#How difficult that alone must have been even without all the additional horrors - both real and fictional - the Expedition faced

[saints-who-never-existed]

"Richard Henry Dana [author of the 1840 memoir 'Two Years Before the Mast'] experienced firsthand how the morale of a ship's crew could deteriorate to the extent that even the slightest incident might be perceived as a horrendous, unbearable injustice:

"A thousand little things, daily and almost hourly occurring, which no one who has not himself been on a long and tedious voyage can conceive of or properly appreciate - little wars and rumors of wars,- reports of things said in the cabin,- misunderstanding of words and looks,- apparent abuses,- brought us into a state in which everything seemed to go wrong."

- In the Heart of the Sea, Nathaniel Philbrick

[solynaceawrites]

Wires [4]: Frustration

Rating: Mature Archive Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence, Major Character Death Categories: F/F, F/M Fandom: Devil May Cry Relationships: Dante/Original Female Character(s), Implied Nero/Kyrie, Implied Vergil/Original Female Character(s), Implied Lady/Trish, Dante/Lirael Thorne, Dante/Lir Characters: Dante, Morrison, Nero, Original Female Character(s), Lirael Thorne, Lir Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Detectives, Violence, Gore, Dark, Horror, Supernatural Elements, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Serial Killers, Angst, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut Summary: In Red Grave City, a serial killer stalks the streets. Lirael Thorne, recently transferred from Fortuna and looking for an escape from her past, winds up on his trail. Hunting him with her veteran partner, Dante Redgrave, they try to piece together the wires that bind the three of them together. In a race to catch him before he leaves more victims in his wake, the things thought buried will come to the surface, tearing lives and comfort apart.

»»————-　⚜　————-««

“Death and life are the same thing- like the two sides of my hand, the palm and the back. And still the palm and back are not the same . . . They can neither be separated, nor mixed.” —Ursula K. Le Guin

»»————-　⚜　————-««

Lir takes Simon Marson’s statement with a grain of salt. It’s not that she doesn’t trust him—she doesn’t trust lawyers as a whole, but nothing so far has given her a reason to believe he’d outright lie—just that she’s learned firsthand how memories get clouded and fuzzy, particularly about routines. Sure, their victim worked for him. And, yes, she probably did the exact same thing every day, going to her paid internship at her father’s office Monday through Saturday, taking Sunday off, and spending Friday night bar-hopping with her friends. Yet there’s simply too much Marson was unaware of. The questions of who her friends are, what she did when she wasn’t working, her hobbies, any potential lovers, hell even where she lived, are all ones he provided no answer to or understanding of. To him, Sophie truly existed only in the hours between 8:00 am and 6:30 pm. Which isn’t exactly unusual, but it makes her job of following those leads harder, and she ends their interview feeling more irritated than she had when she started.

Dante, too, must be frustrated, because he says nothing at all to her when he leaves the observation room to join her at their desks, merely clacking angrily on his keyboard as he types his report. Lir does the same, transcribing the interview with Marson and her notes to send to Morrison later. A stiff drink is what she needs, maybe a call to Joan for a bit of relaxation, but she settles for chewing aspirin and drinking the bitter coffee unique to precincts. By the time she’s done recounting the events of the last thirty-six hours, her fingers are stiff and the throbbing in her temples has turned into a fierce clawing that makes her eyes water, and she’s keenly aware of the fact that they’re fast closing in on the forty-eight hour mark and how much more difficult this investigation is going to be beyond it.

“You eaten?” Dante asks. Lir shakes her head, and he picks up his phone, dialing quickly. “Me neither. ‘Bout to keel over, if I’m honest. You good with pizza?”

“Sure. Whatever toppings are fine.”

He flashes her a grin before speaking into the receiver, and Lir uses the time to read back over Trish’s findings. They aren’t pretty. While there were no ligature marks, showing that Sophie was neither restrained nor strangled, there were heavy levels of Rohypnol in her blood, meaning she would have been unable to do anything at all. In fact, Trish notes that the dose probably would have been fatal, given the fact that Sophie was well over the legal limit for intoxication, clocking a BA of 0.16%, putting her at the threshold for alcohol poisoning. Did she normally drink so much? Lir runs her fingers over the paper, frowning slightly as she thinks. Joan hadn’t said much more about Sophie’s habits other than her cocktail of choice, and they hadn’t asked for a receipt, a stupid oversight that needs to be corrected. Because if that much liquor was’t common for Sophie, it means either she was drinking a lot more, which could lead them to recent stresses.

Or that the killer was feeding her margaritas all night to make sure she was too weak to fight him.

“There was no phone recovered from the alley, right?” she asks. Dante gives a grunt as he hangs up the phone, and she leans back, stretching to relieve the tension in her shoulders. “We’ve got to find her friends, talk to them.”

“What about the mother?”

“Gone. Parents divorced when Sophie was . . .” Lir checks her notes. “Six. The original custody agreement was for the mom to have supervised visitation, but she went no contact when Sophie was twelve. The last Marson heard from her, she was living with her new husband in Portland.”

Dante whistles. “No contact? Think Marson was abusing her?”

“Maybe. But why would Sophie hang around, if that was the case? You watch your dad beat on your mom for six years and wind up working for him?”

He grunts and leans back, crossing his arms over his chest and staring thoughtfully at a spot just over her right shoulder. “Abuse doesn’t always make it to the kids,” he says after a moment. “Sure, maybe pops was an asshole, but he was probably smart enough to keep it behind closed doors. Or maybe there wasn’t anything goin’ on other than two people who didn’t want to be together anymore.” He pauses to take a sip of coffee. “Could have been mom, too.”

“Right.” Lir massages her temples, and the pressure there subsides enough that she no longer feels like her eyes are going to burst. A migraine is the last thing she needs right now, but that’s exactly where she’s headed if she doesn’t get some sort of rest soon. “So, we have a victim whose father knows nothing about her personal life, a killer who was smart enough to make sure we couldn’t trace her beyond the bar, and, after nearly forty hours, no real answers.”

“Sounds about right.” Dante’s grin is bitter.

“Fuck.” She drums her fingers on her desk. “Crime scene still roped off?”

“As far as I know. You plannin’ a visit?”

“Yeah. I need to get some air, and I want to take it in now that it’s quiet.” Lir grabs her coat from the back of her chair as she stands, sliding it on before leaning to open her desk and grab her gun and badge. Fastening them to her belt, she mutters, “Maybe something got missed.”

Dante gets up, stretching with a loud yawn. “Alright. I’ll go with you.”

“I don’t need—”

“I’m not babysittin’ you, Lir.” His eyes are somehow both grave and mocking, and she’s not sure which irritates her more. “There’s a killer. None of us should be goin’ out alone, especially with the statistics about who else might show up there to get their jollies.”

That gives her pause. “Right. Okay. You driving?”

He dangles his keys. Lips twitching, she turns and heads down the stairs and out to the lot, listening to the quiet thumping of Dante’s shoes as he follows her. For someone so big, he doesn’t make a lot of noise when he moves, and she wonders idly if it’s a force of habit or just how he is as she slides into the passenger seat of his car and fastens her seatbelt. Like always, he flicks on the radio and finds a classic rock station before starting the drive, and he ignores her popping two aspirin into her mouth and chewing them dry. 

The ride back to the alley passes in the silence between them. Lir looks out of her window, the rain sliding along the glass turning the world outside to a muted painting of blurred shapes and bright flashes of color on an otherwise dreary background, and thinks. Sophie Marsons had gone to the bar, as was her usual weekend habit, and ordered her preferred drink. Had she gone with friends? Had they danced, and laughed, until a stranger stole into their group, with eyes only for Sophie, eyes full of murder that she might have mistaken for desire? Despite what she had said to Dante about their victim being chosen randomly, Lir has little doubt that she knew her killer. Statistics point to it, the inevitable need for the comfort brought by familiarity that a new killer needs to do his work. Statistics, the voice of her old academy instructor rasps in her mind, are statistically incorrect.

If Sophie wasn’t the first, then there’s another victim out there.

Cold, bitter rain lashes her as soon as she steps out of the car. Huffing, watching her breath condense and twist in the air, Lir pulls her hood up around her face and tucks her hands into her pockets, wishing she had a slicker even if the garish yellow color of it would make her stick out like a sore thumb. Dante joins her, grimacing as he sets a black trilby on his head, water dripping from the brim steadily. “Good thing we already got forensics,” he mutters.

“Mm.” Making a non-committal noise in her throat, she ducks under the crime scene tape and walks into the alley, where she stands and takes it in. Without pedestrian and vehicular traffic on the street, it’s unnervingly quiet; is this how it was at four in the morning? Nothing but silence as the dull oppressiveness of the city while Sophie was carved open like livestock? 

Lir is moving towards the dumpster when something rustles behind it. Pausing, she stares at it, her brow pinched and her hand moving slowly to her gun, waiting. Cat, she thinks, or rat. Something digging for scraps now that humanity has gone away. But the silhouette she can just make out on the other side is too large, and, as she watches, a tanned hand grips the edge before a rain-soaked head pokes cautiously around, the eyes that she sees wide enough that the whites are like spotlights. Behind her, she hears Dante hiss, the faint splash of water as he slowly comes up beside her. Looks like he was right. Someone else had shown up, and now all that’s left to do is figure out whether or not they’re the murderer.

“Police,” Dante barks. “Don’t move!”

The man jumps to his feet and takes off, and Lir lets out a string of curses as she darts after him. They always fucking run, guilty or innocent, because seeing a cop always makes them feel like they’ve done something wrong. Bearers of bad news, thugs with guns, she’s heard it all, and she wonders how this guy thinks of the police even as she chases him down the winding alleys of a city she’s already growing to hate. “Thorne!” Dante shouts, his voice dwindling as the distance between them grows. “Goddamnit, Thorne!”

Up ahead, the black coat swirls as the man rushes through the maze. Sometimes all she has is a glimpse of fabric as he turns a corner, others, on the straight, narrow stretches, she can make out more of him, and her mind catalogues these snapshots. Slender build. Dark jeans. Heavy boots. The glint of a ring. A pair of wild eyes peering over his shoulder. Despite knowing she should draw it, Lir leaves her gun holstered. Don’t you ever, her instructor had said gravely, take that thing out unless you intend to shoot, and she’s got no desire to fire a bullet that would at best embed itself harmlessly into a wall and at worst ricochet and cause more damage.

Her hood falls back, rain plastering her hair to face and neck. In her chest, her heart is a drum, and her blood roars in her ears, equaled only by the low whistle of her breathing as she tries to control it to fight off fatigue. Keep moving, she tells her legs, don’t fucking stop until you know who he is.

At her hip, her radio crackles, only to be ignored. Right now, it is only her and her prey, locked in the chase until one of them is forced to stop. Guilty people run, sure. So do frightened ones. Which is he? Killer or morbid onlooker, dangerous or afraid? 

Lir never gets the chance to find out. They burst into a side-street, the cars around them blaring horns of fear and anger at this sudden intrusion, and a hand clamps onto her shoulder and yanks her back as a truck passes through the space she’d been about to step into. By the time it and its trailer clear out, the man is gone, and a scream bubbles in her throat that she fights to swallow. She knows who grabbed her—the scent of Dante’s cologne, muted by the rain, wafts into her nose, accompanied by the spiced, salty blend of sweat and deodorant—and she allows him to lead her back to the sidewalk, where she doubles over with her hands on her thighs and struggles to slow her breathing from the harsh, jagged pants to something close to normal. At this angle, she can make out the way water has turned the leather of his shoes a dull brown. Never gonna look nice again, she thinks, and closes her eyes against the swell of nausea that comes from exertion on an empty stomach.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” Dante growls, his voice rasping and hoarse from chasing her. “You ever stop to think for a damned second that we’d need backup? Or that chasing that idiot could have gotten you killed?”

The scolding makes her angry all over again. “I’m sorry,” she snaps, straightening to glare at him. “Should I have let our only lead so far go?”

“If it meant surviving? Yeah, you should’ve. Or were you hoping to wind up like Marsons?” His eyes are cold with fury, his cheeks flushed with it. “I told you, I fucking told you—”

Lir’s phone rings, cutting off whatever tirade he’d been heading towards. Scowling, she answers it. “Thorne.”

“You with Redgrave?” Morrison asks, crackling with static. 

“Yeah.” Dante makes an impatient motion with his hand, and she holds up a finger in the standard request for a minute of silence.

“Get your asses over to Tellula Park. He’ll know where it is.”

There’s something so foreboding about Morrison’s tone that Lir knows the answer to her question before she even asks it. “What’s there?”

Morrison sighs. “Another body. Looks like our killer didn’t want to wait for us to catch him.”

“We’ll be there.” She hangs up, then looks at Dante, frustration and defeat welling within her to make her voice curiously flat. “There’s another victim in Tellula Park.”

Dante curses. “Our guy?”

“Morrison said it was,” she replies.

He glances around, studying the street sign at the intersection. “C’mon. Car’s about two blocks away. We’ll have to book it if we don’t want Morrison to rip us new assholes for taking our sweet time.”

Lir nods. Dante turns and starts down the sidewalk, and she follows, craving a drink and a good night’s rest and maybe a bit of company, angry to have wasted time on some idiot onlooker when the killer was busy leaving them another corpse, another family to notify, another twisted web. I didn’t know, she thinks, and that just makes her feel worse. Tunnel vision, that’s what she had fallen into, too focused on what was in front of her nose to take a second to really contemplate if a killer who took such care not to be noticed would have been so stupid as to come back to the scene of his crime in the middle of the day with cops still around. 

They’re sweating and miserably damp by the time they reach the car. Dante pulls towels from the backseat for them to sit on—something her father had done, to keep water from damaging the seats—and turns on the heater to fight some of the chill. It’s only once they’re on their way to the new scene that he says anything at all. “It wasn’t your fault.”

Lir’s head snaps towards him at both the words and the sympathy within them. Not that it’s unusual for cops to know how their partner feels, but usually that takes years of working together, not days, so either he’s particularly good and reading the people around him or he’s projecting. “What?”

“The new victim,” he explains. “Wasn’t anything you could have done. We had and have nothing to go on, and you chasin’ that guy didn’t get this one killed. Or,” his mouth twitches, “do you think you’re better than every other cop on the force?”

“Of course not,” she protests hotly. “I just . . .”

Dante cracks the window and lights a cigarette that he pulls from the pack in his door. “Look,” he says, exhaling smoke, “I get it. You’re new, gotta prove yourself, and this guy is a pain in the ass. But you ain’t got any control over him, or what he does. Only thing you can do is learn, be better, so you can catch him.”

It’s spoken in the same tone he might have used to console a weeping toddler, and she bristles. “You don’t know me.”

“No, but I read your file.” He glances at her as he tosses the cigarette, still half-lit, out of the window. “You know what was top and center on the behavior section? Empathetic. You feel things, Thorne, feel ‘em deep, maybe, and that’s great for gettin’ inside the head of whoever’s doin’ this, but it means he can get inside your head, too, if you let him.”

She sinks into her seat, thinking of her dream, and gooseflesh breaks out across her arms despite the warm air blowing from the vents. “So what’s your drive, then? Fame? Promotions?”

Dante snorts. “Nah. Just don’t like bastards who hurt women, that’s all.” He pauses, then exhales slowly. “Look. I’m not gonna rat you out to Morrison. You made a decision that anyone else would’ve made. Doesn’t mean it wasn’t a fucking stupid decision, but . . . It stays between us. Right?”

There’s a rush of gratitude that she hates feeling. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Okay,” he agrees amicably.

[wolfhuntsmoon]

Sarah Rogers and how Steve inherited ‘stubborn little shit’ from the womb

Okay, so I was noodling on Sarah after reading her Marvel wiki and some extraordinarily good posts about how EG Steve should have gone back to see his mum instead of Peggy etc and the timings of Steve’s early story struck me as... interesting.

Steve is born on 4th July 1918, before the end of WWI, meaning he would have been conceived in September or October of 1917 - that is, if he was born on time or only a few weeks premature. Which, given the tech and prognosis for preemies in the early 20th century, must have been the case because things were grim enough even if you weren’t born prematurely, for both baby and mother. If you were giving birth, you had a 6% chance of dying in Ireland in this period - roughly comparable with the rest of Europe but shockingly high by our standards. The odds were better if you were rich, but not by that much. Childbirth remained the leading cause of death for women worldwide until the late 1940s, remember. And kids fared no better. One in five children born in Dublin in this period died before their 5th birthday. Again, the figures would be better or worse depending on how well off you were, but even the richest still suffered appalling infant mortality rates.

Anyway, depressing history of women’s health aside, this means that Joseph Rogers, American solider, and her, must have been doing the do about then, and probably seeing each other on the regular before that, because believe you me, casual sex in the early 20th century was a big no no. Not to say it didn’t happen, but usually only via prostitution ESPECIALLY in Ireland, because the Catholic Church ruled supreme there even more than the British did and contact between the sexes was very restricted and frowned upon. Sex ed was nonexistent, and women knew that even a whiff of scandal about them was enough to ruin them, their entire family, and the rest of their life. It’s a hackneyed joke because it’s true: Ireland is small and everyone knows everyone. You would get found out and then suffer the consequences - sent to a mother and baby home if you were lucky, and those places were worse than prisons sometimes. That cultural context would carry over even if Sarah wasn’t actually in Ireland at the time.

