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songsformonkeys · 3 years

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12 days of Christmas Pedros. Short little ficlets based on prompts that can be found here. One ficlet every other day. Thank you @yespolkadotkitty for the beautiful banner!

Day 10 - “I’m freezing, you’re warm. Hug me” - Whiskey

The van skids to a halt on the snowy road and you yank the door open to stare out into the winter landscape, scanning the spaces between the snow-covered trees for any sign of Agent Whiskey. It doesn't take you too long to spot him once he staggers out from behind a big tree trunk.

Suddenly, you're feeling grateful that he had insisted on wearing his trademark black Stetson tonight. Without it, the white suit jacket would have made him blend into the background, much like a rabbit's winter fur.

Whiskey's got his arms wrapped around himself and he looks like he's seconds away from toppling over so, rather than waiting for him to hopefully make it to the van, you jump out to meet him. In your thick jacket and winter boots, you're much better equipped to handle the weather than Whiskey in his formal attire and cowboy boots.

”Brandy,” he greets you when you reach him and hook an arm under his to steady him. ”Fancy meeting you here.”

His teeth are chattering like castanets but your heart still flutters the way it always does when Whiskey talks to you. It's a stupid crush that you've been carrying around since you started working for the Statesmen a little over a year ago and your first assignment was to provide support and intel for Whiskey on one of his missions. The mission had been so far below what Whiskey was capable of that he had hardly needed your help at all. But he'd been polite and thanked you so much for the help once the mission was over. He'd managed to steal both a necklace and your heart that day.

”It's nice to see you again,” Whiskey continues as you walk him back towards the van, as fast as his feet will carry him. You try not to read too much into those words. Whiskey is clearly halfway to hypothermia. Of course he'd be happy to see anyone right now. Your stupid crush on the charismatic cowboy needs to calm down.

Instead of replying, you focus on helping him climb into the waiting vehicle.

Once you're both inside, you slam the door shut and bang on the thin wall separating the back of the van from where Agent Vermouth is sitting behind the wheel.

”We're in! Time to go!” you yell and then you almost fall over as Vermouth seems to press the gas pedal to the floor to speed out of there. You're very grateful that it's her navigating these icy roads. She's the best driver of all the Statesmen. She’ll bring you home safely.

You sit down to avoid further accidents and near falls. You look around the back of the van for something warm to cover the shivering Agent with. Even in this condition, he looks devilishly handsome, although the blue lips are a little disconcerting.

”Jesus Christ, Whiskey,” you mumble, possibly too low for him to hear you over the engine. This had not been part of the plan. Whiskey had been supposed to get in, mingle about for a bit, get the hard drive, and then make a smooth exit. Not trek through the snowy woods in the least practical clothing.

You find an old blanket and wrap it around his shoulders. It smells vaguely of gasoline but it's the best you can do for now. There would be proper help and warmth once you reached the safe house.

Whiskey thanks you and you give him a small smile as you reach for the hard drive he's still clutching in his hand. His fingers are stiff from the cold and barely cooperate as he tries to move them. You still manage to wiggle the hard drive free and put it in your bag. You wonder how many minutes he was out in the cold before he signaled and asked for backup, and you almost feel a wave of irrational anger towards him for putting himself at risk like that. He could have frozen to death!

”I'm freezing,” he says as if to confirm what you'd just thought. He lets out a content hum at the touch of your hands as you attempt to rub some life back into his cold ones.

”That's what happens when you don't stick to the plan,” you can't help but comment. But Whiskey doesn't seem to be listening.

”You're warm,” he continues.

”Because I stayed indoors.”

”Hug me.” That stops you dead in your tracks.

”What?” You look up at Whiskey's face. His lips are still blue but his eyes look surprisingly sincere.

”For warmth. This old blanket would help keep the warmth in but... the problem is, sweetheart, I've barely got any left.”

You eye Whiskey, a little skeptically. You know Whiskey is a flirt. Although he's never been anything but polite towards you, you've heard some of the flirty remarks he's made to just about everyone else that has set foot in the Statesmen HQ. If this is an attempt at flirting, it's a change from the usual, and you can't tell if you like it or not. Whiskey picks up on your hesitation, it seems.

”I can barely feel any extremities, sugar. Even if I were the scoundrel you seem to think I am, there's not much I could even do about it...Please.”

It's the please that does it. It's said without a smile and with a look of slight resignation in his eyes that tells you that he's ready for a no and willing to accept it.

”...Fine,” you agree, and the agent's shoulders slump as he relaxes and lets out a shaky breath you hadn't even noticed him holding. You shrug out of your jacket and sit down next to Whiskey, pulling the blanket around the both of you.

Whiskey immediately presses himself against your side and you hiss. It shouldn't be possible for a living human to be this cold. Awkwardly, you put your arms around him and Whiskey slides down just a fraction so he can rest his cheek against your warm shoulder.

”This okay?” you ask and Whiskey just hums in response. Despite the cold, he feels strong under your hands. You rub your hands up and down his back to get some warmth going from the friction. Whiskey makes a happy sound and you look up at the ceiling of the van, wondering what sins had made you deserve to be in this situation.

Slowly but surely, Whiskey regains some warmth and a more human color. Vermouth seems to feel confident that you're far away from the hotel for it to be safe to slow down because the driving is much calmer now than it had been earlier.

Whiskey suddenly snorts out a laugh.

”What?” you ask.

”You know, sugar. All the times I imagined being held in your arms, I can't say that this was ever the way I imagined it happening”

You smile before his words fully register. All the times he imagined... Wait what?!

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

Taglist: @yespolkadotkitty @agirllovespancakes @pedropascalito @pedropascallion @ohpedromypedro @knittingqueen13 @synystersilenceinblacknwhite @mourningbirds1 @alwaysbethewest (as always, SORRY!) @heatherbel @larakasser @fromthedeskoftheraven @seawhisperer @ahopelessromanticwritersworld @mrschiltoncat @pajamasecrets @phoenixhalliwell @ilikechocolatemilkh @dornish-queen @holographic-carmen @thirstworldproblemss

#12 days of Christmas Pedros #whiskey/reader #agent whiskey #jack daniels #my writing

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merakiaes · 4 years

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Best Friends Headcannon - Geralt Of Rivia

Pairing: Geralt of Rivia x reader (platonic)

Requested: By @by-the-primes

Prompts: None.

Warnings/notes: This is my first time ever writing a headcannon and it turned out more of a one-shot hahaha xD I went a bit overboard and I’m not used to this kind of post at all so sorry if it sucks.

Wordcount: 3430

Summary: Headcannons of being best friends with Geralt.

You had first met Geralt of Rivia when you were merely twenty-four years of age.

Seeing as you were human and didn’t age the same way he did, you were quite a bit younger, even though he didn’t look to be a year older than thirty.

You were of noble blood and with your parents’ consent, you had headed out into the world to “find yourself”, but in reality, you just didn’t want to be stuck at home in tight, frilly dresses listening to your mother go on about potential suitors all day, every day.

So with only a bag containing some clothes, gold and other things needed to survive, you headed out on your own.

Having been locked up pretty much your entire life had made you quite the bratty smartass. You didn’t have a filter and rarely knew when to stop talking back to people, which was the first thing Geralt got to learn about you upon first meeting you.

Long story short, he had to save your ass in a tavern when you had picked a fight with the wrong person, severely having underestimated the amount of backup your new enemy had.

At this point, you had only been on your own for approximately a week and still had plenty of gold left, and offered to pay for his dinner and room as a thank you.

He accepted, but stared at you weirdly the entire time, sitting quietly until you told him to get on with it and speak his mind.

“Do you not know who I am?” “White hair, amber eyes, Witcher pendant hanging around your inhumanly muscular neck, yeah I think I have an idea. I just don’t care. Heroes and villains, we're all somewhere in between.”

You parted ways the same night as he stayed behind to care for a monster-problem, and you headed on to the next town.

It was already the next day that you met again.

He had come to the town you had landed yourself in and left into town for some business, and come back to the stables to find you petting and talking to Roach, feeding him apples from your bag.

“Hm, you again.” “Nice to see you, too, Witcher.”

You traveled to your next destination together, and Geralt quickly realized that you were in no way a noble lady, despite being raised so.

You were a big eater and completely terrible at singing. Your personality was gruff and grumpy, but at the same time, you never seemed to drop the sarcasm. Your humour was crude, your language vulgar, and your temper was a ticking bomb.

The latter forced Geralt to have to step in and prevent you from digging your own grave on more than one occasion.

“Be nice.” “I am.” “You threatened them with a knife.” “But did I stab them?”

He acted out of logic, and you acted out of your emotions.

“Learn how to sit back and observe. Not everything needs a reaction.” “That’s easy for someone who is incapable of feeling to say.”

You set camp together later that night, Geralt leaving you in charge of the campsite while he planned to go fetch some firewood.

“What if something creeps up on me?” “Trust your gut.” “I have anxiety. My gut is always telling me to abort mission.” “How have you survived on your own so far?” “Well, I’ve only been on my own for a week as of yet.” “Hm.”

You would think he would be the one snoring but he laid as quiet as a mouse throughout the night.

Instead, you turned out to be the one with the sinus problem, your snoring keeping him awake and leaving him aggravated to the point where he wanted to smother himself with a pillow the next morning.

“Good morning, sunshine.” “No.” “I believe the proper response is good morning.” “No.” “Yes, but-“ “No.”

You went on with your morning, and he handed you the map to which you were quick to shake your head.

“No, no, no. You do not want me navigating. I’ll accidentally navigate us off a cliff.” “Then we die. Now shut up and turn the map in the right direction.” “Alright, alright, I got it. I know where we’re going.”

Fast forward an hour and you’re standing at the edge of a mountain, looking out over the landscape of a town you had never before seen or intended to go to.

“I thought you said you knew where you were going.” “Yeah, I lied. But in my defense, I did tell you not to put me in charge of navigating.” “That you did.”

You were forced to turn around and go back to camp, and start the journey all over again.

But you didn’t reach it, instead being captured by a couple of elves along the way.

Despite barely knowing you, Geralt was instantly protective of you.

“I’m trying my best to be polite but if you move that knife a centimeter closer to her I will tear you apart.”

Unbeknownst to him, as he was taking punches behind you and trying to talk himself out of your difficult situation, you were taking your flexible wrists to advantage, being able to snap them on command, allowing you to get out of cuffs.

To say that he was terrified when he caught sight of your limp, deformed hands was an understatement. Luckily, however, it was enough to stun your captors and allow Geralt to knock them out.

You found Roach right where you had left him before you had been taken, and continued heading to your original destination.

After making it to the right town this time, you parted ways, but once again destiny brought you together the next morning and from then on you just kinda stuck together.

Being a Witcher was work enough, but now he also had to take on the responsibility of keeping you safe. Something that proved very hard when he was the one wanting to kill you most of the times.

You just never shut up, it was infuriating.

But it did work in his favor sometimes, too. More often than not, you would do all the talking for him whenever he was approached about a monster-problem so that he wouldn’t have to.

In most cases your vocabulary was cut down to “piss off”, “we don’t care” or “leave”, but on the rare occasion, you would switch it up with a “come to mama” if they flashed a bag of cold in front of your eyes, followed by a shameless order in the likes of “Geralt, go do your thing.”

When he would only stare at you in annoyance for selling him off, usually in the middle of his meals as most people approached you in the taverns you stayed at, you would only add “please” because you knew it would vex him further.

But still, he would get up with a gruff rumble of his chest and stomp off to do his job.

You frequently started calling him Sunshine, the irony of it just being so good.

He found the nickname irritating. As he did almost everything else you did.

You were a very restless person, almost always tapping your foot or bouncing your leg whenever you sat down.

“Stop that.” “The fact that you’re telling me to stop makes it so much more enjoyable.”

It got so annoying after a while he had to start putting his feet on top of yours underneath the table whenever you sat down in a tavern, or else he wouldn’t be able to eat in peace.

It became a tradition for you that he ordered chicken and you ordered pork whenever you would stop to eat, and then you would give each other half of your food so that you each got a little bit of both.

Much to his dismay, you also always switched his ale out for water if it was still light out, telling him it was unacceptable to start drinking before dark.

How you always managed to succeed with it he didn’t know, because his eyes would purposely follow the tavern worker the entire way from your table to the bar to see to it that nothing happened on the journey.

And still, he always received a boring mug of water.

Before he met you he could travel for days, only sleeping in the woods.

But you had a bad immune system, so now that you were moving together you could never move for too long at a time if the weather got bad. You needed to sleep under a proper roof in rain and storms to avoid you getting sick.

After a while, the clothes you had brought with you from home weren’t usable anymore and had to be replaced.

The only thing left from your original pack now was the blanket you had slept with every night for your entire life and four heavy books that you read over and over again.

When in danger and having to get away quickly, Geralt had insisted countless of times just to leave it behind, to which you had insisted to go get it even if it meant putting your life in danger.

After a while, he just got used to it and picked up the habit of reminding you of your bag every time you were starting to move somewhere else.

When traveling, you would force him to stop by a lake or stream once every day to let you clean up.

You might have left the safety of your home to travel the world but you still wanted to look decent. You had grown up noble, looking your best every day.

You hated being filthy.

And you hated messes, too.

You might have constantly been on the move, not staying in one place for too long, but because of the way you were brought up you still despised messes.

You usually stayed in the same room whenever you would seek refuge in a town for the night, and always scolded him and forced him to clean up his shit if he threw it on the floor.

When you got the time to stay a bit longer and didn’t have any danger hot on your trails, however, you took separate rooms so that he could occupy himself with a no-strings-attached shag.

Every morning after, you would casually burst into his room and wake him up, not caring in the slightest that he was naked with a woman, sometimes several, in bed.

“Suit up, whore. We’re leaving,” You would say, to which the whores would always gasp and exclaim something along the lines of: “I beg your pardon?” while trying to cover up their bare chests, and failing miserably.

Geralt would only grumble, wave them off and push himself up in bed.

“She’s talking to me.”

You constantly insulted each other and talked shit about the other behind their back.

“Maybe if you weren’t such a troublesome fobbing, clay-brained hugger-mugger, we could get some things done.”

But the insults didn’t stop with him.

“No one asked for your opinion you abominable shit gobbling.”

“Get out of my way you sorry excuse for a mammering, tickle-brained lewdster.”

“I fail to understand how you’ve become such a reprehensible fuck waffle.”

Those were only few of many insults you threw around at strangers every day, and although Geralt was amused by your big, unladylike mouth, it was worrying.

“You’re one insult away from starting a war.” “How fun.” “You say that now, but you can barely even hold your own in a weaponless brawl.” “Can too!”

But you couldn’t. So he taught you how to wield a sword.

Already during your first sparring session, he accidentally stabbed you in the side, and your automatic response to feeling the steel bury itself into your flesh was a mere “rude” before passing out on the spot form the pain.

But after that, you caught on quickly. And you started growing up quicker, too, taking after him and his antics.

Soon enough, you had gone from mocking his constant humming and grumbling, to humming in sync with him.

You always helped each other with tasks if needed, whether it be saddling Roach, setting up camp or gathering your stuff around the tavern rooms you would stay in every once in a while.

You just worked well together, and didn’t need words to do so.

You grew out of your overly spastic nature, but you still lacked a filter every time you opened your mouth so even years after first meeting, you would get into trouble.

And if someone chose to fight one of you, they chose to fight both of you.

Geralt always tried to avoid conflict and battle, but if someone as much as looked at you the wrong way, they better run.

He was obviously the more rational one, trying to keep you out of trouble, to which you always seem to have a talent of stirring shit up even more.

“I had a thought…” “No. Don’t make that face.”

But he always came along anyway, and it most often ended up with a stab wound or two because you talked back to the wrong person.

And you never got away without a scolding.

“Get off the horse so I can explain in painstaking detail how much of a dumbass you are.” “Do I have a choice?” “No.”

There was no shame or shyness between you.

You did things in the other’s presence that might have been considered romantic or intimate in the eyes of a spectator, but it was completely platonic.

When the time was scarce, you sometimes had to bathe together, back to back, to get it done as quick as possible.

You would shave his face and he would wordlessly put your hair up whenever he noticed it annoying you.

The habit had started when you had injured your arm and was unable to do so yourself and just stuck with him after that.

He couldn’t braid for shit, but he did do a decent bun.

You always tied your laces too loosely, so he often had to redo them to prevent you from tripping over your feet.

You would wear his shirts whenever you waited for yours to dry after a wash.

You would fall asleep with your head on his shoulder.

You would share beds and food. Rub each other’s shoulders to rid of the soreness after a beating or a fight.

You made fun of each other always, and you found it particularly fun whenever he lost or took major damage in battle.

“Nice blackeye, Sunshine.” “Shut your mouth.”

But still, you would always be there in his time of need to patch him up, and try to talk him into being more careful - exactly like he had been forced to do your reckless ass all those years ago.

“Look, I’m glad you’ve saved everyone and all that but it’s time someone told you to take care of you.” “I’m fine. “No, you’re not, and furthermore, if you don’t take care of yourself, think of all the people who need you in the future who won't have you. Think of Ciri.”

It was funny, how you had been the one to be driven by emotions to a start, unable to control your anger and putting yourself in harm’s way, and now it was usually the other way around.

You took care of him when it came to patching him up, and he took care of you in every other way.

“Why aren’t you eating?” “Take my cloak.” “I’ll get the firewood, sit down.” “You can have my half.” “Watch your step.”

Those were only a few of the ways he told you he cared for you, along with “I hate you.”

“I hate you” became your way to say “I love you”, and you said it several times throughout the day.

Even this long into your friendship, and countless of poems and songs later, people still got shocked when seeing you walk side by side down the streets.

Geralt was powerful, had a serious face. You did not want to get on his bad side, let’s just leave it there.

But you. You were cute, had a kind face and a contagious laugh. You were kind, despite your big mouth and usually vulgar attitude.

Still, he always warned people to never hurt you or else, but everyone always assumes he said this as a warning of what he would do to them, even though he was, in reality, warning them about you.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” “Why? What’s she gonna do? Woo me to death?” “Underestimate her. That will be fun.”

Then they would approach you and find out you’re actually badass as shit, getting beaten to a bloody pulp.

And all Geralt would say as he stepped over their body on the floor was: “I warned you.”

Six years into your friendship, you were a lot more mature than you had been at twenty-four, now thirty. But you were still a little shit, enjoying your companion’s displeasure.

While Geralt would always open doors for you, you would always purposely slam them shut in his face, just to give him that extra work.

You would slap him on the chest and say “language” every time he said “fuck” and then proceed to call him a cunt only minutes later.

You were an annoying piece of shit, but he got his revenge every blue moon.

Men who were attracted to you would usually approach him first and ask for his blessing and advice, knowing you were of noble blood and pretty much impossible to impress.

He would always play along, urge them on, encouraging them and telling them everything you didn’t like, and then stand by and await the show.

You weren’t dumb, always saw them speaking and always spotted the amused smirk on your partner’s face as he sent the men your way.

So you followed his example and played along, standing by and listening to their pathetic attempts silently, pretending to be interested.

Always thinking they had you hooked, they would touch you inappropriately and smirk.

“Shall we?”

And to this, you would simply smile, before headbutting them to the floor and stepping over them.

“Not even in your dreams.”

Walking back over to a snickering Geralt, you simply passed him, glaring into empty space.

“I hate you.” “I know you do.”

One day Geralt left for some monster-killing-business, while you stayed behind in the town you had been in the past few nights with a broken arm.

