#the whole we’re communicating but it’s a little painful but we’re now better off for it! | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

itsclydebitches · 2 years

Text

RWBY Fairy Tales Recaps: “The Girl in the Tower”

Hello, everyone! It’s been a long time since I added to this collection. My bad 😬

That’s because—as I mentioned in passing a couple of times while answering asks—I got pretty stuck on recapping this fairy tale. I realized (several weeks after I’d first started) that this was because I wasn’t actually recapping “The Girl in the Tower.” Rather, my thoughts regarding Salem and the implications attached to this short spiraled into a much broader dive into RWBY’s handling of sympathetic villains, particularly the women. Though everything I wrote is relevant to the tale, it got to the point where I was trying to do far too much in an otherwise narrowly defined post, spinning in writing circles until it felt like I didn’t know what I was trying to accomplish anymore.

Eventually I made the painful, but necessary move of scraping everything and starting over. Now, here we are!

Much of what I originally had to say still colors this recap, but let’s actually stick to the fairy tale this time, yeah? In addition, though in the past I’ve done a detailed comparison to Myers’ original story, this time there was so much to cover I didn’t want to get sidetracked again. Outside of a quote or two towards the end, we’re keeping to the adaptation.

Let’s get started!

Ozpin begins the story by summarizing that “a beautiful girl was locked in a tower by her cruel father” and right off the bat we hit one of my biggest problems with this fairy tale as a part of the RWBY-verse: there’s no subversion. There’s no twist, no surprise, not spark of originality here. RWBY markets itself as a fairy tale that plays with other fairy tales and though yes, we’ve discussed as a community how those changes can mean almost anything nowadays (there’s no unifying intention, let alone one that actually functions as a subversion most of the time), but something usually exists to spark viewer interest. Little Red Riding Hood now hunts the wolves herself. In this universe the Tin Man already had, but lost, his heart. Pinocchio still becomes human, but then gives her life less than an hour after achieving that (never established) dream. You get the idea. Even when RWBY is playing with fairy tales in a manner that arguably hurts the story as a whole, it’s still some kind of innovation that might keep the viewer interested, at least for a time. Yet here, “The Girl in the Tower” is as straightforward as any Golden Era Disney film which, while not inherently bad, doesn’t exactly fit RWBY’s marketed appeal. There is a “beautiful girl,” a “cruel father,” the terrible fate of being locked away, and eventually the handsome knight come to save her. There’s admittedly agency in Salem sending her notes (we’ll get to that) and the ways in which this story is colored by our knowledge that she’ll become a villain past her Happy Ending... but the actual fairy tale on its own? It’s as bland and straightforward as they come, made all the worse by giving Salem the means to do something compelling—powerful magic at her fingertips—and simply... not using that.

As is the trend in this collection, a lackluster tale is made better by the stylistic presentation, particularly when it comes to the backgrounds. We get to see the ruin of Salem’s castle moving backwards to its initial glory—and, notably, looking a whole lot like Beacon Academy. Crush my heart why don’t you—and all the animated gears work like a puppet display, cranking individual pieces into a unified whole. I don’t need to explain to anyone reading this why the gears themselves are significant.

We’re introduced to the King who, in true king fashion, wears a crown. Now, question: is it the same as the Crown of Choice?

I’m honestly not sure. (Bear with me. I promise I don’t need to get my eyes checked.) One would think not given that they’re made of different materials and have different gem stones too. The King’s is silver with some kind of blue jewel, whereas the king from “The Indecisive King”—whom we know did possess the Relic—is copper-y with... emeralds? I’m not going to pretend that I can identify gems in real life, let alone through RT’s animation. The point is that they’re even shaped differently, which should imply that no, there’s no connection between the two.

However, RWBY is also the show that gave us this:

I’ll get into the problems of erasing the SEW’s race in my recap of “The Warrior in the Woods,” but for now it’s just important to note that RT didn’t bother to keep their character consistent between their show and the book that it’s based on, even when this visual connection is the one thing that ties two different mediums together. RWBY is also the webseries that gave us this symbol

alongside this one

yet has now, apparently, insisted that there’s no connection between them. As far as I can tell, this was confirmed during a Reddit AMA back in December of 2021 with Kerry saying, “in hindsight we probably shouldn’t have let some elements be so similar, but no, Jaune and Salem aren’t related” (Lucifer_Crowe). AKA, all us “Jaune is a descendant of Salem with the emblem becoming simplified over the generations” theorists should pack up that idea and move onto something else. A part of me is very revealed by this announcement, mostly because I wasn’t interested in dealing with the fallout of Jaune getting (another) major contribution to the plot. That relief aside though, this admission that “we probably shouldn’t have let some elements be so similar” reinforces the idea that we really can’t trust what we see on screen in RWBY. Very similar emblems (and hair color, eye color, a powerful lineage, to say nothing of Tyrian’s comment) apparently mean nothing. And this is by no means a one-off mistake. There’s no effort made to adapt a canonical illustration. The animators had to scramble to distinguish silver eyes after the writers didn’t consider that gray eyes would look identical. Our last arc gave Ironwood a semblance that provided no noticeable difference in how he was animated once his aura was broken, despite that being a core way for the audience to determine what abilities are or are not influencing the story. In short, as a visual medium the RWBY franchise should encourage a wealth of analysis about the animation itself, but the story is so inconsistent we simply cannot trust that anything we visually pick up on is actually significant. Or, in turn, that a difference means that there’s truly no connection here. Is the crown that adorns Salem’s father’s head the same Relic that caused a previous king so much grief, perhaps providing an explanation for his similarly gaunt appearance and his strange choice to keep his daughter locked away, convinced she will perish if set free?

Or is there no connection between the two images, leaving the King as a generic, motiveless bad guy in a tale already struggling to live up to RWBY’s attempts to innovate, the visual parallels pure coincidence?

It’s most likely the latter, but we can’t be sure because RT has a long history of visual mistakes. They really are the studio that might animate two totally different crowns and then unexpectedly go, “Actually yeah, they are the same. Why don’t they look alike? Uh… because they’re shown in different stories! Yeah, or something like that. It’s a smart stylistic choice, trust us ;)” Fans should be able to theorize about a story with confidence, knowing the authors will either validate the details they caught, or surprise us by going in a new direction that is, crucially, still supported by what we see and hear on screen. Yet RWBY continues to fail on both fronts, forgetting to include significant details in their show while simultaneously positioning others as only existing in meta-commentary.

That tangent aside, let’s get to the plot proper. We’re introduced to this King whose wife (also unnamed) dies while delivering Salem (another tired choice imo). He’s so consumed by grief that he can’t even hold his daughter when the nurse presents her to him and initially, I took this to mean that the King locked Salem away out of a warped sense of danger. Hence, theories about how the Crown of Choice might be influencing him. Apparently though, from what else we can gather, he’s just an abusive asshole. That it. It’s originally implied that Salem is locked up because the King feared losing her as he did his wife, but then that’s shown to be an excuse for his far more generic cruelty. He claims to keep her in the tower so that Salem may be safe from the evils of the world, but the understanding for the audience is that in reality he just sees her as another of his possessions, a living treasure to keep secure in an overly-large chest. Frankly, it feels like too many motivations for what amounts to a character with literal seconds of screen time. RWBY as a franchise has a habit of introducing various concepts in an effort the make characters complex, but then the failure to follow up on any of those ideas results in minor confusion at best, outright contradictions at worst. The King is by no means the most overt example of this, but I find it notable that even for what is ultimately meant to be a cardboard cutout dude functioning as a plot devise, RWBY feels the need to introduce “nuance” that inevitably falls flat when nothing is done with it.

“You are my most precious possession,” he tells a very young Salem, just in case there was any lingering confusion about whether he considers her a person or not. Why make the King interesting with an internal life of his own when you can just make him another bad man doing bad things for... reasons.

The strangeness of the King’s characterization aside, something I do love about this moment is his hand reaching out towards Salem, overly large and looming… only to settle kindly on the top of her head. It’s a great visual for an abuser, where we as the audience know he means Salem harm, is currently enacting that harm, the implications of the shot are not inaccurate—and yet the end result of the gesture is just a pat on the head. This shot neatly summarizes how abusers can hide behind perceived intentions, enacting choices that appear kind if you don’t know the whole situation. We see similar work with the teddy bear he gives to Salem. Is a father giving his daughter a toy in-and-of-itself a wonderful, wholesome gesture? Yes. Is a father giving his daughter a toy in an attempt to compensate for keeping her perpetually locked in a tower wonderful and wholesome? I sure hope we all know the answer to that… Every once in a while, RWBY manages something really nice and I’m forcibly reminded of the potential this series isn’t capitalizing on.

This is Salem’s norm all throughout her childhood, asking to be let out and instead being given additional treasures to pass the time. Later, when she’s much older—sometime in her teens—we see her attempt to pass through the barrier that surrounds the tower and keeps her from escaping out the window. Frankly, I would have given the audience this moment when she was still a kid because as it stands, the action reads like this is Salem’s first time trying to leave the confines of her room. And that’s not just because it’s our first time seeing the attempt: Salem deliberately touches the barrier and then cradles her hand against her chest as if it has hurt her and like yeah, sure, maybe she prods the equivalent of an electrical shock because she’s that bored, but it’s just strange to show an action she would have learned to avoid by now, especially when you’ve already modeled her as a child. It’s one of those choices that doesn’t mean much on its own, but considering that one of my primary questions is how much Salem has tested the limits of her freedom prior to calling on strangers to die in her name… yeah, I’d like to know why an acknowledgement of the barrier doesn’t come until years after it was erected.

Unable to go outside, Salem asks her father for books instead, so that she might at least experience things second-hand. “The world in these books,” Salem says. “What a marvelous place!” This series has certainly played with the concept of storytelling itself—seen most notably in the faunus fairy tales and Ozpin’s meta-comments on each story — and though “The Girl in the Tower” doesn’t capitalize on the implication, I’m intrigued by Salem’s use of the singular here: “world” and “place.” It’s like she’s conceptualized all these different stories into a single vision of what the world is. Again, it’s not something RWBY is interested in exploring (and there certainly isn’t time for it), but does Salem think that everything she’s been given is non-fiction? Is she able to distinguish between a story, a history, and the bias that influences both? The answer is likely “no” given that she has, canonically, never set foot outside this room. For those fans who are interested in exploring Salem’s character in fic, it’s worth unpacking what she thought Remnant might look like vs. what she actually ended up with — death, cruel gods, a curse she’s maybe incapable of breaking depending on whether the grimm pool left her with the ability to grow and come to understand the (supposed) importance of death...

Basically, there’s a contrast here between the bright-eyed Salem in love with the world of her books and the abusive, monstrous Salem we get later in the series. It’s a change that’s ripe for some introspective consideration.

In time though, Salem finishes all the books in the castle and, for obvious reasons, still finds herself unsatisfied. “Tomorrow I’ll be sixteen and I’ve never even stepped outside!” It’s in her anger that Salem throws the book she’s just finished and it sails out the window, right through the barrier. Again, not to nitpick the five minute fairy tale, but it really took Salem sixteen years to realize that objects could leave the tower? Honestly, no wonder the heroes are winning so easily. Salem has always been a little slow on the uptake, huh?

Okay, okay, jokes aside, I am serious about this. Wouldn’t it have been better to have kid!Salem throw a temper tantrum and discover this loophole earlier? Give us a childhood and early teenage years of her trying various ways to escape, only to eventually succumb to what she sees as a horrible necessity? Honestly, I have a lot of feelings about this “Salem did nothing for sixteen years and then jumped straight to murder” plot-line. Because to skip ahead just a tad, Salem decides to call on all the nearby knights to kill her father.

Here then, we get to the part of the recap where I feel the need to explain that I’m not trying to victim blame Salem here, but rather I’m commenting on RT’s inability to craft a situation where the extreme nature of Salem’s solution feels justified. Because for me, justification is tied not just to the horrific nature of what she’s trying to escape, but also her duty as a human being. If Salem is going to settle on allowing others to fight this battle on her behalf, under arguably false pretenses, and with all but one of those volunteers dying in the process… I want to be convinced by the story that Salem tried every better option first; that this is indeed the last possible resort. Has she tried to sneak past her father? Get the maid to help her? Fight him herself given that, as said, she’s a very powerful magic wielder who does eventually fight her way out of the castle?

