have been a lot of productions I've seen or been in--both professional and not--where I thought the overall vision didn't#translate very well or I didn't enjoy it or I thought that the artistic choices people made didn't successfully do what it seemed like#they were trying to do. but you know what? I've never seen a production. not even of HEATHERS the show (which is my absolute#least favorite thing in the world). where there was not even ONE good moment. there was always someone whose voice I liked. or a line#delivery that I thought was executed well. or a joke I thought was funny or a passage that I thought was raw/emotionally resonant.#and I think you can tell where I'm going with this but: yes this is true of fanfic too.
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shipping nonsense when it comes to ship wars involving het ships vs same sex ships
I am going to be honest ship wars happen in all fandoms its normal whats irritating is when hte ship war happens to involve a same sex ship vs het ship some people who ship the same sex ship will claim that you would ship my ship if it was a het ship. Which is rather baseless do you have any idea how many ship wars there are people choose to ship something that appeals to them etc.
It also makes a joke of real homophobia by using it for shipping saying you are a homophobe if you dont ship my ship or if you criticize a canon same sex ship or say its forced.
sorry but not shippinga specific same sex ship and shipping a het ship over it isnt homophobia.
saying it has no buildup isnt homophobia
They would say we shouldnt criticize the same sex ship or accept it just because there arent many canon same sex ships its ridiculous since I bet that if the het ship had became canon they would still criticize the het ship. It doesnt matter that there arent that many same sex ships ships should be judged my the merit not by genders involved
I feel that these people often project when they claim that if say for example yang was a man you would support the ship considering they seem to outright disdain sun for being a man and have outright state the genders involved as a reason to ship it or as a reason to claim blacksun was forced for example
I feel there are many people on tumblr who fetishize same sex ships in either the otaku form or the I will frame it as activism shippers.
the fact that there arent that many same sex ships, doesnt mean that the same sex ship if it does become canon deserved to be canon. for good writing is more important
the you would have shipped it if it was a m/f ship has always been absurd and the intent is to attack someone . you could easily flip it on them
this is back from 2015
they were just complaining about the ships they wanted werent teased. they were the ones claiming a ship was forced because of the genders involved. calling blacksun forced just because it was a het ship being teased. when it wasnt in anyway forced. the same sex ship that they wanted didnt get anything that actually hinted at it while a het ship did.
and it isnt the only post or comment like this which showcases any accusation of homophobia or if y/ng was a man you would ship it is projection
for they based not liking blacksun based on sun being a man
here is a comment I saw in response to the above post
“I think this is all the explanation needed(and all you need to dismiss people trying to take moral superiority over liking b/////bee). Something the toxic side of the fandom loves to do is project and project hard. They cannot understand why someone would not think like them or like the things they do unless there’s something wrong with them or they contextualize it through what they themselves would do.And that’s one of them accidentally explaining how that relates to b/////bee: wasps like it because it’s a gay ship. They thought Black Sun was forced because it was not a gay ship. Therefore, since everyone must either think like them or be defective, clearly you think b/////bee is forced because it’s not a straight ship. You don’t like it because it’s gay.“
“
now that after giving blacksun 5 volumes of buildup while the other ship got nothing and the writers suddenly changing direction they claim that calling it forced is homophobia or just based on genders involved which comes off as projection. and its not like what anon did anon called blacksun forced because it was a het ship being teased the ship they wanted didnt get anything In contrast they threw out years of buildup in order to make that other ship happen
@hardfestivaldream
it has been twice where I have seen a forced same sex ship become canon when it didnt have the buildup required
one was thrown in at the last 2 minutes of the finale
the other after giving one ship 5 seasons of teasing mutual attraction development and buildup while the other ship got nothing that hinted at romance all their moments were platonic
I find their attempts to claim its we should stop complaining about it because there are tons of het ships to be idiotic and projection
we didnt ship it because of the genders involved we liked their interactions, and
I bet if they hadnt thrown away all that buildup and went through with it they wouldnt stop complaining about it. they dont get to claim its different. the notion that it should be accepted just because of the genders involved when it reeked of direction change is idiotic
we liked the ship due to their interactions
even if you do believe that the same sex ship had build up rather then claim homophobia why dont you handle it or view it like you would if it was a het ship vs het ship.