It was the first time in years that you split up, but you weren’t very worried.

More so than anything, you were annoyed, when he came back with a chatterbox bard trailing behind.

“Where are you from?” “Here and there.” “What do you do?” “This and that.” “You ever…?” “Now and then.” “Boy, you are just full of information, aren’t you?” “Or maybe your questions are just too boring to be worth an answer.” “I have NEVER been so insulted!” “You don’t listen much, do you?”

Finally, after so many years of it being only the two of you, karma had caught up to you.

You were now forced to experience first hand what it was like being followed by someone who couldn’t stop running their mouth.

“Come here.” “Why?” “Just come here.” “No, you’re going to hit me.” “She probably will.” “You guys realize how incredibly codependent you are, right?” “I fail to see your point, measel.” “Do you ever run out of insults?” “Only time will tell.” “She’s just a female version of you, isn’t she?” “She used to be a female version of you.” “That’s seriously hard to believe.”

It wasn’t long after that that you met Yennefer of Vengerberg.

You didn’t like her, at all. But you learned to tolerate her for the sake of Geralt, trusting his judgment.

But that didn’t stop you from keeping a watchful eye on her.

Jaskier teased you endlessly for it, claiming you were jealous and in love with him, yourself. But it was nothing like that.

You didn’t want romance. You wanted meaning and purpose and adventure and you found it all in him – a soulmate in the form of a best friend.

Legends and rumors claimed Witchers weren’t capable of feeling human emotions but after being on the move with him for so long, you knew there was absolutely no truth to those claims.

And if she hurt him, you would kill her yourself.

#geralt x reader #geralt of rivia #geralt imagine #geralt oneshot #geralt fanfic #the witcher #the witcher imagine #the witcher x reader #witcher #jaskier #jaskier x reader #jaskier imagine #dandelion jaskier #yennefer #yennefer of vengerberg

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idreamtofmanderleyagain · 3 years

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Morality-Focused Frameworks Of Discussion As Acts of Control

This is a post in response to a larger conversation I’ve been having with @eshusplayground. I have a perspective that I think would be really relevant to the conversation but I also don’t want to derail the specific focus of the following posts she’s been making recently.

(Trigger Warning For Abuse Discussion and Brief Mentions of Rape)

---

So I’m in the Hellraiser fandom. More specifically, I’m a Pinhead/Kirsty shipper.

For those of you that don’t know, Pinhead is a demonic torturer from hell who’s design is inspired by the BDSM community. Characters who open a magical puzzle box have unknowingly given themselves away to his violent underworld community of eternal torment and depravity. Hellraiser is a film about romantic and sexual horror, and there’s quite a lot in there about abuse and trauma. Kirsty is a traumatized person, and in my personal opinion, very likely a CSA victim.

And I ship these two characters together.

So the subject matter of my particular fandom is extremely intense and niche and complicated to navigate, although YMMV (I have no trouble with this franchise, but I cannot really handle GOT or American Horror Story, for example). After I grew interested in Hellraiser and integrated into it’s fandom, my perspectives about the way we have conversations about villainous characters started to have a major shift.

I often see people have these intense conversations (and arguments) about where a particular character exists on a moral scale, with the subtext (or outright text) that if they tip too far one way or another, they can be rendered unworthy of their own subgroup of fans within their own fandom. People who love those characters or find them shippable are then subject to moral judgements.

So how does one apply such logic to a psychosexual torture demon?

The answer is you can’t.

The frameworks people online use to have these discussions do not make any sense when talking about my fandom. Hellraiser is a dark horror fairytale presenting disturbing, surreal images and behaviors in order to discuss complex and difficult experiences and perspectives. The monsters within it, like Pinhead, are more metaphor than anything.

Now, my follower count is too low and my fandom is too niche for me to really be on the receiving end of a lot of the cruelty that manifests online about the moral validity of the fiction I enjoy. That said, between the anti-kink TERFS and the younger folks involved in purity culture on this site, I can imagine exactly what it would look like. You know what they would look like.

“You’re an Abuse Apologist!”

“You’re an Abuse Fetishist!”

“You’re reinforcing sexism!”

“he’s an irredeemable torturer, you’re probably okay with literal real world rape lmao uwu”

“This is bad kink representation and you’re complicit in the abuse real men do to women because you like this!”

Now, setting aside the fact that the canon lore context of Pinhead involves him having a human soul brainwashed by a monster god to become what he is, and is also in a roundabout sense “redeemed” in canon, I think most people utilizing this kind of framework would assume that I believe Pinhead can be redeemed in the way online Discourse (tm) means it, because that’s how we talk in fandom about the villains we really like.

I do not want to redeem Pinhead. I don’t think he even needs redeeming. I don’t even see value in that conversation at all. Redemption is not a concept that makes sense for what he is, or what he could become as a character. The framework of Pinhead as a Real-World-Equivalent Human Male Abuser who Cannot Be Redeemed From His Actions would inevitably dominate all conversation, regardless of the fact that it is inherently incorrect and detrimental to real, robust literary analysis of the narrative he exists within and how brilliantly it actually interacts with male on female abuse as a subject. By nature of it’s gross oversimplification and misrepresentation, It ruins the potential for greater, more nuanced and complex conversations.

And that’s the thing: my engagement with this particular story and it’s characters has a lot to do with the potential in the narrative to examine how trauma interacts with love, desire and gender politics. Hellraiser has a very unique way of exploring that kind of subject through a storytelling aesthetic that appeals to me (horror/fairytale, gothic romance, etc).

This is about to get personal, so strap the fuck in.

I am the victim of gendered abuse, in that I had an emotionally abusive step father and sexism was absolutely a factor in why that manifested the way it did. I am also a second hand victim of gendered abuse, in that my biological father was a serial stalker and rapist, and other male abusers (or just self-centered family members) caused severe emotional destabilization in my childhood. I grew up viewing adult men as unstable, selfish children. My family endured a lot, and I came to resent the men in my mother’ life for not taking on the role of protector and nurturer when she needed them most. I had discovered the great lie of traditional masculinity: in the face of real crisis, grown men were not protectors. They did not hold together the domestic space. They abused or faltered and abandoned us. This was a repeated pattern among several men in different roles. I was often left picking up all the pieces, taking on roles as a child that these men could not. I had to have strength they did not.

My experience of desire for romantic intimacy with men and men in roles of stable, nurturing authority now inherently involves a jumbled emotional soup of fear, pain, and a deep longing that comes from a place of feminine vulnerability, a desire to be taken care of instead of being the caretaker.

The narrative of Hellraiser pushes a lot of buttons for me. It speaks to my own trauma experiences in a very specific way. In an effort to further that conversation, I’m trying to create a piece of art (a fic) inspired by the deeply personal feelings this film gives me.

For me, Pinhead represents the Jungian shadow masculine, a simultaneous mix of fear and desire, the potential for suffering and pleasure, and everything in between. These experiences are inherently intertwined for me. And Kirsty’s experiences mirror many of my own.

In other words, in order for me to get out of Hellraiser what I get out of Hellraiser, Pinhead has to be exactly what he is, and everything that he is. Which includes monstrosity. Which includes the potential for change. His place in the narrative must fully, truly embody this conversation I need to have with masculinity, which inherently involves painful, scary things.

Anybody demanding that I either denounce my interest in him as morally offensive because he’s a monster in the full sense of the word (and not just the aesthetic one like what is currently trending in Monster Boyfriend fandom), or force a traditional redemption arc upon him as if he were a real life human person who must repent for his real life sins, are essentially saying that I am not allowed to engage with this work of fiction in a way that is transformative for me. And that’s very unfortunate, because honestly, I think my perspective is so much more dynamic and has so much more to offer.

This is not just about basic catharsis. This is not even a power fantasy about emotionally transforming a powerful (white) dude, or “bad boy” fantasies, both standard arguments for villain stanning that feels like it has never truly represented me or the complexity of my experiences and interests. This is a full-on conversation and act of self expression I want to have through art about the experience of fear and trauma when dealing with men as a woman who desires men.

And I don’t think a person has to be traumatized in order to want to engage with this type of fiction. I want to be clear that my experience is not a justification for my interest (I do not need to justify myself), it is an example of a perspective that gets erased by the framework of these conversations.

To me, the framework of moral validity for enjoying fictional villains and monsters and whatever you please feels incredibly stifling to the complex, dynamic ideas and analysis that I want to engage in, because I, and many people I know, are consistently pressured to structure their thoughts with this framework as the only acceptable baseline of discussion. This is so ubiquitous that when people I’ve known have tried to engage in ways that diverge from that framework, the responses they get are outright confused or direct the conversation right back to the original framework they tried to avoid. Complex conversation gets steamrolled.

Somewhere in the conversation we were all having about acknowledging and discussing abuse and oppression, and acknowledging troubling patterns in media which reinforce the normalization of abuse and opression, some people decided that there was a very serious moral discussion to be had regarding the mere act of liking things which involve dark subject matter and complex, or even monstrous characters. They now argue that there are very clear cut, simple moral frameworks for A) telling stories and B) enjoying stories, and most importantly, that this moral framework is a valid justification for the social treatment and silencing of certain people.

A framework, by the way, which I think is actually not functionally a framework, because like the toxic American fundamentalist christian groups it’s thinking is structured from, it does not account for the vastly diverse moral landscape within it’s own space. There is no objectively consistent body of knowledge anybody is working from, because morals are derived from the human experience, which is inherently subjective.

Interestingly, no where does this have more of an impact than with marginalized people, and people like me, who want to express something deeper and more meaningful in the conversation about abuse and oppression than what this framework really offers us. To be honest, The more I see this kind of conversation making the rounds, the clearer it becomes that it’s a means of control and power game playing. It’s not about morality, but about how morality can be leveraged in order to silence truly diverse and nuanced perspectives and uphold people’s sense of self-comfort. It is a means of supplanting more convenient and easily digestible understandings of these highly complex subjects that require more intensive, thoughtful engagement, especially when it gets challenging. This kind of rhetoric absolves people of making room for complex and diverse experiences, and reinforces an (at face-value) easy to follow set of moral rules of how we are all allowed to think and feel.

The implication of all of this is that if we all adhere to the One True (alleged) Moral Framework of Fandom Engagement, then we will somehow come out on the other side with all the Good People having a Great Time having Squeaky Clean Fun. And I don’t think I should have to tell you at this point how stifling and disturbing the implications of that kind of mentality really are.

Quite frankly, I think a lot of us are very tired of constantly speaking on other people’s terms.

#abuse tw #rape tw #Fandom #Hellraiser

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dherzogblog · 3 years

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The Birth of The Daily Show: 25 Years of Fake News and Moments of Zen

It was July of 1995 and I had left MTV to become President of Comedy Central. It was the basic cable equivalent of going from the NY Yankees to an expansion team. I was on the job just two weeks when I received a call from Brillstein Grey the high powered managers of Bill Maher, host of one of the networks few original programs, "Politically Incorrect". We were informed Bill and his show would leave the network when his contract expired in 12 months. It was a done deal. Bill wanted to take his show to the "big leagues" at ABC where he would follow Night Line. Comedy Central was left jilted. Terrible news for a network still trying to establish itself. We had a year to figure out how to replace him and the clock was ticking. So began the path to The Daily Show.

It was very much a fledgling Comedy Central I joined, available in barely 35 million homes, desperately seeking an identity and an audience. It was just over three years old, born into a shot gun wedding that joined two struggling and competing comedy networks, HBO’s Comedy Channel and Viacom’s HA!, Watching them both stumble out of the gate, the cable operators forced them to merge, telling them: "We only need one comedy channel, you guys figure it out”. After some contentious negotiations the new channel was born and the red headed step child of MTV and HBO set out to find the pop culture zeitgeist its parents had already expertly navigated. The network had yet to define itself. The programming consisted mainly of old stand up specials from the likes of Gallagher (never underestimate the appeal of a man smashing watermelons), a hodgepodge of licensed movies (“The God’s Must be Crazy and The Cheech and Chong trilogy were mainstays) and Benny Hill reruns. The networks biggest hit by far was the UK import “Absolutely Fabulous”, better know as “AbFab”. Comedy Central boasted a handful of original shows, including the wonderfully sublime "SquiggleVision" of “Dr. Katz”, the sketch comedy "Exit 57" (starring the then unknown Amy Sedaris and Stephen Colbert) and of course Maher’s "Politically Incorrect". In retrospect I don’t think Bill got enough credit for pioneering the idea of political comedy on mainstream TV. Back then he was the only one doing it.

Politically Incorrect performed just fine, but got more critical attention than ratings. It was a panel show, and I had something a bit different in mind to replace it. I knew we needed a flagship, a network home base, something akin to ESPN's Sports Center where viewers could go at the end of a the day for our comedic take on everything that happened in the last 24 hours….."a daily show". I had broad idea for it in my head. I would describe it as part "Weekend Update", part Howard Stern, with a dash of "The Today Show" on drugs complete with a bare boned format to keep costs low so we could actually afford to produce it. We could open with the headlines covering the day's events (our version of a monologue), followed by a guest segment (we wouldn't need to write jokes...only questions!), and finish with a taped piece. Simple, right? We just needed someone to help flesh out our vision.

Comedy Central was a a second tier cable channel then and considered a bit of a joke (no pun intended). It had minuscule ratings, no heat and even less money to spend. Producers were not lining up to work with there. Eileen Katz ran programming for the channel and the two of us began pitching this idea to every producer who would listen. One of the first people we approached was Madeleine Smithberg, an ex Letterman producer and had overseen "The Jon Stewart Show" for us at MTV. We thought she was perfect for the role. “You can’t do this, you can’t afford this, you don't have the stomach for this, it will never work ” Madeliene said when we met with her. We could not convince her to take the gig. Ok then....we moved on. The problem was we heard that same refrain from everybody. No one wanted the job. So after weeks being turned down by literally EVERYONE, I said to Eileen: “We have to go back to Madeleine and convince her to do this with us"!

Part our pitch to her was we would go directly to series. There would be no pilot. The show was guaranteed to go on air. We had decided this show was our to be our destiny and we had to figure it out come hell or high water. As a 24 hour comedy channel, if we couldn't figure out a way to be funny and fresh every day...what good were we? We told Madeliene we were committed to putting the show on the air and keeping it there till we got it right (for at least a year anyway). That, plus some gentle arm twisting got her to sign on. Shortly after that, Lizz Winstead did too.

Madleiene and Lizz very quickly landed on their inspired notion of developing the show and format as a news parody. It brought an immediate focus and a point of view to the process . All of the sudden things started to take shape and coming to life. Great ideas started flowing fast and furious while an amazing collection of funny and talented began to come on board. Madeliene and Lizz were off to the races. Now all we needed was a host.

The prime time version of ESPN's Sports Center was hosted by Dan Patrick and Keith Olbermann back then and it was must see cable TV. But I had recently started to notice another guy hosting the show's late night edition. He was funny, with a snarky delivery reminiscent of Dennis Miller. His name was Craig Kilborn. On the phone with CAA agent Jeff Jacobs one day, I asked if he knew happened to know who repped him? “I do" he said. "We just signed him”. Within days he was in my office along with Madeleine, Lizz, and Eileen who were all a bit skeptical about the tall blond guy with the frat boy vibes sitting across from them. After opening the meeting with a few off color comments that would probably get him cancelled today (an early warning sign fo sure), Craig ultimately won them over and we had our host.

FUN FAC#1: Minutes after the news of Craig's hiring went public, Keith Olberman's agent called me directly to ask why we hadn't considered hiring him?

Ok, we had a host and producers...but what to call it? After sifting through dozens of ideas for a title, Madeleine called me one day and said, "I think we should just call it what we've been calling it all along...."The Daily Show". As we approached our launch date we taped practice shows and took them out to focus groups to get real life feedback. The groups hated it.... I mean with a red hot hate. They hated Craig, the format, the jokes, everything. We were crushed and dejectedly looked around at the room at one another. "Now what?" “Either they’re wrong, or we are". I said I think they are...but it doesn’t matter, we're doing this!" We never looked back.

The show took off quickly garnering some quick buzz and attention, we felt like we had crashed the party. Well, sort of. We had no shortage of fun, growing pains and drama along the way. The Daily Show version 1.0 was about to unravel. In a December 1997 magazine interview Craig made some truly offensive and inappropriate remarks about Lizz and female members of the staff. Whether it was poor attempt at humor or just plain misogynist (or both) is beyond the point. It was all wrong, very wrong. Craig was suspended for a week without pay. Lizz left the show. In the moment I chose to protect the show and its talent more so than Lizz. That was wrong too. It's more than cringe worthy looking back now, and I regret not making some better decisions then. My loyalty to our host was later "rewarded" when in the Spring of 1998 Kilborn's team, a la Bill Maher, unceremoniously informed us he had signed a deal to follow Letterman on CBS when his contract expired at the end of the year. No discussion, a done deal. Comedy Central jilted again. Like Maher, Kilborn wanted his shot at the network big leagues and we had a little over six months to figure out how to replace him. We all know how that chapter ended. That search would eventually reunite us with Jon Stewart who along with The Daily Show took Comedy Central and basic cable to the "the big leagues" on their own terms, redefining late night comedy in the process The rest, as they say, is "Fake News" history.

Fun Fact #2: before approaching Jon (who I did not originally think would be interested) I initially offered the job to a chunkier, largely unknown Jimmy Kimmel, fresh off his co hosting duties on "Win Ben Stein's Money" ...only to have him turn us down.

My fascination with late night began as a kid. I remember how exciting it was to stay up to sneak a peek at the Carson monologue and watch him do spit takes with his chummy Hollywood guests. Later on I also loved the heady adult conversation Dick Cavett would have with everyone from Sly Stone to Groucho Marx. But it was the comedic revolution of Saturday night Live in 1975, followed by Letterman's game changing show in 1981 that truly established late night as the coolest place on the television landscape. I could only dream of one day being part of it.

25 years on, I couldn’t be more proud of The Daily Show and its legacy. Those days helping build it alongside Madeleine, Lizz, Eileen and the team were among the most satisfying (and fun) experiences I have ever had. It was thrilling to take a shot at the late night landscape and try and make our mark, especially when no one thought we could.

I am prouder still of what Trevor Noah and his staff have achieved since they took the hand off from Jon, evolving and growing the show through a new voice and lens. I think my personal "Moment Of Zen" will last as long as Trevor remains behind the desk, allowing me to selfishly boast of having hired every host this award winning and culture defining franchise has ever had.

25 years later. it remains as relevant as ever, a bona fide late night institution, standing shoulder to shoulder with all the great shows that inspired us to start.

#the daily show #jon stewart #trevor noah #comedy central

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muertawrites · 4 years

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Two Halves - Chapter Seven (Zuko x Reader)

Part Six

Word Count: 3,000 (really? it seemed longer...)

Author’s Note: I decided to make this one cute because it’s been a hella weird week (year) and I needed some sweet Zuko lovin’ in my life. The only downside is that now I’m piney as fuck, but it’s fine because I’ve got spaghetti from my favorite Italian place in the fridge and comfort food fixes everything. I’d also like to use this time to admit that I’ve always thought King Kuei was cute, because clearly I have a thing for adorable dumbasses who live their lives in denial (shout out to Mark, my ex, fuck you and I hope you miss me every fucking day because we both know you loved me as much as I loved you but were too weak to just own up to your feelings because you’re a punkass little bitch boy ♥). King Kuei and reader are BFFs and that’s canon.