That’s probably my biggest sticking point with this story: what was the point of taking a character already established as individually powerful and having them sit around for someone else to come save them? Especially when they’re a woman who the audience will be reading through a decades-long history of passively written characters. Double especially in a franchise that’s supposedly built around both emphasizing women’s agency and undermining our expectations for fairy tales. Yes, Salem’s story here needs to match up with what we were shown in The Lost Fable (not that RWBY has a good track record of keeping things consistent…) yet that just showcases how badly thought out this was in the larger scheme of the RWBY universe. Who looked at our series’ Big Bad, an unfathomably powerful obstacle living in a world at least somewhat interested in turning fairy tale expectations on their head, someone who, based on the writing of “The Lost Fable” and Ozpin’s established character since Episode One, was always conceived of as having personal power, even before she got tangled up with the Gods…

…and then decided to stick her in a tower to wait around for the knight’s rescue?

Contrary to what some critics might claim—and what many of my own metas might imply—the RWBY characters are not actually cardboard cutouts who exist solely to forward a plot, or even impart some moral message. They’re meant to have personalities, goals, and above all motivation, which makes “The Girl in the Tower” flounder considering this isn’t even a generic side-character, but Salem herself. She’s arguably the character next to Ruby. Yet Salem feels so flat to me here, largely due to that lack of agency and the equal lack of creativity that inevitably lumps her in with every other sanitized fairy tale. Why give us a determined woman pushing the limits of her father’s imprisonment when Salem could just sit there for the whole story? Again, I want to stress that there’s nothing inherently wrong with these character traits in any real-life situation we might equate this to. Yes, I know enough to understand that most abuse victims are going to accommodate their abusers out of a need to keep themselves safe, alongside being conditioned—in this case since childhood—to see this as normal, thereby making Salem’s passiveness at least semi-realistic. I also understand that not every character needs to be a kick-ass taker of what they want (I actually have a great deal of dislike for the Strong Female Character) and that Salem’s love of reading is just as valid a characterization as someone who, I don’t know, encourages the maid to do more on her behalf. We can even make the case that this quiet, bookish Salem makes for a wonderful contrast to the power-hungry threat she’d become, or that she’s perfectly in character given the still unexplained thousand years she spent just sitting around, not going after her goals until the heroes were conveniently in combat school. All of this is true!

But Salem isn’t a real person undergoing real abuse. If we’ve learned anything from RWBY’s handling of Blake’s faunus heritage and Yang’s disability—both of which were dropped after introducing the bare bones of nuance—it’s that RT is very willing to throw respect for those subjects aside in an effort to craft an exciting tale. No one (according to canon implications and a few Word of God comments) wants to watch Yang working through a depression at home, or Ruby grappling with nightmares, or Blake overcoming systemic racism… despite the fact that they chose to introduce those plot-lines in the first place. The show would much prefer to put emphasis on the fun, exciting aspects that RWBY was originally built on. This conflict is obviously a problem, but the flip-side is that Salem’s story is, arguably, one place where RT could have emphasized the Rule of Cool over real world allegories without any issues… and they didn’t. I can obviously only speak for myself, but I don’t need a fairy tale that tries to unpack the complexities of a woman held prisoner, especially when that character will go on to become both a domestic abuser herself, as well as the series’ Big Bad. Outside of a very generalize takeaway of “Abuse is cyclical” that the viewer might come to in their own time, there’s simply too much there to unpack. Don’t even try. However, you know what the story could use? That sort of simplicity used as a springboard for a kickass plot where a woman saves herself from captivity.

As it stands, Salem apparently thought little of her imprisonment for sixteen years, suddenly got mad about it, decided on a manipulative murder scheme as the only solution, and yet continued to stand around while others carried that out. It’s... not a great combination.

She has this light-bulb moment about the book going through the barrier and the next day, when the King visits to gift Salem with all the jewels and clothes befitting a captive princess on her birthday, she asks him for pen and paper (quill and paper? When did the word “pen” come into use?) so that she can write stories of her own. The tone of the conversation is notable in that the King appears rather taken with her request — he asks that Salem read him her stories when she’s finished — but Salem clearly sounds like she’s plotting something. Specifically, she writes a story about herself, folds numerous copies into paper... birds, since airplanes don’t exist yet, and throws them out her window for others to find.

Now, ignoring both that Salem writes this cry for help as a story rather than a first-person note that people would be much more likely to take seriously, and that her little folding technique would only fly a few feet before plummeting to the ground (unless she’s using magic?) here’s my problem with this whole plan:

“Once there was a beautiful maiden locked in a tower by her cruel, lord father. She longed to experience the world outside, but she was his prisoner. If only some brave, strong warrior would defeat the evil lord and free her at last, they would marry, inherit all of the father’s riches, and live happily ever after.”

This is so manipulative. The fandom gives Ozpin shit for not being forthcoming about Salem’s immortality, but at least he never presented the war itself as some sunny quest with a big reward at the end. Here, Salem is leading strangers to their deaths by a) promising them things that, at this point in the story, we don’t know whether she intends to uphold (does she really mean to marry whoever saves her? Sure, she fell for Ozpin, but what if it hadn’t been him? Will she give up her inheritance if she’s no longer marrying the guy she promised it to?) and b) failing to warn anyone that her father is a crazy powerful sorcerer who will obliterate anyone who tries to take his daughter away. “Lord” doesn’t cover any of that! Note how cushy she makes this all sound. I’m beautiful! I’m a maiden! You, person I’ve never laid eyes on, are so brave and strong ;) Come murder my father and we can totally get married, you’ll get all my dad’s shit, and we’ll definitely be happy for ever and ever and ever.

There’s just so much of this that I can’t get behind which, yes, includes Salem wanting to kill her dad. Look, I’m not defending the rat bastard. Locking your kid up in a tower — whether that’s due to seeing her as a possession, or a learned fear that loved ones will perish if not kept perfectly safe, both of which the narrative implies — is really fucked up. Salem deserves her freedom. But it’s also fucked up to do a fantasy equivalent of a Craigslist call for a hit on your dad when, as far as we’ve seen, Salem never tried any other means of escape. She just realized that objects can pass through his barrier — which to me says she hasn’t tried very hard to test the limits of her imprisonment. — and then jumped straight to not only getting someone else to kill the King, but doing so in a way that puts those volunteers in the most dangerous position possible: lusting after her, desiring riches, and having no real idea what they’re about to face.

Namely, this:

How many people did Salem get killed?? Okay, yes, in some respects this is similar to Ozpin’s situation with his students in that regardless of how much information these warriors had to work from, they all ultimately decided for themselves to take the risk. There’s even a line that implies that many of them did it because saving her was the right thing to do, not because they were after the rewards: “the story of the girls’ tragic circumstances spread far and wide.” Salem didn’t put a fantasy gun to their head and force them here. But unlike Ozpin’s rock and hard place problem (you really can’t fight an army of endless grimm without an army of your own), Salem didn’t try anything before her “Let other people die for me” plan. Then when she realizes these guys are dying for her, she looks real upset about it...

...but doesn’t try to put a stop to what she’s started.

That was the tipping point for me. If this was the story of an abused, isolated sixteen-year-old who made an impulsive decision, only to realize with horror the unintended consequences of that and try desperately to fix it... that would be different. But Salem doesn’t seem to care that all these guys are dying for her, not enough to try and stop it, anyway. We know that her notes spread “far and wide,” that “one warrior after another” came, and that “many tried,” but “just as many fell to the lord’s powerful, evil magic.” It’s only “one day” that Ozpin himself showed up, meaning we have this undetermined stretch of time where Salem just watched from her tower as all these knights were obliterated, apparently coming to the conclusion, “Alright, that’s sad and all, but my freedom is totally worth it. What I want trumps others’ lives.”

“Why is this a problem, Clyde?” you might ask. “Salem is the villain. Surely you’ve got nothing against villains doing questionable things, right?” I sure don’t! Rather, the problem here is that Salem wasn’t supposed to be a villain just yet and yes, I know that for a fact due to “The Lost Fable.” This isn’t a case of fans being upset because a backstory didn’t meet their specific preferences or expectations, this is a case of the backstory undermining the emotional core of events that we’ve already seen. Regardless of where you fall on the Salem vs. the Gods debate — how much was she a victim of their cruelty, how much was their curse deserved based on her choices, etc. — we nevertheless start with the story of a victim whose traditional Happy Ending was blown to pieces when the True Love Protagonist (Ozpin) dies. Hell, that debate hinges on agreeing that Salem was a good person and then did questionable things. Yet now, thanks to “The Girl in the Tower,” I’m no longer able to read “The Lost Fable” as a tragic tale of grief taken to an extreme, I’m just like, “Oh, Salem was always a budding sociopath, huh?”

(“Someone is here to murder Dad and whatever staff and guards get in the way! Woohoo! I’ll wait up here until they’ve done the majority of the work. I’ll just kill a few people on my way out. As a treat.”)

Which yeah, is a story. No matter what version of Salem we get, or what else RT might add that changes our reading of her arc, every version possible is always going to resonate with someone. I have no doubt that plenty of fans adore the reveal that Salem was always toying with the manipulation and callous dismissal of others’ lives that would later become staples of her villainy. For me though, it’s just another way that RT has muddied the waters of their abuse themes, reiterating that they don’t know what they’re trying to say about such complex topics and unintentionally ruining what good writing we originally had. Salem was a generic Big Bad. Then she was made sympathetic. Then we debated how much. Then she became Ozpin’s abuser. Then the fandom dismissed that. Then she underwent a journey that twisted her into who she is today. Then we were told that journey isn’t actually important because she was flirting with those horrors from the get-go. She’s the victim. She’s the manipulator. She’s the puppet-master. She’s going to wait around for someone to save her. She doesn’t care how many die in her name, She’s the classic princess walking off into the sunset with her knight... This isn’t character complexity, this is RWBY flip-flopping every other scene until I no longer know what to think of Salem’s character, let alone what messages the story might be trying to impart.

By the end of the episode, Ozpin says that “Stories hold great power over their audiences. The girl in the tower used her power and led many warriors to their deaths,” so I’m like okay, at least the writers are aware of how fucked up that scenario is, but THEN:

“We must read with some skepticism and decide the truth for ourselves.”

Oh, now the fucked-up-ness is suddenly up for debate? What’s the point of acknowledging it then? Besides, Ozpin, you lived this. Salem would have told him the first half of this story long before her fall into the grimm pool, meaning before she became someone who was overtly keeping secrets and/or lying to him. What do he mean we need to “read with some skepticism.” About what? Which part? What truth is Ozpin doubting here? Because from the audience’s perspective, this is the one fairy tale that we know for a fact is not a fairy tale at all. It’s history and sure, even lived history is remembered with bias, but that’s a far cry from the black and white “truth” that the episode seems to be peddling.

RWBY has no idea what it’s trying to say and I will die on that hill.

Meanwhile, I’m watching this animation of a whole line of warriors arriving to face down the King + his army and I’m going, “Damn, if it’s a one vs. many situation regardless, how about Salem give it a go? At least she has magic of her own, unlike these guys with just sword and shield. She could blast her dad the second he opens the door to her room. If you want him dead so badly just kill him yourself!”

But no, Salem waits, which both keeps her in the passive princess position and makes her at least somewhat responsible for these deaths — or at least fairly indifferent towards her hand in setting everything in motion. So what exactly does RT want me to get out of this story? Because my takeaway is that Salem was always a villain in the making, prone to jumping to the most violent solution first and uncaring that others are dying in her stead, despite the fact that she too has the tools — arguably better tools — to secure her own freedom, but we always need to wait for the man heroically open the door, right? (I’m sorry, Ozpin, I love you, you’re just been put into a shitty, archetypal position here.) Again, ignoring the potential, realistic behavior of an abuse victim that simply doesn’t exist within RWBY, the implication is that Salem prefers to be the puppet master literally standing on high as others do her dirty work for her, but she didn’t come into that through the journey we’ve seen throughout the rest of the franchise, it was just always there?

Bad people are innately bad, I guess? God knows we’ve acknowledged RWBY’s messy double-standard when it comes to redemption on this blog.