So, likely they were married by then, because again: social ruin. The Marvel wiki says they were married, but not when. (I know nothing about the comics, I’m sorry) Soldiers and their sweethearts often married very quickly, and there are actually quite a few accounts of nurses falling in love and marrying the soldiers they tended. (More on this later) However, if she was widowed and could have the child respectably, why not return to Ireland? With, presumably, a support network that makes emigrating to America a worse, not better, prospect? This is the crux of my theory: Sarah Rogers was seen as an unmarried mother, and treated as such, because she married Joseph abroad, probably without permission, and when he died, had no social proof of the marriage. And in those days, unmarried mothers either: aborted in secret, had the baby concealed by the church where they were then taken and given up for adoption, or were cast out with nothing and ostracised if they decided to keep the baby. Sarah ending up in America strikes me as her taking the third option, and indeed the only option she could, to keep her baby.

But first: Joseph and Sarah need to meet in order to get down and dirty. How? He’s an American soldier who would never have set foot in Ireland in WWI - the British government kept their troops there, obviously, but the Americans were all put straight onto the continent or mainland Britain once they crossed the Atlantic from 1917 onwards (remember the US only joined in WWI in April 1917). In fact, the US wasn’t able to send significant numbers of troops to Europe until the following spring of 1918, because their army was so small and outmoded for trench warfare they basically had to send a lot of stuff over until they had enough trained bodies, which took about a year to organise. Based on this, if Joseph and Sarah were making baby Steve in September 1917, Joseph must have been in the regular US army before it entered the war, and likely in for quite a long time and experienced, to be sent over so soon. That experience would have been invaluable, meaning he never would have been assigned to stay in Ireland even if the US did send troops there. He would have been deployed straight onto the battlefield.

In which case, if Joseph never sets foot in Ireland, then how does he meet Sarah? Well, we’re told she’s a qualified nurse, and that was a solidly middle class job back then. You needed to have a good education, beyond primary level (which was all that was free for kids back then - you had to pay for secondary or tertiary level) and speak English well. In addition to that, your training to be a nurse took three years, and you weren’t paid or funded at all for those. So I don’t buy the theories that she emigrated to America only speaking Irish and totally penniless. Sarah most likely came from quite a well off family to become a nurse, although it’s not impossible she rose from much humbler circumstances as there were a number of scholarships and the like for the deserving poor set up by rich upper class ladies bored out of their minds drinking endless teas in salons who liked to do things like Help the Poor but only if they’re Pure and Mannerly. Qualified nurses were paid about £40/year in WWI by the British government, when your average domestic maid would have been earning about £20/year - quite a big difference.

Either way, Sarah, as a nurse, was exactly the kind of woman the British government was desperate to recruit by 1915-1916 when the true scale of modern attritional warfare became clear, and no longer pussyfooted around keeping women and their delicate sensibilities away from the battlefield. The Battle of the Somme between July-Nov 1916, for example, claimed the lives of over 20,000 British soldiers ON THE FIRST DAY. The British alone sustained over a million casualties (dead, missing or wounded) across the whole battle. They couldn’t afford to stay prudish. There were just too many casualties to deal with. They even opened up medical degrees to women without restrictions because they were so desperate! Which was a big part of the reason why Britiain introduced conscription for the first time in 1916, including in Ireland (which led to the Easter Rising and Irish War of Independence, hoo boy was that a mistake). Droves and droves of young women were recruited to fill all sorts of jobs while the men were away, but a large number also went overseas to the battlefields of Belgium and France. Sarah must have been one of them. If she was qualified beforehand, she would most likely have been sent to work in a field hospital abroad, because the voluntary members were mostly kept working as assistants on the British mainland. Lots of women joined these Voluntary Aid Detachments (VADs) at the start of the war to nurse wounded soldiers, but the military hated the idea of using them until they couldn’t cope in 1915. Even then, volunteers were only used for the more menial tasks. Professionals like Sarah were what was needed the most.

Now, I’ve said that she likely came from a middle class family, so money probably wasn’t a worry until after she got to America, later on. Why go, given the pay wasn’t significantly more than you’d earn as a nurse at home? Well, the rigid social hierarchy of the time broke down in some pretty major ways out there, and it was likely the only chance an unmarried woman would ever get to travel that wouldn’t immediately ruin her reputation. And if you accept more the idea she became a nurse via scholarship and was poor, the increase in pay working abroad would have been sorely appreciated. And we can also consider patriotism might play a role - not all Irish were rabidly anti-British before 1916. Indeed, many ordinary and middle class Irish only became ardently nationalist in the wake of the brutal repression following the 1916 Easter Rising. And more than that, many Irish, even if they disliked the British, disliked the idea of the Germans and Austrians-Hungarians winning the war even more. Personally, I think Sarah was an adventurer who seized her chance to escape the restrictive social confines of Ireland and didn’t once look back, even if her family disapproved.

I couldn’t find a birthdate for Sarah, or a maiden name to tell me where she might have hailed from (thanks, Marvel. Not.) But let’s say she was part of that first initial wave of volunteers who signed up in 1914 - because it was HUGE. It’s really difficult for us, so jaded now, to get into the mindset of people then, but they did sign up in huge numbers. Partly due to patriotism, partly because they thought the war would be over by Christmas, partly fear of being shamed for not ‘doing their bit’ - there were lots of reasons. But it’s very telling that the British government didn’t feel the need to introduce conscription for men until two years after the war broke out, and they never introduced a civilian equivalent. So Sarah would have been very familiar with the horrors of the battlefield and the war by the time fresh faced Joseph Rogers arrives on the scene in 1917.

How did they meet? Sarah would have most likely been working in a field hospital, overseeing a team of volunteers. Field hospitals were behind the front lines, but only by a few miles, and nurses were killed by enemy shelling and gas attacks. They were the first real point of medical care most soldiers would encounter after having bandages slapped on them at a dressing station in the trenches, before being carted off to the field hospital (if they survived the journey) by stretcher bearers, horses, or increasingly as the war continued, motorised ambulances. So Sarah and her ilk were lasses made of steel, honest to god. They were in the thick of the worst of it, men screaming and dying, and often afraid for their lives while they tried to care for them. A lot of those nurses developed PTSD (then called shell-shock) as a result. Jospeh is most likely to have met her if he was a wounded patient of hers brought in from the battlefield. But only lightly wounded - if he had been badly wounded he would have been shipped straight back to mainland Britain to convalesce as soon as he was stabilised, thwarting any budding romance.

We’re also told that Jospeh dies in a mustard gas attack. So this hospital trip must have been for something different - a broken bone perhaps, or a minor shrapnel wound that would see him off duty for a while but still stationed in the area and therefore able to court Sarah. Young people (Sarah must have been less than 28 because that was the cut off age for nurses to be recruited in 1915-1916) being young people, I imagine they fell in love, fell in to bed, and biology did its magic. The timescale on this is open to interpretation, because the ABSOLUTE earliest they could have met is May 1917 (travel time by ship from America to Europe took weeks during the war), and Steve must have been conceived by October, latest. Which is a pretty whirlwind romance, but not unusual for the time. The Germans first used mustard gas from July of 1917, but Joseph must survive up until September/October.

So, that cause of death as mustard gas? This is strange given how mustard gas was well known at the time to be the ‘best’ gas to have inflicted on you. It produced horrific blisters and burns, particularly on the inside of your throat and airways, but rarely killed. Chlorine and phosgene were MUCH deadlier. So Marvel saying this is more poor research, but let’s go with it - gas affecting you would make it that much more likely you’d be caught by machine gun or shellfire or any of the other myriad ways to die on a WWI battlefield. Here’s where things start to align quite nicely (well, badly for Sarah, but good for fic writers) as mustard gas was deployed by the Germans on a large scale between October 9th-12th to defend the Passchadaele Ridge from a joint British and French assault on the German defences. This was part of the second biggest battle of WWI, the Battle of Passchendaele, notorious for the seas of mud men had to slog through up to their waists, and one of the battles which, like the Somme, gave WWI generals such bad reputations. In three months the British lost 350,000 men and advanced just a few kilometres. They abandoned the battle on November 10th.

So, Joseph Rogers? Must have died between October 9-12th, well before Sarah realised she was pregnant even if Steve was conceived at the start of September. Likely he was caught in a mustard attack, started choking because he couldn’t get his gas mask on/hadn’t got it fitted properly, and then was killed by gun or shellfire after his initial injury. Mustard gas took time to affect the skin and membranes of the body, so if he fell while the gas was still around, it would have looked much worse by the time his body was identified and retrieved from the battlefield. The date, however, means Joseph died never knowing he was going to be a father (sad!), and Sarah, newly widowed, likely didn’t see any reason not to continue working as a distraction until she encountered the first signs of preganancy. The stiff upper lip thing was a real coping mechanism back then. She would have been kicked out as soon as anyone could tell, or she told them and got kicked out, because that was legal and expected then. Pregnant women were fired for being pregnant in any job, and the idea of a pregnant woman working in a theatre of war, as you can imagine, would have outraged everyone.

So, Sarah gets kicked out, has no job. She’s widowed and pregnant. But, the marriage would probably have taken place without her family’s permission (letters were pretty slow and heavily censored on the front lines, the timeframe likely wouldn’t allow for anything except a note telling them she married) and although she would have had a marriage certificate, turning up at home without a husband but with a baby from a military camp? Would have been a deep, deep scandal at the time. Particularly if Sarah came from a middle class family who would have been extremely conscious of their social position and the danger she and her baby posed to it. Catholic mores plus unsanctioned marriage plus Irish social structures equals daughter returning in disgrace to besmirch the family name in a way that is literally unthinkable at the time. Family therefore issues an ultimatum - come back and get rid of the baby and the marriage cert so you can be respectable, or don’t come back at all. I really cannot stress this enough - families would, and did, prefer to say the woman had died and never have any contact with them again, rather than accept an unmarried mother back into their house.

Sarah, being Sarah though, grits her teeth, spits in God’s eye, and packs her bags for the first steamship to New York. She was a lot better equipped than most to make the journey, with some savings from her salary and a profession she could rely on once she arrived. But it was still a recklessly brave thing to do because at this point in time the ENTIRE Atlantic was infested with German U-Boats who were doing their level best to sink any Allied or Allied associated ship they could get in their periscope sights. And they were terrifyingly effective in 1917, although by the end of the year when Sarah would have beeen sailing, countermeasures like the convoy system had greatly reduced this. But still scary as fuck, because by that point the German U-Boats were even sinking hospital ships - until then left alone by both sides.

She probably arrived in the US in January or February of 1918 - it would have taken time to arrange her travel and the journey itself took 3-4 weeks. Little Steven G Rogers came into the world on July 4th, 1918, without a clue as to the sacrifices his mother made to keep him and bring him to America, or the heartache she endured in the previous years. And that, my fellow nerds, is why Sarah Rogers is AWESOME and a sorely underused character and development point for Steve in the MCU. Because to do what she did, and to make it through took more than guts, it took sheer bloody-minded spite and stubbornness, and hey - who does that remind us of? Steve doesn’t grow up and get angry and fighty - no, he’s got that shit in his GENES from Sarah from the beginning.

EDIT: Part 2 is up! Consisting of Sarah’s journey and entry to America, plus how Very Not Good it was to be Irish whilst trying to do so.

[ts-into-the-coinverse]

Made of Love, Chapter 29

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Table of Contents

Ship(s): Logicality, (platonic) Prinxiety

All Characters: Thomas, Virgil, Roman, Logan, Patton, Dr. Picani, Joan, Talyn, and Deceit

Synopsis: Humans Roman and Virgil get wrapped up in some serious magic business without meaning to. Their other companions aren’t exactly as they seem, either. Together they all must defeat a great threat for the safety of humanity.

Chapter Desc.: Thomas and Logan get some alone time.

TW: Cursing, body horror

Prefer to read it on Ao3? Click here!

Trying to train Thomas was decidedly… difficult. Roman and Virgil weren’t experts. There was only so much someone with less than a year's experience can teach. Patton would come by every once in a while, but he didn’t feel all that comfortable leaving Logan by himself for too long. Not that anyone could blame him. Ever since the freezing fiasco, he started to look like a real hot mess. Also the glitching happened more frequently, which was in no way a good sign. Specifically the weird arm thing, and not the flickering in and out of existence. The flickering had yet to make a comeback, and Virgil hoped it would stay that way, but with their luck hope is all it would be.

They were running out of time.

Logan was running out of time.

“Oh, I’m going to die when this is over.” Virgil flopped face-first into his bed. He and Roman had to go outside and train Thomas soon. “No matter which way this goes I’m going to just keel over. And then I’ll be dead. Free from this mortal realm and all of its anguish.” It was too much stress for one person to handle. Yet it somehow kept getting worse.

“Calm down. You sound like me.” Roman shut his laptop. “Only one of us is allowed to hold all the theatrics in this relationship.”

Virgil wasn’t even going to question how Roman heard a word of that muffled ramble. He turned his head to see the chair Roman sat in. "What kind of dysfunctional relationship is this, exactly?"

"A symbiotic one."

"Like Venom?"

"With less vore, I hope."

Someone knocked on the door. Virgil rolled over and said they could come in.

“Here.” Logan handed Roman something. “You should probably get Thomas acquainted with this before we lose any more time.”

"Wow, yeah, hi. You have absolutely no sense of social —" Roman froze when he processed what he held in his hands. “This is…”

Virgil shot up in bed. “Why are you giving Thomas your sword?” He didn’t like the implication.

“He’s going to need something to defend himself,” Logan responded simply. “Might as well not let a good sword go to waste.”

The casualness of it might have been the worst part.

Still, they took it. What were they going to do? Argue with a dying man? Because whether they accepted it or not, Logan was dying. It was just a matter of circumstance if he officially kicked the bucket or not.

The two played hot potato with the sword, neither wanting to be the one to give it to Thomas (along with its connotations), but Virgil shoved it into Roman’s hand at the last minute. Before they made it out of the backyard, Roman decided to give it to him. If he didn’t do it now he wouldn’t do it later. Better to get it over with as fast as possible.

“Okay, uh, Thomas,” Roman started. “We sort of have something for you.” He handed the pommel over. “You’re going to have to start getting used to it.”

Thomas looked at it quizzically. “This,” he let out a nervous laugh, “this is Logan’s.” He looked at them like he expected them to admit this was a joke.

Roman could barely even manage a smile. “Yeah.” He continued walking.

Thomas didn’t move. He looked at Virgil, his eyes begging him to say there was some other reason.

Virgil had nothing to say.

Throughout all these days, Thomas hadn’t actually seen Logan glitch out before. He had no idea it even happened. No one thought to explain it; most of the time they tried to pretend it didn’t happen. So he had no idea about the severity of it all. Was it the smartest idea to keep it from him? Probably not. But it just sort of happened. And no one wanted to be the one to correct it. How would they? Not only would they have to admit keeping information from him, but they also had to admit things were worse than they seemed. No one wanted to admit that.

If they were silent on it, then maybe it wasn't that bad. Maybe they had a chance to fix this. Maybe each day they spent with no new leads would be okay. Something would come up. Something good would happen. It was blind, forced hope with a heavy helping of denial.

After they were done, Thomas gave the pommel to Virgil. “It’s still Logan’s,” he said quietly.

Virgil could have sworn it weighed more after that.

“Where’s Logan?” Virgil asked Patton after they came inside. Roman went off to edit some photos. Thomas went to his room to, well, probably to sulk if Virgil was being honest. He had been doing a lot of that. “I have something to give back to him.”

“Out on the deck.” Patton’s eyes were on the TV, though it didn’t seem he was processing what was going on. His thumb ran along his palm in one of his nervous habits.

Virgil didn’t need to see that to know Patton was anxious. He felt it almost as soon as he stepped in. “It’s freezing — why would he be out there?”

“He needs to cool down.”

Last time Virgil checked, Logan needed the exact opposite of that. “What do you mean?”

Patton’s eyes flicked over to him before returning to the TV. “You’ll see when you go out there.”

That was a bit ominous. Still, Virgil went out. He found Logan sitting in one of the chairs dressed as if summer was right around the corner. If the sky was clear and Virgil hadn’t gone outside, he might have believed that to be the case. Logan’s skin was flushed in addition to a gleam of sweat on his face. “Uh, hey. You doing good?” There was an obvious answer, but Virgil thought it polite to ask still.

“I’ve certainly been better.” Thin wisps of steam rolled off his body.

“Yeah, I get that. Uh —” he went to step closer, but stopped — “where are your glasses?”

Logan moved so that the opposite armrest could be seen. His glasses sat neatly on top of it.

“Alright, cool.” He took a seat on the other chair. “I have something of yours.” He fished the pommel out of his hoodie pocket and placed it on the armrest of Logan’s chair.

Logan turned it over in his hand. “He’ll have to get used to it eventually.”

“You don’t seem surprised he gave it back.”

“I assumed that would be the case. I think I know my —” he caught himself, placed the pommel back on the armrest, and adjusted, “Patton and I are fairly acquainted with Thomas considering the whole raising him thing. While it was mainly Picani at the forefront we were still there along the way. It’s easy to predict what someone might do once you’ve known them for so long."

Virgil hummed, decidedly ignoring the abrupt correction. “So when did this happen?” He waved a hand around Logan’s direction.

“A few minutes ago. Patton still has no sway over it so I decided to come out here to attempt to not have a heat stroke.”

“Only you would somehow find a way to die of heatstroke in the middle of winter.”

“While I’m flattered by the endearment, I don’t think it’ll be the heatstroke that kills me.”

Virgil adjusted his hoodie strings. “So do you know what’s causing this?”