I hope you’re all holding out okay and staying safe - PSA to wear a mask whenever you go out, make sure it covers both your mouth and nose at all times, wash your hands after being out in public, and stay the hell away from people outside your household. Do something nice for yourself today, you deserve it. I wish you all find a love someday who makes you feel as fluttery inside as these fics make me feel, and that they love you endlessly and fearlessly. I need to stop writing now, I’ve put myself in my feels.

~ Muerta

Much to the dismay of the international affairs advisors, their opportunities for stalking you about your daily life are drastically cut short when Iroh announces he wants to return to Ba Sing Se.

“I've been away from the Jasmine Dragon for too long,” he explains, breaking the news over dinner. “I miss her dearly and would like to be with her again.”

“I should go back to the Earth Kingdom, too,” Toph speaks up. “The metal bending program will probably have to be rebuilt - the idiots I left in charge of it can barely bend rocks.”

You and Zuko exchange amused looks, though the idea of being left totally alone with him - without the comfort of your mutual friends - makes you lightheaded. Having to go toe to toe with Advisor Qiang and his sketchy, passive aggressive behavior while also navigating a potentially deadly political climate? No sweat. Having to face your husband every day without the distraction of your friends and family to break the awkward tension? Horrifying, but in an exciting, slightly panicky way.

“It would be a good idea to visit,” Zuko muses, “see how the city is rebuilding. Aang’s coming back in a week or two on his way to the Northern Air Temple, and I bet he’d give us a lift.”

“Do the international affairs advisors have to come, too?” you ask. “I'm tired of their assistants taking notes on how I prefer to pour my own tea in the morning.”

Zuko smirks, shaking his head.

“I'm sending them to the Southern Tribe,” he tells you. “Hakoda’s hosting a summit for them to celebrate our union.”

“You're finally getting your life changing field trip with Hothead!” Toph cheers, playfully jabbing her elbow into your arm. “Now we can start a club - Sokka really wants to get jackets.”

As Appa glides through the air, you lean over the edge of his saddle, gazing out at the clouds as they pass. It’s your first time flying, and everything about it amazes and terrifies you - the miniscule landscape below, the shift of Appa’s massive body under his movement and breathing, the cold breeze kissing your cheeks and running its fingers through your hair, the way the sky is so much more vast than you ever could have imagined - it’s like you’ve fallen into a different world entirely.

You reach down and stroke at Appa’s fur, earning an appreciative grunt from the bison. Aang turns back from his place at the reins to grin at you, much more excited about your first time in the air than you are.

“What do you think?” he wonders cheerfully.

“It's like sailing, but in a dream,” you reply. “The clouds remind me of glaciers back home.”

“Makes you wish you were an air bender, doesn't it?” Aang chuckles.

You laugh nervously, shaking your head.

“No! I can't stop thinking about how long the fall is from up here!”

Aang tosses his head back with laughter, the sound of his voice carried on the wind filling you with the feeling of walking through the threshold of the cottage you shared with Sokka and Katara as a child; neither of them are present, but having Aang nearby feels just as much like home.

Across the saddle, Zuko smiles at you. You’re a few feet away from him, yet you still feel the warmth from his body as his eyes meet yours; his gaze is different somehow, as if he's seeing you for the first time. You blush, bashfully returning his grin.

“Are you okay?” Toph asks beside you. She's clutching your hand, neither of you very fond of your height off the ground. “Your heart rate jumped.”

“I'm fine,” you tell her. “I just looked down.”

Ba Sing Se is larger than you ever thought a city could be. As you approach, you stare in awe at the epic sprawl of the place, each district looking like its own little country within a quilt of a continent. You've been to the North Pole before, having spent a year there after the war, but even the shock of seeing their massive skyline pales in comparison to just how huge the Earth Kingdom is. Zuko smirks at you, his arm wrapping around your shoulders.

“Wait until you see it from the ground,” he teases.

You’re even more amazed by the city as you view it from the palace. It sprawls in every direction, some of its buildings reaching as high as Appa can float; Iroh explains that it's a new concept designed by the most renowned Earth Kingdom architects, some of them planning towers that stretch one hundred stories. Everything about the place seems impossible.

Inside the palace, King Kuei meets you in the entry hall, greeting Aang with a warm hug and Zuko with a firm handshake.

“It's so good to see you all!” he exclaims. “It's been far too long. Tonight we’re having a party to celebrate your arrival, and to congratulate the newlyweds!”

You smile, bowing low at the waist as you thank him.

“My husband has told me of your hospitality,” you say. “It’s an honor to be celebrated by you.”

When you straighten up, Kuei takes your hand and politely places his lips to the back of your palm, closing his other hand atop it.

“And I've been told about your exquisite nerve,” he replies, lowering his voice as if sharing a secret. “Your bravery deserves to be celebrated.”

After a tour of the palace, you and Zuko are led to your suite. The windows in both the sitting room and bedroom look out over an incredible view of the city, in which you can almost see as far as the eastern wall; you can hardly pull yourself away, leaving Zuko the task of inspecting the rooms to ensure everything is in order.

“We have a problem,” he says, stepping out to where you perch by the sitting room window. “There's only one bed.”

You snap your head to attention, fixing him with a quizzical expression.

“... I mean, I guess that's normal,” you reply, piecing the situation together in your head. “We are married.”

“Do you want me to request another room for myself?” Zuko asks. “I could get one of the bedrolls from Appa’s pack and sleep on the floor.”

You shake your head, pacing over to where he stands.

“I trust you,” you tell him. “We have to get comfortable with each other at some point.”

Zuko nods, blushing and unable to hold your gaze.

“You're right,” he agrees. “I trust you, too.”

You gently take his hand, causing him to shift his eyes back to yours; you smile, giving his palm a light squeeze.

“Zuko, it’s okay,” you assure him. “Really. I’m okay with it.”

Zuko nods again, reaching absently to brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear.

“I just want you to feel safe,” he admits. “You’ve already got enough to worry about without… all of this.”

You scoff, rolling your eyes as you smile at him.

“All you’ve done since the day we met is protect me,” you remind him. “Sleeping with you is the last thing that could possibly worry me.”

Zuko chuckles, leaning to press a chaste kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t laugh at me,” he playfully scolds. “Or I’ll make you sleep on the bed roll.”

You gasp, giggling as you push his shoulder.

“I can’t believe my own husband would make me sleep on the floor,” you tease. “And in a strange city, no less! You’re so awful to me.”

Zuko rolls his eyes, smirking as he bends and hooks his arms under your bum, lifting you up over his shoulder. You squeal, laughing as he carries you into the bedroom and flops you down on the mattress, jestfully smacking a pillow into your face.

“Get changed, Queenie” he tells you, retreating into the sitting room before you can launch a counterattack. “The party’s in an hour.”

In the ballroom of the Earth King’s palace, it seems everyone in the city has turned out to celebrate your arrival.

You sit in a throne beside Kuei’s, Zuko to your left and Aang to the Earth King’s right. Dignitaries from Kuei’s cabinet as well as various parts of the kingdom come to give their regards, all greeting you much more fondly than many of the guests at your wedding; Kuei is excited to introduce you to everyone, giving fervent, detailed descriptions of what each person does and launching you into long conversations with them. You don’t mind his enthusiasm, finding it endearing that he cares so much and so openly about the people who serve him.

“Ah, here’s a very special guest!” Kuei announces, cheerfully clapping his hands.

A woman approaches the throne, leading a large, furry animal up the steps towards you; its long claws and massive stature send a chill through you, but once you look into its beady little eyes and notice its round ears and bumbling demeanor, you’re enamored.

“Is that a bear?” you ask, excitedly gripping Kuei’s sleeve.

“Yes!” he cheers. “His name is Bosco; he’s a close friend of mine.”

Bosco lets out a soft growl as Kuei scratches him under the chin, pulling the fuzzy giant into a tight hug.

“He loves cuddles and blackberries,” Kuei tells you. “Don’t let his claws scare you - he’s a big softy.”

One of the servers appears with a bowl of fresh fruit, setting it into your lap for you to share with your newest party guest. You carefully take a blackberry into your palm, holding it out for Bosco to sniff; his nose hovers above your fingers, letting out a few warm huffs of breath onto your skin before licking the berry up into his mouth. You turn to Kuei and give him a wide smile, gathering more berries into your hand for Bosco to eat.

“I love him,” you tell your host. “He might be coming back to the Fire Nation with me.”

Kuei laughs, giving Bosco a loving pat on the head as you continue to fatten him up, switching between feeding him and running your fingers through his thick coat, giggling when his tongue flops out to lick your cheek; you never expected an animal fabled to be so fearsome to turn out so sweet.

Once the bowl of fruit is empty, Bosco settles onto the floor at the foot of Kuei’s throne, letting out a heavy yawn. Kuei reaches to scratch behind his ears, then stands, offering you his hand.

“Would you like to dance?” he asks. “I heard you and the Avatar made quite the display at your wedding.”

“We did!” Aang chimes in, also getting to his feet and sweeping Toph (who stands just to the side of the thrones, having declined the royal treatment for the evening) into his arms. “We were taught a few Earth Kingdom dances by your advisors, too!”

Toph laughs as you’re both led onto the dancefloor, taking her position beside Aang.

“And that’s why I call him Twinkle Toes,” she jokes.

Kuei chuckles, taking you by the waist and starting the dance, twirling with you in an interlaced circle between Toph and Aang. You each pass from partner to partner, raising your hands to meet them together and spinning gracefully around each other before returning to the escort you started with. Kuei’s arm skillfully finds your waist when he takes you back in, each of you facing the opposite direction with your sides pressed together, turning in a clockwise motion. He grins at you, and you can’t help but smile back.

“You’re a natural!” he praises you. “I’m sorry I have two left feet.”

You laugh, shaking your head.

“Back home, they consider me clumsy,” you confess. “I used to step on my brother and sister’s toes when they tried to teach me to dance - I still do sometimes!”

Kuei chortles, taking your hand in his and repeating the sequence of steps you just completed. You recite the ritual five times before the dance is over, ending with each of you bowing to each other with cheerful, elated smiles. Someone behind Kuei clears his throat, and he turns to find Zuko, his hand outstretched toward you.

“You promised to teach me to dance,” he reminds you.

You nod, a burning heat pinkening your cheeks as you take his hand.

“I did,” you echo. “Thank you for the wonderful dance, your majesty.”

Kuei smirks knowingly between the two of you, bowing before taking his leave.

“The pleasure was all mine, my lady,” he says in parting. “It’s rare that I have such an excellent partner.”

Zuko’s arm locks around your waist, skirting you to the edge of the dance floor where he stands stiffly, holding you in place in front of him. You let out a soft giggle, resting your hands on his chest.

“I thought you didn’t want to learn how to dance with an audience?” you prod, starting to sway in time with the music. Zuko does the same, his body drifting along in sync with yours.

“I wouldn’t enjoy the party if I sat through it,” he explains, trying and failing to sound nonchalant. You quirk a brow, grinning teasingly at him.

“Sure,” you say. “It definitely didn’t have anything to do with me dancing so close with another man.”

“Not at all,” Zuko replies. His hand at the small of your back clutches you a little tighter, giving himself away. “It looked like fun and I wanted to join in.”

You roll your eyes, smirking as you take a step back from him, lacing your fingers with his.

“Let’s find Aang,” you suggest. “He can help me teach you the dance we did at our wedding.”

For the rest of the evening, you, Aang, Toph, and Zuko occupy a small corner of the dance floor, guiding the Firelord with the steps of your favorite traditional Water Tribe dance. He’s nervous, moving with rigid gestures and clearly unsure of what his body is supposed to do when set to music, but he tries, watching every move you make with rapt attention. By the end of the night he has the dance memorized, and you twirl in time with him as Aang cheers him on, Toph laughing beside him at the ridiculousness of the scene; Kuei even joins in, rousing Bosco from his nap and dancing with the bear on his two hind legs, sending the entire ballroom into gleeful fits.

“You’re better at this than you think, you know,” you tell Zuko when you’re left alone, dancing with him much the same way you danced with the king earlier in the night. “I noticed at our wedding that you have great rhythm.”

Zuko blushes, his lips curling into a timid smile.

“I’m a fighter, not a dancer,” he says.

“They’re not that different,” you shrug. “From what I’ve seen of fire bending, it’s a lot like dancing.”

Zuko hums, gently turning you so that your chest is pressed against his, his hand resting firmly at your waist.

“Maybe it’s the music lessons my mother forced me to take when I was a kid,” he muses. “Uncle still keeps asking me to play the tsungi horn for him when we’re together.”

“You play the tsungi horn?” you exclaim, eyebrows raising in excitement. “You should play for both of us sometime!”

Zuko groans, immediately switching the dance so he can pass you off to Aang.

You lean against the sitting room in your guest suite, watching the lights of Ba Sing Se as they flicker with the movement of its people. The world looks dreamlike from where you sit, as if it's been turned upside down; a black expanse of sky hangs above a sea of stars, and you float between the two, dizzy with the surrealism.

Zuko emerges from the bedroom, having changed into his pajamas after giving you the chance to do the same. He crosses the room to where you sit, resting a hand on your shoulder.

“You coming to bed?” he asks. You nod, standing and following him back into the bedroom.

Zuko allows you to slip between she sheets before him, giving you a few moments to get comfortable before crawling in beside you, keeping to his side of the bed. Even though the mattress is large enough to fit another couple between you, you can still feel the warmth of his skin spreading across the fabric below, feel the weight of his body sharing the same space as yours. Your heart flutters against your ribs, making your breathing shallow.

“I had fun tonight,” Zuko whispers into the darkness around you. “Thank you for teaching me how to dance.”

“I had fun, too,” you reply. “I can teach you the dance people do for Water Tribe weddings; I wish we could’ve done it at ours.”

“I’d like that. I’m sorry we didn’t have much Water Tribe tradition when we got married… We should go back and have a ceremony there. I’d like to see you in a Water Tribe wedding gown.”

A shiver runs through your veins, heating your skin as if a fire has been lit beneath it. You roll over to face him, making out his silhouette against the rest of the shadows in the room.

“I’m glad you asked me to marry you,” you admit to him, the manic jitters in your chest rising to your throat. “I don’t think anyone else could treat me better.”

Zuko reaches his hand towards you, finding yours beneath the blankets and curling his fingers with yours. For a moment you forget that your relationship was arranged, feeling as if you’re lovers instead of leaders, tasked with repairing a world that’s been shattered since long before you were born.

“I’m glad you agreed,” Zuko answers. “I was afraid you’d hate my guts because I stalked your brother and sister for six months when we were teenagers.”

You release a breath of laughter, the pressure in your body unraveling with it. Zuko’s thumb runs tenderly across your knuckles, and you forget that anyone else in the world exists except for the two of you.

“Goodnight, Zuko,” you murmur.

“Goodnight,” he hums back to you. “Sleep well.”

You wake early in the morning with his arm draped over your waist, your head tucked under his chin with your cheek pressed to his chest. You drift back to sleep to his quiet, blissful snores, his heartbeat pulsing in time with your own.

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bimboamyrose · 4 years

Text

Unfamiliar - A Metamy Fanfic (Ch. 5)

Ch. 5: The Right Thing

First two chapters

Previous (Ch. 4)

The afternoon was better described as crisp than frosty. Signs that spring was approaching appeared in the cloudless sky and dissolving frost. The sun sat high up in the sky, indicative of the slowly lengthening days. Amy would have insisted on taking the scenic route to reach Tails’ lab, but feared the tape holding Metal Sonic’s foot in place wouldn’t hold up in the sloshing snow. Flying up the hill appeared to be the safest option.

The pair repeated yesterday’s maneuver of having Amy attach herself to Metal’s back. This time, however, there was the added challenge of navigating as the cold wind stung her eyes. The windchill they experienced in the significantly colder air blew through the lighter coat she’d chosen to wear due to the lack of frost. Amy began shivering.

Less than a minute later, she could begin to feel the warmth building up in Metal’s body again. He also slowed down to walking speed in the air to allow her to open her eyes. Metal’s back felt toasty against her and she could feel her tense shoulders relax a bit. She sighed in relief. “Hey, are you doing this on purpose?” she wondered aloud.

Metal sort of shrugged his shoulder, not wanting to disturb Amy’s grip around his neck. It did take a bit more energy and the warming feature was probably reserved for times much more frigid than this, but the trip was short. After all, she had given him some comfort, so why not return the favor?

“Well, thanks.” Amy leaned her head over his back, resting a cheek on his satin-clad shoulder to get a better look at the landscape. They were far higher off the ground that was necessary by the time she noticed. “Head down there,” she pointed. They descended much slower this time, and by the time they landed near the entrance, it had taken longer than if they’d just walked. The view as they approached, however, trumped that of even her regular scenic route.

Amy and Metal walked toward the entrance, but the door swung wide open before she could get near the doorbell. “What are you doing?” Tails peeked his head out the door to take a nervous look around. “Get inside.”

Amy scoffed. “Nice to see you, too.”

The door slammed shut behind them automatically. Tails was already most of the way down the hall when he took a sharp turn into a door to the left.

What’s eating him? Amy followed the boy with Metal Sonic limping close behind. They turned into his sprawling laboratory, where Tails stood behind a series of screens. “Tails? You alright?”

He looked up from his command center nervously. “Did anyone see you?”

“How should I know?”

“Amy, if anyone finds out-”

“What, Tails? They’re gonna reprimand me?” she rolled her eyes.

Tails grumbled. He didn’t want to say too much in front of Metal Sonic for fear of jogging its memory. But what if Eggman had spotted them? Surely he must be looking for his weapon by now. And if anyone else on the team had seen the two of them flying around it could have been mistaken for another hostage situation. Tails pointed directly at the robot. “Go sit on that table over there.”

Amy followed Metal as he sat on the cold bench. It looked like an operating table, surrounded by a tangled web of wires and machinery. She was nervous for him. Amy trusted that Tails would know what to do but worried that his fear of Metal Sonic would cloud his intentions.

Tails mashed the keys on his computer aggressively with his one functioning hand. “Amy, I need you to come over here.”

She looked back at her steely companion. Amy flashed a smile and placed her hand briefly on Metal’s shoulder. “You’ll be fixed in no time,” she reassured before joining Tails behind his small command center.

A few keystrokes later, a sheer green forcefield appeared like a bubble around the table, encapsulating Metal Sonic and several of the nearby machines inside. He looked up at the glowing shield curiously.

Amy gasped at the sudden appearance of it. “Tails, what’s the shield for?”

“So he can't hear us, or get out.” He turned to his teammate with a huff. “Have you thought this plan out at all? How do you think Sonic is gonna react when he finds out?”

Amy shuffled on her feet nervously. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “But look, Cream and I spent some time with him-”

“You got Cream involved?” Tails was raising his voice indignantly.

“She came over and saw him, okay! And it went fine. It’s like they became friends.”

Tails scoffed harshly. “Look, Amy, I know you always want to see the good in everything, but this is dangerous. Even if we get that thing on our side, who’s to say Eggman won’t just capture Metal Sonic and reprogram it again? He’s done it before.”

“We’ll just have to leave a lasting impression, then,” Amy responded matter-of-factly.

“You can’t be serious…”

“I am! Look, we don’t have to reprogram Metal, he can learn this stuff on his own.” Amy reasoned. “He has real emotions and stuff. I don’t know how to explain it.” She looked through the glowing bubble and met eyes with Metal, who was looking to her inquisitively. He held his severed arm out, turning his head. Amy waved back with a kind smile. “He just needs some friends. I think he’s capable of being good.”

