#but the thought of anyone taking pictures of me is utterly horrifying and disgusting to me

[stochastiz]

i wish i could detach myself from images of myself, you know?

[uncurlinglikeflowers]

Queer Trauma, Coming Out, & the Long Road to Self-Love and Healing

As I’ve reflected on my past, I’ve discovered that my adolescence may be one of, if not THE most traumatic time of my life thus far as a queer person. The last few months with my incredible therapist have made me realize that the years of anxiety, panic, fear, self-loathing, confusion, and depression have scarred me deeper than I had previously thought. She also made me realize that this is at least partially because I have never really talked about it openly and in depth in a healthy and productive way before, which is what inspired me to start this blog to share my experiences with others that are currently struggling with their identity, or to allow those that are also currently healing from the trauma of their previously closeted life feel a little more seen.

I knew from a VERY young age that I was different, but didn’t know how or what it meant. I was a lonely kid for a lot of my childhood without many friends. I didn’t want to play football with the boys during recess. I sought companionship at lunch with a table full of girls more often than not, which in itself also made me feel incredibly self conscious at the time as well. 

I asked, (with incredible shame) for the “girl’s toy” from the backseat in the McDonald’s drive-thru because I loved to play with the mini-Barbies and craft entire storylines for them. They were easier to hide in my room than regular sized Barbies. I spent most summers off school alone playing video games and reading book and book after book. I didn’t really click with the boys down the street. I was obsessed with Britney Spears and the color purple. I was lonely without really knowing what it meant.

I feel as though that fear I felt in my childhood and adolescence held me back from SO much. Middle school in particular was absolute hell. I hated it. I always felt constantly insecure and uncomfortable. I had absolutely zero confidence or self love. I hated my body and how I looked. 

While other kids experienced their first relationships and first feelings of romantic love, I was convinced that it was just not a possibility for me. On top of being deeply closeted, scared, confused, lonely, and in deep denial, girls didn’t go for me anyway. I was the awkward chunky guy struggling with his identity feeling like he had to make up for it by working extra hard to get perfect grades and give himself 100% to other people. I tried not to think about it too much, but hearing about relationships, seeing people kiss in the hallways between classes, and girls talking about what they liked in boys which was the complete opposite of me... it was hell.

To make my self consciousness worse, I felt supremely uncomfortable in gym class and the boys’ locker room in particular. I was ashamed of my body and also self conscious for wanting to look at the other boys; terrified that they would catch on and beat me senseless. Hearing them consistently call each other f*g in a very VERY negative context drove me deep into the closet as the identity I already felt shame for was directly correlated with being a ridiculed outcast, and something that was inherently, disgustingly wrong and unacceptable. The worst insult teenage boys could deliver to each other in the safety of an unchaperoned locker room in a hick town often not kind to queer people or those that were different. I SO desperately wanted to fit in with the other boys instead of being any version of who I actually was.

Part of that façade of blending in with my hetero peers involved having a girlfriend for two months in 8th grade. We didn’t even kiss, let alone approach any sexual situations. I’m sure she had her suspicions. I was utterly obsessed with the concept of blending in by having a girlfriend like the other boys and just having someone special in my life, even if we really didn’t even do any couple things. 

Upon reflection, I don’t think the concept of ever being sexual with her ever crossed my mind in the slightest. Even the idea of kissing her scared the hell out of me, and not just from first kiss nerves. Deep down I knew it wasn’t right for me. Don’t EVER tell a kid they’re too young to know. Fast forward to modern times, my first kiss with a girl was with a close friend YEARS after I came out. Go figure. 

The idea of caring about and loving myself was non-existent at that time. It’s a very VERY new and ongoing journey for me. I didn’t really care about myself at all. I hadn’t learned how to. Mom was in and out of cancer treatments, and would later pass during my senior year of college and kick off my coming out process, but that’s a whole other post for another day. Spending pretty much my entire childhood watching mom deal with being sick, I didn’t want to cause my family any more discomfort. I was full of self loathing, fear, and confusion, but it seemed irrelevant and unimportant because I didn’t want to be a hindrance. 

Instead, I tried so desperately to be the perfect kid and son by befriending my teachers, being a model student, and joining band and a bunch of organizations to stay as busy as possible to stay distracted and impress everyone else.I didn’t love myself because I didn’t think I was allowed to or deserved to in my own head. While I did finally make more meaningful friends in high school, I continued to go through the motions to make my family proud to make up for the scared closeted kid who thought he had to make up for his queerness as though it were a shameful weakness, and it seemed to be the only thing that could possibly matter at the time.

Non-surprisingly, I never really knew any openly queer boys in grade school. It probably legitimately wasn’t all that safe to come out in that environment. I’ll never forget the two boys I saw holding hands in a Wal-Mart that absolutely shook up my entirely reality, because I had never seen romantic same-sex affection in person before. 

There was a lesbian couple at my school, but people said awful, degrading things about them behind their backs constantly and acted like they were the biggest freaks. Another boy in my grade in high school hadn’t come out yet officially but was very flamboyant, and thus was treated just as awful as the lesbian couple, if not worse. Other kids just regularly said despicable things about him without even knowing him at all. I even heard parents make blatantly homophobic jokes about him. 

His life had to have been hell, and as a fully out queer adult, I still regret not being able to stand up for him more. That definitely forced me deeper into the closet. He wasn’t even out but got talked about like he was some disgusting abomination. How could I ever assume that I could ever come out, let alone kiss, date, and love another boy? I HATED the idea of any attention being placed on me, so I just wanted to survive school at that point.

I had multiple people throughout high school ask me if I were gay just as though it were the most casual question rather than a triggering inquiry that sent me into a mental frenzy every damn time it was presented. Having one of the jock boys ask me such a deeply personal question in passing on the way to my seat in Algebra class was traumatizing. I of course always said no, as at the time I was still convinced it was a passing phase and that I couldn’t actually be gay. 

At home, in the days of Myspace, I got anonymous messages telling me they were pretty sure I was gay. The anonymity was arguably worse in some ways. 

At a young age, I became hyper aware of how I carried myself, talked, and acted. I loathed hearing my voice or seeing myself in pictures, for fear of sounding too feminine or standing or emoting too gay. I obsessed over the concept that boys and girls carried their books a certain way, or the boys would be labelled as queer. I was paranoid about where I shopped for clothes, the colors I wore, and the length and fit of my shorts. 

In middle school, I got a lilac colored trapper keeper for school that I ultimately had my parents take back to the store for a different one because I felt so self conscious about it all day. At home I played with my little Barbies, but didn’t dare tell the kids at school for fear of rejection and isolation. Overall, I felt grossly incompetent, irrelevant, and unimportant in my own mind. Unworthy of love and of course, deeply ashamed for my attraction to the other boys.

I never had anyone whatsoever to help guide me through the coming out process, because I didn’t know a single queer person who could. I’ve now dedicated a good amount of my energy trying to be that person I desperately could have used then for anyone else that needs that role to be filled, and for someone to tell them that someone is incredibly proud of them. An obscene amount of queer people don’t ever hear “I’m so proud of you!” when they really need it the most. 

I also didn’t have any good queer representation on TV or in movies, so I really did feel completely alone at times. Most queer characters in media existedly solely to be made fun of and mocked, ratcher than celebrated, properly represented, or God forbid, given a legitimate love story, and the public’s reaction was so frequently one of such repugnance and disapproval. 

This was also probably about the time that a close family member told me that he had punched a gay guy for hitting on him when he was younger, a story he again felt the need to share with a now ex-boyfriend and I when we were dating, as though that’s not a horrifying thing for an already scared and closeted queer to hear from their own family. 

I think during middle school in particular is when my anxiety and depression issues started, but I assumed either that I was being a baby and that my feelings were invalid, or that it was just teenage angst. The idea that boys and men should mask their emotions and feelings and feel shame rather than expressing them was, (and seemingly appears to continue to be) a very real thing in small towns and society in general. 

It didn’t occur to me at the time that I was experiencing varying levels of almost daily trauma that would fuck me up well into adulthood. If you take anything at all from this post, let it be that the conversation around mental health, (and men in particular in this instance) NEEDS to change.

Another particularly noteworthy event in my queer adolescence was when two of my friends, (both girls, shocker) discovered gay porn on my computer. While they pestered me about if it were mine while they laughed, I of course lied. I felt a deep shame and utter humiliation. On reflection, fucking IMAGINE if they had been able to be gentle and understanding with me and told me they loved me and still would even if I were gay. From then on I was terrified that they would bring that day up to our other friends as a joke. Perhaps they did a time or two, I don’t recall. These same friends made jokes about the queer kid I mentioned earlier, and both parents of one of the girls regularly gossiped and made homophobic jokes about him when I was at their house 

By the time school dances rolled around, I knew I would never be able to go with anyone but friends. Even if I weren’t still deeply closeted, I’m pretty sure my school still had pretty strict rules against bringing same-sex dates to Prom. While I definitely had fun with my friends at the dances we went to, I so desperately longed for a world where I could dance with a boy who loved me like everyone else was able to.

The loneliness and isolation I felt at the end of those nights could be unbearable because it didn’t seem possible for me, even as I looked into the future. I was fully convinced I would live a very lonely life without anyone to love me the way I craved. I didn’t belong in that world, and wouldn’t ever be set up for that kind of happiness, joy, and feeling of content. I would live for everyone else but myself because that’s just the way the world worked for us queers.

I wish I had had just one single person then who gave me full permission to be my authentic queer self on any level. Someone who could hug me and tell me life after high school and college could and would be vastly different. Someone to tell me I wasn’t an unlovable disgusting freak, but rather a kind-hearted boy who deserved a deep love someday because I was a valid and gentle soul who deserved the world. I certainly deserved more than the shame and pain that constantly haunted me. 

Maybe then I wouldn’t have thought about death before 30 so much and obsessed over it well into my college career. I might have realized that I needed to learn to be gentle with myself and take care of and prioritize me and my own happiness. So many people let me down and convinced me that I was a filthy sinner and an over-emotional kid with invalid perspectives and feelings. As most of my closest friends, (that I cannot stress enough have been the ones to save my life and encourage the authenticity that I present so proudly today) came into my life after I had already come out fully, they weren’t around during those dark early struggles. 

Sometimes as an adult I still wonder what it would have felt like and how profoundly different my life could be if someone had held me close and sincerely told me they’re proud of me for what I survived and overcame, and told me that they can’t wait to see my eyes light up with the love I’ve always dreamed of in a boy, and that I still continue to seek. 

Young, baby gay Travis would be in absolute awe if he knew what life had in store for him back then. To see a future version of himself painting his nails, wearing whatever he wanted, dancing with strangers at pride festivals, having the time of his life at drag shows with his queer family and falling in love with boys? Proudly holding a boyfriend’s hand walking downtown in a busy city? Openly telling his dad about the cute boy he’s going on a date with? Going Facebook official with a boy? Being a super vocal advocate and inspiration and mentor to not only queer family, but to people he hardly talks to but manages to influence and inspire just by unashamedly being himself? Genuinely looking forward to kissing his new husband in front of family and friends on his wedding day, knowing it’ll be one of the happiest days of his entire life? 

Holy. Actual. Fuck.

Travis of six or seven years ago wouldn’t have even dared to dream this big, let alone baby gay Travis. He probably would have been utterly mortified but SO comforted to see that future life when he didn’t believe it to be any level of possible.

I’m so fucking proud of myself for this journey, and no one will ever take that away from me or water down my trauma or the grueling work I’ve put in. Genuinely, this is the one thing in my life that makes me absolutely burst with pride. 

I think I want to learn how to keep baby Travis in mind with this pride without having to revisit the trauma in the process. Look back at him with open arms, excited to see him learn and blossom into his actual self someday. Even if he could have desperately used someone like the me I am today, he survived then, and continues to persevere today. 

He’s queer as fuck, and proud to shout it from the rooftops. He’s a voice and an advocate for the voiceless. A shining light and beacon of hope for those still navigating their terrifying escape from their closeted life. He’s going to meet a man someday and love him so deeply in the way baby Travis always dreamed of. Above all, he’s going to continue to make that little guy so incredibly proud because he knows now the importance of loving himself in the process. 

I’m so proud of that scared little boy. I just wish he could have known then how proud he would make himself one day.   

As you talk with the queer people in your life, please keep in mind that just about all of us have incredible trauma directly tied to our identities. Talk to them with love, compassion, and understanding. Tell them how proud of them you are for pursuing their own happiness in the face of oppression and rejection. 