“I can’t say for certain, but…”

“You have an idea.”

“A hypothesis, really." Logan sighed. "I can do three different types of magic. Fire, ice, electricity. It didn't cross my mind when I was freezing from the inside out, but now that it feels like my skin is melting off, I'm starting to suspect there's a reason. My body is reacting to my magic being used, but I don't have enough to protect me from the heat or coldness that manifests from those spells. Plus," he extended his left arm to Virgil, "this appears to have gotten worse since its first appearance."

His entire wrist had a solid black band around it. The length of his forearm was littered with what appeared to be dark bruises. Like large storm clouds attempting to block out the sky.

“That seems… bad.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “Very astute.”

“Listen, I don’t know what you want me to say about this, this thing happening to you, alright? It’s fucked up and looks like some sort of bad omen.”

“I suppose you can think of it that way if you believe what Dolos said.”

Virgil grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

Patton poked his head out. “Hey. Is everything, um, fine?” He tapped his fingers against the doorframe.

“I’m actually starting to cool down a little." Logan shrugged slightly. "So I suppose it’s as fine as it can be.”

“Right. Good. Um… I’ll leave you to it.” He left with a hesitant smile.

Logan stared at the door with a small frown.

Virgil looked at it curiously. “That seemed brief by Patton standards.”

“He just doesn’t like not being able to do anything.” He leaned his head back against the chair and closed his eyes. “I’m sure there’s also some awkwardness between the two of you still.”

Oh boy. Talk about an elephant in the room. “Is it wrong to still be a little mad?” Virgil decided to stare at the railing instead.

“Honestly, I’d be more surprised if you weren’t.” He directed his attention back to Virgil. “I love Patton, but I know he has a tendency to… overreact. Especially where his loved ones are concerned. It’s more than a little reasonable to be upset after getting blamed for everything.”

Virgil frowned. “The thing is, I don’t want to be upset. I understand why he did what he did. He had a shitty way of going about it, but it’s not like I can act like I’ve never had a bad reaction to something.” Yelling at Thomas was a pretty prime example of that. Something he still felt guilty for even after all these weeks.

“I’m not an expert on this, but it would appear you need to have a proper talk with him." He ran his finger over the intricate details of the pommel. "It may take some work to get back to where you used to be, though that doesn’t mean it’s not impossible. As long as you both want to get there.”

“You’re probably right.” Virgil pulled his sleeves over his hands. “Uh, I’ll leave you to it, I guess. I would prefer if you didn’t become a puddle of goop right after I leave.”

“I’ll see how it goes.”

Fair enough. Virgil slid the door open and walked inside. He was hit with anxiety strong enough to rival his own, causing him to pause before heading anywhere. Patton sat on the couch again, but with one of his legs pulled up to rest his head on top of his knee. His eyes were staring, unfocused, in the spot the coffee table used to be. Virgil wondered if this would be a good time to have a talk. Either it would be a good distraction for Patton, or just make things worse.

Before Virgil could properly weigh each option, he felt a vibration in his pocket. Weird. He didn’t get very many texts. He fished his phone out of his pocket as it continued to vibrate from the barrage of messages. They were all from the same contact, one Virgil recently dubbed, ‘That Bar Weirdo’. It seemed a fitting description.

Virgil

Look

Listen to me

I need you to listen to me

I did some snooping

Sort of in a bind

Okay I’m just going to call you

Virgil almost dropped his phone as it started vibrating intensely, the call screen popping up. He hurried to his room to not bother Patton with a one-sided conversation. Roman was sitting at the chair with his laptop. Right, of course. He left it in here. Rather than risk running out of time to go to Roman's room, Virgil answered the phone right there.

"Uh, what —?"

"Oh, thank God you picked up."

Virgil blinked. He noticed Roman lift his head and decided to turn on the speaker. Whatever the Theorist had to say he could say it to them both.

"I know I said I don't do calls but it'll be easier if I do it this way."

"What are you talking about?" Virgil kept an eye on Roman as he stood up to join him.

"Well first things first. The magic world sort of has rules. Unspoken rules that Magi are expected to follow. One of the important ones is to not let humans know magic exists. That's why I'm considered a black market Seer. I let anyone come to me to ask whatever they want and I give them real answers."

"This sounds like you're leading up to something big," Roman mentioned.

"Yeah, kind of." Something fell over. "Because I mean anyone can come and see me. Humans, shifters… one of Altair's men…"

"I'm sorry — what?" Roman jerked Virgil's phone closer to him.

Virgil jerked it back, giving Roman an annoyed look. "Men? What do you mean men?"

"God. Right. You two don't know anything. Okay, so back when Altair first started becoming a nuisance he had a large following. Magi of all kinds joined him for a chance to live without hiding. But over time their numbers dwindled. I personally thought none were left, but I guess a few decided to stick around."

“So what does that mean for you?”

“One of them came to see me earlier. He asked a pretty mundane question, but when I looked into his timeline, I saw who he was. And maybe I sort of did a little bit of a dumb thing and… tried to look for Altair through his timeline.”

“Why was that dumb?” Roman gazed at the phone curiously.

He shifted. “Apparently Altair was three steps ahead of me. He’s locked all recent references towards him.”

“Locked?”

“How do you lock something like that?” Virgil asked.

“If you’re a madman with stolen magic anything is possible. Magic types are a lot easier to manipulate and combine than you realize. As far as I could tell, it was sort of like antivirus software for a computer. Which makes me the virus, I guess. Recent memories on Altair and where he is are behind a protective wall so people like me can't poke in easily. The guy figured out what I was trying to do almost as soon as I started looking. Apparently, that's a big no-no."

"So you're running away?" Roman asked.

"A little bit, yeah. I would appreciate it if you two came to help me out. Maybe bring that Machai with you — Patton, was it? He's good at killing, that could come in handy."

"Woah, hold it. No one's killing anything yet." Virgil scowled at his phone. "Just text me where you are and we'll be there as soon as possible."

"Sounds like a deal."

They hung up.

Virgil rubbed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I hoped today would at least be a little normal."

"You're asking for too much." Roman headed for the door.

"Apparently."

When they entered the living room, they found Patton and Logan talking. Logan didn’t look like he would melt into a pile of flesh anymore, but he was drenched in sweat. Which was gross, obviously, but a hundred times better than being dead. Patton appeared more worried than relieved, however.

"We hate to interrupt," Roman announced. "But there's sort of a pressing issue."

"What kind of pressing issue?" Logan asked.

Virgil frowned at the address. It was two cities over. "The Theorist needs our help and we have to leave right now to get to him before anyone else does. We might need some backup."

"I'll go." Patton looked at Logan. "You should probably stay here. Not that I don't think you can't handle it —"

"I'm not going anywhere." Logan gave him a soft smile. "I don't think I could if I wanted to."

Patton returned it. "So where are we going?"

Thomas laid face first in his pillow for a very, very long time. He felt like garbage. Most of that had to do with still not giving Logan a proper apology. It had already been a few days — he should have done it by now. He should have done it the day it happened. What made him feel worse was that he apparently never learned his lesson. And he hadn’t even made a proper apology then. He knew the longer he waited the less likely it would be that he said anything. He couldn’t go without saying anything this time. Especially if the last thing Logan remembered of him was…

Groaning, Thomas flipped over. From the moment Logan’s sword entered his hand he realized he had to act fast. He wasn’t dumb. He knew bad things were happening that no one wanted to admit to him. He’s been treated like a kid long enough to know when adults are hiding something. (Though it felt a little weird to label Virgil and Roman as adults because while, yes, by human standards they are adults, Thomas was older than them by a few decades.) He couldn’t say for sure what it was they were hiding, but he knew it had to do with Logan and how little time he had left.

“Why am I like this?” He pressed his hands to his eyes. “What’s so difficult about saying sorry? It should be easy, right?” He threw his hands to the side. “I’ve already done it. I just have to make it better.” A lot better. He never apologized last time, which meant this time he had to make sure Logan knew how sorry he was. He wouldn’t allow it to become another regret.

He sat up and swung his legs off the bed. Before he got up, his eyes caught sight of the photograph on his nightstand. The one of Picani and him from the broken picture frame. It was scratched, but not enough to ruin the whole thing. If anything it emphasized the photo's age. Thomas picked it up and turned it over. On the back was Picani's messy writing.

Old Lane Park. July 1993

Thomas remembered that day pretty well. There was a mural in the park that everyone was allowed to contribute to. So of course Thomas had to go. A huge event was made out of it. There were a lot of people and vendors even though it was a blistering summer day. He ended up helping a few younger kids with what they wanted to paint. Picani used to take a lot of pictures back then, so there was more evidence of this day somewhere in the house. Someone offered to take a picture of both of them.

That mural was painted over last year. Those kids were all adults now.

But Picani and Thomas were still the same.

They would always be a constant in an ever-changing world. Things may come and go, but at least they had each other. It only took Thomas half his lifetime to realize that. Even then it could still be hard to remember. It was easy to focus on what he could have had rather than what he did have.

It wasn’t fair to anyone involved.

Thomas put the photo back with a sigh. He couldn’t focus on that right now; he had something to do. He pushed himself off the bed and walked downstairs. The first thing that threw him off was the silence. It wasn’t ever quiet with all of them in the house. Did they leave? They wouldn't leave him alone, would they?

He quelled his rising panic when he spotted Logan sitting on the loveseat. Well — the panic about being left alone was gone. The panic about facing the music hadn't gone anywhere.

On the bright side, it didn't seem Logan noticed him yet. He was curled up in his corner, scribbling in his notebook. He had on the flannel Thomas picked out rather than the sweater he wore earlier. His hair looked somewhat in order which meant he took a shower. That explained the wardrobe change.

Standing around observing every detail instead of saying anything seemed to be enough to catch Logan’s attention. He stopped scribbling to look up. "Did you need something?"

Thomas jumped. "Uh, no. I-I mean —" he fidgeted with his hands — "not right now. I, um, I'm… gonna be over here." He awkwardly shuffled to the kitchen. This wasn't off to a good start. He opened the snack cupboard just to make it seem like he had a purpose for being in here. Nothing in there grabbed his attention, his stomach churning with nervousness, but he took the animal crackers anyway and sat at the breakfast bar. “Where’s everyone else?”

Logan turned back to his notebook. “There was an emergency they needed to take care of.”

“You didn’t go with them?”

“No.”

Thomas wanted to question that further but figured it was best not to. Logan never gave basic answers unless there was a reason. Instead, he tried to figure out a way to go about the real purpose he was down here. It proved to be difficult to bring it up organically.

“I don’t believe you can open a container by trying to crush it like that.” Logan’s eyes were on him again. “At least not without also crushing your animal crackers.”

Thomas loosened his grip. His palms were sweaty.

“Is there something on your mind?” He closed his notebook.

“Um,” Thomas set the animal crackers down, “sort of?”

Logan raised a brow. “What do you mean by ‘sort of’?” He walked over.

“I mean…” It was now or never. “I’m an idiot.”

He blinked. “I’m not entirely sure how you came to that conclusion, but —”

“No.” He ran his hands through his hair. “That’s not the issue. Well, it is, but not the one I’m trying to focus on.” Why was this so hard? “Okay, let me start over.” This should be easy. Why wasn’t it easy? He was being genuine — he wanted so badly to make up for what he did — it shouldn’t have been so difficult. “I’m sorry.”

That didn't appear to clear up any confusion. “Sorry for what?”

“For what I said to you.” His throat started to burn. “I never should have thought it was okay. There’s no excuse for it, and I'm… I’m just so sorry.” He should have done this sooner. He shouldn’t have let it fester between them.

“It’s alright —”

“But it’s not. It’s — it’s so very far from alright. I said something stupid and hurtful and you’re never going to forget that. You didn’t do anything to deserve it. All you’ve ever done is care for me and make sure I’m okay. It seems all I’ve ever done is make you feel bad.” That extended to Picani as well. There were countless times where Thomas prodded where he shouldn’t have. He never meant to, but he was an idiot and it always seemed justified in the heat of the moment.

“I know it doesn’t make up for anything,” he continued, on the verge of tears. “I could say sorry all day but it doesn’t prove that I learned anything. And why would you think I have? We’ve been down this road before — Picani and I.” It was one of his biggest regrets. He never gave an actual, spoken apology then. He just sort of ignored it until the sting went away. “I’m sorry about that. I’m sorry about this. It was wrong and I understand if… if…” He tried not to cry. It wasn’t something he deserved to be upset about. “If you hate me or don’t forgive me or, or —”

"Thomas." Logan put his hands on his shoulders. Thomas shut his mouth immediately. "I don’t want you to think that I would ever hate you. You're my… you're family." He held up his left hand. "Do you remember when I told you about this?" A long, faded scar ran across his palm. Thomas nodded. “This is what hate is — what it does — and I’m never going to do anything like that to you. It’s okay if you make mistakes. You’re a child and you’re learning. As long as you recognize what you did was wrong, you are deserving of forgiveness.”

Thomas didn't hesitate to throw his arms around Logan and squeeze him tight. Fast and messy apologies flew out almost as quickly as his tears. He didn't think he could say sorry enough.

Logan just held him. He murmured calming words and assured Thomas he was forgiven.

Once the round of tears was over, Thomas pulled away. He felt a little less like garbage now. At least he didn't have this specific weight on him anymore.

"I'm always here for you." Logan brushed Thomas's bangs out of his face. "All of us are."

Thomas smiled. "Thanks, Da —" he almost literally bit his tongue — "Logan."

Logan returned the smile and (thankfully) ignored the slip-up. Before he could get out another word, he let out a sharp gasp. His eyes widened in panic as he frantically tugged one of his sleeves over his hand. "I-I hate to cut this short, but I should — I need a minute." He tried to inch his way out of the kitchen.

"Are you okay?"

"Fine," he answered through clenched teeth. "Don't worry." But as soon as the words left his mouth, he collapsed to his knees.

"Logan!" Thomas rushed over to him.

“Don’t. I’m, I’m fine.” He didn’t sound or look fine. He kept his left hand clutched to his chest and out of Thomas’s sight. “J-just give me a —”

A scream got caught in the back of Thomas’s throat. Logan vanished right in front of his eyes. What the hell happened? What did this mean? What should he do? Should he do anything? Should he call Patton? He should call Patton. Patton was normally the one who had the phone, right? What was going on? This didn’t make any sense. He couldn’t lose Logan like this. What was he supposed to do without him? What would he tell Patton? What would —?

Logan returned with a pained hiss. He was now sprawled on his back, grimacing at the ceiling.

“Logan!” He grabbed his hand. “Are you okay? What’s happening to you?”

“That’s a bit difficult to explain.” He groaned. “Look, I’m going to be —”

He disappeared again. Thomas flexed his fingers. There was nothing there at all. Not even a slight feeling. Logan was disappearing — actually disappearing. It wasn’t some sort of illusion or trick. His whole body was vanishing. But where was he going? How was it happening? He can’t just vanish into thin air. That wasn’t possible. This isn’t possible. It can’t be happening. It can’t, it can’t, it can’t, it can’t.

“What am I supposed to do?” Thomas grabbed Logan’s arm when he came back this time. As if maybe holding onto more of him would make him stay. “How can I help you?”

“Don’t, I’m —” He didn't even get to finish a sentence this time.

Thomas clenched his fists. He didn’t like that feeling. It wasn’t like someone was ripping Logan’s arm away from his grasp. It was just… gone. No movement. Like it never existed in the first place. That was probably the scariest part. If Logan vanished for good then it would be like he never existed at all. There would be no trace of him left. Thomas couldn't handle that. The idea of Logan being gone was still a foreign concept. But now it was here and the threat was very real. What if this was it? The last day any of them would ever see Logan?

He shut his eyes tight. He couldn't freak out right now. That wouldn't be helpful. But he didn't even have any idea on what would be helpful. He didn't know what to do. This was wrong. It shouldn't be happening. None of this should be happening. It was like some horrible dream. A nightmare. Logan couldn't just be gone like this. He needed Logan. They all needed Logan. If Logan was gone then there was no more Picani. If there was no more Picani then Thomas lost a guardian. Patton lost the one person who's been with him almost his whole life. What were they supposed to do without him? How could they have let it get to this point?

"Thomas. Breathe. I'm right here."

Thomas opened his eyes. How long had it been?

Logan was sitting up. "I'm okay. I'm not going anywhere." He looked exhausted and in pain, but all his focus was on Thomas. "Come on. Let's get off the floor." He clambered to his feet and held out his hand to help Thomas up.

Thomas took it, not knowing what else to do.

They made their way to the couch where Logan helped to calm Thomas down. It wasn't… it shouldn't have been this way. Logan just went through an excruciating dilemma, he shouldn't have to focus on Thomas. He shouldn’t have to pretend he wasn’t hurt just for Thomas’s sake. It wasn’t fair. But Thomas couldn't voice his thoughts. He was underwater and any attempt to speak filled his lungs.

Once he wasn't overly panicky anymore, Thomas decided to put on Animaniacs to have something that didn’t require a lot of brainpower to process. Not that he watched most of it, anyway. Most of his attention was on Logan. He stayed curled up on his corner of the couch and dismissed Thomas’s suggestions of going to lie down. He needed to make sure Thomas would be okay. Because that was his priority for some reason.

It wasn’t like his body kept disappearing into the void or anything.

He fell asleep by the third episode, though. It didn’t bring Thomas any peace of mind, but at least he was resting. He took out his phone and sent a text to Patton. Hopefully whatever they were doing would end soon. He didn’t like being so helpless and lost. He wanted to be able to do something. He couldn’t wait around any more. This was serious and they needed all the help they could get — that included him.