because from my experience it comes off as just an easy way to attack someone or projection given that there are people who fetishize that type of stuff or think of it as activisim
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I think you're the first trans guy I've seen to say "most top surgery results look terrible". Most may not be cis passing, but a huge step up from what you had before. No non dysphoric should ever get this surgery, but they don't do it to un attract men like you said. Most women I've seen who call themselves non binaries do it because they're straight and want to call themselves gay/queer cause they clearly fetishize that. Also wondering your thoughts on bottom surgery results then.
Yeah, I’m actually autistic and find not saying the truth that top surgery results rarely look actually male is kinda like lying… obviously, I’ve seen results where it has looked male but in majority cases.. it looks like a mastectomy, removed too much tissue and it’s like they scooped out their chest. I think most won’t say the truth cause 1. They don’t understand that make chests are not “just flat” 2. They don’t want to come across as “rude”.
They almost never place nipples correctly, they’re always so high up that it looks like a child tried to draw a shirtless man. Why do they place the nipples in this unnatural position??
Also if you’re significantly overweight, too surgery looks ridiculous. Fat men don’t have flat chests.
Another criticism I have is that just because you’re slim and lack fat on the hips/thighs and get top surgery, it doesn’t mean your chest looks male. It looks kinda male, but it resembles a woman with a mastectomy in many cases. The sunken in, concaved look is so common and it’s deemed as a “positive result”, jist no.
I don’t think top surgery looks better than having tits. I would rather deal with having tits and wait for a proper surgeon to come out with better results than look like Frankenstein’s monster. I’ve never seen good results in my state unless it’s keyhole and even then, there’s usually too much loose skin. (Could probably increase pectoral muscle size to help tho)
Bottom surgery for FtM is as follows
Phallo: I would rather kill myself than risk getting what most get: a deformed looking skin sausage that does not even cause any sensation like a penis, risk of rotting and falling off, urethra lengthening failure, implant literally puncturing through the skin etc, this surgery has only looked real to me once and the guy had to have multiple revisions, glans contouring multiple times, cosmetic tattooing + more. It was riddled with scar tissue but you could claim it’s part of circumcision. But I can’t imagine the point in wasting that money, time and pain just to get a flesh lump with like… no feeling besides the base.
Meta: is better but it doesn’t resemble a cis penis, only a micropenis (which is basically some form of male intersex). I think it looks retarded when people add in the teste implants especially if they lack growth cause it just looks like two huge nuts and no cock.
I don’t want meta or phallo, I want to get a release of my Tcock cause I don’t like how meta looks like… Frankenstein’s monster still? It’s always so crudely sewn together.
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Okay, it's been a while since I've done one of these. Here's the next installment of the Walpurgis Nights girls watch The Rebellion Story, this one encompassing the big battle against Homura/Homulilly and her familiars.
Reminder:
G=Gretchen
H=Homulilly
Op=Ophelia
Ok=Oktavia
Ca=Candeloro/Mami
Ch=Charlotte
…
Ch: Oh, swell. A countdown.
Ok: To what?
Op: Four, three…
Ch: Well, you’re all there, so I guess the rescue attempt?
H: Rescue? From what? I’m already a witch! It’s over!
Op: Two, one…Eh?
G: Ophelia, why are you sitting with a decapitated Homura?
Op: I…
Ch: Well, that stroke looked all sorts of intimate! You sure you two don’t have a thing?
Op: Oh, lay off! We’re friends, okay? I just watched my friend get turned into a musical farting skeleton. Of course I’d be upset!
…
Ch: Curtain’s coming up. I guess that means the show’s starting.
H: Oh, is it now? I assume the last hour and a half of psychological torture was merely the prelude!
G: Can anyone read that title card?
