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danjo-ao3 · 4 years

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When Ashes Fall p.2

Pairing: Reaper/female Reader

Summary: You are a combat medic working for Overwatch, when a mission goes south and you cross paths with Talon mercenary Reaper. But will he kill you on the spot or is there more to this encounter?

Rating: 18+

Tags/Warnings: rape/non-con, violence, blood, emotional manipulation, blackmail, kidnapping

Word count: 52,215 (in 5 parts)

A/N: the warnings are clear on this one. Yes, there is going to be rape/non-con, and it’s going to get explicit. I strongly advise anyone who is not into that kind of story to turn back around, because this is going to get pretty heavy and will finally be the non-con story with Reaper that I had always wanted to write.

Part 2 / 5 ( part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5)

***

“Ay, Akande. What is it now?” A woman of a rather small stature entered the room, her right hand busily tapping at purple holograms before her, while she popped her bubblegum noisily. Everything about her was purple, in fact. Her clothes, the tips of her dark hair, as well as her makeup. When she finally noticed you, a mixture between surprise and amusement crossed her face. “Hola, chica,” She greeted you, her demeanor cheeky and aloof as she waved her long nailed hand at you. “This your newest conquest?” The sarcasm rang heavy in her tone of voice as she addressed Ogundimu again and tsked, then proceeded to chew the gum obnoxiously loud. “Fresh out the asylum now, is it?” And she chuckled to herself at her remark.

You could only sit and stare at her, all too aware of how you very much looked like she described you. Not that it mattered anyway, the only thing not sitting right with you was how she assumed you somehow were this man’s mistress.

Ogundimu’s face betrayed nothing of what he might have thought about her careless comment.

“Sombra,” He said curtly, making it clear that he wasn’t in the mood for her shenanigans. “This is our newest agent,” His hand gestured toward you and Sombra’s bubblegum popped again as she looked at you once more, the surprise outshining the amusement on her face.

But after another good look she grinned. “Ah, but you’re messing with me,” She said with a dismissive handshake, wiping the hologram before her out of existence.

Ogundimu smiled to himself. “You will look after her, show her around. Basically, you’ll be her shadow for now.”

Sombra’s eyes narrowed, they flicked over to you, then back to Ogundimu.

“Is this for the Volskaya mission?”

“Maybe.”

“Ugh, fine. But then we’re even, you hear me?” She sounded annoyed, but already went back to the door she had entered through, then she looked over her shoulder at you. “You coming or what, chica?”

With one last look at Ogundimu, you rose from the chair and walked over to the woman, hyper aware of both of their eyes on you.

“First visit will be a closet. What is that?” She opened the door while pointing at your hospital garb.

“They’re—”

“Nevermind. We will get some decent clothes for you. Can’t be seen with you running around like that.” With that she once again projected a holographic display in front of her, while she navigated through various interfaces with her hand. You bristled faintly at her jab, it wasn’t like it was your choice of clothing either. But you got the impression that this Sombra woman wasn’t particularly interested in what you had to say anyway, so you just kept your mouth shut and tagged along.

You didn’t walk far, only a few corridors further and one staircase down and your surroundings resembled more of a hotel than a terrorist base of operations. The whole time Sombra managed to use her holographic projection, she didn’t even have to look away once, not even when you both descended the stairs.

The furnishings down here were no less impressive than they had been upstairs though, the floor was carpeted, the walls a light cream and the doors looked like solid wood.

“Come along now, your room should be right—” She walked two more steps and stopped in front of a door with a sign saying “3E”. “—here.”

You just stood there, unsure of what you were supposed to do now. After a few seconds, Sombra looked away from her hologram and frowned at you impatiently.

“Open it?”

Then you hurried forward to turn the handle, but the door didn’t open, it was locked.

Next to you, Sombra sighed dramatically. “Mierda…” She said and began to fiddle with the interface of her holographic projection again, this time she went even quicker than before. “Stupid Akande didn’t even give me a damn key,” She mumbled to herself, but then you could hear the distinct clicking of a lock, then Sombra swiped her interface away again and brushed a strand of her hair behind one ear. “Go on, it’s open now.”

This time the door yielded inwards and you were greeted by a small sparsely furnished room with a bed and a chair in one corner and a door in the other.

You stood in the room as Sombra brushed past you, on her way to the built in wall closet. She stopped in front of it, addressing you again. “Get dressed and we can continue our grand tour,” She said with mock enthusiasm, like a tour guide with too many years on their back.

The closet held a surprisingly large amount of varying clothes in it, the only thing they all had in common was the Talon logo embroidered on them. You couldn’t help but frown at that, you were still pissed that you were basically Talon’s bitch now.

“How come you don’t have the Talon logo on your outfit?” You asked Sombra after removing a pair of pants and a hoodie from the closet, ready to change into comfortable, concealing clothes.

Sombra barked a laugh. “Oh, chica. I may be working for Talon, but I’m not one of Akande’s and Max’s little minions.” She scowled, then regarded her manicured nails. “I am more of a...freelancer.” Then she winked at you, before her eyes fell onto the clothes in your hand, which immediately made her scowl again. “So that is your choice?” One eyebrow rose, but then she apparently remembered that she didn’t actually care about you and waved any comeback of yours off. “Alright, you change and I’ll be waiting for you outside.” Then she went to the door, but before she left, she spoke up again “Don’t keep me waiting.”

Finally left alone again, you took a deep breath to center yourself. You undressed slowly, as if in a trance. Really, you couldn’t think about all this right now, it was too much, too fast. And you were sure you would break down on the floor into a heap of sobs and cries about how life specifically hated you. So instead, you stripped the hospital gown off of you, slipped on underwear and pants and finally the hoodie.

“That’s better,” You said to yourself, then looked around you again. The door on the other side of the room led into a small bathroom, with fluffy towels next to a shower and fragrant soap lying on the sink. Well, Overwatch had about the same amount of luxury, but there you were allowed to leave…

Pulling yourself together again, you slammed the bathroom door shut and went to join Sombra outside of your new room.

“What’s been taking you so long?” She sounded annoyed from where she stood against the opposite wall, not even looking at you as she worked on her holo interface.

You only rolled your eyes at her for being so damn impatient. Already her demeanor was getting on your nerves, how you were supposed to get along with her at all was a mystery to you. But then again, who cared about your comfort here anyway? You were nothing but a prisoner, only that the metaphorical bars were shaped like Caleb.

***

Your grand tour, it turned out, was a trip to the gym, the practice range, and lastly the café (which kind of surprised you—which evil organization had a freaking café?). The feeling that you were actually in a grand hotel was starting to manifest.

Sombra granted you access to all these places with her weird interface thingy.

“If you want to go somewhere else, I will escort you and if you behave, maybe I’ll give you clearance for those as well,” She had said.

But now you both sat in the café on a table close to a window, your gaze flitted over that unfamiliar cityscape.

“Where are we anyway,” you asked and Sombra looked up from sipping her coffee.

“Talon headquarters.”

Headquarters? Well, that explained the whole very important and grand vibe of the place. You were about to mention that that hadn’t been your actual question, but somehow you knew you weren’t going to get a straightforward answer after all.

You sighed and nibbled on your cucumber sandwich. Sombra hadn’t even asked what you wanted to eat and had ordered for the both of you with a few gestures onto her holographic interface.

“Oh, our time’s up,” Sombra looked at you with those glittering eyes, then took one bite out of her own sandwich. “Akande wants you to go to the doc next,” She informed you and was already on her way out of her seat without even sparing another glance at you. “See you tomorrow, I guess.”

And with that she left the café, leaving you behind with a half eaten sandwich lying on your plate. You regarded it thoughtfully, the meager appetite you’d had long gone. So you pushed the plate away from you and finished your coffee in silence.

What now? You let your heavy head fall into your hand and stared wistfully at the sky outside, it was cloudy but still bright, a really nice day actually. And you were trapped here.

After you downed the last sip of your coffee, you rose to get to Dr. O’Deorain’s lab once more, even though you felt apprehension at the very thought of going back there.

As you left the café, you tried to backtrack the way you had come from, unsure of where the lab was situated. You groaned when you realized you were lost, you absolutely didn’t recognize your surroundings. You took the nearest elevator and commanded it to take you to the lower levels of the building, which it did. At least you were now one step closer to your destination.

The doors opened to a darkened hallway not unlike the one that had led to the lab and you couldn’t help but feel a little proud of your sense of direction. Cautiously, you moved along the halls and—lo and behold—there were the doors to the laboratory. All the joy you had felt at finding the way on your own vanished with a pang of anxiety in your gut. The doctor hadn’t seemed like a very pleasant person to you, having to work for her didn’t sound appealing at all. But you didn’t have a choice either way, so you went forward to find a way inside.

There was a card reader next to the doors with blinking LEDs and a holographic display asking for authorization.

Of course you didn’t have anything on you to gain access; bloody typical. You realized you’d have to do this the old fashioned way and simply knocked with a slightly shaking hand.

After a few seconds, the door opened and another unfamiliar face greeted you as it peered through the crack. It was a young woman, maybe a little older than you, with spectacles and a messy brown bun on her head.

“Yes?” She asked you with an accusatory glare.

“Um, I’m supposed to meet Dr. O’Deorain,” You explained and immediately, the girl’s face lit up.

“Oh, you must be the new intern!” She sounded excited and opened the doors wide to let you in. Well, this was the nicest welcome you had received so far and the knowledge of having someone benign at your side was at least a little comforting.

You stepped into the lab with trepidation, it looked the same as when you had left it in a hurry. The only exception was that the examination table was once again occupied. The black mass of a person created a stark contrast to the white surroundings and it made them stick out like a sore thumb. You instantly knew who it was, too.

It was the man, slash demon, who had kidnapped you after the explosion. Unbidden, your breath hitched and you stopped in your tracks, eyes wide as you took in the entirety of his massive form currently lying on that table. There were several machines attached to him in various places, displaying his vitals. Flashbacks of a cold shotgun barrel pressed against your forehead made you shiver.

So far you hadn’t been able to find an explanation for this hallucination you’d had, even though Ogundimu had not been subtle with his remarks about it. But now, fully awake and aware, you couldn’t deny that what had happened to you was as real as the man currently lying in front of you. Not a hallucination then.

Holy shit.

“Is everything alright?” It sounded from your right, and only now did you remember that you weren’t alone in the lab. Turning your suddenly stiff body away from the man, you again addressed the nice woman who had let you in.

“Yeah,” You answered as your eyes darted back to the table once more. In the same breath and a slightly higher pitched voice you asked, “Who’s that?”

“Oh, you’re really new, aren’t you?” She smiled reassuringly, set down a holopad she had been working on and motioned for you to sit next to her on a stool facing a long table currently holding a few test tubes. “First things first, I am Casey,” She held out her hand to you, which you immediately shook, and then you gave her your name as well.

“This there on the table is a man who calls himself Reaper, he’s in here quite often. I don’t know his real name, but Dr. O’Deorain is working with him,” Casey began, then she leaned a little closer to you and went on a little quieter. “Personally, I think she’s using him for an experiment of hers, though. Don’t know if he’s aware of it, but he certainly doesn’t seem to mind.”

You squinted at Casey, then the man.

“—Reaper? He...calls himself that?”

Casey nodded with a shrug and a half smile. Like it wasn’t concerning at all that somebody named themselves after death’s persona. The fine hairs on the back of your neck rose at the memory of the man removing his mask to reveal inky nothingness and two red orbs that had stared into your soul. Already you were making a mental note to request not having to work in the lab when he was present.

“Don’t you find him creepy?” The incredulousness in your voice was hard to suppress.

“Of course,” Casey pushed her glasses back onto her nose. “But I usually don’t have to deal with him, he’s Dr. O’Deorain’s project and she doesn’t like lab assistants messing up her work.” You could see a small frown beginning to form on her forehead as she finished her sentence. She sounded resentful.

“So what do you do around here?” You changed the subject and looked around for emphasis.

Already, she was perking up again. “Oh, I assist the doc with her work and do tests while she is doing her research and experiments.”

As you watched her you could clearly see that she was enthusiastic about her work. A question popped into your head.

“Can I...can I ask you something personal?”

“What is it?”

“Why are you here?”

Casey blinked at you once, then she smiled again. “I want to become a geneticist, and working under Dr. O’Deorain sounded like an opportunity of a lifetime.”

“But, you are also working for Talon.” Why would a sweet girl like her work here? It didn’t seem like she was being forced to be here either. That, or she was a great actor.

Casey deflated a little, the line of her mouth went grim. “Trust me, I know. And I don’t particularly like the fact that I am. But, like I said this was an opportunity I couldn’t have let fly by me.” She even looked a tad guilty.

A long silence followed. The fact that she didn’t ask why you were here spoke volumes. She definitely knew about you, no need to ask.

That was depressing.

Your gaze had landed on the man again, he was lying there like a storm cloud would hang above you forebodingly, a menacing presence that could strike any second.

“Is he unconscious?” You asked Casey who had started working on her holopad again.

“Yeah, he is in a regeneration phase.” She answered while tapping holographic buttons. “Has been blown up pretty badly in the last mission.”

“Blown up?”

“Yes, you should have seen him when he came in. He was barely in human shape at all.”

You gulped. What the hell was she talking about? But before you could ask her, Dr. O’Deorain entered the lab.

“There you are,” She said to you in lieu of a greeting, and held out her hand to Casey who hurried to pass her the holopad she had been working on. “I need you to do something for me.”

“Yes, doctor,” Casey responded immediately and as you looked at her you could see the admiration in her eyes.

The doctor didn’t wait for your reply and went on to explain. “Subject R-24 has almost completed regeneration, he only needs his weekly dosage of serum 3442.” She sighed. “But I have to leave because some cretin thought it would be a good idea to ship my chemicals with highly explosive substances.”

Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she finally addressed you. “You two will have to administer the serum. One will inject, the other has to monitor the vitals.” That was all you were told before she left the lab again.

Casey jumped from her stool and went to get the serum while you rose as well and awkwardly walked over to the displays on a big screen. Ok, you could do this, just checking and alarming Casey if something was wrong. There was the line indicating his heart beat, but something about it was off. The peaks weren’t high enough to be considered healthy, it was as if he took his very last breaths. With concern you turned to Casey, who was drawing the serum into a syringe.

“What’s with this heartbeat?” You asked and while Casey removed any air bubbles from the syringe, she answered you.

“Well, that happens when you’re kind of a wraith.”

A what?

You just stared at her, then at patient R-24, or rather Reaper, and decided that you were definitely staying as far away from him as possible. What was Dr. O’Deorain doing here?

After disinfecting the spot she was going to use for injection, Casey inserted the needle in between the pieces of the man’s bulky armor, into the greyish dark skin of his left arm. It was surreal to watch how he lay there on the examination table in full gear, even his white skeletal mask was in place and his head covered by his black hood. Why had he chosen this specific getup? To be intimidating, probably.

When Casey was finished with the injection, she put away the syringe and removed the medical gloves she had been wearing. With a satisfied smile she turned to you, took a last look at the vitals display and moved back to her holopad. “I’ll just finish these reports and then we can wrap it up.”

“Okay,” You answered from where you were still standing, between the screen and the man on the table. While you didn’t want to look at him for longer than you had to, there was a strange fascination about him. Now that you were fully aware of your surroundings and your brain wasn’t lacking oxygen, you could finally take an actual look. You’d never seen someone like that before, and you were hesitant to believe what you’d been told. A wraith...what the hell was that even supposed to mean? Aside from the weird armor and extremely unhealthy looking skin on his arms, you thought he looked like a regular man. If said man was a shotgun wielding maniac.

Your gaze wandered over his form, metal and leather created a thick second skin that clung to his muscular physique. The metal claws at the end of his fingers looked pointy and dangerous and you were certain he could disembowel a person with them if he so desired.

As if on their own accord, your slightly shaking fingers reached out and touched the cold metal tentatively. You brushed them upwards over the back of his gloved hand and between two protruding spikes until you reached the gap between gauntlet and shoulder armor, your fingers hovered above his bare skin. Then you pressed the pad of your index and middle finger to it, sending out just a little bit of healing in morbid curiosity. His skin was not exactly warm, but not too cold either. It was really weird and you immediately wanted to remove your hand again as his skin began to warm from your touch.

Just then his body tensed, as if he’d been electrocuted, and the hand that had previously been lying motionless shot up to grab your wrist. Gasping in panic, you tried to wrench your arm free, but his claws were already digging into your flesh painfully.

“Casey!” You called out to the other lab assistant, who turned around to you with a look of shock.

“Hold on,” She said as she rushed over to you and tried to pry off the man’s claws from your arm. Not even with her help you were able to remove them, and you felt the panic inside you rising. It hurt like hell and you were sure he was going to draw blood any second.

But suddenly his grip did loosen and his hand fell off back to his side as if nothing had happened, leaving you to stumble backwards with the force of your pulling. You hit the wall with your back, still staring at the man on the table, who was once again motionless. Heart racing from your recent shock, you looked around to see Casey cautiously advancing towards you with her hands reaching out in a soothing motion.

“Are you okay?” She asked as she finally reached you.

With a last long breath, you finally relaxed enough to reply.

“Yeah...I think.”

Casey stopped in her tracks, a frown on her face, then she turned around to regard the man again. “That’s really weird. This never happened before,” She explained, her finger tapping against her chin in thought. “Did you do something?”

Somehow, you felt embarrassed to confess that you’d touched him, your gaze fell to your wrist which was showing angry red spots where it had been nearly crushed, indentations showed where his claws had been.

“Uh, I kinda...touched him.”

“Oh.” The way she said it sounded like this was explanation enough for her. “Yeah, don’t do that. We’re not supposed to anyway.”

“Got it,” You said meekly, although you vowed to never be in the same room as him again in the first place. Any questions you had about this weird rule were interrupted by a loud noise coming from one of the monitoring devices. Casey went over and tapped the touch panel beside it, then addressed you once more with a smile.

“Alright, we’re done here for today,” She announced cheerfully and shut off a few machines with practiced ease.

“So, we’re just leaving him here?” You asked uncertainly, even though you hated how interested you sounded in that weird masked man.

“Yes, he will rest here for a few more hours,” She said offhandedly and already began turning off the lights. Hurriedly, you walked towards the exit, because you really weren’t keen on staying in this room with him while it was darkened as well. Hell no.

You waited for Casey outside the double doors of the lab, feeling a little shaky from that whole ordeal just now and only wished to go to bed. She joined you quickly, a key card around her neck. She smiled again when she saw you, then proceeded to close the doors behind her. You couldn’t help but notice that she didn’t lock them.

“Aren’t you going to lock the lab up?”

“And trap Reaper inside?” She laughed. “I usually do, but not when he’s still in. I did it once and he wasn’t exactly happy about it.”

The way her face scrunched up spoke volumes.

“What happened?”

“Well, let’s just say Dr. O’Deorain was even more pissed at me than he was. He simply broke the door down you see.” She shook her head. “What a mess.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “That sounds...terrifying, to be honest.”

“Doesn’t it?” But her laugh made her statement sound pretty ominous, and you started to wonder if Casey was alright. She almost seemed too cheerful.

The first few days at Talon HQ went by for you in kind of a haze. You got up at six in the morning to get ready for your work in the lab. Thankfully, Reaper wasn’t present at all during that time, and you were a little relieved.

Dr. O’Deorain apparently wasn’t much of a talker, the most she spoke to you were instructions or orders for your daily tasks. Today, though, she approached you with a gleam in her eye. You got a bad feeling immediately.

“Come over to the examination table, please,” She addressed you as she turned away, then you saw Casey looking at you with a mix between concern, intrigue, and just a little bit of envy.

As you neared the shiny stainless steel table, you saw something lying on it. It was a glove; dark purple with wires running over its surface from the back to the tips. You knew right away that this was a new amplifying glove for your healing abilities. Curiously, you reached for it, then hesitated. Before you touched it, you made sure it was okay for you to do so. With a small nod, Dr. O’Deorain confirmed it for you and you picked it up.

The glove was obviously still a prototype, the material wasn’t properly sewn shut and most of the wires weren’t even insulated. So you put it on very carefully. It fit you snugly. You made a fist to test the stretch of it and it felt like a second skin, expanding and retracting in time with your movements.

You studied it some more before the doctor gave you a small sharp smile. “Go ahead. Try it.”

Tentatively, you rubbed the tips of your fingers together, a warm yellow light began to glow where they touched. Then you extended your arm away from you, concentrated and consciously began collecting your healing in the palm of your hand. The small glow at your fingertips began to expand and started sending light away from you in a concentrated, but gentle spray. Before it could touch the ground though, it dissolved into nothingness.

After a few seconds, you started to feel your arm going numb, it grew heavy and you had to lower it back to your side, clutching it with your left hand to your chest.

That was weird. You never had experienced pain or discomfort before when you had used your healing ability. But this glove, it seemed to work differently than the one you had been given by Dr. Ziegler.

Dr. O’Deorain was at your side in a heartbeat, unwound your limbs and removed the glove from your hand with a satisfied expression on her face.

You winced.

“What was that?” You asked as you tried to rub some life back into your arm.

The doctor chuckled quietly to herself as she laid the glove down on her work table, then she turned back to you.

“This is my invention,” She began. “It is derived of the nanite technology your former mentor and I had been working on.” She reached over the desk to grab a small device, which she connected to one of the open wires. “Only that it is ten times more powerful than what she has come up with.”

You had a feeling that the smug smile she flashed at you was definitely meant for Dr. Ziegler.

Great, apparently you were one of her new experiments, and her goal was to one up her old colleague.

“It is still in its test phase, but it should be ready for the upcoming mission,” The doctor informed you.

“Mission?”

“Yes, the council wants you on the next one, and I have been working day and night on this amplifier.”

Your heart sank at these news. So you were supposed to actively accompany these terrorists on their terrorist attacks, too? It was bad enough that you had to help them in the science department, but you never agreed to be out in the field as well.

Of course, what you wanted or didn’t agree to didn’t matter in the slightest and you doubted the doc even cared, so you chose to keep your mouth shut about it.

“What kind of mission is this going to be?” You asked, but the doctor simply shrugged.

“I didn’t ask,” Was all she said, apparently already moving on to much more important things. You wondered if the doctor tried to stay as ignorant as possible to Talon’s doings because, maybe she had something like a conscience, or if she was simply too focused on her research to trouble herself with anything else.

Experimenting on people definitely sounded more like option two to you, though.

When you didn’t move away from behind her, she turned around with an irritated frown. With a sigh, she put down the device.

“All I do know is that I have two more days to finish this,” She said and pointed to the project behind her on the desk with a tilt of her head. “And I need all the time I have for it to be ready by then. So,” She narrowed her eyes. “Let me work, unless you want to run around and hug everyone you’re supposed to heal.” With that she turned around once more, the conversation over.

That sounded reasonable.

You left her alone for the remainder of the two days you were working in the lab, instead talking and socializing with Casey who, you learned, would not be a part of the mission you’d been assigned to.

That didn’t surprise you though, Casey hadn’t struck you as the kind of person who walks around shooting people.

But neither were you. Well, of course you’d had gun training, but so far you’d never had to actually shoot somebody. And you’d prefer if it stayed that way, especially now that you were on the wrong team, too. Ugh, what a mess.

***

It was the day of the mission and you were seated in the briefing room. A dark place, the carpet, seats and table, even the walls were a dull grey, only accentuated by metallic details here and there gleaming in the dull indirect lighting. The only bright spot was the large Talon logo on the opposite wall, mocking you obnoxiously in its bright red colours.

There were people sitting around you, none of whom you recognized, and they were quietly listening to Ogundimu, who stood at the head of the long oval table, explaining your course of action.

Apparently, there were going to be four small teams of two working together at different places located around a big hotel where the person you were supposed to take out was currently residing at.

Assassination...well, this went off to a good start. You sighed inwardly, sinking into your seat a little more, not exactly trying to hide, but not wanting to be there either.

The way Ogundimu spoke really made him sound convinced of his own plan, you could see now how he had been able to rise in Talon’s ranks up so quickly. He was leader material with his educated choice of words, the way he spoke and carried himself. It instilled awe and inspired confidence, not in you of course. But as you looked around you saw some of the others nod and even grin amongst themselves. They were sure his plan wouldn’t fail.

Everybody seemed to know about the person you were going to kill, there were no details given about him other than his name. This killing seemed to have been a long time coming. You weren’t going to raise your hand and ask about him though, nope.

What’s the saying again? Ignorance is bliss.

Ogundimu was coming to an end, some people around you sat up straighter, suddenly antsy with anticipation. They were looking forward to this, you realized with poorly concealed disgust, as you side eyed them.

“Ah,” Ogundimu called out your name. “Are you ready for your first mission?” He gave you a lazy smile and crossed his arms in front of his massive chest.

Everybody turned to look at you and you could feel your cheeks burn with self-consciousness. That was Ogundimu’s intention, no doubt.

“Yes,” You answered, after clearing your throat tentatively.

“Good,” He kept smiling, then addressed the others in the room again. “You will all work in the usual teams. We’re leaving in ten minutes. Dismissed.”

Suddenly everyone got up and left, already partnering up, leaving you to hurry up and follow them. Whom were you supposed to team up with? You had counted nine people, excluding Ogundimu who would be working alone. And that left you short one person to make a team.