He was going to fix this.

[drakewalkerfantasy]

Flames of yesterday: Chapter 14

Summary: 5 years ago they made a mistake. They were two broken men drinking away their love life issues, and one girl trying to help a friend. What the night leaves them with are two broken hearts and one nearly broken friendship. 5 years later, two are still broken and another one fixed. But what happens when they all meet again? Will it open old wounds and bring all the their insecurities rushing back?  Or will it mend the two hearts still looking for warmth, unable to find it after their parting?

Words: 2468

Authors notes: A crossover of Open Heart and The Elementalists, a collaboration series by @drakewalkerfantasy​​ and @fluffy-marshmallow-heart​​

Ethan x OH MC (Diana)

Beckett x TE MC (Oriana)

**Warnings: no warnings**

Diana and Beckett stood in Ethan’s office while he glared at them. “What do you mean, you’re bringing your wife?”

“She’s pregnant. Why would I leave her behind?” Beckett puzzled.

“It’s one weekend. You’re not going to be gone long. You know, it’s recommended that women do not fly in their third trimester.”

“So I’ve read.” Beckett fumed. “But seeing as there’s suddenly a trip I have to go on, she’s not staying by herself.”

Ethan sighed. “I can tell Harper to pick someone else.”

“If Doctor Harrington doesn’t go, then I also will not attend. So you can tell Chief Emery to find two different interns to attend this conference with you. Or just go by yourself.” Diana informed.

Ethan blinked, caught off guard. “You two are putting me in a very difficult position. How am I supposed to explain that the two top interns both refuse to go to this conference in Miami? I can tell you now, if you back out, it will negatively impact your careers here.”

“We’ll pay for Oriana’s ticket, no one is asking the hospital to pay for additional airfare. We’ll pay for her meals and beverages. There’s already three rooms booked. This really shouldn’t affect anything. Why don’t you want her to go?” Beckett demanded.

Ethan curled his hand around his stress ball, clenching it tightly. In truth, it wouldn’t be a big deal if Beckett’s wife came, not as long as they didn’t expect the hospital to reimburse for airfare and food. The real reason he didn’t want Oriana to come was more complicated. Two males, two females…two couples. Beckett would of course spend time with his wife and leave Ethan and Diana alone, which would equal disaster. How is he going to resist her? He sighed heavily.

“Fine. She may come. You better book her plane ticket now.”

“There’s one more thing.” Diana said nervously.

Ethan rose his eyebrow. “What else could there possibly be Ms. Haynes?”

Diana shifted uncomfortably. “Well, see…Oriana may be under the impression that…well, that you invited her along. That since because she’s so far along in her pregnancy, you decided that she shouldn’t be left alone for a weekend, and since she’ll be with three doctors around the clock, she’s safer coming to Miami.”

He sat there speechless. “This was my idea?”

“That’s what Oriana thinks.”

Ethan couldn’t help but notice Beckett was silent, letting Diana do all the talking now. It didn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that Diana was the one to invite Oriana, and Beckett was also caught off guard by this. And given that Beckett said he wasn’t going to come if his wife didn’t…it was obvious what happened. Diana didn’t want to be alone with him. It should be a good thing. He should be relieved. But he’s not. He can’t help but feel a bit hurt by that.

As the next couple weeks went by, both Ethan and Harper discussed with Diana and Beckett what they could expect, and what was expected from them. It all seemed simple enough, and soon they were all on their way.

Their seats on the plane were all separate, except for Beckett and Oriana’s, since the hospital didn’t care if they all sat together or not, and it was less expensive to seat them separately. Since Beckett booked Oriana’s ticket, she was able to sit right next to him.

Finally landing in Miami, the four of them grabbed their luggage and a shuttle to the hotel the conference was being held at. Walking into the lobby, Diana stopped and gazed around at the lavish decorations. Ethan approached, placing his hand on the small of her back.

“I forgot you’ve never been to one of these. Don’t be too excited, it’s actually extremely boring.”

Diana laughed lightly. “I guess we’ll find out.”

They grinned at each other until Ethan realized he was still touching her. He stepped away quickly, clearing his throat. “Would you mind checking us in? There’s someone I need to say hello too.”

Diana rolled her eyes but walked over to the front desk. “Three rooms for Ethan Ramsey.”

The concierge typed into his computer. “Hmm. I do have a reservation for Ethan Ramsey, however, it’s for two rooms, not three.” He looked at her expectantly.

“No, it was definitely booked for three. You need to give us a third room.” Diana told him, feeling her nerves alighting.

The man frowned. “I’m so sorry, but due to the conference all the rooms are booked through the weekend. You could try another hotel, but they are more than likely full as well.”

Diana had to take several deep breaths and swallowed hard. She knew there was no way in hell that Beckett wasn’t going to share a room with his wife. Which just left her and Ethan. Thinking back, she realized…Chief Emery never confirmed the number of rooms with them. She realized in horror that she must have thought the two men would share a room to save on costs, and wasn’t made aware of a fourth person going. She groaned loudly.

“Okay, fine, two rooms. We’ll figure it out.”

The concierge brightened and handed her the key cards. “I hope you enjoy your stay!”

Diana scanned the room until her eyes finally landed on Ethan, who was actually standing at the bar with a drink in hand already. She curled her hands into fists and she marched over. “What the hell, Ethan? This is who you needed to say hello to? A fucking drink?”

“Lower your voice.” He hissed. “What’s the matter.”

“Did you know the Chief Emery only booked two rooms? How could you let that happen? If you think Beckett and Oriana are going split up, you are sadly mistaken, and I don’t blame them.” She jabbed the keycards into his chest. “Two rooms, Ethan. Two.”

Ethan felt like the wind was knocked out of him. “No, she booked three.”

“Oh really? Then how do you explain this?” Diana folded her arms across her chest, not even noticing Beckett and Oriana approaching.

“I…I can’t. I’m sure I can get another one, let me just…”

“They’re booked. Every hotel is booked because of this conference.” Diana snapped. “Honestly, Dr. Ramsey, how did you miss this detail? You seem to miss a lot of details, actually, when it comes to me.”

“Is everything okay?” Beckett asked nervously.

“Peachy. Here’s your room key.” She thrust one of the cards into Beckett’s hand. “I’ll be in my room, Ethan. You can figure it out.” She stomped away.

“What just happened?” Beckett demanded.

“Harper messed up the reservation and there’s only two rooms. She must have thought you and I would share a room to cut costs.” He eyed Beckett and his now very pregnant wife. “I don’t suppose you would mind…?”

“Oh I would definitely mind.” Beckett told him. “We’re interns here under your supervision. Oriana and I are going to bring our things to our room. I suggest you straighten this out, and quickly.”

“Beck...” Oriana started.

“Nope! Let’s go.” He took her hand, leading her away and leaving Ethan behind, dumbfounded. Once inside their room, Oriana looked at him questioningly.

“It really wouldn’t have been a big deal if I shared a room with Diana. Don’t you think it’s going to be uncomfortable for them? You’re so level-headed I’m surprised you didn’t suggest it…or let me suggest it.”

Beckett stifled a laugh. “Trust me, Ori. This is payback. It’s the best form of karma.”

“What in the world are you talking about?”

He just shrugged. “Let’s just say that her idea got her into this mess. And I, for one, am extremely happy to share a bed with my beautiful wife.” He cupped her face in his hands, looking at her adoringly before kissing her sweetly. “I bet they’ll be together by the end of the conference. You really think they can share a room with one bed for an entire weekend without taking things further? And then they’re stuck together to work it out. No more running away.”

“Ah, there’s my confidant guy. That’s…actually pretty genius.” Oriana kissed him again before pulling back apologetically. “I have to pee, like, now.” She dashed into the bathroom while Beckett began to unpack, smirking as he did so, wondering what was going on in the room next door.

“I cannot believe you never told Harper that Oriana was coming!” Diana exclaimed, watching as Ethan paced their hotel room. He had been completely unsuccessful in getting another room; they didn’t even have an extra cot available at this point.

“Don’t you think I’m chastising myself enough as it is.” He chided. “I’ve done everything I can think of. We just need to ask Beckett and Oriana again.”

“Go for it. Don’t expect a different answer. They’re both stubborn.”

“Perfect.” Ethan mumbled, his eyes darting around the room. “I’ll take the chair. It’s fine.”

“You’re right. Sharing a bed with me is the worst possible thing that could ever happen to you, right?” Diana said sarcastically.

Ethan’s eyes widened. “Share a bed? Are you insane?”

Diana’s jaw dropped, her hands once again balling into fists. “Why are you such an asshole?”

“Why are you so difficult?” He clapped back. “You’re the one who invited Oriana, this is all on you, not me!”

Diana’s mouth opened to retort, but she had none. He was right. She brought it on herself. She hadn’t even realized how close they had both moved to each other until his crystal blue eyes met hers with an intensity she hadn’t seen in years, that caused her breath to hitch. But it was gone as fast as it came as he turned and grabbed a blanket and pillow off the queen-sized bed, settling in for the night. He pretended to sleep while Diana got in her pajamas, groaning to himself when he saw it was a crop top and short shorts. There’s no way that wasn’t on purpose.

Neither one really slept well, both lost in their thoughts, both trying to stay quiet so the other wouldn’t know the other is awake. The next day, as they attended the first round of seminars, Ethan and Diana always sat with Beckett between them. Since Oriana couldn’t attend the seminars, she remained in the room taking a nap. Beckett rolled his eyes every single time they would put him between them. He’d finally managed to get over his awkwardness around Ethan, but that didn’t mean he wanted to be next to him constantly, when clearly Diana and Ethan should be together. Luckily the conference weekend wasn’t very long, and before they knew it, it was already the last day, which ended with an elegant dinner in the Grand Ballroom. Diana and Oriana were beyond excited to dress up for the occasion and show up the new dresses they both bought the previous day.

Diana sat on the bed of their hotel room, digging through her travel bag searching for sexy set of underwear to match the beautiful blue midnight dress laying in front of her, paired with a silver stiletto.

Meantime Ethan was showering in the ensuite, door opened so they could easily communicate.

“Why didn’t you tell me there was a reception?” berated him Diana, taking out a silver set of underwear that barely would cover anything.

“Because it was the furthest possible thing from my mind at the time. Also didn’t I pay enough for not telling you earlier? I think you and Mrs. Harrington had a lot of fun, making me and Mr. Harrington to go shopping with you and pay for your dresses.”

Glancing over at the bathroom mirror Diana was fully prepared to reply with a snarky comment, until she seen Ethan climbing out of the shower, the towel wrapped low around his hips. She could feel how her heart flipped inside her chest, all her thoughts went out of her minds and her pulse raised. Blatantly, her eyes slid along Ethan’s body and her tongue ran along her lower lip, sinking her teeth into it to suppress a moan. Not even noticing, how Ethan’s pupils dilated from that simple gesture and a groan almost slipped from his throat. 

Swallowing hard Diana raised her eyes meeting Ethan’s dark gaze in the mirror, both not able to look away, both pulled by invisible power toward each other. Before they even could realise it they stood in front of each other, their lips just a breath away and Ethan’s hands circled around her waist bringing her even closer, letting her know exactly what she was doing with him. 

Screw it… thought Ethan closing his eyes and moving forward ready for their lips to meet, but before it could happen they heard a quiet knock on the door and Beckett's voice ring through it.

“Dr. Ramsey, Diana are you ready to go or do you want to meet us in the restaurant?” asked Beckett pulling them from a daze they were into.

“Dr. Harrington, we will be 15 minutes. Meet us at the table.” replied Ethan clearing his throat. “He always has a hell of a timing,” groaned he quietly, making her to giggle. “Let’s get dressed or we will be late and I’m not sure if Dr. Harrington and his lovely wife will appreciate us making them wait.”

“You don’t know Oriana… We may be still the one waiting for them,” said Diana, laughing from his confused expression, her happy laugh making him smile.

After a moment, she slipped into her new outfit, admiring herself in the mirror. Her hands sliding along her sides, the midnight blue dress hugged her forms perfectly leaving little for imagination, her silver stiletto shoes clasped safely around her ankle with a subtle strap. She looked toward the door watching Ethan emerge from the bathroom where he went to put on his tax. His hairs still tousled from the shower and his eyes trail over Diana.

“Ohhh… you… you, uh, look nice,” mumbled Ethan.

“Dr. Ramsey, you look smart yourself,” said Diana taking a step closer to him, her hands travel from the waist of his pants up his body, feeling how his muscles ripple under her touch and a soft painted groan escape his throat. Her hands reaching for his bow-tie adjusting it, and they both turn to the mirror, his hand placed on the small of her back.

“I would say we look ready, wouldn’t you?” smirked Ethan, meeting her gaze in the mirror, his hand grazing her bare back a little and a light shiver ran down her spine from the touch.

“Absolutely,” replied Diana, finding it difficult to concentrate on anything but his hand traveling up and down her bare back before resting once again on her small back.

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[realityhelixcreates]

Beta, Theta, and Me- Chapter 5: Sleep in Your Own Bed

Chapters: 5/?

 Fandom: Thor (Movies), Avengers (Movies) Marvel Cinematic Universe 

Rating: PG 

Warnings: Relationships: Loki x Reader (But not right now), choking 

Characters: Loki(Marvel) Additional Tags:  A/B/O, Sorta, More Of An Exploration Of Life And Self Expression Within An A/B/O Framework, Loki Does What He Wants, But Loki Does Not Actually Do What He Wants, Antagonistic Bosses, Loki Has A Throne Now, But It’s Not What He Wanted

Summary:  You gather your things, and then you make a little mistake.

You rode the elevator down by yourself, going over your retrieval route in your head. You had enough money for three stops, but that was it, until tomorrow. You could probably wait, but you didn't really want to. You wanted to get at least one of your sleeping bags, so you didn't have to spend the night on a bare floor. It wasn't like you'd never had to do that before, but right now, you didn't need to.

For once, you didn't get any suspicious glares on the subway, with your washed hair, and your clean Starktech uniform. Amazing how people were so much more willing to accept your presence, when they didn't think you were a burden on society.

It took you a good few hours to round up your best caches. A few had disappeared, and some had been ruined in one way or another. You managed to salvage some of your best stuff, including two of your sleeping bags. Wresting it all onto the subway and all the way back to the tower was a challenge, and it did get you some stares, but nobody questioned a Starktech uniform.

Which might come back to bite Tony sometime.

But for tonight, it was just you taking advantage of the name to get safe passage while you hauled your stuff into the tower. You didn't even need keys or security clearance; Tony's ingenious artificial intelligence systems recognized who was supposed to be there and who was not.

When you finally reached your floor, all the lights were out, as you expected. Even the huge wall of windows had been blacked out. Loki must really like it dark-he'd blocked out all outside light, even in the rooms he wasn't currently in! Even the ambient back-up lights that were all over the tower had been darkened here.

That made it somewhat difficult to find your apartment door. You stumbled around in the darkness, searching for some part of the wall that wasn't wall. It was hard to hold on to all of your stuff, but you felt like you would lose it in the dark, if you were to put it down. If Loki could see you right now, you could just imagine him rolling his eyes, and muttering some kind of insult. Even if this was all his fault.

It was probably just one more way he could get on Stark's nerves: making it so that surveillance was useless. Even if it was just when Loki was asleep, no doubt whatever Avengers were left would want to keep a close eye on him. And no doubt Loki would do whatever he was able to mess with them.

Loki, God of Inconveniences.

Now that was something to think about. Gods were apparently real. Or were they? Certainly, Loki had seemed godlike, flying out of the sky with his alien plague, his outlandish clothing, his grand speeches. Smiting and laying waste to the wicked city with his great and powerful magics. Clashing with another god in a monumental battle to determine the fate of the world. Yes, that was the stuff myths were made of.

Your parents hadn't believed in God. Not in anything spiritual, in fact, and they had died before the discovery of extraterrestrial life. They had never known this horror. The enormous realization that gods existed, and the equally huge realization that even they could die.

Or at least be brought low. That the cruel and capricious Loki, who's face had dominated all forms of media for over a year, could be so badly injured that he could do nearly nothing for himself. What a terrible thing to know.

What had happened to him? What had brought all of Asgard here, to lowly Earth? Why had Loki even come along? Why wasn't he evil anymore? Or was he, and you were just going to have to deal with it?

No, surely not. Not completely evil, at least. Iron Man would have never allowed it, if he was completely evil. Thor wouldn't have let him out of his sight if he was completely evil.

He might still be a little evil though. As a treat.

But he'd shared his food with you when he guessed you hadn't had anything to eat. And even though he had teased you a lot today, he hadn't been vicious. But that did not mean there was no evil there. You were perfectly aware that evil could be sophisticated and handsome, or harmless in appearance, or even boring and mundane. You had faced mundane evils almost every day for the past year. Hostile architecture, being barred from entering certain places, unwarranted hatred, violence, and exploitation.

Some of your caches of supplies had been deliberately destroyed. Not thrown away, not even stolen to be used by someone else. Someone had found them, made them unusable, and then left them for you to find, on purpose. That was the kind of simple, everyday evil you faced.

But maybe not anymore? Or at least, not for a while. Loki was convalescing, but not dead. He would eventually go somewhere else. To jail, or back to Asgard, or somewhere else. Somewhere you couldn't go. And then you'd be out a job. But still, you would have a good resume, and good recommendations, so it didn't really matter if this was temporary.