Demand better from elected officials. Advocate for us. Shut down homophobic ideals, even if you think it’ll make your family and friends uncomfortable to hear. Support queer content, artists and creators. Be a proud ally, but don’t ever allow yourself to take the spotlight away from actual queer people or our queer spaces. Mourn, love, and celebrate with us. 

Understand why pride is SO fucking important to us, and why you never have to worry about needing your own pride events. Listen to us and love us for exactly who we are, and were always meant to be. Love is the most incredible, beautiful, and often rare human experience we’re able to experience during our short time on this planet, and it should always be celebrated.

Happy Pride!

[gofancyninjaworld]

OPM ‘Majin’ Drama CD Reviews.  Part 1 – “Saitama, Makeover”

Summary:  Dunning-Kruger, anyone?

Direct link here.   Fair warning: don’t be drinking anything when you read/listen to it. It is utterly demented, in a good way.

So, Saitama’s minding his own business trying to score the best deal at shopping when a young lady approaches him with a fan letter.  He’s deeply flattered... until it turns out that it’s for Genos.   His disgust at this state of affairs is compounded by Genos tossing out the letter unread.  Genos doesn’t do fan letters as they have nothing useful to say to him. 

Saitama’s mood gets worse when Genos looks him up (at his behest) and the public image of Saitama is less than stellar: “I don’t remember this guy.” “Nothing special.” “Eyes of a dead fish.” And many more less edifying. 

As it’s set between the first and second seasons, neither Saitama nor Genos have hero names yet and this gives them an idea.  Since no one knows who Saitama is,  what’s stopping him from picking a hero name and debuting on his terms?

Well, nothing.  Except that between the two of them, they have less creative nous than an office full of auditors on hour 17 of their 3rd consecutive 18 hour work day.  But since when did they let total incompetence stop them?

They look around at other heroes for ideas, throwing out the idea of handsome (Saitama’s budget being too low for plastic surgery -- ouch, Genos), mascots, and finally settling on cute.  As cats are eternally popular, how about some cat ears.   Saitama immediately procures some and yes, they do attract attention but keep slipping off.  He asks, nay demands, that Genos get him some duct tape to keep them on his head.

It’s at this point that I stopped feeling sorry for Saitama.

As far as costume goes, heroes who have an athletic physique to show off like Tank Top Master and Superalloy Darkshine are very popular.   Saitama has an athletic physique.  So... and this is 100% Saitama’s idea... how about all the physique?  But for his cape,  Saitama strips himself naked,  painting himself in the colours of his uniform.   Genos has grave misgivings. Sadly these misgivings don’t rise to the level of saying ‘no’ and he keeps adding fuel to this fire.

You have got to listen to the section where the pair are workshopping what descriptors to add to Saitama’s introductory speech.  It’s when you realise that a lot of the words are in English and that Genos knows what they all mean, but is tossing them in anyway that the full madness of this segment becomes clear.  ONE is also having a poke at Engrish -- English words tossed in for the ‘coolness’, the equivalent of gratuitous French appearing in English. 

And so is born the ultimate new hero: “The collapse of the final strength gestalt with endless possibilities - The lone wolf Saitama, the boiled egg (Terror! The monster-devouring cat man)”    Yes, that is his new hero name.    All that’s left is to find an actual monster.

 This being City Z, monsters are never far away and one duly appears. The plan is for Genos to take it on, pretend to lose so that Satiama can swoop in, introduce himself with suitable bombast and send the monster to Kingdom come.  Three problems. First, Genos turns out to be an outrageously shitty actor, which quickly turns this showing into farce.  Second,  Saitama has lost his notes and is fumbling around for them rather than acting.  Third, the monster turns out to be actually strong meaning that playing around isn’t actually an option.

And then it starts to rain.  The bodypaint isn’t waterproof. Technically it should be as otherwise it’d run when we sweat,  but I guess that’s Saitama being a Saitama and going with what’s cheapest.  So it is that having finally found his notes, with a horrified crowd and incredulous monster alike watching as paint drips off his bits,  Saitama does his best to read the soggy notes that were supposed to mark his triumphant entry...  heh heh

Meta: Don’t Fake It

Hoo hoo!    I’m sorry, if you’ve still not read it, go read it.  It’s so full of evil, evil zingers and the summary really doesn’t do it justice.

Let us establish that any endeavour that starts with the phrase ‘with the help of Genos...’  is not going to be a good one.  Dude is like a chainsaw with no guards -- all enthusiasm, no safety.

Despite how disastrous this episode in Saitama’s life was, it’s also quite touching for me that he’s human.  He sees the enormous disparity between the way he is treated and the way Genos is and he minds.  Saitama doesn’t want to be rich and famous but being recognised and thought well of is important for him.  It’s the biggest reason he joined the Hero Association in the first place and so far, it’s not been working out for him.   So his grabbing at the chance to set his reputation properly ahead of getting a formal hero name made a lot of sense.  It’s good to see that he gets envious, proud, irritated, can say cruel things in the moment -- he’s a person, a good person, but not a saint.

Authenticity is a theme that ONE comes back to frequently.  Another is competence -- even if you’re competent in one thing, that doesn’t automatically carry over into other fields.  He makes a lot of hay out of the fact that people often over-rate their abilities in areas they know little about.  It’s almost axiomatic in OPM that if you hear someone bragging about an ability they have, they’re all but certain to be shown up.  And when you put inauthentic and incompetent together, well... it’s funny to watch.   So it is that Saitama, who fancied himself a creative, ended up naked in public in the rain.  With bodypaint dripping off him. I’m sorry, the image has been indelible for months.

If you’ve ever wished you were less sensitive, look at Genos and be comforted.  He has a legitimately thick skin and the way he lacerates Saitama with his words while not being in the slightest bit offended at Saitama’s comebacks is the opposite of life goals.  His sharp-eyed notes on the whimsical and superficial nature of public opinion?  Spot on.

Genos refusing to read fan mail on the basis that it’s not informative was an ‘oof’ moment for me. Fans often slam heroes for being too keen on public notice and admiration, but the converse is also painful.  It’s sad to think that if the little girl he saved from the Deep Sea King sent him a thank you letter, he threw it away unread.  It feels like he’s missing half the point of being a hero.   

Speaking of the hero name specifically, the requirements that Saitama had for a hero name are actually satisfied by One Punch Man.  But it’s not an obvious thing to hit on.  All things considered, it’s just as well the Hero Association doesn’t appear to have heard of these antics, or at least not taken them into account when naming him.  Or he’d have been Cat-Eared Baldie.

I can 100% understand why King needed to come into the picture. Between Saitama and Genos, they’re unable to muster even a pin-head’s worth of common sense. In particular, Genos doesn’t seem to be able to say no to Saitama and they just egg each other on.   King brings a much-needed measure of sense checking to their dynamics. 

[bittykimmy13]

Miss Clara’s Charmed Jewelry and Pets ~ 5 (GT)

(( Read from the beginning ))

Synopsis: While looking for a place to rest on her aimless journey, Valentina comes across the cottage of Miss Clara, who welcomes fairy guests with open arms.

Characters belong to @pr-fae <3</p>

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

5 ~ The Aristocrat Hours passed, but Valentina barely noticed. She was too occupied with the bliss, the absolute exhilaration of having magic back at her fingertips. She had waited until Jaune and Silky were gone to try it. They had left her on the table, food and water within reach, after asking several times if she was comfortable there. She all but ignored the provisions now. Tears had sprung forth along with the magic, and for the first time in so long, she was not crying from fear or misery. Tiny little flowers of every color bloomed on the wooden tabletop in patches. She knew she could do so much more, but she feared pushing herself too far after her month of iron proximity. For now, she was content to miraculously grow flowers for the dead wood and contemplate how she might use her magic to escape if needed. All peace in the room shattered when the door flew open.