As you exited the room and stood forlorn in the hallway, a heavy hand fell onto your shoulder. You spun around in surprise and found Ogundimu towering above you.

“I have a special teammate for you,” He said ominously and started leading you towards the meeting point, his hand falling away after a few meters.

A question burned on your mind, but you were hesitant to ask.

“How is Caleb?” You just had to know.

Ogundimu kept walking stoically, then shifted his gaze towards you.

“Do your job and he’ll be just fine,” He said quietly, a hint of threat behind his words though, and you nodded minutely in understanding.

The two of you neared your destination, an underground hangar with numerous vehicles and aircrafts suddenly opened up before you. The teams were already paired up and ready to leave, while you were still in the dark about your partner. The way Ogundimu had made it sound wasn’t very reassuring either. Who was this special teammate; Sombra? You hadn’t seen her in a few days, not after you spent the majority of the day at the lab. Apparently, she was satisfied with her observation of you. That, or she was finally bored enough to simply ignore you again.

The man gave you a gentle push when you had stopped to take in the impressive surroundings, and he was now walking behind you towards a small helicopter. Its pilot was already inside, their features hidden from view by a helmet and visor, but you were certain that this wasn’t going to be that mystery teammate. Just as you walked past the cockpit on the outside, your head coming around to look in front of you, you saw him.

It was Reaper. He stood in the shadow of the helicopter, dark robes and white skeletal mask in their usual place.

You made a full stop and, with your heart in your throat, took a step back, bumping into Ogundimu behind you.

No, no, no, no, no, no!

He was going to be your partner? Shit. You should have known, Ogundimu was way too amused by your whole dealings with the black robed man to not do this to you.

“Your new partner,” the man behind you said, to Reaper or you, you weren’t too sure. But his smile was evident in his voice. You moved away from Ogundimu, trying in vain not to look as spooked as you felt. Reaper crossed his arms in front of him, regarding you through the mask on his face.

“You can’t be serious,” Reaper answered in his gravelly voice, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, the darkness creating dramatic shadows on his mask.

“You have a flight to catch,” Ogundimu ignored him, then he produced your new amplifying glove from his pocket and tossed it to you, fully expecting you to catch it. Thankfully, you managed to grab it before it fell to the ground, regarding it for a second. It looked way better now than it did two days ago for sure, the stitching was impeccable, all the wires were secured inside the stretchy, dark purple material but still visible. You put it on your right hand, again testing its flexibility.

“I work alone,” Reaper tried again to catch the other man’s attention. Ogundimu leveled him with a stare.

“You’re becoming more reckless.” The other said in a low voice, only meant for Reaper. “Last time it cost us the mission,” He went on after taking a step forward. “I cannot take that risk this time, Gabriel.”

Gabriel, huh? Not as menacing as Reaper, that was for sure.

They were doing some kind of face off, both staring each other down and you stood there forgotten. You hated awkward situations like these, especially if it involved you.

Suddenly Ogundimu leaned away again, his stance became more casual and a small smile played on his lips.

“I’m surprised. It was you who brought her here, why don’t you want to take her with you now?”

At that, Reaper’s head turned around to you like that of an owl, and your heart stuttered for a second there. Was he deliberately trying to be scary?

“So you want your new healer to die?” Reaper said to the other man, while still facing you. “Something will happen, and I will simply keep on living while she will be blown to pieces,” He went on, now fully addressing Ogundimu again.

Cold shivers ran down your spine, his words sounded like a dark prophecy. All this seemed to be a terrible idea and you were keen on joining Reaper’s side on this matter. They should leave you behind to keep on working in the lab.

But Ogundimu didn’t seem convinced of Reaper’s doom-mongering, his smile didn’t falter.

“Well, she already encountered death once,” He looked over to you. “And emerged very much alive. I’d also advise you to not let it happen again.”

“I’m not playing babysitter.” Reaper ground out in a low growl, it was an unnatural sound you never wanted to hear again. You also hated how those two simply talked as if you weren’t there, like you were some kind of burden, or the annoying little cousin.

You didn’t want to be here either, but nobody asked you now, did they?

“I can take care of myself,” You just had to chime in, you were slowly getting annoyed with those two. You were an agent of Overwatch, for fuck’s sake. You could handle any mission. Reaper let his arms fall back to his side, tilted up his head to look down at you from even farther above. Then he made a non-committal sound and whirled away to enter the helicopter. You swore you could see dark mist following in his wake, but as you were distracted by it, Ogundimu’s heavy hand landed on your shoulder once more. Everytime it felt like a ton of bricks came down on you, making your knees buckle with the force of it.

“Do good work,” He reminded you again quietly, “And your friend will be fine.”

You stared at him while you were dying on the inside. Great, he just had to add insult to injury with mentioning Caleb again, reminding you that you had to do whatever you were told.

“Sure,” Was all you said, then brushed off his hand and followed Reaper inside the helicopter. The pilot had already started the engine and it was growing louder by the second.

The helicopter was moderately sized for a small team such as yours. Two people fit comfortably in the back with a little bit of space between, thankfully. You tried to stay as far on your side as possible, leaning heavily against the door. From here you could see people scurrying away hunched over from the fast turning rotor blades. All except Ogundimu, who was walking at a leisurely pace, his hands in his pockets, back straight and looking right at you.

Was everyone in Talon so...intense?

With a small sigh, you shifted your gaze away from the man and instead focused on how the helicopter began flying upwards through a gigantic chute and into the beautiful late afternoon sky. Only a few clouds were hanging on the bright blue horizon and you had to shield your eyes from the sun.

Suddenly something landed in your lap. Startled, you looked down and found a helmet lying there. The pilot had thrown it at you when he’d noticed your presence, he gave you a thumbs-up, and somehow this small gesture made you feel a little better.

But as you put on the helmet you already felt foolish again, because this man was working for Talon as well. He was one of the bad guys.

Just like you were now.

Ugh. You could feel a headache forming behind your eyes.

It was almost dark by the time you arrived at your destination. It was a recently built apartment tower just across from the hotel. It was so recent in fact, that nobody had moved in yet. But furniture had been set up in various places, you noticed as you and Reaper entered one of the apartments with huge floor length windows. They let in the moonlight that was shining brightly tonight, which was a blessing really because you couldn’t turn on the lights without giving away your presence.

This position allowed you to observe without being seen in turn. Really, you were just backup in case things went south.

Although you hated Talon and definitely didn’t want them to succeed, you also wondered what would happen to you or Caleb should the mission fail.

Reaper hadn’t spoken to you at all since you had taken off in the helicopter, and you were glad you didn’t have to talk to him. Now you were certain that the black mist you had seen before definitely hadn’t been your imagination. Whenever he was moving about, the sheer black mass rose up from the soles of his booted feet and outside of his mask.

Well, that happens when you’re kind of a wraith, Casey’s words rang through your head and you unconsciously hugged yourself. The apartment was chilly, with no one living here the heating wasn’t on either. Somewhere in the small backpack you had brought was a fleece jacket you now took out and put on. It didn’t help all that much, though but it would do for now.

Reaper was standing off to the side, looking out the window and absentmindedly checking one of his shotguns.

There were so many questions when it came to him, you realized. He was a big puzzle you kind of wanted to understand, but also wanted to stay as far away from as possible. Some of the things Ogundimu had said to you were flitting through your mind. Like how he was able to tell you about how Overwatch was a terrorist organization as well.

You scoffed at the thought, really that was just ridiculous.

At your small sound of incredulousness, Reaper turned around and laid down his shotgun on an unfinished kitchen counter nearby.

“Just to make this clear,” He began, “Should something come up I’m going alone. Got it?”

You were about to protest, but thought better of it. If he wanted to do it on his own so badly, why would you fight him on this? You could tell Ogundimu how he didn’t let you come with him and really, it wasn’t like you could force him to take you along.

“Fine,” You said nonchalantly, then moved over to sit down on a couch standing in the middle of the room. At least you were going to be comfortable while you had to wait for everything to pass.

And boy, was it boring.

While you were sitting there, already getting tired from the boredom and only the moon for lighting, Reaper was still in his spot by the window, an ever present shadow giving you occasional sparks of anxiety. It was best to ignore him, you thought, and instead looked around some more to judge these people’s taste in home decor.

Everything was so...bland. The furniture, the walls and carpets, even the pictures on the walls screamed pretentious and generic at the same time. Maybe these apartments were going to be rented for short periods of time instead of people buying them.

You were interrupted in your musings by a small beeping sound.

“Yes,” Reaper answered a comm device in his ear, then said “Acknowledged.” And picked up his shotguns to walk towards the door.

“Should I—,” You began but were stopped by Reaper whirling around and just staring at you blankly. Alright, you got it: stay here. You sat back and watched him leave the apartment.

What an egomaniac, you thought and snuggled into your fleece jacket to keep warm. The quiet was nice, you found, and soon enough you felt your eyes begin to drift shut.

***

Bang!

Your eyes snapped open, the serenity of the empty apartment greeted you but it was disrupted by the loud sound that had just woken you up. Across from you, there was the figure of a man inside a big black swirling mist curling in on itself and it was moving towards you.

With a shriek and your heart in your throat, you jumped up from the couch, only to knock over the coffee table next to it. You ended up on your ass on the floor and finally, your sluggish brain was able to catch up.

Before your eyes, the deathly white mask of Reaper was staring at you, and you consciously tried to calm down. Although that was quite the task, seeing how disfigured he looked. Besides his mask, nothing was in its original shape. His robes were torn, the left side of his torso didn’t seem to be able to decide on whether it was corporeal or not, the black mist coalescing into a part of a lung or skin tissue, then blowing apart violently again.

Horrified, you watched him approach you, a low pained groan erupted from him and somehow sounding from all around you as well.

He came ever closer, and although you knew he hadn’t come to kill you, you couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation. It was almost funny how you could have ever mistaken him for an angel.

He hadn’t moved towards you though, but rather the couch, and now sank into it. With a small breath of relief, you struggled back up again and over to your backpack to retrieve the amplifying glove.

“Leave it,” He ground out, his voice wavering as he leaned his head onto the back of the couch.

With a frown you stopped what you were doing and looked at him questioningly.

“I don’t—” He had trouble breathing. “—need your help.”

Incredulously, you propped your hands on your hips.

“What?” You asked him with an air of annoyance. “Look at you. You’re only half human...or whatever you are, right now.”

“I’ll manage,” He retorted stubbornly, and then you decided that he could die for all you cared.

“Fucking hell,” You muttered under your breath and stuffed the glove back inside your backpack, zipping it unnecessarily harsh. How irritating could someone be?

Still shaken and angry, you opted to sit down in a corner of the living room where you were able to still see what Reaper was doing. If he didn’t manage to heal on his own, you were going to have to help him out eventually. Ogundimu would not take kindly to you letting one if his agents die on your watch. The one having to suffer would be Caleb.

Minutes ticked by, the sounds coming from the wounded man were slowly turning from agony to lesser pain, and you were relieved that your help apparently wasn’t needed after all.

What a waste of time that has been, you thought as you sucked on your teeth absentmindedly.

Then suddenly, Reaper spoke to you again.

“Come here.”

Instead of the command spurring you into action though, it made you freeze in your spot. You stared at him, and he at you while he was clutching the left side of his body.

He growled when you didn’t do as you were told.

“Don’t make me repeat myself,” He warned, and finally you were able to get up, put on the glove and walked over to him on slightly shaking legs.

When you stopped before him, he carefully removed his clawed hand from his side to reveal the damage.

You winced sympathetically at the sight. Flesh and bone were visible amidst black mist that was trying in vain to knit them back together.

“Don’t just stand there, do something.”

Bristling, you concentrated on your healing ability, had it collect inside your palm and sent it out through the tips of the glove. Golden white light illuminated the black robed man before you and lit up the skeletal mask. You could see how flesh and bone were mending back together where the light spray touched his wound. Amazed at how fast he was healing, you wondered how Dr. O’Deorain had managed it, how she had altered the technology.

The bones were completely regenerated after a few moments, but you also felt your arm going numb again. Oh damn, the doc hadn’t changed anything about the glove’s abilities. The numbness soon began to fade and instead a dull pain began to throb, and you had to stop what you were doing. With a hiss you tried to rub life back into your appendage.

“Finish it,” Reaper growled at you, apparently very much in pain.

“I am trying!” You snapped back at him, fed up with his attitude and irritated by the pain. But there was no way for you to go on like this. “I can’t use this,” You finished as you pulled off the glove.

“What?” Reaper sounded annoyed, looked down himself and cursed. “Can’t you do it without that thing?”

You stopped and thought for a second. Touching him had not been a very good idea before, you remembered. Last time it had ended with his fist almost crushing your wrist. So you were reluctant to do it. Reaper must have seen your hesitance, because suddenly his bloodied and smoking hand shot forward to grab you by the back of your neck, pulling you towards him.

With a small yelp you landed on the couch beside him, propping yourself on your knees in order to not land directly in his lap.

“Listen,” He growled and you could feel the points of his sharp claws dig into your neck while his mask was mere centimeters away from your face. “You will heal me now or I can simply take your life force from you.”

You swallowed.

“Either way, I will be whole again,” He ended his threat, but kept holding onto you.

“Okay. Okay, fine!” You answered with your throat closing down in fear. There was no reason not to believe him. “Just—let go.”

Slowly, Reaper’s claws unhooked from your skin, leaving papercut fine wounds in their wake.

Finally free again you pulled away from him a little, wanting more space between you two.

“You need to move your arm,” You told him with a false calmness, and watched as he raised his arm to let it rest on the back of the couch, creating a space for you to get a bit closer to where you needed to be.

You raised shaking hands to his still open wound, fighting the urge to flee, and concentrated on your healing once more. Your palms became warm, the inner flow of the nanites inside your blood were a pleasant prickling on your hand and you closed your eyes in concentration.

With a final breath out, you closed the distance and touched him, his small grunt of pain made you jump a little although you had expected it, but you were able to keep up the healing process.

Beneath your fingers muscles began to form and take shape again, as well as vessels and fat tissue. Reaper sighed and seemed to relax beside you, that was a little reassuring at least.

Everything would have been fine, the healing was working, you had no time pressure and in this darkness you didn’t even have to close your eyes to not see how you were healing a Talon terrorist, slash mercenary, slash murderer.

But suddenly he groaned. No, actually moaned, and it broke your concentration. “There’s another spot,” He went on quietly and pulled your arm until you were half leaning over him. He guided your hand to his shoulder, where you felt was another wound quite deep as well. Your chest touched his, the coolness of his metallic armor seeped through your fleece jacket in no time and you shivered. The way you were lying across him now was uncomfortable, and very awkward.

Apparently, he thought the same because soon his hands started to rearrange you so you were actually straddling his legs, the metal again cold and unyielding beneath you, or were those his thighs? Either way, while he was visibly relaxing, you were a tense ball of apprehension, your concentration fleeting as your heart was hammering in your chest. You were still healing his wounds though, determined to finish it up as quickly as possible.

So when he stopped moving again, you felt confident enough to close your eyes and flee from reality for a moment, and that dreadful mask, instead focusing on the healing; one hand at his side, the other on his shoulder.

The only sounds you heard were Reaper’s ragged breaths and the blood rushing in your ears. Please let this be over soon, you prayed.

Again Reaper moaned quietly and you felt your stomach twist, you were so unbelievably uncomfortable with this whole situation. Why was this turning so weirdly...sexual all of a sudden? Your healing had never had such an effect on someone like this before, why with him?

While you were crying on the inside at the unfairness of it all, Reaper’s hands crept up your legs and came to rest on your waist, causing your breath to hitch and the healing to stop with how you wanted to pull away.

“No,” The man purred, “Keep going.” Then he leaned his head away again to let it rest on the couch’s back.

Oh god. This sounded so wrong.

You shook your head to clear it. Well, you would definitely have a word with someone about this later, but now you had to finally bring this to an end and be done with it.

So, with shaking hands, you resumed the mending of his wounds, trying in vain to ignore his big hands on your sides, and how they seemed to squeeze you from time to time.

It was a long process without you being able to use concentrated healing through an amplifier, but it would get the job done eventually. Of course such work was tiring. Already you felt the fatigue in your joints, creeping up from your hands to every part in your body. That was natural and bound to happen, but it seemed tenfold after using Dr. O’Deorain’s glove, and you weren’t exactly happy about it. Especially now in this particular situation.

Your breathing became heavy, you felt light-headed and had a hard time focusing on what you were doing. The only thing that kept you going was Reaper’s menacing presence, your instincts screaming at you to flee from him.

The more you felt your conscious slipping away from you, the more energetic the man seemed to become. You could feel him shifting and sighing as if he was greatly enjoying this, only adding fuel to your discomfort. Although all of this was starting to fade into the background, the only thought inside your head was heal, heal, heal.

And so you pushed yourself further, harder, to finish what you had started and get the hell out of this weird position. Somewhere in your mind you even yearned for the little room they had given you at Talon headquarters. Anywhere but here was fine, really.

Unbidden, thoughts of Caleb came to you, his pallid face staring into nothing in a greenish camera feed, how you had imagined him blown to bits in the warehouse explosion and how this man here had come to take you away from your previous life.

Mariquita, he had called you. You remembered that detail, even though you had no idea what it even meant.

Soon the fatigue was starting to become painful again, you desperately tried to keep your eyes open, but they just wouldn’t do what you told them to. Nothing was working anymore, all the control over your body and life had been lost and all that remained was a puppet. A puppet with your eyes and a broken smile.

A sob escaped you, you noticed somewhere far away. Blackness was crashing over you like waves. Waves of fog, or mist as dark as night while a blood red moon hung over you.

Distantly, you felt those clawed hands slide up your back, pulling you into an embrace and your cheek came to rest on a broad, fully intact shoulder. Cool air was blowing past your ear with the rumbling of a voice. What was it saying?

“—not done yet.” You were able to pick up the last part of the sentence, then your hands were positioned onto the almost completely healed wounds again, and held in place so they wouldn’t slip away. The healing you sent out were the very last remains of your ability, but it was still working. And with it, your heart squeezed painfully in your chest.

Heal or die.

You whimpered pathetically while your muscles spasmed and you lost all the feeling inside your fingers. Soon you were silently begging to fall unconscious, anything to get out of this feeling of actually dying.

Then, finally, Reaper hummed and released you, only to grab you again as you were slumping to the side.

One of his hands found their way around your throat, holding you in place before him. You could barely open your eyes, but what good would it do you anyway. All you were going to see would be his stupid mask.

“Nice work, mariquita,” He said with his head cocked slightly to the side. There he went with that word again. “Maybe I’ll keep you around after all.” He sounded thoughtful from what you could gather through the haze.

“Yay,” You whispered sarcastically, and that seemed to amuse him. The rough sound rippled through him and right into you as well, considering you were practically laying on top of him. As if his sinister laugh wasn’t creepy enough.

“You can—,” You tried swallowing around his grip on your throat. “—let go now.” But his fingers didn’t loosen their hold at all, instead he used them to turn your face a bit this way and that, as if he was trying to memorize your features.

Creep.

You wanted to raise your hands and push him away, but even that was too much of a task right now.

“You did such a good job at patching me up. I feel...great.”

A second of silence.

“Maybe I should return the favor,” Reaper mused. His demeanor had changed somewhat from the distant and cold killer to a calmer version. Even his voice had changed in timbre. But your thoughts were interrupted when he suddenly shifted beneath you, and his thighs began to spread causing you to move forwards and directly onto his crotch.

Your breath caught.

Oh god, let this bump between your legs be a shotgun shell or just another belt buckle.

There must have been something affecting the man because you could feel soft, warm lips pressing gently against your ear where there should have been a cold, hard mask.

“Oh,” You gasped and honestly, it was a miracle that you were still able to talk at all.

But those lips kept exploring the shell of your ear, making you shiver with the exhale of his next words.

“I’ll take care of you,” He murmured and rolled his hips into yours for emphasis.

All you managed was a weak whimper, you felt so powerless in his grasp, sapped of all your strength. And really, that’s exactly what had happened. You’d drained all your power into healing him and now he was feeling great, excited, while you were a limp sack of potatoes trying to stay awake.

“Stop,” You tried, but it only came out a breathy whisper. A whisper he should have heard, though. So he was ignoring you, the way he was beginning to feel you up was an indicator. Or his wandering lips, brushing your jaw and then your neck at the spot where his claws were not currently digging in to keep you in place.

This couldn’t be happening. Through the fog in your brain you could feel a panic rising. You were alone at this killer’s mercy.

“Get off,” you croaked, cursing your weak voice and how it made it all sound so ambiguous. But you weren’t playing or teasing here. You managed to raise one arm and limply held it against his leather clad chest. If only you could at least push away, put some distance between yourself and him.

Reaper’s lips brushed over your jugular, then he used his teeth and you swallowed drily at the sensation. It felt like he was about to deal the final killing blow. You had been today’s prey and now his meal.

A violent tremor ran through your body.

Slowly, he moved his face towards yours and through blurry eyes you could see his face—a dark smudge with burning red eyes, just like you remembered. It was difficult to discern with only the moonlight illuminating him. But then you blinked and it all became a little clearer. Underneath the smoke there were human features, a face marred by multiple scars criss-crossing over his nose and cheeks. As you looked on you saw peppered black facial hair, surprisingly well trimmed, and plush looking lips underneath.

In another life you might have called him handsome, but as it was you were too terrified by those burning demonic eyes to keep that thought for long. The smoke rising steadily from him seemed to clear a little as you watched one corner of his mouth curl.

The claws around your throat started pulling you into him further, fuelling the panic burning in your chest and with a breathless whimper your lips met his.

Everything he was doing was deceptively gentle, yet there was nowhere for you to go and he let you feel it in the way he held you and how his mouth brushed against yours sensually, followed by a wicked tongue licking over your bottom lip. Oh shit, this was spiralling out of control so fast it made your head spin.

In your dizziness and pain, even this unwanted attention suddenly started to feel...nice.

And wrong, so so wrong.

All you could do was to try and cling to the last bit of strength and defiance in you that screamed how all this was wrong and how there was no way you were enjoying any of it. Even though those soft caresses had you weak and pliant within moments. Somehow being sapped of all your strength and free will, to then being shown the smallest bit of comfort had your body convinced that it was enjoying this fucked up scenario.

You were practically lost in the sensation of his kiss, your mouth had gone lax sometime between his licks and nips and how he had deepened it considerably. You hadn’t even noticed how his grip on your throat had transferred to the back of your skull. The pointy ends of his claws dragging against your scalp had you shivering in his grasp.

Through the fog in your brain you felt how he ground against you, his evident excitement pressing into your most intimate parts.

The rage that had turned down to a simmer inside you flared up anew and with it a wave of newfound energy. You finally managed to push at his chest. The force you used dislodged his grip and as you fell down to the floor, you could see the surprise on his face. A small victory. Even if you’d hurt your butt in the process.

With shaky hands and legs you crawled away backwards, until you hit the upended coffee table behind you.

Surely, he wouldn’t let you off so easily, but Reaper remained in his spot on the sofa, his legs still spread and a smug expression on his face.

Then he simply got up to move to the corner where he had previously dumped his weapons. He appeared like a different person now, you noticed how he carried himself with ease and that his shoulders were less hunched.

You, on the other hand, were still shaking like a leaf where you lay in a heap on the floor, still catching your breath in your state of shock. Wary eyes casting anxious glances in his direction.

***

Neither of you had spoken another word after that incident and were now sitting in the helicopter again. Weariness and exhaustion were weighing down your limbs and phantom touches still ghosted over your skin in places that caused goosebumps to spread in discomfort. The thin fleece jacket around you didn’t help much with keeping you warm anymore, but not because it was especially cold around you, it was also an empty feeling inside that had you shivering.

Apparently you were still in shock, because even though your body was tired, your mind kept racing. Lips on yours, demanding, taking. More and more, your denial ignored, cast aside like it was nothing. An emptiness in your stomach made you sick, the feeling of control slipping through your fingers had you on edge and strangely lethargic as well. To say you were a mess right now would be an understatement.

All the while he was there, right next to you, sitting on the other side as if nothing had happened. No word of apology, or promise of it never happening again fueling the unease inside you.

You tried to calm down, this had just been an accident.

Yes, an accident. And it would never happen again, you would make sure of it.

When you touched down at Talon HQ again, you fled from the helicopter as fast as you could, glad that you managed not to stumble or trip as you walked towards your room in a haze.

Rounding a corner, you bumped into someone. You didn’t even have to look up to see that it was Ogundimu.

“Where do you think you’re going?” He sounded amused.

“I need to sleep,” you answered meekly, clutching the small backpack to your chest, eyes downcast. All you wanted right now was to curl up in bed.

Ogundimu made a pensive sound, then his hand landed on the familiar spot on your shoulder, albeit much gentler than all the times before. The contact made you look up again, and you found him fixing you with an almost inquisitive stare.

“How was your first mission with Talon?”

The question caught you off guard, what were you supposed to say? “Oh, it was alright. Just got up and real personal with the Reaper. Is there a way so I never have to see him again, by the way?”

Another million retorts went through your head, varying in their degree of sassiness. So you bit your tongue, took a breath and instead shrugged. “I did my job, as you asked.”

As Ogundimu regarded you, you wondered what he would think of what had happened between you and your teammate. Considering that the man was a criminal, he probably wouldn’t even care about some underling medic.