You heard a small sound, and went very still. In this complete darkness, you couldn't be sure you were alone. It was silly, because there was no way for anyone other than you, Loki, and other cleared personnel to even get here. It wasn't like there was like a thief lurking in the dark, but the lessons of the past year were still with you.

You finally found the door to your apartment, got it open, and dropped your stuff on the floor just inside. Finally. You could relax.

You heard sound once more, like a snippet of conversation. You recognized it as Loki's voice. He was awake? At this hour? Well, so were you, though you probably shouldn't be. You would feel it in the morning.

He was probably just on the phone with his brother or something. You could hear him talking, but couldn't make out any of the words. It wasn't any of you business what he was saying, but for some reason, the cadence of his voice put you on edge.

You were just about to shut the door behind you when his muffled voice shot up in pitch very suddenly, raising hairs on your neck. That was it! Stark didn't skimp on materials for his buildings; everything was state-of-the-art. This floor was practically soundproofed. Loki wasn't talking; he was screaming.

You rushed, stumbling down the hall, stubbing your toe on a display case, in search of his door. His yelling grew louder as you got closer, fumbled with the doorknob, and burst into his bedroom. Even though you turned on the lights, he didn't wake, just wriggled in the heavy blankets, shouting at the top of his lungs, words you couldn't even understand.

“Loki!” You cried. “Loki, wake up! It's just a dream! Wake up!”

He didn't seem to hear you over his own voice. You reached out and shook his shoulder insistently.

You immediately regretted it.

Loki's long fingers closed around your throat, cutting off blood and air. His eyes flew open, teeth bared in an animal expression, and he stared at you without a shred of recognition. His hair fell wild around his face, growling as you pried at his hand. You knew Thor could bench a truck; the strength of the Asgardians was legendary. But Loki was one of them, and as his grip tightened, you knew you had no more than moments left.

“M-master...” You choked out. Colored spots danced in your tear-stung vision.

Ferocity gradually bled from his face, intelligence and self returning to his eyes. He released you and fell back onto the bed, groaning in pain.

“Foolish creature.” He moaned weakly. His arms wound around you, slowly but inexorably drawing you down into his embrace. “Idiot. Brainless. Are you hurt?”

“I don't think so.” You murmured. “Are you?”

He made a noncommittal noise. But you'd heard the pain in his grunt when he fell back. Whatever was wrong with his neck couldn't have been helped by this.

You lay sprawled over his chest, Loki petting your hair. It was as awkward as it could get, but a little comforting. It slowed your heart rate, at least.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” You asked, though you weren't sure you wanted to know what kinds of things haunted a gods nightmares.

“What do you think?”

“Uh...no?”

“Not entirely brainless it seems.”

You fell silent together, Loki stroking your hair, slowly relaxing. You got caught up in the rise and fall of his chest, starting to drift off. You felt him sigh in contentment, then, just as suddenly, he was shoving you off the bed.

“Out. Out now. Off to your own rooms.” He ordered. “We're done here.”

Confused and tired, you scuttled back into the dark hallway and back to your apartment. Your sleeping bags stank of mildew in sharp contrast to the layered scents in Loki's room. You'd have to clean them tomorrow. You wondered if Loki would allow you to use his washing machine until you could get your own. He would have to, wouldn't he? To keep your work uniform clean?

Sleep came easily for once. The silence of being indoors and hundreds of feet above the streets, the implied safety that both of those things brought, and the faded adrenaline of the evening combined with the late hour to create a potent cocktail of irresistible drowsiness. So you didn't resist, and just let it claim you.

                                                                            *****

You woke up to a sore neck and Loki's insistent voice in your ear. Dragging yourself groggily out of bed, you found a new Asgardian uniform neatly folded on the floor just inside your door.

Oh, you didn't like that at all. This was your space now; he wasn't allowed in without permission! How did he even get in here?

Unhappily awake now, you snatched the uniform up and headed to the shower. Your only towel smelled as badly of mildew as the sleeping bags you'd spent all night in, but just let Loki say something about it. It would just be more reason to throw at him for using his washer, or getting time off to head to a laundromat.

A glance in the mirror showed what a mess you still were. Your hairbrush was old and worn, missing several of its bristles, but it still did its job well enough. It was just that your hair was all split ends and brittle, broken strands. Your skin-especially your face-was breaking out in reaction to being actually washed several days in a row. Your gums bled from your toothbrush. But you knew all this would pass.

Even the series of ugly bruises that ringed your throat would eventually fade. Though, for now...

You rummaged about in your salvaged things and found a pair of scissors, and an old flannel shirt that was falling apart. You snipped a sleeve off, and wrapped it around your bruised neck like a scarf. You'd be able to visit a thrift store and get yourself a 'new' one soon. Today was payday.

Loki had not yet left his bedroom, instead demanding your help in walking towards the master bathroom, which you had not known about yesterday. The prospect of going in there filled you with dread, but Loki merely bid you wait outside the door. Much to your relief, he didn't seem to need your help in there.

Although how he was managing on his own when he could barely walk was a mystery. How had he managed before you came? How long had he been here?

When he opened the door again, his hair was damp, and his clothing different, and he directed you to lead him to his chair.

“How did you get all that taken care of?” You asked as you wheeled him out into the semi-circular living space.

“I used magic, nosy thing.” He said. “Naturally.”

“Oh yes, naturally, of course, why didn't I think of that?”

“Because you're not very bright?” He ventured.

“Because we don't have magic here!” You shot back, and he chuckled. “Well, why do you need me then? Why not just use magic to cook and clean?”

“Hrm. Well...Technically I'm not supposed to be using magic at all while I'm convalescing. It slows the healing process.”

“Then why-”

“Do you really want to be the one to wipe my royal ass? No? Then I sacrifice in order to save us both some dignity. Now go make us breakfast.”

[frankencocksupremacy]

You don’t have to answer this if it’s too personal I was just wondering how did you deal with the negativity/stress around phalloplasty? I’m having it soon and it’s a serious downer hearing both the negative talk from non-op guys and stories from people have regretted surgery (even if that’s rare). I’d appreciate any advice if it’s not too much to ask

i don't mind answering this at all, no worries. this sort of thing has actually been on my mind for a long time and this gives me an excuse to talk about it lol. please note that just because something made me feel better that doesn't mean it'll work for you. we're all individuals and i'm no therapist. also note that i'm still in recovery and my main way of coping with anything heavy is cracking jokes (INCELS STILL WISH THEY WERE ME) so try to take particularly specific things i say with a grain of salt and feel free to toss out whatever advice seems unhelpful. if none of this works for you, i apologize, but maybe someone will find it beneficial.

ANYWAY here's whats been helping me get through my days (i tried to condense it but it ended up being a novel anyway oops):

⦁ post-op depression is real and it happens to lots of people. it can be coped with. keep yourself as mentally well as you can post-op. seek the support of people who care. immerse yourself in things you enjoy (just be careful if those things are drugs or sex. ask your doc about what your limits are while you're healing). develop a strong sense of humor. and be patient with yourself if you get frustrated or insecure. post-op depression doesn't last forever, and contrary to what some people believe, it also doesn't mean you've made a mistake. it's completely normal to feel shitty when you're in pain and exhausted for a long time

⦁ don't share more then you're willing to, no matter what. you don't owe nobody nuthin. transition is personal and nobody is entitled to the details, esp if they just want to know how to better shit talk you. be polite towards the well meaning, but set your boundaries and don't let people bully you past them. there are some trans people who think we must share all of our experiences, that we must make ourselves vulnerable for each others' sakes, but i promise you nobody will die if you choose to keep things private

⦁ understand when people are speaking in bad faith. non-ops who find bottom surgery "faulty" or are jealous of it don't care about the actual results, they just want you to feel bad for either living differently then them or for having what they don't. spiteful detrans people don't care about the thousands of happy post-op people who live and die as their transitioned gender, they're bitter about their own difficult experience. trans people who regret bottom surgery have their reasons to and that should be respected, but those reasons are entirely theirs (read: not a reflection on you or a guarantee that you'll feel the same way). Their_Experience_Is_Not_Universal.jpeg. none of these people having different lives or opinions needs to mold your reality

⦁ in addition to that, realize when people are speaking from a place of bias. of course someone who hasn't/can't have this surgery may talk shit, that's what sour grapes and internalized transphobia do to you. of course shittier people who've detran'd think nobody can be happy with the outcome of surgery, they're focused entirely on their own pain. of course people with surgical regret may try to disuade others from surgery, it wasn't what they wanted/needed/expected and they typically think they're doing you a favor. don't buckle to other people's perceptions of this operation without asking yourself what's motivating their mindset and what they'd get out of you believing it. everyone has intentions and they're not always good

⦁ don't argue with people who have made up their minds that they dislike your body, your decisions, or you as a person. you will not win, and you won't change their mind no matter how you respond to them. they'll just drain your energy and convince themselves that your reaction proves they're right. if someone makes a disparaging comment in person, subtley express disapproval at their social faux pas and then ignore them. if you get nasty messages online, delete them without acknowledging them publicly at all, even if you have the sickest of burns ready. and then reward yourself for staying mellow by doing something you enjoy, esp if its with people who actually respect you and make you happy

⦁ you are not a hypothetical or a statistic, so don't cling to them and psych yourself out. many men have this surgery and are thrilled with their lives after, and no percentage of people who encounter A Bad Thing That Happens Sometimes has ever changed that. live with what's happening right now in mind, not what could happen or has happened to others. this isn't to say you shouldn't be aware of or prepared for things like complications or difficult feelings, of course, just don't borrow trouble

⦁ in case it ever comes up: anyone who says your penis "isn't real" or "isn't functional" is wrong. your penis will be real, and chances are that if you've elected to get phallo, it will have the functions you'll need for it to be worth it to you. i can't predict your surgery outcome, and i'm only 6 weeks out as of yesterday so lord knows what's in my future, but my penis is very much a penis and it becomes more like how i want it to be every day. it's my own flesh and blood, i urinate through it, and someday i will have sex with it. cis =/= real and we'd all be better, happier people if we stopped pretending that was the case

⦁ reach out to other men who've had this surgery. feeling isolated and alone makes it easier to fall victim to the negative mindsets of (internally) transphobic people. frankly a lot of us are very happy to share because too many of us had to go through our transitions without much guidance or support, and we get that from discussing it with each other. if you need explicit permission to feel comfortable reaching out, though, my ask and IMs are always open and i love talking to other trans people about medical transition wink wink nudge nudge

⦁ don't be hard on yourself if you have transphobic or unsure thoughts. this is normal and almost impossible to avoid regardless of how things go. beating yourself up fixes nothing, least of all negative thinking. instead, if you find yourself half-believing non-ops who are insulting this surgery, question yourself. would you berate or judge another man getting phallo? are your thoughts framing cis people and their bodies as superior to trans people and theirs, and if so, why? are you dwelling on your own insecurities or dysphoria with little else backing your logic? if after surgery you start panicking because of things detrans or regretful trans people have said, keep asking. has this change actually made your life worse, or are you just anxious about it hypothetically being a regret someday? does focusing on the negative experience of others actually benefit you in any way? do you genuinely relate to the experiences these people have when they share why they're regretful? self interrogation might keep you from feeling like you're just ignoring narratives that make you uncomfortable, all while letting you constructively work through your feelings

⦁ remind yourself that no matter what anyone says or thinks, you're not changing for them. naysayers of phallo never prevented me from getting - and loving! - mine. ignorant detrans people have never made me go back to being a girl. others' surgical regret and post-op horror stories have not kept me from getting any surgeries. my life is mine, i choose what to do with it, and no matter how much hate or misinformation i've been faced with, i have persisted because my transition is for me and i know i'd regret it if i never took my chances with it. phallo wasn't for any romantic partners, or my family, or society, it was truly for Me. your transition is for You. you have one life. do what you truly believe will make it the best it can be, and no matter what happens you will be better off in some way for having tried

if you can maintain a healthy, productive way of thinking that focuses on self acceptance, you're golden. it's not easy, i know, but even the smallest effort to try makes a noticable difference. you're gonna do great. keep your chin up

(small note: i mention detrans people a lot here because they are among the people who experience surgical regret and some are loudly opposed to surgical transition because of it. i have no issue with people detransitioning. but notice how each time i bring them up i'm describing ones that are volatile and intentionally hurtful. those are the kind of detrans people i don't care for. plenty of detrans people are chill. don't listen to the ones that aren't)

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘A Guest for Mr Spider’ (S03E01) Analysis

After hyperventilating for a while, because IT’S HEEEERE, I got down to listening to the first episode of season 3, and … well, it wasn’t what I had expected, but it was an absolutely fascinating contextualization of a character we’ve known for a while, and also sets the scene for what we might expect going forward in season 3.  Come on in to hear what I thought about …

 The statement of Jonathan Sims, former Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a childhood encounter with a book once possessed by Jurgen Leitner.

Hooooo … this is going to be a pretty long post, because we have A LOT to get through.  This episode was exposition-rich without feeling like an info dump, which is a credit to Jonny Sims’ writing.  We got really surprising amounts of information about Sims as a character and about what brought him to the Institute.  But we also got some discussion of recent events as well, from a Sims who seems perhaps a week out from the events of the finale.  

First, we got confirmation for something I had suspected throughout season 2: a lot of Sims’ paranoia was induced by the Not-Them.  But then again, while Sims insists that it was all the Not-Them, I think it was more complicated than that.  I have a feeling that, given the very specific reactions that Sims was having compared to Tim or Martin, it was likely a combination of the Not-Them, the Beholding pricking at him and warning him that there was danger nearby, and his own natural paranoia being hugely exaggerated.  Because Sims has always been a little paranoid.  

He is, however, a lot more self-aware in this episode than he has been in quite some time.  He knows that, for the majority of the last season, he really wasn’t playing with a full deck.  I doubt he’s as recovered from the events of season 2 as he thinks.  While he does sound saner, he still frays and starts sounding a lot more broken again when he discusses the fact that his former colleagues now likely think him a psychopathic killer.  A lot is hitting Sims all at once at this point: the loss of his job, being on the run despite the lack of wide-scale manhunt (my guess is that the investigation into Leitner’s death is going to be a very secret thing, likely undertaken by Daisy alone), and having lost people he might not have even recognized as friends before he did indeed lose them.  Sasha is dead, and Martin and Tim both suspect him of murder.  As dismissive as he was of his assistants, I think he’s feeling their loss a lot more keenly than he thought he would.

But most of that remains subtext or only hinted at, because Sims might think he’s no longer the Archivist, but something is still driving him.  Something has made him find a new tape recorder, new tapes, and to start recording again in the exact same manner he did at the Institute.  One could say it was habit, but I think that the Beholding is still claiming him.  He is still the Archivist, and as such the compulsion to behold and to record is overwhelming to him.  The only way he can start to make sense of everything that happened to him and because of him in season 2 is to finally recount the story that started him down this path, that committed him to the study of the paranormal, and that even seems rooted in some of the stupider decisions he’s made in this podcast’s run.

One thing I noticed, even early on, was that Sims was ready to dismiss almost any statement—no matter how compelling—as insubstantiated nonsense.  And yet whenever Jurgen Leitner’s library came up, he took that statement, even flimsy and without any proof, as 100% fact.  Sims was a believer in Leitner’s library and its horrors, if nothing else at the beginning of this series.  And in this statement, we learn why.  Sims himself had an encounter with one of those books, and it changed him in a fundamental way, setting him on the path to become the Archivist.  For Sims, Leitner was the definition of all that was horrific, supernatural, and evil.  Sims readily admits that he was functioning in a very (understandably) self-centered manner at the beginning of his tenure as the Archivist.  He had experienced the horror of a Leitner book, and so that was real. His fear and his suffering were real, but everyone else was likely lying or hallucinating or drugged.  Sims is a deeply self-centered individual, not because he’s a narcissist, but because he has defined himself as something independent of … well, just about everything and everyone else for basically all of his life.

In addition to being a nicely creepy story, we finally get a lot more insight into what formed Jonathan Sims into the man he is today, and even in his childhood he seemed to be defined by two characteristics that seem to have spilled over into his adulthood: isolation, and a belief in his own intelligence that very frequently veers into arrogance.  We also know that Sims was “a child of the 90s”, so is likely in his early to mid-thirties (I think of children of the nineties as those who remember that period as their childhood, so were likely … five or six in 1990?  Making him 32 or 33ish?).  We also know he looks considerably older than his actual age, even to the point of already having graying hair.  We know that both of his parents are dead.  His father died when he was two of an accidental fall, and his mother died a few years later due to complications of a routine surgery.  As such, the only caretaker Sims really knew was a grandmother grieving her dead son, and who resented having to care for a rather difficult grandchild.  Sims’ sense of isolation clearly started early, as while he doesn’t seem to have any outright hostility toward his grandmother, there is a definite distance in the way he discusses her.  She tried her best, but they were clearly never particularly close, and Sims in turn never really developed any deep bonds in his childhood.  The entire statement is devoid of mentions of friends or profound connections.  Even the person who eventually saved him from the book wasn’t a friend, but instead a bully who used to torment Sims, and whose name Sims can’t remember.

This all fits so well with everything we’ve already learned about Sims.  Sims really doesn’t get the idea of family.  think Martin’s story didn’t resonate with him nearly so much as it might with others partially because of the Not-Them’s paranoia, but also partially because the idea of completely upending his life and lying about something fundamental like who and what he was for someone he loved was something that Sims didn’t quite comprehend.  Sims has always functioned for himself first and foremost.  Putting others before his own self-interest is something he is clearly working to be better at.  Indeed, he does have moments of great selflessness, like when he tried to protect his assistants by sending them home in ‘The Librarian’.  But while Martin is naturally caring, and puts others before himself even to a fault, such actions are not natural to Sims.  