After all this, Ozpin’s arrival is barely a blip on my radar. He wins against the King because he has his own “powerful magic,” but then we watch Salem escaping with him, blasting through guards with an orange magic beam equal to his green one. It’s another example of how the visuals in RWBY are meaningless because although they’re animated as identical, we have to assume Ozpin is stronger because otherwise why wouldn’t Salem free herself?

“You have rescued me from this castle,” the girl said.

“You have rescued yourself.”

He and Salem hold hands as they walk off into the woods together, Ozpin saying that Salem will decide where they go since she has yet to see the world. We pull out from the fairy tale and back into Ozpin’s office where he says that, “This fairy tale is unique on Remnant in that the protagonist writes her own story... and her ending.”

Setting aside my continued frustration over Salem’s agency in this — the references to writing stories as a metaphor for carving your own path just aren’t working for me here, not when the story is so unclear about what any of that amounts to in this world. It’s just a bunch of wise-sounding mumbo-jumbo — on a plot level Salem told Ozpin all this first-hand. What he didn’t experience for himself, of course. Salem’s ending is in reference to her turning into a grimm queen hell-bent on destroying everyone in an effort to die.

Or, to put it another way, Salem’s ending is being willing to sacrifice whoever is necessary to get what she personally wants.

Except that’s no longer a trait instilled in her from the grimm pool, or developed over years of torturous immortality thanks to the Gods’ actions, (did she really write her own ending, or was that forced on her by two all-powerful beings?), or even something Salem embraced sometime during the start of the series. It is, apparently, a perspective she’s been willing to entertain since she was sixteen-years-old while being almost entirely untouched by the world outside. It’s who she is.

So Salem didn’t write her story, her story was already written within her from the get-go. For a franchise supposedly about choice, RWBY keeps pushing predeterminism a lot.

Ozpin finally ends with, “Because in real life... there is no happily ever after” and I likewise end this recap with a (mental) scream of rage because Ozpin would never say that. Literally! I can prove it! Here’s the original ending:

“If you look far enough ahead, even a story with a happy ending may reveal itself a tragedy, and heroes may turn out to be villains. Hopefully, the reverse is also true.”

That’s WAY more optimistic. Yeah, the guy who has been through hell and back would be grappling with how the Happy Ending isn’t all it’s cracked up to be (something introduced at the very beginning of the series via Ruby and Blake’s conversation), but Ozpin also has enough faith to realize — and teach — that things can always circle back around. It’s always darkest before the dawn and all that. Who is this super pessimistic guy who writes off happiness as a whole? That’s not Ozpin. Ozpin has been fighting for over a thousand years, buoyed by his belief that people are inherently good and a better future is always achievable. Ozpin thinks back on the horrors he’s experienced, all the terrible mistakes he’s made, and still manages to muster up a smile for his students. Ozpin was betrayed, dragged through his trauma, assaulted, dismissed, and still arrived to save his friends because he cares, even when no one else does. Miss me with this shadowed, nihilist wannabe ending on a sour note. To me, that line alone is proof that there’s little thought going into these shorts... which is a damn shame considering that Myers’ book already did it better.

Yeah, this recap took me forever and that’s largely due to the hard-to-explain problems throughout: frustrating enough to warrant inclusion, but messy enough that they’re not easily picked apart. Hopefully most of this made sense and if not? I can still happily hang this recap on the meta wall and never look at it again. Cheers to that🥂

***

Lucifer_Crowe. “We are E.C. Myers, Eddy Rivas, and Kerry Shawcross...” Reddit, 15 Dec. 2021. https://www.reddit.com/r/RWBY/comments/rh2c8w/we_are_e_c_myers_eddy_rivas_and_kerry_shawcross/hoowvzv/?context=3.

#rwde #rwby #mymetas #rwby: fairy tales

44 notes · View notes

takeyourpillsbitchh · 2 years

Text

WIP WEDNESDAY WHENEVER🖋✨

I was tagged by the lovely @ardent-fox to share a snippet of my current WIP again it’s coming from Silent Pain in Emerald Eyes, this time chapter 3💚

***

“Mickey! Thank god! Have you heard from Ian? We came home last night and he wasn’t home,” Fiona says, standing from the couch to face Mickey as soon as he enters the office.

Mickey watches them for a moment silently contemplating on how to go about this. They both look nervous and worried, genuine concern on their faces—but also guilty.

“You mean last night when he was left home alone?” Mickey asks, trying to keep his tone even and calm but he could here the disapproval in his own voice as if he was scolding two children.

“We know okay? Carl was supposed to be there but there was a mix up, he had a date—said him and Debbie were supposed to switch but Debbie forgot—”

“Forgot?!” Mickey cut Fiona off his eyes widening, “How could and of you forget him—home alone?”

“Aren’t you the one that was just telling us to stop babying him? Give him some fuckin’ space? What now that’s changed?” Lip snapped and Mickey raises his eyebrows.

“Making sure someone is home with him in the case of a nightmare or panic attack isn’t babying him it’s making sure he’s fucking safe! How do you not understand that!” Mickeys voice raised and Fiona just stare at him, not having heard the man curse before, “you know he called me, Ian doesn’t call. He hates calls because he can’t communicate through a call and it, rightfully, frustrates him. He was panicking, crying and so fucking scared that he was trying to force himself to speak, do you understand how painful that is for him? Jesus Christ!”

“We did know okay? We thought he was getting better—“

“It’s not about him getting better. He is getting better, but him waking up from a horrifying dream, unable to tell what’s real and not and having no one there to ground him was terrifying and it’s going to take him a while to recover from that.”

“We’re sorry, we know how bad it was and how bad it could have ended up if you didn’t show up—“

“No. No, I don’t think you do know how bad it could have ended. I’m sure you’re first thought is him hurting himself but that’s mine. If I didn’t answer that phone and he was left alone for hours it could have fucked him up really bad, traumatized him even more. He was walking through the house mid panic attack pounding on the walls and no one came! You’re supposed to be there for him in those moments and you left him. All of you!”

“He said he was fine—“ Mickey’s glare cut Lip off.

“Yeah he’s was fine for a few hours not a whole fucking night!” Mickey snarled.

***

This is probably a little longer than these are supposed to be but I wanted to add this scene cause it one of my favorites I love protective Mickey against the Gallagher siblings. (This scene low key seems a little harsh but things look up soon😏)

I’m going to tag: @celestialmickey @imikhailo @grumpymickmilk @mrs-monaghan @grumble-fish @creepkinginc @squirrelfund if you don’t have a WIP feel free to ignore me🥰

#wip whenever #current wip #Silent Pain in Emerald Eyes #SPEE #mickey milkovich #ian gallagher #gallavich #gallavich fanfic #shameless

23 notes · View notes

safetycar-restart · 2 years

Note

Okay now you reminded me of D/S AU, I am going to voice a thought I had since a while. We can incorporate past experiences AU as well. I think I introduced a similar theme for Pierre only. This one is similar but different font. Tw: slight angst

You are hired by Alpha Tauri after they had an incident with their previous dom. You don’t have the details of the incident but you know it is going to be a little challenging.

During the first session, Pierre is like a brick wall towards you and does not let you communicate him in any way. You see him flinch when you move and it really breaks your heart. Moreover, he doesn’t let you talk to or touch Yuki at all. Yuki is mostly hiding behind him and whenever he gets curious and peeks his head from his back, Pierre shoves him back to his place.

You slowly understand that the previous dom was the reason why Pierre is so protective of himself and especially of Yuki. After a champagne soaked weekend, Pierre opens up to you while Yuki is napping on his lap due to a little too much alcohol. It turns out that the previous dom had taken advantage of their vulnerable position and forced them to do things they didn’t feel comfortable with. With this constant state of subdrop, Pierre developped a protective role over Yuki since Yuki was a more open target for their dom since he was younger and much less experienced. It turns out that Yuki didn’t know that what the previous dom did to them was wrong and he used to do whatever they ordered him to do even if it made him feel unsafe while Pierre knew enough to see that what was happening was wrong. You discover they don’t have a clue about aftercare and proper ways for a sub to get in the subspace since the previous dom used to use sudden and unmeasured pain to put them under.

It takes you while to get Pierre to trust you. Not that long for Yuki, though, since he was innocent and naive enough to take a candy from a stranger. You secretly find Pierre’s protectiveness over Yuki adoreable and think that they are the perfect sub match.

You start with non-sexual scenes to put their psyche at ease. You make them kneel for you (you put cushions under their knees, they need to be handled delicately after all). You hand feed them. You pick their clothes for them (and get them into matching outfits) and dress them up. Pierre is still tentative and insists on holding Yuki’s hand during all scenes at first (then it just becomes their thing, if the scene allows it).

When they trust you a bit more, you get to bit more comfortable wirh them. One time, Pierre even lets you clean them up in shower where you wash his hair and he washes Yuki’s hair. He is eternally shocked that a dom is making effort to gain their trust and make so many affectionate gestures to make them feel appreciated. At the end of the shower, he awkwardly takes your hand and places a shy kiss on it saying “thank you, ma’am”. From there, you just know that better days are yet to come for you three.

I DON’T KNOW SHELS, I AM ALL FEELS RIGHT NOW!!!!!

~🐍

I... holy fuck. I’m in love with this. So I read this ask last night I have been thinking about it literally the ENTIRE day.

So, I’m gonna make this into another au. So, we’re gonna have the past experiences AU, where drivers had bad past experiences with doms then we have the D/S AU where teams hire a pro Dom for their drives AND now we also have the past D/S AU, where you’ve been hired as a pro dom for teams BUT the drivers have had bad experiences with doms in the past. Ok? Cool? Cool.

Cause I just.... I love this and I wanna talk about this with more pairings and expand on this idea with Yuki/pierre too so now it’s a whole AU :))

Right firstly, you’re so right that Pierre is SO protective of Yuki. Pierre does everything he can to draw attention to himself so that Yuki can get off lightly.

And poor Yuki and Pierre just go through the entire season in subdrop. Their subspace only comes from sudden and extreme pain play and then they’re left with no aftercare.

So needless to say, when you join, Yuki and Pierre are both not optimistic. They don’t believe you for a second when you say you won’t punish them.

Well, Yuki has a little hope. But Pierre thinks it’s just you trying to get them to lower their defences and then you’ll strike where it hurts most.

Your heart just breaks when you meet them for the first time and they’re kneeling next to each other, trembling with Yuki thing to hide behind Pierre. And maybe you didn’t even want to scene with them that time?

Like, you expected to just have coffee with them and talk about what they wanted and how you can help them. But the rules they had to follow before was that every single interaction had to be them kneeling naked.

It just breaks your heart. Cause they deserve so much better than what they’ve been through.

And poor Pierre trying to act strong. You try to talk nicely to him, calling him a good boy and praising him to no end but he refuses to even look you in the eye.

And the worst is, you can tell how badly they need to submit properly. How desperate they are to just be looked after, but they’re too scared and traumatized for you to be able to do that with them.

I think Pierre and Yuki would slowly start to trust you after they have a horrible weekend? Like, they both fully expect you to punish them. They’re convinced that there’s no way your nice guys routine can continue now because they’ve made stupid mistakes and ended up with no points and they have to punished.

But instead, you sit down with them? Like, they’re kneeling on the floor and you just grab three pillows and sit on the floor with them. You sit cross legged on the floor, snd fine them each a pillow, telling them they can sit however they’d like but if they kneel, then they have to use the pillows.

And so they kneel on the pillows and you tell them to hold hands. So they’re holding hands and trembling a little and then you just start telling them how they tried their best and how your job is to look after them, not the team. You couldn’t care less about what the team thinks should happen to them.

Yuki begins to look hopeful then.

And I think Yuki would be the first one to relax a little. He moves from kneeling to sitting cross legged, holding the pillow. Pierre freaks of course, convinced that Yuki is going to get punished. But you don’t even react to Yuki’s change of position, so Pierre does the same.

And yeah absolutely it takes a very good weekend for Pierre to tell you what happened. You just listen, telling him that they both deserve so much better than that and that you want to show them how good it can be.

The first proper submission you do with them is hand feeding. It’s so soft and sweet and it’s perfect because Yuki loves food and Pierre loves when Yuki is happy.

You choose a meal their trainers would not approve of, but they never have to know.

They wouldn’t reach subspace, but they do kinda just relax so much? Like they’ve never felt that at ease in scenes before. And once or twice, Pierre even dares to chase your hand when you pull away so that he can suck on your fingers a little.