“So you did,” Ogundimu said slowly, then he lifted his hand as if to pull it away, only to brush a lock of your hair to the side, his eyes narrowing as they focused on your now exposed neck.

You stood there, immobile and mute in the face of his scrutiny and what he must have seen, and before you could find your voice again he finally removed his hand.

“You can tell me the details during the debrief.”

Your heart sank. Oh no, not a debrief. That meant you’d have to be around all the Talon goons and their stupid smug faces again when everyone would clap each other on the shoulder for a job well done.

Sighing inwardly, you turned around again at Ogundimu’s casual gesture for you to lead the way.

His looming presence behind you did nothing to ease the tension in your body. Inside the debriefing room, you opted to stay in the shadows again, tucked in a corner, as Ogundimu moved to the head of the large table. A brilliant smile stretched across the Talon leader’s face as he addressed his agents and congratulated them on their success.

But as you looked around, you noticed that a few people were missing. There had been at least half a dozen more seats occupied at the briefing that morning. Apparently, Reaper hadn’t been the only one to get shot up.

The very small smile tugging at the corner of your lips went unnoticed.

Ogundimu kept rattling on about each person’s role in the operation, acknowledging even the smallest wheel of his intricate machinery of agents. Lastly, his gaze fell on you.

“Of course we can’t forget our field medics.” He smiled at you. “It seems your work with Dr. O’Deorain is paying off. I rarely have the time to see her, so please send her my regards.” His eyes were sharp in the semi darkness of the meeting room, the illuminated backdrop of the mission details glowed like a halo around him.

You swallowed around a lump in your throat, but found that you couldn’t get any sound out. A small nod had to suffice.

Apparently happy with your non-verbal affirmation, Ogundimu went on to conclude his retelling of the mission and dismissed everyone shortly thereafter. This couldn’t have been over any faster for you; what an ordeal.

Finally, all of your team was dismissed. You sighed in relief and went to get out of there as fast as your tired feet could carry you.

The next morning, you didn’t even remember much of the walk to your room, or how you washed your face and disrobed to get in bed. What you did remember though was the vivid nightmare that had plagued you during the night.

Of being wrapped in a heavy, silky robe of darkness that had seemed to caress you slightly and had hugged you so completely you hadn’t been sure if breathing had still been possible. It had been both terrifying and strangely soothing.

Until you’d felt something sharp and pointy dragging along your skin everywhere, even though you had started to beg and plead for it to stop. It hadn’t, and you’d started to panic, frantically trying to breathe through the mist that had started to seep straight into your lungs, filling them completely with its presence and just lingering, heavy and dark. It had kept going on and on until, with one final desperate breath, you had awakened. Soaked in sweat and tangled in your sheets, the pale morning light creeping through your only window.

One hand clutched your chest, trying to will away the feeling of trepidation that still had a grip on your lungs. You kicked off the sheets the rest of the way and immediately went for the bathroom, where you splashed cold water in your face. A look in the mirror revealed dark circles under your eyes, a gaunt in your cheeks and paler skin. You really had given it your all yesterday. It was scary. Never before had you healed someone like that, until you’d almost fainted. It had taken quite a toll on you, better to not repeat it.

A wry laugh escaped you from that thought. Surely, Reaper would understand if you told him how it made you want to fucking die. He seemed like a reasonable guy…

One hand wiped over your tired face, the other clutched the bathroom sink. What were you going to do about this? Probably nothing. This was just how things were going to be from now on. Hysteria was battling with tiredness inside you at the prospect of having to go through this again and again. Of having to face Reaper once more, to see the skeletal white of his mask staring back with those dead eyes.

With a heavy sigh you pushed away and out of the bathroom to get dressed. This was just another day at Talon headquarters and nobody gave a shit if you felt bad for any reason.

#reader x reaper #female reader #fanfiction #overwatch #reaper

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wings-of-a-storm · 6 years

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So because the space in between the clips of this extended hell week isn’t painful enough, I’ve gone back and revisited the pain of the cafeteria scene. (I can’t help but love that scene though! It is so solid.)

ELIOTT PURSUES LUCAS:

When the cafeteria scene started, I already had one question in my mind: Did Eliott accidentally bump into Lucas when he turned that corner for real, or had he already seen Lucas grabbing a tray ahead of him and was already preparing himself for this encounter before he walks into our view? It is hard to tell since Eliott's reaction never dramatically changes when he looks over and finds Lucas.

It leaves room for interpretation. There is every chance that Eliott had already seen Lucas heading for the line and went to grab a tray to follow him there. He barely looked at the end of the line before zeroing in on Lucas...

It is 50-50, but either way, Eliott saw a chance to talk to Lucas and be near him, and he went for it. Bless this poor guy's heart. He may have triggered the break up but he is clearly missing Lucas so much.

ELIOTT '007' DEMAURY

Eliott cutting in line was actually one of my favourite parts of this scene! It was just so quintessential Creeper Eliott! He is always manifesting out of nowhere to pop up beside Lucas and catch him unawares. And mecs, it is an honour to see his creeping in action :'). It was too dark in the tunnel and at the bus stop he was mostly blurry and off screen. But this, this was a masterpiece.

Creeper Eliott aside, it was also just so friggen endearing and adorable of him to try and sneak in there like James Bond. Like who do you even think you're fooling, Eliott? Those girls and Lucas definitely knew you weren't there before!

I love how he does that little bend and swoop to get his tray in there but then immediately straightens up and grabs food like he was there the whole time and la la la. The pinnacle of cool and calm. But we see you, Demaury, we see you.

I'd love to know what Eliott was thinking though; what he was hoping to achieve by sliding in there and talking to Lucas like nothing was wrong. He was still with Lucille and he was still scared of being a burden to Lucas so it’s not like he had a real reason to talk to him. Did he think they could be friends and he'd at least get to talk to Lucas instead of missing him so much?

Lucas realising Eliott was there though... Ugh. That face was simultaneously hard as marble and soft as sadness. You can almost feel Lucas’ chest constricting, his breath altering, his eyes stinging...

It had only been a few days since his heart (and hand) had been completely shattered and it was always going to be painful as all hell to have to see Eliott again so soon, let alone right beside him... It is almost too much to bear.

A CONVERSATION OF DOUBLE MEANING

"If I were you I'd take both."

I can only assume this attempt at an ice breaker from Eliott is a reference to the first time they 'met' at the vending machine and Lucas helped Eliott pick from two snacks? But this time in the cafeteria, Eliott can return the favour with his own suggestion for Lucas?

The double meanings were just so brilliant though! Of course a seemingly offhand suggestion could so wonderfully remind us (and Lucas) of Eliott's personal affliction with making choices and his fear of missing out.

We know that what happened between Eliott and Lucas had less to do with FOMO/wanting to have his cake and eat it too and more about his fear of being rejected by Lucas if he knew the real Eliott, but still... Lucas doesn’t know that.

I need to take a moment to talk about the Eliott Gaze though. Oh, it is always such an attack on our hearts! The way he looks at Lucas in that moment is somehow so beseeching and forlorn despite him trying to keep things light. It reminds you how much he is suffering too... He just wants to talk to Lucas so badly.

“Sometimes you have to choose."

Hang on, just rolling out the red carpet for the king of comebacks.

Wow, Lucas. What a zinger. And not even a mean zinger, just a heartbroken truth. It was awful seeing how quickly his eyes welled up with tears.

It was so sad because it wasn’t as if Lucas was even waiting for Eliott to make a choice anymore when he made that comment. They had already gone beyond Eliott just needing to choose someone. As far as Lucas was concerned, Eliott had already made his choice: Lucille. Always Lucille. Eliott always goes back to her because he never liked Lucas the way Lucas liked him.

Lucas' eyes felt so: Why aren't I good enough?

How could Eliott even try and salvage the conversation after a pointed comment like that? Lucas was not going to indulge any sort of light conversation from Eliott; his comment cut straight into the heart of the matter.

It was a shame that Eliott chose not to acknowledge the heartbroken barb for what it was and instead tried to steer things back to something light-hearted. I know Eliott was just trying to salvage the situation but it meant he came across as flippant, like he didn’t care that Lucas was hurting.

It would have been so hard for Lucas to see Eliott not only not acknowledging Lucas’ hurt but also making light of it by immediately trying to crack a joke about the kitchen as if Lucas’ feelings didn't matter… Eliott, beloved mec, you can’t just straight up LAUGH at some joke after Lucas stares at you with tears. Keeping things light is invalidating Lucas’ feelings and making a mockery of them...

Like I know Eliott’s safety net M.O. is to smile but oh my god, so not the right time! Especially when it went beyond a smile into an actual grin and chuckle! Like, I know what Eliott was trying to do (trying to break the ice, trying to reconnect, trying to have a moment where he can just talk with him like old times) but it was such a bad choice to keep things light and really unfair to Lucas.

I am so glad Lucas shut that shit right down. The clanging of the plate as he yanked it off the shelf and violently set it down on the tray was the best non-verbal FUCK YOU ever! If I could get it on a t-shirt, I would, because it was ammmmazing. It was so ‘You don’t give a fuck about my feelings, well I don’t give a fuck about whatever the fuck you’re saying.’

It was just such an effective way to cut Eliott off. It used multiple senses - sound and sight - to get the job done. Like, not only did the sudden sharp movement of Lucas’ arm flying up to grab the plate feel like he was visually blocking Eliott’s words or slamming a door shut in Eliott’s face, the noise that accompanied it was like an indirect punch. E.f.f.e.c.t.i.v.e!

Lucas slamming the plate down achieved more than just one hell of a brilliant shut down though; it drew Eliott’s attention to his bandaged hand. Whether Eliott had already noticed it or not previously, he sure as hell saw it then. I imagine that would have added one more piece to the picture of Lucas’ overall current state for Eliott. Lucas is angry, he is in tears, he is physically hurt, and he is nothing like the Lucas Eliott used to see around the corridors. Eliott caused that pain and it is something he has to live with now...

When Lucas storms off, the cheerful act drops from Eliott and he is back to that quintessential nervous, anxious fiddling with his bag strap. The knowledge that he did that to Lucas and he can’t make it better…

I wonder if he realised he had made things worse by trying to engage Lucas in the cafeteria... (I hate this situation so much!)

LUCAS' LONG WALK DOWN THE CORRIDOR WITH HIS PERSONAL DEMONS

Okay this is my favourite part of the whole clip for the sheer brutality of it wrapped in beautiful camerawork.

When Lucas is making that long walk down the corridor and then stands paralysed at the end of it in a tunnel of his personal hell and you see Eliott slowly coming towards him again in the background like his personal demon! That was stunning!

It was like: Oh my god, will Eliott try to talk to him again and push his emotions over the edge? It felt like some ominous countdown.

And then when you realise Lucas is frozen because Chloe is there with the knowledge of his secret, and his friends are there who don't want him near them until he sorts his shit out, it is like: Oh no, is Eliott going to witness this further humiliation of Lucas with no friends? That is the last thing Lucas needs right now when he already feels so stupid in front of Eliott.

And then when Lucas can't handle staying in the cafeteria any longer and dumps his food straight back onto the return shelf, you know that he is going to have to encounter Eliott again so soon after escaping him the first time... And as much as you love Eliott, you don't want Lucas to have to go through that when he is barely holding it together.

What the masochist in me really loves about Eliott's slow approach in the corridor is that the effects of his presence feel subverted, if that makes any sense. Like normally if Lucas was this vulnerable in school, seeing Eliott making his way towards him would feel like comfort, like Lucas is about to get the support he needs from the person he needs it most from (a partner). But this time, Eliott's role changes and his walking towards Lucas feels like pain… It is so brutal! (But I love it. Why am I like this??)

ELIOTT CONFRONTED WITH THE HELL HE CREATED

There is a part of me that is happy that Eliott has to literally face Lucas’ awful situation and see the personal hell he is in.

Knowing Lucas would be upset from their break-up behind the scenes is one thing, but Eliott having to actually see it with his own eyes is kind of gratifying. I think it helps put things into perspective for Eliott: Eliott left Lucas for an imagined possibility (that Lucas would be burdened by Eliott’s bipolar disorder) but this is actual reality and maybe this is worse because it’s Lucas unable to smile or eat or sit in a cafeteria with his friends. Eliott would need to wonder if it is worse to proactively ‘protect’ Lucas if it means sending him straight into the type of emotional hellhole that Eliott had been trying to protect him from in the first place. That is something that Eliott needs to confront.

All that aside though, wow did Eliott’s forlorn face as he watched Lucas discard his lunch and walk away hit me right in the gut. There is always something so gentle about Eliott, and when it comes to sadness, it is even more pronounced. The way he was looking at the boy he loves in so much pain but is unable to go after him and comfort him… That shit hurts.

In a weird way his despondent face makes me a little happy too though? Because when Eliott and Lucas do resolve their problems, that look is such a nice glimpse into how supportive Eliott will be for Lucas in future times of distress? Like if I was facing a tough time, just seeing those understanding, kind eyes would make me feel so heard and understood and supported. I can’t wait until they reach that point!

For now though, everything is painful and Skam France really utilised the cafeteria scene well to hit Lucas from all directions (like a mean part 2 of Chloe's party). It was a really solid scene, I think.

#skam france #skamfr thoughts #3x06 thoughts #elu #lucas lallemant #eliott demaury

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ilovereadingandilovebreathing · 7 years

Text

Perfectionism Killed the Prince...

A/N: Sorry for the lack of formatting or a read more; mobile sucks. (Update: finally fixed the stupid formatting #blessed)

Summary: Even the strongest of princes break when enough pressure is applied, and Roman is certainly no exception. Sometimes, even a prince needs saving, especially if it’s from himself.

Word Count: 1,853

Genre: A.N.G.S.T.

Characters/Pairings: Roman, Patton, Logan, Virgil (platonic)

Warnings: self-deprecation, self-hatred, perfectionism, yelling, crying, insults, arguing, harm to the skin (not direct self-harm, but like in an abstract way, I think it is.) (let me know if I missed any)

Tags: @irish-newzealand-idian-dutch @ssides @pantasticpanini @celiawhatsherlastname @elliottsonthevirge @anxiousoddish @didsomeonesayprince @fandomsofrandom @anxious-but-whatever

Most days, Roman can keep a straight face. He can slap on a smile, pull out a pun, and come up with a comeback better than anyone.

Most days, Roman can pull on his princely façade, broaden his trademark smile, and continue to push down his insecurities as he always has. They’re just skeletons in the closet, after all. He’ll clean them out, eventually…whether willingly or by necessity.

This day, sadly for Roman, is not like most days. This day, the Sides are in the MindScape Commons, piles of Roman’s ideas spread around and before them as they try to sift out future videos.

“‘Space Adventures: what starts as an educational experience turns into chaos when all four Sides stowaway into space. Magic School Bus-style shenanigans ensue.’ Do you know what kind of budget we’d need for a video like that?” Virgil tosses the page aside on top of an embarrassingly tall stack of rejects. Roman’s gaze flickers toward Logan, wondering if the other would catch his attempt at integrating the other’s interests, but his eyes fall to his lap in shame instantly. It seems the Logical Side is too immersed in critiquing the page in his own hands to notice.

“'Lonely on Lover’s Day? Take These Tips to Find Happiness Again!” First of all, the title is far too lengthy for a YouTube video; it needs to be concise and snappy. Secondly, it sounds like a gimmicky dating website advertisement. Thirdly, we already did a Valentine’s Day video last year, one that was both serous and joking, as this appears to be. Last but certainly not least, I hardly think we need to be harkening back on romantic relationships and the lack thereof, for we recently made a two-part video focused on the subject.“ Logan sighs, dropping his sheet on top of his own reject pile as he picks up another. Roman grimaces although he probably should’ve seen that one coming. In the back of his thoughts, he’d known it was a crummy, repetitive idea; he’d been stupid to think it would slip by them.

"Hey, I think this one’s a winner!” Logan and Virgil throw Patton cursory glances; Patton’s personal acceptance pile would be far higher if the other two didn’t step in. “'A Day Out With Cute Baby Animals-’”

“Allergies.” The other two say in unison.

Roman winces. Idiot. How could you forget that?

“Oh-KAY!” Patton is flustered but reluctantly lets the planning page fall. “But I didn’t say anything about cats!”

“True, but we won’t risk it. There’s also the budget issue there, too.” Virgil quips, clearly becoming frustrated with this whole process.

“Well, hey, what about the one you got there, Virge: 'The Untold Secrets of Disney-’”

“Sounds like 'The Dark Side of Disney,’ to me.” Virgil groans, throwing down the sheet in his hands without even looking at it. “If I have to read through one more of Princey’s ridiculous ideas, I’m gonna lose it. I’m done for the night. Let’s watch a movie or something instead.” Before the others can protest, Virgil flips up his hood and his headphones materialize. “I’ll be back.” The Anxious Side sinks out of the Commons, and the remaining three are left alone.

“Well, we better get cleaning, then.” Patton sets to collecting all of the unaccepted ideas, tossing them into a garbage bag to be disposed of. As each sheet falls into the plastic bag, Roman feels his heart pound harder and harder. His eyes burn reliving the hours of scouring the woods of the DreamScape for the various forms his ideas could manifest themselves in. His back and shoulders ache as he recalls climbing trees for even the smallest of ideas. His legs and hips throb remembering the distances he ran to catch up to his own thoughts, ones he thought would surely be worth it. His hands tremble, still, after hours of turning those thoughts into written plans that the others could understand.

“Roman, can you hand me that paper there? By your feet?” Patton asks, shattering his reverie.

Roman grunts in reply, bending to grab what turns out to be “The Untold Secrets of Disney.” This idea is actually about the real-life dark events, rumors, and conspiracies surrounding Disney. He had thought it could be a fun idea he and Virgil could participate in together, and it would serve as a continuation of their previous video.

But, of course, Virgil didn’t even take a moment to read it before he immediately judged it as garbage and threw it away…of course, it’s not like he’s wrong…it isn’t the most original idea… Roman thinks bitterly, and before he can stop himself, he is tearing the page into tiny pieces, a shriek of frustration building in his throat.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hey there, Ro, calm down.” Patton’s hands are on top of his, gently trying to pry the shreds from within Roman’s shaking fists.

Roman’s eyes go wide, but he immediately releases the scraps, hurriedly collects them, and tosses them in the trash, slumping into himself.

Patton is on his knees in front of him, searching his eyes with a hand on each of his shoulders. “You okay, kiddo? I know these pruning sessions can be hard on you. I think Virgil’s right; it’s time for a break.”

“Agreed.” Logan empties an armload of papers, pushing up his glasses with a tired sigh; the Logical Side gestures toward the acceptance pile, minuscule in comparison to the garbage piles, Roman notes. “Four hours of analyzing ideas is enough for one night, especially when we did not begin as early as we should have.” Logan pauses. “Many of your ideas were well-founded, Roman,” he softly assures the Creative Side, giving him a small smile.

But not good enough. Roman finishes to himself, paying no mind to what Logan actually says. Realizing the other is looking expectantly at him, Roman flashes Logan the best grin he can muster, pushing himself onto his feet.

“Well, nobody’s perfect, right? Not even a prince. We’ll just keep working on it until I get my act together and stop proposing worthless ideas. That’s what pruning is for, after all. To get rid of the dead, useless parts of a tree and of me.” He chuckles, but his heart starts pounding again when he registers the thick silence around him. Logan and Patton exchange a worried glance.

Before they can speak, though, Virgil materializes in the middle of the room.

“Holy crap, Princey, we really went through a load this time. A load of crap.” Virgil jests and gestures with twin finger-guns at the bag Patton is tying. “But not all of them stank.”

Right.

“Virgil-”

“Yeah, kiddo, I don’t think joking about it right now is the best thing-”

“What?” Virgil’s gaze snaps toward Patton at the bubbly Side’s unusually pensive tone. The Anxious Side looks at Roman for the first time since re-entering the room, his eyes growing wide when he realizes Roman’s breathing is labored and his cheeks are bright red. “Whoa, hey, Roman, what’s-”

“Oh, nothing, nothing at all, just the casual dismissal of several weeks of backbreaking labor in the DreamScape that was all obviously for nothing!”

“Princey-”

“Oh, no, it’s fine though.” Roman bites off, unable to contain the pure ire boiling over within him. “It’s fine because none of those ideas were any good anyway, right? You said so yourselves. Crap. Garbage. I’m only sorry I wasted all of our time on such idiotic, over-the-top, ridiculous ideas. I should’ve released them as soon as I caught them and saved us the pains of looking through my horrible work.”

“Roman-” “Ro, honey-” “P-Princey-”

“WHAT?!” Roman shouts at no one in particular. His head and chest are pounding painfully, like a tiny troll is pounding on the inside of his skull and ribcage, and his throat feels raw, aching.

“Princey…it’s okay if all your ideas aren’t all perfect.”

And with that poisonous seven letter word, Roman is hurled over his tipping point.

“What’s the point of doing anything at all if it’s not the best I can possibly do?! If it’s not perfect, there’s no point!” Roman screamed. “I can try and try and try, but in the end, all of my ideas fail because they’re never good enough. Because I’m-” Roman swallows thickly. “I’m not good enough. I’ll never…be good enough.” White-hot tears prick painfully at his eyes, but he will never let them see him break.

Roman immediately sinks out of the Commons and into his room, leaving the other three staring at his spot in pure shock.

—–

Roman storms into his space, locking the door with a violent motion. He immediately crosses to his desk and throws all of his creative supplies in a strongbox without a lock.

I won’t need those anymore anyway…useless tools….just like their user.

Useless. Worthless.

Roman grits his teeth, the fury rising again, and his wild stare swings around his realm. His gaze grabs onto his closet door, the initial gateway into the DreamScape. His rage erupts at an alarming speed, and he throws open the door, hurling the strongbox inside before slamming the door. Eyes locked on the scarlet-painted wood, Roman wills the door the vanish before him, effectively locking away his escape, his plague, and his skeletons.

Or so he thinks. But after years of culmination, it’s become clear that what masquerades as self-assurance and hard work is actually years’ worth of compounded perfectionism, as built up and ominous as the proverbial batch of bones buried in the darkest corner of his closet. After so many occasions of repression, of lying to the others and himself, of pretending he’s far less complicated than he is, Roman Sanders, the perceived perfect prince, is faced with the reality of himself. He is not a perfect being, so everything he creates will not always be his best. The best. Or even close to perfect. And to Roman, that constitutes failure.

The Prince scowls as the last bit of wood melts into the rest of his wall.

No need for that godforsaken hellscape anymore, anyway…it’s useless now…just like its creator…

Useless. Worthless. Imperfect.

These harmful phrases invade Roman’s thoughts, so strong and absolute in his mind that they manifest in a storm cloud that pelts hail on top of him, marring his skin. He cries out in pain, but collapses to the floor, unable to move.

Useless. Worthless. Imperfect. Not good enough. Never good enough.

The hateful words are like vices, vipers, that have him so entangled that he is paralyzed by his own self-doubt. He grits his teeth, curling into himself on the carpet as tears spill out of his eyes, falling as steadily as the hail that whispers self-hatred as it scorches white-hot yet cold against his skin.

Most days, Roman can hide what he feels inside, how much he hates himself, how he feels inadequate, but years of wear and tear have chipped away at his resolve. The skeletons in Roman’s closet have come back to haunt him, but he doesn’t know how to slay what should already be dead.

Part 2 (aka I fixed it): ...But Love Brought Him Back

Spin-off piece: Sticks and Stones

All of my Sanders Sides fanfics

#sanders sides fanfic #sanders sides #thomas sanders fic #thomas sanders #sanders sides fic #mine #tsfanfics #Roman angst

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falseroar · 6 years

Text

Best Left Forgotten Part 3: Happened Before

((Pst, hi. Here’s a link to Part 2: The Colonel Returns))

“No, no, nononono,” the Colonel moaned, staring at where you were just a second ago. “I didn’t mean it, it was an accident!”

He barely resisted as Mark grabbed his arm, forcing him to lower the gun even though he would not relinquish his iron grip on the weapon.

Mark glanced at Dark, who answered the unspoken question, “Y/N is safe. He missed.”

How though? The Colonel never missed, even when he wasn’t trying. They both reached the same answer at the same time, though neither said it: the Host.

“Where are they?” the Colonel asked, in between sobs. “Where’s Y/N? Where’s Celine, where’s Damien?”

“That’s enough. I’m going to send you somewhere you can calm down,” Dark said gently as he put a hand on the Colonel’s shoulder.

The second Dark’s aura tried to spread to envelop him the man’s eyes flared pink and he lashed out with a shout. Dark hit the wall and crumpled to the floor while Mark came dangerously close to hitting his head on the corner of the fireplace.

“I have to…I have to find them,” he muttered, one hand holding the gun and the other to his chest from the pain of using so much energy even as he summoned more.

By the time either of them could get up, Wilford was gone in a swirl of pink and yellow.

“That could have gone better,” Dark said as he checked his ribs. It didn’t feel like any were broken, not that it would have mattered much.

Mark was already on his feet, although he staggered on his way to Dark. “Bring them back, now.”

Dark scowled at what sounded suspiciously like an order, but his aura spread and broke to release you back into the room. Almost immediately you dropped to your hands and knees, gasping as if you had been holding your breath this entire time.