Ch: I don’t even know what language that is.
H: I’m crying teeth.
Ok: Is it teeth? It could be…Oh, no. You’re right. You’re crying teeth.
H: Fine. You know what? At this point, why not teeth?
G: Where are they taking you, anyway?
…
Ca: Oh no.
Ok: Is that what I think it is?
H: That is indeed a guillotine.
Op: You’ve got some masochistic self-loathing.
H: I really can’t disagree.
G: Hey, Homulilly. Do you remember Lucy?
H: Of course.
Op: She the girl with the removeable head?
G: That’s her! I wonder if she had something similar going on.
H: Like, her labyrinth had her being beheaded? Probably.
Ch: Doesn’t sound like the thing you should just go and ask her about, though.
…
Ch: Well, the calvary’s here.
Op: We’re taking this whole…witch thing rather well.
Ch: Sometimes the weird just reaches critical mass. Speaking of which, I’m back to being a doll! Goody.
=Kyubey speaks to the others for the first time=
Op: Oh, so the gig is up!
Ok: Seriously? He never talked before now? At all?
Ca: What bliss.
G: Even now he’s still trying to manipulate me! Come on!
Op: I know, right? Like, read the room, buddy.
Ca: It is what he does.
G: Well, he should do better!
Ca: He won’t.
…
Ch: Oh, great. There I go again, spazzing out like a magnificent idiot! I’m glad we all died before I devolved into that.
Op: …did you just get blended into a smoothie?
Ch: Yes, Ophelia! I did! Because apparently, while you all get awesome outfits, weapons, powers, and transformation sequences, I get whatever the hell this is!
G: Honestly, my transformation sequence wasn’t that awesome.
Ch: And a bubble gun! Out of all the weapons in the world, I get a children’s toy!
Ok: Yeah, but is your staff really that much better?
Ch: Yes, it is! By a lot! I swear, they go out of their way to make me look as stupid as possible.
…
Op: Oh, what?
Ok: HOLY-
G: What are you doing? What is she doing?
Ch: I take it back. This is so much worse.
Ok: I stabbed myself! Why did I stab myself?
Ch: Tavi, I see your heart.
Ok: So do I? Why? This is…Oh, my God, that’s me. Like, actually me.
Op: Wait, what? You just…fished yourself out of your own blood?
Ch: We really need to stop challenging this movie to get even weirder. It always calls our bluff.
…
Op: Not gonna lie, but for as fucked up as that whole thing was, your full witch form is actually pretty badass.
Ok: Thanks, but I’m honestly more hung up with that orchestra I’m conducting. Like, why? What purpose does it serve?
Ch: What purpose does any of this serve?
H: I thought you would like making music.
Ok: In a studio, sure. On stage? Yes! I’m just questioning its practicality as a battle technique, that’s all.
G: Okay, but still: this is pretty awesome! I mean, yes, it’s weird and disturbing, but it’s all of us, coming together to fight back and save Homulilly!
Ch: Homura.
H: No, I’m clearly Homulilly at this point.
Ca: I have to agree with Gretchen. After everything that we’ve just seen, it is gratifying to finally push back.
=pause=
Ch: So, who’s waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Ok: Seeing how two of us don’t even wear shoes…
Ch: Yeah, okay. I’m still bracing myself for the big, dark twist.
…
Op: So…you two are, like, guardian angels or something?
Ch: I…guess?
Op: You have to admit, it is better than just being an out-of-nowhere freaky doll.
Ch: I mean, sure, but this is a weird time to have an exposition dump. But even so-HOLY SHIT, WHAT DID I DO TO MY FACE?!
Ok: Your character is just so consistently weird.
Ch: Argh! Even when I start to make sense I still don’t make any sense!
Op: You’re blowing bubbles. That explode.
Ch: Yes, I can see that, Ophelia!
…
=Mami swings down to Madoka and grabs her from behind=
Op: And…scoop!
G: Is it weird that despite all this insanity going on, I’m mainly just wondering how you keep your skirt up while upside-down?