You don’t even go near sexual stuff for such a long time, but even without that, your bond when them manages to grow and grow.

Pierre is still VERY protective of Yuki for a long time. And you always respect that. You respect that Pierre needs you to do the thing you want to try with him first, not Yuki. You respect that they need to cuddle with each other for aftercare. You respect that they need to do scenes together.

And the first time pierre calls you an honourific....

Of course they start out by calling you honourifics, but you tell them not to. You tell them to only use those titles with you when they trust you enough. You fully expect them to never use titles for you, and that’s perfectly fine.

But then one day, they’ve had an awful race snd you have them kneel for you for a while, playing with their hair snd letting them hold hands. And then you take them to the shower, telling to wash each other well and you intend to leave then, but Yuki holds your hand?

Like Yuki takes your hand and pulls you in because he’s not ready for you to leave yet. Neither of them have ever expressed anything like that before. They’ve never tried to show what they need.

So of course, you listen because you know you can’t deny Yuki now or else he’ll never ask for anything again.

And surprisingly, Pierre loves it. He’s got this sweet smile on his face the whole time, letting you wash him and then he fucking giggles when you say he can wash Yuki.

After that he calls you an honourific, and you understand him thanking you means so much more than just thanking you for showering with them.

Things get better from there.

(Pls send me more asks about this I am OBSESSED)

#past D/S AU #nsfw.#sub!pierre #sub!yuki #yt #pg #poly!pierre/yuki #poly!dom/sub/sub #gn!reader #🐍

27 notes · View notes

reticent-fate · 1 year

Text

I think one of the more painful things about experiencing the varied forms of dissociative amnesia is that you can recognize someone, have a whole packet of data about them, but zero emotional attachment to whoever you are supposed to feel an attachment to.

I'm thinking about this a lot bc we seem to go through a weird not-quite-reset period around certain periods of the year because our system just remembers being in public school (system designed to excel at school while "dumping" traumatic material to minimize chance of failure).

As a result, I'm a little more attuned at the moment to the fact that we have so many people we either do or have talked to that we suddenly feel/felt obliged to cut out of our lives because they feel like strangers to us.

I don't know if I've seen this consequence of emotional amnesia talked about in plural communities, but it sure is terrifying to experience and be aware of considering there's nothing I can really do about it!

Now that we're better aware of the system, too, it's a lot easier for us to understand that a lot of our behavior in the past was self-sabotage related to this; leaving entire groups of support, casually cutting off people, so on and so on...

Meanwhile the Mii Channel music is playing in repetition in my brain because the scholar subsystems are stuck fronting rn because of this and all I can think of is how much I wanna psychoanalyze myself like I'm a thrilling essay tbw. We love a healthy coping mechanism (/hj).

-Tia

#systuff #musings #i love amnesia (arthur clenched fist meme)#-if2

1 note · View note

rabbitcruiser · 11 months

Photo

Smile Power Day

Show off your dimples and pearly whites and harness the true power of a smile. It releases chemicals that make you feel happier, more confident, and more relaxed.

Smile Power Day is the perfect excuse to shine your pearly whites and show off those dimples. And no, a smiley face or an emoticon won’t do! Not today, at least. The smile is a symbol of happiness and vitality, a beacon of hope and an expression of emotion. So just for today, drop the ‘:)’ texts and flash them a real smile. Go on….

What is in the power of a smile, one may ask. Well, when we smile we automatically trigger our own autonomic nervous system, which releases endorphins into our blood, to trigger a happy hormone. That being said, smiling at someone else, offers a chance for them too to feel that same happy hormone. It’s a win/win situation isn’t it? Start everyday with a smile and smile at strangers, it’s good for your immune system and it brings a little cheer to an otherwise possibly dismal day (especially Mondays ey?).

The history of Smile Power Day

Nobody knows who came up with the idea of dedicating a whole 24 hours to the involuntary contraction of the zygomatic major muscle, but one thing is certain: we’re the only creatures on the planet that can do it. Whether fate smiled upon you or not, you can always find a good reason to smile. So grin from ear to ear, look on the bright side and smile your troubles away, just like the great Dr. Seuss suggested: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.” You may be wondering just exactly how smiling helps us mentally, but there are many reasons to suggest that it does.

We smile involuntarily, when thinking back on fond events, or of those we love, which is certainly a good reason to celebrate. If you’re needing some more reasons as to what makes smiling such a dandy little tool, you can soak up the following information: it makes you more attractive, so they say, smiling attracts the opposite sex and highlights both your personality and radiates warmth to others. Smiling is also contagious; the only time that something contagious is good for you – it encourages and promotes a happy and healthy atmosphere and brings a sense of community. So when you’re that person who starts a chain of smiles today, be proud knowing you have created a little bit of worldly joy!

Why is smiling so good for us?

Smiling lowers your blood pressure; now this is mostly due to the fact that smiling releases that happy hormone we spoke about before. It temporarily relieves stress, so smiling more frequently will put your body into a state of relaxation. This is the same for your health, yes, smiling can in fact be a pain reliever! Allowing your body to smile and release that tension could in fact help you and if you’re skeptical on this fact, then take a look at nitrous oxide, better known as ‘laughing gas’, which has been around for years, a practical and ingenious idea to help ease your pain, so there’s even more reason to start smiling now isn’t there?

How to celebrate Smile Power Day

If you want a little boost to your self confidence, let’s say you’re waiting on that impending job interview, you might want to smile to yourself beforehand. Smile in the mirror at yourself, a power smile instils a sense of confidence into you. Continue your power smile as you shake hands at the interview and continue with a sense of calmness and contentment. Smiling can and will make you look younger, forget about the laugh lines, the most troubling of all facial wrinkles is of course the frown lines which can make us look tired and withdrawn. Smiling allows you to work those facial muscles to keep them supple, practice it as part of your skincare routine and cut back on the botox bill, it’s not rocket science, it’s smiling! 😉

Smile Power Day will also make you question just how much you smile as well as who around you takes the time to smile too. Now, sitting there all day at your desk with a grin like a cheshire cat is not going to really have much impact, however, it should get a few laughs from your fellow co-workers! You’ll start to notice the effect it has on those around you when you bring a little bit of joy into the room.

Depression itself impacts just how much happiness we feel, and many psychologists and therapists will encourage the practice of mindfulness and smiling more, connecting and feeling a more internal peace with yourself. Smiling forms a bond and connection between two people; whether that’s when they say thank you to you for holding the door open, perhaps it’s a smile you both share at a checkout or in a queue, or from far away, but it’s undoubtedly a very intimate and special bond that should be celebrated more often!

Challenge yourself, not just on Smile Power Day but also on other days of the year, to smile at least once to yourself, to a stranger or to a family member. See the response it has and the connection it forms; especially if you take time to let the smile last a little longer than usual. Remember, we all need a bit of encouragement, sometimes!

Smile Power Day is connected to the act of kindness and giving and being able to appreciate the power, not just of a smile but of a gesture! What would the world be without a few gestures? Smile Power Day is meant to be shared with loved ones and friends alike. You can take them all out to a stand-up show, put together an organised smile-off, eat smiley-glazed cupcakes, drink some Smile Cocktails, and paint smileys everywhere because everyone and his brother loves them. Most importantly, when you crack a smile today, remember that it’s not Smile Power Day unless you can put a smile on someone else’s face, too.

Source

0 notes

nightowlwriting · 3 years

Text

summary: steve is acting weird. avoiding you, being snippy and mean, leaving the room when you enter. all you want is your boyfriend back, but all he wants is to pretend you don't exist. when he's almost hurt on a mission, you do what you're made to do.

word count: 11k

reader specifics: no race/gender/sexuality/body type mentioned, no pronouns for reader used, powered!reader, insecure!reader

warnings: steve is mean to the reader in the beginning, heavy angst, hurt/comfort, canon-level violence, brief ptsd symptoms, slight description of blood, brief mention of racism in the '30s & '40s

brief mentions of: reader's parents being toxic, homelessness, past accidents, ableism in the past & present

note: this one hurt me lmfao. idk why this went the way it did but i'm not mad at it // also i am a queer, trans, disabled american. i have fundamental disagreements with things that marvel/the mcu as it stands for and some of the more nuanced things that you might not notice unless you're looking for it. this will take place in my writing because i cannot separate myself from the lens in which i consume/create content.

title credit: lil nas x

mobile masterlist - request - support my work? - ao3

Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his. Sure - he’s clever, righteous, courteous… You can’t forget he’s also drop-dead gorgeous because every trashy gossip magazine in a three-state radius of New York doesn’t let you forget. Neither does the sight of him waking up in your bed every morning. (Well, actually, maybe that would remind you if he was still fucking doing that.)

But lately, you’ve had to rely on the fucking tabloids to catch a glimpse of your super-hero boyfriend. The university class you had picked up on a whim at the end of the summer - Life & Times of the ‘30s and ‘40s - avoids any mention of Steve Rogers and the Howling Commandos. Not that your classmates do because, Christ on a bike, those magazines manage to catch pictures of you and Steve in moments that you don’t even remember. Plus, you’re an Avenger too. It’s bound to catch some attention when you waltz into a college classroom.

You’re sure if you were an undergrad trying to fill a gen-ed requirement and were sitting next to someone who could kill you without blinking but also dating Captain Rogers you’d be a little distracted too. You try not to blame your classmates too much, but they do make it hard to concentrate with their -really dating Captain America?- and -wonder if I could get an autograph- whispers. None of that matters because you’re learning, really studying, in between missions and missing Steve and believing that maybe the gossip reporters are right.

Maybe he’s forgotten about you.

You grit your teeth and push the thought away. It does you no good right now, while you’re training with Peter. He’s working his way up to bona fide missions and, because you’re the only one on the team who has experience with real-life teenagers outside of saving their lives, it’s up to you to get him to the level that he needs to be. Plus, the mission where he’s going to get his gills wet is just you, Tony, Steve, Nat, and Bucky. You’d much rather be the one to train him because you won’t traumatize him.

Right now, though, you’re just kicking his ass to try and get rid of some of the tension in your body. You feel a little bad about it, but when you started as his mentor you told him point-blank that you’d never go easy on him. That meant if you were having a bad day he either needed to up his game or he’d have a bad day too. It appears he’s taken that to heart as he struggles to dodge the hits you’re throwing his way. He lunges out of the way when you try to land a right hook but practically walks into the leg sweep that sends him crashing to the ground.

“Awe,” Peter groans, letting his guard down. You take the momentary lapse of focus to grab him by the collar of the hoodie he’s wearing and haul him to his feet, jerking one fist back to cold-clock him but he beats you to it. You hear the sound of your nose cracking before you feel it but then the pain rushes you all at once. You’ve had worse but coming from Peter, the move surprises you. You don’t yell out but he does when you push him away from you and call the fight off. Peter practically yelps your name, hands up by his head as he watches you bend at the waist, both hands over where your nose is absolutely gushing blood. “I am so sorry, I just reacted-!”

“It’s fine, Pete,” You shake your head and stand straight again, the blood beginning to leak through your fingers, “Just go get me a towel, okay?” Peter practically trips over his feet to get something for your nose and as you track him on his way into the locker rooms, you see Steve, Bucky, and Nat. The latter are looking your way, eyebrows raised like they’re asking you if you’re okay. Steve hasn’t even broken stride in his conversation so you wave them off with a bloody hand. Peter’s back in a flash, pressing a wet towel into your grasp and snapping you out of your self-pity party. “It was a good hit,” You compliment as you wipe your face off, “I just wasn’t expecting it. Prob’ly wouldn't have landed it if I had.”

He wrings his hands, shifting from foot to foot. “I’m sorry-”

“It’s a good thing, Peter, means you’re getting better.” You deadpan, checking to see if your nose has stopped bleeding yet, “I don’t think you actually broke it, but I’ll go down to medical to check later.” You do your best to clean up your hands with the wet towel, but it’s so soaked with your blood that it mostly just smears it around. You grimace and shake your head. “Well, I should go now before our sparring match ends up looking like I murdered you.”

“I’ll go with,” He offers, “I’m the one who broke your nose.” You let Peter walk you down to medical even though you were originally going to refuse. Perhaps petty, but it was the way that Steve didn’t even look your way as you left that made you let the teenager walk you the two floors to where you’d be able to clean yourself up. He hums in the elevator and you know that he wants to ask you something - it’s the way he holds his mouth when he’s prying for information or keeping a secret that tips you off. Finally, just before the elevator opens, you sigh and turn to him.