“Y/N! Y/N, are you okay?” Mark tried to put a hand on your shoulder but you pushed him away and slowly got to your feet.

“Just…just give me a minute,” you said, and you backed away from both of them to lean on the desk, which felt refreshingly solid and real.

“You shouldn’t have struggled,” Dark said, and you flipped him off because getting a breath together to speak was hard enough.

Even the dimly lit office felt bright and too much after that place, and for a moment you thought you were dangerously close to throwing up. Your hands were shaking, but you tried to hide it as you looked around. “Where’s Wilford? Is he okay?”

“He almost shot you!” Mark said.

You looked and saw the broken vase, its pieces scattered over the floor, and the hole in the wall behind it. If Wilford’s gun hadn’t moved at the last second…

“He’s gone,” Dark answered. “He ran after you disappeared.”

“So, he might still be in the house somewhere,” you said, and immediately imagined what might happen if Wilford ran into one of the other egos like this.

Dark reached out a hand to stop you before you got to the door and you pulled away from his grip. “No, not like that. I mean like the way I go from one place to the other.”

“He…he can do that? Since when?” You looked from Dark to Mark when neither answered and added, “His eyes, what was going on? I’ve never seen him do that before!”

“Wilford has…certain abilities,” Dark said slowly. “Ones that we’ve tried to make sure he never uses. They have a tendency to manifest in stressful situations, such as when his memory is a little clearer than it usually is.”

“Wait, but with that whole mask thing,” you started. “He didn’t use it then, and we almost died!”

“You almost died,” Dark pointed out. “And yes, he was very close then.”

“More than a little close,” Mark muttered. “It’s one of the reasons it took us so long to get to you back at the house.”

“Wait, but abilities?” You stared at Dark and something clicked. “You don’t…mean like you, do you? How is that even possible?”

“Wilford practically grew up in that house, same as I did,” Mark said. “All of that time, with whatever that is, it had an effect on us.”

He gestured at Dark as he said “that,” causing him to glare with a barely restrained comeback.

“I mean, look at everyone else who was only there for a weekend, like the Detective,” Mark said.

“Yeah, but you don’t—the Detective!” You pulled out your phone and went straight to your contacts.

“What are you doing?” Dark asked.

“Wilford’s running around with the Colonel’s memories and some weird power thing going on,” you said as you held the phone up to your ear and listened to the phone ring. “What if he—Abe!”

Dark growled as you turned away from him and began to speak quickly to the Detective, trying to get him to stop talking about whatever he was doing to the body he was examining and listen, but Mark pulled out his phone too and called Tyler.

While you tried to convince Abe that you were okay and that it was him you were worried about, Mark barely had to say a few words to Tyler before he was calling Amy as well.

It wasn’t until you finally got the Detective to promise that he would be careful and said goodbye that you finally voiced your suspicion. “Has this happened before?”

The look Mark and Dark shared was answer enough, and Mark was the one who gave in and said, “There’s been a…couple of times where Wilford has gotten out of control. Usually it’s only for a minute or two, but bad ones like this have happened before. Last time was, what, just before Valentine’s Day last year?”

“I believe that was before the other incident,” Dark said.

“…Right.” Mark’s expression was hard to read, partially because he avoided looking your way at that. “Honestly, I was surprised this didn’t happen when he walked in on you in the infirmary after you came out of the mirror. If anything would drag up those memories…”

But he did remember, or at least some part of him did, didn’t he? He had recognized you then, and there were times you were almost sure he could remember, but never like this. He was still Wilford then, but now…

You paused, backtracking. “Wait, Valentine’s Day last year? What happened then?”

Mark froze, the panic clear on his face before he tried to play it off. “Oh, just a little incident while we were working on a project for the channel. It worked out in the end though.”

Dark snorted, but even he looked a little unnerved when you said, “When you say project…Were you working on A Date with Markiplier?”

“Oh, you…had that back in your other…place,” Mark said. “We, uh, never got a chance to finish it.”

That would explain why you never saw it on this Mark’s channel. You had just written it off as one of the many little differences between your Mark and this Mark, but now you had an uneasy feeling.

“Mark, this video, it wasn’t one of the ones you had me help out on, is it?” you asked. You still couldn’t remember your time in the piece of mirror Mark took from the house, much less those rare moments when you were apparently strong enough to leave the mirror.

“Okay, before you say anything—”

You groaned and Dark smiled as Mark talked louder and faster in an attempt to explain.

“You agreed to it, and it wasn’t like a real date, I just needed someone to hold the camera and play the part—”

“And you couldn’t get Amy to do it?!”

“…She wouldn’t stop laughing at me when we tried to film,” Mark muttered and Dark chuckled.

“So you got the mute amnesiac to pretend to be your date?!”

“Again, making it sound a lot worse than it was—”

“I doubt it!” Oh, God. You were going to have to talk to Amy about this, if only to reassure yourself that nothing weird happened. “Hold on. In the version of A Date with Markiplier I saw, there were ten different endings.”

“Really? We just had the one planned,” Mark said, but there was something off about his tone.

“Yeah,” you said, looking at Dark now. “There was one that made people think it was like a Groundhog Day thing, looping over and over again because of someone.”

“I…may have gotten involved when I realized you were there,” Dark admitted slowly, and was quick to add, “Considering the degrading situation Mark had you in, I was merely trying to—”

“Oh, stop it already,” Mark said. “You tried to get rid of me and do who knows what to Y/N—”

“Like you were any better! Who puts a bag over someone’s head?”

“You did it too! What kind of maniac brings a gun to a date?!”

“Wasn’t my date.”

You stopped them there. “Wait, this sounds like—I didn’t…shoot one of you, did I?”

Mark and Dark shared another one of those long, uneasy looks, and Mark said, “You know, this isn’t really important. We should be focusing on Wilford now.”

But you weren’t quite as ready to let it go. “And didn’t you say this had something to do with Wilford too? Is that why you had to cancel the project?”

“This episode is a bad one,” Dark agreed with Mark, which only made you even more suspicious. “We need to have a plan in case he comes back before it’s over.”

“You do know I’m just going to ask the Host what happened, right?” you asked.

“Great idea, Y/N! The Host should know where he’s at,” Mark said and pulled you out of the office. You sighed and followed along, if only because you wanted to hear what the Host had to say for yourself. Behind you, Dark stopped to lock the office door behind him and still managed to reach the downstairs hall at the same time as you and Mark, to find the Host slumped over in his chair, his hands to his face.

“Host? Hey buddy, are you okay?” Mark asked as he walked over to the ego, who flinched away at his touch and looked up. Now that you could see his face clearly, you realized that the bandages around his eyes were so soaked through that the blood had begun to trickle down his face. “What happened?”

“The Host just...strained himself,” the Host said, breathing heavily as though he had just been running. “The Host will recover.”

“Come on, you need to see the doctor,” Mark said. At first the ego resisted, and then he allowed Mark to pull one arm over his shoulder and support him. You moved forward to help and when the Host’s other arm was around you, you realized that he was shaking. You also realized that he was strangely quiet on the way to the infirmary and wondered if the tremors running through the body leaning heavily on you was really just from fatigue.

((End of Part 3. Thank you for reading! Word of warning, the next part may not come out until the day after tomorrow or Friday. I’ll also probably be away from Tumblr/Internet for some down time. These sudden changes in weather + sinuses are kicking my butt right now. >_<

Link to Part 4: The Host Refuses

Tagging: @silver-owl413 @determinedrevolutionary @cherrybomb-jaguar @blackaquokat @catgirlwarrior @neverisadork @luna1350 @oh-so-creepy @oceanicfangirl @purpstraw @weirdfoxalley @95fangirl ))

#markiplier #fanfic #wkm colonel #wkm mark #darkiplier #date with markiplier #wkm y/n #yeah they're hiding something

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thedaveandkimmershow · 6 years

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So the topic today is transitions. There’s the one right in front of us, of course: Summer to Fall, not-school to school, warm air to cool, cooler, cold air... bright, long days to dark, short days, and the middle of the year... to the end of the year.

What can I say?

It all has an impact on how we feel.

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Aside from those mostly environmental factors in our lives, there’s a host of both macro and micro ways in which our days move from one act to the next, from one state of being to the next, from a particular way our days are constructed that gives way to something different. Sometimes intentionally...

Sometimes not.

I was actually thinking about these things this time, last year.

At my age, it’s easy to believe I got life handled because gosh I know so much. But the truth is, I know what I know. I learned lessons from what I experienced to date… and for sure were I in grade school again, jr. high, high school again, college… I’d be waaaaaay ahead of the game. For sure I’ve got better comebacks than I once had. Or maybe 20-30-40-years later I finally hit on the things I should have said.

I’ve got better study habits. I’m better at prioritizing. And while I don’t have the brain capacity I once had, I know how to make information stick.

I could go on. But that would be a resume. Not a map through what lies ahead.

As we embark on the next 25, how do we engage this part of our lives as if we know what we’re doing? As if we’ve done this before.

As if we got this.

It’s wishful thinking in the extreme, but the world in which we live manifests a chaos and instability that calls for something more than…

Actually, I don’t know what it calls for. I just know that in a constantly changing environment, you gotta roll with it. There is no such thing as “settled down”. We will need, in this next 25, to make a series of short-term decisions about the shape of our lives together. We’ll need to do that because it’s unlikely that the basis upon which we make any decision is stable enough to sustain those decisions more than a few years.

Photo by Filios Sazeides on Unsplash

I won’t lie. That last sentence still seems right.

It’s unlikely that the basis upon which we make any decision is stable enough to sustain those decisions more than a few years.

At the time I wrote those words the first time, our days were constructed in a way they are not now. For example, Kimmer’s transitioning out of the job she had at the time... and transitioning into a pair of jobs, one in Ballard, one in Bellingham.

Yesterday, in fact, she trained up in Bellingham for a few hours... then came back down to Lynnwood mid-afternoon for an appointment at her private clinic.

Today... it was Ballard.

It’s a transition that’ll play out over this month, culminating in some very busy weeks. And months.

For me, at this time last year, there were three editors at one of my Seattle gigs where now there are two. Which opens more opportunity, has opened more opportunity. More gigs down there.

So even on that basis alone, this September’s stunningly different from the last. The heart of which has to do with the decisions we made about Kimmer’s work life.

Photo by Fabien Bazanegue on Unsplash

As I continued to read, something else resonated...

Pro Tip: The brightest, loudest elements of our environments aren’t necessarily the most relevant in the long term.

My guess is that, while my focus is drawn by shiny and fast and loud… the threads running from our past through our here and now into our future… those threads are probably not visible from the direction my eyes get turned. Our present is always in motion, is my point. There’s always stuff going on to which we’re not paying attention.

Important stuff.

So these days, I’m looking into the dark, the silence. I’m looking where the light’s not pointed. Where the sound’s not coming from. Where the news... isn’t. I’m looking at and I’m looking for things that don’t draw attention to themselves in any given moment. Basically I’m looking for Time’s equivalent of boulders amidst whitewater rapids.

They are threads running through time and place, my time and my place, and, if you look at them a certain way, they constitute pixels that will eventually form a new picture, one unrecognizable from the picture that constitutes our present.

Of course it’s fun to think of myself as a master of my past. But the next 25 will require some different kind of skill set. I’m not even talking about jobs or careers. But of how we will be in this future. How we will interact. How we’ll consider ourselves. How easy or difficult it’ll be to just be. To exist, co-exist. To become more.

Photo by Michał Parzuchowski on Unsplash

That also still seems legit. At least the heart of it that calls for a relentless sort of focus. Because a year after I wrote those words, the signal to noise ratio is bunching together: more noise, less signal.

Cacophony... is the word I’m looking for.

According to Miriam-Webster:

1: harsh or jarring sound: dissonance

2: an incongruous or chaotic mixture: a striking combination

—a cacophony of color —a cacophony of smells

A cacophony of news.

In the meantime, technology’s changing. Automation. AI. Machine learning.

The nature of our jobs is changing. A good thing... right up to the moment those jobs can be zeroed out by what tech can do.

The nature of our republic has changed. Gone are the days of any sense of stability. From now on, our laws, our objectives and the strategies we employ to achieve and sustain those objectives, will swerve all over the road. Every 2, 4, 8 years. Maybe less.

Social media is capable of so much in real time.

So yeah.

A foundation... is not something we’re counting on. That’s just what is.

Whitewater rapids.

Photo by Julie Thornton on Unsplash

It’s a useful thing that we’re improvisers. Helpful that we’re used to looking for puzzle pieces that might fit together differently. Really, really swell that we know how to make it all up on the fly and run with it. Useful that we’re not super wedded to settled down.

If we have to, we can hit the road in any number of directions... for any number of reasons. Scottsdale, Arizona, for example, is one of many options we’ve taken a liking to.

But that’s for later.

For now, it’s a year later. No surprises. Nothing that ran us off the rails. Not one thing beyond our abilities to handle.

And I’m very okay with that.

A year from now?

Well...

We’ll see.

I’ll let you know how this all worked out by the time we get there.

:-)

#marriage #empty nesting #growing up #vision #predictions #the future #paying attention #threads running through our lives #wisdom #learning #mastery #making predictions #guessing the future #what's next?

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nightblink · 7 years

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Blink Reads Oathbringer - Chapters Eleven and Twelve

Chapter Eleven – The Rift

Oh no the Blackthorn has Plate now. As if he weren't an unstoppable juggernaut already.

….of course he kicked the guy off a cliff. That's just as Extra ™ as I should have expected from him.

Calm? Calm? Gavilar's right, Sadeas, there's something of that chained axehound in all the Kholins, apparent even down through to the next generation.

He's associating Shardplate-power with the Thrill, and I'm still not sure how accurate a comparison that may be, since it's not yet been revealed what exactly the Plate is (though I am particular to the Shardplate-is-a-Radiant's-manifested-spiritweb theory)

With Dalinar like he is now, it's no wonder Navani turned him down in favor of Gavilar. Presenting him as a respectable arranged-marriage partner would be difficult even with the benefit of alliances and rank he'd bring! Still, his single-ness is a bargaining chip for Gavilar to use as best he can…

“Fuck off, I'm the barbarian, you're the Face, do your damn job and don't expect me to pull good Charisma rolls.”

Drunk during battle briefings? Of all the times I expected young!Dalinar to be sober, that was highest on the list. If I wasn't all but certain before that he'd been an alcoholic, that'd definitely be another point in favour.

Aaaaand, there goes Gavilar. Sadeas, somehow you are the Only Sane Man in this group. The other two… well, they're Kholins.

This scene is beautifully visible in the mind's eye - Dalinar dodging ballista bolts, bounding and hefting himself up the wall, great swings unimpeded, the three of them cutting through the defending forces like axehounds through cremlings

Again, the Blackthorn is fucking terrifying

...and then lands smack on his Plated ass

And then resumes being utterly terrifying, now helped along by Sadeas' warhammer. If he'd had both that one and his own… I'm getting flashes of a scene somewhat akin to the suicide stand in Reinhart's backstory video, only with more wholesale slaughter.

How much impact can Shardplate take before cracking or shattering. BrandoSando I want numbers, graphs, tables, and indication if Radiant Plate is any more durable than 'standard' Plate.

“Who put chicken feathers on their helms?” Coming at that from an Earth perspective makes that line even funnier

Teleb! Ahhh, hearing about you now only makes me sadder that we lost you last book.

And there it is. Oathbringer.

Too bad that Dalinar's an unstoppable force, and you sir, are no immovable object.

(!!! canon delineation of accents in the Alethi regions! EEEE)

Tanalan's got a point, Dalinar. You take care to trample and destroy and leave behind a smoking ruin. Right now, you really are monstrous.

Covered in blood and cracked armor, eyes lit by the Thrill, a vision of death incarnate.

The boy. Does he haunt your nightmares, Dalinar?

Kadash. Is this the battle that broke his resolve as a soldier?After what we've read, I can't fault him in the slightest. That wasn't just a massacre, it was destruction. Still, it seems pretty par for the course for Gavilar's forces. And he didn't seem overly bothered? But I thought he said he left after the battle at the Rift...

Shame? You manage to feel that, now that the Thrill's worn off? What part of that bloody day managed to pierce a sliver of regret into your heart?

Gavilar at least is less bloodthirsty, though was he ever as bad as you?

Oathbringer was the Sunmaker's? WUT

I already have What Did You Do in the War, Dad? on a Kholin playlist and suddenly it's become just that much more relevant with that last line of the chapter.

Chapter Twelve – Negotiations

It must be such a tiny yet strange shift in perspective, having never known windows facing east before.

COME ON STORMFATHER ANSWER THE QUESTION. WHAT HAPPENED AT THE RECREANCE.

….okay, yeah, that was a stinging comeback, granted.

The emperor? OOH DO WE GET TO SEE GAWX AGAIN. LIFT?

Oooo, a meeting chamber that was designed to accommodate the spren as well? Ahhhh, that's too cool! And it means the old Orders must have been able to see each others' spren? Tbh I can't imagine Syl sitting still on one of those pedestals for more than two seconds

Navani with her shoes off

GAAAAWX

Actually, the Azish government is sort of the opposite of a mess, Dalinar – they just love their paperwork and red tape. Alethkar's barely-monarchy with its divided association of warlords who somehow deign to work together even part of the time? Now that's a mess.

I'm happy that Dalinar's finding love again. It's so strange to see the juxtaposition between him now and the younger him that Navani turned down (and we can all see why).

“Highness” - that's the first time we've heard that title here, isn't it? I'm so used to “Brightness” and “Brightlord” now that it stands out as odd.

Oh Dalinar, you're as bad as Adolin – far too straightforward and Not Here for roundabout conversation when you're trying to make a point. Really though, did you just expect the Emperor of Azir to come out to this “ancient and beautiful city” and out of the seat of his power with all this turmoil going on? At the invite of an Alethi warlord? Honestly.

Negotiating? So… are the parshmen there controlled by Odium or not…?

This is sheer Azish polite deflection against Alethi arrogance and it's great

Dalinar is ready to flip a goddamn table, he's just not made for politicking

I LOVE THE THAYLEN QUEEN ALREADY

Hah, she knows you, Dalinar, that much is obvious. “you old brute. Quit spreading chull scat.” indeed.

“Her Majesty seems to be having a bad day.” and apparently speaks entirely in Snark when that happens.

Stole their ships? Stole their ships? The parshmen knew how to sail and apply that sailing knowledge? Yeah, no fucking kidding you don't know near enough about these Voidbringers

“We speak again their ancient oaths, and bind the Surges of nature to us.” - aka we have powers now and they involve bending physics to out will, so You Will Listen. [sighs] Talk about a warlord Highprince through and through…

Oooo, are you thinking of giving someone the Honorblade, Dals?

That's either an excellent idea or a fucking terrible one.

Well, that went about as well as it could have. Dalinar may have been holding out hope that the monarchs would be immediately willing to come to his side, or at least meet with him, but there's no way that was going to happen so early.

[winces] Oh, Elhokar, lurking around like you've been banished from your own throne room…

Which is entirely the point. This conversation has been a long time in coming.

“Perhaps… perhaps I'm a fine king.” !!! That is more than I ever expected Elhokar to say out loud, especially after that conversation with Kaladin in the last book! And he's still going, on a roll, what's he-

…..well then

This is actually a very reasonable arrangement. Dalinar is going to need an authority separate from Alethkar, especially if he's going to be ordering (or trying to order) the monarchs of all the other kingdoms around like he does Elhokar. It's a whole new level of organization, a global one, and that necessitates a new station.

Dalinar, Highking of Urithiru and the Shattered Plains

Oh thank the Heralds and Elhokar's sense, they're finally going to find out what's happening in Kholinar!

RADIANT STRIKE TEAM. I nominate Shallan and Renarin.

Ahhh, he gets gloryspen, Elhokar needed this. It's a weight off of his shoulders, a relief to finally confront Dalinar about this, and then he gets to go and do what he believes a king should, after all this time feeling usurped. He so very needed this.

“The hero, preferably.” ELHOKAR, YOU FANBOY

Dalinar is confused and oblivious and Elhokar is crushing on Kaladin so hard

So hard

Elhokar you are not straight at all

HOLY SHIT ANOTHER RADIANT?! WITH TARAVANGIAN?!

Dalinar. Dalinar, your shitty Insight roll is failing you yet again.

#oathbringer spoilers #blink reads oathbringer #in which young!Dalinar is terrifying #and Elhokar is Not Straight At All

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myaekingheart · 7 years

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Let's Take a Moment to Talk about Eating Disorders

This is the only thing that's been running in the back of my mind for days, weeks, maybe even months so I think it's time I sat down and really talked about this for a second. First off, I really hate myself. Let's just get that out of the way. If I didn't, I probably wouldn't be putting myself through so much torture. Not that I can even control much of this. The issue is that I know I have an eating disorder, but I just don't know what the fuck it is. I feel like eating disorders are very hit-or-miss in the diagnosis department. There's a handful of really well-researched and apparently common ones and then anything that doesn't fit the bill gets tossed into a junk drawer full of wide spectrum scenarios. I am one of those people in the junk drawer. I don't fit into any of the other boxes. I am an outlier, an unusual suspect. Of all the cases in which I am the strange, uncategorized lowlife, I never thought that the same would apply to eating disorders, as well.

Should I see a doctor or a therapist or something for all of this? Probably. Will I ever? I guess we'll see what happens. The thought of sitting in a room with a stranger going over all of this just comes off as unnerving and intimidating. Granted, not that spewing all of this nonsense out onto the internet is any better. At least here, I'm not guaranteed anyone will listen. I can tell you all I'm carrying the child of a one-eyed alien and you'd all probably go about your business as normal. But in a doctor's office, that's another story. They're staring at you taking notes on everything you're saying and the worst part is that you're shelling out tons of cash for them to do so. Then they'll look over everything they wrote down and overanalyze you, diagnose you with fifteen million different problems, and hand you a prescription and send you on your way. Probably. I've never done this sort of thing before so I wouldn't know, but that's how I assume it happens. Either that or it turns into a commitment where you're obligated to return once a week to chat about your problems and your pseudo progress. What a waste of time. Just like this entire paragraph.

Anyways, back to the important shit: the whole reason I'm even typing out all of this crap at 8am on a Wednesday. I have some unidentified problem and I don't know how to fix it. I've always had problems but I feel like more recently, they've only gotten worse and that scares me. When I was a kid, I had some mild eating issues but I don't ever remember it being anything too drastic. My earliest memory of disordered eating was when I was about three. My parents were having some kind of party and all I remember is sitting on the floor in the basement-turned-playroom among all the other kids while a marathon of Mr. Bean tapes was playing on the TV. I specifically remember the one where he meets the queen, the scene in which he's having trouble with his fly and has his finger sticking out of it to look as if he's whipped his dick out. Lovely to think that Rowan Atkinson gave me just the slightest first glimpse into understanding male genitalia. But anyways, I don't remember what exactly happened at this party to make me do this but somehow I must've spiralled into panic and that manifested itself in a refusal to eat. I went almost a full 24 hours without eating, if I remember correctly, and was fixed only when my mom whipped out a vintage Fisher Price nurse we fondly called Nurse Peggy who convinced me to nibble on some Ritz crackers. I don't have too many other wildly vivid memories of Nurse Peggy but according to my parents, she needed to be whipped out A LOT. I guess I was just one of those kids who didn't like to eat, or was a wildly picky eater. I remember panicking one time because my mom made tuna noodle casserole, one of my favorites, but there was a dark piece of mushroom in it that I swore was the missing leg off one of my little plastic ladybugs and it terrified the fuck out of me. But yeah, so this shit has evidently been going on for quite some time.

Ironically enough, around the same time this eating bullshit started, so did my anxiety. My very first panic attack had to have been when I was about three years old, as well. My mom and I were on ebay looking at a vintage Fisher Price castle when I guess I got so excited that I spiralled into a full-blown anxiety attack. I remember becoming suddenly overwhelmed with a loss of control over my body, shaking and hyperventilating and feeling like I was going to be sick. I have a very distinct memory of my mom tucking me into her bed and calling her own mother in an absolute panic, asking her what the hell she ought to do and being fully ready to drive me to the emergency room if need be. Obviously I calmed down after a while but it was the most terrifying experience of my young life. Little did I know that it was only the first of many panic attacks. Probably about ten or so years ago, I was officially diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder. In fifth grade, I was having panic attacks every single night to the point where it became disgustingly routine. My doctor took what I told her into consideration, diagnosed me, and prescribed me some anti-anxiety meds. They didn't last very long. Sure, they made me feel great but all I could think about was what my doctor told me about there being a high risk of addiction. I've never been one for medications for that exact reason (when I was little, during Red Ribbon Week one year we were literally given a coloring page about how you shouldn't take medicine if you don't need it and that doing so can kill you-- I distinctly remember it was two panels of two kids in a bathroom and I'm pretty sure there was a medicine cabinet filled with drugs and it was all very Schoolhouse Rock-esque in style but carried a very dark and brooding message). That coupled with the fact that the medication gave me some pretty hefty bathroom issues, I gave up on it after a couple of days. I know you shouldn't quit any medication without a doctor's consent but quite frankly, I didn't give a fuck. I wanted off and I wanted off now. Looking back, sometimes I wonder if giving up on those pills was the wrong decision, if I would've been better off if I had continued them all these years. Sometimes I wonder if I needed them more than I was willing to admit. Anxiety has affected and influenced every aspect of my life from irrational panic attacks during college orientation to trichotillomania during times of stress or when I'm insomniatic to, you guessed it, eating disorders.