Ca: Magic.
Op: Wait, like really?
Ca: Actually, yes. I’d spend battles leaping and swinging around. A proper lady must keep herself decent, after all.
Ok: Did the rest of us have to watch out for that?
Ca: You were the only other one with a skirt short enough to be a problem. And…no, you really didn’t. Watch out for it, I mean.
Op: Oh God, I must’ve loved that!
Ok: Dat ass don’t lie.
…
G: Wait, are we going to win?
Op: Why not? Why wouldn’t we?
G: Well, with how everything’s been going, I just sort of assumed that this movie would have a sad ending.
Ch: I mean, they are really laying on the triumphant music.
Ok: Literally, in my case. And, oh! Okay, I just got eaten by a bird!
Op: Someone tell Cheese not to get any ideas.
…
Op: Well, finally we get a scene together! I think we’ve exchanged like, what, four lines?
Ok: Yeah, our thing has been kind of out of focus, hasn’t it?
G: Sorry.
Op: Oh, wow. This is serious!
Ok: This…is blatantly romantic. I came back from the dead for you. That’s awesome.
Op: They’re not even being subtle about it. It’s official. We are definitely still a thing in this universe. And-Oh, come on! Charlotte, way to ruin the moment!
Ch: I take no responsibility for that little turnip’s actions.
H: She does seem as fixated on cheese as you are.
Ok: Girl is down bad.
Ch: Hey! I at least know that it’s a problem and work to keep it under control! This little gremlin straight up came back to life for a slice!
Op: Fed straight from Mami’s hand. Maybe she’s the smart one.
Ch: …I hate you.
…
Op: Oh, hey! Your witch has my spear! Symbolism!
Ok: What, was the sword too bulky or something?
Ca: Wait? What the-
=half the girls burst out laughing=
Op: What the fuck is that?
Ca: I have a train? Why do I have a train?
Op: A train made out of cake and with…a couple of deer heads? What the hell?
Ok: It’s basically a tank! Look at that cannon!
Ca: I don’t know what to tell you guys. I’m as lost as you are. Sure, I could get a little…flamboyant, but never anything like this! Oh, wait. There. That’s familiar.
G: ‘Tiro Finale’?
Ca: Good ol’ reliable.
Op: Reliable, my ass! What did you pack into those cannonballs?
Ok: Yeah, you basically nuked the city!
Ca: Which is a reliable way to win a fight.
Ok: And…swoop! Here I come to save the day!
Ca: More like steal the spotlight, but go ahead, it’s fine.
Op: Like she could overshadow the cake train.
…
G: Ah! What? Why are there giant Kyubeys?
Ok: I don’t know. I guess we’re bursting out of her soul gem, and those are…normal-sized Kyubeys?
G: Just watching her? The whole time?
Ch: Hey, you remember that one story that was making the rounds a few weeks ago, about how a merch booth by the beach started selling Kyubey dolls and it got everyone upset?
Ca: I remember. That was pretty uncomfortable. You’d think that they’d know better.
Op: Honestly, if they had just stuck little targets on the foreheads, no one would have an issue. Probably make a killing.
G: So that’s why there’s always a line in front of Incubator Massacre at the arcade?
Op: Yup.
G: Wait. Candy. Don’t you have three of the five top scores on that one?
Ca: For now. Two to go.
…
G: Um, Homulilly? Are you okay? You’ve been awfully quiet.
H: I’m…fine. I just think I know where this is going.
G: Eh?
H: They’re bursting out of my soul gem. Even if they do save me from becoming a witch, destroying a soul gem has only one result.
Op: Oh.
Ok: Yeesh.
G: Well, it is something of a happy ending? You and I being together in the afterlife, right?
Ch: I never really liked that kind ending, to be honest. It always felt like a lazy way to tack on a happy vibe to a downer ending. Like, sure, they all died horribly, but at least they’re together in the hereafter!
G: Charlotte. We’re all dead. And now together. In the afterlife. And very happy about it.