Instead of friends, Sims has always preferred books.  But even in that, Sims was difficult to please.  He apparently disliked reading anything that seemed familiar, meaning he would only ever read any given author once, and any given subject once.  His grandmother took to buying every second-hand book she could find that was 50p or less, and just presenting him with piles of books to sort through and choose ones he actually found interesting.  

And second-hand books, of course, lead us straight to the library of Jurgen Leitner.

The description of ‘A Guest for Mr Spider’ is somehow even more chilling than most of the other Leitner books, because it’s a picture book.  The implication there seems to be that it specifically targets children. The strange, horrid, twitchy illustrations depict a series of flies in various costumes coming to visit Mr Spider, only to vanish as more and more of Mr Spider’s home is covered in brown ink and Mr Spider becomes more bloated.  The final consumption of Mr Horse and his son sets clear the context that the book wants children.  It will take older people, and indeed it does end up taking the 19-year-old bully who snatched the book from Sims before he could finish it, but this was a book meant to be found and read by a child.  A child who, like Sims, recognized the book instantly as something wrong and horrific, and yet who was powerless to stop reading.  Who would be drawn through the streets to a house that wouldn’t be found later.  A house full of darkness and webs, and long spider legs.  It puts one in mind of Raymond Fielding.  I wonder if, when reading the statements regarding the house on Hill Top Road, Sims saw reflected in those experiences that house from his own childhood.  Did he read Ronald Sinclair’s statement about Fielding, about the children bound in webs in his basement, and think of himself and that nameless bully?  Or did he ever think to tie those spiders together with Mr Spider?

I wonder if he might not have done.  Rather than focusing on the house and the spiders, Sims seems to have focused all his fear and his anger at Jurgen Leitner.  He would dismiss the statements about spiders readily enough at the beginning, but never a statement about Leitner.  In Sims’ mind, the supernatural was rare, with the majority of the statements he read—even those on tape—made up of hoaxes.  But Leitner was evil personified, and had tapped into some primal power that he wielded to harm 8-year-old Jonathan Sims and reshape his entire perception of how the world worked.

It shines a whole different light on how profound actually meeting Leitner must have been for Sims. Leitner wasn’t some great villain or all-powerful master of the things in his books.  He was a stupid, arrogant man who thought he could control and define things without control or definition.  He was, as Sims says in this episode, a spoiled child.  He looked at the nightmares in this world and thought he had the ability to confront them and contain them purely because he was interested and had a big enough ego to think he could.  He decided to create a way to hold the supernatural to his own whims, much as Robert Smirke had done with his architecture.  But whatever power Smirke wielded that made him so lastingly effective, Leitner lacked.  He contained the books only for a brief time, and then they all found their way back into the wild, potentially more readily available than they had been before. Even his and Gertrude’s scheme to destroy the Institute could well have been similarly short-sighted, and just another effort to exert control from a man who was ultimately just as powerless as anyone else.

This man, who Sims had so feared and hated, is remarkably similar to Sims.  They both believe that if they confront the horrors of this world, they will somehow have the ability to resist and defeat them.  They are both isolated, both believe themselves more intelligent than they actually are, and are both supremely arrogant.  Leitner isn’t a monster.  He’s a cautionary tale.

And now Sims lacks that driving fear of Leitner.  He lacks a job, and he’s realizing that everything he set out to do in season 1 and even his desire from childhood to protect people from the darkness has roundly and repeatedly failed.  He wanted to organize the archive and failed.  He wanted to disprove the majority of the supernatural statements that weren’t directly related to his own trauma, and he failed.  He wanted to keep his assistants as far from harm as possible, and he failed.  And now he’s on the run.  He’s out in the wild without direction or any real idea of what he needs to do.  

So he falls back on compulsion.  He records his own statement, lacking anyone else’s.  He hides and he looks at the shattered remains of his life.  Something is going to happen, I’m certain, to roust him from this hiding space, and to plunge him into the wider world of the supernatural.  Having him out of the Institute may well be exactly the boost to his skill and his understanding that Elias thinks it will be.  He will see the powers of his world in a much more direct fashion.  He may well be able to get statements from faction members who would never set foot inside the Institute.  And he will likely be in terrible danger from all of them. We still don’t know what it means to be the Archivist, but we know that whatever it is, members of other factions want the Archivist.  They want to use him, or tell him things, or get information from him, or kill him. But Sims’ position makes him marked, not only by the Beholding, but every supernatural entity out there.  And this season, I think we’ll learn a lot more about what that really means.

This was quite the episode for big reveals regarding the backstory of Jonathan Sims, and what makes him the man he is today.  So much of it jives perfectly with the man we’ve gotten to know.  He’s protective of others, but in an abstract way that speaks more to a belief that this is the way he ought to be than a sense of genuine connection with others.  And yet he believes enough in this abstract sense of right and wrong that he is willing to put himself in danger to protect innocents.  It was why he tried to deck Michael when he realized a woman had been snatched right under his nose.  Looking back, that experience must have been even more traumatic for him than it had seemed at the time, given how closely it resembled what happened when he was a child. There was someone else walking through a door, never to be seen again, while Jonathan Sims stood by helpless to stop it.  So many of the previous statements have new resonance now that we know how closely Sims’ own experience mirrored them.

His early isolation, as well as seeing someone snatched up by Mr Spider, goes a long way to explaining why he wouldn’t reach out to Martin or Tim throughout season 2, even when he knew he should.  It explains why he’s been so hesitant to foster anything but the most professional relationships with them, despite Martin’s best efforts.  He’s never learned how to connect with anyone on a deep and meaningful level, and he’s only now realizing how detrimental that can be.

More than that, there is a guilt in Sims, unacknowledged and perhaps unconscious, that this bully he can barely even remember died and thereby saved him.  Imagine the guilt that rears up when Leitner revealed that Gertrude had three assistants, and they all died.  Imagine his guilt when he realizes that Sasha is dead and he never even noticed because of the Not-Them.  Imagine his guilt when he realizes that Tim and Martin are unable to quit, and are therefore meant to die for him as well.  These people he could almost call his friends, and some great and unknown power will kill them just because that’s what the assistants of an Archivist do.  There may well be some unconscious belief that if he just pushes them away, if he keeps them as far from him as possible, and if he stays away from the Institute, he can save them.  I doubt that’s the way it works.  I think that something will draw Sims and Martin and Tim back together, but I think that Sims is always going to be operating with that low-level terror that more people, people he cares about this time, people with names and faces he will remember, are going to end up dying because of him again.  Sims has massive amounts of survivor’s guilt, I think, and he doesn’t even realize it.

Conclusions

Starting the season out with a deep-dive character study wasn’t what I expected, but I really liked it. We now have a good idea of what’s going on with Sims right now, and have a better understanding of his head-space. He’s staying with Georgie, the hostess of the ‘What the Ghost’ podcast, and someone Melanie once mentioned actually spoke pretty well of Sims.  It’s still not clear if Sims and Georgie were once romantically involved, but he’s now staying in her guest room and cat-sitting for her.  Their conversations are awkward, like two people who haven’t interacted in years and are suddenly together and realizing how little they have in common.  

I’m interested what they’ll do with Georgie.  I’m honestly hoping she’s not another outsider character, as we already have that in Basira Hussain.  It would be more interesting if she was already an insider, perhaps a member of the Open Eye or working with Trevor the Vampire Slayer or something.  She’s said she’ll believe anything.  What if that’s because she’s already seen so much and has way more contacts in that world than Sims?  What if she’s not just a random character, but the gate through which he’ll be thrown head-first into the wider world of the supernatural in TMA?  That would be a fun twist.

I’m also hoping that, now that we’ve established Sims, we get to see what’s happening at the Institute. What is Elias doing to clean up after season 2?  Was that Daisy on the teaser trailer?  Is she hunting Sims?  If she is, does she intend to deal with him the same way she deals with other supernatural threats?  Is Martin the Interim Head Archivist?  Is Tim still there?  What is their relationship like now?  There are so many questions.  We’ve gotten a surprising number of answers about Sims, so I’m hopeful we’ll start to get a few about our other favorite characters as well starting next week.

[mothermaidenclone-blog]

Life or In Space No One Can Hear You Rip Them Off

My main feelings about this film are as follows: the beginning where it was original was great, the middle where it was Alien was okay (I mean, Alien is great so however weak of a rip off something is it’s still going to be fun) and the ending was predictable, in my opinion anyway. I have no better suggestions for how it should have ended so that’s completely non-constructive criticism. I also appreciate how hard it is to make a claustrophobic body-horror film about aliens without it being Alien, but maybe that’s the answer right there - try to take your film in a slightly different direction.

*Life spoilers follow*

Films with small casts are excellent for amplifying feelings of claustrophobia and isolation and Life was no exception, it pulled that atmosphere off brilliantly. In addition, with essentially a cast of six, it would have been so easy to have an equal amount of men and women; however, there were four male and two female crew members. When there are so few actors in the film it makes the discrepancy even more noticeable. As it stood, there were double the amount of men as there were women, but swapping just one man for a woman would have evened this out. The same can be said of race - yes, one crew mate was black and another Japanese - and it was refreshing to see a black disabled person depicted at all, let alone as a three dimensional human - but the other four astronauts were white.

Slightly disappointing statistics aside, the two female characters were well portrayed. Both held positions of power: Ekaterina Golovkina (Olga Dihovichnaya) is the Mission Commander and Dr. Miranda North (Rebecca Ferguson) is the Quarantine Officer. At the beginning of the film, when everyone is still unsure about the alien, they both show the strength to stick to the mission and put the lives of everyone on Earth first. Ekaterina sacrifices her own life in an attempt to kill the creature and Miranda is willing to make difficult decisions regarding the lives of her crew mates in favour of preserving the quarantine. This might seem harsh and not necessarily like a good quality in a character, but it shows definite strength and is a far cry from the age old stereotype of women being portrayed as irrational and ruled by their emotions.

My only real grievance, numbers aside, is that Miranda has the power to make her own decision about whether she can be the one to give her life in a final attempt to kill the alien taken away from her. Dr. David Jordan (Jake Gyllenhaal) insists, “I need you to say you trust me.” He has to be the one to save everyone, and given Miranda’s previous dedication to preserving the quarantine - which is literally her job - it makes much more sense for her to be the one to try and destroy the alien. She does initially try to argue this, but it seems that man must be the saviour. Except that he isn’t, he ends up bringing the alien back to Earth (admittedly despite his very best efforts) while Miranda is rather unceremoniously flung into deep space.

Overall, the women in Life were strong, resolute, brave and determined characters. It just would have been nice to even have had just one more of them.

And now for some asides:

The highly billed white guy died first? What a lovely change.

Mate, everyone took so long to die in this film. I mean it was great horror but wow, so extra.

I was completely convinced that the alien was going to wear Ryan Reynolds like a puppet and was slightly disappointed when it didn’t.

[wonderfulchaos69-blog]

Fanfic Recs

I’ve been meaning to make one of these for a long, long while and so here it is! Amazing fics that I’ve read and enjoyed a lot =) I hope you’ll find something that you might enjoy, too, along the way. And feel free to share any fics you’ve read/written, I’d be more than happy to add to the list!

Artemis Fowl:

Why One Must Not Attempt to Analyze A Child Genius, fiercejinx - Complete, G. "Artemis Fowl had retired half a dozen counselors from St. Barleby's already this year." Here's how. Six chapters, one for each psychologist losin' it.

Blue Exorcist:

To Be Good, Kizmet - Complete, T. Yukio had always been the good twin, intelligent, studious, disciplined and, most importantly, not a demon. It was obvious that he only wanted what was best for Rin. Yukio's intentions were one thing Rin would never question, no matter what. After Father Fujimoto's death Yukio went quietly insane. No one noticed.

Danganronpa:

A Farewell to All Futures, Yukari - Complete, Not Rated, Oneshot. One of them in theory belonged to the chosen ones, but still wondered if his life had any meaning.

The other one had a chance to become the chosen one, but still wondered if his decision was right. Basically the first, very brief meeting of Komaeda and Hinata before the world went completely insane, because we probably won't get to see it in the anime.

Bad Poetry of a Lopsided Heart, IcicleWieldingManaic - WIP, T. Komaeda likes to write letters that he never sends. However, one time Hinata accidentally receives one addressed to himself. He also feels a responsibility to watch over Komaeda after the events of the first trial. You know, just so nobody else gets killed.It's a good thing Hinata doesn't know who the letter's from, huh? Komaeda/Hinata, slow burn.

just looking at you i enjoy myself, suitablyskippy - Complete, Mature. “Hm?” says Komaeda, and looks down at the grip he’s still got, cold and clammy and squeezed uncomfortably tight. “Oh – that! Of course! You know, sometimes, Hinata-kun – sometimes I forget, when I’m touching you! Because it feels so natural. Like you and I are one, almost! Like we were always meant to be this close – do you know what I mean? Do you feel it?”

“You’re still holding my wrist,” says Hinata.

Komaeda lets him go, and then he touches his elbow, gently, as though in consolation. “With my luck the way it is,” he says, “no one’s gonna be able to kill me unless I let them.”

(Someone's got to die next, and Komaeda would really, really like it to be him!)

Long Road to North, Urponator - WIP, T. There’s nothing as hopeless as a life being a regular salesman at a regular office. And after waiting for years for his life to change, he can’t contain his excitement as he finds himself threatened by a knife, held by a brown-haired stranger on the run. Komaeda/Hinata, slow burn, AU.

Death Note:

A Forgotten Encounter, Alex Prosper - Complete, T. Light is faced with his first murder case at age nine after meeting a strange, hooded teenager in Harajuku. Dupin becomes the one special thing in his childhood, long forgotten. This is L and Light's true first meeting, but they will never know it.

Genius is a Curse, Bloodshot Eyes - WIP, T. If Light had never touched the Death Note, would he ever have found an escape from the depression and boredom that plagued him? Would he have had a future at all? Undertones of Light/L, dark themes.

Leave the Light On, Ne Quittez Pas - Complete, T. Light had dealt with admirers before, but nothing like this. Between an unknown stalker and a mass-murderer with a God complex, it's unlikely that Light will ever sleep again... unless an insomniac detective can help him put a stop to both. Light/L, dark themes.

Detective Conan:

It's Raining Men, Hallelujah, Asuka Kureru - Complete, Oneshot, T. Conan already has some kind of corpse magnet power, but when Heiji is in his orbit the corpses actively come to them. From above. Witness.

D. Grayman:

Fair Play, liketolaugh - WIP, T.  Cross hated his master. Really. Allen fucking Walker was the most infuriatingly mysterious human being on the planet - but even Cross couldn't say Allen had done a bad job looking after him. Oneshot series.

vertigo, hurryup - WIP, Mature. Los Angeles, 1951. Allen Walker, a private eye of cult celebrity status, has been running from his past for a long time. Howard Link, an LAPD cop rising quickly through the ranks, finds himself caught between that which is lawful and that which is right.

As Sunset Boulevard crackles with caged heat, the thread of their investigations meet. With them, corruption, obsession, and celebrity meet in a game of chess that holds the entire city as its hostage.

The descent into hell is easy. All it takes is a little push.

Durarara:

If We Ever Meet Again, Shitsuren69 - Complete, T. AU. Mikado thought that the biggest event in his life was when the love of his life ran off with his best friend. This was, of course, before Celty invited him to Ikebukuro. Eventual Shizuo/Mikado. Prequel to Operator.

Comments: I just really love the way this one was written. From Mikado getting along with Walker and Erika to the falling out in the beginning with Kida and Anri. It makes when they meet again all the more interesting! And there's this one scene that will always stay in my mind - Mikado jumping off the roof, fully expecting Shizuo to catch him. I know, I know, what is the likelihood of something like that happening in real life, right? Still, I got a kick out of reading Izaya's reactions in this story. In addition, this story gives me the same vibe as the series - it's about different forms of love.

Thirty-Two Steps, Nanimonaimono - Complete, Oneshot, T. He guesses it's time to make Anri fall in love with Mikado like she should've from the start. As he opened his mouth, Masaomi fought the ridiculous, overpowering urge to stop and shout that he's been in love too long for this. Kida/Mikado.

Final Fantasy 7:

Beloved, Sinnatious - Complete, Mature. It all starts when Cloud tries to leave during the middle of a Loveless performance. Genesis/Cloud. Tifa/Cloud.

Dishonorable Discharge, icynovas - Complete, T. Seeking a new career, infantryman Cloud Strife attempts to get fired from ShinRa.

Off the Line, esama - WIP, T.  In which Cloud gets a Virtual Reality Dream Console – ShinRa's latest in virtual reality technology. Aaand everything pretty much goes downhill from there. Vincent/Cloud.

The Fifth Act, Sinnatious - Complete, T. Cloud has an accident with a Time materia. There are people to save, and for that, some people need to die. 

Comments: This is a pretty well-known story in the FFVII fandom, and let me tell ya, it’s worth every second of the read. Even if you haven’t played the game, this sort of storytelling will drag you in and keep your attention. You’ll be left wanting more!

My Hero Academia:

but you gotta get up at least once more, simkjrs - WIP, T. Izuku’s never run into this problem before with anyone else, but it’s still not much of a problem. “Oh, that’s alright,” he says. “I don’t have a Quirk.”