Sometimes I feel like my brain is a playground and all the disorders going on in my head are small children running rampant together at recess, playing tag and hide and go seek. They all work in conjunction with one another like the cogs of a clock, winding together and grinding together. Anxiety is the queen bee, the line leader, and everything else follows suit in response to it. I pull my hair out sometimes because I'm anxious. I don't sleep because I'm anxious. I don't like high ceilings because they make me anxious. I don't eat because I'm anxious. And if anxiety was to have a little sister, it would be called emetophobia. I've been emetophobic for as long as I can remember, even though for the longest time I didn't have a word for the disorder. It was just that terrible, debilitating fear of throwing up. There was one girl back in first and second grade who used to tease me about it. She'd just sit there at lunch and say puke or barf or vomit and I'd instantly lose my appetite and feel woozy. I wonder if she ever regrets doing that to me. I wonder if she even has any idea the affects that had on me as a kid. Obviously nobody thinks vomiting is pleasant, even those with the more well known eating disorders who induce themselves (I doubt they find the actual act pleasant, regardless of how purging themselves makes them feel) but with me, the hatred and discomfort toward it is so extreme that it-- you guessed it-- gives me panic attacks. This has been perhaps the most recent culprit of my eating issues as of late, this emetophobia. And unfortunately, this isn't the first time something like this has happened.

When I was a kid, during the time I was getting panic attacks every night, one of the big things I feared was vomiting. A few days after my birthday that year, I had eaten a slice of leftover cheesecake at 9:34pm while watching reruns of I Love Lucy and later that night, I violently threw up. I still even remember what it looked like ten years later if that gives you any indication of just how bad this vomit phobia is. The cheesecake tasted like coffee and because of this, I couldn't stand the smell of coffee for a year or two afterward, having massive freakouts when my parents would make their nightly cups and forcing them to spray Febreeze throughout the entire house to try and mask the scent. To this day, the smell of coffee still sends a shiver down my spine. One of the main reasons why I don't drink it. Because of this experience, however (and the fact that almost every time I have vomited, it's been at night), I quickly fell into this vicious cycle of situational restriction. I refused to eat after dark out of the absolute fear that nighttime alone would cause my vomiting. This honestly became incredibly debilitating, and was especially a nuisance when daylight savings time ended and it began to get darker earlier. I'd constantly try and get my family to cater to this irrational fear, begging for dinners as early as 4pm just so I could avoid the possibility of thowing it all up after dark. Eventually, this all somehow petered out and I got back onto a more normal eating schedule but for the longest time, this was a massive problem and I'm terrified to say that I think it may be making a comeback.

The past few months have been pivotal for me. I spent a year straight toiling away in college in order to get my associate's degree as quickly as possible, then literally the very next day after my last final exam, I moved 300 miles away into an apartment with my boyfriend. It's been taking a while to adjust and I still find myself having some troubles even now three months later. In a way, a part of me feels like perhaps I wasn't entirely ready to move out in the first place. I can't drive, I've never had a job. I basically fall behind in every single aspect of adulthood except academically. And even though my boyfriend and I had been planning this months ahead of time and spoke of moving in together very early in our relationship, it still feels like everything moved outrageously fast. Living on my own has been wildly different than living with my parents, as well, both for the good and the bad. The good involves a newfound sense of freedom and the excitement of starting a new life-- one in which my boyfriend and I are not long distance, the beginning of spending the rest of our lives together. The bad, however, includes a chaotic aimlessness, a lack of structure, and crippling reponsibility. In the short few months I've been living on my own, I've found myself spiraling into a series of strange habits that are probably good for my finances but bad for my mental health, and the majority of them revolve around eating. First and foremost is the comeback of the nighttime fears. Because my boyfriend works retail, he works a broad range of hours that can fall anywhere from early morning shifts at 6am to closing shifts where he doesn't come home until almost midnight. This makes our routine very unstable because things change every day. Some nights we'll eat dinner at a solid 7pm and other times, food won't even be a thought until almost one in the morning when he gets home and has taken some time to relax. In a perfect world, this would be great. I always wanted to live aimlessly with zero structure, just eat and sleep whenever I please. Now that I'm here, though, the implications are terrifying. I've been getting panic attacks every single night for the past month or two whenever I eat without fail. But they're not the normal types of panic attacks that involve hyperventilating and full-body trembling and sweaty palms. Instead, these are much quieter and more akin to a persistent fear than anything else. It's a rising in my chest, a lump in my throat, the feeling that I can't swallow or that the food is going to come back up like acid reflux. It's the constant feeling that at any second, my chair is going to tilt back or a giant hand is going to peel the ceiling away or the floor will cave in and an immense gravity wil suck me down to the earth's core. This isn't so much a problem with breakfast or lunch or whatever the fuck you can consider my daytime meals these days. It's only at night when things get heavy and I feel like everything is caving in. Because of this, I feel like I can't eat. Even if I wanted to, even if I'm starving, I physically cannot bring myself to overcome these feelings and just eat. Every time I try, my throat tightens up and I'm seized by this overwhelming sensation of something rising up within me and my body jolts in the same way as when someone sneaks up behind you and touches your shoulder or your back or your arm. I spend my nights hiding this as I glance at my food, shift uncomfortably in my seat, rub the back of my neck or tug on my earlobe or squeeze my foot, constantly chanting over and over again in my head to just breathe, that I'm fine, that I'm not going to be sick. For a while, I just attributed all of this to leftover symptoms of a cold I had a few months back. I had insane postnasal drip which, as an emetophobic, I refused to hock up and spit out so it just stayed in my system building up and circulating and choking me. A part of me is still convinced that's part of the problem. But now I know that it's also so much more than that. It's not just leftover phlegm, it's also anxiety and restriction and absolute fear.

The other big contributing issue here has to do with obsession. Obsession with ingredients, obsession with calories, obsession with body image. This is where the more textbook features of eating disorders come into play. I've always had a love-hate relationship with my body image. I've always been very petite, always the shortest kid in my elementary school classes and I could still fit into size 3T skirts when I was in, like, second grade. At first, it wasn't anything other than just being small. I was still a healthy weight for my height and age, I had some baby fat on me. I looked fine. Second grade, however, was when everything hit the fan. I think at the end of the day, it all boils down to my teacher. I remember her as this chubby woman with gray hair and glasses who kind of reminded me of Ursula from The Little Mermaid. She was the first teacher I ever had who never blatantly praised me. All my other teachers were incredibly kind and nurturing women who saw so much potential in me and made me feel like I was capable of anything. I'm not saying that this is entirely the greatest tactic just because I don't think we should teach our children that they are the best ever and that they can do absolutely anything no matter what (just hang on here, I'm not sadistic, I'm making a very valid point), but I'm not saying that being really tough on them is great either. I firmly believe in teaching our children that they can do whatever they set their minds on given that they work hard. That success is directly influenced by effort but that they can accomplish anything so long as they just work for it. It's a very Tiana-esque method (from The Princess and the Frog). My second grade teacher, however, was one of those really tough women. I always felt like nothing I did was ever good enough for her. I remember getting freaked out after she lectured us on the dangers of plaigiarism and watched us sinisterly as we worked on a classwork assignment about it, then graded us harshly and marked points off if even a snippet of a sentence was exactly like the passage. She also made us use those stupid rubber grips on our pencils that forced us to hold them a certain way and she'd yell at us if we took them off. Now, for some kids I understand that this kind of discipline is good for them but I was not like most kids. I started reading when I was two and always colored inside the lines. In third grade, I found out I was mentally gifted and spent the rest of my elementary school career spending one full day a week doing additional classwork in gifted programs. My mind has a very specific way of working that this bitch was not tolerant to. It was exactly like that quote about how you can't test a fish on it's ability to climb a tree and expect it to do well. No matter what I did, if I didn't do things her way, she wasn't satisfied and that was really detrimental to my self esteem. It was this year that I started really changing for the worst. I lost all my baby fat and became incredibly thin. I was still a super picky eater, restricting myself to things like carrots + dip and chicken nuggets. This was also about the time when I started becoming really moody and disagreeable, which has honestly never changed since. I used to come home from school in a really good mood, like my parents would pick me up and I'd be happy and bubbly and ramble on about my day. Instead, now I was snappy and rude and easily frustrated. School wasn't coming to me as easily as it used to. I'd spend hours staring at one homework page struggling to figure things out and breaking out into tears because I just couldn't grasp it. Granted, this was never an issue with vocabulary homework, which I excelled at no matter what, but math homework was the devil. My dad and I would get into heated arguments about it because I just could not understand no matter how hard he tried to help me. I'd get angry with him because he'd try to show me the solution in a manner that was different than the way my teacher taught us in class and I was so hellbent on doing everything to cater to the teacher's methods that I would lose my mind if anyone even so much as considered forcing me to do things a different way. Again, this harkens back to that god-awful second grade teacher. This was a recurring thing throughout all of school, even to this day. I have constantly felt obligated to the best in everything I do, whether that's academically or socially or personally. Despite my academic success, socially I've hardly ever been fluent. There was a time as a young kid when I was very outgoing and unfiltered but after years of being bullied and just pushed around, I gradually crawled into my shell to the point where sometimes I can't even fully be myself around my own parents or boyfriend because I get nervous or second guess my decisions, overthinking reponses until it's too late. To everyone else not within my social circle, I'm just really quiet and perhaps a bit intimidating. The resting bitch face is strong with this one. I struggled to retaliate against the harsh words of classmates or the pressures of friends who craved popularity, attempting to force myself into a box in which I did not fit. I was that lanky nerdy kid with the glasses and crooked, oversized teeth who looked like a walking skeleton with pigtails. Sometimes I look back at picture of myself as a kid and wonder how the fuck I didn't even die, I was so goddamn skinny. My childhood best friend came from an Italian family who was very focused on good food. Looking back, it's no wonder I'd sometimes catch her mother glaring at me at the dinner table because I just never fucking ate. I'd take a few bites and then say I was done, then run back off with my friend to play. I don't know how I even had any energy, honestly. I swear I must have been running on empty.

High school, as I remember it, saw a brief intermission in my eating issues. There were a few instances where things were difficult for a time but they weren't anywhere near as monumental as my childhood eating issues, I don't think. Rather, my focus in high school was more on rejecting college, having fun with my friends, and obsessing over boys. Things didn't really hit the fan again until my first year as a full-time college student. As an adult, this is when I began to take things a little more seriously in regards to eating disorders. This was when my IBS started, which has remained a staple in my digestive issues ever since. Everything I ate made me double over in pain on the bathroom floor so I resolved to just not eat. Can't suffer from digestive cramps if you have nothing to digest. This was obviously directly linked to a lot of personal stresses I was facing in my life, what with all the changes that were getting tossed at me left and right. It was a very monumental time filled with a lot of new experiences and fears. I was trying to adjust to the fact that I was actually an adult now and that I'd never step foot in my high school again (which, even though I hated, I had grown rather attached to), never hang out with my friends again (because the majority of them left me), never pass my crush in the hallway ever again (granted, he graduated a year before me and I'm living with him now so that all worked out). The minute winter break started, I caught a nasty cold during which I was sleeping a lot and barely eating. It wasn't until after this that I realized something was seriously wrong with the way I looked. I had always been thin but this was like advanced thin. This was needing a belt on size zero jeans thin. This was dangerously thin. From that point onward, my obsession with my weight and eating habits has been an uphill battle of more adult proportions. I struggled for months afterward to get back on track, to gain the weight back, to push through the crazy intense IBS pains and start really eating again once and for all. It worked for a time and things went relatively well. I got back on track, I started adjusting to college, I got a boyfriend who cares deeply about me. Things were going well. Now, however, is when I feel like I'm slowly slipping off the wagon again.

Because of timing, I spent from August 2016 to August 2017 in school non-stop so I could get my degree and move in with my boyfriend when the lease on his old apartment expired and his roommate moved in with his own girlfriend. I didn't mind doing this. After all, it meant earning my degree quicker and moving in with my boyfriend sooner. A year straight of school wasn't all that awful anyways. Summer courses weren't really anything to write home about, I got through them and then I was done. It was no big deal. Or at least not until finals week. Things started out alright but I was on a massive time crunch. Everything was chaotic, a massive whirlwind. I felt so much pressure to do well, knowing that if I failed any of my tests it would drop my grades and I'd put myself at risk of having to retake classes and essentially ruining everything. I was really hard on myself about academics and added even more stress by procrastinating on packing. A part of me didn't quite register that all of this was really happening in the first place, not until I started moving all of my things into boxes and seeing my room grow barer and barer every day. The peak of the week came the night of my history final. My teacher was incredibly disorganized and let things overflow into the very last day of class so that not only did we have a final to worry about, but we had to wade through an hour and a half of boring presentations beforehand. I was suffering from a rather nasty headache that day, some jaw pain probably caused by a wisdom tooth coming in, so I took what I thought was plain ibuprofen before class. I gulped down two pills and thought I was good to go. What ensued was basically evidence as to why I always reject medication. As it turns out, the pills I took werent't actually ibuprofen but migraine meds with massive amounts of caffeine in them which, as I have recently discovered, I am intolerant to. This would further explain why the coffee flavored cheesecake as a kid sent me into a panic attack and made me puke, why premade brownies are potentially dangerous (my boyfriend and I bought organic brownies from Lucky's Market a few months back that had non-alkalized cocoa powder in them which, surprise surprise, has 4x the caffeine was cocoa powder processed with alkali. I had one fucking miniature brownie and within minutes I was shaking, hyperventilating, and ran to the bathroom on the verge of throwing up. I also realized just today that this also may have been the reason why I vomited a few years back after having eaten a brownie at a Disney resort), etc. I was struggling through the entire night, shaking uncontrollably with sweaty palms. I was dizzy and constantly felt like I was going to puke. I barely made it through my final exam but forced myself to finish because I knew I didn't have time to reschedule. This incident has drastically affected my own eating habits, however. Ever since, I have been wildly obsessed with what's in my food, shying away from sweets and always checking ingredients labels and refusing to drink any soda but Sprite (which, thank the lord, is both delicious and caffeine free). That moment has made me insanely paranoid, though, and a little too mindful (in the bad way) of everything I put into my body. I am so terrified of ever putting myself through something like that ever again that it leads me to restrict even more than normal. The same goes for the way my IBS affects my eating habits, as well. I'm constantly previewing menus for potential restaurants I might end up going to, thinking long and hard about the food I'm going to order. There are certain places where I don't even deviate on the menu, I stick to the same thing every single time I go there no matter what. I am terrified of trying something new and having an adverse reaction to it. With that in mind, I've just come to terms with the fact that restricting just seems easier. None of this is anything new, though. I've been restricting for as long as I can remember. There is, however, one other contributor that is new and that is finances.

Up until now, I have lived under my parents' roof where they paid for everything and I didn't have to worry one bit. They'd let me pick out whatever I wanted in the grocery store and the kitchen was free reign. I could eat whatever I wanted whenever I wanted and that was great. I didn't think about restricting as much back then, except for when it came to IBS. Now, however, things are different. My parents support me financially when it comes to bills and rent but other than that, I am basically on my own using whatever financial aid money I have leftover from my past year of school. I can afford things but I know that until I get a job or start school back up in January and get more financial aid, that that money is what is going to carry me through things like grocery trips and dinners out. It's incredible how much more analytical you become when it's your money that starts being spent on necessary things. Because of this, I've found myself and my relationship with food transforming and probably not for the better. My boyfriend and I are very aimless when it comes to grocery shopping. We don't meal plan, we haven't been couponing, we don't write shopping lists, and we don't seem to make a habit of rationing meat out for multiple meals. We basically just go to the grocery store, grab whatever we want, and hope for the best at the checkout counter. Coming from a home where my parents meticulously plan grocery store trips and buy certain things in bulk, this is a cold shock to me and it's difficult to figure out how to navigate. What I lack in physical lists, I try to make up for in overthinking during the trip itself which then only makes me come off as slow and confused. My boyfriend even described it like I was acting drunk once but it's all because my brain is trying to process so much all at once, like walking into a test after having not studied and never even attended a class. There's a lot going through my head and not a lot of time for me to process it. I don't like doing things this way but I don't know if I even have the motivation to work towards being a more organized shopper. But anyways, because of this our grocery costs tend to rack up pretty quickly which makes me feel guilty and almost uncomfortable since I know we only end up getting a limited number of meals out of that haul. This is where the restricting comes in. Grocery money is always in the back of my mind which essentially translates into this desire to make everything last as long as possible. I greatly ration my food and restrict myself out of the fear of running out and having nothing to eat. I live for leftovers and I make sure I eat just enough at restaurants or during homecooked meals for there to be something to put in the fridge at the end of the night. This doesn't always mean I eat until I'm full, though. Most often times, I'm not that full. Not that I could eat any more even if I wanted to (see a few paragraphs above). This would work great if not for the fact that I'm also obsessed with expiration dates. If something has passed it's expiration date or we have leftovers that have been in the fridge for a while, even if they are actually still good and safe to eat, I will not eat them. I threw out an entire pack of baby carrots the other day because they were one day past the expiration date and they looked dried out and therefore I considered them unsafe to eat. I have never had full-on food poisoning in my life before and I don't ever plan to because it seems my goal in life is to be as delicate and restrictive as possible so as to prevent myself from ever throwing up. If I do, I have failed and will overthink it for the next couple weeks. I get so paranoid every time I get sick that it's going to happen again that I just starve myself because I assume you can't throw up if there's nothing in your stomach (newsflash: you can and I learned that the hard way-- I went almost twenty four hours with barely eating something once and I ended up violently vomiting right before I had plans to go out with my best friend and ever since, I have also been terrified of not eating enough and doing the same exact thing to myself again. So basically, if I eat too much, I'm scared I'll throw up. If I don't eat enough, I'm scared I'll throw up. If I eat anything at all, I'm scared I'm going to throw up. It's real fun). The worst experience of this starvation-after-vomiting thing was in sixth grade. It was the day of a huge standardized test and I was not feeling good at all but I knew I couldn't afford to miss this and my mom refused to let me stay home so I sucked it up, did my best, and went to school. The doors hadn't even opened yet and I was already losing it. Literally a full minute before the teachers opened their doors, I started puking down the entire sixth grade hallway in front of EVERYONE. My friend immediately jumped into action and dragged me to the nurses office as I left a trail of vomit behind me. It was the most traumatizing experience of my life and I will never forget it. After this, I refused to eat for days. I went home, my mom gave me a bath, and I slept on the couch for hours until lunchtime when my mom brought me home a Subway sandwich that I could barely eat without feeling like I was going to be sick again. The day passed in a haze and the next morning, I guess I was looked upon with varying shades of disgust and humor. In a way, I think I kind of unwillingly became some sort of legend at that school because everyone remembers me as the girl who puked down the hallway. The next day was like the big celebration for finishing all of those rigorous standardized tests and as such, my teacher bought donuts for everyone. I love donuts so the normal part of my brain was rejoicing but the traumatized side was in a fetal position in the corner having a panic attack. I did end up grabbing a donut but whether I ate it or not was another story. Sometimes I wonder if deep down everyone in my class knew I had some sort of eating disorder because eating that donut the day after I got sick was like trying to teach a fish how to fly and everyone knew it. Everyone saw I was struggling, everyone knew I had a problem. I don't remember if this was an everyone thing or not but I do distinctly remember the boy sitting next to me was watching me eat and egging me on like I was running a marathon. It almost felt like I was the age I am now and attending a kegger where some frat guy is shouting "CHUG! CHUG! CHUG! CHUG!" Just like that, it was simultaneously motivating and condescending. I swear, everyone was watching me as I struggled to just eat that goddamn fucking donut. I never did finish it. I think I ate about half before tossing it in the trash and making peace with failure. It all still haunts me to this day, though. Especially because I put myself through the same torture day in and day out with my eating nowadays. I stare at the food on my plate and I can hear the voices in my head screaming at me to down the damn thing, meanwhile inside my digestive tract is a bunch of blaring sirens and flashing lights for absolutely no goddamn reason.

Will any of this ever get better? Who fucking knows. By now, I've come to terms with the fact that this is an endless cycle and that it's something I will have to struggle through and face time and time again for the rest of my life. Do I enjoy that fact? Absolutely fucking not. But is it realistic? Yeah, I think so. I don't know if there's ever such a thing as true eating disorder recovery, or if I'll ever even find out what the fuck kind of disorder this even is. It's hard to try and treat something that's so complex and that also doesn't seem to fit into any of the commonplace categories. Sometimes I wish I had anorexia or bulimia instead solely so I could at least pin a name to this torture. Otherwise, I don't know how to cure what doesn't even have a name. Sometimes I wonder if this even actually is some sort of eating disorder or if it's just the conglomeration of multiple different issues combining into one giant super disorder that's wreaking havoc across my entire wellbeing. I have no goddamn idea but fuck, do I wish I knew. If only I fucking knew.

#this is just a bunch of personal bullshit #it's redundant and stupid but i just needed to get it all out #so you can happily avoid this if you'd like #eating disorders #ramblings

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holmesoverture · 7 years

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In Sherlock’s Room, Part One

Here’s the first half of my Camp NaNo project! :) Part Two will be up on Tuesday, so you won’t have a long wait.

Title: In Sherlock’s Room Rating (for this half): Mostly PG, but there’s a graphic description of a murder at the end that’s at least PG-13 Total Word Count: 6431 Pairing: bi Watson/ace trans Holmes Universe: Modern AU of the original canon Summary: Holmes solves a case in his jammies. Watson does laundry and makes ravioli.

TW for this half: flashback to a random lady being a jerk to Watson about his PTSD

Part Two Be Here

I suppose that by now I have given most people the impression that my life with Mr Sherlock Holmes is one of nonstop excitement and adventure, that our days are a blur of boat chases and midnight stake-outs and near-death experiences. These, however, are extraordinary anomalies, over-represented among my published works because I presume they are what the public most wishes to read. In some instances, I confess I even twisted the facts to allow for a more suspenseful and satisfying conclusion. A greater number, though I would hesitate to say most, of our days share more in common with the unusually warm Thursday in September when the postman handed me a package from a Mrs Evelyn Mulvehill, Kendal, Cumbria.

It was a children’s shoebox, though it had been appropriated for another purpose, given the way the contents shifted as I carried it upstairs to Holmes’ bedroom. After nearly ten years of sharing quarters with the most chaotic man in London, I knew to tread carefully when I entered his small room. I managed to avoid tripping over the eclectic detritus scattered about the carpet and arrived at his bedside where he lay sprawled on his stomach, face turned to the wall, as though preemptively rejecting my attempts to rouse him.

“Package for you.”

Holmes did not awaken easily, not even at nine-thirty on a morning when the late summer sun threatened to burn holes in the curtains. Only after I knocked on his head with the package for a full minute did he deign to rise.

“Stop shaking it,” he said. “You’ll damage the samples.”

“Samples of what?”

“Of whatever my latest client found in her wife’s car. Did I not tell you we have a case?”

“No. What is it about?”

“Mrs Evelyn Mulvehill is an accountant in Kendal. Her wife Polly, to whom she has been married these last twelve years, works as a university history professor during the week and at a local museum on weekends. They were quite happy together until a little over two months ago, when Evelyn began to suspect that her wife was driving to London every weekend to cheat on her, again. She’s hired me to find out whether or not that is true.”

“You don’t usually accept cheating spouse cases.”

“Well, I was bored, and the only other option was to accept the case from that bizarre Norwegian couple.”

“They were a perfectly nice couple.”

“In a bizarre sort of way, I suppose.”

The contents of the package were now strewn across his blanket. They consisted of a green USB drive, several plastic bags containing various sorts of dirt, and a folded piece of paper, meticulously torn from a notebook so that none of the frills remained attached. Holmes saw me staring at it and held up the paper, tapping the clean edge.

“This is yet another manifestation of Evelyn Mulvehill’s exacting and meticulous nature. Rather than contacting me with blind suspicions, she first checked the mileometer* before and after one of her wife’s weekend holidays and found that the number corresponded with a round trip from Kendal to London. This is how I knew I could trust her to search Polly Mulvehill’s car without my supervision.”

“You had her conduct the investigation herself?”

“It was either that or we’d have to go all the way up to bloody Cumbria.”

“I think Cumbria sounds lovely.”

“It really does not.” He wrinkled his nose to reinforce his disgust, then offered a gallant shrug. “But perhaps I could tolerate it for a few days after I finish Mrs Mulvehill’s case.”

He retrieved his laptop from under his bed and straightened his pyjama top, a white T-shirt emblazoned with the bold, black words TRANS MEN ARE MEN. It had been a gift from Mrs Hudson the Christmas after he, and we, came out to her. I hadn’t expected him ever to wear it but, along with a fraying pair of flannel trousers and a mouse-grey robe, it quickly became his preferred sleepwear.

“I told Mrs Mulvehill that, as soon as her wife returned from her next weekend excursion, she was to photograph every inch of the car, both inside and outside, and send me samples of any dirt or debris she found on the car floor, in the boot or elsewhere.”

He unfolded the paper with a precise flick of the wrist, and then handed it to me to read aloud.