Ch: That…is an excellent point. I guess it would be a happy ending after all.
…
=flashback to the time Homura had to kill Madoka=
Ok: Wait, what’s this?
Ch: What? What’s wrong with Madoka? What’s with the gun.
G: No. No, no, no, no.
Op: Is this a memory? Is this something she actually had to do? What the-
G: Wait, I turned into Homura? What?
H: Pause it.
=pause. Long exhale=
Op: Well. That explains a lot.
H: Yes. During a previous timeline, I had to kill Madoka.
G: She was becoming…well, me.
Ok: Do you think that happened in our, um, in our thing? Our timeline, or…I don’t know, canon? Whatever you want to call it?
H: I…do not know. Maybe. I don’t think so, though.
Ch: How do you know?
H: I don’t. It’s just a feeling, but I think that this would have happened sometime after we became witches together.
Op: Well, I guess thank Jeebus for that? Fuck.
=long silence=
Ok: So…should I hit Play, or…
H: Yes.
Ch: You gonna be all right?
H: That remains to be seen. Play the movie.
Ok: Okey-dokie.
=play=
…
=Madoka’s giant hand reaches through the window=
Ch: Well. Um, you…got to her in time?
G: Okay, but…why is my arm all cut up?
Ca: I think it’s…representative of the injuries that past Madoka had taken? The one that…ah…
H: That I shot, yes.
G: So…it’s a form of forgiveness! Both the past Madoka and the current Madoka are showing her that they forgive her!
Op: Don’t see why they’d have to. You ask me, Homura did nothing wrong.
H: Except for everything.
Op: Like what? C’mon, all the mistakes she made can be chalked up to her just not having the right information.
H: She told Kyubey about Madoka’s wish.
Op: …got me there.
…
=Madoka and Homura join forces. Movie Homulilly’s head blooms=
G: =sniffles=
Ca: This is actually quite beautiful. In a very…
Ch: Bizarre.
Ok: Tragic.
Op: Fucking heartbreaking.
Ca: …sort of way.
=Gretchen starts crying a little. Homulilly holds her=
Op: There’s a real weird finality to all this. Like she knows-
H: That I’m going to die.
Ok: …well, you don’t know that for certain.
H: We are actively destroying my soul gem from the inside-out. Even if I have been saved from becoming a witch, I will not survive.
=she forces a small smile=
H: It’s okay. It is a happy ending, after all.
Op: I mean, I guess.
…
Ok: Ah, shit. Look at all those little rats.
Op: Jesus. How many Kyubeys are there?
Ca: Far too many. They are a hive mind, after all. Kill one, and another will simply replace him.
Ok: Okay, but what if you kill all of them? Because I think that’s what they’re doing.
=magic arrows rain down in the Incubators. A small cheer goes up=
Ca: Yes! Get fucked!
Op: Wow, Candy! Was not expecting that from you!
Ca: I don’t care! This is pure catharsis.
H: I agree. Get fucked, you little rat bastards.
G: Burn in Hell!
Ch: Woo…
Ok: So, wait, hang on. If they’re a hive mind, that means there’s only one of them, right? Like, it’s one person, with a whole bunch of bodies that he’s controlling?
Ca: I believe so, yes.
Ok: So how does that explain Reibey?
=silence=
Op: Maybe…he’s the Incubator equivalent of cancer? Like, one of his bodies got all weird and twisted, so it got kicked down here before it corrupted the rest?
Ch: Why not just incinerate him then?
Op: Fuck if I know. Maybe to torture us.
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Discourse Stances & Personal Opinions
On the topic of my general views, my present stances are;
PROSHIP/COMSHIP » People are free to "ship" whatever they want, even comship. No stranger online has any right to dictate another person's art, written or otherwise. Don't like? Don't look.
PRO CONSANG » Consanguinamory is odd and, personally speaking, I couldn't have less attraction or interest in it if I tried. That said, what consenting adults do together is none of my concern nor should it be anyone else's. The arguments about inbreeding reek of eugenics, anyway.