“What, Peter?” He grins but then it falls when he has to skitter after you down the hall. Maybe that’s why it falls - the question he asks next nearly sends you to your ass.

“Is everything okay with you and Captain Rogers?” He easily catches up to you when you stop in your tracks, ignoring that you’re still bleeding a little bit down your face and you might be dripping blood everywhere from where it’s run down your arms.

“What?” You do your best to look confused like everything is fine, but Peter is perceptive. He may fumble around and be pretty awkward, but those are really just teenager things that he’ll hopefully outgrow. You should have known that when someone caught onto how bad things are on your end, it would be Peter. (You wonder if Nat or Bucky has brought it up with Steve, considering he’s spent more time with them in the past week than he’s seen you in the past month.) “We’re fine.” Your words are stilted as you begin walking to the medical wing much faster than before.

“I just thought I’d ask, well, because I’ve sort of noticed… Something just seems off, you know? Like, you two used to spend a lot of time together, and maybe it’s the recon mission coming up, but I was just thinking that you two really barely look at each other even when you’re in the same -”

“Peter!” You say his name much louder than either of you expected and both of you jump. “Peter,” You say softer, looking at the glass door to the medical wing instead of him, “Just leave it, okay? It’s nothing you have to worry about, kid.” Peter ducks around to open the door, forcing you to look at him. “He’s just focused on his stuff and I’m focused on getting you whipped into shape for this mission. We only have two days.” Once you’re inside and surrounded by the medical crew Tony keeps on staff, he thankfully drops it. You love Peter, you do, but it’s a lot like having a little brother. You can only love them so much before you want to fucking strangle them. Eventually, as the doctor checks to make sure he hasn’t broken your nose, you have to order him away to go study or something. “I’ll join you later,” You promise him as the doctor prods at your tender flesh, “I have an essay due soon.”

That’s another thing that’s been bugging you that Peter surely picked up on. Nearly everybody knew you were taking a course at the local community college, but nobody knew what it was about. You’d wanted to keep it a secret until you told Steve, but the day you had registered he’d flown out for a two-week mission without telling you or saying goodbye. After that, you decided it didn’t really matter if anyone knew what class you were taking, and keeping it a secret sort of spiraled from there. If they wanted to know they could look it up. Maybe it was petty, but you just wanted the class to be over and done with so you could forget that you really only picked it up so you relate to your boyfriend more.

If you can even call Steve your boyfriend anymore. You’re not so sure where you stand and, honestly, you’re really close to giving up on the relationship as a whole but you can’t do that. Before you were dating, you were friends, and Steve… He never gave up on you. Not once. How could you repay him by giving up on your relationship? The one that you thought was The One? Even if it hurts, even if you’re unsure more than sure these days, how could you? Somewhere, though, you know you deserve better. You don’t deserve the sinking, dark feeling that lingers in your gut for most of your days now or the way that you second-guess every move you make - even in the field. It’s dangerous but you can’t do anything to fix it.

You’re too scared. You know that eventually, it will happen, he’ll break up with you, but you’d like to put that day off for as long as possible. To relish in the love he once had for you, how pure and powerful it was. You’re sure that you’ll never experience anything like that again.

Hell, you might never fall in love again.

Those thoughts don’t do anything to help you, though, so you try not to have them. You get clearance from the doctor and get cleaned up as much as you can without taking a full body shower. The idea to go back to your room and take one crosses your mind but you know that Steve’s probably done training, probably heading back for his own shower, and you don’t want to open that can of worms. Instead, you go to the common room and drop into the couch between Peter and Tony. They’re talking about something something science something something, but you pull your stack of books and notebooks out from the shelf underneath the coffee table and continue outlining your essay from where you left off. The assignment was focused on how the end of WW1 changed American life and then how life changed leading up to and during WW2 but that had hit a little too close to home for you, so you’re writing about the racial tension and overall racism of the times. Tony and Peter keep talking over your back and then you hear footsteps heading toward the common room.

You barely look up when they enter - Nat and Bucky - because it’s fine. It’s normal. They’re just two of Steve’s best friends, that’s all, nothing to be jumpy about. You don’t even register that emotional pain that hits when you realize that, yeah, you’re not one of his best friends anymore. You doubt you’re even considered a friend in his book.

You groan and lean back into the couch, bringing your study materials with you. Peter glances over, skimming over your page and a half of shorthand, and gags. “Jesus, can you write like a normal person?”

“Oh, sorry,” You say lazily, not looking up as you continue to scribble in your incomprehensible code, “I do forget that some of us had privacy at home.” You lift your lips just a little bit to let Peter know you’re kidding, looking up at him through your lashes as you slouch next to him. He looks red in the face. “Besides, once you have to start doing mission reports you’ll be begging me to learn my shorthand and use my stenography machine.”

“I keep telling you that I can update that ol’ thing,” Tony draws your attention. For the first time, you realize that Nat and Bucky are on the loveseat looking at you expectantly. Steve is standing in the corner over their shoulder reading a book from the bookshelf in front of him. His back is tense and he looks like he’s not reading, just listening. You force your eyes back to Tony on your right and shake your head.

“No, because then you’d know my shorthand and it makes me too happy to see you spend hours trying to decipher it.” His eyes wander to your essay again, trying to find any patterns that he can use to figure out what the hell you’re writing on anything ever. He’s opening his mouth to make a smart-ass remark that will no doubt lift some of the weight off of your shoulders when another voice speaks up.

“Wow,” Steve doesn’t even look at you even as he says your name sardonically, “Way to be a team player.” Your mind comes to a screeching halt, trying to figure out what the fuck he’s playing at. Even Bucky and Nat look surprised at the cold way he spoke to you, Tony and Peter both gasping from your side. You can’t say anything, throat tight and burning with tears as you stare at your boyfriend with raised eyebrows. What do you say to that? How do you respond? You know it wasn’t a joke because he’s not laughing, not smiling, not even looking up from that fucking book in his hands. You can’t tell if you’re more hurt or embarrassed, but either way, you don’t want to stick around for someone to get the nerve to say something.

Instead of replying, you slam your textbooks shut and bundle everything into your arms. You doubt Steve even notices that you’re making such a hasty retreat but if he does, he doesn’t say a fucking thing. You feel like you’re in high school - practically running through an empty hallway with your notebooks and textbooks pressed to your chest, trying not to cry. It’s ridiculous. You’re a trained assassin, you’re an Avenger, you are strong and powerful and yet… And yet. You’ve given so much of your heart and soul to Steve Rogers that he can knock you down eight pegs without even trying. Without even looking at you. You can’t wait to go on this fucking recon mission, where you can put all of your focus on making sure Peter is doing okay and gathering the intel. Where you can stop thinking about how easily Steve Rogers seems to be pushing you to the side.

You spend the next two days writing your essay, ignoring almost everyone, and working on your essay. On the day of the recon mission, you’re running out the door for your eight a.m lecture, printed essay in hand, and reminding Tony that he promised to pick you up on campus after class for the mission.

You’re lucky that you went, too. You hadn’t counted on the professor making everyone stand up and tell the class the subject of their essays - didn’t realize that it would be twenty-five percent of the grade on the paper. You’ll never understand college professors and the weird shit they do, but the class is informative and entertaining. He goes around the room, starting on the opposite side of you, so you’ll be last. Great.

Several students did their papers on the propaganda of the time, one student was brave and did her essay on the ethical dilemma of the super-soldier serum and eugenics, and most of the other students focused on pop culture and how it changed. When your professor looks at you it’s almost like he’s expecting you to have done nothing but fawn over Steve and Bucky, considering you know them personally. He looks surprised when you clear your throat, stand and say: “I focused on the casual and institutional racism that faced non-white Americans at the time.” You almost preen when he looks impressed and then the shame fills you. It’s just… You want Steve to be proud of you. You want him to congratulate you on going back to school, even if it’s just for one class. You want him to be happy and surprised that he was the inspiration for taking the class.

Though, lately, the class has been more for you than for him. You like learning new things, pushing the boundaries of assignments, making people uncomfortable with the truth of the times you’re studying as told to you by two people who lived it. It’s nice. Normal.

Everyone needs a little bit of normal.

But, honestly, normal is fucking boring. By the time your class is over and you’re handing in your essay it’s like ants are crawling over your skin. A combination of nerves from the upcoming mission, a head full of fog from whatever is happening with Steve, and a little bit of fear at the thought of taking Peter into the field has you bolting for the door the moment your essay is taken from you. You’d worn your tac-suit underneath a pair of baggy sweats and a loose hoodie, so you don’t even bother slowing down as you head toward the car that Tony has waiting for you. He’s in the front seat, grinning at you from underneath his aviators and Peter is driving.

You slip into the backseat without thinking or looking at who’s there, tossing your bag in the back and peeling your hoodie off. “God, Tone, we’re goin’ to die before we even get to the mission with Petey driving.” You toss your hoodie back to join your bag and finally see who’s sitting next to you.

Of course, it’s Steve. He’s looking at you - but not really. He’s looking through you, like he can’t stand that you’re both crammed in the backseat of Tony’s electric car. His gaze catches you and holds you in place. Everything around you goes cold and fuzzy, making you miss Peter’s indignant complaining that he has his license so he should be able to drive… And then Steve scoffs and looks out his window, ignoring you. It stings but you have a job to do. You make some witty retort back to Peter, but it falls flat as you struggle out of your sweats. This is what life is, you think. Relationships aren’t meant to be forever - you learned that at a young age.

Until your accident at fifteen, you had watched your parents run out of helium, their relationship expanding and cooling in arguments, in days spent not talking, in trips to your grandparents without the other, in passive-aggressive computer searches for divorce attorneys left open for anyone to see. Then, after you were trapped between those machines - after you spent hour after agonizing hour with electricity pressing between your atoms, being torn apart and rebuilt as a young god - after that day you watched them expand against each other before the neutron core of their relationship collapsed on itself and the resulting supernova sent you to the streets. But then Fury found you. Then Tony, then Nat, then Steve.

Your parents exploded out from each other and the shockwaves ruined your life. At least now, your relationship with Steve is ending silently. There’s no explosion, no collapse, no rapid expansion to take over your cosmos. Your relationship with Steve is simply approaching the event horizon, where it will hang in the air until one of you takes the final step and you both become frozen, two collapsing objects on opposite sides of the universe. Maybe that’s what you already are. You feel so far away from him in the back of Tony’s car - like he’s eons and light-years away from you - and you feel so cold. Frozen, down to the bone. It makes you stiff in your replies to Tony and Peter, slow on the uptake when the car pulls up to the quinjet, nearing stasis and unable to respond when Nat asks if you’re okay.

Finally, you turn to look at her, nodding. “Fine,” You clear your throat, “Been a rough day.” You do your best to smile at her, but your face feels heavy. Your chest feels cold and tight, making you worry about your performance on the upcoming mission. When Peter shakes his head next to you, discreetly telling Nat not to press, you’re focused on Steve and the electricity humming in the most base part of your body.

He scoffs and rolls his eyes. You turn away and force yourself to smile, throwing a weak and numb arm over Peter’s shoulders. “Are you ready for this, Pete?” You jostle him back and forth, leading him toward the sitting area behind the cockpit. “Gonna get your ass kicked?”

“Please,” He shoves you off, nervously laughing, “Not with the skills you’ve taught me.” He mimics throwing webs, making hissing noises under his breath, and you bark out a laugh, shaking your head.

“You’re payin’ my medical bills when I have to save your ass, Spidey.” You shake your head and strap in next to the wall, Peter taking the seat to your right. Tony, from the aisle across from you, points a thick finger your way.

“You don’t pay medical bills anymore,” He waggles his finger, “So you’ll just have to make him do your homework for a week.”

“Mister Stark!”

“He’ll have to earn shorthand to do your essays,” Nat chimes in from between Bucky and Steve, who are both doing their best to not look at you - or anyone really. “You willing to share that with him?”

You lean back in your seat and jab at Peter with your elbow. “Hell no, so I guess Spider-Boy better do his best.” The arachnid in question grumbles, crossing his arms and slouching in his seat.

“No pressure, right?” He complains, “Not like I’m already nervous or anything.”