Valentina screamed and sprang up, shuffling to the furthest corner of the table. She eased up only slightly when she saw it was Jaune. She fought the urge to hide—there was nowhere to go within reach, anyway. The door slammed shut and made her flinch, and she forced herself to hold her ground. But Jaune’s harried state was frightening. That was nothing compared to her realization that Silky was nowhere to be seen on his person as he approached with rattling, too-fast steps. Her forced bravery crumbled immediately. She was all alone with a towering human who came from a Fae-hating family. “She took Silky,” Jaune uttered in a broken voice, his eyes red. Valentina felt sick to her stomach. “No…” He gripped the edge of the table, looking down at her desperately. “You have to help me get her back—please.” He was panting now, the sorrow in his eyes overwhelming. “Please, you’re the only person I have right now.” She shuddered, locking her fingers through the hem of her blouse—Silky’s blouse. “I’m sorry,” she whimpered. “I—I can’t!” The thought of going anywhere near Clara again made her want to fall to pieces. “I-I wouldn’t be of any help to you.” He eyed the flowers on the table and clenched his jaw. “Your magic is back,” he said in a non-accusatory voice. Still begging. “I released a fairy from his cage at the market, and he was able to magically vanish after a few minutes. You do have spells on your side, Valentina.” “B-but, I told you, I don’t know where Clara lives.” “There has to be something!” Although he didn’t raise his voice, his whispering took on a panicked intensity. His crushing fingers tightened on the table’s edge, and she couldn’t help but picture them closing around her. “Some clue that can lead us to her—please, anything!” She bit her lip, scrounging her mind for anything to make him stop looking at her like that—stop looking at her at all. And then, it came to her. “Ambrose Clemente!” she blurted. “An aristocrat from Westhelm. He visits her cottage personally, a-and he buys out all the available fairies. The only reason I didn’t end up with him is because I wasn’t properly healed yet.” She swallowed hard, looked at Jaune pleadingly. “It shouldn’t be hard to find him. Clara mentioned that he’s one of the wealthiest people in Westhelm.” Jaune exhaled sharply. “Ambrose Clemente. Okay. Okay, we may have a chance now.” He looked at her expectantly, face falling when he saw she was cowering away from him more than ever. “I… I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to frighten you, but… please. I need all the help I can get, especially if this is a wealthy person we’re going after. And who knows what Clara has up her sleeve.” Valentina didn’t answer, looking down at a patch of yellow and orange flowers at her feet. The floorboards creaked, and she squeezed her eyes shut, certain that he would simply grab her and walk out the door whether she wanted it or not. “Valentina,” he whispered. His voice sounded further away than before. She tentatively peeked her eyes open, startled to find that he was no longer looming over her. Gaze traveling downward, she found him on his knees in front of the table, hands clenched on his lap. Literally begging for her help. She shifted from foot to foot uncomfortably. “I won’t force you,” he said. “But you have to understand. She is my world. My heart. It hurts me to ask you to go anywhere near Clara and Westhelm again. I’m sorry. But if even the smallest part of you is willing to trust me… please.” He shuddered, making desperate eye contact with her. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But I need you to say it.” Shivering, Valentina inched forward. He could force her if he wanted. Could threaten to hurt her if she didn’t do as he said. Instead, he was begging, as if she held any power over him. And Silky could very well be undergoing torture while Valentina stood there like a coward. “Jaune,” she croaked. “Let’s go get her.” ~~~ The sun had already set by the time they reached Westhelm. In his panic, Jaune had still somehow managed to come up with a plan of how to find Ambrose Clemente—and it came in the form of an empty envelope he had bought from a shop on his way out of Camveil. The streets were less bustling than they had been yesterday. Folks were getting back to their homes, and shops were closing for the night. Before proceeding with the plan, Jaune ducked into an alley to check on Valentina. Impatient as he was to hunt down Clara, the poor fairy girl could not be left alone to her own terrified thoughts the whole time. Once he was certain no one was near enough to see, Jaune pulled at the lip of his front pocket and peered inside. “Are you doing alright?” he asked. “We’ve reached Westhelm.” “I… I’m fine,” she croaked, looking up at him with her scared little eyes while she clutched desperately at the fabric around her. He knew she was lying, but she had been much more terrified of the offer to ride on his shoulder. He supposed it hurt a bit, to not have her trust, but such thoughts were trivial compared to everything else assaulting his mind. “We’ll reach Clemente soon,” he promised, not bothering to ask if she wanted to move out of the pocket now. Not in Westhelm, were disgusted gazes would be set on her, even if there were less people. As he exited the alley, he tried not to focus on how Valentina trembled against his chest. “Pardon me!” Jaune approached the first patrolling guard he laid eyes on. The man looked him up and down warily, no doubt noticing right away that Jaune didn’t fit in with the other townspeople. But Jaune kept his tone light, somewhat exasperated. “Could you point me in the right direction? I have a message for Ambrose Clemente, and I seem to have gotten turned around.” He held up the empty envelope. The guard relaxed, then looked somewhat exasperated himself. “Clemente? That bastard. I used to be a private guard on his estate, until he ordered all of us away.” He shook his head. “You’re at the wrong end of the district, messenger. Head down this road and take a right at the very end. You’ll see the estate—you can’t miss it.” Jaune stifled his curiosity about why Ambrose Clemente would get rid of his guards, but that certainly made things easier. He thanked the guard graciously and moved on. By the time the estate came into view, the streets were utterly quiet. The large house stood on its own at the end of a cobblestone road, and indeed, there didn’t seem to be anyone patrolling the outside. Jaune kept the envelope visible, in any case. “Be ready, Valentina,” Jaune muttered as he stepped up to the door. He squared his shoulders and knocked three times. A few moments later, footsteps approached on the other side. The door creaked open slightly, revealing a man with dark hair and grey eyes. Just the way Valentina had described Ambrose. It took every ounce of Jaune’s self-control not to shove the door open all the way. “Hello. Can I help you?” Ambrose said in a cautious voice. “Miss Clara,” Jaune bit out. “Where can I find her cottage?” The man stared for all of two seconds before slamming the door shut without a word. Jaune heaved a sigh, balling his fists up at his sides. He was ready to break in, until he remembered the vulnerable cargo in his pocket. “I’m going to put you down,” he said apologetically. He reached in with a careful, practiced hand and pulled her out. She squirmed right until he set her down on the sill of a nearby front window. Wasting no time after that, he set his sights back on the door. A few well-aimed kicks at the handle broke the lock, and he shoved the door with his shoulder to open it all the way. Valentina stared at him with awe and terror, looking like she’d rather not climb back onto his hand when he offered it. But she did. After depositing her safely back inside his pocket, he stalked past the ruined door and found Ambrose backing away through the foyer with his hands raised slightly. The cold, cruel personality Valentina had described seemed to be absent at the moment. “Look, I don’t know what this is about—” Amrose started. “You’re going to tell me where Clara lives,” Jaune said in a low, dangerous voice as he advanced with measured steps. “Now.” “Why?” Ambrose shook his head. “If you want a fairy so badly, you can find her at the market. Unless… I mean, unless you intend to steal them?” He looked positively horrified at the idea. Jaune clenched his jaw furiously. “Oh, that would simply ruin your day, wouldn’t it? Not having a new plaything in your grasp the moment you want it?” Paling, Ambrose said nothing. He turned to run, but a table miraculously slid across the room and blocked the archway that led to the rest of the house. He could have climbed over it, perhaps, if he weren’t shocked enough to whirl and look at Jaune. Valentina was poking halfway out of the pocket, arms still poised up from the spell. Using Ambrose’s surprise against him, Jaune raced forward and grabbed him by the front of his tailored shirt. “Where is the cottage?” Jaune gritted out. Trying to wrench himself free, hands scrabbling to pry away Jaune’s, Ambrose was still staring at Valentina, who ducked away from eye contact. “You… your fairy isn’t collared,” Ambrose uttered. Jaune shoved him up against the wall by the archway, never letting go. “Don’t you dare even look at her. The next words out of your mouth better be the location of the cottage.” He braced one hand against Ambrose and raised a fist. “Or I’ll—” “No!” a tiny voice screamed. “Amie!” Jaune faltered and looked for the source of the voice—the ground. There, running beneath the table that blocked the archway, was a wingless fairy. She had pale blue hair tied in a half ponytail. She stopped behind one of the table legs, looking up at Jaune with horror. “Lark,” Ambrose croaked, trying to wrench away from Jaune more adamantly. “Get away, you shouldn’t be here!” When Jaune returned his narrowed eyes to Ambrose, the man looked back pleadingly, looking more panicked than ever. “Please, whatever you want, whatever you’re going to do, leave her out of this. Please—don’t hurt her!” “Let him go!” Lark shouted at Jaune. A sharp gust of wind ran through the room, seeming to originate from her. Her hair flew around wildly, and she balled her fists up at her sides, but she still looked at him beseechingly. “Please!” Jaune could barely think straight while both Ambrose and Lark pleaded with him. None of it made any sense. It wasn’t until he felt a small tug at the top of his shirt that he looked down. Valentina was still halfway out of the pocket, now looking at him with wide eyes. “She doesn’t have a collar, either,” Valentina said over the sound of whistling wind. “Let him go. Maybe… maybe we should see what he has to say.” With no small amount of hesitation, Jaune let go, then immediately tensed again when Ambrose bolted away from him. But he wasn’t trying to escape—he was rushing to Lark, scooping her up to hold her protectively as he backed away from Jaune with wary eyes. The threatening wind had settled down, but the tension in the air was still thick enough to cut with a knife. Although the fury burning through Jaune had faded into confusion, his voice remained gruff. “Start talking,” he said to Ambrose. “Who is she? Someone you bought from Clara?” “I didn’t buy her,” Ambrose said rather defensively. “He saved me,” Lark said, still rigid as though she would ignite her magic again at a moment’s notice. “From my previous owner—the one who bought me from Clara.” “But—” Valentina stammered a moment before gathering herself. “I saw you—you buy fairies from Clara.” Ambrose’s expression turned strangely sad as he eyed her. “I thought I recognized you. Saw you at her place not too long ago, didn’t I?” He sighed and shook his head. “I didn’t get to the market in time to stop someone else from buying you. I’m sorry.” “So you do buy fairies?” Jaune said. “To give them a safe haven, or to release them, if that’s what they prefer.” Ambrose kept his eyes on Valentina, and once more addressed her apologetically. “I saw how frightened you were at Miss Clara’s cottage. Sorry, again. She hates fairies. If she knew I was actually releasing them, she might not let me buy from her anymore. Then there’d be no saving anyone.” “He was quite upset that he couldn’t save you in time,” Lark put in kindly. “If that’s any consolation.” Her eyes moved up to Jaune’s face, wariness returning. “But it seems you’ve at least got someone who doesn’t collar you.” Jaune huffed, looking at the unusual pair skeptically. “She’s not my pet either. How do we know that Lark hasn’t been… brainwashed? Maybe you make her think you’re saving her when she’s really a pet.” “Watch your tongue,” Lark said, standing upright on Ambrose’s palm and glaring. Ever since he saved me, he’s done nothing but use his money to save others.” She looked up and behind her at Ambrose. “They should meet the others, to prove that we’re not lying.” Ambrose bristled. “Not meet. See them through the window, maybe.” He fixed his gaze back on Jaune and nodded. “Follow us.” Reluctantly, Jaune allowed himself to be led toward the back of the estate. He stayed on guard, ready for anything that Ambrose tried to pull. And by the number of looks he was getting thrown back at him, Ambrose was preparing himself for a potential attack as well. The backdoor led into a greenhouse, which opened up to the back garden. Ambrose made no move to open the door, however. He gestured for Jaune to join him at the window, which provided a view of the greenhouse and part of the garden. There were about a dozen small, makeshift houses amongst the greenery, and Jaune could see the movement of fairies from within. He gave a small exhalation of surprise. “You see?” Lark said, crossing her arms. “No one’s being held against their will. If they want to leave… Well, chances are they won’t survive out there—not without their wings. But if we can’t convince them to stay, they are welcome to take off.” “It’s never easy,” Ambrose muttered, staring through the window. “Sorry for the confusion,” Valentina said quietly. Her arms were folded on the lip of the pocket, and she flinched when Ambrose turned to face her. “I… I thought I was very lucky that you hadn’t bought me.” Ambrose smiled softly. “I’m glad that you seem safe now.” His gaze trailed up to Jaune’s face and became more guarded. “I can see you mean no harm to fairies, but… why are you so hell-bent on getting to Clara?” “She has my wife,” Jaune said, trying not to let his urgency get the best of him. “I… I saw her in that cage, and I—” He shuddered. “Please. Show me where Clara lives. I need to get Silky back.” Heavy silence settled over them all for a few moments. “Your wife is a fairy,” Lark said quietly. Jaune nodded. “Please…” She gave a sad, wistful sigh, her entire demeanor changing all at once. She twisted around to look up at Ambrose, tapping his palm. “He’s trying to save his wife, Amie! You have to help him!” Making no move to argue with her, Ambrose turned and shrode away. “Here.” He led them away from the back window and down two halls before he reached the door he wanted. It turned out to be a study. Several of the shelves seemed to have homemade ladders suited for fairies, but Jaune didn’t have the time to explore and wonder about Ambrose and Lark’s accommodations. Ambrose gingerly set Lark down on one corner of the massive desk in the middle of the room, then unrolled a map of the region. “There,” he said, pointing to a spot. “Right at the edge of those woods.” Jaune took care not to make Valentina tumble out of his pocket as he leaned over the map. He frowned and shook his head. “That can’t be right… You must be mistaken.” “He’s not,” Lark said, striding over to stand by Ambrose’s pointing finger. “But that’s Camveil territory.” “It… what?” Ambrose frowned in puzzlement. Valentina gave a soft gasp of disbelief. “If… if she lives in Camveil territory, then—” “What she’s doing there,” Jaune said slowly, “luring fairies and severing their wings… it’s illegal.”

[freedom-shamrock]

Bi the Pricking of my Thumbs #4

<< Chapter 3

Cautionary note: This chapter includes a references to and conversations with unsupportive queer-phobic parents, some bigotry, and use of straight nonsense. There is also a dildo for comedic purposes.

Also on AO3. If you’re so inclined, feel free to support me over on Ko-Fi

Chapter 4

Ladybug looked out into the colorful sea of Pride celebrants pouring into Place de la République. The energy was amazing, and she couldn't keep the smile off her face. "Oh gosh, check out those wings!" She slapped at Chat's arm to draw his attention to the wire and sheer-fabric construction heading their way. They sat at the feet of the statue of Marianne, where they could catch a good look at the parade while also keeping an eye out for trouble. They'd already delivered two pickpockets, a lost child, and an obvious full-spectrum queer-phobe to the police. The last one had been the most concerning, given that he had a butane lighter and a soaker style water gun loaded with something that smelled highly flammable.

"Wings?" Chat Noir said, frantically looking into the sky.

"No, silly," she said with a laugh. She tilted his head back to the crowd. " Good wings.  Down there."

"I'm kind of surprised people still wear butterfly wings around here," he said, his smile bright as he waved to the shirtless man who had realized his articulated wings had caught the attention of Paris' heroes. "Oh geez, he's hot, too."

Ladybug laughed again.  She just felt so full of happiness, surrounded by this celebration, sharing it with her best friend. "He really is. But I get a feeling he'd be more accepting of your advances than mine."

"Pffft." He snorted. The rainbow wings opened to flash paired male symbols in the upper half of the forewing, and if she wasn’t mistaken, the man was wiggling his eyebrows suggestively at Chat..

"Was it hard for you to get away?" she asked. His father had continued to get weirder as the annual Pride festival approached. Likewise, Gabriel had been increasingly strict with Adrien's schedule, and she worried for both of them.

Chat Noir shrugged. "As far as I know, he thinks I'm in my room binging on anime."

She shook her head, disgusted. She'd already approached her parents about letting Adrien move in with them if he found he couldn't stand it with his father any longer. She wondered if it was time to extend the same welcome to Chat Noir. He deserved it just as much.

"What about you?" he asked. "You’re here with friends, right?"

"Yeah." She nodded. "I'm supposed to be marching with my school's Gender and Sexuality Alliance. I started the parade with them." She shrugged. "Fortunately, I have a reputation as a total space cadet, and in this crowd they won't be surprised to have lost me halfway through the parade."

He gawked at her. "Your friends think you're a ditz?  Ladybug? The genius behind this operation?" He gestured to the two of them.

She shrugged.  "It just reinforces the idea that normal me is nothing like Ladybug.  And that's good. Besides, I'm not the only clever one here."

He frowned. "I'm not sure I'm on board with them thinking poorly of you just for a cover.  You're amazing, Milady. And I'd bet you're just as amazing in your regular life."