Dear Mr Holmes,

Here are the items you asked for. I hope they are of help to you. In addition, here are some other details I noticed but could not send you for obvious reasons:

- After at least two weekends, I thought I smelled cumin from the inside of the car.

- After this past weekend, Polly came home with some sort of rash or blister on her hand. She said she went for a walk in a park and must have gotten it from a poisonous plant.

- I don’t remember when it was, but I once asked Polly about her weekend. All she would say was that her hotel was close to an airport and kept her up at night.

If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask.

Sincerely yours,

Evelyn Mulvehill

Holmes had plugged in the USB by the time I finished reading the letter. On the screen were dozens of thumbnails of a leaf green car. The number in the corner indicated there were well over two hundred photographs. It would take Holmes some time to work his way through them all, a task for which he hardly required the assistance of a former soldier or a former doctor. I would stay close, on the off chance he wished to ask my opinion on something, but it was clear I would need to find something else to fill my morning.

It did not take me long to hit upon an idea. Shirts and ties and socks lay strewn about the floor. With a final glance at Holmes, confirming that he did not need me at present, I set about tidying the place, insofar as Holmes’ room could ever be tidied without knocking the man unconscious and hiring a professional cleaning service. I may not have been able to deduce from those clothes how long each piece had lain on the floor or the marital status of the wearer or whether or not he had a tailor, but as I folded each article and neatly stacked them by type, I was met by insights of a more personal nature.

Here was the shirt he wore at the conclusion of the adventure of the erstwhile client, which culminated in Holmes dipping and kissing me in front of our self-hating client. The kiss lasted only a few moments, but the merest thought of that encounter still brought a tingling sensation to the lips he had caressed and the skin he had embraced through the fabric of my shirt. In the moment I was too shocked to scold him for his impropriety. I never did get around to it.

There was the waistcoat I cried into after one of my patients found out I had PTSD and spent the rest of the appointment shying away, afraid I’d suddenly turn violent, and advised me to remain single so I wouldn’t hurt my partner. I was a wreck from the moment I stepped through our front door, which made Holmes a wreck as well, though his distress manifested itself in loss of speech and hand-wringing rather than tears and snot. Despite his protests that it was unnecessary, I made him promise to walk out and never look back if ever I dared raise a hand against him.

And there was the binder I had to help wrestle him out of after an after-dinner fernet became an after-dinner half-bottle of fernet. It took twenty minutes of wrenching and wriggling to separate man from clothing, by which point we both were nearly useless with laughter. Not long after, I took off my own shirt for reasons that probably made sense in my alcoholic haze, and, for the first and only time, we fell asleep in the same bed. I wasn’t sure why he still kept the old binder. It never quite recovered from its traumatic experience.

Not every article of clothing held such vivid and meaningful memories. That should have been too trite even for my bathetic sensibilities. Still, I found myself smiling or frowning from time to time as I went about my work, folding shirts and socks and trousers and the occasional dress and stocking, until the floor was cluttered with every sort of object except clothing. I placed the folded laundry into his chest of drawers as Holmes gave a bark of laughter.

“What a marvellous turn of the wheel!” he cried. “Yes, this is far superior to the case brought forth by the Norwegian couple.”

“You found something?”

He crooked a finger in my direction. I bent over for a better view of the picture on his screen. He had zoomed in so much that I could not discern which part of the car I was looking at, but I had a reasonably clear view of an insect, dark in colour, with wings that reminded me of clear stained glass.

“Brachyptera putata,” he announced. “They used to be found throughout Great Britain but their population is now restricted to rivers in northern Scotland and Ukraine.”

“So either that insect has managed to stage a comeback under the nose of every entomologist in the country, or Polly Mulvehill was not in London after all.”

He sprang from the bed, toppling the laptop in his haste, and pounded into the living room loudly enough that Mrs Hudson was compelled to bang on her ceiling/our floor with a broom handle. Holmes responded by stamping in a rhythmic pattern that very much sounded like the word SORRY in Morse code before returning, on feet as light as a cat’s, to the bedroom with an atlas, fat and worn, beneath his arm. He jerked to a halt just inside the door, eyebrows rising at the sight of his floor.

“My clothes are missing,” he said.

“They’re not missing. They’re in the chest where they belong.”

“But that is not where they belong. I had them where they belong, and now you have made a mess of everything. If you are so desperate for entertainment, you may rearrange my collection of dirt samples from the East End. They’re meant to be organised in descending order according to the number of murders committed in each neighbourhood in the past five years, but I left my door unlocked a few days ago and Mrs Hudson got in here and alphabetised them.”

I could only shake my head as he pulled open and emptied every one of his drawers. Before too long his room devolved to its former slovenliness. With a sigh of satisfaction he returned to his atlas, opening it upon the paper-strewn desk crammed into the corner by the window. Soon enough he was so lost in his private world of delicate minutiae that I may as well have been alone in the flat.

There never is any middle ground for Holmes. Either he is entranced by a subject, consuming it all and being very nearly consumed, or he ignores it entirely. I am fortunate enough to fall into the former category, at least on the days when no cases are forthcoming. He is never a jealous or a possessive sort, but he spends every moment he can in my presence, listening to whatever stories I care to tell and stealing small gestures of affection when I reach a stopping point in whatever I am doing. It is a heady thing to be so loved by so fiercely loving a man, though I know I would tire of such intense devotion were his attention not regularly diverted to his work. As it is, I cherish all of our days together, no matter if I am its focal point or a helpful satellite.

I certainly was not of special interest to anyone on this day. Holmes had his atlas, and I figured I might as well take a shot at his dirt collection. It seemed perfectly sorted and logically organised to me, but it would give Holmes fits if I did not fix it according to his liking. Where was that article on East End crime rates that gave him the idea for this ridiculous filing system? Ah, it was taped to the lid of the box. I was so grateful that I didn’t care to question why Holmes had placed something in so convenient a location for once.

I suppose that was unfair of me. Holmes’ organisational methods are certainly comprehensible enough to him, and it is only his things he uses them for (even if his things do have a habit ending up in every room of both our flat and Mrs Hudson’s). He doesn’t complain about how I arrange my things, after all.

Sorting dirt was orders of magnitude less interesting than sorting clothing, and sorting clothing is hardly an activity that people engage in for the fun of it. Holmes may have been able to write monograph after monograph detailing the differences in each sample, but they all looked very much the same to me. I had to depend exclusively on the elaborately inscribed labels to ensure I put each one in its proper place, and even then I had my doubts. The fact that my thoughts kept drifting as I worked didn’t help. We paid the rent this month, didn’t we? Yes, I gave the money to Mrs Hudson the day before yesterday, along with the money to replace her pan and spatula, with which Holmes sautéed poisonous mushrooms for reasons he never satisfactorily explained. Speaking of food (after a fashion), what might he want for lunch? Well, I wanted ravioli. He should be fine with that, so long as I didn’t put tomato sauce on it. Did we have olive oil, or did Holmes use it all for his mushrooms?

Holmes clapped to himself, the noise accompanied by his strange bleating laugh. No happier combination of sounds existed in his world, or in mine. He had found a solution.

“Come here, come here!” he cried, waving me over with movements fast enough to blur his hand. He could not even wait the time it took me to cross the room to regale me with news of his discovery.

“You remember that Polly Mulvehill once complained to her wife about staying too close to an airport? There are thirty-eight airports currently in operation throughout Scotland, but only one of them is both sufficiently close to the known habitat of the brachyptera putata and roughly the same distance from Kendal as is London.”

He pointed to a page in the atlas with a flourish. Just above his long, limber finger was the word Aberdeen in pale, strict letters.

“That’s where Polly Mulvehill has been spending her weekends?” I asked.

“That it is. The city of Aberdeen is home to both Aberdeen International Airport and the mouths of the River Dee and the River Don.”

“You said this bug is also found in Ukraine. How do you know she isn’t going there?”

I spoke half in jest, but Holmes addressed the issue with as much sincerity as he would the discovery of a corpse.

“I suppose it would be possible for her to ship her car to and from Ukraine, were it not for the fact that, aside from the brachyptera putata, the bugs I examined on Mrs Mulvehill’s car are consistent with those found in the United Kingdom, not Eastern Europe. No, Watson, she is most definitely spending her weekends in or around Aberdeen.”

“Perhaps she has a girlfriend in Aberdeen rather than London.”

“Ah, ah!” Holmes wagged a scolding finger. “Never theorise before the facts. Nothing in these photographs so far hints at the existence of a girlfriend. Making assumptions can only lead to haphazard conclusions.”

How many times had I heard a variation of that admonishment? I like to believe I am not quite as thick as I appear in my stories, but some days I make myself wonder.

As Holmes settled back onto his bed, cross-legged with his computer in his lap, I left the room long enough to start the ravioli. It was simple enough to make, nothing that would challenge my limited culinary skills. Unfortunately, this meant preparing our meal didn’t take very long, and soon enough I was back in Holmes’ room, glancing about for a diversion, at loose ends yet again. As much as I usually tried to ignore the pictures that hung on his bedroom walls, they now seemed my best chance at staving off boredom a while longer.

When we first visited Baker Street prior to moving in, the walls in what became Holmes’ bedroom were a pleasing if bland shade of off-white. I assume they are still this same colour today, but it is nearly impossible to tell, for they are almost entirely obscured by sketches and photographs of crime scenes, victims, evidence and who knows what other stomach-turning subjects. The wall closest to his bed was the worst offender. The entire visible surface was a patchwork of black-and-white, colour and sepia photographs of hundreds of prominent criminals from throughout world history. Holmes had described to me the exploits of some of them. Adam Worth and Joseph Grizzard were enduring favourites, but the great majority of the faces displayed there remained detached from any context. On this day, one face in particular stood out to me, that of a bespectacled, bug-eyed man with a thin face and a mustache to be envied.

“Who’s this?” I asked.

Holmes’ eyes flicked up for the briefest moment. He looked back down with a trace of a smile. “Dr Hawley Harvey Crippen, an American snake oil salesman trapped in what was by all accounts an unhappy and abusive marriage. In 1910 he poisoned his wife, then strangled her, skinned her, cut off her head and extremities, removed all of her organs in one long strand, carved every ounce of flesh from her bones, and buried the meaty bits in his coal cellar while disposing of the bones, head and extremities by means investigators were never able to identify. I have a photograph of the ovariectomy scar used to identify the remains as Mrs Crippen’s on the wall behind you, if you’re interested. Is lunch ready? I smell ravioli.”

He ate far more enthusiastically than I, all the while searching through the remainder of the photographs sent to him by Mrs Mulvehill. A scarlet ribbon dangled from the rearview mirror. The upholstery, while not new, was black and shiny and well cared for. The floors were black and speckled with dirt. To me it seemed a perfectly ordinary vehicle. I wondered what Holmes saw. Whatever it was, it must have been far more captivating than what little my poor senses could pick up, and after lunch I left, ensconcing myself in my own room to begin implementing the changes to my latest manuscript suggested by my editor. Holmes did not notice my departure, nor would he until either he found a new lead or I came to remind him to take his meds in an hour.

* I really hope mileometer is Brit speak for odometer. Please list my cause of death as trying to convert auto parts from American to British English.

#sherlock holmes #my writing #camp nano 2017 #tw ableism #tw gore #asexual holmes #trans holmes #bisexual watson #the queue carbuncle

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luci-in-trenchcoats · 8 years

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The Fake Boyfriend (Part 2)

Summary: Reader bumps into a stranger and her life gets flipped upside down…

Part 1

Pairing: AU!Dean x reader

Word Count: 3,100ish

Warnings: language

A/N: You guys didn’t REALLY think I’d make you wait a whole month for the next part, did you? ;) Enjoy...

You were still shaking out your hand as you and Dean headed for the baggage claim.

“Stop being such a wimp, runt,” said Dean, his backpack slipped over one of his shoulders. You were carrying yours by the handle as you glared at him.

“You nearly broke my hand,” you said, having to stop and set the bag down. You slipped one arm through it and stood up, slipping your left arm through, wincing when a passerby bumped into you.

“I thought you weren’t gonna make fun of me for that,” said Dean, nodding his head back toward the gate. “I already told you I don’t-”

“Like planes? I got that when you about tore off my hand on landing,” you said, pulling your hood out from under your pack. Dean didn’t say anything but grabbed it and pulled it down over your face, messing up your hair.

“It’s raining out runt. We wouldn’t want you to get wet, you might melt,” said Dean, taking off without you as you huffed.

“Getting along?” you said, Dean stopping as you caught up. “I guess that’s only in front of other people huh.”

“We have to pretend for a whole week. We can be honest with each other here like any good couple,” said Dean with a tilt of his head.

“Fine, De,” you said, brushing past him and taking the lead. “We both know how much you love telling the truth.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” said Dean, following you as you took the escalators downstairs.

“Everything you told me on that plane ride wasn’t true is all. You wouldn’t look me in the eye sometimes and I know you were lying about something,” you said.

“Whatever,” said Dean, trying his best to get away from you but pouting when the two of you had to wait for your bags. Dean had two, simple black ones that looked brand new and you figured he’d just bought them the day before. Dean was certainly more of the beat up duffel bag kind of guy. You grabbed your two and went to the rental car area. Dean was surprised when you got to skip the line for being preferred and had to bite back a snarky response when they asked him what he wanted.

“Nicest thing you got,” he said, resting his elbow on the counter, giving the woman working behind it a smirk. She shot him a wink back and handed over a pair of keys before seeing you with raised eyebrows behind him. “Thank you.”

“Do you flirt with everyone?” you asked, pulling your bags behind you, ignoring the throbbing in your wrist to avoid another one of his comments.

“Only the pretty girls,” said Dean, giving you a glare. “You got nothing to worry about.”

“Oh, nice comeback. They teach you that one at douchebag 101?” you asked. “Oh, wait. You never went to college.”

“Not everyone needs to go to school. Not everyone is supposed to,” he said, walking out into the rain that had turned into a downpour, you right on his heels. You walked down the sidewalk until you found A11, a sleek dark gray Range Rover that had Dean drooling. “Now that’s a car I’d like to take a look at. I haven’t had one of those in the shop before.”

“Where’d you go to school?” you asked him, hearing him sigh as he popped the trunk.

“Yale or some shit,” said Dean. “I make all my money in stocks or something. Owning my garage for fun is the only true thing these people are gonna know about me.”

“I told you, they’re assholes. You guys will get along great,” you said, lifting the one bag in with your right hand, trying to do the same with the other but dropping it as you scrunched up your face. You breathed heavy before using your right hand to put it in, Dean’s face neutral as he wanted you to hurry up.

He climbed in behind the wheel as you got in the passenger seat, shaking out your hand again as Dean blasted the heat to try and dry himself off.

“Here,” said Dean, reaching out and grabbing your arm. You tried to shake him away but you were nothing under his large hands. He pushed back your sleeve and saw something he didn’t like. “This’ll hurt.”

“Fuck!” you shouted, Dean’s fingers pressing hard against your thumb, the pain fading quickly as your hand felt a million times better.

“Your thumb was dislocated,” said Dean, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a bandana. He unfolded it and wrapped it around your wrist, making a small brace for it. “It should feel better in a few hours.”

“Told you I wasn’t being overdramatic,” you said, pulling your hand away from him.

“Sorry,” he said, turning the key and backing up.

“Thanks,” you said, looking out the window. It was calm for a moment between the two of you and you wished he would just be a little nicer when you were on your own. “You know how to get there?”

“I’m not an idiot. I went to Yale after all,” said Dean, moving his hand to the radio.

“I forgot De, you’re a genius,” you said, listening to Dean fiddle with the music before settling on some classic rock station.

“Glad to know you finally recognize my abilities runt,” said Dean, pulling onto the road. “There is a brain under this gorgeous head of hair.”

“Were you born this cocky or did it manifest over time?” you asked, looking out the window again to feel Dean’s finger come up and flick your head. “Hey!”

“Whoops,” said Dean, smiling over at you as you hit traffic. “You know how I can’t keep my hands off you.”

“I thought you only flirted with the pretty girls,” you said, Dean laughing and your pride hurting.

“It’s not flirting, Y/N. I thought I told you yesterday that you were pretty. You are honestly. Maybe next time you have one of these family things you’ll have a real boyfriend to take,” said Dean. You looked down at your lap. “Not some fake one like me.”

“I didn’t make fun of you about the plane, you don’t get to make fun of me for this. You got me into this mess,” you said, the car going uncomfortably silent.

“The uh...weather should be cleared up by the time we get there,” said Dean and that was it, back to idle chit chat. Only a two hour car ride and then the charade really started.

“Fuck, Y/N, this place is nice,” said Dean, stepping out of the car and looking around the private grounds.

“My oldest cousin, he got married here about ten years ago. It’s kind of become the place we all do now since it’s pretty beautiful,” you said, unwrapping your hand and handing Dean his bandana back. He helped you get your bags out this time and was surprised when a man in a suit showed up out of nowhere with a cart.

“Ms. Y/L/N, nice to see you again,” said the man a little too well dressed to be just the bellhop.

“Hi Ricky,” you said with a smile that Dean caught.

“I see you brought your boyfriend,” said Ricky and he smiled back.

“Did you guys used to screw or something?” asked Dean, Ricky looking a little taken aback.

“If we were both single at the time, ya know,” you said with a shrug. “We used to have fun. Ricky got married a few years ago.”

“I don’t believe the family would have been to fond if they discovered Y/N was more into the, working man type at that point in her life,” said Ricky. “What do you do Mr...?”

“Winchester. You can call me Dean. I work on cars for a living but I’m supposed to pretend to make all my money in trading,” said Dean, your hand coming up to punch his arm so fast he didn’t have time to stop it. “Ow!”

“Dude! You’re already failing at this!” you said, knowing Ricky would keep your secret but hoping Dean would keep his mouth shut from now on.

“Good luck Dean. Y/N, don’t let that one go,” he said, pulling along your cart as you and Dean stood there.

“My little Y/N’s the deviant of the family now, isn’t she?” teased Dean, holding open his hand.

“Shut up loser,” you said, opening yours and feeling Dean’s wrap around it. It was warm and calloused over, something safe to hold onto as you wouldn’t have to face your family alone again.

“Ready for this?” he asked, taking a step forward.

“No turning back now.”

You were hoping the lobby would be empty when you checked in but your parents were lingering by the front desk, talking with the manager.

“Y/N! You brought Dean too!” your mom exclaimed as you glanced nervously at the floor. Shit, there was no way you’d ever pull this off.

“Hello Mrs. Y/L/N,” said Dean, running his thumb over your hand, trying to get you to look up. You did hesitantly and saw Dean a little surprised when your mom started giving him a hug.

“You can call me Maggie. You’ve met my husband, Matt,” she said, your father shaking hands with Dean, Dean’s other one never leaving your hand. He probably thought you’d run off if he let go.

“Y/N, we told them you were bringing a friend so you get the lucky room,” said your father, your eye roll hard as you tried to drag Dean away.

“Lucky room?” asked Dean, allowing you to pull him to the front desk where the man behind the counter handed you something to sign.

“Well, every time we have an event here, the couple that stays in that room ends up getting married. Y/N could use the nudge,” said your mom and you practically growled. “How long have you two been together?”

“About six months,” said Dean, your hand moving away from his so you could sign and grab your room keys. Fuck, you were going to have to share a room with Dean. Not like that wasn’t going to be weird or anything.

“You didn’t bring him to any holidays?” said your dad. “Y/N,” he scowled and you were ready to blow your whole cover when Dean threw an arm over your shoulders.

“I had a nasty flu for a while, I didn’t want to get anyone sick,” said Dean. “Barely managed to convince Y/N to leave my side and go see you guys myself. She takes such good care of me.”

“Knew he was gonna be the one,” your dad whispered in your ear.

“Come on, Dean,” you said, pushing on his back over to the stairs. “We’ve been traveling all day and want to rest up before dinner.”

“Well, you’ve got about an hour to settle in. You know it’s black tie tonight,” said your mother as you pushed Dean with force now.

“See you later,” you gritted through your teeth, Dean doing a fairly good job of fighting back his laughter.

You had a room up on the third floor at the end of the hall. Your bags were already inside and you plopped down on the bed when Dean shut the door behind you.

“Move over, runt,” he said, rolling you to your side and laying down next to you, a sigh escaping him. “I don’t know about you but I could use a nap.”

“My parents will murder us and hide the bodies if we don’t show up you know,” you said, Dean stretching and spreading his body out, even if that meant laying his arms and legs on you. “You better not hog this bed.”

“I’m bigger than you. It’s only fair I get more than half of it,” said Dean, using one of his hands to roll you over again, taking up more space for himself.

“You’re sleeping on top of the covers,” you said, Dean sitting up, giving you the chance to try and shove him but finding him planted firmly in place. Apparently he’d been letting you push him around earlier.

“Wow, you’re so strong,” said Dean, grabbing your hands and pushing you back over, holding you in place. “Not. And I’m sleeping under the covers. You got a problem with touching me, you can sleep on top.”

“No way! I get the covers,” you said, Dean raising an eyebrow.

“I get the covers, runt,” said Dean. You squinted your eyes but saw him give it right back. “We can be adults and share.”

“First time for everything,” you said, Dean nodding his head and sliding off the bed.

“I’m going to shower quick and change before this thing,” said Dean. “Don’t come sneaking looks at me.”

“You aren’t even that good looking,” you said, rolling off the bed and over to your bags.

“Tell your face that next time it doesn’t think it’s staring at me,” said Dean, walking inside and shutting the door.

“Save me some water!” you shouted through it, hearing it come on a few moments later. “Still an asshole.”

“You almost done?” said Dean, his annoyance evident.

“Maybe if you hadn’t taken so long, I’d be done by now!” you shouted back, tucking one last strand of hair up with a bobby pin. You turned to face the mirror, patting down your black dress. It was a little more racy than your family would probably approve of but you liked showing off your toned shoulders and back. You didn’t do all those pushups for nothing.

“Y/N, you’re killing me here! I haven’t eaten since I had that sandwich on the plane,” he said, your feet slipping into high heels that would give you some height and probably surprise him a little when you walked out.

“Alright, I’m coming!” you said, exiting the bathroom and walking into the room.

You weren’t prepared to see him in a tux, looking like fucking James Bond. It was tailored, one of the ones he bought yesterday and God it hugged his body like perfection. He still had his little bit of scruff and his hair was done up the same as normal but that just made him give off a bad boy vibe that left you speechless.

“You uh, you look nice,” said Dean, his voice softer than you’d ever heard before.

“You too, De,” you said, ignoring the way you both eyeing each other up like you wanted to devour the other. “You can call me runt out there.”

“Huh?” he said, watching you walk around the room and grab your clutch.

“You call me runt a lot. It’s okay to do it. I don’t find it offensive or uncomfortable,” you said.

“Call me De. It felt weird on the plane when you tried honey out. I like De,” he said.

“Ready to go then, De?” you said, letting out a big huff of air.

“After you, runt,” he said, opening his arm for you to slip yours through.

“Why the fuck is everyone looking at us?” muttered Dean when the two of you walked into the dining room.

“Because you’re late,” said Josh, your oldest cousin who was right by the two of you. “Just last actually. Looks like baby Y/N got herself a man!” he shouted, a few of the guys hooting as your face began to burn.

“Back off,” said Dean, a little too defensively.

“Take that as a note fellas, don’t fuck with Y/N’s boyfriend,” said Josh to the room. The conversation picked up again as Dean looked ready to punch him. “We’re just messing with you guys. Y/N never brings a date.”

“She does now,” said Dean, squaring his shoulders and letting Josh see the height Dean had over him.

“So you’re Dean?” said Josh, trying to relieve the tension between them. Dean nodded. “You want a whiskey?”

“I won’t say no to that,” said Dean, easing up as he left with Josh. Angie ran over and brought you over to the other girls.

“Y/N, where the hell did you find that God of a man,” she said.

“You’re getting married in a few days Angie,” you said.

“I’m looking, not touching. Oh I bet that man can touch...” she said as you started to get mad.

“So, you excited?” you asked, instantly getting her to turn her attention back to her impending nuptials and off of Dean. For the next hour, you caught up with your family, ending up on the opposite side of the room from Dean for dinner. You saw him trapped next to your mother and hoped he survived the night.

By the time it was close to midnight you were exhausted, too many glasses of wine in you and your family gushing over how amazing Dean was. They liked him more than you and he’d only known them for four hours. Awesome.

“Hey, runt” you heard him say, your eyes glancing up from your glass to find him standing before you, bowtie undone.

“Hey, De,” you said, feeling him take a seat on the couch beside you.

“Want to head up to bed?” asked Dean, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen down. You leaned into his touch before retreating back. There was acting but you were pretty sure those had been drunken actions on both your parts.

“Mhm,” you hummed, taking his hand as you stood up.

You waved goodnight to the people that were left at the party and headed up to your room. You washed your face and changed into a baggy old tee and gray shorts, coming out to see Dean in a tee and boxers. You shrugged before taking your bra off.

“I ain’t sleeping with that thing on,” you said, tossing it over to your bags, Dean not saying anything.

“Wasn’t going to make you,” he said when he crawled under the covers. You hesitated before following after him. “Just get in the bed runt. I’m not gonna do anything to you.”