Tails watched their interaction with fascination. It was almost upsetting to see Metal Sonic sitting innocently in his lab after all the strife and injury his team had suffered at the robot’s hands over the years. He looked down at his own broken wrist, ears drooping. “So your plan is to just become roommates with that thing? After everything that’s happened?”

“Look, he needs to decide for himself what he wants. You have to restore his memory.”

Tails glared back at her. “You want him to remember?

“It doesn’t count if we force him.” Amy gazed at Tails wet eyes, a soft pout spread across her lips. “Wouldn’t you want a second chance?”

Tails could feel his face becoming hot. “And what if I refuse?”

“Tails, you’re the smartest person I know. You could deactivate Metal if he became a real threat.” Amy’s sweet eyes narrowed. “But if you don’t help me with this, I’ll find someone who will.”

She could be convincing when she wanted to be- or maybe “manipulative” was the better word. Tails more than understood that Amy was capable of putting herself in harm’s way if she thought it was the right thing to do. “I don’t know how long it’ll take to fix. It could be weeks.” He hesitantly clicked some keys and the forcefield fell away. “I’ll do it, but we have to tell the team. We couldn’t keep it a secret, anyway.”

Amy nodded in agreement. “Thank you. It’ll work, you’ll see.” She turned and jogged back over to Metal, who was irately chiming something at her. “Sorry! Just had to take care of some business first. Relax, we’re gonna fix you now.”

Tails couldn’t believe how nonchalant Amy was being about everything. Metal Sonic had probably caused her the most tauma out of the team, having kidnapped her at a young age. But for however fierce she could be, Amy was pure and forgiving in nature. Tails always thought that was admirable- if a little stupid. He took a deep breath in preparation for what he was about to embark on.

The boy awkwardly approached Metal Sonic, walking past him to pull some wires from a nearby machine. “So, I guess we’re gonna fix you and try to get your memory back.” He remembered what Amy said about being friendly and struggled to say something polite. “Nice-uh- jacket? Wait, isn’t that Amy’s?”

“It’s Metal’s now. He looks better in it,” she smiled.

“Right. ‘He.’” Tails turned to address Metal Sonic directly. “I’m gonna fix you, but I also want to copy your memory so I can figure out how to restore it. We have to turn you off for that. Understand?”

Metal Sonic looked to Amy for guidance. She seemed to know the boy well, but Metal was unsure that Tails was comfortable repairing him. The boy seemed hesitant. “Don’t worry, you’re in good hands. If anyone can fix you, it’s Tails,” she reassured. Metal turned back to Tails and nodded.

“Okay. You should lie back, and you can put the arm down for now.”

Metal Sonic complied. Tails stuck several electromagnetic wires on his head and core. He could see Amy standing back, flashing him a nervous smile. He listened as Tails brought out the same remote he was holding when they met the day before. Metal wasn’t able to catch what he was saying before the lights in his eyes scrambled and went out.

“Metal? Are you awake?” Amy shook his shoulder but the robot didn’t respond. It was eerie seeing him so lifeless now.

“He’s off. Don’t worry about us, I’m going to run some scans and see what I can learn. It’ll take a few hours, so I’ll call you when I’m ready.”

Amy nodded confidently. She knew Tails would do the right thing - and hoped that in the end, Metal Sonic would, too.

-------

Amy took her time for the rest of the afternoon to run errands. She did some shopping in town and picked up groceries, returning home past sunset. She waited a few more hours for a call back from Tails but was beginning to think he’d keep making repairs overnight. It was nearly 11 PM before she received the call and had to brave the frigid night.

Tails didn’t answer the door personally- it opened on its own by his command. Amy hurried inside to warm up. She found her teammate at the workstation in his lab, magnifying goggles over his eyes. Metal was in the same spot- still off.

“Hey Amy.” Tails didn’t look up from whatever he was fiddling with.

“Hey. How did it go?” Amy approached the workbench, peering over Tail’s shoulder. He was screwing one of the panels of Metal’s hand shut with the help of a vice to hold it in place.

“Well, I was able to take a look around his head, but…” Tails flipped up his goggles and met Amy’s eyes. “There’s this sort of firewall there blocking access to a lot of whatever’s in there. And apparently there’s a failsafe, like a protocol in case Metal Sonic lost his memory, but it didn’t work.” He shrugged and scrunched his eyebrows at the mystery.

“Really? What was the protocol?”

“Seems like it was meant to help him navigate back to Eggman’s base for repairs, but his GPS isn’t working either. And that’s another thing- if I fix it, he’ll be trackable.”

“So he’s not right now?”

“Nope. And I don’t think we don’t want him to be.” Tails swiveled his chair to face the robot behind them. “But that doesn’t mean Eggman won’t still come looking…”

Amy scoffed. “He’s left him to rot for months before. He won’t look unless he’s planning something.”

“Let’s he doesn't,” Tails sighed, picking the mechanical hand from the vice and walking it over to Metal’s body. “I’m gonna keep trying to access the memory. It’ll take a while. Oh, and I removed all his weapons for now- just in case.” He fastened Metal’s hand to his forearm, screwing it in place.

“You shouldn’t mess with him like that,” Amy frowned.

“Don’t start- it’s for our own good. Especially if you plan on keeping him around your place.”

“I guess…” Amy was avoiding having to think about it. She wanted to help Metal, but having a long-term house guest in her little home wasn’t exactly in her plans. She struggled to think of another solution.

Tails finished his work. “Well, what do you think? Not too shabby for one hand, especially considering the number we did on him,” he chuckled.

“Yeah, we really hit him hard, huh? He looks great, though.” Tails had removed the jacket Metal was wearing in order to work on his whole body. The jagged edges around where his left arm had torn off were now smooth and polished. His foot was reattached properly at the ankle. There remained scratches in his paint at the head and other areas he’d sustained damage, but all of his missing pieces were reattached neatly.

“You don’t know the half of it! I need to make more internal repairs. And what was with all the duct tape?”

Amy blushed. “I thought it would help,” she mumbled.

“Well, taking it off was a nightmare. Just leave the repairs to me, okay?”

Amy rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

“Anyway, before I wake him, I think we should agree on something…” Tails rubbed his arm awkwardly.

“What is it?”

“Are you gonna tell him anything about his past? Do you think it’s a good idea?”

Amy peered down at Metal’s body. It didn’t feel right to keep things from him, but if they told him too much he might decide to look for his master. She didn’t want to lose the opportunity, but felt conflicted about hiding the truth. “I’m not gonna tell him, but I can’t lie if he asks,” she decided.

Tails nodded. “Fair, enough, I guess.” He knew he wouldn’t be able to convince her otherwise. “Let’s get it going then.”

Tails fetched the remote from his desk and stood by Amy. He pressed three buttons in sequence with his thumb. A loud mechanical buzzing filled the otherwise quiet lab before dying down to a whisper. After a few seconds, Metal Sonic’s eyes illuminated. He peered around, spotting Tails first, then shifting his gaze to Amy. His eyes lingered on her.

“Hey, Metal. How do you feel?” Her warm smile and kind eyes shone. Metal was pleasantly surprised to see her looking joyful.

“Can you get up?” he heard Tails ask. Metal Sonic sat up, shifting his legs over the side of the bench with his back to them. Tails circled around to face him, pulling a stand toward him with an attached clipboard. “Great! Try that arm out.” Metal looked to his left. His arm appeared just the same as his right one- no barbed edges or exposed circuitry. He rotated his shoulder backwards, meeting no resistance. Tails took notes, instructing Metal Sonic to bend his arm and each of his fingers, then to rotate his ankle and point his foot. He stood on it without issue and had no problem balancing himself. Everything was operating correctly.

Tails pointed to Metal’s left arm with his pen. “Can you extend it?”

Metal tried to lengthen the telescoping wire, but struggled. After a few seconds, the arm jutted out and fell to the floor limply. He heard Amy’s soft gasp from behind him before she scuttered around front and stood next to Tails.

“Hmm. Thought that might happen. Sorry, I don’t have enough experience with that tech. You’ll have to give me more time.” He scribbled more on his notepad before returning to his computer

Metal was able to reel his arm back into place slowly. He watched it snake on the ground before it reached all the way back into its socket. At that moment, he felt a hand on his and turned upward to meet Amy’s gaze. “I’m sorry that didn’t work, but I’m happy you’re in one piece.” Metal glanced down at his hand. She felt warm. He then looked back to her and did the best impression of a “thank you” that could be sung with mechanical chimes.

“You’re welcome.” They were each surprised to hear her say that. Could she understand him? Amy excitedly laced her fingers with his, giggling at the thought.

Tails cleared his throat from his desk. “I don’t know what you’re saying thank you for when I fixed him single handedly,” Tails teased.

Amy let go of Metal abruptly, crossing her arms. “I could've helped if you’d let me!”

Tails snickered at this before Amy’s snarl intensified and he found it best to change the subject . “Well if you two are done, I still have to talk to Metal about something. C’mere.”

Amy sauntered behind the multitude of screens with Metal on her heels. What appeared to be x-rays lined the monitors. “This is Metal’s core,” Tails explained. “There’s a huge crack in the armature here. It’ll need welding.”

Amy raised a hand over her mouth at the realization. Her eyebrows curled in guilt. She knew that the damage was from their battle two days earlier; and she had helped Sonic deal the finishing blow. The beam that ran up and down Metal’s head and torso like a spine was cracked in two places.

“I don’t think I can do it with this cast, so you’ll have to wait a few weeks. II’ll let you know when I’m ready. Oh, and avoid water for now- some snow must have seeped into your system from the cracks and damaged a few things.” Tails explained it all very indifferently. “You’ll be pretty waterproof once I fix it.”

Tails spoke a bit more about the repairs he’d made and what still needed to be done. With his memory, with his body, how he’d refueled the robot and other upkeep. Amy found herself panicking as she listened to the extensive list of things that needed to be done, knowing much of it was on her conscience. Metal noticed her panic, looking from her back to the black and white screen.

She had to take a deep breath to avoid losing her composure. “Thank you, Tails. I think we should head home.”

Tails let out a yawn and looked at the time. It was close to midnight. He’d spent the day focused on everything but himself, and realized suddenly how hungry and tired he was. “Alright. The jacket’s by the lab door.”

“Hey, make sure you get some rest.” Amy pleaded. Tails had a habit of overworking himself.

He stretched out his arms. “I will.”

Amy went in for a side hug that Tails returned. “I mean it, go to sleep this time,” she smiled.

“Alright, don’t worry,” he chuckled.

Amy and metal saw themselves out, picking his jacket up from a coat hook by the door. Metal was able to slip it on himself. He thought it felt weird to put on clothes, but was pleased he could do it himself. The pair strode out the front door, Amy bracing herself before crossing the threshold. The opening snapped closed behind them and they took off down the hill. The night was cold but clear. Amy shoved her hands deep into her pockets for warmth. “Let’s take the long way,” she suggested. Metal emulated her by slipping his own hands into the pockets of his thin jacket and nodded. The two strode the short way home quietly, under a dark sky dotted with lustrous stars.

.................................................

Notes: I’m going to start adding the tag “metamy unfamiliar” in case anyone wants to follow it (but I would greatly appreciate a blog follow, too ❤️)

#good news my friend got me high and it motivated me to finish this early lmao #hope yall are having a nice sunday #scheduled post #metamy #metal sonic x amy rose #metal sonic #amy rose #sonic fanfiction #sth #unfamiliar #ch 5 #metamy unfamilair

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piccadilly-lilly · 3 years

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“The predicament in which Isolde and I found ourselves seemed fictional, fantastic right from the start. 　 We met while I was on holiday behind the Iron Curtain. I was a Swedish student working for my doctorate in political science. She was a medical student from East Berlin: beautiful, slender with dark hair and smiling eyes. In a few days we were in love and, three months later, visiting her at her flat in East Berlin, I asked her to marry me. 　 "But that is impossible," Isolde said, her eyes brimming with tears. "The authorities would never let me leave the country." 　 I refused to take no for an answer, and finally convinced her that she must try to escape. On a map, we examined the communist borders stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea and considered how we'd slip out. By that time (July 1965), all the standard means of escape such as a break through the Berlin Wall, were too risky. 　 Suddenly, to my own astonishment, I heard myself say, "I'll fly you out Isolde." 　 Her eyebrows shot up. "But I didn't know you were a pilot." 　 "I'm not," I admitted. I had never been in a cockpit in my life. But I will go back to Sweden and learn to fly, and then I'll fetch you." Isolde looked at me as if I were crazy but before the evening was over, she agreed that a small plane was our best chance. 　 The trouble was that, within an hour of my first lesson in Stockholm, I learned that flying definitely was not my strong point. My coordination was poor, my depth perception and sense of balance wretched. 　 But I kept at it, and eventually I was learning how to execute ludicrously inept landings. My instructor, however, was not encouraging. My persistence in flying too low over the treetops (one day I would have to fly that low to get in under the Communist radar beams) especially upset him. "Higher, higher!" he'd shout. "We don't want to lose our plane!" 　 It took me nearly a year, 40 training hours in the air, to get my pilot's certificate. One August day in 1966, I got the precious document. I also succeeded in obtaining a tourist visa valid for two entries to Czechoslovakia, which we had decided was the country best suited for the rescue flight. 　 Next morning, Sunday, August 14, I took the train to Vienna and on Monday drove from there to the nearby check border in a hired car. The frontier police examined my visa and painstakingly checked my car and luggage. I made myself relax. How were they to know that my real mission here was to find a suitable out of the way field in which to land and pick up Isolde? 　 I selected an abandoned pasture north of Bratislava and about 25 miles east of Vienna, near a point where the sombre, wooden guard towers were a little farther apart than usual. 　 Although there were no Cessnas - the only plane with which I was familiar - available in Vienna, I learned that I could hire one in Salzburg, 155 miles away. I took the train there, and proved to an inspector at the airport that I could handle the plane. Then I managed to navigate the little aircraft back over the unfamiliar landscape to Vienna. 　 Everything was now ready. From Salzburg I had sent Isolde the coded telegram she had waited so long for. "MAGNUS ARRIVES AT 16.40 BRUNO." In the Swedish calendar, of which Isolde had a copy, each day has a special Christian name. Magnus was the following day, Friday, August 19 and I was asking Isoldeto meet me at the railway station in Brno, Czechoslovakia. 　 On Friday afternoon, I sped by car to Brno, 68 miles away. Isolde was there at the station. In our joy at being together again we forgot for an hour or so that the night held any problems for us. 　 By dinner, our laughter was hollow, our smiles frozen. We were aware that we might be celebrating our last meal. After dark we drove to the "escape field." I switched off the lights before leaving the road and crossed the pasture in the dark. 　 There was no time to waste. At any moment the tower's searchlight, slashing about in circles just 330 yards away, might spot the car. 　 "Hide there in the trees until morning," I told Isolde. "I"ll come just before dawn. When you see my plane, wave your scarf to show me where you are. And remember , whatever happens, I love you." 　 Back in Vienna two hours later, I was far too excited to sleep. instead, I wrote a letter to my parents in Sweden, telling them for the first time about Isolde, and asking for their understanding in case anything went wrong. At about 3 a.m. I checked out of the hotel and went to the airport where I explained that "urgent business in Salzburg" required me to take off just as soon as it was light. But I had hardly settled in the cockpit when the sky was split by jagged forks of lightning, followed by tremendous thunderclaps. Then the rain began to fall and I was unable to take off. 　 For two more hours I fumed and fretted, waiting for the storm to abate. Finally, at 8 o'clock sharp, I was cleared for takeoff. 　 Once outside the traffic pattern, I dived to treetop level to slip under the radar surveillance at the border. Hedge-hopping, I followed the main railway into Czechoslovakia, swept in between the two guard towers I'd chosen and skimmed over the empty pasture at an altitude of only 65 feet. 　 No familiar jumper, no waving red scarf. Isolde was not there. I banked, and rolled back towards the two guard towers. Terrified, I fully expected the soldiers, plainly visible on the towers, to open fire. But I had caught them off guard. 　 Safely back in Vienna I was utterly exhausted and worried sick about what might have happened to Isolde. There was only one thing to do. I hired another car and rushed back to Czechoslovakia, to the Bratislava hotel where we had planned to meet if anything went wrong. She was there, safe though badly shaken. 　 In her hiding place she had been drenched with rain, frightened by unfamiliar night sounds, and terrified when, at dawn, she had heard a burst of shots from the near-by border. Remembering our agreement that I would arrive shortly after the dawn she was afraid something had happened to me. Yet she had waited for me until full daylight, only then had she left her hiding place and found a road where, eventually, a motorist picked her up. 　 Despite her ordeal and knowing that a second attempt might be twice as dangerous, Isolde was eager to try again. "What other chance will we ever have, Hans?" She asked. 　 The following morning we set out north along the border searching for a new "escape field". We found it near the little town of Mikulow. It was well marked by a small lake and a tall pine grove which I believed I could easily see from the air. 　 I left Isolde there about 3.30 p.m., again promising to pick her up at dawn the next day, Monday August 22. 　 On the way back to Vienna I stopped briefly in several towns to make small sketches of the distinctive church steeples in each. These, I hoped, would help lead me back to the meadow. It was late afternoon when I stopped at the airport. Because the airport people were still friendly, I knew the Czech authorities had not lodged a complaint about my illegal morning flight. 　 Trying to sound casual, I asked the meteorologist, "What about the flying weather tomorrow, good?" 　 "No," he said. "Low hanging clouds are moving in early tonight." This meant that with my limited experience, takeoff and landing might be impossible by morning. The news hit me like a blow in the stomach. If all our efforts were not to be in vain, I would have to act quickly. It was now 5.30 and soon it would be getting dark. 　 I rushed over to the flight operations desk and tried to keep my voice level as I said, "I'd like to take a little exercise flight just to see the sunset." "Alright," said the flight dispatcher, but since you are not cleared for night flying you must be back by dusk-no later!" I knew I couldn't get back before dark, and I've never flown at night. But there was no time to worry about it. I dashed for my plane and took off. 　 Following the church steeples I'd sketched, I found my stretch of frontier, dived to an altitude of only 30 feet and leapfrogged a hill between two guard towers. Suddenly, right in front of me and less than 100 yards away, was a third tower I hadn't seen before. I missed the tower top by what seemed inches. A soldier opened his eyes wide with terror as I practically flew into his open mouth. 　 But the near-miss disorientated me. Where was the little lake, the tall pine grove where I had left Isolde. Circling, I found one lake, then another, but neither was ours. I broke into a cold sweat the light was fading fast. 　 With shaking hands, I took out my map and saw that there were only three lakes in the whole area. Climbing to get a broader view, I suddenly saw it, and saw to my enormous relief, OUR field beside it, our pine grove… and a tiny figure frantically waving a red scarf. 　 it was certainly one of the worst landings I ever made. I came in too high, overshot the field and had to break heavily to stop. Without a word Isolde jumped into the seat beside me. Almost instantly we were roaring up into the dusk in a take off as bad as the landing. I could almost hear the sound of machine-gun fire as I spiralled up as fast as I could. It was now quite dark and all the familiar landmarks had vanished. I did the only thing I could: took a compass heading of the opposite direction from which I had come. 　 Luck was with us. After some 20 acutely anxious minutes, we spotted in the distance a cluster of jewelled lights – Vienna! – then the straight, beaded string of lights that marked the airport runway. I made my approach just as if it were daytime. When I thought the runway lights whizzing by looked big enough, I pulled up the plane's nose and made an amazingly smooth landing. 　 One last hurdle remained: the airport authorities must not see Isolde or back she might go. We had planned for her to slip away into the darkness of the big field. But just as she was getting out, a car from the control tower board down on us with blazing headlights. 　 "Hide!" I whispered. Isolde scrambled back into the baggage compartment and disappeared just before a furious air control officer pulled up. 　 "You've put us to a lot of bother tonight," he snapped. "We even contacted Czech Air Control to see if they'd seen or heard you." My heart sank. "They said they had, but only over Austria, and that's a good thing for you, mister. You can get into serious trouble blundering across the border!" 　 He drove away, and I taxied the plane to a hangar. As an attendant blinded by my lights, opened the hangar door, I told Isolde, "Quick run for it." She did, without being seen. I met her outside the field and we drove jubilantly into town. 　 Next morning I sneaked Isolde back aboard and flew her to West Germany, where I landed in a field and let her out. After returning my plane to Salzburg I rejoined her. It took her a month to get her papers, and on her 25th birthday she arrived in Stockholm. We were married in the white stone church where I'd been christened, and we left on our honeymoon by car. I no longer fly planes.”