“You’ll do fine, kid,” Bucky pipes up, drawing your eyes back to Steve, “It’s goin’ to be a cakewalk.”

“Don’t jinx it, Barnes,” You warn half-heartedly, tucking in on yourself, “We need this to be easy.” From the look on his face - everyone’s face, really - you know that they heard you loud and clear when you were really saying I need this to be easy.

After an uneasy laugh from Bucky, a claustrophobic silence settles over you all as the jet begins to take off. You’re in for an hour ride and plan to spend it going over battle plans with Peter when harsh whispering catches your ear. It’s Bucky and Steve nearly crushing Nat between them until she gets up and sits across from Peter, rolling her eyes. Still, you try your best to run him through the actions you both had planned - the names, the setups you needed to execute them, everything. If something happens to Peter, you’ll never forgive yourself.

And then, cutting through your soft promptings to Peter and his equally soft replies, Bucky’s voice. “Leave it, Steve. Until after this mission.” Even Tony looks up from his tablet, curiosity piqued. Their faces are both red, set hard and angry at each other and your stomach drops. What the hell is going on that Steve ‘Till The End Of The Line Rogers is fighting with Bucky You And Me, Pal Barnes? You must shift, or lean too far into Steve’s eyesight, because for the first time in what feels like years he is looking directly at you - and seeing you, too. It makes your pulse jump and, almost instinctively, you want to reach out and ground yourself on the rubber of the seat underneath you.

You don’t get the chance, though, because Steve speaks. “No, why should I? This is clearly affecting the team.” He’s still looking - glaring - at you like you’ve done something wrong. “What’s the point of waiting? I’ve been waiting to talk about this.”

“Bo, I don’t think this is the time,” Bucky looks over his shoulder at you, then, and you know what’s coming. You know that it’s time, that Steve is about to break up with you in front of your teammates. Your friends. Your family. You steel yourself for the anguish you’re about to feel and then jerk your chin out, hardening your resolve.

“Buck, it’s fine. If Steve wants to address something, he can.”

Natasha says your name, a low warning over the hum of the quinjet. “I think he should wait.”

“Well, I’m not goin’ to wait!” Steve unbuckles himself and stands, “I have tried waiting, and look at where that has gotten me.” He puts his hands on his hips and puffs out a breath. You unbuckle and stand, too, unsure of where this is going. “You need to,” He holds one hand out, pointing at you while his voice shakes. You notice his hand is shaking, too, but fractionally. If you didn’t know Steve as well as you do you may have never noticed it. “You need to get it together.”

“I need to get it together?” You question, eyebrows nearly hitting the ceiling with how fast they shoot up. You’re not totally sure you’ve heard him right because what do you have to get together? The broken shards of your relationship? The information and research for your final paper? The awful way you’ve let yourself be treated for what seems like forever?

“You heard me,” Steve says, at the same time Bucky leans his head back and groans deep in his chest. “What? Someone had to say it.”

“We should wait for this,” Nat speaks up again, but lifelessly. She knows now that you and Steve are both on the warpath, neither of you are going to stop. (That’s also why the two of you work together as a couple so well. Very rarely are you both so worked up about something that you can’t back down, so the other is always there to meet you halfway and get you back to earth.)

“No, no, no,” You say, near hysterically, “No, he wants to do this now? Before a mission? Instead of the fuckin’ weeks we had to hash whatever crawled up his ass and died out? Be my guest. He’s already dragged everyone into this by treating me like a pariah.” You’re not sneering, but your teeth are gritted so tightly together you can hear them scraping and feel a tension headache beginning to bloom in your temples. Bucky looks… Almost incredulous at your statement. Like putting the blame on Steve is a dick move or something.

“Oh, so I’m the bad guy here?” Steve is curling his lip, glaring at you. There’s something behind his eyes, but he’s buried it so deep that you can’t reach it and figure out what it is. “I’m the bad guy, right. Right, right, right.” He scoffs, shakes his head, and then he’s running his fingers through his hair like he really can’t believe what you’re saying to him.

“Well, what else am I supposed to think?” You throw your hands out to the side and let them slap back down on your thighs. “You ignore me, you make me feel like shit, you talk down to me like I’m some insignificant foot soldier. How else am I supposed to take that, Steve?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe ask me what’s wrong? Maybe ask me why I’m acting like this, instead of ignoring all of your problems like a child?” He mirrors your moments, but the sound his hands make when they hit the outside of his suit is more powerful than yours. Fueled by anger, you think. Anger and whatever the hell was in the serum Erskine pumped into Steve.

“Ask you?” You repeat, near-hysterical, “Ask you? Oh yeah, let me get right on that. Hey, Mister Rogers? Mister Captain America? Mister Ignores-His-Partner-For-God-Knows-Why? Hey, just why are you doin’ that?” You’re surprised that you’ve said something so snotty, but you don’t back down. (Steve looks surprised, too, and Bucky has stood up next to his friend like he’s about to start berating you as well. At least he looks more cautious about it, like he’s not totally sure that this fight should be happening.)

The more surprising part of your fight is how fast it’s shut down. Tony and Nat stand at the same time and exchange a glance like they’ve surprised each other. “That’s enough,” Tony starts.

Nat cuts him off. “I don’t care if you fight this one out instead of talking, but if you do it before this recon mission you two are going to blow it. Do you understand me?” She looks dangerous, the sharp edge of a knife spiraling through the air. You force yourself to look away from her, from Tony, from Bucky, from Steve. She’s right. You know she’s right - especially on this mission. Peter is there, going to be in real danger even though there’s not supposed to be one Hydra agent in a four-mile radius. You have to clear your mind and focus on protecting him.

Steve seems to think the same thing because he stands down. When you watch him collapse in on himself, Bucky’s arms around his shoulders, into the little quinjet seats your everything aches. Heart, lungs, eyes - everything. Even though you don’t know what’s going on, what could have possibly happened to make your relationship sink this quickly and out of the blue, you still love him. He’s still The One for you. You still want to be the one to comfort him and make him feel whole when he’s struggling.

But you can’t. You can’t and it kills you.

The heat of battle makes a lot of things fade into the background. Important things like why the fuck are there Hydra agents here? and Steve is going to break up with you when you get back on the jet and Tony swore on the fucking limited edition AC/DC vintage tour poster he has in his office that this would be an easy in/easy out information mission. None of that matters, though, because you’re in deep shit. There are seventeen of them, all primed to the teeth with weapons made to take your team down permanently.

You’re practically glued to Peter, calling out commands and plans for him to initiate. It’s when all of your plans fall through that you take a hit from a heavy fist on purpose, hitting the ground hard. “Plan F, Spidey, Plan F!” You cover the instruction with a groan and then you’re back on your feet, working your way toward him.

“Plan F?” Tony says, somewhere above you in his suit. Your comms crackle ominously as another heat-seeking grenade is launched, interfering with the radio waves your tech relies on. You don’t worry about it, because you know Tony is on it. He’s your eyes in the sky.

Peter is the one who answers his question, watching your close hand-to-hand tilt out of your favor briefly. “Plan Fuck It, Mister Stark.” He grunts as he webs up a Hydra agent, jerking him away from where he was about to slip a knife up and under Natasha’s kevlar. You finally drop the guy in front of you, ignoring Steve’s disappointed Language! and toss one of your knives toward Nat for her to use. Tony is still laughing in your ear, wheezing as he drops down and snags the rifle from one of the snipers and then takes back off.

What your little protégé failed to mention about Plan F is that it’s not just chaos, but controlled chaos. You let loose, letting a soft current cover every inch of your skin as Peter switches to his conductive webbing and takes special care to not web any of his allies. Except for you - if you’re in the way and he catches you in a web it doesn’t matter because you’re you, alive with electricity that drops the men that get caught in the web, too. You rip out of the webs and turn the current off when one of your teammates gets too close.

More Hydra agents are pouring out of the woods, topping out their numbers around twenty-five. That’s twenty-five too many in your opinion, especially when you can see Peter getting tired, his anxiety spiking, his moves having more and more hesitation behind them. You need to get this over with quickly, but you don’t have the options to do that. Steve, Bucky, and Nat are really the heavy-hitters - you, Pete, and Tony are the only ones without serums despite all of your individual abilities. Desperately you reach out for a web that’s still connected to Peter’s arms, pulling him out of the way of a baton that’s about to come down on the back of his neck.

The baton the agent is wielding glints in the coming dusk, freezing you as Peter scrambles past you with a quick apology. You’ve seen that before - seen it, felt it, know it like the back of your hand. There’s no way that you could ever forget that weapon. The man stumbles when his hit doesn’t connect but then rights himself and searches for a new target.

A long, black baton that splits into two prongs at the end is heavy in his hand. Electricity crackles between the bulbs at the end, flashing in the setting sun and your memories. The man only has one, but if it was hooked up to a machine, spinning. If there were four, five, six. If you were pinned between them, screaming in the pain as they rewrote your DNA… You’ve only felt it once, but you’ll never forget it.

And now, you’ll taste it again. On purpose this time. The man holding the stun baton is going for Steve’s back - his strong back, the one that protects people, the one that holds the weight of the world, the one that lays in your bed, the one you see whipping out of rooms as you’re entering just so that he doesn’t have to look at you - and you can’t let that happen. It only takes ten amps to kill a regular human, but you know those things are cranked up to twenty minimum. You don’t want to see how many amps of current it will take to stop Steve’s heart. You’re between the baton and Steve before you can think about what you’re doing or what comes next, the hard bulbs settling unyielding into your side and cranking out maximum power for maximum damage as soon as the current is connected and able to flow from one bulb to the other.

The pain hits you and your throat catches on it. It burns through your body, setting everything on fire - your chest hurts as your heart protests the electrons and then your powers kick in, sweeping them into your very atoms and cells. You’re a live wire now, ears humming and body thrumming with power you’ve only dreamed of. It hurts, and it burns, and you feel tears rising in your eyes because you’re back there - back begging for death or for life or for God and god at the same time - but then it’s over. The man sees that you’re not seizing up, not dropping dead in front of him, and he takes three steps back.

It’s not far enough.

You’ve only felt like this once before - right after you were unhooked from the machine that changed your life and brought you to your new family. You remember how you looked when you were put in front of a mirror with all of the pent up electricity circling your body - how your eyes were filled to the brim and dripping with bright and blue electricity, the way it was jumping across your body, how you didn’t need to breathe because your body was fully saturated with pure, unadulterated power. You wonder if you look like that now and assume you do because you can see the bright blue reflecting in the terrified eyes of the Hydra agent.

Your suit, unlike everyone else’s, is not grounded. It’s metal, metal, metal. You’re made to conduct, born for it, and the earth beneath you comes alive with bright white as you release all of the energy, the power, surges down and out. You’re practiced. You can reach out and feel the synapses and neurons of every human being in the clearing, know exactly where your teammates are standing, and know exactly how to target everything but them and the pitiful amount of electricity their brains carry. You grin, something truly feral and unhinged, and you can see the fear in the Hydra agent. Then, you let go.

You know that everyone is going to be pissed. (Maybe not everyone.) You’re not built for this, not made to take down nearly twenty fucking people at once. As you let go, you feel what they feel. The seizing muscles, the stopping of their hearts, the inside of their bodies crisping against their bones. At that moment, that delicious moment, you see the universe.

You become God. You become everything - your mother and your father and God and god and anyone else who’s watching your life from the ether. You become the judge, jury, and executioner of souls that you don’t know from Adam. You become lightning, and thunder, and exposed nerves of the cosmos at the same time. The world bends to your will and you relish in it, taking that power in your fist and wielding it to protect the man you’ll love for the rest of your life and the family that you’ve made. You will stop at nothing to end this, even if it means turning yourself inside out to do it.

You damn near do turn yourself inside out too, but that doesn’t matter, does it? The blood spilling from your ears, nose, and eyes feels like heaven. It’s hot, and thick, and it’s proof of the power that your body holds. You’re a temple and a sanctuary, a war-room and a bunker, a field of flowers and a sun-dry desert. It does not matter if Steve doesn’t love you at that moment, because you are love and hate wrapped into one package. You are everything and nothing, spread thin at the beginning and the end of time.

And then none of that is true. You are just… You. Standing in a clearing, surrounded by twenty-something dead Hydra agents and your terrified, terrified family. It hurts to breathe and you can taste blood in your mouth, but that’s an afterthought. Steve is still standing behind you, but he is alive. That is what matters.