Tsukauchi stares incredulously at him, and then looks at the iron bar that Izuku is currently straightening with his hands.

Midoriya Izuku does not let his lack of a Quirk prevent him from being strong.Also known as that one AU where Izuku follows the ridiculous training regimen of Saitama from One Punch Man and becomes stronger than anyone ever imagined he could be.

Persona 4:

Dare Disturb the Universe, jackdawq - Complete, T, Oneshot.  A creeping, nagging sense of repetition: rewind, replay. Yosuke/Souji, Naoto/Kanji.

Days Without Nights, Angevon - Complete, T. Years after the events of Persona 4, Yosuke Hanamura is married. Then his wife leaves him. Yosuke/Souji, slow burn.

First Impressions (Seventeen Variations), jackdawq - Complete, T, Oneshot.  It sucks to be the new transfer kid. Right?

Reversing Arcana, Sinnatious - Complete, T.  P3, P4. Six months after Souji leaves Inaba, he wakes up to his house on fire. The Investigation Team are the only ones who know he survived. But that's only the beginning of their troubles.

Ten Steps, chisotahn - Complete, T. Written for a prompt over at badbadbathhouse. "Souji never told anyone about being able to enter the TV. So, even though Chie and onward somehow ended up with Souji, Yosuke never wound up knowing about the shadow world. For months on end, Souji has been keeping his otherworldly adventures a secret from his predictably ignorant (yet suspicious) boy [best] friend (though he's still your Magician).

Preferably later in the game, Yosuke appears in a Junes-exclusive interview (bonus if the media was filming Junes without permission), and thus, dungeon time ensues." Only... well, slightly modified. ;) You'll see! Yosuke/Souji.

Psycho Pass:

Unconventional Normality, scorchedtrees - Complete, G. AU: In which Akane joins Division Four to work alongside Inspector Makishima.

Servamp:

Fragile Bonds, Atherin Ashura - WIP, T.  A silent walk home from school can change the outcome of so many paths. Fears arise, secrets that are closely guarded come to light and partnerships can crumble. But if one can survive through it, a brighter, more certain, tomorrow awaits. Kuro + Mahiru, sloth pair friendship.

Honest is Your Only Policy, faecakes - WIP, Explicit.  Being Ex-Lovers can be complicated, especially when your ex happens to be Tsurugi. Mikuni/Tsurugi.

Unmasked, stirlingphoenix - Complete, Explicit, Oneshot. "The smile falls from Mikuni’s lips and he dons a more pensive expression before reaching forward and taking a piece of the paper bag between his fingers.

'I want this gone,' he says casually, like it’s only a suggestion, and not the demand Jeje knows it is. Once again, he feels as if he’s being pinned down by Mikuni’s gaze, and he can hardly think." Jeje/Mikuni.

The World Ends With You:

Blindsided, R. Seldon - Complete, Oneshot, G. Neku has something to say that Joshua does not particularly want to hear. One-shot. Warnings: spoilers; mild, kinda-sorta one-sided Joshua/Neku. Or just Josh being, um, obsessive. Spoilers for endgame.

Dust, DarkRulerDominica - Complete, M. After surviving three weeks of the Reapers' Game, Neku demands that Joshua return him to the world of the living; Joshua agrees, but there's a catch to the deal…. Dark themes. 

Comments: As a thriller/horror story, this one is damn good. It answers one of the glaring questions from the game: what happens to the bodies of those who are playing the game?

Perfect, Infamousplot - Complete, Oneshot, T. One month. That was all the time he gave Kitanji: four weeks, 28 days- give or take a few. Well, now he's down to three weeks. A whole week wasted. Because SOMEBODY, though he won't name any names -Neku Sakuraba -, just won't freaking DIE! Now, he's sprinting through the RG with a gun, a psycho on his tail, and only one goal in mind: Kill the proxy. Now.

The Red Queen series, Kay (sincere) - Complete, T, unfolds in four parts.  In which someone who has been too long alone finally reaches out, building a bridge between his world and another's. It has been decades in coming, and it isn't easy, but the more difficult the ordeal, the greater the reward -- just like in any Game. 

Tokyo Ghoul:

mamihlapinatapai, sinshine - Complete, T, Oneshot. 

“Hey, babe,” he crooned into the phone. “I know you're thirsty but you can't keep calling me at work like this.”

“Hide.” Came the exasperated sigh and he couldn't help but smile at the sound. “You're not really at work, are you?”

“Nah, I'm just getting something to eat.” Hide took another bite out of the dismembered arm he held and licked a drip of blood up his wrist before it could hit his jacket. “What's up?”

Your Cross, I’ll Bear, PTchan - WIP, T. “You make him sound like the hero of a shonen manga or something,” he couldn’t help but comment.

“Who knows,” Koma replied just as Irimi stood to deliver the order. “Maybe he is,” he winked. “And you would be the sidekick right?”

Kaneki sweatdropped, but chuckled all the same. A story with Hide as the main character, huh… he thought, wringing his cloth in the sink before hanging it on the rail and picking up his notepad. Well, if it’s him… then it would surely be one filled with hope.(Or: that fic where Hide wakes up in the past just in time to prevent the Tragedy that was Kaneki Ken's life... by taking it on himself.

Of course, it doesn't have to be a Tragedy.)

Yuri on Ice:

a glide in your step, Yuu_chi - Complete, T, Oneshot.  Ah, Yuuri thinks as his skates touch down on the ice, and even as Yuuko watches him it’s the weight of Viktor’s eyes he feels on his shoulder blades, I’m not ready to let this go. Victor/Yuri.

fight for you, write for you, third - Complete, T, Oneshot.  The thing is, Yuuri had completely forgotten about his account on Figure Skating! until he sees the email in his inbox. He doesn’t know how he ends up awake at 3 AM defending Victor’s reputation from strangers on the internet. Victor/Yuri.

i see quiet nights poured over ice, ohhotlamb - WIP, T. He’s a despicable man, but what he offers is the truth. I’ll make you a winner, he says. And he knows -

This is one thing that Yuuri can’t refuse.

like your french girls, ebenroot - Complete, T. "Victor," Yuri begins, lowering the eighteenth sketch of the figure skater Victor drew this week, "you have a fucking problem." 

--in which Victor is an artist, Yuuri is his figure skating muse, and Yuri is so done hearing about their stupid love story through Instagram. Victor/Yuri.

stay young (go dancing), ryuuzaou - Complete, Explicit, Oneshot. Victor/Yuri.

“Do you do this with every pretty boy that serves you champagne?” Yuuri asks, finally a touch of humor in his tone.

“I’ll admit, I’m the flirty type,” Viktor says, “but I haven’t asked to kiss any.” Oh, fuck it. Yuuri throws caution to the wind and says, “You won’t have to.”

aka: the one where yu-topia onsen caters a celebration party for viktor nikiforov's fifth world championship win, and viktor takes interest in the super hot waiter.

[citizentruth-blog]

The United States of Suicide: 25% Surge Since 1999 Brought on by Debilitating Depression and Incessant Isolation - PEER NEWS

New Post has been published on https://citizentruth.org/the-united-states-of-suicide-25-surge-since-1999-brought-on-by-debilitating-depression-and-incessant-isolation/

The United States of Suicide: 25% Surge Since 1999 Brought on by Debilitating Depression and Incessant Isolation

I really hope this article doesn’t depress you as it did me while I was researching it. But this is an important subject that must be discussed and properly dissected.  

Here’s a shocking and telling statistic on the direction of American society today: suicide rates have risen sharply in every U.S. state (except Nevada, which was already alarmingly high) from 1999 to 2016, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention. Suicide rates are up more than 30 percent in half of the states over the last couple decades. There were 45,000 suicides in 2016, up from 44,193 in 2015. Suicides on average across the nation have increased by 25 percent.

A Sad State of Affairs in America…

Depression, isolation, opioids, technology, and substance abuse are to blame. But more important than the causes is the fact that we need to learn to talk about this, open up with how we’re feeling to those closest to us, and learn how to handle life on life’s terms instead of ending it all. Taking one’s own life is tragic yet cowardly, and the dramatic spike should be of utmost concern to every American.  

In addition to these stunning statistics, the very recent deaths of public figures Anthony Bourdain and Kate Spade put suicide back in the spotlight. This is a disturbing trend that has to be dealt with so we can stop people from taking their own life. But how is one to know someone is in trouble of harming themselves or ending their life when they exhibit no mental health issues of any kind and don’t want to talk about it at all?  

The most tragic facet of this suicide epidemic is the fact that the CDC found that about half of those who commit suicide suffer from mental health issues like depression. Other factors contributing to the spike in suicides over the years were: relationship stress, financial troubles, and substance abuse. And the trend is seen across all Americans of all races and incomes, but the biggest takeaway from the numbers is that white men are killing themselves at alarming rates: white males accounted for seven of ten suicides in 2016.

“From 1999 to 2015, suicide rates increased among both sexes, all racial/ethnic groups, and all urbanization levels,” wrote the CDC researchers in its report. Furthermore, suicide is now the tenth leading cause of death in America and for every successful suicide, there another 25 unsuccessful attempts.

It cuts across age, ethnicity, gender, and is occurring everywhere in the U.S. States with the highest percentage increases were: North Dakota, Vermont, New Hampshire, Utah, and Kansas, each recording a 45 percent or more increase in suicides over the last 30 years.  

Firearms were used in about half of all suicides.

Here are more stats on the Americans who have committed suicide in recent years:

42 percent had relationship issues

29 percent had some kind of crisis

28 percent had substance abuse issues

22 percent had physical health issues

16 percent had job or financial problems

9 percent had criminal or legal problems

The underlying conundrum is, according to medical professionals, finding adequate and proper mental health treatment. Even for those who are adequately insured and can afford mental health treatment, it is exceedingly difficult to cater the right treatment for each individual.

The Social Media Connection Creates Nothing but Isolation

What I have not mentioned yet is the social media age we live in today. Americans are increasingly connecting with people online and failing to make connections with people in everyday life. When we are supposed to be more connected than ever, a great feeling of loneliness arises from an overwhelming sense of isolation stemming from failing to experience real interactions with people in-the-flesh. Technology is keeping us apart from other human beings who all deep down desire real and authentic human connection, no matter how introverted or shy you are.  

But we are all glued to our smartphones and living in an increasingly electronic world, failing to really live and be present in the world we are inhabiting.

  According to a recent survey by Pew Research, 45 percent of American teens say they are online “almost constantly,” about double what it was just three years ago.

The smartphone generations (Millennials and Gen Z) have become a swath of lonely humans addicted to their gadgets. An astonishing 95 percent of American teens have access to a smartphone, according to the same Pew survey. Smartphone technology is insidiously designed to be more addictive and trigger our brains to crave that ding we hear when we get a new text or Facebook like or retweet.

The media continues to report about digital addiction, but they continue to fail to address the effect that cell phone and WiFi radiation exposure has on the brain, as B.N. Frank points out in a recent post on Activist Post. Research has shown that being exposed to a cell phone and WiFi radiation disrupts the blood-brain barrier which can cause it to leak.  

Frank continues, writing that there has been “no ‘safe’ level of cell phone or WiFi radiation” that has “been scientifically determined for children or pregnant women.” But WiFi and smartphones and tablets keep becoming a larger part of our society and everyday life and are even being introduced in schools replacing physical textbooks. While technology continues to be pushed in the classroom, tech inventors have been limiting their own children’s use of it and sending them to private “low tech” schools. In addition, your tax dollars are being spent to make public schools “high tech.”

This is no conspiracy theory. This is not a scare tactic. This is reality. Backed up by scientific research. And it’s eroding our society and degrading our culture in a multitude of ways, leading to the continued rise of suicides across the country.  

One additional point on cell phone and wireless technology is worth mentioning. In 2011, cell phone and wireless WiFi radiation were classified as a Group 2B Possible Carcinogen by the World Health Organization.

There is something very wrong with our culture today. On average, there are 123 suicides that occur every day in the U.S.

Please… If you or someone you know needs help, call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-TALK.

Americans are today suffering from unprecedented levels of emotional despair. Johann Hari, an unparalleled voice on the subject of addiction and mental health, notes that the epidemic of depression in the Western World is not always caused by our brains, it is mostly caused by key problems in the way we live our lives. We exist in a disconnected state from our families, friends, and communities while clinging to a superficial connection of interactions online and on social media.

A Culture Without Connection

As materialistic Americans, we always think some kind of change in our lives or some kind of financial improvement will make us feel more fulfilled and less depressed. If only we get that big raise or that promotion or buy that new house or finally have children, then we will really be happy. But almost always, we won’t. Our culture prioritizes escalating financial and personal achievements while neglecting our innermost desires for connection, community, contentment, and happiness. We need to embrace therapy when we feel we are without hope. We need to make meaningful connections with people in real life and build a support group of family, friends, and colleagues to create a lasting peace through authentic interaction with other people.

“Changing our culture is critical,” Kirsten Powers writes in USA Today. “Being honest with others about our own personal struggles and dark nights of the soul is the first step. People on the edge need to hear stories that assure them there is a way through the all-consuming pain to a meaningful life.” If we get to that point of talking about our personal issues openly and honestly, then we can perhaps make a real dent in reducing the amount of depression and eventually suicides ravaging our great nation.

“The gray drizzle of horror induced by depression takes on the quality of physical pain.”

William Styron, born on this day in 1925, on what depression is really like: https://t.co/ARwRDiQxdg

— Maria Popova (@brainpicker) June 12, 2018

It all comes down to that unyielding sense of isolation that is affecting millions of Americans.

Adam Taggart wrote a great piece in PeakProsperity, titled, “Feeling Isolated?” last week delving into how lonely and isolated we are in America today.

The number one most commonly-reported complaint Taggart and his colleagues hear is that they feel alone and isolated. This is because as humans, we are biologically wired for social connection and meaningful interaction. Up until quite recently, humans lived in small tribal groups of 60 people or less where unity and cohesiveness were required for the tribe to survive. Each member of the group had an important role to play in maintaining the survival of the group, facing adversity and conflict together and living meaningful lives with a people they maintained intimate bonds with.  

In a podcast with author Sebastian Junger, who wrote the great book, Tribe: On Homecoming and Belonging, which I’ve read and would recommend to you all, Junger discusses how modern life is so far removed from the lives our ancestors evolved from. We are quite disconnected from each other, and the sense of community is gone as we are glued to our smartphones and obsessing over our number of friends and likes on social media.

One disturbing point Junger makes in Tribe is about veterans struggling to find meaning in their everyday lives back in the U.S. after returning from war. A telling reality of how messed up our society and culture have become today is the fact that most veterans would prefer life in a conflict zone, facing bullets and the constant threat of death or attack, than live in the isolated states of America. Veterans are committing suicide at the rate of over 20 deaths a day. A sobering statistic that is brought on by the spike in opioid drug overdoses, which are occurring at twice the rate of the civilian population. Veterans have essentially lost their tribe and their closeness that comes with being part of a group and serving a real purpose in life.

But veterans are far from the only ones feeling this sense of alienation. In today’s digital/social media world, our interaction with others is increasingly virtual. “In the sprawl of suburbia, we live in densely-packed cul-de-sacs yet hardly know our next-door neighbors’ names,” Taggart writes. “The fast-growing wealth gap is forcing the 99 percent to work harder just to make ends meet, leaving little time left in the week for socializing or family interaction.” Therefore, the U.S. is experiencing an undeniable epidemic of loneliness and depression.  

A study released by Cigna in May revealed how Generation Z is the worst off, undoubtedly dubbed the loneliest generation. Americans experiencing loneliness has reached “epidemic levels,” according to Cigna’s U.S. Loneliness Index, which surveyed over 200,000 U.S. adults. The index almost exactly mirrors the 45 percent of American teens who say they are online constantly as 46 percent of those surveyed say they always feel alone and 47 percent feel left out. Younger generations feel far lonelier than older ones as more than half of Gen Z’ers identified with ten of the 11 feelings associated with loneliness.

But adults are suffering too. According to former Surgeon General Vivek Murthy, at least 40 percent of all American adults report feeling lonely, with loneliness rates doubling since the 1980s during the most technologically connected society to date. Furthermore, the number of people who report having a close confidante in their lives has been declining over the past few decades while the average number of square feet of our homes has been skyrocketing (new homes are 1,000 square feet larger than they were in 1973).

The social media bubble is real and is upending our culture of connection and human interaction. A recent study by Harvard Business Review confirmed that the more we use Facebook, the worse our physical health, mental health and life satisfaction. Most telling is the fact that former Facebook executives have gone public with their fears that it’s “ripping apart society” by “exploiting a vulnerability in human psychology” as we put our best lives out there for the world to see while masking the real issues we have going on and making others feel that their lives are inadequate or missing something.  

What Can We Do?

It is imperative to not feel shame or guilt for feeling lonely or isolated. Reaching out and asking for help is essential to getting your life back on a path toward lasting happiness. We need to recognize loneliness for what it is, a human condition and one that can be done away with if the proper actions are taken. We need to fight past our isolating tendencies and engage more directly with others in everyday life.

As I’ve stated, human beings crave connection, whether you believe that or not. But these connections must be of high quality, not quantity. You don’t have to be a social butterfly to feel the full benefits of authentic social connection. You only need a few meaningful relationships at a minimum. But they have to be in-the-flesh face-to-face interactions. Facebook messaging or replying via Twitter comments do not count.