-Hans Christian Cars, from a translation of “Flykten över järnridån”

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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 3 years

Text

It was at the tail end of 2017 when Cora*, a frontline worker for a south London organisation supporting women who have survived sexual violence, realised that undercurrents of transmisogyny had become a new precedent for her workplace.

“I just remember there being far more comments like ‘Yeah we only support real women’,” Cora says.

Both visibility and hostility were on the rise for trans people in the UK thanks to proposed reform to the Gender Recognition Act. As a result, many junior workers were attempting to ensure inclusivity for trans survivors. But senior staff, made up of cis women, responded by shutting down the conversation altogether.

Cora’s organisation is not an island. On record, gal-dem has spoken to workers in the violence against women and girls [VAWG] sector, who have spent time at organisations including Imkaan, Rape Crisis, Refuge, Amnesty International and Liberty, academics working in the field of gender studies and members of the dedicated gender-based violence branch of union United Voices of the World. Of the workers who spoke to gal-dem, all were too terrified of reprisals to use their real names.

Alongside interviews, gal-dem examined records of public statements made by senior members of organisations like Nia, Southall Black Sisters, and the Centre for Women’s Justice. What emerges is a hostile landscape to navigate for trans survivors of sexual violence, both in accessing immediate frontline services and overcoming ideology that seeks to shut them out of the gender-based violence sector (GBV) in general. With one in six trans women experiencing domestic violence between 2017 to 2018 (and more recent figures suggesting violence against trans people remains high), this landscape’s hostility is undoubtedly already having damaging effects.

At Cora’s organisation, it quickly became apparent that senior staff were deliberately shelving pressing trans-related issues, in the hope that they would disappear altogether. Cora alleges that the CEO Rachel*, who had served as the head of the organisation for nearly three decades, encouraged a culture that was openly hostile to trans women.

Regular requests for the centre’s policy regarding trans women were lodged, but the policy didn’t exist. A lone attempt to create a gender inclusion policy ended with the firing of the employee tasked with producing it. As Cora remembers it, the day after the employee submitted their work, they were told their position was no longer viable. Although it wasn’t cited as a factor in the decision, Cora believes the incident speaks for itself. The policy was not adopted by the centre.

Staff soon began to organise and demand an outright commitment to supporting trans people, pushing the transphobic views of senior management into the open.

“We do get abusive callers on the helpline. But they present as men, not as trans women”

Cora remembers one member of the counselling department declaring that it was “unsafe” for cis survivors using the centre’s services to have people in the building who had not fully medically transitioned. She was challenged by Cora and her colleagues, who explained that this transmisogyny went against the fundamental principles of sexual violence workers: that you must believe survivors.

“I find it fascinating in a horrific way that this bedrock of [sexual violence services] is thrown out of the window immediately,” Cora observes. “They say, ‘Oh, men will just call up pretending to be women, and saying that they’re trans to get into the space to enact harm’.

“Do you not think we are trained in such a way that we are able to speak to someone and know? Because we do get abusive callers on the helpline. But they present as men, [not as trans women]… When you get a call like that, you know. As soon as you pick up the phone, it doesn’t feel right. The gut that you’ve honed so wonderfully and beautifully to do this work, it knows”.

When Cora and her colleague refuted transmisogynistic claims, the goalposts shifted. Senior staff instead claimed they weren’t equipped to work with trans women because they wouldn’t “understand” their experience with sexual violence. Tellingly, one staff member who used such a defence said they would feel comfortable supporting trans men who had “experienced violence as women” – revealing that they didn’t recognise trans men as men.

“There is a real focus on the penis,” Cora says.

Cora left the organisation a few years ago, in part due to the virulent transmisogyny that had become the norm. Rachel stepped down from the CEO position in 2020, after what Cora describes as “successful unionising efforts” from the organisation’s staff. While the new CEO is “far more inclusive”, Cora says, her former co-workers report that hostility to trans survivors persists.

“The problem is much deeper than top down,” she says. “It runs through most of the services.”

Women vs women

Cora’s organisation has become part of a larger war. Transphobia – or ‘gender criticism’ as its proponents like to position it – has become a battleground for a small but powerful pocket of UK feminists. With access to mainstream media platforms, large social media audiences and political influence, these ‘gender-critical’ feminists are attempting to turn trans people from a minority group into a full-scale moral panic.

But where does the antagonism towards trans people in the VAWG sector come from? Academic Alison Phipps, professor of gender studies at the University of Sussex, links it to “political whiteness”. Transmisogyny in the UK is focused on violence against white, cis women and “lasers in” on the male body as the source of that violence, Phipps explains. “There’s a lot of straight, [white], privileged [cis] women involved. Whiteness has a lot to do with it. Whiteness and class privilege.”

Weaponising woundedness against marginalised groups has always been a core component of white womanhood and political whiteness, adds Phipps. “It’s Carolyn Bryant [Emmett Till’s accuser] all over again,” she says. “[Trans-exclusionary feminism] is grounded in fear and, in some cases, a hatred of the Other and a deep need for protection.”

For the last few years, trans-exclusionary feminists central objective – achieved for the time being – was to prevent reforms to the Gender Recognition Act that promised to make the process of legally identifying as trans or non-binary (which isn’t a recognised legal identity at the time of writing) far quicker.

A spotlight fell on women-only services for survivors of sexual and domestic abuse as a result. In order to provide rationale for their aversion to trans individuals, the gender-critical cabal alighted upon whipping up fear around trans women who might need to access such spaces. For trans-exclusionary feminists, the argument goes that allowing self-determination through GRA reforms would open up ‘single-sex’ sites to ‘predatory men’, who would supposedly pretend to be women in order to perpetuate abuse.

Yet trans women, with some exceptions, already have access to single-sex spaces under the 2010 Equality Act, which would remain unchanged by any amendments to the GRA. Furthermore, no countries that already allow self-determination have reported any sudden trend of cis men engaging in such behaviours. A 2018 Guardian investigation found that Ireland, which introduced self-determination in 2015, has seen “no evidence” of new legislation leading to men “falsely declaring themselves female”.

No matter; gender critical feminists in the UK still insist that the sex assigned at birth must decide who is admitted to women-only spaces. Never mind that multiple global studies show that trans women report sexual and domestic violence at double the rate of cis women (with trans women of colour facing the most peril) – but, as with cis women, the perpetrators were most likely to be men.

“Trans-exclusionary feminism is grounded in fear and, in some cases, a hatred of the Other”

Phipps believes many transphobic, white radical feminists also think that acknowledging their own privileges compared to the likes of trans women is tantamount to erasing their traumatic experiences. “It’s as if they think ‘if you tell us we’re privileged because we’re cis, that means we haven’t been raped or haven’t experienced these awful things’,” she observes. “Well of course you have and that’s awful and it’s because of your gender. But that doesn’t mean you don’t also have race and class and cis privileges.”

In the VAWG sector in particular, Phipps says there is the feeling of “living in the past”, with particular aping of the 1970s women’s liberation movement. It’s a notable reference point for trans-exclusionary feminists, many of whom experienced the movement as young women. But they’ve created a warped pastiche that erases contemporary critiques of white radical feminism that were made at the time, says Phipps.

Radical feminist texts of the 1970s were often trans-inclusive. While the likes of Andrea Dworkin held problematic notions around issues like sex work, they weren’t trans-exclusionary and didn’t see the body in “essentialist” terms. In stark contrast, trans-exclusionary feminists of the present, do.

The crusade against trans women is tragic, says Phipps, a focus of energies on completely the wrong target. “There is a war against women worldwide,” she says. “But trans women are also [victims] of this war, not the perpetrators.”

A worsening situation

Frontline VAWG workers say that hierarchical power structures mean transmisogyny is often sanctioned from the top. Close ties between powerful names in the sector mean it is hard to challenge for fear of being blacklisted from multiple organisations. Nevertheless, those who spoke to gal-dem said they did so out of a desire to lift a lid on the situation and encourage more scrutiny of the reality behind the press releases.

“I couldn’t [continue to] work for an LGBTQ charity that poses like it’s inclusive,” says Lily* a former employee of one high profile organisation serving sufferers of domestic violence. She says she witnessed virulent transmisogyny during her time there.

One incident occurred when Lily’s workplace was developing a helpline for clients. She and her colleagues were concerned that the helpline wasn’t inclusive enough because the organisation didn’t have a gender inclusion policy. They asked for clarity on who the helpline was for.

“The reply from [Martha* the director of operations at the organisation] and another senior staff member was that ‘if they sound like a woman on the phone, talk to them’,” remembers Lily. “‘If they don’t sound like a woman, it doesn’t matter if they say they are, hang up. We’re not supporting them’.”

Lily also heard references to “men-women”, assertions that only “biological women” should have access to refuges and accusations from a senior staff member that junior employees were behaving like “perpetrators” by supporting trans-inclusivity as it put them on the side of “men”.

“They told us: if they don’t sound like a woman, it doesn’t matter if they say they are, hang up”

According to those present at one group meeting, a staff member declared that there needed to be a “step back” on giving “privileges” to trans women because they were damaging support being provided to “women”. The staff member is also alleged to have said this view was the organisation’s “policy” as well, blaming trans-inclusive terms like “person with a cervix” for having “erased” cis women.

Allegations of increased transmisogyny are mirrored across the sector. Eva, a non-frontline VAWG worker who has spent time at multiple women’s organisations, says she became aware the issue wasn’t going away in 2016.

One early indicator came when Eva posted on a social media platform, from the official account of one prominent organisation about the death of a trans woman in a men’s prison. The next day, she says, she was handed a social media policy that “explicitly stated” she was not allowed to post about trans people anymore.

Even in supposedly inclusive environments within the women’s sector, transmisogyny simmers, says Eva. Her organisation, which focuses on ending gender violence for Black women and girls, still throws up obstacles when it comes to officially including trans women, including a failure to create and implement a trans-inclusive policy.

She also believes economic factors have caused trans women to become a lightning rod of the frustrations and fears of some cis women within the field.

As she explains it, many of the more senior positions in the modern VAWG sector are filled by women who have been there since its foundation. They’ve seen funding and resources chipped away by successive governments, resulting in resignation that “they’re never going to win a victory over the government”.

Collective fightback

Eva stresses that she doesn’t believe the sector itself to be transphobic and that younger, more junior members of staff tend to be fiercely trans-inclusive. There are some power players in the sector attempting to make change.

Cara English, head of public engagement at trans-led charity Gendered Intelligence (GI), says that she’s been approached by CEOs of VAWG organisations to provide training on trans inclusivity to staff. But plans have been stymied by the individualised structures of centres and refuges subject to the decisions of CEOs.

“[GI] met with the CEO of probably the largest VAWG service provider in the UK,” Cara recounts. “She was saying transphobia is very prevalent and she’s not content with it. But there’s not really a great deal they can do apart from bringing training from trans organisations in house.”

The situation is particularly dire in England and Wales. Scotland however, while no utopia for trans survivors, offers a look at how trans inclusivity can begin to be implemented.

Simple commitments have made huge differences to services says Mridul Wadhwa, manager of the Forth Valley Rape Crisis Centre in central Scotland. One such initiative is the LGBT Charter, a programme which includes education on trans inclusion. Completion of the course sees organisations given a digital “badge” to display on-site, letting survivors know they are an inclusive space.

As a trans woman managing a refuge, Wadhwa says she has received “unnecessary negative attention”, despite over 15 years of experience in the sector. After a recent bid to become an SNP candidate, she was even hit with accusations online that she had “lied” by not disclosing her trans identity when she was first employed in 2005 by Shakti Women’s Aid.

“This was before the Equality Act,” she remembers. “I said in an interview that if [Shakti Women’s Aid] had known I was trans, they would not have hired me. But everyone knew I was trans when I was [hired] for my current position.”

Wadhwa’s experience has taught her that many trans women survivors seeking support are too fearful of being faced with transmisogyny to approach services in the first place. This renders them invisible within the sector, despite being a group disproportionately affected by sexual and domestic violence.

“You have to be explicit that you’re inclusive, you cannot assume that people know,” Wadhwa says, adding that as a member of intersecting minority groups, she expects to be “oppressed in every place I go”.

“You have to wear the badge – these things make a huge difference, as well as word of mouth recommendations spread by survivors who have worked with you. There also needs to be a trans-inclusive workplace policy”.

“You have to be explicit that you’re inclusive, you cannot assume that people know”

For workers who want to push back against institutionalised transphobia, organising collectively offers a glimmer of hope.

Cora tells me that challenging transphobia was a key driver of unionising efforts by herself and colleagues who didn’t feel “safe” enough to do so as individual unprotected workers. Meanwhile, a spokesperson for the workers union United Voices of World, which has a dedicated arm for workers in the gender-based violence sector, says that one of the union’s goals is fighting transphobia in the field.

Those pushing for change recognise that while the pocket of women they’re up against is small and unrepresentative, they’re powerful, with a reach that extends into the upper echelons of journalism, the legal system and the halls of Westminster. All workers who spoke about the transphobia they’d witnessed feared the impact their whistleblowing might have on the sector, which they stressed still does vital work. But as Eva puts it, if the services are not working for all women, they’re ultimately failing in their purpose.

“If frontline services aren’t working for all women, they’re not working for any of us really,” she says. “They’re not rooted in our liberation or justice.”

Pulling trans-inclusive training in-house, as suggested by Cara English is also a key goal. But it will take determination and demand on the part of the workers within those organisations.

And ultimately, it will need the battle-weathered radical feminists perpetuating transmisogyny in the the GBV sector to do something they are unused to: rethink the dogmatic approach that has for so long served as a survival technique but now works to oppress a deeply vulnerable group of women.

The entire situation is, says Cara English, a “degradation”.

“The fact we’re still in a position when we’re actively having to humanise trans women and trans people to services that would seek to exclude us, in order to get into places that we should have the right to access… this is just an obscene position to be in,” she adds.

“It’s a wholesale failure to take into account the needs of trans people. It’s embarrassing. The issue isn’t that trans women aren’t accessing VAWG services. It’s that people aren’t seeing this joint fight against the patriarchy and the oppression of all women.

“That’s where we need to be focusing our attention. It’s about solidarity between all people who need help and an escape”.

*Names have been changed to protect identities

#would someone else like to analyse and unpack this or shall I attempt it another day

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differentnutpeace · 3 years

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'Jupiter's Legacy' Decodes The Superhero Genre Without Subverting It

You'd be forgiven for wondering how Netflix's Jupiter's Legacy compares to other recent entries in the glut of "Wait, what if superheroes ... but, you know, realistic?" content currently หวย บอล เกมส์ คาสิโนออนไลน์

swamping streaming services. (To be fair, this "realistic superheroes" business is something we comics readers have been slogging through for decades; the rest of the culture's just catching up. Welcome, pull up a chair; here's a rag to wipe those supervillain entrails off the seatback before you sit down.)

So here's a cheat sheet. Netflix's Jupiter's Legacy is ...

Less cynical and empty than Amazon's The Boys

Less bright and blood-flecked than Amazon's Invincible

Less weird and imaginative than Netflix's The Umbrella Academy

Less funny and idiosyncratic than HBO Max's Doom Patrol

Less dark and dour than HBO Max's Titans

Less innovative and intriguing than Disney+'s WandaVision

Less dutiful and disappointing than Disney+'s The Falcon and the Winter Soldier

Less thoughtful and substantive than HBO's Watchmen

Less formulaic and procedural than the various CW super-shows (which I include here only out of a sense of completism, not because they're aiming for the same kind of performative faux-realism that drive most of these other series).

It's unfair to make these comparisons, sure. But it's also inevitable, given the crowded landscape of superheroes on TV right now. And in every one of those comparisons, Jupiter's Legacy doesn't necessarily come up short (it's far better than The Boys, especially), but it does come up derivative.

Makes sense: "Derivative" is a word that got slapped on the comics series it's based on, by writer Mark Millar and artist Frank Quitely, which kicked off in 2013. Millar and Quitely would likely prefer the term "homage," of course, and after all, the superhero genre is by nature nostalgic and (too-)deeply self-referential. So the fact that so many story elements, and more than a few images, of Jupiter's Legacy (comics and Netflix series both) echo those found in the 1996 DC Comics mini-series Kingdom Come is something more than coincidental and less than legally actionable.

Showrunner Steven S. DeKnight and his writers' room have carved out only a thin, much more grounded slice of the comic's sprawling multi-generational saga, but they've retained certain elements of family tragedy and Wagnerian recursiveness, wherein the sins of the father get passed to the son. They've also, smartly, retained the multiple-timeline structure of the comic as a whole, though they've pared it down and stretched it out over these eight episodes, clearly hoping for a multi-season pickup.

Readers of the comics will likely grow impatient at how little of the overall saga is dealt with here, but this review is aimed at those coming to the series fresh, who will find more than enough in this season to satisfy — it's a whole story that hints at what's to come without slighting what's happening now.

The now in question switches between two eras. In 1929, immediately before and after the stock market crash, brothers Walter (Ben Daniels) and Sheldon (Josh Duhamel) are the sons of a successful steel magnate. Walter's the diligent numbers guy, Sheldon's the glad-handing optimist. Sheldon's rich, smarmy friend George (Matt Lanter) is going full Gatsby, and muckraking reporter Grace (Leslie Bibb) runs afoul of Walter and Sheldon following a family tragedy.

Sheldon becomes beset by visions that will put him and several other characters on a path to their superhero origin story. Be warned: The series doles this bit out even more slowly than the comic — settle in for seven episodes' worth of Duhamel clutching his head and shouting while trippy images flash by, hinting at his ultimate destiny.

In the present day, Sheldon is the all-powerful hero The Utopian, who is married to Grace, now known as Lady Liberty. Walter is now the telepathic hero Brainwave, and George is ... nowhere to be seen.

The series has fun playing with the disconnect between the two timelines — characters from the 1930s story are either missing, or drastically transformed, in the present day, and while later episodes connect some of the dots, many of the most substantial changes are left to be depicted in future seasons.

The present-day timeline instead focuses on the generational rift between heroes of Sheldon and Grace's generation and those of their children. There's the brooding Brandon (Andrew Horton) who strives to live up to his father's impossible example, and the rebellious Chloe (Elena Kampouris), who rejects a life of noble self-sacrifice and neoprene bodysuits for a hedonistic modeling career.