This is what love is, you think.

Pain and pleasure.

Even if he leaves you, you will always love him.

Pain and pleasure.

You’re weak at the knees when he finally turns to see you - and you’re a sight. Struggling to stand, fingertips blackened with soot but not burnt, blood pouring from your nose, ears, eyes… You look like death, but you feel like life. Someone says something behind you - Peter, maybe? Or maybe Tony, in your comms? - but you don’t hear it. Everything tunnels out, your weak knees finally collapsing as you keel backward.

Steve bears down upon you almost immediately. You’re halfway to unconsciousness when he wraps you up in his arms, keeping you from falling in with the pile of bodies around you. He’s saying your name, harsh and soft and then in a voice like he’s ordering you to wake up. You loll about as he drops you down onto a patch of clear grass, hands searching your body for wounds. When he skims over your side, where the baton has burnt through your suit and your flesh, you surge back toward being able to have cohesive thoughts. The pain brings you back, hands wrapping around Steve’s arm and calling out his name. “Steve! Fuck, that hurts!”

“Honey,” He breathes, “Fuck, we have to get you back to the jet.” His jaw ticks, hair dirty and loose from its normal style. “Why’d you do that?” Steve doesn’t wait for an answer from you, ordering Peter to web something up to carry you over your protests.

“I’m fine,” You argue, only slurring slightly, “I feel fine.” But you’re going to let Nat and Bucky load you up on the webbed stretcher anyway because it’s the first time Steve has cared for you in a long time. You want to relish in this moment, the way that he didn't say your name but called you honey.

Well, and because Natasha slides a thumb across her neck over Steve’s shoulder in a silent threat.

You groan when Bucky accidentally grabs your calf where there is an absolutely awful stab wound, but you wave off his apology. “How could you have known?” To be honest, you hadn’t even known it was there until his Vibranium hand was slipping against it and sending shockwaves of pain through you. Peter is next to you the whole time that you’re being carried back to the jet - Tony staying back to begin scanning the bodies of the Hydra agents for the information you need and any other information they may be carrying. The poor kid is nearly at a breakdown, so you reach out to him and shake his arm when his fingers twine with yours. “Chill out, kid, I don’t know how you got it into your head that this is your fault, but it sure isn’t.” He sniffles, but hands back with Steve as Bucky and Nat get you situated in the small medical room of the jet. They transfer you and then make to leave, only Bucky hesitating near the door.

“Stevie’s goin’ to be here soon and… I don’t know what made you do what you did but you have’t explain it to him. He’s bendin’ over backwards to figure it out, and we don’t have’a clue. Came out’a nowhere.” He looks at you for another moment before shaking his head and stepping out of the room. Your head is spinning, partially from what Bucky just said and partially from the pain and stimulus of electricity. You wait there, then, because this is it. This is the event horizon. You wait there, eyes closed, until you hear footsteps approach the med room, and then the door slowly opens. Steve says your name, holding all the finality and weight of an atomic bomb. You don’t open your eyes until he swings a chair next to the stretcher and lays a hand on your calf.

“You don’t have to do this,” You finally say, pushing yourself up onto your elbows to watch him. “I know that you don’t want to.” Steve only scoffs and begins to wash the stab wound using a packet of soap and a water bottle. You say his name twice before he looks at you, something between hate and hurt curdling into a glaze over his eyes that stops you in your tracks.

“Just let me do this. It is the least that you can do.” His words are painful and stilted, like it’s taking force to push them past his teeth. You lay back down and close your eyes, content to just feel the pain of Steve beginning to stitch you up and then dress the wound before you feel the pain of Steve leaving you like you knew he always would. (Falling in love with Steve Rogers went against every instinct you had. You knew that he was going to hurt you from the first moment your lips touched his.)

When he’s done he sits back and puts his elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He heaves a heavy sigh and then shakes it off, “I’ll dress your burn, and then we’ll talk.” And normally, yes, you would agree but this is too important. You want to get it over with so you can lick your wounds metaphorically and dress them literally - and then you want to go home, you want to pack your bags, and you want to disappear and remake your life somewhere else.

Some far-off place where everyone you know won’t take one look at your face and know that you’re still painfully, deeply in love with Steve Rogers, end of your semester be damned. Family you’ve made be damned. You can’t sit around and be in love with him like a neon sign on a dark highway while it’s painfully clear that he hasn’t had a sign on his highway in a long time.

So instead of agreeing, you swing your legs over the stretcher and swallow your flinch when the burn pulls tight. Steve opens his mouth to argue but you give him a tight-lipped shake of your head and his jaw snaps shut. “No,” You say, voice not giving in to the emotion swirling in your chest. “I have let this go on long enough.”

It’s the wrong thing to say because Steve fucking scoffs again and looks away from you. “One day was long enough.” He says, cutting straight to your core. Okay, ouch. You take a deep breath and shake your head to try and bite back the tears that are inevitably rising in your eyes. If one day was long enough for him to realize he doesn’t want to be with you, why did he let it go on for nearly a full year? Why did he spend so long leading you on, pulling you by a thread before garroting your heart with it? What was the point?

“If you want to leave me, just say that,” You reply harshly, standing and wobbling away from him. He just watches you go, watches the way you struggle past the lead weights your muscles have become, the way you’re starting to feel the stab wound on your leg, the way the skin on your burn is beginning to blister and only just now losing its heat. He just watches you, where the Steve that loved you once upon a time might have helped. You turn your back on him, hands on your hips so that you can hide the way that you’re crying and your hands are shaking.

“If I want to leave you? If?” He says. You hear the scrape of his chair as he stands, “I think after what you’ve done, it’s not an if, sweetheart.” The way he says it tastes like iron. Steve never calls you sweetheart like he never calls you by your name. It’s always honey, lover, dovie. You don’t turn to face him because you’re struggling to keep yourself above water. “I spent so long thinkin’, wonderin’, askin’ myself - God damnit, will you look at me?” You turn slowly, not because you’ve never heard Steve speak like that but because his voice is desperate and raw. When you turn, you’re not sure what to expect. Maybe him, standing in front of you, broad-shouldered and disappointed like in those PSA’s he had to film once. Maybe he’d be angry, hands clenched at his sides and eyes narrowed like he gets in meetings when he doesn’t agree with something but he’s out-voted. But you never expect to see him crying, lip wobbling, folded in on himself like a young boy instead of the strong, invincible man you’ve come to love.

He looks so different.

It hits you, then, that you’re not looking at Steve Rogers. Not really. He's not Steve Rogers, not Captain America, not even Captain Rogers. You see him as he was - before America spat it’s untruths all over him and injected him with a serum that changed who he was, is, will be. He’s not the able-bodied man that you know, not strong and unreachable, not the heartthrob that overshadows the team during press events. He’s not America’s Darling, not really. Not where it counts.

You’re looking at Stevie Rogers. Stevie Rogers who, for all intents and purposes, was supposed to die before he made it out of toddlerhood or soon thereafter. Stevie Rogers who the doctors said wasn’t supposed to survive. Stevie Rogers who grew up sickly, rattling painful breaths and never playing ball with the neighborhood boys. Who couldn’t walk until middle school when he got his braces off. Who never had a partner because Bucky, strong and handsome and tall Bucky, was always deemed the better option. Who believed in his country so much that he tried to sneak into the second world war, subjected himself to a painful medical procedure so that he could change his very DNA to be what the world wanted him to be.

Captain Steve Rogers. Captain America. Strong, blond, patriotic, resilient.

You’re sure that if men don’t want to go to therapy now, in the modern age, they certainly didn’t want to go in the ‘40s. So where did that leave Steve, your Steve, standing in front of you and looking small, and broken, and sad, and alone? Did they expect him to take his new, taller, working body and run with it? Did they not think about how he would lose a part of himself in the process? How did they expect him to go from disabled to abled without some disconnect?

You think about the You That You Were Before and the You That You Are Now, and how you lost a part of yourself when the accident gave you your powers and how you’d lose yourself if someone figured out a way to take them away. You Before formed your identity around being normal - living in a shitty home with shitty parents, sure, but normal - and You Now form your identity around your powers, your team, your job, your love. If you lost those things, what did you have left? Who would you be?

When Steve lost his identity and became everything that America wanted everyone to think that America was, what did he have left? Sure, he could tell himself that he represents America - strong and patriotic and just - but it must have conflicted with everything he knew about himself before that. You know that disabled people now know that American society is unjust, unfit for them with abled people not willing to make room to allow them to thrive. You can only imagine what it was really like for Steve in the ‘20s and ‘30s and ‘40s. What he had to do just to survive. (Medical experimentation, you remind yourself. Did they know it wouldn’t kill him? Did they know his body wouldn’t rip itself apart with the new sinewy muscle they were packing on? Did they care? Or was he just a body they saw as broken? A project to fix? To turn him into something more like them and call it patriotism?)

You shake your head at him, still filled with despair, and try to figure out what he’s talking about. “Stevie,” You start, pet name easily replacing what you had been calling him because it’s not fair to shoe-horn him into a body that doesn’t feel like his own. You wonder if he still expects the bone-grinding pain that he used to tell you would happen when it rains. He raises a hand, a strong and family hand, shaking his head.

“I just need to know why I wasn’t enough for you,” Steve looks sad, slouching in on himself like he’s expecting to get his ass handed to him in another alleyway and hope Bucky is there to save him. “I need to know why you wouldn’t just break up with me if you wanted to see other people so badly.” You suck in a shocked breath because, okay, that’s not what you were expecting. Between that and the paradigm shift you’ve had on how Steve must view his identity, body, and self, you’re stunned. Steve continues like he doesn’t even register that you look shocked and pale and now you’re crying because he thinks you’re cheating on him? “And I get it. I get it. You have no idea how much I understand. If I were you, I wouldn’t want me either, okay?”

You cut him off there because what the actual God damn fuck is he talking about? “No, Stevie, I’m not cheating on you.” You shake your head again and this, your statement, lights a fire in him. He still looks like Stevie rather than Steve, but there’s anger there. You imagine that’s what it might have looked like moments before he got himself in trouble back before he was serumed. “I’m not.”

“Oh, yeah?” He challenges, jaw ticking and chin jerking up, “Oh, yeah? You can’t lie to me. I know, okay? The act is up, it’s over, I know, okay? You can stop pretending.”

“Steve, I do not fucking know what you’re talking about but I”m not cheating on you!” You raise your voice, not really angry but more out of necessity. You need to get it out of his head that he is anything less than everything you want - that you could possibly love anyone more than you love him.

“I wanted to clarify something for you,” Steve says like he’s reading an old script from when he was just a beefy, red/white/blue stage prop for the American military, “I am excited to meet with you, but there are some rules. Do not talk about Captain Steve Rogers. I don’t want to hear about him,” As he continues to recite something that has clearly hurt him, you go lax. You know exactly what’s happened - your fists unclench, your jaw drops a little bit, and it feels like someone has gutted you, “I think it is wise to keep work and pleasure separate, and it’s a rule I will enforce heavily. I look forward to seeing you again.” He’s sneering at the end, tears falling down his ruddy cheeks.

“Steve,” You try again, but he cuts you off.

“Am I just work for you?” His voice is shaking more than you thought possible, and so are his hands. You’ve never seen Steve so off-kilter, so thrown, and it breaks your heart that yes, technically, you’re the cause of this. Before this, before this horrible misunderstanding, your relationship with Steve was the paragon of trust so neither of you cared if the other read emails or texts. You remember the email - the email from your fucking college professor - because it had made you so angry that he’d referred to your relationship with Steve as something as simple and base as just pleasure - like you could even put words to the galaxy of a relationship you had with Steve - that you’d gone to the gym to work off some of that irritation. You hadn’t wanted to take it out on anyone accidentally. When you came back from the gym, Steve was gone on that two-week mission that he’d left on without saying goodbye.

Oh, God. You feel sick to your stomach as the paradigm of the way that Steve’s been treating you shifts violently to the left. You have to physically hold yourself up and try to speak past the lump in your throat. Steve looks… Brokenly smug. Like he knows he’s right, but he’d rather gnaw his own legs off than be right.