She gave him a hug. "And you're a sweetheart." He melted against her, as he usually did when hugged. "If you need more hugs today, there are some forty and fifty-year olds walking around with shirts that say free mom hugs and free dad hugs." Her parents happened to be part of that group, wearing shirts she'd screen-printed.

"That sounds heavenly." He sat back up. "Eew, cultural appropriation to your right." He shook his head, raising his baton to snap a quick picture. "What do Native American warbonnets have to do with sexuality?"

“Nothing.” Ladybug rolled her eyes. "Like anything, this festival can be used as an excuse to cross some lines that shouldn't be. What are you doing?"

"I'm going to make a post about that kind of thing. Later." His head turned the other way, and his hand came up to cover his mouth. "Holy crap. Look. At. Those. Platforms."

She searched for a moment, eventually finding the person in a fluffy white tutu standing precariously in platform shoes that were easily twelve inches high. "Wow.  Those are like… they're nearly as tall as the Chix on Stix stilts were."

"Blister city," Chat said. " Mad respect for them making it through the parade in those."

"I bet Adrien Agreste could handle those," she said, smiling at the thought of Adrien sweeping down the runway in those ridiculous things. He'd grown quite fond of the over-the-top nature of runway, preferring it to the bland studio shoots he did far too many of. And to be fair, he was crazy good at it.

"Really?" Chat grinned at her, then eyed up the person in the platforms again. "I know he's good, Paris' golden boy and all, but those might be out of his league."

Ladybug vehemently shook her head, and opened her bandalore to catch a picture. "He's a god among men when it comes to fashion and presentation."

"You've got that look," he said, arching one eyebrow.  "What's going on in that clever brain of yours?"

"I want to challenge Adrien to walk in a pair of those," she said. "It might take me a few days to figure out how to pitch it, but I think he'd enjoy the opportunity to flaunt his skills."

"Keep me in the loop on that," Chat Noir said. "I want to see how that turns out."

"Will do." She tucked her bandalore away.

"Is your sweetheart not coming to Pride?" he asked, as if suddenly realizing that could be a thing. "I'm not keeping you from something important to them, am I?"

She patted his shoulder. "They don't care for crowds, and prefer to watch the parade and big festivities on TV. They're hosting a party with several of our friends tomorrow, because we know some other queer folk who need a lower key event." She wished she could invite Adrien, but he wasn't ready to share his identity with anyone else. He'd scheduled a visit with Luka, though, so she was cautiously optimistic that his future was going to be brighter. Their friend group wasn’t remotely hetero, and she was reasonably sure they could all keep a secret. Alya had come out as pan and poly shortly after her amicable split with Nino at the beginning of Lycee. She was currently in a relationship with both Chloe and Kagami that utterly baffled Marinette, but as long as her friend was happy, it didn’t matter. Nino had been a quieter about his orientation, but he’d casually dated men and women, and she strongly suspected he was holding a torch for his best friend..

Chat Noir reached to point out something of interest, but a sudden blast of pop music that could only be Taylor Swift drowned out the sounds of the parade. He froze, his eyes wide and his tail stiff with alarm.

"Crapity snacks," Ladybug muttered. "Looks like breaktime is over, Kitty." She rose to peer around the statue to see the akuma. He stood on the taller brick corner tower of a building on the corner of Rue du Faubourg du Temple. He was dressed all in blue, carrying a white flag featuring old school male and female symbols holding hands.

"Odds on it being that piece of trash we picked up earlier," Chat suggested.

"It's either him, or someone just like him," she muttered. “So gross.”

"I'm The Oppressed, and I'm sick of being spit on by the heterophobic queers of Paris!" the akuma bellowed in a magically amplified voice. "You degenerates have infected my daughter with your alternative lifestyles, so today we're going to celebrate straight pride!"

"Ugh," Ladybug groaned. "Such straight nonsense."

The Oppressed waved his flag at the closest group of revelers, and a beam of white light washed over them, changing their clothes into conservative blue suits or pink dresses. Those now in pink had long styled hair, full makeup, and jewelry that many would have considered feminine.  Those in blue had short hair and broad watches and briefcases.

"Oh hells no!"  Ladybug drew back her bandalore, preparing to throw.  "We need to get him the fuck out of here. There are people here with significant gender dysphoria, and we are not letting Hawkass do this to them during their festival." She loosed her bandalore, cutting through the sky directly in The Oppressed's view, and landing on the corner tower across the street from him. "You want my earrings, you ugly bigot? Come and get them!" She swished her bi flag cape at him, hoping the taunt was enough to refocus his attention.  

"Ladybug!" The Oppressed shouted. "You're the worst offender. Your speeches boasting about your disgusting choice convinced my daughter to come out as pansexual."

"I'm proud of your daughter," Ladybug called back. She felt bad for the girl who had this man as her father. "You'd do better to love her for who she is , than for who you think she should be."

"You know nothing of parenting." The harsh voice carrying over the roof behind The Oppressor gave her chills; for the first time in over a year, Hawk Moth had shown up for one of his own fights. "You're a mere child. And children need guidance from their parents."

She wanted to punch that smug look right off his face.

"Children are suggestible and will make foolish decisions at the encouragement of their stupid friends and… heroes." He sneered the last word.

He was furious, and it was obvious. Could she get him irrational enough to make a mistake? Perhaps today was the day they would finally capture the moth. "Awww. You make it sound so personal," she said, pouting at him, hoping to feed his anger. "Wait-wait-wait. Do you actually have kids?" Now that was a horrifying thought.

He scowled. "If you must know, yes. My naive son is here some where, thanks to you and those idiot friends of his." God his words were so very Gabriel. It was like they used the same conservative parenting guide. "You've made him think there's no harm in exploring--" He was cut off by a sudden roar from the crowd of Pride attendees that rose over the chorus of the pop song How You Get the Girl.

A blast of glitter-filled air rose to the rooftops, plastering both Hawk Moth and The Oppressor in sparkles. She glanced down and saw Chat Noir with a group of people including the butterfly man they'd admired earlier. In a coordinated effort, Chat spun his baton to create a strong enough wind to carry a second pile of glitter up to the villains.

"You take care of Chat Noir!" Hawk Moth snapped, coughing out a cloud of sparkly fragments. "I'll handle the bug."

"I do not consent to your hands being anywhere near me," Ladybug sassed. The very idea creeped her out, but he was the one who introduced hands to the conversation. "Hasn't anyone ever taught you that no means no?" She threw her bandalore up. "Lucky charm!" She caught the spotted item glancing quickly at it, then grinning as she looked across the street at the man who had terrorized Paris for years.

Hawk Moth's confident bearing faltered a moment.

"So tell me Hawky, you wanna get lucky?" She held aloft the sizeable silicone dildo, shaking it enough to make it wiggle and almost giggling as he visibly blanched. "I think my miraculous is suggesting that you need a bit of help getting rid of some tension." She heard chaos below, and suddenly Chat Noir was beside her.

"Milady, I bring you the spoils of war." He knelt, presenting her with the hideous flag.

"Oh Kitty, you always know what I want." She traded the dildo for the flag. "Keep tabs on our dear friend for me. I'd hate for him to go fluttering off." She snapped the thin flagpole in half, ripping the banner for good measure. Once the purified butterfly was released, and the few Parisians who'd been modified by the akuma had been restored, she could focus on the rest of this situation.

"Might I trouble you for one of your ribbons?" Chat Noir asked, watching their long time enemy with a look that could only be described as predatory. "I have an idea."

Hawk Moth's composure was clearly shaken, and he suddenly scrambled to the far edge of the tower, clearly planning to drop to a lower portion of the building's roof in retreat.

Ladybug slipped one of her ribbons free, dropping it into Chat's hand. "I look forward to putting your idea into action. I'll keep Monsieur Hate-Filled-Bigot from straying too far, while you do that." She soared over the gap between the buildings. Early in their tenure as heroes, she'd been responsible for all the ideas. While she'd always managed to come through, it had been terribly stressful. It was such a relief to find that her partner had his share of good plans.

Hawk Moth yanked a sabre out of his cane, training the tip on her. "I will not hesitate to pin you to the roof like an insect in a display box," he snarled.

Close melee with edged weapons was more of Chat's thing, but changing the situation in her own favor, was hers. "I'd love to see you try." Her wrist snapped out, wrapping the line of her bandalore around the thin blade. A quick yank pulled the weapon out of his hand, sending it clattering to the roof behind her.

Hawk Moth let out a screech of rage. It was cut off as Chat Noir launched himself overhead, arcing gracefully to land farther down the roof, trapping their enemy between them.

Chat thumped the bottom of his staff against the roof, and the dildo he'd tied upright on the top jiggled in response. "Mine's better than yours," the cat superhero said proudly. He gestured to his enhanced weapon in case the modification hadn't been immediately clear. He twirled the staff in his hands before lunging and jabbing it at Hawk Moth.

Ladybug grinned, realizing her partner's plan as Hawk Moth apparently forgot all about her in his desire to get away from the spotted silicone dick. With a light tug, her cape came off in her hands.  Two quiet steps and she flicked the end out to snap Hawk Moth's cheek.

In a matter of moments, she was able to wrap the man in a tight cocoon of magical pride fabric, only his neck and head free. If Chat's final blow, a slap of the dildo to Hawk Moth's temple, came later than strictly necessary, she wasn't going to mention it.  The jerk had ruined a ridiculous number of her plans over the years. She stared at him for a moment, the way she might assess an akuma in search for the object they needed to break.

“Tie tack,” she said, keeping her grip on the villain lest he should escape when they were so close to winning.

Chat reached out and plucked the miraculous from Hawk Moth's collar, and the costume vanished in a wave of purple light, leaving Gabriel Agreste tightly bundled in a bisexual pride flag. The irony was not wasted on Ladybug.

"Oh." Chat said softly. "Well I guess that makes more sense than it doesn't."

Furious that the man who had been terrorizing Paris for most of her teen years was Adrien's asshole father, Ladybug grabbed his lapels and gave a yank. As he lurched forward, she brought up her knee, driving it into his nose.

"You'll pay for that," Gabriel snarled as blood dribbled down his face. "Brutality of a suspect in your custody is a punishable offense."

"Brutality?" Chat asked calmly. "I didn't see anything. You must've gotten your nose broken during the fight." He shrugged. "If only Ladybug hadn't already cured Paris of your akuma's damage… I guess you'll just have to live with it." He shook his head in mock sympathy. "Oh look!" He pointed to a collection of cop cars, their lights flashing as they parked along Rue du Faubourg du Temple. "Your escort has arrived to take you to your new home."

Ladybug helped Chat Noir deliver Gabriel to the police but had to go recharge while they took Chat's statement. By the time she'd gotten far enough from the festival to feed Tikki, retransform, and return, there was no sign of the cavalcade that had appeared to deliver Gabriel to the station. In fact, it took her another ten minutes of searching to find her partner, sitting cross-legged as he watched the parade continue to fill Place de la République. He looked a little sad, maybe wistful.

"Hey Kitty," she said, alighting beside him.

"Welcome back, Bug." He sighed, leaning into her as she slipped an arm around him.

"So that just happened," she said. It didn't quite feel real.

He plucked the tiny miraculous from one of his pockets, holding it out to her. "It definitely did."

"Do you want to hold onto it until we get it to Fu?" she asked.

"That would be inadvisable," he replied. "But thank you for trusting me."

She slipped the miraculous into one of the pockets she'd demanded when she'd re-designed her suit a few years back. "So Hawk Moth's out of the picture, and we always said we'd do a reveal once that was done," she pointed out.

He nodded, but didn't leap on the idea the way she expected him to.

"I'm kind of in a mood to beat the crap out of biphobic fathers," she said, squeezing his shoulder. "So I may as well find out who you are. And if he's a real piece of work, you can come live with me."

He stared at her, slowly blinking. "Really?"

She nodded. “I’m friends with Adrien Agreste.  I can tell you that now. And I’ve already gotten permission from my parents for him to take the guest room.” She sighed. “I figured he might need an escape from his father, and that was before I knew he was Hawk Moth.”

“And your parents were just okay with that?” he asked, his eyes wide with shock.

“They love Adrien.  They’d adopt him if they could.” She gave him a sad smile.

“I bet he’d let them,” he said softly, oddly choked up.

“I’m sure the same goes for you,” she insisted, already considering logistics. She could take the spare room, giving Adrien and Chat her room to share. “Now are you going to let me know who you are so I can rough up your father, or what?”