At issue: Sheldon's refusal to acknowledge that the world has changed, and that the strict superhero code (no killing, no politics, etc.) that he lives by — and forces others to live by — may be obsolete, now that supervillains have escalated from bank robbery to mass slaughter. Younger heroes, including many of Brandon's friends, feel compelled to protect themselves and the world around them through the use of deadly force.

Clearly it's a fraught cultural moment to have fantasy characters who can fly and zap folk with eye-lasers deal with that particular all-too-real real-world issue; several scenes land far differently than they were originally intended.

But unlike other entries in the superhero genre, Jupiter's Legacy is prepared to deal overtly, even explicitly, with something that films like Man of Steel and shows like The Boys too simply and reflexively subvert: The superhero ideal itself.

The notion that an all-powerful being would act with restraint and choose only to lead by example is what separates superheroes from action heroes. Superheroes have codes; that's the contract, the inescapable genre convention, the self-applied restriction that tellers of superhero tales impose upon their characters; navigating those strictures forces storytellers to get creative. Or at least, it should. The minute you do what so many many "gritty, realistic" superhero shows and movies do — dispense with that moral code, or pervert it, or attempt to argue it out of existence by portraying a villain so heinous and a world so fallen that murder is the only option, you're not telling a superhero story anymore. You haven't interrogated or inverted or interpolated the genre, and you certainly haven't deconstructed it. You've abandoned it.

Say this much for Jupiter's Legacy — it's not content to wave the concept of a moral code away, or nihilistically reject it. It instead makes its central theme the need to inspect it, unpack it, and truly and honestly grapple with it.

Which is not to say it doesn't stack the deck by portraying a fallen modern world not worth saving — it does do that, usually through the lens of Sheldon's daughter Chloe, who throws herself into a world of drugs, alcohol, sex and general narcissistic monstrousness. The show attempts to explain her sullen self-destructiveness as a reaction to her father's unrealistic ideals, but in execution, her scenes prove cliche-ridden and bluntly repetitious. It's one of several examples where the show's choice to focus on and pad out one small part of the comic's overall tale results in leaden pacing.

But even though it takes seven full episodes for the characters in the 1930s timeline to get to the (almost literal) fireworks factory of their superhero origin, it's hard to argue that it isn't worth all that extra time, as Duhamel, Bibb, Lanter and especially Daniels have a great time with the period setting. (There are two other actors who get brought into the superhero fold in this timeline, but they 1. aren't allotted nearly enough screentime to really register and 2. represent spoilers.)

The period details of the 1930s timeline (Lanter was made to wear a waistcoat; Daniels' pencil-thin mustache should win its own Hairstyle and Makeup Emmy), and the brewing conflict between the younger selves of Sheldon and Walter can't help but make those scenes much more intriguing to watch than those set in the modern day.

The ultimate effect is a lot like watching the 2009 film Julie and Julia, in that sense. If you imagine that Julia Child could fly and shoot lasers out of her eye-holes.

And, really, who's to say she couldn't, after all?

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xgenesisrei · 3 years

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Truth x Peace

The pandemic opened the way for a heightened migration of people into the world of digital platforms. Lockdowns and restrictions on public gathering pushed everyone, especially those who remained hesitant and unconvinced of the value of social media, to nonetheless make do with what technology can offer. And for Filipinos who are culturally wired to connect with people, that means intensified presence and engagement in social networks. It did not help that the shutdown of ABS-CBN contributed to the further weakening of traditional media such as television and radio. More and more, people, regardless of age, have become reliant on social media as their primary, immediate, and at times, the only remaining source of news and information.

Now that creates a huge problem. Some years ago, social media was seen as the bright solution to greater democracy and more social good. The prospect of everyone having an opportunity to air their own personal opinions, views, and perspectives, a space where free-flow of information is possible, sounded like a path towards people getting more informed and enjoying more freedom. For a time it did. We saw the rise of bloggers, influencers, and thought leaders from everywhere. We saw ordinary netizens empowered to join the public discourse on both pressing and amusing issues in our society.

That is, until humans in the digital realm saw the rise of trolls taking over, of networks of organized disinformation poisoning our walls and feeds, and of filter-bubbles and echo chambers being birthed by ‘cancel culture.’ In the past years or so, social media morphed into a toxic wasteland flooded with fake news, causing its inhabitants to suffer online fatigue and trauma, and seeing friendships built over a long period of time ripped apart in an instant. It is like seeing the Promised Land, the Holy City of Jerusalem, burning to the ground, ravaged by the fury of the ruthless Babylonians, and leaving it with a very uncertain future. Again, the pandemic provided a most volatile context wherein people fought it out in an open mic tournament, trashing the loudest of voices on vaccines and conspiracy theories, missiles in the Middle East, and what remains of Harry Roque’s soul.

A few months ago, Netflix released a documentary, ‘The Social Dilemma,’ that uncovers the mechanism of how social media is changing our lives in ways that we do not expect and will not want, yet leaving us with very little power to stop it. A few weeks ago, MIT convened an impeccable panel of digital experts for ‘The Social Media Summit.’ They discussed the prospects of rescuing truth in a hostile digital environment. The big question being: Can truth still win in a world where fake news is manufactured and disseminated faster than anyone can fact check it? The experts sounded helpless and as a result they looked not so helpful.

The tension lies between the need to confront people responsible for spreading fake news on one hand and on the other the need to be open as well to the reality that truth not only has two sides but multiple sides and therefore demanding the idea of being willing to listen to ideas you don’t agree with and people you don’t like.

Towards the end, the MIT summit came up with plans of action that centers, more or less, on the following: “shine light on falsehood,” “bear witness to the truth,” “speak truth to power,” and other similar admonitions that any IVCF-er will be able to quickly connect to not a few passages in the New Testament.

Hearing MIT’s panel of experts, who are by no means church people, much less theists, convinced me that Christians do have something to contribute in winning the war against falsehood without necessarily ripping apart families, friendships, and for God’s sake, faith communities.

So, how do we do this? I will not pretend that this can be tackled in a short time, much less by a single individual. But perhaps I will be able to help in laying down a map of the digital landscape which can serve as a point of departure for those who care enough to find a possible resolution. I will also try to sketch a biblical framing that can serve as initial stepping stones for the path ahead.

Digital Mapping: Maze, Spaces, and Faces. I think it will be helpful to identify the different spaces wherein people are moving in and out of as they engage in social media. At the very least, there are three spaces that we need to pay attention to: first, the terrain of today’s digital environment; second, the virtual presence of Christ’s church in such an environment; and lastly, the manifestations of God’s kingdom ever breaking-in. And on top of those three, another set of three spaces wherein the circles overlap.

Today’s Digital World. I already painted with grim colors the state of social media that we inhabit today. Maybe, I will just add that more and more we are seeing a world undeniably shaped by its digital soul. Definitely, there remains a digital gap, considerable segments of society that are pushed all the more to the margins in the ensuing massive migration to the digital sphere. But as the pandemic rendered digital technology as the primary means by which people communicate and connect to one another, government and private industries, community pantries included, the virtual is already part of our everyday reality. In fact, the virtual has become real. And this is where the reminder of Neil Postman, chair of the communications department of New York University, remains relevant, “The clearest way to see through a culture is to attend to its tool for conversation (Amusing Ourselves to Death, 1985).” Today, the conversations that shape our public discourse and our social imagination is greatly influenced by what we can Like and Share.

Church Presence in Social Media. The next circle, the status of the church’s digital presence, is the one that should cause a bit more of panic and stress on our mental health. Everyone knows that supposedly the church is sent into the world to serve as its “salt and light” (Matthew 5:13-16). And because church people are by no means ‘bulletproof’, Apostle Paul gave a strong reminder of not letting the world provide the mold by which Christians are to conform themselves (Romans 12:2). Instead, they are to be people who keep their minds renewed and transformed into the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God. But the more we examine how churches conducted themselves in social media, the less it appears faithful to its calling.

Looking at the overlap of the circles of today’s digital world and the church’s digital persona, we will find that there is hardly any difference on how Christians, pastors and church leaders included, can treat one another, trash each other, and treat unverified information as gospel truths. A quick visit to some of the more popular ‘Christian’ FB groups will reveal the amount of salt worth trampling and amount of light sucked in a blackhole. All as a result of defending and insisting for what they believe in their hearts is true and just. This is where the mix of religion and propaganda can even be more damaging. Church people fight for political opinions not only for the sake of the common good but in the name of biblical faithfulness. To differ is to risk being branded as heretical if not altogether evil. And, as you can guess, the feeling is always mutual. In a digital wasteland fragmented by fake news and echo chambers, church communities swallowed in these toxic spaces have very little to offer as an alternative counter-culture. In fact, the degree of fragmentation and delusion to half-truths may even be worse. Tragically, this is the face of the church whose character is slowly being eroded by its digital habits. And, given the formative impact, there can be no denying that the virtual is as spiritual!

God’s In-breaking Kingdom. Fortunately, the kingdom of God is by no means limited to where the church has fallen short of and has failed. In fact, the kingdom of God transcends the borders and backyard of the church. George Eldon Ladd reminds us in his groundbreaking book on the topic, “the church is the community of the kingdom but never the kingdom itself” (The Gospel of the Kingdom, 1995). God’s mission of transforming the world, while primarily proclaimed by the church, is not exclusively carried out by people who call themselves Christians. Wherever life is encouraged to flourish, truth is upheld, and relationships are healed, you know God is at work. Regardless, if there are Christians around. The kingdom is ever on its way and it happens that at times the church so often arrives late.

No wonder it escapes not a few how God has always been at work, in ways that defy expectations, and if we bother to take a closer look, through people that will come as a surprise. Suffice it to say that in God’s kingdom, blessed shall be the nazi fact-checkers, the murdered journalists, the oddballs in toxic echo chambers, and even those who find it within themselves the simple act of just remaining sober. They are the ones who are in the overlap of the circles between today’s digital world and the kingdom of God. Unlikely agents of God’s healing touch in a fractured world. They may be far from the church but very likely near to the kingdom. The MIT summit that I mentioned, honestly, is the kind of conversations that I hoped we have in our Christian circles instead of the endless webinars left and right that offer very little help in healing the worsening fractures in our churches.

Fortunately, there is that overlap between the kingdom of God and the church’s digital presence. We have here Christians who are caught in the tension of conviction between the need to love people and at the same time refuse lies. They navigate the fleeting space for hope wherein truth-telling and peace-keeping thrives alongside each other, without the need to sacrifice one for the other. They understand very well that severing relationships for the sake of truth is the badge of fundamentalists and legalists. But they also are very much aware that compromising truth for the sake of relationships is a sure step towards the rabbithole of injustice. Somehow, they know that the two have to be held together. A careful balance which the digital culture of social media has undermined and rendered almost impossible to recover.

But there must be good news that Christians can offer right?

Biblical Framing: Truth and Grace. Do we have anything, from the deep wisdom of the Scriptures and in the clear example of Christ, that can point us to the steps moving forward?

Immediately, what will come to mind is a familiar passage in John 1:14 that describes the remarkable life of Jesus: “And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we have seen his glory, glory as of the only Son from the Father, full of grace and truth (ESV).” John the beloved could not have chosen a better pair of words: grace and truth. They sounded great together right? But we know in reality, these are two things that can cancel each other out. We see it everyday on social media. Truth thrown devoid of grace. Grace dispensed at the expense of truth. How could have Jesus made a happy fusion of these two seemingly contrasting values?

There are episodes of his life on earth that shed a clue. Two public engagements are worth noting:

In John 8:1-11, we read of how Jesus was confronted with the case of a woman caught in adultery. Jewish law demands that the penalty of wrongdoing be carried out. But Jesus chose to dispense grace and let the woman off the hook of the requirement of justice. Yet still, he made sure that the woman realized the error of her ways (v. 11).

Then, in Luke 18:18-24, we read of how Jesus dealt with the rich young ruler. Jesus was blunt and straightforward. Publicly, he identified what was lacking in him and demanded what he himself said was impossible for mere mortals to render -perfection. But it is by this truthfulness that Jesus also opens the space for grace to come in (v. 27).

If anything, Jesus could not afford to either just be a prophet who cries ‘woe to you’ or a shepherd who ‘comes not for the healthy but for the sick.’ He is both. I guess, we cannot do so either. Prudence and discernment calls for us which of the two is needed at a particular moment. As usual, context and timing matters. But it may also be helpful if we can wrap our heads around the subtle irony that lies between the exercise of grace and truth:

What if truth breaks into us fully when we realize that those people who are most undeserving of grace are actually the ones who need it most? What if grace grips us most when we realize the truth no matter how painful and blunt is what will eventually bring healing and closure?

In any case, my theological conviction is that the character of God’s kingdom we can best see in the life and example of Christ. Anything less are but echoes that need further fine-tuning. It is in Jesus’ story where justice, truth, peace, and grace all fall into their proper places. Going back to John 1:14, Jesus moved into our neighborhood so that we can see that the glory of God is most fully reflected when truth is wrapped in grace and grace is founded on truth.

If our truth-telling prevents us from extending grace to those who clearly have their hands dirty, then we fall short of Jesus’ words on the cross; “Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.” Except for vengeance and retribution, we will have nothing to offer to those who made the hammers fall, people who have earned the right to become our enemies.

If our peace-keeping prevents us from telling the truth to those who need grace the most, then we fail to follow the badass Jesus who hesitates not in calling people names when he has to. We will have nothing to say in the face of the Pontius Pilates and Caiaphases of today.

The tension between truth and grace shall remain and it ought to. There might be easy resolutions but I am of the view that this tension is part of the “here-but-not yet” aspect of the kingdom of God. So, we will continue to struggle and juggle until the kingdom comes in all its fullness when Christ returns. I will not forget what Miroslav Volf said when he was questioned by the great theology professor Jurgen Moltmann. Volf delivered a lecture that will serve as the framework of his book ‘Exclusion and Embrace’ (1996) wherein he argues to err on the side of forgiveness and grace. Professor Moltmann then asked him whether he can live by what he has written and be able to forgive the bloody Serbian murderers who massacred his people in Croatia. Volf responded by saying, “Well, I cannot. But as a follower of Christ, I should.”

When people drunk with power make us feel they are undeserving of grace and when people’s cry for justice make us want to see blood, we turn to Jesus and let his story continue to challenge us and to shape us. He left us the big picture of what it means to be a good neighbor especially for those who deserve it the least. More and more I am getting convinced that immersing ourselves in how Jesus loved others is what will help us bridge what we can't/won't do as human beings and what we are freed to do as his disciples.

Crux omnia pro bat. (The cross tests all things.)

Conclusion. I want to end by quickly looking into one of IVCF’s core values -holistic mission. Of course, an important aspect of this work is engaging in prophetic ministry, upholding justice and truth, so that social transformation, and not just personal conversion, will happen. So often, this passion for transforming society is what moves people to ‘cancel’ people so that truth shall prevail amidst a barrage of lies. But a good friend and mentor, Dr. Al Tizon, in his new book, said this:

“I see a great need to advance the meaning of holistic mission, to build on the evangelism and social justice affirmation, by understanding the ministry of reconciliation as the new whole in holistic mission. It must be if the Christian mission is to remain relevant in our increasingly fractured world. In the age of intensified conflict on virtually every level, it can no longer be just about putting words and deeds back together again (though it will take ongoing effort on the part of the church of the church to keep them together); holistic mission also needs to be about joining God in putting the world back together again (Whole and Reconciled, 2018).”

The point of social transformation is ultimately God’s longing for reconciliation. Truth that eradicates is no different from the bombs that got dropped in Palestinian homes. One can argue with a formidable case that it is justified but it won’t be a step towards the peace of Christ. Only towards the peace of Rome: Pax Romana (be at peace, otherwise, rest in peace). What is true of Gaza is also very much true of social media.

“There is no way to peace. Peace is the way. There is no path toward love except by practicing love. War will always produce more war. Violence can never bring about true peace.” -Richard Rohr

-Rei Lemuel Crizaldo, “Truth-telling and Peace-keeping in God’s Kingdom,” prepared for the webinar series on ‘Kingdom Calling’ by IVCF Philippines (May 22, 2021)

#disinformation #fakenews socialmedia socialdilemma peacekeeping truthtelling prophetic digitaltheology holisticmission integralmission

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evien-stark · 3 years

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✧I Need You✧ Chapter 198

It took about a week to get everything together to actually process Peter as Stark’s newest head intern and recipient of a portion of the September Grant. Signatures, both his and May’s, were scrawled over the lines of numerous forms which then got handed over to Pepper. Media was starting to buzz. They knew something was up. The only problem was you had yet to figure out exactly what that was- or, more accurately, what the hell you were doing or what any of this meant. What it was supposed to mean. This was all an elaborate lie in the efforts of helping Peter hone his newfound skills and maybe continue to vent his frustrations in a safe space. It was much less about him being an actual intern and learning anything about running a business- something he definitely let you know (politely, of course) that he was not interested in. Which was fine. You didn’t mind that. He clearly seemed a bit more keen to spend time with Tony in the labs. His heart was where science was. That was okay.

All of this also gave him a coverup, if he ever needed one. A reason he had to leave class or was late coming home or why he couldn’t attend his extracurricular activities. You trusted him that he would not take it for granted and that he would not abuse this. Being a superhero was not fun or easy- but it was a life that he had chosen. You could not and would not try and take that away from him. But while he was still learning the ropes he had to understand this Stark Industries cover could only go so far.

It wouldn’t explain late nights or- god forbid- coming in through a window at one in the morning. It would also not explain away bruises or cuts or any trips to a hospital. It was important to lay all this down for Peter so that he understood where the boundaries were. But also… also that he would take it a little easy. He had said that he was trying to be just a friendly neighborhood Spider-Man. And just looking out for the little guy. It seemed like he had no intention of fighting the big fights or being an Avenger. At least not right this second. Which was good. He was a kid. He was young. That was no life to get indoctrinated into so fast. He deserved to be a kid. To go to school, do homework. Date. Have fun. Not worry so much about all the bad things happening. But now that he’d accepted his fate and crafted this identity there was no going back. You just had to hope that by offering him this internship more for cover than for anything else was going to help him live an easier life as he tried to manage a dual identity.

Your support was also offered, of course. If he wanted to train, absolutely. But he also understood that if he ever got into a tight spot, you or Tony were a call away. ...god, he was just so young. There was a part of your heart that infinitely ached for him, having to deal with all of this. Wasn’t going through puberty hard enough?

It did make you think about those kids sitting on the Xavier estate. How they handled this sort of thing. How they came into their own and… still yet how you were supposed to help them. Something else that had gone on the backburner while you were trying to navigate the increasingly perilous superhero landscape. There was only so much you could put your focus on and now that you’d found him… Peter came first.

So you set up a press conference. One Peter had objected to the day before. Kindly and awkwardly, as was his way. He really seemed like he didn’t want to be in the spotlight so much.

“I uh… do I have to?” What could you really have said to that? “No, Peter. You don’t have to do anything. I’m not going to force you.” Because you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t drag him through something that made him feel so uncomfortable.

But it did make him realize how… out there this put him. A reality he was going to have to face sooner or later. It was strange, the more you thought about it. Of the enhanced individuals you knew, many of them wore their faces instead of hiding behind a mask. In fact, out of everyone you’d encountered (save for the mutants who were safe and protected) there was only one person who was going by another name while he fought crime at night.