PRO PARAPHILIA » I have no issue with paraphilias in general. Demonizing someone based on what's in their head is textbook thought policing. If someone is struggling with those types of thoughts or impulses, they need help; not harrassment.
PRO MOGAI » MOGAI orientations and microlabels exist and do plenty of good for those who use them. They don't "give the queer community a bad name", though queer folks parroting homophobic, conservative rhetoric in hopes of being considered socially palatable sure do. MOGAI labels are just people exploring their understanding of self; get over it.
PRO SELF-DX » In a world where it cost over $2,000 just to get some neuropsych to ask me a few questions, self diagnosis is a valid action. Even if it wasn't, demanding medical proof from strangers is much worse. If they're wrong, that's their problem and not your concern.
PRO KINK » Kink is healthy (because that's somehow controversial 🙄).
TRANS-ID NEUTRAL » I don't care if someone identifies as transid. I can't say I fully understand it, but I don't make it a habit to take someone else's identity personally. If their self perception offends or otherwise upsets you, then it's your responsibility to avoid them for their's and your own sake. Harassing and demonizing them won't make them go away
ENDO SAFE » (TL;DR I can neither confirm nor deny the possibility endos exist and, to my knowledge, no one can nor should they try. I'm also critical towards those who are aggressively against their existence.) When it comes to the possible existence of non-trauma formed systems, I believe that, due to the covert nature of dissociative disorders such as DID and the varying affects societal stressors can have on a person, it's entirely possible anyone believed to be non-traumagenic could very well have gone through trauma and not recognize or remember it. I also believe that entire possibility is completely irrelevant and serves no purpose other than to make others paranoid of their own mind.
In the same vein, anyone that shares a similar opinion who then goes on to declare non-traumagenic systems are impossible and/or demands endogenics find "proof", needs to read up on the argument from ignorance fallacy and get their head out of their own self-absorbed ass. Endos exist because they say they do. That alone is a very important distinction that deserves to be identified and treated with the same legitimacy as any other system. They're clearly separate from traumagenic systems, seeing as their mere presence in the general plural community played a sizable part in creating the incredibly divisive atmosphere we have now. Fakeclaiming is even more outlandish when you consider the likelihood that large slews of people with zero prior relations all decided to fake a covert and complicated dissociative disorder for fun/attention. Should I recommend reading about Occam's Razor next?
ANTI SYSCOURSE » This is somewhat complicated. Those who treat "syscourse" as an excuse to harass people they don't agree with are the problem, not the groups as a whole (though I wouldn't say syscourse in general is all that productive either). Essentially, I can't stand die hard exclusionist and "antis" from either side of syscourse arguments. So why do I participate in it? The behaviors of those who genuinely believe they're making some type of difference and wholeheartedly believe their shit fascinate me.
I'll add more as I'm made aware of other hills people intend to die on. Feel free to send me an ask if you're curious about any of the things mentioned or have information that I've perhaps missed. I'm not above changing my mind. Conversely, I'm not beneath telling self-important assholes how wrong they are neither.
#discourse discussion#syscourse#pro para#endo safe#pro consang#pro mogai#pro kink#intro post#my post#my thoughts
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She-Hulk: Attorney at Law 1x02 Superhuman Law
Now with [What's the increase in percentage when you go from 0 to anything at all?]% more X-Men thoughts! Because clearly this is a prop whose information can be trusted.
Dear god, there are super influencers now? Pfft, didn't expect her to have been there for a traffic violation.
Wow, firing Jen for doing the right thing and now nobody else wants to employ her either. But love the transitions between her interviews!
"Why is there a giant statue of a man sticking out of the ocean" Oh good, so people did notice that. "Man fights with metal claws in bar brawl" SAKJDFISUFFIJ!!!! Okay, new idea: What if there somehow had already been an incursion (sometime before WandaVision, of course …Oooh, or what if Wanda or Agatha had accidentally caused it?), but it was a minor one, so no one had noticed? Except the people whose world had been incorporated into the MCU. Or theirs and another world were colliding, so they escaped into anothernother world. And this is how Peter, Logan and the rest ended up in 616 and they (mostly) kept a low profile, because they can read the mood in that world.