He laughed. “You already did, Bug.” He shook his head. “Hawk Moth was my father, and I am totally moving in with you.”

* * * * * * * *

Chapter 5  >>

Inspirations: Articulated Wings Platform Shoes

[mangled-dreams]

Sins of the Mother: 11

Part 11: Death

Previous: Collection, Agreement, Terms, Truth, Accident, Goodbye, Grieving, Visions, Recovery, Disillusion,

Waking up feeling more groggy than when you went to sleep you rub your eyes and yawn. The edges of your mouth stretch painfully and tears line your eyes. Licking your lips you blink a few times looking around your familiar room.

Everything looks just at it had last night, everything except one little detail. Dark lies next to you on your bed. It's a king, so there is more than enough room and you immediately attribute that fact to why you hadn't noticed before, but the fact still remains: Dark is in your bed sleeping.

His suit is crumpled and creased, your normal night time attire is still sung around your frame, and there is no indication that anyone got undressed. Blinking you look around once more before settling on Dark's sleeping features. Awake he's very pleasing to look at, it's no different now that he's asleep but you do note some differences between waking Dark and sleeping Dark.

Careful not to rock the bed too much you shimmy yourself closer. You've never imagined you'd see Dark with bed head, but from the state of him you assume he doesn't sleep soundly. Without thought you brush his jacket in a failed attempt to smooth it out before realizing you're touching him and retract it. You don't remember the last time you had a guest in your bed that didn't look to you as a mother. Tucking your legs under you, you rest against the headboard looking Dark over. He seems peaceful, relaxed, and... you can't quite put your finger on it, but he looks happier.

Covering a yawn again you know you should get up, take a shower, dress, eat something, go anywhere else to give Dark his privacy to sleep. You don't. Instead you gingerly touch a lock of his lush black hair. In the wake of a night's sleep you find his hair is naturally on the curly side. You play with the curls.

Soon, without meaning to your fingers move deeper into the thick tresses of hair, lightly scratching at his scalp. The soft mewing sound Dark makes startles you, your hand disappearing from his hair. He frowns, eye brows pinched together in disapproval of your withdraw, and he turns into you. Sitting ridged with your hands nearly straight in the air Dark curls his an arm and his head on your thighs.

When he finally settles again the breath you had been holding rushes out. After a few drawn out seconds you relax looking down at Dark with a tenderness you didn't think was possible. He reminds you of your siblings. Perhaps he's just as confused and scared of what's going on as you are, maybe even more so. You've noticed the little signs in his speech, the way he looked at you when he brought up Savannah in your car.

Leaning back into the headboard you take up lightly scratching Dark's scalp again, your fingers playing with his luscious locks once more. Call it years of doing this exact thing with your siblings, call it need for comfort in such a trying time in your life, hell, call it loneliness, but whatever you call it it soothes you.

Closing your eyes you try to allow yourself this little moment. You allow yourself to think that this--this change in your original idea of your future won't be so bad. You allow yourself to believe you can, perhaps, one day be happy with Dark--no, Damien. The longer you allow yourself to feel comforted and happy and content the more you feel a tug in your chest.

At first it wasn't anything to worry you, however the more it happens the more intense it gets. Before you really understand what is happening your breath becomes labored. The tug you'd first felt begins to pull sharply. Breathing heavily you press a hand to your breast bone. You've had panic attacks but never like this. Could it be your worst panic attack, or could it be something else?

Black spots slowly take over your vision as you attempt to control your breathing. Nothing you are trying is helping. You can't recall when but the weight on your lap disappears and hands grab your wrists. Through the black spots dotting your vision you see Dark looking up at you.

This confuses you even in your disoriented state. There is no way that Dark should be below you. He towers over you, how... how can he be looking up to you.

"Y/n, look at me. Listen to my voice. You can fight this." Dark says loudly, but it's not a shout. His voice is strong and steady as he talks to you. His voice resonates through you. In a way it's comforting and you feel connected to it, cling to it for safety.

"Dam--Damien, it hurts..." you whisper clutching at your shirt. The feeling gives another sharp pull in your chest.

"Dammit, Savannah, leave her alone." Dark growls his voice rumbling through your whole frame. You feel as if it should shake your whole house. It frightens you on some level, more than that it comforts you. You know he's not angry with you, he's not upset that you're in this state, he fears for you.

In your moment of comfort something new and even more frightening happens. A vision passes just in front of Dark. The black dots still in your sight doesn't affect the image of your ancestor standing in front of you. The eyes so many artists portrayed as kind an gentle are anything but. A firm scowl graces her doll like features as she looks down at you.

"You disappoint me. Falling in love with a demon." She sneers in a tone just as cold as her gaze. "Disgusting."

Gritting your teeth you keep from remarking. You didn't want to or even mean to... to... Your eyes widen at the thought you could be in love with Dark. Even though now is not the time, nor the place to have such a thought you can't help it. Staring at Savannah you ask, "Do... Do I love him?"

Snapping her head, Savannah looks away from you. It's as if the question completely and utterly disgusts her. "A Scarlet is never meant to love. We use others to gain our purpose. It seems I failed that point."

"What? No! What about your children? Your grandchildren? They don't deserve that kind of treatment. No one can flourish on cold calculated partnerships. That's not a life!" You shout watching Savannah instantly crowd you. Her face inches from yours. She stares directly into your eyes. It's unnerving and you want to get away but refuse to show that much weakness.

What's to say she won't go after Ollie or Fern, what of your cousins, aunts, or uncles? Will anyone that bares the Scarlet name be safe from her?

"Learn to respect your elders, child." Savannah snarls. Her breath hits your face in a hot caress. You close one eye and wince but refuse to pull away from her.

"I give respect to the ones that deserve it, Savannah. You're nothing but a murderer that made a deal to save your own skin. No real mother would ever do anything to harm her children, much less treat them as if they're less than human." You snarl just as intensely back. "No one would respect a murderer like you if they knew the truth."

You've never seen this look aimed at you, but you have see the eyes of a bloodthirsty murderer in pictures and videos of true crime stories. The moment you uttered your response something in Savannah snapped. As if in slow motion you saw her face completely change and it scares you. Instantly you fear for your life.

Slim delicate hands wrap around your throat. Despite their size there is overpowering strength determined to crush your trachea. Tiny squeaks leave your mouth each time you try to draw in a breath. You scratch and pull at Savannah's hands desperate to get the air into your lungs again. A slow burning begins fueling your desperation for much needed oxygen.

Dark stares in horror as you scratch at your throat. He can only assume Savannah had reached out to you using a spell. You're looking, acting, talking as if speaking with the witch of nightmares. Grabbing your hands Dark tells you to stop, to think and fight back magic against magic.

Your eyes never look at him, your voice never calling out to him, but the look of fear in your eyes tells him everything. Savannah is trying to kill you--to choke the life out of you. A life he doesn't want to see snuffed out.

"Y/N!" Dark barks pleading for you to hear him, to acknowledge he is there with you still.

In the blackness around Savannah you hear your name, low and easily unheard, but then like aloud speaker had been turned on blast you hear Dark's voice.

"D--Dark..." You manage to squeak out. Realization hits you then. This isn't Savannah. She's nowhere near you. Even as you have this epiphany it doesn't change the fact that Savannah is still choking you and breath isn't making it to your lungs.

"Magic! Use your magic!" Dark shouts again keeping your hands away from your neck.

Magic. You think trying to recall a spell, an incantation, anything that could help you. Nothing comes to mind. The black spots are getting larger and even doting Savannah now. You just know the end is getting closer and if you don't do something now you'll die.

You can't do that to Ollie, Fern, your dad, even Dark. You can't just leave them because of Savannah and her ego or whatever she has going on. No. No!

Pushing deep into yourself you touch the magic slowly brewing inside yourself. Like you've read and have been told the longer you practice and learn spells the stronger your magic will get. You are nowhere near the strength Savannah must have but you have something she does, and as cliche as it is, you have the love of your family to give you strength.

Starring Savannah square in the eyes you push your magic at her without words, or preparation, or even enchanted ingredients. You know what Savannah lacks and that's exactly what you'll give her.

Within seconds Savannah releases your throat. Horrified screams rip from her mouth as the sins of her past rush her like zombies, ghosts forcing her to feel the pain and anguish of their loss, of the betrayal, heartache, sorrow. A fitting punishment this round.

You know it won't kill her. Not by any means, but it will distract her and break her concentration on the spell. You just know to project herself like she is it's concentration based. Within seconds, like a candle being snuffed out, Savannah disappears and the darkness greets you.

"Come on." Dark whispers pressing his large hands into your chest. Your breathing and heart stopped the moment your body went limp in his arms. He'd nearly thrown you to the floor and began CPR to revive you. Seconds tick by into minutes as he frantically tries to save you like a normal human.

"Come on! Y/n, don't do this!" He shouts pinching your nose, lifts you chin enough to get air through your throat and breaths twice into your mouth. He tries to remain steadfast and calm but the longer you're dead the less likely you'll come back. No, he can't think like that. Even if you die he'll bring you back. He'll... He'll... "Please, come back." Dark pleads compressing your chest to keep your heart beating.

Gasping loudly you startle Dark. His body jerking away from you before quickly pulling you into his lap. Never has he wanted to cry in relief in all his life. Sighing with a sense of relief Dark sweeps your hair from your face. A light glistening of sweat covers your skin.

"My chest." You complain feeling sharp pains all long your rib cage.

"I can fix that." Dark tells you smiling just slightly. He'll never admit to it, but the feeling and sound of your ribs breaking under his first few compression will haunt him for a time.

Your whole body aches and muscles burn, you have huge migraine, and you feel sticky and gross and dead tired. There is a rawness in your throat that burns when you breath or speak. "Did I die?" You ask remembering the feeling of Savannah's hands around your throat.

Dark catches your eyes. "Yes." He answers dead seriously. You see the horrifying truth staring back at you in his dark brown eyes. Dark truly believed you died in his arms, under his watch where you are supposed to be protected. "Don't do that again." He tells you burying his face into your stomach. It hurts but not as much as if he'd pressed his face into your chest or neck.

Breathing with more ease than a few minutes ago, considering you weren't breathing just a minute ago, you raise an aching hand and run it through Dark's hair. "I hate to ruin the moment, but I need to shower..." Pausing a moment you add, "And see a doctor."

Dark obliges you. After a very quick and awkward shower he drives you to the hospital where they are told you'd been attacked in your home. The police were called, Dark handled the conversation easily making the officers and hospital staff believe his tale. You let him without a fight.

Savannah is enough of a pain in the ass right now, you don't need the police to get involved. Laying back in your hospital bed resting a peacefully as you can you hear quick footsteps getting closer to your room. Within seconds the door is shoved open. Two crying blurs rush your bed climbing up the stiff mattress to cling to you.

You yelp in pain when tiny but heavy hands press into your chest. Wrapping your arms around your chest you sit up breathing heavily to keep from crying out much more.

"Sis!"

"Y/n! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

Forcing a pain filled smile you look at each twin in turn. "It's okay, you... ah... you didn't know." You tell them breathing through the pain. Even with painkillers you still have quite a bit of pain when your chest is pushed on. Thankfully nothing is misaligned and surgery is not required. Of course you doubt Dark would allow you to go under the knife to fix broken bones.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry." Fern says getting off the bed to let you lay back down. Ollie does the same.

Taking a few steady breaths you ease back into the bed with an apologetic smile on your lips. "Yes, sweetheart, it does hurt. You'll have to be gentle with me for a while, okay?" You ask closing your eyes. Tears line your lower lashes.

"Fern, Oliver, don't run off on me... oh GOD! Y/n, who did this to you?" You father cries rushing to your bedside next to Fern. "Oh, my baby."

You sure are a sight, that's for sure. Gauze and bandages are wrapped around your neck where you'd clawed at your own skin to get Savannah's hands off your throat. Dark circles formed under your eyes and you have bruising running up and down your neck for added effect. Despite Savannah's hands being so small the imprints left on your neck are much larger.

"Do I look ready for prom?" You joke needing it to keep from crying.

Your father gives you a half smile even as he looks so close to crying. "Baby, you always look beautiful."

Two tears slip down your face. You may be a grown woman that raised three children and took on the responsibilities that shouldn't have been yours, but at heart you're still that 18 year old needing her mom and dad to hug her and tell her everything is okay. "Daddy, I was so scared." You whisper unable to keep your eyes open.