And last you’d heard, things were not going so well for Matt Murdock. But that’s what having a secret identity did to you. It tore you in two directions. It made you have to hide things- maybe everything from people you cared about. And it left little room for release. No one to turn to. No one to talk to. No one that you could trust with a secret like that.

Then again… being so open about everything presented its own set of problems. ...god, did you understand that. Living with one of the world’s first (okay, second, but who’s counting?) out-and-proud superheroes… yes. That also had many challenges. There was just no good answer to how to do the superhero thing. No book written. No real rules except…

Do your best. Do what you can. And never give up.

You were all alone as you took the podium in the Stark Industries media room the next morning. Looking as well dressed as ever and just as tired of the sound of reporters murmuring amongst each other- and then calling your name over one another- along with the sound of shutter clicks and the blinding flashes of lights.

Holding your hand up you silenced them, as was tradition.

“I have about twenty minutes on the docket. Thanks for coming. You have your print-outs, so you know that I’m here to talk about the newest inductee to our point-internship-program. And then the remaining time will be spent on… oh let’s call it a potpourri round. So that you can all stop following me on the street.” There were a few chuckles that made the rounds, but they were all of a nervous sort.

You were tired of exactly that. Being followed around by the news and paparazzi. They were all starting to blend into the same terrible entity. They took pictures. Invaded your privacy. Made every moment hard to live through if you weren’t inside the safety of your Tower or spent resources on keeping them away from you while you went out. It was tiring. You were tired. And no amount of time at the end of a press conference for them to ask stupid questions that were probably going to be extremely inappropriate and personal would change their behavior.

But you had to pretend to try.

“Our newest inductee applied after a trip to our labs. We had a small blind round of applications based on the tours the Stark Industries labs were holding. He showed amazing prowess and a genuine love of the exact sort of dual science and tech that Tony is known for. Tony and I hand picked him for this program, the same way we did Harley Keener a couple years back. This is our newest round of this close sort of internship program that we hope fosters a love of not only science but of business. Of the future and building everything bigger and better. At this time, during this trial period, we are not disclosing his name to the press as we hope to be able to foster an environment of safety and peace while he’s in the learning stages.

Should he decide he’d like to change that, I’ll let you all know. But I’ll also let you know right now, Stark Industries will not tolerate any harassment. He is a minor, going to school, and he has a promising future. We don’t want to scare him away from great accomplishments. So trust me when I say if I find out any of you sitting in this room, or in your rooms across the nation as you watch this, dig to find out who he is, take pictures of him while he’s out with us, stop him on the street, or go bother him, we will pursue the highest legal action.” This would not stop them. It would deter some, but not the usual vultures. Still. Everyone knew you weren’t lying.

“Now. That being said. Tony and I are also in the next stages of the September Grant Foundation as a whole. I ask for your patience as we bring this program to life. We will very soon be opening a wider application pool, targeted at kids from communities in need as they transition from one stage of their life to the next. As we’ve stated before, the September Foundation aims to help kids unburden themselves and their futures from financial woes so that they can pursue their dreams instead of dying under debt. We believe there is so much unlocked potential that wastes away in this society due to the burden of paying back predatory loans. We are ecstatic to be a solution to that problem.”

Pretending like you were checking your watch, you let the moment sit. Let them hang quietly. It gave you full control of the room. Of them. As it was meant to be. ...fine. It was time. “Okay.” You let a little sigh out. “I’ll take all your burning unrelated questions now.” Even if you’d told them to stay on topic, they wouldn’t. This would give you a little credit with them, at least. And it was good for optics to play ball every now and again. One man stood after you picked his waving hand. “What’s the update with the Cadence situation?”

Hm. Well. That was easy enough, at least. “We’ve given her a plea deal. Her mental state is not the best, but that’s to be expected from someone who volunteered themselves for back-alley Hydra experiments and paid for blackmarket weaponry. She’ll be better served in a psychiatric facility for the rest of her life rather than a jail cell.”

The next man stood. “Did you and Tony elope when no one else was looking?”

Was it bad that you couldn’t help your smile? “Much as he’d like to, I’m afraid not. We’re currently engaged.”

“Then why does he have a ring?” To this your brow arched and you served up a very dry look. “Because I bought it for him. Next question, please.” A big duh. What? Women couldn’t engage their partners, too?

“When’s the wedding date?”

“We haven’t picked one yet.” Damn it all. This was what you were afraid of. What you’d been dreading. You didn’t want all these questions about your relationship. But they’d been brewing for a while now with no answer.

“Are you planning on having kids?”

“That’s nobody’s business but our own. And I won’t-” Tolerate any more of this, was what you’d wanted to say. But the person who had asked that cut you off in the worst way. “Are you concerned about the safety risks of what would probably be a high-risk pregnancy this late in your life? Do you feel like you waited too long?”

The room turned ice cold- mostly through your doing but because everyone else inside of it realized that man had fucked up. What a horrid thing to ask somebody. You refused to give in to this. Give him the reaction he wanted. Instead you stayed steady and stared him down. It didn’t take long for him to break into a sweat. And only after that, “You can either leave now or I can have security escort you. Your choice.”

He kept his head down. More out of fear than the shame he should have been feeling. Not that you minded helping him out with the feeling as you threw it over him like a net. He then got up and quietly scurried away. Another person stood. “Are you currently under investigation by the NYPD for a string of murders that happened in Harlem?” You kept your reaction to this question very controlled. A pop of your brow and a very slight purse of your lips. “No. That’s ludicrous.” That was all you wanted to say about that, so you picked on another reporter. “Have you heard the rumors of Danny Rand returning??”

This you were not expecting and were a little more than blindsided by. Your confusion probably read pretty clear on your expression. “I’m sorry- Danny Rand- of Rand Enterprises?” You had no idea what to make of this information. “He- he and his parents died in a plane crash, didn’t they? About fifteen years ago?”

She nodded. “Yes. But now there’s a man claiming to be him. He’s trying to take control back of his company. Is this a threat to you?”

“A threat?” The very idea seemed preposterous and you let that show. “I don’t know if you remember but Stark Industries holds the market on technological innovation, humanitarian efforts, and clean energy. Last I’ve heard, Rand Enterprises has been backing pharmaceutical research in the efforts of high-priced designer drugs- and dodging patent lawsuits.” Mean-spirited quiet laughter leaked out of some people in the room. “We’re not in the same class. So no, I’m not threatened.”

“Do you think it’s really him?”

“How would I know that?” Getting a little annoyed now. “Look, after everything we’ve experienced as a planet, stranger things have happened. And if that’s the real Daniel Rand, I feel very sorry for him. The Meachums are no joke- they learned all their business ethics from their late father.” Implying very clearly they had none at all. “He’ll need a really good lawyer. And a hell of a lot of evidence. I wish him the best.”

A familiar presence at the back of the room drew your attention. Tony was coming in through one of the doors. He caught your eye and then pointed a hand at his watch. Time to go. People were talking over one another trying to regain your attention where they realized they’d lost it. And as they were realizing you were about to call an end to the meeting. No reason to delay the inevitable. “Thank you all for coming. That’s enough questions now.” This didn’t stop them, of course, for continuing to call out to you. But you parted the sea of bodies on your own and walked all the way to where Tony was still waiting. He put a hand on the small of your back and guided you gently away from all the noise. “Thanks for the save.”

“Any time, honey. ...also you were running late for lunch.” His smile was a little mischievous.

Probably because he was lying. “What? Late for being early?”

The two of you entered the elevator and once the doors closed he put his hands in his pockets with a gentle shrug. “You know me. I’d rather not wait if I don’t have to.”

Putting a hand on his chest, you leaned up to press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “I do know you.”

He warmed in that way he always seemed to. When you were near. When you doted on him. When you loved him. Which was always.

Over a glass of white wine at lunch in a quiet restaurant- by design after buying out all the reservations- the two of you chatted about nothing in particular. All the little important nothings going on. It was nice to just have a moment. But when he got an alert on his phone- and pulled it out-

You must have been making quite a face. Because he seemed to feel a little guilty. He put it down quickly, but you couldn’t help yourself. “What’s so important?”

“Nothing more than you.” Making sure you knew that first. And when you eased up on that steely-eyed stare of disapproval he grinned just a little. “RE stocks took a dive. Joy Meachum is threatening a lawsuit.”

The laugh that escaped you was something a little haughty. “I would love to see her try it.”

A little sparkle lit across Tony’s eyes. You knew that look. Your soft smirk only did him in all the more. “Please continue with the power-play talk.”

It was doing just about everything for him. You reached out, tracing the tip of your finger over the line of his knuckles. “If she comes near you or I, or the company, I’ll eat her alive.”

He was completely engrossed in you. “I know you will.”

“So does she. She’s grandstanding because I just made them look like fools. And she knows if she even tries this, I’ll make them look worse.” She and her brother were currently in charge of all the goings-on of Rand Enterprises, inherited from their shark of a father. You didn’t really care about that business- as you’d said during the press conference. It had no bearing on you, or Stark Industries. “Let her try to bite me. I’ll bite harder.”

Tony was coming just a little bit undone. Very into this. ...so were you. Which meant this was on a road to getting dangerous. It was why you weren’t surprised when a little swirl of lustful darkness took over his eyes, and his tone lowered. “Time to go?”

Your nod was a little helpless. But you continued the play with a fuller smirk on your dark-red lips and a breathy tone, “Check, please.” You felt the pang of heat run through him then.

Back in your office- your locked office- you straddled him as he sat on the couch, your thighs squeezing his. Your hands carded up his chest, loosed his tie out from underneath his suit jacket, and tugged on the edge of it, pulling him up and closer to your waiting, parted lips. He let himself be guided, hands weak and wandering up along your back. His breath came out in a small tremble before you sealed a kiss against his lips that had him groaning. A warm noise that turned to flush disappointment when you ended it too early. His eyes just barely blinked a quarter open as you still held him there.

Leaning a little more in, pulling him up at the same time, you dragged your lips from the corner of his jaw and over the shell of his ear. His hands clutched at your hips, trembling just softly. Your murmur was soft and powerful. “I will scorch this earth if anyone tries to hurt you.” Promising him this.

Knowing this truth. If the power of the sentiment turned him on, that was fine. You two were playing a little game. It didn’t make it any less real. You didn’t mean it any less just because you were using it to arouse him.

And hit its mark it did. A breath clutched in the back of his throat, he held on to you just a little tighter, and his hips were impatient as they rocked up against yours.

You shouldn’t have rewarded it, but you just couldn’t help yourself. The next kiss was much deeper. Much longer. And by the time it was over the two of you were breathing hard. You’d let go of his tie only so that you could rip open his button-up shirt and slide your hands up his chest.

His gaze was hazy and dark as his lips touched just barely over yours. “You are so incredibly hot.” Saying it like it was the only truth he knew in that moment.

Your hands touched up over the sides of his neck and then cradled his face in your palms. He was melting. Keen for your affection, your touch- your everything. It was causing him to move with franticness- grabbing your hips, pulling you into the next roll of his own. Impatient very suddenly. So that was why... “Be good for me, Tony.” Trying this out. Wanting to see if it felt right. If you liked the taste of it.

With the way it seemed to shoot straight through him? The way it stole his breath away? The way it made him want you so desperately? It was almost like you’d struck gold. “What-” His hands moved to squeeze at the back of your thighs. “What do you want?” What does that mean? He was mostly confused and entirely too turned on to make sense of this. But he knew he liked it.

You raked your fingers up along his scalp and towards the back of his head. “Do as I say.”

His smile was dazed. “Anything.” With a promise like that, well…

The office stayed locked for a long few hours.

#Tony Stark #Tony Stark x Reader #INY Chapter One Hundred Ninety Eight

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triviasfolly · 4 years

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Of Empty Casts

Fandom: MZDS / Rating: G

Lan Wangji is dreading the four weeks he'll have to have a cast on his broken leg. He's already plauged by a series of questions about how it happened, how long he has to wear it and (possibly the worst) can I sign it? Suprisingly, it is Wei Wuxian who comes up with a solution to one of his problems.

Read it on AO3

It had only been fifteen minutes since his arrival to school and Lan Wangji already felt drained. He was thankful Lan Xichen had been able to help him navigate the stairs and into his classroom, fielding the questions that were already grating on his nerves. As he watched his brother disappear down the hall, the fear of having to ask someone for help began to move in like a storm cloud.

Which only furthered his determination to do everything himself. As he progressed into the classroom, he was glad he was the first to arrive. He could feel the small furrow in his bow as he tried navigating his way through the desks on his crutches. Why did the desks need to be so close together? Perhaps they’d see a decrease in note passing if they moved them further apart. He’d have to mention it to his Uncle.

“Lan Wangji, can I sign your cast?” A voice sounded just as Lan Wangji managed to lower himself into his chair. The mere question grated on his nerves, the feeling only worsened when he saw it was Su Minshan who’d asked it. His patience, and goodwill, for the day already worn thin by the trek in and people, all he could manage was a glare. “Gee, I was just asking. Don’t have to be so rude.”

“Haven’t you heard Su Minshan?” Wen Chao’s nasally voice sneered from the doorway as he came strutting in. His girlfriend of the week hanging off his arm. “Only friends sign casts, and Lan Wangji doesn’t have any.”

“Are we projecting onto others again?” Wei Wuxian’s voice announced his arrival, his brother and Nie Huaisang close behind him. “I thought we talked about that last week.” He added with a wink to Lan Wangji as he dropped his book bag on his own desk next to Lan Wangji’s.

Wen Chao huffed, blowing past them to get to his own desk purposely jostling Lan Wangji’s cast in the process. He tried not to grimace as he readjusted his leg. He was surprised to find Wei Wuxian sliding his desk chair over for him.

“What, we both know I’m going to have it taken from me in like thirty minutes anyway,” Wei Wuxian laughed with a wink. Lan Wangji let out a small sigh as he remembered his doctor's instructions. He carefully lifted his cast onto the chair Wei Wuxian offered. He watched the boy’s smile grow a bit brighter.

“How long do you have to keep it on?” Nie Huaisang questioned politely as he made his way to his desk on the other side of Wei Wuxian’s. For the sake of Nie Huaisang’s friendship with Wei Wuxian, he answered.

“Four weeks,” He stated simply. Four long weeks of people feeling the need to ask him if he needed help and asking what happened. As if having a broken leg wasn’t bad enough.

“Can I-”

“Huaisang, did you do the math homework last night?” Wei Wuxian questioned cutting off Nie Huaisang.

“Math homework?” Nie Huaisang stuttered. “We had math homework? Wei Wuxian please help this poor soul!” He wailed, flopping into Wei Wuxian’s arms.

Lan Wangji found he didn’t have the heart to remind the two boys that cheating was forbidden. All he wanted to do was get the day over with so he could go back home. Lan Xichen had said the first day was going to be the worst.

“Lan Wangji, can I sign your cast?”

Lan Wangji sighed, not enough to where the person would catch it. It was going to be a long day.

“Can’t you see he’s in his preclass meditation?” Wei Wuxian’s voice fired back before Lan Wangji acknowledged the request.

“Like you give a shit,” Jiang Cheng snorted. He was sitting backwards in his desk chair, watching Nie Huaisang furiously scrawling out his math homework. “The only reason you know about it is so you can interrupt it yourself. Hey, how’d you get fourteen for number seven?” His brow furrowed as he shifted Wei Wuxian’s homework to look at it.

As the rest of their classmates filtered in, Lan Wangji was almost thankful for Wei Wuxian’s annoyingly bright socialization. Everytime someone asked Lan Wangji if they could sign his cast, or what happened, Wei Wuxian was brightly cutting in.

“Lan Zhan have lunch with me,” Wei Wuxian whispered as the teacher came in. Lan Wangji glared at him. “No seriously, I’ve got a solution to one of your problems.”

“Wei Wuxian! You just lost your sitting rights!” The teacher barked.

“Already gave them up!” He replied cheerily. “Trust me.” He added with a wink to Lan Wangji.

Lan Wangji wasn’t sure what made him nod curtly. Maybe he had just used up the patience that was usually reserved for dealing with Wei Wuxian. He put the agreement out of his mind, focusing on the teacher. Still, he found lunch approached far too quickly.

When the lunch bell rang, he was surprised to find Wei Wuxian wordlessly handing him his crutches. Before he could even protest how he took his lunch box, Wei Wuxian was already clearing a pathway through the classroom by shifting desks. So, Lan Wangji bit his tongue and took the quick exit.

“Down here,” Wei Wuxian gestured, pausing to wait for Lan Wangji to take a short flight of stairs. He led the way around the corner, pulling open a door. Lan Wangji recognized it as the art room. “I’ve got permission to eat Lunch in here from the teacher if I want to work on projects.” He explained, probably to abate Lan Wangji’s question on whether or not they were allowed. “Sit,” He gestured to an open spot.

Thankfully the art room was a chaotic sea of open spaces, desks set up for viewing still lives. As a result, it was fairly easy for Lan Wangji to hobble his way to a chair. Wei Wuxian had slid a stool over moments within him sitting, handing him his lunch as he did. Lan Wangji carefully balanced it in his lap as he lifted his cast. He threw a curious glance at Wei Wuxian as he darted about the room, searching for something. He let out a cry of excitement as he found it.

“Alright,” He grinned, bouncing over. Lan Wangji eyed the tub of permanent markers in his grasp. “I figured the reason you don’t want everyone signing your cast is because it can look messy.” He started as he popped open the tub of markers. “But people are going to keep asking as long as it’s blank. So, I figured if I do a large drawing over your cast they’ll leave you alone.” He grinned brightly. “I promise it’ll be appropriate.” He added holding up a three finger salute in oath.

Lan Wangji sighed, he supposed trying something would be better than the constant questions. He didn’t hate Wei Wuxian’s artwork either, at least when it was on a proper canvas and not his school desk. He nodded, gaining an even brighter smile that made Lan Wangji’s heart skip.

“Go ahead and eat,” Wei Wuxian hummed as he knelt down by Lan Wangji’s cast, his eyes scanning over the surface. He reached into the tub with one hand, the other coming up to rub his nose.

Lan Wangji carefully started his lunch, offering Wei Wuxian a dumpling when he got to them. He let out a hum of thanks as he shoved it in his mouth, not even pausing in his work. It was hard to see what he was doing upside down, but he recognized the clouds from his family’s seal.

“All done,” Wei Wuxian grinned. “Just in time too!” He laughed looking at the clock. He pulled out his phone, snapping a few photos and handing it off to Lan Wangji.

It was a landscape, of sorts. The upper part of the cast was covered in the distinctive Lan Clouds. A large magnolia tree filled the space around the ankle, the branches curving out and around the side. Nestled in the roots of the tree was a rabbit, a few more scattered out throughout the grass Wei Wuxian had filled the foot of the cast with. Lan Wangji found a small smile turning the corners of his mouth.

“I’ll take that as a sign you like it,” Wei Wuxian laughed, taking his phone back. He leaned over to pick up the tub of markers, moving to cap the last one he had open. Lan Wangji reached up to stop him. “What is it?”

“Sign it,” Lan Wangji replied. He watched a bright smile break across Wei Wuxian’s face. He rubbed his nose with the end of the marker as he looked at the cast to find an unobtrusive spot to sign. He found a small space between the clouds, on the inner side of his knee.

“Now, I don’t want to find you selling this in thirty years now that I’ve signed it,” Wei Wuxian teased.

“Mn,” Lan Wangji nodded. When Wei Wuxian’s back turned to put the makers back, his fingers ran across the signature. A small smile forming on his face.