“I know that,” you said, peeling back the covers and sliding in, feeling the heat of Dean’s back radiate off him. You turned your back to him and turned out the light, casting the two of you into the dark.

“Goodnight,” he said, brushing his leg against yours before moving it away quickly.

“Goodnight Dean,” you said, wondering if you would have been better off coming alone.

A/N: Read Part 3!

@anokhi07 @xxwinchester-22xx @charliebradbury1104 @everyday-supernatural-af @squirels-angels-and-moose @youwerelikeadream @drugpug @darkx143 @kristaparadowski @tom-is-in-my-tardis @tanithlowisabamf @smoothdogsgirl @dancingalone21 @ktrivia @demonic-meatball @oaisara @feelmyroarrrr @illisea @cojootromuelle @gallifreyansass @fangirl1802 @angelwingsandsupernaturalthings @itstheprincess @casgetoutofmydiddlydarnass @mogaruke @secretlyfurrydragon @perpetualabsurdity @ria132love @heycassbutt-67 @aingealcethlenn @docharleythegeekqueen @missmotherhen @smacklesandstretch67 @ceeceewinchester @tumblinwith-me @acreativelydifferentlove @lean-mean-sam-and-dean @blueskybirdy @my-blogging-skills-are-rusty @sydneymarie101195 @nlsupernatural @missmotherhen @smacklesandstretch67 @donnanoblerocks @wackiekebab @spn-4-eva @georgialouisea @captainradicalpassion @benjerry707 @a-pirates-princess @tiffanycaruso @trashforwinchesters @make-the-clock-reverse @bleulady01 @nerdwholikesword @turnoftherogue @mortallymagicalobject @under-general-asthetics @maui137 @assbutt-fan

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dawnajaynes32 · 7 years

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2018 Design Trends: Predications from Top Creatives

Pulling these prediction pieces together every year gets more and more dizzying each time. In 2015, creatives were predicting the rise of animation and motion graphics. In 2016, we expected greater digital experiences and the solidifying of mobile-first technology. And now, in 2017, our focus turns greatly to augmented and virtual reality. Those little handheld computers we carry with us at all times are about to become even more important to designers everywhere.

Here are just some of the possible 2018 design trends we’ll be seeing after we ring in the New Year!

Augmented and Virtual Reality

“Augmented Reality (AR) came back big this year and will continue to grow as one of the major trends in 2018. The comeback didn’t happen just because of all the hype related to Apple introducing it’s own framework ARkit to create AR experiences: With over two billion people currently using some kind of smartphone, AR growth came as a natural extension to 2D content we interact with on our screens.

“Apple’s ARkit definitely opens doors for app developers to create AR content faster and submit it into its store. At this point, it’s still the Wild West when it comes to quality AR content – and Apple is definitely picky when it comes to what type of AR app they want to see in its store. Functionality is definitely the key to success when it comes to creating a potentially popular AR app. It’s not just about one 3D model you can interact with on the screen, it’s more about how you can change this 3D model, apply different textures to it in real time, and so on.

“The retail industry will definitely be a big consumer of AR, especially on the B2B level. Really soon we will see planners and architects picking up materials for their next project by pointing their phones on the floors (for example) and seeing how applying different types of hardwood or carpeting on it reflects on their screens. From furniture layout to games to education and entertainment, AR will play a major role in 2018 and beyond.”

—Denis Krylov, Co-Founder and Partner, Transparent House

vimeo

“The period ahead is going to require a different type of sensitivity to users that goes beyond traditional UX and gets worked out on graffles with imaginary users behind digital surfaces. This is because neural networks are allowing computers to hear and see humans and react in more human ways. Companies like Google are turning AI into a commodity that can be integrated into a huge range of products that will quickly bring the intelligence into homes, cars and workspaces. Headphones will bring its far-reaching possibilities into the spaces that remain. Turning this technology into something legitimately helpful will require designers to interview, roleplay and research other people with specific tasks like never before. It’s going to require a whole new sensitivity.”

—David Lehman, Design Director, HUSH

“Virtual Reality and Augmented Reality are coming to a museum near you! Used mostly for gaming and watching videos the last few years – and even as a design tool in the architecture and construction industry – museums are discovering how to use VR and AR to share educational content, tell stories, and give visitors a unique experience. Walk the floor of any museum conference expo and you’ll see vendors promoting VR and AR hardware, software, and content. The keynote speaker at the 2017 Association of Science and Technology conference was Brendan Iribe, co-founder of Oculus. We just completed a 10-person VR experience at the First Division Museum in Wheaton, Illinois, and visitors absolutely love it. Exhibit designers, and other creative professionals, will continue to explore ways for VR and AR to enhance storytelling.”

—Kevin Snow, Creative Director, Luci Creative

“Virtual Reality (VR) has been a big trend in the past years and is now established really well in medical, real estate and some parts of the entertainment industries. The challenge of VR remains that it requires additional hardware. With AR you can interact with content by simply using your phone screen.”

—Denis Krylov, Co-Founder and Partner, Transparent House

“The future demands multi-layered experts, individuals who can speak multiple technical languages and will use them to extend the penetration of the disruptive technologies that have defined so much of the past decade. Understanding websites alone or apps alone will not enable us to design meaningful interaction in the era of AI. The multi-touch interface will be replaced by voice and image even faster than touchscreens replaced the mouse and keyboard. Building the world that this new method of interaction will enable will demand that we broaden the horizon of imagined user experience and begin to understand what this foundational level of interaction will enable and the pitfalls that should be avoided. Attention spans are quickly reaching zero. People want the right information immediately and with minimal effort. Unlike touch interfaces, the world of AI is more dependent upon computational horsepower than slick, new, user-owned hardware. This means that designers will need to have a very functional understanding of the limitations of developing technology to make sure they design solutions that don’t invite unreasonable expectation. The boundary between functional AI and Star Trek AI is going to be murky for the next few years, during which time we can expect all sorts of awkward situations with people talking to machines that either don’t hear them or don’t understand their language.”

—David Lehman, Design Director, HUSH

“The biggest trend I see is bridging the gap between physical (analog/disconnected) and digital (connected).

“Of course, this is all driven by the internet, software and the next tech revolution, AI/AR. Making the inanimate – animated and the dumb – smart.

“But I actually see it as a two-way street. The physical experience is getting more digital and connected. But the digital experience is actually is taking on more physical qualities. What I mean by that is we are creating more immersive, human-centric and life-like experiences in digital world. One of the best examples of that this year was what Google did to celebrate the 25th anniversary of Hip-Hop. The Google Doodle takeovers have been around for a while but this was on another level. They brought in innovative tech and created an immersive, lifelike experience that brought some “pixels” to life and and had them take on a whole new meaning. The experience transcended the Google brand and medium (Doodle) as evidenced by the sheer joy (and buzz) this created for people worldwide.”

—Ivan Entchevitch, Creative Director, SET

Branding + Business

“One 2017 trend that I very much hope will continue, is that clients came to us not simply to execute design, but to help concept the creative ideas from ground zero. We’ve been tasked with writing scripts and helping to develop key communication points, and most projects were totally turnkey. Our Cutters Studios family was vital to the success of much of our work this year because we were able to do everything from design to production and post under the same virtual roof. Our take on creative is executionally agnostic, and we found that our clients were very open to our unique way of approaching creative; many chose us specifically based upon our unique point of view. Personally, I love that the lines of what we are known for and what we are commissioned for keep getting blurred. Gone are the days of straight-up design and motion graphics execution. Moving forward into 2018, I hope that this trend towards more inclusive collaboration with our creative partners continues to grow with new and interesting opportunities.”

—Jason Cook, Creative Director, Flavor

vimeo

“Two thousand eighteen will be the year that all brands become lifestyle brands. If KFC can get in on the enamel pin and pillow case game, anyone can make a go of it. And they should. Pushing your brand into every corner of your customer’s life is presumptuous and obtrusive. But if you can make yourself so integral (or maybe even just fun or easy), they might invite you along for the ride. I don’t need a Nutella sleeping bag, but do I want one? Maybe

“Some brands with enough existing clout might try to go it alone like KFC. But the really savvy ones, the ones that need it the most, will forge smart partnerships with similarly-minded companies, just like Coors Banquet and Brixton did this year.

“Then again, 2018 might yield more cross-archetype collabs like Star Wars and rag + bone, allowing folks to revel in the infinitesimally small cross-section of their own personal Venn diagram. These mash-ups are fun, as they expose two extremely niche, incredibly passionate, nearly opposite fanbases to one another just to see what happens.

“Expect the unexpected. It’s gonna be another wild year.”

—Kyle Kastranec, Associate Creative Director, Ologie

“As consumers become ever more accustomed to comparing prices, exploring options and ultimately making purchases online, real world retail environments will continue to be rethought and redesigned. Rather than simply facilitating transactions, brands will need to design their brick and mortar locations to let customers experience not only their products and services, but the essence of what makes their brand differentiated from the competition. Today, this often manifests into hands-on, digitally-led experiences that guide the consumer into the purchase funnel.”

—Dan Carter, Creative Director of North America, SET Live

“Expectations will rise for brands to use design to push beyond the expected and challenge the industries that they are in by pulling influence from emergent cultural, behavioral, and graphic trends outside of their category and using them to craft bold design statements that truly differentiate and tell a story. Whether it’s embracing human imperfection, custom crafted type, unexpected color palettes, or social media-influenced layouts, designers will be expected to think holistically, strategically, and find new ways to differentiate. Companies like Chobani have brought in house high-level talent to redesign their brand from the inside-out, which resulted in designs that at first glance may appear inappropriate for their category but is actually an immersive look into the brand, the product, and its audience. It’s embracing heritage and redefining the future, while also being very human and showing more than just products.”

—Karen Yau, Design Director, Brand Union

“People have grown weary of BS. Design that’s born from authenticity will cut through the over-thought clutter and resonate with consumers. Successful brands will continue to distill and refine their graphic language using it to create genuine experiences and honest social media, achieving clarity with minimal content.”

—Michael Nielsen, Senior Designer, Archrival

“Voice is quickly becoming the new interface for brand.

“Brands need to differentiate themselves like never before and one of the best ways for them to do this is through their brand voice. Brand voice is what makes customers feel as though they’re talking to a person vs. a machine, which is how you build trust and connections. Consider the differences between speaking to Alexa vs. Amazon.

“There are a few core principles to getting your brand voice right: simplifying messaging, empathizing with your customers, showing candor even when things aren’t going to plan, and embracing personality. The brands who have the courage to commit to these principles are the ones who will win the trust and attention of their customers in 2018.”

—Connie Birdsall, Creative Director, Lippincott

Animation & Motion Graphics

“2017 was an exciting and evolutionary year for us in a lot of ways, where the project opportunities challenged us and spanned across every aesthetic approach you can imagine… and some that defy description. Still, there is something awesome about knowing that animation and illustration remain at the forefront of innovative storytelling from the perspectives of many brand and agency executives. Take our project with Pereira & O’Dell for Timberland as one example. When you think about the unique brand positioning of Timberland, and apply a creative idea where hip-hop legend Nas takes on the role of spokesperson… the possibilities became endless. We may be biased (okay, we’re totally biased), but the approach from Pereira & O’Dell seems to be the best of the best. Collectively, we found the right way to tell the right stories, and they invited us to break new ground in creative, animated storytelling. Better yet, the work has struck all the right chords with the media, Nas’ own massive fan-base, and the target audiences for Timberland and Footlocker.

“This campaign is called “The Legend Continues with Nas,” and seeing how far the animated content has traveled through earned media, owned marketing channels, key influencers, across social media, in-store and even in massive and “out of home” executions, it seems safe to say that the overall effort is elevating the legends of everyone involved to higher levels. To us, this means that story-driven animations will continue to impress across platforms and mediums, breaking through on the snackable social outlets and allowing bigger, sophisticated brands to engage in more clever ways with their ever-younger audiences.”

—William Campbell and Will Johnson, Co-Founders and Co-Directors, Gentleman Scholar

Digital vs. Physical Experience

“In 2018 we’ll continue to see a growing trend of creating “Instagrammable moments” in museums, concert and sport venues, and hotels and restaurants. Since nearly everyone is now a real-time smartphone socializer, brands and cultural institutions are picking up on the lure toward photo ops, and how they can provide free mass-marketing. Popular attractions like LA’s Happy Place and the Ice Cream Museum – along with scores of new museum exhibits – are pulling in visitors eager to have experiences and share them online. Instagram and Snapchat aren’t creating smartphone zombies – they’re pushing people out into the world. With museums, we believe that there are ways to improve visitor experiences, offer learning opportunities and educational programming, and increase attendance through well designed photo ops.”

—AJ Goehle, Principal, Luci Creative

Numbers In Nature Exhibit Exhibit @ the Museum of Science and Industry Chicago

“Changing user experiences based on their behavior has always been the north star, but personalization also includes designing for our clients. We’ve pushed and will continue to push building sites, apps, and interactive experiences that feel unique to them and their brand. Custom photography, personal voice and tone, and interface design all need to reflect our client, not just the predefined standards of designing for web.”

—Joe Gray, Associate Creative Director, The1stMovement

“But another trend we hope to see in 2018 is as old as retail itself: remembering that well-designed brand experiences means having well trained, motivated and engaging employees. These people remain the best and most important part of any brand engagement: a good experience will dramatically raise the likelihood of a sale, whereas a rude or negative interaction will likely turn the consumer off your brand for good. Brands like Nike really understand this balance, keeping staff engaged, motivated and invested in making the consumer experience as exciting as possible, augmented by excellently designed (and regularly updated) digital and physical touch points that facilitate positive interactions and ultimately drive sales.”

—Dan Carter, Creative Director of North America, SET Live

“As larger amounts of content are absorbed online, I think we’re going to see more and more of a push toward linear experiences. The journey itself may be selected by the user, but storytelling within is already making a comeback. I think we’ll see more of this. To make a callback to Rich Animations, I think those will be the approaches we use to tell those more linear, narrative stories.”

—Joe Gray, Associate Creative Director, The1stMovement

The post 2018 Design Trends: Predications from Top Creatives appeared first on HOW Design.

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scripturehomosexuality · 7 years

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The Parable of the Two Brothers - Its Application In Modern Society

This blog is written in the United States. As such, the content of this blog will comment particularly on issues within the U.S. However, if you are a reader outside the U.S., feel free to continue. You will see the complex dynamics of U.S. society in a new and interesting way.

In this post, I use the terms “African American” and “Latino”. I’m aware that the entire picture of ethnicity is much more nuanced. African Americans are indeed distinct from Afro-descended peoples of Latin America and the Caribbean, and from those of the African continent. A Cuban has more in common with a Jamaican or a Trinidadian than with an Argentine or a Paraguayan. I use these terms only for the simplicity of writing, and I’m sure you will understand who I’m referencing through this language.

For this post, I will start with a powerful parable from the Man2Man Alliance. This parable was written by Alliance contributor Robert Loring, and was published on Armistice Day 2006. It was originally published as part of a larger discussion page, entitled “While society slouches towards matriarchy, single-sex schools make a comeback -- is the agogé far behind?”. The following excerpt will be shown below uncensored, and in its original formatting.

In context, Mr. Loring is reacting to articles and content posted the day before, by Alliance founder Bill Weintraub.

~~~~~~

[Start of excerpt]

Thanks for posting these two articles Bill. They just confirm what I have, in fact, been saying for YEARS now. Our society is NOT normal nor is it NATURAL. And no matter how some wish to delude themselves into thinking otherwise we all feel something deep down within us that reminds us that our present society is NOT the historical/traditional NORM and that there is definitely something WRONG with society today.

Suppose you had a brother whom you considered fairly normal while the two of you were growing up. Then one day you brother began to change for no apparent reason. He suddenly stopped wrestling with you and he stopped hugging you. He obviously begins to withdraw into himself and you know it because you can see all the signs in his change of behavior that tell you something is wrong with your brother.

Time goes by and your brother stops displaying his masculine nude body to the world. Suddenly, you can see shame set in as he no longer goes without a shirt and never exposes his genitals like he did in the past. Once, you know, he was proud of his developing manhood but now it seems that he has become insecure and ashamed of his manhood. You begin to get concerned for your brother and you try talking to him to find out what is wrong. But, little brother won't talk to you on any level below the superficial. He avoids answering your questions and he assures you that there is nothing wrong, nothing bothering him.

Once the two of you wrestled endlessly night and day but now you notice that your brother rejects your invitations to wrestle. You can tell that there is now an emotional distance between the two of you and that it's getting wider. Little brother becomes very homophobic and you soon discover that ANY male-male contact or expression of emotion is quickly deemed "faggot" by your little brother. Little brother now spends endless hours talking about "faggots" and pointing out everything around him as being "gay." When he sees two males hugging he really goes ballistic because he deems such behavior as "really gay!"

Time moves on and little brother gets a job and marries. He becomes consumed in his job and when you see him that's all he seems to want to talk about. You soon figure out that the reason for this is because he is avoiding talking about his feelings. He wishes to avoid talking about his feelings because he is in a state of denial and he thinks he's doing a great job at hiding from you what is bothering him. But, in fact, HE'S NOT!

Little brother's marriage does not go well and doesn't last long. Little brother has slid into a daily life of alcoholism and his wife believes he has also slid into a life of sexual addiction because she knows he's having affairs with other women and, she suspects, maybe even with other men! Little brother's marriage ends in a nasty divorce and the children he and his wife bore pay the price (as always) for they now are forced to live the broken home life.

Time goes on and little brother isolates himself more and more not only emotionally but now physically as well. You're worried about him because you know something is badly wrong with him and has been for awhile. But, he won't talk to you and he denies everything you say to him about his growing problem. Now, lost in his own self rejection and dislike he drinks more and more. You begin to realize that you don't even really know your little brother anymore. He has become like a stranger.

Little brother maintains that there is nothing wrong with him. He tells you over and over that he is "fine and normal." But, you know that this is not so. You know that he is not "fine and normal." One afternoon a police officer comes knocking at your door to inform you that they have found your little brother dead. He put a bullet in his head. All these years you were torn. You knew there was something wrong but at the same time you wanted to believe what little brother said, that he was "fine and normal." But now, on this sunny afternoon with the police officer standing in front of you everything you suspected about little brother NOT being "fine and normal" is blatantly CONFIRMED.

Would you think that a little brother being like this was "fine and normal?" Would you conclude that he was just doing what other males do normally and naturally? Would you reject your own suspicions that there might be something very wrong with little brother? Would you stand by doing nothing as you watch little brother sink further and further down the abyss of abnormalcy, isolation, alcoholism, and major depression? Could you not see that little brother was on the road to SELF DESTRUCTION? And would you really be so surprised when the police came to tell you little brother had committed suicide?

Little brother is our modern industrialized society folks. No one in their right mind would see all these major changes in little brother and fail to realize that something was really wrong with little brother. So, do we continue to ignore little brother and downplay his symptoms hoping that everything will be ok? Will we continue to close our eyes to the FACT that NOTHING IS OK with little brother right now? Will we be so surprised with modern society commits societal suicide?

The past few decades have seen a dangerous ideology promoted. That being that the world is all about "Me! Me! ME!....Wonderful ME!" But the FACT is that the world is NOT all about YOU! It's about US!! All 6+ billion of US! The only thing the ME focus has done is to force people into isolation and neurosis more and more. It has taken what is historically and traditionally RIGHT and turned it into wrong while at the same time it has taken what is wrong and turned it into "right." Somehow....someway....people have got to band together and fight against the raging tide of the unnatural that is beating us all today. If we don't then I can assure you that we will witness and be an involuntary part of the coming societal suicide. Something IS WRONG with little brother! It's NOT going to be OK! It is NOT going to all go away either! BIG brother is going to have to take some action and help little brother right himself up again. Little brother is modern society. YOU are BIG BROTHER!!

I love Jedi's idea of a society based on Sparta's model. [Note from this writer: “Jedi” is another member of the Alliance.] A WARRIOR SOCIETY! As I have said before, "The path of the Warrior IS the path to humanity's SALVATION!!" Society cannot go along the path it is now on for much longer. Something is going to give. We all know it and we all feel it. It's just a matter of time before it all comes unglued!

Homophobia, isolation, FEAR, depression, anxiety, selfishness, and egotism! These are what our industrialized, consumer-ridden society has produced. Industrialization might have made humanity's life easier BUT we are ALL paying the price psychologically, emotionally, and spiritually. Some of us are now asking, "Is it all really worth the price?" I'm one who shouts out a resounding, "FUCK NO!!"

And, as for masculine men such as Alexander the Great somehow being time warped into our own modern times he'd be a lost, confused man. He'd be a man who never would realize his potential for greatness and he'd die as a man unknown to the world. How can I be so sure of this? Because there are MANY Alexander's today in the world BUT they are SILENT and they refuse to come forth and claim the greatness that is RIGHTFULLY theirs! Instead, they stay in the shadows of society, hanging back, and they die unknown men. They feel like they do not belong in this time. They feel like men out of place and out of time. They innately know and honor the "old ways" of manhood and masculinity. The ways of the ancient Greeks and Spartans. The ways of true manhood and masculinity. Yet, they know that our upside down society would crucify them especially for their innate M2M love.

MEN NEED OTHER MEN psychologically, emotionally, spiritually, and PHYSICALLY!

Little brother is screaming out! Who will hear him?

[End of excerpt]

~~~~~~~

When I first read this parable a few months ago, I was struck by the description of the little brother’s decline. His growing dysfunction was often manifest subtly, in signs that could be explained away as other things. For example, his increasing discomfort with nudity could be explained away as modesty caused by puberty. His emotional and physical withdrawal could also be explained away as “normal” teenage angst and turmoil. His extramarital actions (especially with men) might be blamed on hypersexuality. Yet, Mr. Loring perceptively points out the real cause of all these developments: the little brother is letting society’s messages rent ever more space in his head, and increasingly hates the homoeroticism inside him. Thus, he proceeds on a path of slow and steady self destruction.

By saying that the little brother symbolizes modern society, Mr. Loring drives his point home - by increasingly embracing homophobia, society imposes all sorts of ills on itself. Those problems can be numerous, and will show up in many areas of life. At first glance, the relationship between some ills and homophobia might not be so obvious. However, with close inspection, it becomes clear that homoeroticism is not the concern of a minority. Instead, a society’s treatment of homoeroticism has ripple effects that are omnipresent and completely inescapable.

To that end, let’s explore three issues that are subtly but forcefully exacerbated by homophobia. These are problems that are wreaking havoc throughout the United States - drugs, gangs, and the modern dating crisis.

Regarding Drugs

Within the United States, illegal drugs have never been a bigger problem. At present, drug deaths are rising in all 50 states. Drug overdoses are now the leading cause of accidental death nationwide; deaths from shootings and car accidents haven’t come close in years.

Opioids in particular are feeding the problem, as they move through cities and towns with increasing volume. Heroin has become cheaper in past years, and as a result, is being more used across the board. Furthermore, while the drug death toll is greatest in cities like New York, Chicago, and Baltimore, the devastation has been most concentrated in Appalachia, New England, and the American Midwest.

As such, this might point to an unfortunate reason for the increasing press on drugs. For many years, drugs have disproportionately affected minority populations in the U.S. However, of late, the problem has greatly accelerated in the country’s Anglo majority. Appalachia, New England, the American Midwest and other like areas have a large majority of white Americans. Therefore, the problem is currently impossible to ignore as a minority problem. It’s now perceived as an issue that threatens the entire U.S. population.

However, the U.S. drug problem has ripple effects on other lands. The majority of illegal drugs in the United States come from Central America, South America and the Caribbean. In these regions, drug dealing has become a lucrative business, and the United States is one of the biggest customers. Because of this, drug violence is reaching crisis levels throughout Latin America and the Caribbean. Monstrous crimes within these regions are becoming increasingly frequent, with the most famous example being Mexico. As a result, and in a stunning twist of irony, people from those regions are fleeing to the United States, whose drug hunger is helping to destroy their homes.

So what connection does this crisis have with societal homophobia?

If we study why people take drugs in the first place, we may find the answer. Some people may do it just to rebel against society, especially if they’re teenagers and young adults. Others may do it just to please their peers, and to fit in. Others still might use drugs purely to experiment, and to experience its effects firsthand.

However, there is one reason that concerns us here. Quite often, people use drugs to get away from their problems, and distance themselves from their emotions. For a few minutes, they can feel better about themselves, and not be bothered by problematic situations and feelings. They can make their reality whatever they want it, even if it will come crashing down in a short time.

Is same-sex attraction one thing that most people are trying to escape through drugs?

If that seems odd, let’s take a few minutes to consider our world, especially within the United States. The majority of the population identifies as “straight”, while a minority (5% to 10%) identify as “gay”, “queer” or something similar. Within our sexual labeling system, “straight” is another way of saying “normal”. Exclusive opposite-sex activity is consequently considered a sign of “normality”. However, a fair number of those “straight” people are tacitly aware of their capacity for “abnormal” same-sex attraction. This is why websites like Yahoo Answers and Virtual Teen are littered with questions about experimentation from “straights”.