Garrett stands again and moves to the top of your bed. He'd hug you if he didn't think it'd cause you more pain. Brushing your hair from your face he presses a kiss to your crown. "I know baby. I know. I love you Y/n. I'm sorry."

You let yourself cry then. Ollie and Fern both sit in chairs on either side of you, their heads resting on your legs, their hands holding yours letting you have this. Above you Garrett is stroking your hair whispering to you that it'll be okay.

Dark stands just outside your room. Anger runs through his veins. He still doesn't understand what Savannah's plan truly is but attacking you is unforgivable. Clenching his fists Dark vows a painful death to the woman. He swore his protection to you and he plans of ensuring that this threat is taken care of.

[amphoraeimpetus]

The Closer: Pilot

After the recent developments of Major Crimes, I resolved to take a step back and reassess the franchise with fresh eyes and an innocent mind. A driving factor behind this decision emerged following discussions I had with my mom about Major Crimes, so credit should be sent her way! Like many fans I was active in the online Major Crimes community. I consumed the information shared via interviews, blogs, reddit chats, podcasts, and from this developed my interpretations of the characters. My mom is not active online; she would frequently complain that the characters were ‘one-sided’, ‘underdeveloped’, even ‘boring’. This horrified me! Here I am in 2018, feeling betrayed and adrift after investing in a show I fear I misunderstood from day one. Post Conspiracy Theory Part 4 I have reflected upon my viewing experience of both Major Crimes and The Closer and have realised just how much the audience was left to infer and how little was actually shared. So, as a way of processing everything recent events have churned up inside me, I have decided to re-watch The Closer and Major Crimes as a first-time viewer. This means that I will be disengaging the part of my brain that is familiar with the franchise, so my perceptions and interpretations will be limited to the information contained in the episodes themselves. My apologies for the length of this post, future ones will be shorter I promise. So...here I go!

Written by James Duff Directed by Michael M Robin

THE CASE THE CHARACTERS Lieutenant Flynn Captain Russell Taylor Assistant Chief Will Pope Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson INITIAL IMPRESSIONS

THE CASE

The episode starts with us being thrown headfirst into the crime scene, no pleasantries extended. 

“Yeah, well, Ellen, there's a dead woman lying on the floor of his master bedroom with a big, big, big gunshot wound in her face. So how do you think that happened if Dr Collier didn't kill her?" - Lt Flynn

The pace is fast and we are playing catchup along with Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson when she arrives on scene, and the cinematography of the opening sequence emphasises this. We follow the characters through Dr Elliott Collier’s house and are exposed to the crime scene as they experienced and discovered it. 

“Do we really need these masks?” - Lt Flynn “I declared her dead from the hallway, but hey, you decide.” - Dr Tanaka

The humor that permeates this opening scene is blunt, morbid, and utterly refreshing. It is clear that this show isn’t going to be delicate, it has something to say and it’s going to say it.

The victim is a naked woman who has not only suffered several blows to the head, but has been shot in the face and left to decompose in Dr Collier’s master bedroom. Naturally, Dr Collier, an important mathematician, is the prime suspect for her murder, especially as he has failed to check into his hotel in Hawaii. Enter Deputy Chief Brenda Johnson and cue some explosive tension.

Upon looking at the victim, Brenda immediately notices dried vomit on her ear and a stained area of flooring nearby. This leads her to conclude that the murder was not premeditated. As the investigation progresses we discover that two fake passports were found at the scene with the pictures removed, and that Dr Collier disappeared without a trace: there were no pictures or fingerprints, he didn’t hold a California driver’s license, and his employment record had been deleted. What we do know is that while Dr Collier is untraceable, the victim’s prints were everywhere, in Collier’s house, car, and office. However, things get really interesting when Lt Tao tells Brenda that the real Elliott Collier died in 1989 at the age of 19. Clearly ‘Dr Collier’ is running or hiding from something!

“All we have right now is a woman we can’t identify murdered by a man who doesn’t exist.” - Brenda Leigh Johnson

The company Dr Collier works for is refusing to cooperate as giving the LAPD access to information would also give them access to the new technology Dr Collier was developing. How does Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson get around this? She point blank threatens them...

“What's possible, sir, is that when I release this information to the media, I can forcefully express my shock at how a company whose entire reason for existin' is to make things more secure, could have been deceived on a daily basis by its most valuable employee. What will that do to the share value of your stock?” - Brenda Leigh Johnson

Yup, this is a lady who goes straight for the jugular!

Thanks to dreamboat Fritz Howard of the FBI we now have an ID for the victim: Alana Devon. Turns out Alana Devon was wanted for murder, she shot a security guard at an act up protest, and this sets up our proper introduction to Lt Provenza...

“I'm sure, Det Provenza, that when you say ‘lesbo’, you don't intend that in a derogatory way.” - Brenda Leigh Johnson

Brenda interviews Ellen Parks and her suspicions are confirmed. Dr Collier and Ellen Parks were ‘emotionally intimate’. When Dr Collier’s fake identity was burned he shared his past with her and asked her to leave with him, having a second passport made. As Brenda said at the beginning, it looks like love.

But then the bomb is dropped... Alana Devon and Dr Elliott Collier are one and the same.

Amazingly, I still feel sorry for Ellen Parks, and she’s not really a sympathetic character. This was an extremely sheltered woman, deeply devoted to Catholicism, who had everything the believed in and felt assaulted and turned upside down in a split second. She had fallen in love with a woman, something contrary to her personal belief system, and it disgusted her. Not only that, but this love was the result of deception, she was betrayed by a person she loved and trusted. 

Regardless, Brenda lived up to her reputation as ‘a closer’.  

THE CHARACTERS 

Lieutenant Flynn

The first detective we meet is Lt Flynn of Robbery Homicide. He’s blunt and sardonic when interviewing Ellen Parks, and his morbid attitude sets the gritty tone for the show perfectly and is somehow endearing. Lt Flynn is clearly in control of the crime scene and seems to be respected by his colleagues (Waters).

Captain Russell Taylor

“She was ordering my boys around like they were her servants.”

We find out that Taylor has 21 years of service with the LAPD and that the elite squad of detectives that now reports to Johnson used to report to Taylor...so we immediately know there is going to be professional tension, particularly after OJ is mentioned. However, Taylor also seems to be protective of his division. Time will tell how much of that concern is motivated by personal interest, his dislike of Brenda, or his attachment to his subordinates. One thing is certain, emotions are running high after Brenda Leigh Johnson transferred in from Atlanta PD as a deputy chief, outranking many LAPD officers.

Assistant Chief Will Pope

“Brenda is a CIA-trained interrogator with excellent references from the Atlanta Police Department and a reputation for getting confessions that lead directly to convictions.”

Pope worked with Brenda Leigh Johnson in DC and is fast to defend her professional competence - a support she desperately needs given the hostility her colleagues harbor towards her. He is also the person to say that she is ‘a closer’. However, it seems that Pope could perhaps have gone about her integration with the LAPD in a more tactful way. For example, Pope reassigned the case to Priority Homicide without informing Taylor who rolled Robbery Homicide to investigate the crime. This resulted in the stand-offs between Brenda, Flynn and Waters.

It is also heavily implied that Brenda and Pope were romantically involved in the past and that a fondness remains between them.

“Sounds vaguely familiar, doesn't it? Me waitin' to hear from you, you off with your wife.” - Brenda Leigh Johnson to Will Pope

Deputy Chief Brenda Leigh Johnson

She is as messy and cluttered as her hotel room...

There is no division between the professional and personal. This is highlighted by her interactions and relationships with Will Pope and Fritz Howard, the lines are blurred.

“There's a problem with your management style.” - Will Pope to Brenda Leigh Johnson

Boss Brenda 

“I don’t get emotional. I get damned angry.” - Lt Flynn

Brenda shuts Flynn down by pulling rank, suggesting he take a deep breath and go back to his car while she gets notes from his partner Lt Waters.

Brenda is very factual in her analysis of the scene. She is able to detach herself and identify issues regarding the conduct of the investigation. The main issue of consternation here was that the LAPD did need a warrant for the garage as it wasn’t attached to the house so probable cause was not sufficient, pre-authorization was required. This sequence tells the audience so much about Brenda. She is someone who takes her job seriously, has a wealth of knowledge and experience, and most importantly is single minded in her approach - she is an island! Brenda is following a single track of thought and quickly filters out anyone or anything that is unhelpful in her pursuit. In other words, she sucks at diplomacy in the workplace.

“Look, it's all one house. And the guy's secretary gave us the car keys. No need to be a bitch about it.” - Lt Waters “Excuse me lieutenant, but if I liked being called a bitch to my face, I'd still be married.” - Brenda Leigh Johnson

We find out that her squad isn’t happy. Likely goaded by Taylor, each member of her squad submitted requests to be transferred back to Robbery Homicide. Pope breaks this news to her and it is an interesting scene, Brenda displays some vulnerability on both professional and personal fronts. Her professional response is bold and assertive. She is sure of her abilities as an investigator and isn’t going to take BS from anyone and makes this abundantly clear to Priority Homicide.

When investigating this case we see Brenda as a person who doesn’t trust easily. She is fiercely independent and reluctant to share information and ideas. We get the sense that Brenda has connected the dots and refuses to share her insights with Priority Homicide…she is making them play catch up. Is this just her management style, or is it intentional? Does she want to simultaneously impress and embarrass them by demonstrating her competency in this boastful manner. The final interrogation and confession scene does seem like a big ‘I figured it out before y’all!’ to her colleagues. Given how she was treated by them it is understandable and I hope she got satisfaction from it. They are certainly impressed but I don’t see a continuation of this behaviour winning her any favors.

Schoolgirl Brenda

This amazingly resilient and confident woman dissolves into an insecure schoolgirl when she’s alone with Assistant Chief Pope and Agent Fritz Howard. During a telephone conversation with her mother we get the impression Brenda is self-conscious and insecure about her appearance. This is confirmed when she has drinks with Fritz. 

However, her discussions with Pope are more revealing and raise questions. We find out that Brenda not only sold her house but turned down a position at Homeland Security to take the Deputy Chief position with the LAPD, and there was an ethics inquiry at Atlanta Police Department. She seems almost vulnerable at the prospect of returning to Atlanta. It is very clear after her scenes with Pope that she has given a lot up based on her trust in him. What is interesting is that she recognizes that that trust had been misplaced personally in the past and yet she hadn’t expected to encounter a similar problem in her professional life. She makes this distinction clear to him. Still, this makes me wonder why Brenda was so keen to leave Atlanta PD behind. She had another job offer which she turned down in favor of the LAPD, and there was that ethics inquiry…Regardless, it’s a lot to sacrifice based on trust you have in a man who has breached your trust in the past…what is she running from?

INITIAL IMPRESSIONS

Let me temporarily engage part of my brain to point out that Provenza had the toothpick first!

The atmosphere is gritty, imperfect, it feels like you are behind the scenes at the LAPD. The case was really smart, interesting, and engaging on multiple levels. The episode provided a good amount of exposition without being an ‘exposition dump’ - we were introduced to Brenda and have a good idea as to how she fits, or rather doesn’t fit, in the existing power structure at Parker Center. 

Most importantly, we are not asked to take sides as a viewer. We instantly realize that there is more than one way to do things and that these characters have strengths and weaknesses. Some of these weaknesses are very stereotypical, such as sexism in the workplace, but are not superficial. They are presented in a realistic way, it is not a slap in the face but rather a peak at the grimy underbelly most women encounter at work and deal with in their stride.

There you have it! That concludes my post for The Closer: Pilot. If you are re-watching The Closer too or have any thoughts or comments, please let me know! I’m also open to Major Crimes grieving tips. Again, my apologies for the length, the next one will be shorter!!!! 

[thetravellingvagrant]

Day 1: Glasgow-London - In Which I Ride Three Too Many Buses

I was awake before my ludicrously early alarm even had a chance to punch my ears in all to buggery with its obnoxiously soothing little wake-up ditty. Sam had – rather selfishly I felt – had a flare up of hay fever symptoms in the night and subsequentially had honked both her and myself awake a fairly generous length of time before we were supposed to be.

Desperately trying not to go into a grump before even the Pre-Vagrancy had properly begun, I decided to think of my premature arousal as me having beaten my alarm by a clear twenty minutes (which is actually loads. Step you game up, alarm, you fucking loser) and hoisted myself into a no less bleary eyed but now substantially more vertical mess of hair and unhappiness.