“Now, let's see if this crazy plan of mine worked.” Wei Wuxian winked, handing Lan Wangji his crutches.

He didn’t have the luck to be the first one back in the classroom, but Wei Wuxian darted in front of him to clear a path again. He settled back into his desk, propping his foot up on a stool that had been produced during the break. Wei Wuxian reclaiming his chair.

“Now I get why you didn’t want anyone to sign it!” Nie Huaisang loudly exclaimed as he saw Lan Wangji’s cast. He heard a roll of similar murmurs throughout the other classmates. He shifted slightly under the attention. “Wuxian, how come you never offered to draw all over my cast?”

“First off, we were nine,” Wei Wuxian snorted in reply. “Secondly, you had everyone's signatures all over it! There was nothing left for me to work with. Lan Zhan on the other hand,” Wei Wuxian winked. “Will and patience of a saint. Giving me a beautifully unmarked canvas.”

Lan Wangji nodded, feeling his ears flush at the comment. He wasn’t fond of the attention as his classmates gathered around to look at it, but at least they weren’t asking any questions. The bell sounded and everyone shuffled to their seats. Wei Wuxian gave Lan Wangji a wink as he settled into his.

“Wei Ying,” Lan Wangji called softly. Wei Wuxian looked over with a raised eyebrow. “I have to get a new cast next week. Would you be willing?”

“I’d love to,” Wei Wuxian beamed at him.

Lan Wangji nodded, pressing his lips together as he turned his attention to the teacher who had just entered. Perhaps the next four weeks wouldn’t be so terrible.

#mdzs #mo dao zu shi #the untamed #cql #mdzs fanfiction #fanfiction #trivia writes #of empty casts

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titanias-stolen-shoes · 4 years

Text

To Say Goodbye

Summary: Ruby and Sacchrina talk about their dreams, delving into Ruby's reoccurring nightmare about Jet and her guilt about Jet's death

Word Count: 1584

Read on AO3!

Ruby stood in the dark attic of the lingerie shop she knew so well, her breathing shaky and hand gripping her bow. Her eyes darted back and forth, trying to find where the enemy was in the overwhelming darkness.

Something shuffled to her right and she fired blindly, hoping that her family had taken cover. There was a groan as someone fell to the ground and then there was light. Jet was on her knees, one of Ruby's poison arrows settled firmly in her chest, the locket split jaggedly in half. Ruby dropped her bow, hands covering her gasps as she looked at what she had done. The rot in Jet's stomach began to spread and she stood and pointed at Ruby, a look of venomous reproach on her face as she croaked, "First you leave me behind and now you kill me yourself?"

Ruby reached out, trying to grasp her hand and explain. I didn't want to leave you! I wanted to stay by your side! But no words would come out, her throat burning with effort and when their hands finally touched, Jet began to crumble. The rot ate away at her as she stared her twin down, and said as her face began to fall, "I will never forgive you for this."

~|~

Ruby stood in the kitchen making herself a cup of hot chocolate. Havestdusk was moving in quickly and she'd never done well with the cold. She could have asked someone to give her more blankets for her room, but she didn't want to bother someone so late at night and it wasn't like she was really sleeping anyway.

Three years had passed since the end of the war and since then she'd been gone from the castle for most it. She had stayed, of course, to help Saccharina navigate the political landscape since she hadn't grown up learning it like Ruby had. And when Saccharina had settled and the Swirler Sisters's circus came around, she had to go. She couldn't stay put in one spot for so long, her body restless for movement and wonder. They accepted her gladly, happy to have another acrobat in the troop and Ruby was thrilled to be able to bring happiness to those who found it hard to smile after the war.

And now she was back in Castle Candy, though she wasn't sure for how long. Perhaps a month. Perhaps a year. At the rate her nightmares were going it'd be closer to a month.

Still, she was happy to be back. Liam had tackled her with the warmest hug she'd had in a long time and Theo wasn't far behind. Theo was thrilled she'd made it back and demanded to know what the newly expanded Candia was like. "It's fine," she'd said. "Lots of people who were displaced by the war are making their homes there."

He looked like he wanted to ask more questions but Gooey called him away, smiling at Ruby in greeting before they left. Ruby didn't care to know what they were going to do.

Ruby had seen Cumulous many times in her travels though he never lingered for long, searching for more magic items. He smiled at her from Liam's gardens.

She hadn't had personal time with Saccharina yet, only having been back few days and helping Saccharina with her queenly duties. All the new land to account for and look over wasn't an easy task, but with Ruby having actually seen it, along with Cumulous, it was easier.

Still, she thought as she sipped her cocoa, it would be nice to just sit and talk.

"I knew I heard someone down here." Saccharina floated into the kitchen, a small smile on her face. "Mind if I join you?"

"I was just thinking it'd be nice to talk to you."

Saccharina chuckled as she sat across from Ruby. She snapped her fingers and the hot chocolate lost its heat becoming nearly cold enough to be frozen. "I suppose it's no coincidence we're both awake in the middle of the night."

"Can't imagine it's for fun. Can't sleep?"

She took a sip and sighed. "I know I'm safe here and no one has been able to hurt me in a long time, but the nightmares say otherwise."

"The nunnery again?"

"Kidnapped on the sea. It didn't end well for them, but it still… It's still not a pleasant memory." Saccharina eyed Ruby and she tried not to let her shoulders slouch quite so much, tried to lift her face into something resembling well rested. Saccharina didn't buy it. "Nightmares too?"

Ruby thought about lying. Saccharina already had so much to do and worry about and Ruby shouldn't add on to it. But still, she wouldn't have asked if she didn't want to know.

Ruby's hands gripped her mug. "Have you ever… Have you ever had someone you care about die, but you know that if you had done something different, they'd still be here?"

Saccharina sat for a moment, eyes drifting out the window, before she said, "When I found out my mom died, I thought maybe the stress of having me as a daughter is what caused her to become so sick. I thought maybe if I had been born differently she would still be here. That wasn't really something I had control over, but I do understand what you mean."

"When Jet was hurt, I ran. Water steel daggers are deadly to even the strongest of us. Pops barely survived the times he was stabbed. And when Jet got hurt, I didn't know what to do or how to help so I ran and left her and Liam behind." Ruby's face was hot with unshed tears and she tilted her face to the ceiling. "I left her behind and she died and if I had stayed then maybe I could have done something more and saved her. Maybe she'd still be here."

Saccharina grabbed Ruby's hand, prying her fingers away the mug that had started to crack under her grip. She placed a cool hand on Ruby's cheek and said, "Let's got for a walk."

~|~

The night air was cool against her hot face, but right now all she wanted was to crawl into bed and hope her nightmares would cease. Instead, she walked arm in arm with Saccharina through the gardens.

They weren't nearly as neat as they had been when Caramelinda was in charge of their care, but controlled chaos was more Liam's style.

Saccharina led them through a maze of different plants and trees, most of which Ruby couldn't name, until they were at the center of the garden coming upon the largest tree. It was the tree from the seed Lapin had given Liam that now bore a strong resemblance to the old rabbit.

Saccharina knelt at the base and Ruby noticed a small cloth had been placed on the ground with two half burned incense on top. Ruby knelt next to her, silently offering prayers for Lapin and Preston—though it was more from habit than true belief.

"Whenever I would start to feel overwhelmed, Liam and Theo would take me here. They would tell me about Lapin and the wishes he granted for the Sugar Plumb Fairy and how hard he tried to help you all. I never met him, but hearing about all he did and how much he had to hide to keep you all safe. It helped me put into perspective my own duties and worries." Saccharina reached out and lit the incense again, the sweet smell of peppermint, chocolate, and a hint of cinnamon filled the air between them. "What I mean is you did everything you could for Jet. You were there with her when she needed you and I'm sure she understood."

Ruby stared at the smoke as it rose, thinking back to what Liam had told her below the deck of ship after Jet's funeral. "She wanted me to tell you she loves you. And you did the right thing." Even now Ruby found that hard to believe. Hard to believe that running away had been the right decision when she hadn't been fast enough to get help. When she hadn't been skilled enough to even stop her sister, her other half, her heart, from dying. But Ruby had that same thought: Jet wouldn't have said it if she didn't mean it.

"It wasn't your fault Jet died." Saccharina's voice was clear and seemed to cut through the fog that plagued Ruby's mind and she let out a loud, hiccuping sob. It had been so long since she allowed herself to cry for Jet. So long since she had started moving and hadn't let herself stop. She'd always thought that if she kept moving then she'd be fine. But as she sat in the gardens with Saccharina, still for the first time in years, she let herself mourn fully the life she and Jet could have had.

Saccharina placed her arms around Ruby as she cried as loudly and openly as a child. They stayed there until the Ruby's tears dried and the Bulb began to crest the horizon. They stayed, arms wrapped around each other, as Theo lumbered through the castle and grounds searching for them. And they stayed until Liam found them curled up together, fast asleep under the leaves and branches of Lapin's tree.

Maybe now, and perhaps for the first time, Ruby could finally say goodbye.

@allsevenmaidens

#it's been a hit sec since i wrote something that wasn't crossing paths #also i love sisters supporting each other #ruby rocks #saccharina ghee #saccharina frostwhip #jet rocks #i wrote something!

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dzamie-oc · 4 years

Text

Smaugust 19 - Demon

A MLP/Persona 4 crossover. Spike has fallen into a deep sleep, and Luna and Twilight venture into his mind to find out what's wrong. (2238 words)

cw: MLP, Persona 4, kidnapping mention

Twilight and Luna ran through the castle. Twilight had called on the alicorn of night when Spike had fallen into a deep sleep, and Zecora had been unable to help. With Luna's help, the two alicorns cast themselves into his subconscious. However, Twilight wasn't prepared for the twisted, creepy landscape within.

Spike's voice, distorted, sharp, pained and painful, echoed all around them as they navigated the halls. Exaggerated, clingy caricatures of Rarity flung themselves at them, assaulting the mares with magically-created gemstones. They spoke in unison, "you will not harm our precious Spikey-Wikey! He who commands the respect of all!" Wherever the gemstones fell, crystal ponies rose from the ground, each wearing "Spike The Brave And Glorious" shirts. Twilight kept a shield around herself and Luna as the night mare navigated through the hallways.

"As weird as this is to say," Twilight shouted over the din of crashing crystals and shrieking mares with white coats and flowing, purple manes, "thank you for not telling me we have to kill Rarity."

<Unloved, disrespected... They don't deserve the noble deeds I do every day.>

"Your gratitude is appreciated but misguided," Luna called back, using her own telekinesis to guide Twilight quickly through a sharp corner, "would we not be immediately overrun, I would welcome the chance to train you in dream fighting." A gem struck the carpet before them. The pair leapt over it as it formed a crystal pony. Luna cast a spell as a Parthian shot; it struck the newly-made mare, causing her to continue to develop into a thick, crystal wall as they fled, sporting numerous eyes, limbs, and semitransparent cutie marks.

The purple alicorn looked back and shuddered, pure muscle memory forcing her to keep galloping on. "What kind of spell was that?!"

This time, it was followed by a soft, pleading "no... don't..." in Spike's normal voice.

"Dreams need not make sense, Twilight Sparkle," Luna replied as they came to a door. There was a rough-cut, heart-shaped hole in it, where a lock would be, and the alchemical symbol for fire printed above it. "As often as I disagree with the draconequus, adapting chaos magic from Discord can be helpful in a pinch." She squinted at the door. "A fire-attuned heart? Twilight, you are Spike's guardian. Do you know what would fit here? Something deeply related to his sense of identity."

"this isn't right... i would never..."

Twilight racked her brain, running back through her memories of Spike, growing up with him, watching him figure himself out. Not the Crystal Heart, it was too big. Not a Power Ponies book. Not that bowtie from the incident with Owlowicious. The mare gasped. Rarity! "It's a fire ruby! He was going to give it to himself for his hatchday, but gave it to Rarity instead. When he went into Greed Growth, she refused to give it over to the rampaging... Spike, and that helped bring him back!"

"if she's screaming, that's not..."

A piercing shriek jolted Luna's attention to another caricature of Rarity. The alicorn's eyes gleamed as she challenged the dream monster, "you're no true Rarity! Spike would never give you that fire ruby!" The white mare grinned a manic grin full of sharp teeth a dragon would be envious of, then held up a fire ruby in her magic. Luna's horn glowed, and a powerful beam of magic drove the creature through a wall, making its own magical field flicker and break. "Twilight! The gem!"

"it's... a lie..."

A purple hue shimmered to life around the fire ruby, stopping it just inches before it hit the ground and sprouted a crystal pony, or shattered. Twilight quickly maneuvered it into place in the lock, which clicked. The huge door opened into what looked like a corrupted version of the Canterlot throne room. The stained glass windows showed images of Spike saving the Crystal Heart, Spike dressed as his Ogres and Oubliettes character, Spike as Humbug beating up the Maneiac, Spike saving Applejack from timberwolves, and many more. The dual thrones of the two sisters had been cast aside near the doorway, and in their place was a massive pile of gold, ice cream, gems, comics, the Elements of Harmony, sets of dice, and even the Crystal Heart.

"I don't want that!"

On the ornate, gold-and-purple carpet leading to the treasure pile, Twilight saw Spike. She flew towards him, only to stop short when she realized who was on TOP of the treasure pile: Spike, being fawned over by Thorax, Ember, and a much more accurate-looking Rarity... with wings.

Twilight looked between the two of them; behind her, Luna barricaded the door against more Rarities and crystal ponies. "Spike? Who is... what's going on?"

The Spike on the floor turned and ran towards her. "Twilight! Don't listen to a word that guy is saying. None of it is true! I'm Spike. **He's not me!"**

Luna whipped her head around and galloped towards them, flapping her wings for speed. However, before she could get there, a blast of green flame shot from the strange Spike's mouth, striking the other Spike too fast for Twilight to even put up a shield.

<WHAT?! I AM you! Just because you constantly lie to yourself because you think it makes PONIES happy, doesn't make it true!> The room darkened; both alicorns could feel an immense power gathering from the dragon's fury. <In fact, I think you're due for a replacement. I will finally command the respect and adulation I deserve.> He glared at the intruding ponies, eyes glowing gold. <And you two will be the first brought to heel as my worshippers!>

There was a crash of thunder, and everything changed. The weather outside the hall grew dark and stormy. The scenes in the stained-glass windows altered, now with red backgrounds: changelings prostrated before Spike, crystal ponies prostrated before Spike, Applejack prostrated before Spike, the Power Ponies prostrated before Spike, the Princesses prostrated before Spike, and more of the same. Thorax and Ember hovered in front of where the hoard had been, huge, unnatural grins plastered on their faces with hearts in their eyes. And as for Spike...

A huge dragon loomed at the far end of the hallway. Every inch of what Twilight was sure were purple scales and a green crest was covered in layers of gold and gems. The creature held a long and broad sword in his mouth, his wings were enormous kite shields with Spike's face emblazoned on them as a crest, and dangling from his tail was the Rarity alicorn, trapped in a golden and diamond-encrusted cage but staring adoringly at the adorned dragon. Twilight felt a weight against her side, and turned to see that the Spike by her had fallen unconscious. She ignited her horn and blinked the two of them away from the amalgamation and the corruptions of the leaders of the dragons and of the changelings.

Luna stepped up, a look of pure determination on her muzzle. "Nightmare," she commanded, "and Tantabus." From her mane and her horn, Nightmare Moon materialized on her left, and the purple, starry dream construct flowed into existence on her right. The alicorn of dreams turned her head to address Twilight, and said, "keep him safe, Twilight Sparkle. I am counting on you. And more importantly, so is he." She crouched, spread her wings, and lit her horn; the two monsters of her own creation followed suit. Spike's shadow roared, and as one, he, Thorax, and Ember rushed forward to meet their opposition.

As magic and gems flew, Twilight concentrated on keeping a solid, purple shield up between the fight, and herself and Spike. This paid off a few times, when a diamond Luna chipped off of Spike's shadow skidded off its surface, or when a solid hit from the changeling-turned-bugbear sent Nightmare Moon careening back and using the shield to spring off of. When she felt she had the time, Twilight funneled some extra magic into Spike's body; it was a rudimentary healing spell, but Twilight hoped it would be enough.

At last, the final blow was struck: the Tantabus severed the shadow's tail with a blade of dreamstuff, cutting the fake Rarity off from the dragon, Luna struck a weak spot with a stunning spell, and Nightmare Moon used the opening to shove what is scientifically called "a boatload" of dark, destructive magic down the dragon's throat. In a flash of light, the scene had returned to where it was before. Spike stirred against Twilight's side as his shadow remained on top of the assorted hoard, the phony alicorn, changeling king, and dragon lord watching him in adulation. Twilight helped the purple dragon next to her to his feet, and they approached once more.

<I will not be denied. I am amazing, and heroic, and I WILL be treated as such!> Spike's distorted voice echoed through the room. <I have more than earned the right to be way more than a scientist's pet lizard!>

Spike sighed and walked up to the pile. "Look... you're... you're not right, but I wasn't fair saying that I don't think that way sometimes. Living with and near a group of mares who save Equestria on, what, a weekly basis? would make anyone feel unappreciated." One dragon climbed the pile, while the other slid down it, sending gold coins and small rubies clinking down the slope. "A month or so ago, I finally realized how much being blinded by my fame and ego hurt other ponies, so I tried to make up for it by pretending not to have any. Just pushing down the thoughts of a reward for everything I do to help.

"It was making me miserable, I suppose, but I did such a good job of hiding it, even I didn't realize what I was doing. I'm sorry, I didn't accept you of first because I was terrified of what I might become - what I HAD become in the past - if I acknowledged your existence. I was so scared of another 'acting on behalf of Princess Twilight' or Greed Growth fiasco that I stopped letting myself feel deserving of anything not offered unprompted." Spike stuck out his hand. "I am Spike the Brave and Glorious; no matter how much I pretend in Ponyville that I don't have a statue in my name, that's just not the case. I saved the Crystal Heart, I delivered all those friendship reports to Twilight when Discord corrupted her, hay, I even DM for Discord. Nopony deserves EVERYTHING, not me, not Twilight, not even the Two Sisters, but I have to stop pretending that, every so often, I kind of like to picture it."

The other Spike took his hand and began to glow. There was a flash of gold, and the other Spike disappeared, leaving only the young dragon who had fainted through the battle. The hoard vanished, too, leaving Ember, Rarity (still an alicorn), and Thorax sitting at a round table with paper and dice in front of them, as well as an unoccupied DM screen. He turned to the two non-Rarity alicorns and smiled. "Thanks, Twilight, Luna. I don't know what would've happened if you two hadn't showed up."

Twilight gave him a bittersweet smile, tears threatening to leak from her eyes. "You're welcome, Spike. I'm sorry I didn't notice you felt this way. We'll have to talk more when you've woken up." She turned to Luna. "And, uh, Luna? Is this a common dream thing, or a special case for him being comatose?"

Luna nodded in acknowledgement of Spike's thanks, then replied to Twilight, "it is... uncommon. Most are not so dangerous or powerful, but I've learned my way around them, as you can see. Now come, we should leave Spike to his dream. If I trust what I glimpsed of those character sheets and campaign notes, you will not want to stick around and watch, either." With a spell, she summoned a door out of Spike's subconscious, and dragged a chronically-curious Twilight away from the table and back into wakefulness.

#my little pony #persona #persona 4 #dragon #fanfiction #crossover #twilight sparkle #princess luna #spike #video games #smaugust #writing #smaugust 2020 #writers on tumblr #text

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