Now, consider the constant messaging “straight” people get on same-sex activity. This messaging is endless and unrelenting, and is transmitted explicitly and implicitly, formally and informally. To be specific, they are constantly told that if they entertain their same-sex attraction, they will uncontrollably and irreversibly become “gay”. By extension, this would mean that

they can no longer call themselves legitimate men and women, but instead are psuedomen and psuedowomen beyond all hope of being “normal”

they are uncontrollably predisposed to participate in anal play, which is objectively degrading and dirty

they are no longer on an equal basis with most of their peers

they are forced to make their own lonely path through life, with only feeble support from their “straight” friends

they are hopelessly predisposed to be high risk for many STDs

they cannot legitimately experience love with the opposite gender too, and have biological children

if they are Christian, they are now objects of God’s blazing wrath, and are fit for destruction

Because of this, they are compelled to rid themselves of this supposedly existential enemy. Yet, despite their best efforts, same-sex attraction may still persist in them, with no solution in sight.

I ask you, wouldn’t all that make you want to take drugs? However, this possible reason can never be suggested openly. If it was, it would implicitly mean that most people aren’t completely “straight”, and that modern sexual philosophy is a farce.

As such, the “gay” community at large is no help at all. In fact, they actually prove the point being made here. It’s well known that the LGBT-identified community has much higher rates of drug use than the general population. Some of this is for functional purposes: for example, poppers and other like drugs are used to enhance sexual pleasure. However, this is a relatively minimal reason why “gay” drug use is so high.

Instead, the reasons often stem from their identity and sexuality. Homophobia is often cited to be a major cause, as mental and physical health issues caused by it push them towards drugs. Indeed, as DrugRehab.com puts it, “internalized homophobia may result in self-loathing among LGBTQ+ people and may be a trigger for substance use.” The “gay” scene is also blamed, since alcohol and drugs are often used in “gay” clubs and other meeting places.

For “straight” people, reading this might seem confusing. After all, they might ask, isn’t this something “gay” pride is supposed to solve? To gain enough self-esteem to face the world? To improve one’s sense of self-worth? How can those people drown themselves in drugs because of their sexuality, yet claim to have pride in their sexuality? How can people with pride apparently hate themselves so much?

They will only find the answer when they analyze the central message of modern sexual philosophy, and of the “Straight”-”Gay” dichotomy that philosophy constructs. The message is quite simple, and yet quite powerful - that same-sex activity is inherently abnormal and aberrant, and should be viewed as such. Both the “straight” and “gay” sides agree on this message; their differences stem from how they react to it. The “straight” side accepts it and avoids anything related to same-sex activity. The “gay” side accepts it, internalizes it, and uses it to guide how they conceptualize same-sex activity.

In other words, by internalizing the message that all same-sex activity is aberrant, the LGBT-identified community tells itself that it is an aberration, and should be rightly treated that way. That kind of internal dialogue has powerful psychological effects. It’s no surprise then that, at the same time that they blurt out “pride”, the LGBT-identified community engages in conduct of self-loathing. Through its embrace of that message, the community has made internalized homophobia one of its pillars.

Of course, there are many other reasons drugs are so widely used. Larger social and economic dysfunction plays an unignorable role. A multifaceted solution which is focused on fixing problems, and not merely treating symptoms, will be necessary to tackle drugs. However, in formulating this solution, we cannot ignore the role homophobia plays in the problem. Nor can we ignore the role of homoeroticism in the answer.

Regarding Gangs

At present, the United States has a worsening gang problem. In 2015, gang violence was on the increase, even as overall violence declined. This problem has been seen in large U.S. cities, particularly in Chicago, where 2016 was its worst year for homicides in decades. According to the National Gang Center, the number of gangs existing has steadily risen from 2003 to 2012 (the last year they have data for). In an era of rising inequality and social unrest, the effects of gangs might increase even more.

People join gangs for all kinds of reasons, and it’s these that interest us here. Some may join for financial gain, as gang membership might guarantee riches or possessions. Others might join out of peer pressure, since their friends and family are already involved with gangs. A few might join purely to enhance one’s status, to achieve a fame that might otherwise be unattainable.

However, no matter where you turn, one huge reason always presents itself. The Los Angeles Police Department states it quite plainly: “To the majority of gang members, the gang functions as an extension of the family and may provide companionship lacking in the gang member’s home environment.” Gangfree.org lists “a sense of family” as the top reason why youths join gangs. It says further, “Young people might feel that they don't receive enough support or attention at home...gangs often make promises to give unconditional support, and to become the ‘family’ they never had.” This connects with other reasons that are closely related, such as seeking protection and being part of a group identity.

In other words, youth join gangs for reasons that appear counterintuitive. From what can be gathered, those youths join gangs simply to find love and appreciation. They want to be nurtured and cherished. They want to feel like they’re a part of a “family”, even if such a family is ultimately dangerous. If they can’t get love from their actual family, they will turn to a gang.

As such, it’s noteworthy that prevention methods often focus on fostering community spirit and identity. Sports teams, school bands, drama clubs, and the like are often singled out as solutions for gangs. These are environments that require collaboration, which help its participants to become familiar with each other. It makes the youth become bonded with their adult supervisor, but more importantly, it also helps youths create deep bonds with each other. It’s these bonds that are hoped to prevent, and often do prevent, those youths from joining gangs.

Given that, I feel compelled to ask the following question: should we look at homoeroticism as one way to help solve the gang problem?

Indeed, homoeroticism has an uncanny way of fostering an intense spirit of community, in a way that heteroeroticism simply can’t. Ancient Greece shows a premier example of that. Same-sex love was the bond that held its society together, and was openly and unashamedly manifested in all areas of life.

Its practice of pederasty allowed older youth to sexually bond with the younger, and thus let them enjoy a mutually beneficial relationship. The Sacred Band of Thebes, which consisted of men erotically bonded to each other, were repeatedly successful on the battlefields. The Ancient Greek gymnasium and Olympics were designed to foster same-sex love. This homoeroticism had many positive effects on Ancient Greek society, so that the aristocrat Phaedrus felt compelled to say the following: “...if there were only some way of contriving that a state or an army should be made up of [same-sex] lovers and their loves, they would be the very best governors of their own city, abstaining from all dishonor and emulating one another in honor...”

It should be noted here that Greek homoeroticism was entirely different from the “gay” sex model of today, which entirely pivots on anal play. Anal sex was taboo between men in Ancient Greece, and generally seen as a shameful act. Intercrural sex and what is today called frot was the main contact; mutual masturbation probably was part of the contact as well.

By contrasting the Ancient Greek approach to community with that of the modern United States, we can better see the differences between both, and what causes them. In Ancient Greece, the larger society acted only as a regulator of community spirit. The Greeks knew that same-sex love was a naturally occurring phenomenon, which would propagate itself without any human help. Societal institutions (pederasty, the Olympics, the Gymnasium) merely harnessed the power of homoeroticism for its own improvement, to further bind Greece together and move it forward. From what we can see, they succeeded spectacularly.

In this way, Ancient Greece spent relatively little energy creating and sustaining community spirit. They realized that homoeroticism was as natural as heteroeroticism. They recognized that without human assistance, boys would naturally have sex with boys, and girls with girls, often many years before they would be interested in relationships with the opposite sex. Usually, those sexual relationships had a tone of mutual respect and dignity, which kept them from engaging in risky and degrading behavior. Greece merely had to set up institutions, lay down simple rules to keep conduct respectable (like no anal sex between males), and that community spirit would consequently generate itself.

In fact, it actually takes much more energy to control or prevent homoeroticism. This is why modern sexual philosophy is a high-maintenance system that needs constant and comprehensive enforcement. It must be so, or else that philosophy would collapse under its own weight.

Contrast that with the scenario in the modern United States. At present, U.S. society is also a “free market” society, which works against any community spirit that would otherwise flourish. It creates a fiercely competitive world without much empathy or compassion, in which the weakest in society (including youth) suffer the most. In trying to counter the effects of gangs, community-minded institutions must constantly try to override this dominant culture. So far, though they have had some measure of success, they have not yet changed the trajectory of society.

Thus, unlike Greece’s simple role of regulation, modern community-minded institutions must instead act as feverishly aggressive propagators of community spirit. Nobody else will do it, and the present environment is extremely hostile to any sense of community that doesn’t serve neoliberalism. These institutions are an insurgent force against a culture that is deeply entrenched and established, and they must expend intense energy just to make a dent. In fact, they must work like ants even to survive, because they have only meager support from larger society. Meanwhile, the dominant attitude of same-sex love - that it is a weird abnormality - blocks these institutions from reaching their full potential.

Case in point: the NBC newsmagazine “Sunday Night With Megyn Kelly” recently covered a high school basketball team in Chicago. Under the leadership of team coach Lou Adams, the basketball team isn’t merely a basketball team. Instead, the team has become a family, where Mr. Adams has become a father, mentor and protector to the boys under his charge. For over twenty years, he has expended himself wholly to the people he serves. In return, his team greatly appreciates his efforts, and reward him with their love and affection. In fact, during a pep rally for the basketball team, Mr. Adams got choked up with emotion, and the team responded by embracing him on stage. What was the message they gave to Mr. Adams? “We love you coach.”

As I watched the report during its original airing, it was hard not to well up with tears.

However, there was a few questions I still had. Firstly, did the team members love each other as much as they did Mr. Adams? That’s equally important, because that bond will keep them out of trouble long after they leave the team.

Furthermore, are they willing to show that love in action? To me, that’s where the rubber hits the road. Mind you, given that they’re all in a sports team, they likely do have affection for each other. However, if they openly show it outside of a sports setting, “gay” rumors might quickly take flight. Some of those players might internalize those attitudes, and restrain from showing their teammates any affection, because they don’t want to act “gay”. As a result, the efforts of Mr. Adams can never have their full effect.

In tackling this problem, the LGBT leadership and media are no help at all. In fact, they are actually a hinderance. They are the ones responsible for defining the word “gay”, which is at the center of the problem described above. They are the ones who insist on infusing the word with contradictory meanings, purely for their own advantage. One is a sexual meaning, while the other is a sexual, cultural, and political meaning. Through this combination of definitions, “gay” leadership can claim that same-sex activity and “gay” culture are independent in one moment, and alternatively claim they are linked in another. This is why many “straight” people will stay away from general same-sex activity: while they might not object to that activity in itself, they object to the culture associated with it.

In discussing those contradictory meanings, there is one more factor to consider. Remember that the majority of gang members and recruits are African American men and Latino American men. These are minorities that have long been marginalized and mistreated. These are groups that struggle with institutional discrimination, and fight to be treated with dignity and respect. Since they are under constant attack, they feel compelled to avoid anything that undermines whatever honor they have.

As such, the “gay” identity carries much more controversy within these minority groups. Remember that in modern sexual philosophy, “gay” men are considered psuedomen, who are not worthy of any respect. Thus, in the fight for equal treatment, the “gay” identity constitutes a special form of surrender. To them, it constitutes giving up one’s masculine dignity, and fully accepting and embracing the disrespect and dishonor sent their way. This is especially so given that anal, considered the ultimate surrender of male dignity, is the key act of the identity. When their position is already so precarious, this kind of capitulation is unacceptable.

This is why these youths might take special pains to avoid anything “gay”, including same-sex activity as a whole. This is also why the “gay” identity carries a special taboo in the African American and Latino American communities. Unlike their Anglo counterparts, they perceive anything “gay” as an existential threat to themselves, and to whatever dignity they possess.

Mind you, we’re not even touching the intense racism and bigotry that exists in the LGBT-identified community, under which these youths would suffer if they entered it.

As a result, evolution of modern sexual philosophy may have exacerbated the gang problem. Indeed, by many accounts, gang growth exploded during the 1980s and 1990s. Gangs were never so strong before that period, and that growth has sustained gangs to the present. It was also during this period that the AIDS epidemic exploded, which coincided with other phenomena that ultimately created this philosophy.

Did stigmatization of same-sex activity give fuel to the rise of gangs? It’s true that many factors helped spur that growth, but given the timing just mentioned, it’s worth asking the question. Commentary from the g0y movement makes that question even more pressing. While discussing the reality of male sexuality, this page from their website (link NSFW) makes this vital point: “when peer-empathy, tenderness & physical affection become the signals of the ‘queer’, - what is left for men to build interpersonal relationships on? Violence.”

Because same-sex activity and “gay” culture are linked so closely, many of those youths might understandably balk at the idea of being homoerotic, because it’s too “gay”. Yet, for their own good, they must learn that same-sex activity and the “gay” identity are two different things. They must understand that men can fool around with men without sacrificing one’s dignity. They must realize that men can have sex with men without doing anal play. They must comprehend that a man can openly say “I love you” to another man, mean it with all his heart and soul, express such love in action, and not feel that such behavior threatens his masculinity.

In fact, homoeroticism can only help them. Remember what homoeroticism did for Ancient Greece. By harnessing its raw power, Ancient Greek society became tightly woven together in community spirit. It helped create a system that nurtured Greek youth, and developed them into full-fledged men. Greek armies became forces to be reckoned with, and dominant forces of the ancient world.

In like manner, I truly feel that homoeroticism (outside the anal-centric LGBT model) could revolutionize minority communities, and youth as a whole. It would create virtually unbreakable bonds among minority youth, which would help reduce youth-on-youth violence. After all, young men are unlikely to kill or maim each other if they want to court each other instead.

From there, minorities could become modern Sacred Bands of Thebes, forcing society to let them exist in full dignity. Being so closely yoked together, they would be able to tackle the institutions that oppress them as one. Their example would highlight a special truth in this quote from Athenaeus: “Hieronymus the Aristotelian says that love with boys was fashionable because several tyrannies had been overturned by young men in their prime, joined together as comrades in mutual sympathy.”

Of course, in saying all this, there are many factors that have contributed to the rise of gangs. Social inequality is another reason, which provides youths another reason to join gangs. Economic discrimination and dysfunction only compound the problem. Without a doubt, if we’re serious about solving the drug problem, these are situations that also must be addressed.

However, as with drugs, we cannot ignore the role homophobia plays in the problem. Nor can we ignore the role of homoeroticism in the solution.

Regarding The Modern Dating Crisis

For millennials in the United States, the dating scene (particularly that of opposite-sex dating) is much different than that of their ancestors. At this point, even that might be an understatement.

The truth is that at present, the dating scene is now completely in uncharted territory. In the age of dating apps, we now live in an era where sex is literally a swipe away. If one plays their cards right, they might bed someone within a couple of hours. As Vanity Fair put it in 2015, app users “might find a sex partner as easily as they’d find a cheap flight to Florida.”

However, the availability of sex usually doesn’t translate into the availability of love. Very often, sex is done just for instant gratification, and not for the sake of starting a relationship. In that same Vanity Fair article, all the men quoted therein say they’re not interested in relationships too. It’s roughly the same for girls. The article quotes one New York woman as saying the following: “Sometimes we [girls] just want to get it in [have sex] too. We don’t want to marry you.” In fact, as one woman in the article put it, “it’s a contest to see who cares less.”

As a result, the dating scene is also approaching a state of profound dysfunction, as relationships become increasingly hard to come by. In fact, the Atlantic (a magazine published out of Boston) said that “dating-app fatigue” was emerging, where dating apps were proving to be ultimately frustrating. As a result, the modern dating scene is creating all sorts of confusing statistics. For example, according to a “Singles In America” survey done in 2016, 125% of millennials will likely admit they’re addicted to finding love. However, that same survey found that 57% of millennials report feeling lonely.

So let’s sum up what we’ve just read. Through dating apps, the dating process has supposedly never been easier. Sex is never more than a swipe away, and readily accessible. Yet, 1 out of every 2 millennials feel lonely. How can anyone make those figures jive with each other? There’s only one way possible: we must acknowledge that sex and love have become disconnected, and while the former is ever more accessible, the latter is much harder to find.

On a surface level, that has much to do with the influence of neoliberalism in modern sexual philosophy. Under that influence, sex ceases to be a bonding agent, and thus something to be considered with some sensitivity. Instead, sex becomes a business transaction between buyers and sellers, who must harangue and negotiate with each other to leave mutually satisfied. In such a transaction, the parties involved are mainly looking out for their own interest, with the interest of others being a small nuisance. Because of this, sex simply becomes a reflex for instant gratification, without necessarily seeking to give equal pleasure to one’s partner.

On a deeper level however, this is exacerbated by the homophobia inherent in the philosophy. Remember that in modern sexual philosophy, same-sex intimacy is completely unacceptable for anyone who considers themselves “normal” (aka “straight”). For any forays into love, romance or sex, only opposite-sex relationships are suitable. This is because homoeroticism and heteroeroticism are considered opposing and adversarial forces. Homoeroticism is considered immature and corrupting, while heteroeroticism is viewed as perfect and virtuous. As a result, the former should be discouraged, while the latter should be encouraged and should flourish. In analysing this, it must be admitted that this affects males quite more than females.

Let’s be clear here - these ideas are extremely new. For the majority of human history, things simply haven’t worked that way. In the past, only certain kinds of homoeroticism were considered corrupting (like anal), as were certain forms of heteroeroticism. Now, heteroeroticism of any kind is considered “good”, while homoeroticism of any kind is considered bad, which produces dynamics that ultimately benefit neither.

As such, in studying the modern sexual culture, there was something curious I noticed. Specifically, the language now used to describe male-female hookups once described same-sex friendships of past decades. For example, in the Vanity Fair article mentioned earlier, one man is quoted as saying the following: “I always make a point of disclosing I’m not looking for anything serious. I just wanna hang out, be friends, see what happens…” Those words resemble what was once normal in male-male friendships. In those friendships, men would go through life’s adventures together, with erotic favors aplenty, but without needing to formalize that closeness in marriage. Those friendships gave an avenue of intimacy that was more freewheeling and loose, unlike what was expected for male-female friendships.

Thus, we can clearly see what’s different about male-female relationships today. They’re not only expected to fill the need for heteroerotic intimacy. At present, they’re also expected to replace closeness offered by the same-sex friendships of yesteryear. They are supposed to be like Swiss Army knifes, satisfying any need for intimacy that might arise.

The problem is that while same-sex relationships and opposite-sex relationships are equal, they are different in their dynamics. Certain things work in a same-sex relationship that simply don’t in an opposite-sex relationship, and vice versa. Opposite-gender sex outside marriage comes with problems that don’t exist in male-male sex (outside the anal-centric model), such as pregnancy, high STD risk, and the like. As a result, the sex in such relationships might cause emotional friction that is not inherent in same-sex relationships, which is why they might often be fraught with tension.

That’s not all though. Being the Swiss Army knife of intimacy comes with more consequences. The greater load of expectations might make opposite-sex relationships more prone to collapse. This is what writer Stephanie Coontz concluded, in a 2006 oped for the New York Times. In her article, Ms. Coontz makes the same observation that this blog has made, that “it has only been in the last century that Americans have put all their emotional eggs in the basket of coupled love.” However, because of that, “we have also neglected our other relationships, placing too many burdens on a fragile institution and making social life poorer in the process.” Later in the article, she makes her point bluntly: “In some cases we even cause the breakdown [of male-female relationships] by loading the relationship with too many expectations.”

Meanwhile, it’s been found that satisfaction of same-sex desires actually improves the quality of male-female relationships. The Man2Man Alliance has found that out consistently. As Alliance founder Bill Weintraub reports, “many of the Men who visit this site are married and have a male lover -- or Frot buddy...and what they report is that having that male companion strengthens their marriage...because it makes them happier as Men, and better able therefore to make their wives happy.” Ms. Coontz makes the same point in her article, when she notes that “Victorian novels and diaries were as passionate about brother-sister relationships and same-sex friendships as about marital ties.” On that note, she says that to improve opposite-sex relationships, “we need to restructure both work and social life so we can reach out and build ties with others, including people who are single or divorced.”

In other words, homoeroticism and heteroeroticism are not diametrically opposed to each other. To the contrary, they are joined together at the hip. Because of this, stigmatization and oppression of the former will automatically disrupt and disable the latter. Developments of the past few years have shown that clearly.

During this growing crisis, and as with gangs and drugs, the LGBT leadership and media are no help at all. In fact, they are actually the least helpful parties imaginable. They constitute a selfish cabal that, for their own purposes, help drive men and women apart. They join in preaching the false charge that homoeroticism concurrent with heteroeroticism is automatically infidelity. As such, they might gleefully urge women to dispose of their supposedly errant boyfriends and husbands. To convince them to do so, they might say that such moves automatically empower them.

In saying this, they don’t say the real motivation for their statements - that bisexuality poses a serious threat to their own power. Thus, to the contrary, these moves are anything but empowering. It’s actually detrimental to those involved in a relationship. The women are disadvantaged by breaking up with men that they otherwise love. Meanwhile, the men are strongly punished for merely trying to please their natural desires. In fact, at present men can’t even have a good bromance without having “gay” rumors swirl around them.

This does not mean that the women’s fears about the subject are completely unfounded. The “gay” sex model (which pivots on anal) is highly risky for injury and STD transmission. Wives and girlfriends are indeed threatened by the dangers inherent in that model, and are justified in their concern.

However, the solution is not to hastily break up with their men. Nor is it to demand that their men only have sex with them. Instead, it would be better to guide to a safer (and infinitely more pleasurable) same-sex model, which would allow exploration of homoeroticism without much risk. This is the model that the g0y movement (link NSFW) and the Man2Man Alliance (link NSFW) have worked tirelessly to promote, which the LGBT leadership has tried to disrupt at every turn.

In short, there are two basic truths that must be acknowledged. Firstly, under the right circumstances, and with the right guy, most guys would unashamedly have hot, sweaty, passionate sex with another man. Secondly, if a boyfriend/husband is attracted to other men too, it doesn’t necessarily mean he loves his woman any less. Denial of these two facts is helping to cause the dysfunction seen in male/female dating.

Most alarming of all, this dysfunction will have far-reaching consequences in the future. Think about how things are at present. The modern dating crisis causes young men and women to remain in complete isolation. The survival of the human race depends on men and women joining together in love, and doing so within a finite period. The quality of future generations depends on having those children raised in stable and nurturing homes. The stigmatization of homoeroticism stymies the existence of either phenomena, and destroys any sense of community spirit that would otherwise form.

What will this mean for future society? Would this mean that, with men and women remaining in isolation, the human population would drop to a detrimental degree? Would this mean that any children born would be more likely to grow up in destroyed homes and disrupted communities? Would this mean that these children would be isolated even from people of their own gender, and wouldn’t be able to create meaningful bonds of any kind? Would any society be able to function under these conditions?

Thus, for the good of the human race itself, homoeroticism cannot remain a stigmatized and oppressed phenomena.

Of course, in discussing this crisis, other causes must be considered. There are societal and economic factors that are exacerbating the modern dating crisis, and these must be addressed. Indeed, when addressing this dilemma, a multipronged solution will be necessary.

However, as with drugs and gangs, the role of homophobia in this problem cannot be ignored. Nor can the power of homoeroticism be disregarded in the solution.

Conclusion

In his parable, Mr. Robert Loring made a powerful point - that stigmatization of homoeroticism has sweeping consequences. The younger brother served as a powerful symbol of modern society (particularly that of the United States), as his actions became more erratic and irrational. Little by little, as the younger brother denied his natural urges, he descended down a rocky path that lead to his own destruction.

You’ve just seen how homophobia exacerbates serious problems in the United States. It is likely aiding the increasing consumption of drugs, which is having international consequences. Through its total destruction of community and community spirit, homophobia is fueling the dangerous growth of gangs. In a way that appears counterintuitive, homophobia is actually disrupting heteroeroticism, and is wrecking the world of male-female dating. To be clear, these are crises that pose existential threats to society, and homophobia is feeding them all.

There is why, in another post in the Man2Man Alliance (link NSFW), Mr. Weintraub says the following: “when a society acts to destroy NATURAL male bonding and relationships -- that society is committing suicide.” Isn’t that what you’ve seen throughout this post?

In all three problems, the LGBT leadership and media are no help at all. To the contrary, they are actually helping these problems get worse. For the sake of their own narrow interests, they are selling the rest of humanity for a song. For their sake of promoting their own ideas, they are effectively helping to destroy remaining shreds of a healthy society.

The simple fact is, the LGBT leadership cannot have the last word on same-sex behavior, and how it should be conceptualized. If we think this is compatible with progress, we are deluding ourselves. Our treatment of same-sex activity is intrinsically related to other processes and events in our society. If we ignore that, we do so at our own peril.

Same-sex activity is a natural resource that belongs to everyone. At present, and with full assistance from “straight” counterparts, the LGBT leadership and media are trying to monopolize that resource. In their efforts at monopoly, they are grossly mismanaging it, and are turning it into something that proves false to its power. As with other natural resources, the consequences of such are inescapable.

The question is, will you cooperate in this disaster?

Thus, I urge you to read further on this site, to explore another way to think about same-sex activity. I urge you to read “The ‘Straight’-’Gay’ Dichotomy: How It Works”, to fully understand how that system functions. I also urge any who read this to go to “For Straight People (though not exclusively)”, which will point to philosophies and forms of same-sex behavior that don’t hinge on demonstratively false concepts. Also read the page “History of the Concept of Homosexuality”, to see how this concept evolved into its modern day meaning. Don’t be afraid of talking about what you learn to others, because that’s the only way progress will be made.

The debate over same-sex activity doesn’t just concern a minority, despite impressions to the contrary. Instead, everyone is involved, and all will be affected by the outcome of that debate. Thus, it’s in the interest of all to get involved as active participants, and not as passive observers. That is the only way homoeroticism will once again exist in dignity.

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