Thanks to Sam's...enthusiasm for over-preparation (which some people more calloused than I might describe as withering anality, but not me, because I'm a good and supportive boyfriend and not one of you has the stones to say otherwise) we left her flat with an  unnecessarily long time buffer to play with before our Megabus to London was due to depart at 7:00am. At the very least it did seem that travelling with Sam would be a pretty effective prophylactic against the first-day-curse.

And so, after a quick detour to take some bin-bags out, we were officially ready for adventure

To Adventure! (Not pictured: Peru)

We made the brief journey to Hyndland train station, literally screaming with laughter over how much time we had to spare, though as we began our ascent to the platform, Sam stopped in her tracks. To be honest, I thought she was ironically killing time, because we had so much of it to spare that she felt entirely comfortable making a mockery of it on a conceptual level. I was, however, as the sharper readers out there may already have figured out, wrong about that.

“...I've forgotten my lunch”

I blinked and sighed. I slinked, or blighed- whichever one reads better in text (slinked I think...)- and, without speaking, spun on my heels and headed back flatwards, annoyed to have to backtrack carrying the heavy backpack that I was, but also quietly vindicated that we didn't get up early for no good reason and secretly overjoyed to have not been the first one of us to have fucked up in any sort of significant way.

Sam hopped back up to her flat to collect her food while I sat outside, pretending to be okay with the situation. A few minutes later, she reappeared, visibly distressed.

“I can't find it!”

...It was a bright orange Sainsbury's carrier bag, which- owing to the fact that she had definitely had it in her hands moments before leaving- would presumably have been placed in a very noticeable location. How on earth could she not find it? Slinking again, I stood up to venture inside for a poke around of my own. As I did, however, a thought hit me.

“Did you...” I mused, “Did you, uh...when we took the bins out...” I motioned to the trash can, by which I was sitting. A moment passed. Sam Slinked, except without the sighing part – if only they had a word for that – and without speaking, lifted the huge, perforated, leaking bag of trash from the bin into which she had placed it minutes earlier, rooted around a little and with an almost exactly equal mixture of triumph and defeat, which I have never seen before and venture that I never will again, hoisted her bright orange Sainsbury's bag full of food from its stinking tomb. It seemed that Sam would be instrumental in my avoiding the first day curse, after all. By transferring it all to herself instead. To be honest, I was still fine with that, being the supportive and good boyfriend that I absolutely am.

With one train now missed, but still ample(-ish) time, we boarded the next available one, trash meal in hand (Sam's hand, that is- I want to stress that my food did not go in a bin) and finally, were away, but like, for real this time.

We proceeded to Buchanan bus station with ease, being the seasoned travellers that we both undeniably are- and found ourselves eagerly awaiting out cramped, uncomfortable carriage to London a full 17 minutes before it was due to depart. Smashed it, lad.

It was hot. Even at 7am the heat was unpleasant and irritating. This, compounded by our lack of sleep, heavy bags and our being surrounded by irritating and unpleasant Megabus passengers meant that grumpiness was very much the order of the day.

We waited in as orderly a queue as I think it is possible to do while waiting for a Megabus as our poverty-chariot sat idling for 20 minutes beyond its scheduled departure time. While the rest of us witless dullards waited in what was very clearly the correct (and only) queue, however, a couple, who I can really only describe as fat Nikki Sixx (a phrase I have stolen wholesale, from a friend, but will not be crediting) and his child bride defied this most basic piece of bus-etiquette like the true mavericks they were and began a second, auxiliary queue, slightly round the corner from us, in which they were the premiere members.

The rest of us, being British and therefore spineless in the face of low-level conflict remained quiet and privately seethed over the sheer gall of this undeniably brazen act. Finally, however, we were allowed to board and Fat Nikki Sixx and his jailbait queen were summarily informed by the stout, smelly driver to join the very back of the actual queue. A hero's move and one that was met with an audible cheer from the crowd. Or rather, one person in the crowd. Sam. It was Sam. Boy she hated those people. With that little victory in our pockets, we took the available seats least likely to make Sam vomit into a carrier bag during the journey and were finally London-bound.

Our first bus journey of the day was remarkably uneventful- Aside from a young woman managing to lock herself in the bus toilet and screaming at the top of her lungs “HELP. HELP, I'M TRAPPED IN THE TOILET” before managing to unlock the door for herself, literally seconds later- an episode which I missed due to having headphones in, but am told by Sam, was very funny, not much of any note happened at all. No drunk Scottish person being ejected at Preston despite the fact it was still before 10am, no African woman who had booked a ticket for the wrong day, though still inexplicably expected to be allowed on board. Nothing. I listened to podcasts and watched films for the duration and Sam ate her bag of trash like a little raccoon and that was it.

We soon arrived in London and upon stepping foot of the bus, immediately realised how good its air conditioning had been. It was literally like opening an oven door. While on fire. That bit was a little less literal.  It was very hot though; something like 34 degrees, which, if you're interested was actually 3 degrees hotter than the Amazon rain-forest was, that day.

We lugged our shit from Victoria coach station to the nearby Sainsbury's for the evening's rations and a little ice-lolly and back to the station to catch our second bus of the day, to Gatwick Airport. This round-trip took less than twenty minutes, but was enough to reduce me to the most disgusting, sweatiest, unhappiest mess I have ever been (and people who know me will tell you, that is an incredibly low bar for me to have to limbo under). If I had even a little moisture left in my body, I would definitely have been weeping it out.

Pictured: A happy, dry man.

An agonisingly uncomfortable 25 minutes later, though, and we were aboard bus number 2, literally (not literally) flying towards Gatwick. The AC on this bus – and I know this is a boring thing to write about. Write your own sweet travel blog if you don't like it – was truly top notch,. I honestly felt the majority of the journey feeling a little chilly, if anything. I could probably quite comfortably  have put a hoodie on. I didn't; that would have been ludicrous, obviously, but I could have. I stress again, start your own travel blog if you don't like this bit.

After a lot longer than you would expect it would take to drive to an airport with the name of the city you are currently in, in its own name, we arrived; tired, bedraggled and in desperate need of dinner and a sleep. We stepped back into the unpleasant idiot-furnace that was the world outside and headed towards our final bus of the day: the airport shuttle to our travelodge.

We (I) found the right stop and waited in the blazing, horrible heat. After a brief interlude in which Sam, who can be...a bit stressy, insisted we get on the wrong bus because it was there and she didn't want to miss it, despite it going to the wrong Travelodge, we boarded the /correct/ bus  and undertook the arduous four minute journey which cost us both that many pounds per ticket, which obviously I was utterly thrilled over, because I hate money and always wish I had less of it,

Now, utterly befuckled on a frankly cosmic level, we dragged ourselves through the doors of the lodge, to the horrified gasps of the other guests. Fifteen hours after we had started and around a stone lighter each in sweat, we had arrived. I don't think anyone has ever been as pleased to step foot inside a travelodge as I was at that point and honestly? I don't think anyone ever will be, again. I was so happy that I nearly didn't even care about how much that fucking shuttle bus had cost and everything.

Any notion of pride or class entirely gone, now (a slightly bigger drop for Sam than for me), we did what apparently just comes naturally to vagrants and sat, in bed, in our pants, eating sandwiches in bed , while watching absolute garbage on a woefully underspecced laptop. At least it seemed like that bit would be the same as travelling alone.

[imenoughh]

I didn’t realize I’d actually posted a decent amount here. That was a year ago. My life’s really different now. And of course some things are still the same. I’m in College, and I get along quite well with my parents. Spend more time with them than my friends lately actually. Maybe I never mentioned him here but I kindof thought I did- I broke up with my boyfriend a year ago. He officially cut me out of his life this past June. When my depression went to shit, so did our relationship. It turned into hell. I’m doing better in school, I don’t sleep all day- although I still sleep probably more than the average person. I started being a bit more honest with people, telling them when they upset instead of keeping everything in. I love myself more. It’s still something I’m struggling with, but I’m making progress. I’m learning that, like most things in life, it’s something I need make a conscious effort to work at every single day. 

I’m really writing because I had the urge to try and look at my ex’s social media. I knew it was stupid, but I also really thought that I wouldn’t find anything, considering he blocked me. But I managed to find a photo of him on a mutual friends account. It was taken right around the time we started dating. I still think about him, and picture his face. But in my mind his face is a bit blurry, and distant. I felt such a strong reaction when I saw the picture of him. Such an uncomfortable reaction, one I hadn't expected or felt in a long time. I felt sick, and guilty, and jealous and sad. I’m still feeling it a bit. I don’t exactly know why that photo caused me to feel so much. It was like a reminder that he was real, that he is real. That’s a real person and I hurt him. Sometimes the guilt causes me to push his pain away, and I avoid seeing that I really did hurt him because knowing that hurts me so much. How did I do that? Why did I do that? Is it just hard for me to understand because I’ve changed into a completely different person now? Would I do that again? to someone? to him? And then I think well it must have been something he did, that’s the only explanation he must’ve treated me badly. Because surely I wouldn’t cheat on an innocent boy who was so kind to me. No matter how shitty I felt inside. I know I felt less than. I felt less than in life generally, and less than in our relationship. He’s the one I idolized, and I didn't think I deserved him. I didn’t think he understood me. I was right there I guess, he told me himself he didn’t get me. 

I’m wasting time right now. Trying to answers questions I can’t possibly answer. The best I can think of is I was depressed. When I feel depressed, everything loses its color. I stop caring about things I used to care about. I care less about myself, and the people around me. I’m not as friendly. I question everything. I doubt everything. I avoid everything. I think friends or others must not really like me, because what’s there to like. I think people who act like they care about me or see value in me are lying to me. I get suspicious, I feel afraid. I’m so afraid of failing that I fail on purpose or by default. I ruin things for myself, relationships, and I’m aware that I’m doing it. I just watch and cower. 

I guess I’ll never stop feeling guilty, and I’ll always regret certain things in my life. I’ll just do my best to improve every day, and cope better and better with my mistakes. 

-----at times I think I’d do anything to earn his approval/forgiveness....

-----If I could fix things I would, but not at the expense of my whole life’s happiness. 

because I don’t deserve that. I don’t deserve to be punished eternally for one stupid mistake. because my life is worth more than that. It’s worth more than forever hating and minimizing myself. I am so much more than that one mistake, that one night’s kiss. And I'm more than the following outlash I had against him over text. I am more than that. I am not always kind, but I often am. I care deeply. I’m artistic and creative. I am so much more than those things. And maybe he made the right choice, maybe I really would have made him unhappy and he made the right choice for himself. Maybe he couldn’t see how much I was because of his pain. He saw only my mistakes and discarded everything else, every kind thing I’d ever done for him. Maybe he really saw everything and still found the cons to outweigh the pros. But I don’t. I don’t think my mistakes outweigh my successes. I don’t think I’m not worth being around. I can see myself for all that I am, for the darkness and light, for the beauty and imperfections, and I think I’m fabulous. I am beautiful. I am worth getting out of bed every morning. I am worth loving. I am worth forgiving. That’s okay if he sees none of this, because I do. For him I’m not worth it but that’s okay. He’s looking out for himself, just like I am. I’m worth it. 

edit: maybe... I was so depressed at the time. I felt myself heading down hill and believed I would keep going. Things would get horrible, and or I would kill myself. Nothing mattered. All of it would end or be destroyed anyway, so destroying it myself didn't matter. I cheated partly or largely because I thought we were going to break up anyway, and I already hated myself. I wanted to kill myself and considering I'd be dead anyways none of these problems would bother me, none of these relationships would even still exist at all. I pushed people away. I once read that either cats or dogs when they get close to their natural death they stop engaging as much with their owners, so it doesn't hurt them as much when they die. I don’t know if that’s at all factual, but I think that’s how I was getting in some ways, one way in which depression works. You withdraw in part so others aren’t so affected by your negativity. You hurt people to protect them from a future with you that you believe will be even more painful to them. Because you think you’re not worth it. and if no one’s going to believe you when you say it, you need to prove your unworthiness to them with your actions. and so much of you regrets it and knows you’ve made a terrible mistake, but some part of you feels safer. Some part of you believes you’ve saved them. Some part of you is relieved that you no longer have to worry if things will go to shit, because it’s clear that they already have. The not knowing decreases. The fear of the toll your depression will take on others decreases. But now, now you’re really utterly alone, and you know it. And you’re so afraid. and your fear of failure, it’s no longer simply a possibility but it’s a horrifying undeniable truth. and when the negative thoughts about yourself seep in, it becomes a lot easier to believe them. You’ve convinced not only your lover that you are truly unworthy, but you’ve finally convinced yourself of it too. The pain doesn't go away. Breaks from the this deep darkness become so rare. The chaos you felt inside you for so long is no longer just inside you, it’s all around you. The look on his face makes you regret ever wishing he’d understood how depressed you felt. You’re reminded that despite how bad you feel inside, you never want anyone else to feel the same way; you’d rather feel alone than see another suffer. and it’s over. You have hope you think things will get better, we can work through this. but really it’s all ruined. things will never be the same. you will never be the same. he will never be the same.

and anytime you notice how much this experience has taught you, and almost feel glad for it, you feel disgusted with yourself. To think you benefited in any way from someone else’s pain. 

and forever on you keep thinking one day one day... one day he will want me back. But that day hasn’t come, and deep down you know it never will. but each time you do something you know he’d like, you imagine him asking for you back. every time you’re on the bus you search for his face, constantly mistaking strangers for him, because you miss him so badly. 