No, but you know I'd hate if I was right with that idea, because I want my babies and their world to be okay.
Jen's dad is sweet, but with mom nagging about her waistline (oh…) and handing out her phone number to strangers, and an aunt & uncle criticizing her curls (I think I'm seeing a pattern), I'm amazed Jen is still going to these family dinners.
Ha, I'd join the competition asap too. That new boss is terrible though, taking his time to reveal some key information about the job.
Not to be repetitive, but it would be so nice if a character got decent CGI on her own fucking show. She doesn't even look like she's actually walking on an actual floor.
Interesting, so the GLK/H logo is why the earlier She-Hulk logo looked like that.
Hahaha, the poop bathroom, this is too real. I need to know why the guys's name is Pug. If he can't transform into one, I'll be so disappointed.
Good thing that oversized is in fashion again, so Jen can wear something that fits her in both forms. She had to hulk in (That should be the counterpart to "hulk out", right?) before being let into the prison, but the pants don't seem to be slipping. Sure, it could be because of an elastic waistband, but it looks more like her waist size stays the same. And what about the shoes, did she bring a 2nd pair?
Ah, so that's Emil Blonsky. I'm intrigued, should watch the movie some time.
Bruce is on that messenger ship now? Impressed that he has cell reception on there. And does that come with the ship or did he rig that up himself?
I can't believe I once again managed to mistake the end credits for the opening sequence. In my defence: these episodes are terribly short and I'm a fan of Alias, a show that had a habit of playing its opening sequence late.
#she-hulk: attorney at law#mcu#wandavision#wanda maximoff#agatha harkness#james howlett#peter maximoff#peter maximoff truther#xcu
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Hey I dunno a thing about Will Wood, but I saw your post about the whole situation w/ him from a blog I follow, and I just want to say thank you for describing what happened as neutrally as you could while still affirming that it is very, very screwed up, on both sides. You never see that on tumblr, or anywhere on the internet nowadays, and it is a BREATH of fresh air.
Hey no problem! I made the post specifically to help people learn the context and form their own conclusion via me guiding through my thought process. This situation just started and I’m sure it’ll develop and i and other will adjust accordingly, but I already saw misunderstanding and bad faith takes and I wanted to try and curb that now as opposed to later.
And you’re right, it is a problem these days. I think a lot of it is because we’ve conflated “having a strong emotional response” to be the just and moral course of action when things happen. Absolutely have sympathy for people, especially victims of toxic situations, but you are not doing them justice if you don’t fully examine what you can. Nothing is clearly conveyed in one quick glance. You need a full understanding to make the proper response suited to that situation.
Unfortunately there is a large mob mentality on the internet. That combined with the absolute force from both people and algorithms to be as reactionary as possible as soon as possible, makes it so a lot of people can’t comfortably say “I don’t feel comfortable from a concrete conclusion from what i know right now.” It is always okay to say you don’t know or you don’t want to get involved. You do more harm taking a stand without being able to say why you take that stand, then without taking one at all.
I can take a stand and say “this was an unhealthy relationship” because I looked at that thread and came to that conclusion and I have confidence in my critical thinking skills.
I also have the integrity to say “I cannot make a claim on this because I do not feel qualified and/or in the know about it.” Like with the rumors that the photos were doctored or there’s impersonation. Or also say “I cannot in good conscious label what kind of unhealthy relationship it was because I’m missing a lot from it.”
At the end of the day, you can be objective and sympathetic. You can give both people grace. And you can and absolutely should acknowledge that your perspective on the situation is limited and that is a key influence on the conclusions you’re coming to.
#thanks for the kind ask! i know things are upsetting but it’s great to acknowledge what is appriecated during upsetting situations#ask#crossover-enthusiast
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My Thoughts 1: N95 and the Climate
Kendrick Lamar's "N95" was a perfect artistic rendition on my thoughts of the current socio-political climate and here's why.