Here are several sources PeakProsperity references that offer guidance for creating a community and building relationships:

75 Actions That Build Community

Peak Prosperity’s Community Building Wiki page

Success Factors for Developing a Sense of Community

Chapters 10 & 11, “Emotional & Social Capital,” from Prosper!: How to Plan for the Future & Create a World Worth Inheriting

If you’re struggling, don’t be ashamed to ask for help. If you are depressed, anxious or lonely, talk about it. Reach out. If you need a professional therapist, go find one and get help. Suicide is never the answer. There is a way to improve your life and get you out of the social media bubble of isolation. Look for people in real life and form meaningful bonds and connections with others in your community. You are not alone. You can live a happy and fulfilling life if you take the right steps toward improving your current situation, no matter how dire.

  Follow me @BobShanahanMan

Free Mental Health Counseling for Veterans And Their Families

[ramblingsofapeanut]

The Darkness

There was a time in my life where darkness defined my existence. I felt like I was being swallowed whole and there was no one to help me.  That is often how people who commit or attempt suicide feel.  They often experience the feeling of being alone in a crowd.  I have struggled all my life with depression and feelings like those above. My journey was made all the more difficult by a family that had no clue and still have no real clue. They, when they take the time to notice, see how the struggle is hard and challenging.

My mom once told me that when I turned five, I changed drastically. She never did elaborate on that so I never knew what she meant. I have a feeling now that even at the age of five, I was showing signs of depression and anxiety. Looking back on what I can remember of my childhood, the signs were there.

The journey from that five year old child to the adult writing this story has been filled with bumps, peaks and valleys.  They often defined the person I am and will be. It’s so hard to describe the feelings that

Depression serves to isolate first and then gradually wears down our natural defenses. You begin to believe others when they say things like, “Wish you were never born,” and “You are worthless!” Your inner voice soon convinces you that maybe they would be better off without you.

My first attempt was at the age of 11. It was a tumultuous time in my life.  It was at this time my parents divorced. I felt my world come crashing down around me. My life wasn’t normal anymore. I didn’t know how to deal with the changes and still don’t like dealing with change. The onset of hormone driven teenage years plus this was too much for me to deal with. On top of that, I was an overweight kid with no real friends and brothers who took immense pleasure in beating me up or forcing me to fight my other brothers until someone got hurt. It was usually me that ended up with the injuries.

I ended up taking the pills, with a glass of water, to my room. I remember wearing my pj’s and swallowing between 30 and 60 of my mother’s diet pills. I don’t know the reason for it but I woke up two days later. I had slept for that long. These pills were, at that time, legal speed. They were meant to speed up your metabolism and help you lose weight but in me they made me sleep. The immensely funny thing is my family had no clue what was going on. When I told my mother years later what I had done she didn’t believe me.

In this attempt, I thought about it, figuring out how to do it. I found my mother’s diet pills and pondered what it would be like to take them. Would I feel any pain? Would I go to sleep and never wake up? Would they cause my heart to just stop?  I thought about how the people around me would be better off without me, never really thinking about the pain and guilt they would have to go through because of my actions.  Even to this very day, I feel guilty that I attempted to push these emotions on my family.

I thought about it, even showed signs but because my family had no idea what was going on, the signs often fell on deaf ears. School was no different.  I did manage to have a few teachers that managed to get in but they really didn’t see the pain that I was going through. Suicide, or thoughts of suicide serve to isolate you.

To this day there is one who doesn’t believe he abused me and I don’t ever think he will change his mind. I have long ago given up on him and don’t allow him to have any part of my life.  The rest know that there is more forms of abuse then physical abuse. I have long suffered from the scars of the emotional abuse that they in their stupidity have heaped on me, only recently learning to come out from the shadows of the abuse.

On May 19th, 2003, I entered another dark period of depression when I was admitted to the hospital with abdominal pain. I spent four days in the hospital dealing with the pain.  During this time, they found a mass in my liver. The thoughts racing through my head were; CANCER! CANCER! To find out what it was, I underwent a biopsy.

This is where my journey to healing myself began. You see the doctor did not believe me when I told him that anesthetics do not work right on me the way they were designed to. I just had to prove it to him. As soon as he took the sample I was in the fetal position and in so much pain that they couldn’t get me out of it without sedation.  I found later that my blood pressure had dropped so low, they were afraid my heart would stop.

I spent the next nine months in and out of the hospital. Once again feeling great change and fear and yet not knowing how to handle it.  The fear soon became all-consuming and yet I fought with every ounce of strength I could muster.

During this time I was fighting one battle, another was developing. I was getting a migraine that would last two months and confine me to bed.  It was during a spinal tap that I learned that my back had been broken in two places.  I never knew how it had been broken. Was it broken in falls that I had or was it part of a disease process?  I was lucky to be alive because one set of vertebrae was in neck at the base of my skull.

The reason that I share a bit of my medical history is this; my second and third attempts came about as the result of near toxic levels of drugs, specifically caffeine, found in my system.  Now I must clarify that there is a difference in taking pills and drinking caffeinated beverages.   With pills, the amount of caffeine in my system stayed at a constant level whereas if I has been drinking caffeinated beverages, the levels would of varied.   The doctors failed to tell me not to drink soda in addition to taking the pills.

I was hallucinating and really struggling but through the fog both times I was able to go and get help. I can’t tell you what gave me the strength to do so but some higher power was watching over me through all of this. Teaching me that I have a job to do.

The feelings, even to this day, are so strong at times, I feel like I have lost all that makes me who I am. Each day I have to spend time, as Kevin Nealon and Dana Carvey said in their SNL skit, pumping myself up.  Reminding myself that I do matter and I do impact the lives of the people around me.  It’s a fight to separate the person I want to be from the person I was.

While fear can be a great motivator, it can also serve to be a great explosion if one does not have the skills to deal with rapid changes.  I didn’t know that it was okay to cry when I am sad or jump up and down when I was excited. The feelings of depression tried to reinsert themselves but I have learned to see what they are doing and that it’s okay to say I want to be alone but the challenge is to not to stay alone for long. It is always comforting to hide away from the world but the world goes on doing the very thing you are afraid of. Changing while you are stuck in the same spot.

Many people will tell you that talking about the method that a person uses to do this act will incite others to follow in the act of suicide but that is far from the truth. Most people have given thought to the act. The problem is that it often is through the irrational filters that are often defined and created by depression and anxiety. My experience, as I have said before, was no different… at first. I started sharing my story and I soon learned the power of words.

A lot of the time when I share my story with someone, it clicks on a light, not on how to do the deed but that they need help. They tend to see the horror of suicide from someone who has survived. I don’t know how else to describe it but like this: The survivor is a fog light in the darkness that has engulfed the person. They see that there is someone who battles like you do.  Finally some common ground

I am not alone in the battle to deal with the darkness that is depression but when in the middle of it, it is so hard to grasp that you’re not alone. There is no way for people to understand the pain you have for they do not experience depression the same way you do. Depression is a unique disease in that each person battling it, suffers from different arrangements of the same symptoms.

The thing that peeves me off about depression and suicide is that people are so adamant that when you talk about suicide you don’t talk about method. As I stated before, if a person is going to try suicide, they have thought about it and know how they are going to do it long before they show signs of suicidal thoughts.  In the depths of my depression that was my single, over riding thought was to end the pain. To get rid of the pain of feeling alone in a crowd. To no longer feel invisible and to have some value.

I know that by sharing all of my story, including how I decided to do it, has saved lives but that doesn’t make it any easier to tell. I don’t remember a lot of my childhood because of the trauma that was my life. . I know that there are three people alive in this world because I dared to share my whole story.

The stigma of mental illness kills more often than not. To be diagnosed with mental illness often means people will assume you are like the mass shooters and need to be locked up. Some think if you are depressed you can’t function in society and need to be hidden away. The history of mental illness in America is filled with examples of the way people with mental illness were treated. Many children and adults being abandoned in hospitals or hidden away never to be seen by others. Even though I was born long after the turn of the century, the attitudes still remain. Mostly due to the lack of correct information and an open and frank dialogue about the impact of mental illness.

The silent darkness of suicide is only compounded by the silence of the story. Only by talking about suicide can we remove the misunderstanding of suicide. When people understand all aspects then, and only then, can we remove the shame and allow people suffering with depression the right to feel okay to ask for help. The right to feel it is okay to cry when sad or laugh when you feel like laughing.

By no means, is my story done. Every day is still a battle against not only the depression and anxiety but the misconception that not only my family has about my battle but the general public.

 The last two weeks have been particularly hard for me to deal with.

[sumikoirala]

Advice for Colombia from countries that have sought peace – and sometimes found it

After 55 years of civil conflict that killed some 220,000 citizens, Colombia is indubitably on the path to peace.

Juan Manuel Santos’s government has signed a peace agreement with the FARC rebels and launched negotiations with the ELN, the country’s second-largest guerrilla group, which is still armed and active.

But accords are only the first step toward ending war. Afterwards come disarmament, reintegration, reparations, justice – all the hard work of making peace stick in a traumatised and deeply polarised nation.

At this fragile crossroads, The Conversation Global invited scholars to reflect on recent peace processes from around the globe. The question: what lessons could Colombia take away from other nations’ transitions from civil war to peace?

Northern Ireland: Transition is rarely clear-cut

Hearses carry the coffins of IRA guerillas in Belfast, 1988. Nick Didlick/Reuters

All peace agreements have common features, regardless of the specific conflicts involved. They are an ending and a beginning, and the transition is rarely clear-cut. Peace settlements bring their own problems, because they represent compromises in which parties abandon their top choice (victory) for a mutually agreed-upon settlement. So invariably some opponents remain loyal to their first preference, forming a constituency automatically opposed to the peace deal.

Unlike the original Colombian accord, Northern Ireland’s Good Friday Agreement passed its referendum. But enthusiasm soon dwindled and, as in Colombia, anti-agreement forces tried to deconstruct and renegotiate the deal – sometimes by returning to use of violence, and often by politicising victim issues and the past more generally. So the period of euphoric grace that accompanies peace settlements can be short.

I would also remind Colombia that peace agreements do not suddenly beget political agreement. If effective, they institutionalise peace by establishing political structures through which continued disagreement should be pursued. The Northern Irish continue to disagree over the border, social exclusion, and economic decline, issues that are now overlaid by the legacies of the peace deal itself, including reckoning with the past, victim recompense, and how to handle former combatants.

Protesters at a Northern Irish peace rally, 1993. Andrew Wong/Reuters

Colombia has significant socio-political and economic disagreements to manage, including poverty, land reform, drug cartels and indigenous democratic particiption. These will not disappear with a signed accord.

The Colombian President has remarked how inspirational he found Northern Ireland’s peace process. And people from all sides in the North were deeply involved in the Colombian negotiations.

But we can also learn from Colombia’s agreement, which has a few key advantages over Northern Ireland. Crucially, it makes provisions for a thorough process of demilitarisation and demobilisation of armed groups and includes a formal process of truth recovery, overseen by third-party international agencies.

The truth can be troublesome – but countries seeking lasting peace must seek and debate it.

John Brewer, Queen’s University Belfast

Argentina: Real justice requires trade offs

People await a verdict in the 2013 trial of former Argentinean dictator Jorge Videla. Reuters

In transitional justice, preserving democracy may conflict with equal application of criminal law. While it is crucial to deliver the message that nobody is above the law, it is also fundamental to protect people’s freedoms. Doing so may imply making trade-offs that many citizens will find unacceptable.

Raúl Alfonsín faced these moral dilemmas when he took office in 1983 as Argentina’s first elected president after the dictatorships that tormented the country between 1976 and 1983.

Three main convictions drove Alfonsín’s approach.

First, reestablishing the rule of law meant that at the very least those responsible for designing and commanding massive human rights violations should be punished; otherwise, the notion that powerful people could escape justice would erode or even impede new democratic institutions.

Second, to prevent a repeat of past horrors, people must know the entire truth about what happened.

Finally, all this must be done without risking the future peace and freedom of Argentineans, meaning that under no circumstances should the country’s fragile new democracy be exposed to a breakdown.

General Videla on trial, far right. Reuters

Alfonsín’s plan did not please everybody. But despite most forecasts, Argentina was the first country in the world that sought to punish the leaders of one Latin America’s bloodiest dictatorships. We did this just months after they had left power, with our own courts and judges.

President Nestor Kirchner opened or re-opened trials against the rest of the perpetrators 20 years later. This occurred only after years of claims from human rights advocates and, it’s worth noting, in a much less threatening national context.

Colombia is confronting a similarly complex situation, and no single act is sufficient to handle the past. Peace and closure are part of a decades-long process in which society makes and remakes its plans while holding onto its main moral convictions.

Roberto P. Saba, Universidad de Palermo

Bosnia: Don’t politicise victims

People run for cover as they pass an area of heavy Serb sniper fire in the besieged Sarajevo, Bosnia, 1993. Chris Helgren/Reuters

Colombia can learn a few things from Bosnia’s fragile peace processes, which were initiated more than two decades ago. The 1995 Dayton Peace Accords, although not envisaged as a final solution, laid the ground for the constitution of the new Bosnia and Herzegovina after the  three-and-a-half year Bosnian War.

One obvious difference from Colombia is that instead of uniting fighting factions, the peace agreement divided the country into several different administrative units, based on ethnic origin. This arrangement makes it difficult to obtain political agreements on almost anything of concern to the country and has led to ethnicity-based divisions.

In Bosnia, attempts to establish a truth and reconciliation commission failed; there has simply been no political will to establish one. So retributive justice became the government’s only transitional justice mechanism.

In this sense, it is good that Colombia’s initiative is more comprehensive and has emerged from within; peace and reconciliation should never be imposed by third parties.

Bosnians marching for peace in 2015, 20 years after the war’s end. Reuters

Also positive is that the Colombian accords are based on principles of restorative justice, and include a combination of judicial and non-judicial measures, a truth commission and guarantees of non-repetition.

Still, this alone is not enough. Other actors and mechanisms – including civil society groups and various forms of cultural interventions – should not be marginalised.

And though victims’ rights seem to have made their way into Colombia’s peace agreement, victims of the conflict must be included in decision-making and law-making processes.

Critically, this includes taking into account victims’ genders. Bosnia’s Dayton Accords were gender-blind. No women were present during their negotiation or signing, and the accords do not deal with harms suffered by women in war, nor address women’s victims specific needs in its aftermath.

I applaud that Colombia’s accord acknowledges that the future truth and reconciliation commission should pay specific attention to women. But women should not be portrayed solely as “especially vulnerable” victims; they must also be peace-builders and decision-makers, as the United Nations recommends.

Finally, Colombia must not politicise victims or victimhood. Each representative of the Bosnian government glorifies victimhood of its own people to sustain an atmosphere of fear, power and control, while the victimhood and suffering of others has hardly been recognised. Colombia would be wise to avoid creating hierarchies of crimes, as that is not a recipe for reconciliation.

Twenty years down the road Colombia should, hopefully, not have only peace accords (as Bosnia does), but peace.

Olivera Simic, Griffith University

Democratic Republic of the Congo: A lesson in what not to do

Rwandan soldiers departing the Democratic Republic of the Congo after peace accords were signed, 2002. Reuters

The Democratic Republic of the Congo started a decade-long disarmament, demobilisation, and reintegration (DDR) package, funded mainly through the World Bank, after the Second Congo War (1998-2003) had killed an estimated 3.9 million people. In terms of peace processes, it is a lesson in what not to do.

Though relatively successful in disarming and registering combatants, the Congo’s DDR largely failed to deliver peace, security or socio-economic development to ex-combatants, their families or to the Congolese people.

Today, the Congo’s economy is in shambles, it has a rogue president and civilian deaths and armed conflict are resurgent.

The underlying problem was that the peace process was externally driven. In addition to the World Bank, both the UN and International Organisation of Migration ran parallel and competing missions.

Three other challenges could be illustrative for Colombia.

First, the Congo’s DDR lacked consistent or widespread grassroots consultations with war victims and ex-combatants. As a result, the programme seemed disconnected from the needs of many communities.

DRC’s President Kabila at peace talks, 2001. Mike Hutchings/Reuters

Victims weren’t given psychological support, and job training for ex-combatants was mediocre and often inappropriate: most former soldiers had personal aspirations – from finishing their education to running a business or learning computer-programming skills – but these options weren’t open to them.

Second, funding – especially in the final, reintegration phase – arrived late or dried up, meaning that follow-up was poor. With no one to check in on and help ex-combatants succeed in civilian life, my research shows that many DRC ex-combatants rejoined active armed groups.

Finally, top commanders were awarded prestigious government positions. This may have helped avoid spoiler behaviour, but it provided little justice for the millions of ordinary Congolese who had suffered for decades.

So, for Colombia, I would emphasise that the reintegration process must be adequately budgeted through all phases, from training to follow-up. The government must also continue to give both ex-combatants and communities space to voice their concerns and expectations.

In the end, for the World Bank, UN and IOM, the Congo’s DDR programme was more a technical exercise than a matter of justice or healing. Beneficiary communities and combatants were more statistics than human beings. These international organisations were mostly ignorant of the Congo’s long history of violence, which originated in colonial times and involved numerous local and international actors (including local and proxy militias, former dictator Mobutu’s cronies, the United States, Belgium, the UN, Uganda and Rwanda).

You can’t succeed in the ambitious endeavour of peace without understanding local historic and social dynamics. Colombia’s peace process has been driven domestically, by its president, and is heavily rooted in the country’s national context. That’s a good sign.

Stephanie Perazzone, Graduate Institute of International and Development Studies