I wish we were okay. I wish we still smiled together. I wish he approved of me. I wish he cared about me. I wish he wanted me. I wish he wasn't so put off by me. and then, if all my wishes were fulfilled, maybe I’d wish for someone else. 

[killingthebuddha]

Available September 4, 2018. Click cover to learn more.

Editors’ note: This is an excerpt from PURE: Inside the Evangelical Movement that Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free, by Linda Kay Klein, out September 4th from Simon and Schuster. The book is both a memoir and a reported account based on twelve years’ of interviews with scores of women across the country who, like Klein, were raised in evangelical purity culture. This excerpt features sections from those interviews.

Growing up, I heard a lot of talk about how evangelical Christians were better people than secular or other religious people (funnily enough, I now hear the exact same self-congratulatory messages from secular liberal people). But the truth was, I couldn’t always tell the difference between a Christian and a non-Christian. I saw both lie, both steal, both love, and both unselfishly give to others. But one tangible thing we could point to as evangelicals was that we didn’t have sex before marriage. There was that. There was always that. Which is why, I believe, the threat of losing that so-called sexual purity seemed so grave. Were we to have sex outside of marriage, could we even call ourselves Christians anymore? What if we made out? Kissed? Held hands? Had a crush? How close to sex could we come before we were no longer Christians?

After all, what other sin is said to fundamentally change you forever? You can be born again and have your slate wiped clean of lying, stealing, even murder. And if you do these things again later but honestly apologize to God, your sin is again forgiven. But sex outside of marriage is the only “sin” that I have ever heard described as changing you. Before sex, you are a virgin. After sex, well . . .[1]

I remember there was this girl’s high school retreat where the leader was talking about purity and how important it was and how she felt disgusting. Basically, she started breaking down crying because she hadn’t stayed pure, and this happened all the time in my church. My youth pastor’s wife had walked down the aisle pregnant, and was now married with two boys, but she would still weep about it. Not that the youth pastor who she had the baby with is weeping about it! But his wife still weeps about it and says how she feels ashamed, disgusting, and wrong, twelve years later. (Muriel)

Sometimes one doesn’t even need to have sex to feel this way. The purity movement teaches that every sexual activity—from masturbation to kissing, if it elicits that special feeling—can make one less pure.

What does it even mean to be “pure”? The lines were so blurred, and there was so much tragedy tied up with it: “Don’t do this, because if you do this you’re ruining your relationship with your future spouse . . .” “Don’t just be pure in body; you need to be pure in spirit . . .” Everything was just so intertwined with each other. It almost seemed like if you weren’t being physically impure, you were being spiritually and emotionally impure. Being “pure” became this really heavy, heavy weight to bear all the time. It almost made me go crazy questioning, “Well, is this impure? . . . Is this wrong? . . . Is this okay? . . . Is this going on?” (Holly)

Some purity-movement advocates even teach that sexual thoughts and feelings can make one impure.

I sort of thought of being naked with a guy. I didn’t picture him naked. I didn’t picture me naked. I just sort of imagined, “I could marry him and be naked with him one day.” And I felt terribly guilty over that for a long time. (Rosemary)

And it is implied that the sexual thoughts, feelings, and actions of others can be signs of your impurity as well (because surely you did something to make them think, feel, or do what they did).

I had one half-kiss at the age of sixteen that made me brush my teeth for ten minutes afterward.[2] It wasn’t even a kiss. He kissed me but I did not kiss him back. I think I mostly just stood there, kind of horrified and fascinated at the same time. But I felt guilty, ashamed, dirty for years. How screwed up is that? I thought I was dirty and ruined, a soiled package. But you know how it is. They say, “Make sure you don’t have to tell your husband the high number of people you’ve kissed someday. Your first kiss should come from your husband.” And I had just ruined it. I ruined it by letting this happen. [But didn’t you say you didn’t kiss him back?] Yes, but I felt I let it happen. I didn’t read the signals. I wasn’t on my guard. We jump through hoops to make it about our shamefulness. (Jo)

The purity message is not about sex. Rather, it is about us: who we are, who we are expected to be, and who it is said we will become if we fail to meet those expectations.

This is the language of shame.

Shame is the feeling “I am—or somebody else will think I am—bad” (as opposed to guilt, for example, which is associated with the feeling “I did something bad”). The religious purity messages many of us received as girls were about who we were, or  at least who we would be seen as, not what we might do. Of course, we are all different and therefore respond to shaming of this kind differently. Our family dynamics, the affirmation we receive (or don’t receive) for other aspects of ourselves, the intersecting messages we are given about who we are based on our race, our ethnicity, our socioeconomic status, our physical and mental health, and so on all have roles to play. But the conversations that I have been having over the past twelve years make it clear that the consistent shaming embedded into the religious purity message, particularly during adolescence, a stage of extreme neural plasticity for sexual development, can be an extreme influence for many.

After all, researchers like psychiatrist Dr. Curt Thompson have found that our brains bend toward whatever it is that our attention is directed to. The purity message is that a girl or woman is utterly and fundamentally pure or impure, good or bad, pleasing or displeasing, desirable or undesirable, et cetera, based on her sexual and gender-based expressions or lack thereof. It follows that if an adolescent is regularly given shaming messages, she will become more likely to experience shame in association with sex and gender than she otherwise may have been. As Dr. Thompson explains in his book The Soul of Shame: Retelling the Stories We Believe About Ourselves, “With repeated exposure to events [in which we feel shame], we pay attention to and, via our early neuroplastic flexibility, more permanently encode these shame networks. Thus, they become more easily able to fire later on, even when activated by the most minor or even unrelated stimuli (66).”

This is not good news for the shamed individual, or their potential partners. Shame tends to make people feel powerless and even worthless. It creates a fear of abandonment that, ironically, makes us push others away. We want to hide those aspects of ourselves we are ashamed of, so we may emotionally withdraw from those close to us, lash out at them to keep them at bay, or isolate ourselves in self-blame. Whatever it takes to keep the world (including ourselves) away from those parts of us that we have come to believe make us bad.

Over the years, shame adds up, but it can happen so slowly we don’t even notice it. We look at each shaming incident one at a time and tell ourselves what was said or done to us wasn’t that bad. In time, we become less and less sure that we can, or should, heal. Rather than seek help, we bury our shaming experiences deep in our bodies, where they are held similarly to trauma.

Shame researcher Dr. Brené Brown explains this phenomenon in her book I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn’t). She references the work of Harvard-trained psychiatrist Dr. Shelley Uram, who calls attention to the importance of recognizing “small, quiet traumas,” which she has found “often trigger the same brain-survival reaction” as larger traumas, such as a car crash. In I Thought It Was Just Me (But It Isn’t), Brown writes:

After studying Dr. Uram’s work, I believe it’s possible that many of our early shame experiences, especially with our parents and caregivers, were stored in our brains as traumas. This is why we often have such painful bodily reactions when we feel criticized, ridiculed, rejected, and shamed. Dr. Uram explains that the brain does not differentiate between overt or big trauma and covert or small, quiet trauma—it just registers the event as “a threat we can’t control (89).”

Perhaps this explains why I have heard so many stories of PTSD-like experiences in association with people’s sexuality, their bodies, and the church.

Today when I go into a church, I can’t stop panicking. I feel like I am going into a place in which I was raped, though I wasn’t. It is light-years easier for me to talk about being sexually abused as a child—I could give a public lecture about that—than it is for me to talk about what that religious community did to me. Sexual abuse is something that happened to me, but this was at the core of my identity. I participated in the community’s messaging about who I was, and allowed it to define me for years. The fear, the obsessing, the anxiety. It’s torment. It is Hell. It felt like torture. (Nicoletta)

And yet, the impact that shaming can have on people’s lives generally goes unacknowledged, and sometimes even unnoticed, within the communities in which it most regularly occurs. In some cases, shaming is so common it is coiled around core beliefs, laced through theology, and twisted into doctrine, making it nearly impossible to see.

I’m trained as a therapist, and I didn’t even recognize the trauma that I had in my life around religion until a few years ago. I’ve never spoken about these things with anyone else, not even with my closest friends. I have been through years of therapy and I’ve never once mentioned it to a therapist. (Nicoletta)

Shame can become like the smell of our own homes. The hum of an air conditioner. The feel of a wedding ring. It’s just . . . there. Which is when it is most dangerous. Because it is then that we are most likely to dismiss, rather than deal with, its dangerous effects.

Right now, groundbreaking research[3] is being performed among young adults raised in three conservative Christian communities—Baptist, Catholic, and Latter-day Saint—that reiterates many of the previously mentioned findings and posits several new ones that can help us better understand just how and why purity messaging is impacting girls the way it is. The researchers write in their brief:

There is little support indicating that the mechanisms currently used in our society (abstinence education, chastity pledges, and religious grounding) to curb teenage sexual activity actually work. The question remains, “Is our focus on sexual abstinence doing anything?”

It turns out that those who are sexually active and have experienced abstinence education and/or have stronger beliefs that the Bible should be literally translated [a core tenet of evangelicalism], have more sexual guilt. . . . females report significantly higher sex guilt than males (and) sex guilt from the first sexual experience is predictive of higher sex anxiety, lower sexual efficacy, and lower sexual satisfaction. So, females, in particular, who have strong religious beliefs and are engaging in premarital sex, are having unsatisfactory sex, they have high anxiety about it, and don’t feel that they are capable of changing their situation.

Lastly, the relationship between sex guilt and sex anxiety, sexual efficacy, and sexual satisfaction, doesn’t diminish over time; it gets stronger. . . . This is not a recipe for young women to embark on a fulfilling relationship with their partner and we predict could be an indicator of further sexual problems and relationship issues.

To summarize, first, the researchers are finding that purity teachings do not meaningfully delay sex. Second, they are finding that they do increase shame, especially among females. And third, they report that this increased shame is leading to higher levels of sexual anxiety, lower levels of sexual pleasure, and the feeling among those experiencing shame that they are stuck feeling this way forever. Oh, and it doesn’t get better with time . . . it gets worse!

Yep. Sounds about right.

    [1] It should be noted that revirgination ceremonies (which I have personally only heard of being offered to and attended by women) are hosted by some churches. Though the idea of revirgination reflects the purity ethic that implies virgins are somehow “better” than non-virgins, and brings with it all the complications that come with that, I have heard these ceremonies described as very healing experiences for many, especially for those who have been raped or sexually abused.

[2] There is no definition for “half-kiss,” though it is a term I hear often in evangelical circles. One person might use it to refer to a peck or an otherwise short kiss, another to a kiss that she turned away from, etc. For many, the intention is to keep at least as many purity points as she deserves by not claiming a whole kiss when, for whatever reason, it didn’t really feel whole.

[3] Beale, K. S., E. Maynard, and M. O. Bigler. “The Intersection of Religion and Sex: Sex Guilt Resiliency among Baptists, Catholics, and Latter-day Saints.” Presentation at the Society for the Scientific Study of Sexuality: Phoenix, AZ, November 2016.

  Copyright © 2018 by Linda Kay Klein. From the forthcoming book PURE: Inside the Evangelical Movement that Shamed a Generation of Young Women and How I Broke Free by Linda Kay Klein to be published by Touchstone, a Division of Simon & Schuster, Inc. Printed by permission.