Kendrick Lamar released his fifth studio album on the 13th of May this year. Apart from being a big fan of his work, I've always appreciated his lyricism even though I wouldn't consider myself a "rap connoisseur" per se.
I could write an entire post about the album as a whole. People certainly have opinions on Kendrick's writing of "Auntie Diaries" that I feel are willfully ignorant - especially from a journalistic point of view. But I digress. The album itself is clearly the representation of the thoughts of someone who has gone through therapy and done the work - which is much more than many people who go to therapy can say.
My Thoughts
"N95" is the title track of the album without a doubt. It's the only one (at the time of my writing this) with a music video, it's the most impactful, etc. It's no surprise it's the song that stood out to me the most (other than "We Cry Together") in the entire album.
Obviously, like in every art form, there are many interpretations to be taken from "N95." To me, it held a hope that people will understand what I've been thinking of and living through the past two years.
I'm not the only one, I'm sure, to feel like the current socio-political climate of the world is unsustainable. Everything and everyone around us, in social media, in movies, in TV shows, in music, has been perpetuating the same idea: I'm part of this group and if you aren't drinking our "Kool-Aid," then you must be a rival.
Personal
For the past few years, I've been trying to challenge my own perception of the world. How should I act? What should I say? How can I adjust my behavior and speech in order to fit in with the most desirable group? Do I even fit in there? These questions plagued me for many more years than I can remember.
I've always tried to fit in with a certain group, trying to find my tribe. However, it wasn't uncommon for me to jump between "bubbles" even when I was trying to box myself in so much. It was only in recent years that I have come to appreciate and accept the "gray" I live in.
In many of the lyrics of "N95" I can see the plea for understanding. Something that a lot of people, although they may preach it, won't practice. How is it understanding to cut people out of your life if they don't agree with a political stance of yours?
I'm sure Tumblr is probably not the best platform for me to be saying these things. People may read this and immediately label me an "enemy" because the words I say may have been spoken by one of their "enemies." It doesn't matter.
To be blunt, I'm not writing this from a left-leaning or right-leaning perspective. That kind of stuff doesn't appeal to me. I'm writing this as a person who has skated on the outskirts of labels my entire life - someone who has never felt they fit in anywhere completely.
Some of the lyrics that called out to me the most:
"Ventin' in the safe house"
I'm no stranger to this. I'm doing it right now. Although my name is on the screen, there is no other indication of who I am as a person other than what I tell the Internet. That's a double-edged sword, isn't it? You may do anything for the aesthetic, but how different is it when you're out there in the real world?
"Where the hypocrites at?
What community feel
They the only ones relevant?"
I've been there too. I went from the left to what I would call "right-curious" and this is what I saw most commonly-replicated in every bubble I saw. To me, this isn't about one community in specific. It's every one of them that thinks they're the ones with the worst, most dire situation.
Be it the trad-wives who believe their children will be corrupted by a sex-positive society (which, lol, the United States? k) or the trans community criticizing Dave Chapelle's Netflix special and his past jokes.
I'm not saying they're not relevant concerns - all of them. But it is hypocritical of a group to look down on another group's suffering and expect others to not do the same to your group. Your expectations come from your values, and if you don't uphold your values to everyone, not only the people you like, then how strong is your moral code, really?
"What's your life like? Bullshit and gossip."
I am also a big appreciator of bullshit and gossip. I love watching reality TV as much as the other guy. But when we act like the characters on those shows do, then it starts getting a little complicated, doesn't it?
It's unhealthy and unrealistic to expect people from outside of your knowledge to act like they:
a) Know everything you know;
b) Agree with everything you agree;
c) Act like you would act.
Conclusion
There is so much about this album and Kendrick that I love. Like I said, I could write so many posts about therapy, relationships, the state of the world, toxicity, understanding, etc. But as I've told people I recommended this album to, if there's one song you have to listen to, it's "N95."
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