“No,” You croak, “No, Steve, you’ve got it all wrong.” You want to reach for him, but it feels like the room is closing in on you. You’re second-guessing everything now - especially what you’ve just said. How many people said the exact same thing to him pre-serum because they said something meant for Bucky to him? How many times did he hear that when he was getting a new diagnosis, hoping for the best? How many times had his own mother said it to him when he told her something someone had said, fresh-faced and not yet used to the way that abled people sometimes treated disabled people? You think you might be sick. “That email was from my professor, Steve. I’m not cheating on you, I’d never.” He laughs darkly and sits back down in his chair, head in his hands again. You try to gather the strength to move toward him when you see his shoulders shaking, a telltale sign that he’s crying.

“A professor,” He says with a watery laugh, “Right.”

Finally, you realize that he needs you, needs to know you love him, that you’d do anything for him. You can iron out the kinks later - figure out why he didn’t want to come to talk to you past the original hurt, why he treated you so coldly, why he didn’t trust that you wouldn’t do this to him - but now, you need to show him that you’re here. That you choose him. That you’ll always choose him.

You make your way to him and set a shaking hand on his shoulder. For a brief second you think he’s going to shake you off but then Steve’s hand shoots up and latches onto where your hand is resting, dipping his head to press against your arm. “Stevie, please,” You say, unsure of what you’re asking him to do, “I picked up a class, just one, and it’s… I picked it up for you, it’s about the ‘30s and ‘40s and…” He looks up at you and he looks so broken - face ruddy and wet with tears, lip wobbling, chest heaving as he tries to not sob. His brows are knit and he looks confused, “I just wanted to be able to understand you better. You had to leave so much of yourself at the door when you joined the Avengers, had to leave so much of yourself in the ice… In Erskine’s lab… Stevie, I just wanted you to be able to be you when you’re with me. I wanted to know the you that you were before you became Captain America.” Your voice is shaking, knees knocking together, and honestly? You feel like you might blackout.

“What?” He rasps, “What?”

“He sent that email because too many kids signed up for his class thinking that they’d be able to look at pictures of you and Buck for a semester. Emailed me directly because he knows we’re…” You choke on your words, shaking your head because you’re not even sure there’s a we anymore, “Because he knows I’m on the team. Didn’t want me walking in and making his class about just a few years in the ‘30s and ‘40s rather than the culture of the time.” You don’t know how else to explain it to him, but Steve isn’t saying anything - practically isn’t moving or breathing- so you continue to try and explain what’s really happening as best as you can, “And - and that email made me so angry because he singled me out, didn’t email anyone else about it, and I left to try and work some of that out; I didn’t want to take it out on you, or let it spoil - let it spoil… But when I came back from the gym, you were gone. You were gone for two weeks and I didn’t know why.” You’re crying harder now and pretty sure that within the next sixty seconds you’re going to collapse if you don’t sit down.

Steve shakes his head, still looking like he doesn’t understand. “What?” He says for a third time, “A class? A college class?”

“I just wanted to feel closer to you,” You confess, “Just wanted to understand a fraction of your life without making you do the heavy liftin’ and teachin’ me. Shouldn’t have’t do that,” You’re sobbing, barely biting out your words as you realize that something you’ve done to strengthen your relationship with Steve has destroyed it, “Shouldn’t have to explain a whole different time just to feel loved, Stevie. Should be able to be with someone who understands without you havin’ to explain.” You’re not sure you can say Peggy’s name out loud, and you hope he understands what you’re saying without making you actually say it, “Should’a been able to have love with someone who knew, and I know I’m nothin’ compared to what you should’a had, but I want to be. I want to be in the same ballpark instead’a watchin’ from the stands.” You wipe your face with your free hand and look away from Steve when he stands in front of you. You don’t want to see the look on his face - what he’s thinking about what you’ve said.

He says your name and you glance at him, but his expression stops him in your tracks. Where Steve looked broken and hurt and fuming with anger to hide the anguish, now he looks stricken. You shake your head, “No, no. I didn’t say that to make you feel guilty-”

“You think that I care about whether or not you can understand the ‘40s?” He cuts you off, hands moving to curl around your biceps, “You think that I care whether or not you can relate to a time in history when you weren’t even thought of?”

“Of course I love you. I love you more than anything in this world, but you shouldn’t have to not care, Steve,” You argue, shaking your head, “That’s what I’m trying to say. You should be with someone who understands without explanation. I just wanted to give that to you - didn’t know that this would happen.”

“I should be with someone who loves me,” He argues back, “If you love me, that’s all that matters. My past be damned.”

“But your past is you!” You try to pull away from Steve, but he anchors you there. You’re dizzy from being so close to him after this long, but also because of how many different twists this situation has taken. You can barely keep up with how bad your communication with Steve has become - barely keep up with how you need to fix it, or how to fix it. “Your past is you,” You repeat when you realize that Steve isn’t going to let you go. “And you shouldn’t have to give that up so that someone will love you.”

“But you love me,” He says desperately, ducking his head so that he’s nearly nose to nose with you, “You love me, right?”

“More than anything,” You say, closing your eyes and relishing in the feeling of being so close to Steve, “I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. I don’t care about what anyone else thinks, or anyone else. I’ll even stop goin’ to class if you want me to - Steve, I just can’t do this anymore. Can’t do this thing where you don’t talk to me about what’s botherin’ you.” You’re choking up, barely whispering, but you know he hears you. YOu can feel his warm breath on your face, “Nearly fuckin’ killed me.”

“I thought it was goin’ to be easier,” He breathes, nose bumping yours, “When you eventually decided to leave me for him. Thought I was savin’ myself some trouble.” You can practically taste his tears as they fall again, “Buck and Nat tried to tell me that you weren’t - that you wouldn’t - but I just couldn’t believe them.”

When you open your eyes, his are closed. This close to him you can see the soft freckles that are blooming over his eyelids, his soft eyelashes kissing his cheekbones. You can feel him breathing, feel him nearly pressed against you in a way that feels hauntingly nostalgic and terrifyingly fleeting; like you’ll be able to feel his warmth for years to come, but he’s about to disappear. “That’s okay,” You finally whisper, “It’s okay that you didn’t believe them. That you thought what you thought. It’s okay.” He shakes his head against yours, opening his mouth to protest, but you refuse to let him feel guilty about feeling this way - you have plenty of time to sit him down and talk to him candidly about the way he acted because of these feelings, anyway. “If I would have been in your place I’m not sure I would have believed them.”

“I treated you so badly…” He shifts and wraps his arms around you. It’s almost immediate - you relax into his arms and wind yours around his waist, keeping him pulled against you as he presses his face into your neck and you press your cheek against his chest. “So awfully.”

“We’ll talk about that, okay? But later. Right now you just need to know that I love you, Steve. I love you more than I can tell you - more than I can express.” You want to kiss him, but you can’t. Can’t kiss him, you need to wait for him to kiss you, for him to close that gap and show you that he still loves you like you love him. “We’ll have to have a talk, a long and hard conversation about this, Stevie, but for now… For now, I’m just content to be with you, okay? MIssed you so much.”

He sighs, nose pressing against yours again. “Missed you too, dovie. Missed you more than I can even say,” His voice breaks as his lips brush yours. Your relationship is not without its flaws and problems - Steve’s actions when he thought you were cheating on him are proof of that and, well, the fact that you didn’t realize what was happening, why it was happening, or a large part of your boyfriend’s psychological makeup having an impact on your relationship while it went unknown by you… There is a lot of work for the two of you to do, a lot of work to do, a lot of communication to be done… But you’d do it all for Steve, over and over again.

When he presses forward and presses his lips gently to yours, you know that he’ll do it all for you, over and over again, too.

#steve rogers imagine #steve rogers/reader #steve rogers x reader #marvel imagine #mcu imagine

457 notes · View notes

thislovintime · 1 year

Photo

Peter Tork in Montreal, May 26, 1982; photographed for The Gazette.

“‘There are two kinds of pain,’ [Tork] was saying yesterday, as he dipped down into the sometimes-murky well of his own experience. ‘One is the pain of growing up. The other is the pain of refusing to do so. ‘To my mind, the first is better because although it’s infinitely more difficult to deal with, at least it changes. It,’ and he paused for the longest of moments, ‘somehow gets better.' […] [H]is somehow has meant cleaning up his act, giving up the old standbys of drinking and drugging. For another, it has also meant learning to overcome the fear that life straight would somehow turn him into a pallid clone, his days marked by the slow tick of agonizing sameness. Which took not a little amount of courage and a lot of will. ‘Looking back now, I realize I was compulsive,’ he says. ‘And that comes from the lie that you have to do everything yourself. Making it. And you can’t make it without the support system of other people. I think this whole business we’re into now about glorifying the individual is a temporary historical aberration. That you can’t ask for help, that there is no sense of community. ‘Anyway, at the end of the long road, the chemistry backfired,’ he recalled. ‘It was like being totally aphasic. Conversations which, when I started with drugs, seemed intelligent, articular and enlightening, at the end became disjointed. ‘On the road, I would reward myself for not getting blitzed before a performance by getting blitzed after it. I’d make promises to myself at home and then the minute I got back on the road, the controls came off and I was right back where I started from. When you’re in that condition, issues of will become very fuzzy.’ The solution slowly became less so. ‘I realized I had a choice,’ he said. ‘Either a dull life or no life at all. Amazingly, life straight and sober has turned out to be a delight. Now I’m blitzed on natch.’ [...] ‘Part of me was in the middle of the Monkee thing,’ Tork recalls, ‘and part of me was outside it, isolated from it. The Monkees’ records were for teenyboppers and the instrumentations were deliberately non-threatening. Everybody said the Monkees were a plastic pop group, I guess because we became known through television. But nobody said anything about the creation that was the Mary Tyler Moore or I Love Lucy shows. No TV shows were judged by that standard.’ When it was all over, he went out on his own and, during the 1970s, tried a variety of things which never seemed to work out. Television didn’t want him, publishers were indifferent about a book on the Monkees and he was battling the alcohol and the drugs. Today, that war is over and Tork is hoping to devote all his energies once again to his music. ‘I guess I look for things with a little bounce,’ he says. ‘A lot of what passes for pop music today has no grace. Yes, that’s the word. Like sledge-hammer rock. Or heavy metal music. My ears are softer and I guess I look for tone quality much more. But high-energy jump-rock I do like.’ The future, for what it’s worth, seems to have its own special promise and Tork is beginning to believe much is still possible. This time on the track, at least, he intends on being master of his own controls. ‘I used to ask myself, “Why me?” before,’ he says. ‘Now I’m saying, “What the hell, why not?”’” - article by John Fitzgerald, The Gazette, May 27, 1982 (x)

#Peter Tork #Tork quotes #80s Tork #60s Tork #70s Tork #long read #The Monkees #Monkees #Release #The Peter Tork Project #The New Monks #Peter Tork and the New Monks #1982 #<3 #(sorry about the photocopy quality of the photo)#The Montreal Gazette #can you queue it

14 notes · View notes

c-is-for-circinate · 3 years

Note

Wait, isn't "anti" stuff more like "anti-pedophilia" and stuff? Like, you have a point about anti-porn attitudes, but from what I've heard just "anti" on its own means against stuff like kid porn and incest porn and legitimately f*cked up sh*t like that.

Okay! So this, I think, is actually a great example of what I was talking about, and a really useful thing to understand. (CW rape, child abuse, etc)

Smarter people than me have written much better essays about why policing thoughtcrimes is a bad road to go down, and I will probably reblog some of them next time they cross my dash for more context. What I want to talk about is the trigger mechanism, the ‘oh, this looks like danger!!!’ immune response in how we look at different kinds of porn, and how that applies to anti culture.

Here’s the thing: I am anti-pedophilia. I think that, for most people, that’s a stance that largely goes without saying! Adults who prey on children are bad. I’m also against incest; relatives who prey on their family members are bad. Above all I oppose rape. Sexual predation of any kind is bad. In fact, I’d say that’s the most important item on the list. There is plenty of room to argue about where the lines are between ‘adult’ and ‘child’ and how teenagers fit in the middle, and there’s plenty of room to get historical about the lines between ethically terrible incest, distasteful-but-bearable “aristocratic inbreeding” between distant cousins, and the kind of consanguinity that tends to develop in a small town where everyone’s vaguely related to everyone else by now anyway. The core of the issue is consent, and it has always been consent. Pedophilia and incest are horrific because they are rape scenarios where the abuser has far more power and their victim far fewer resources to cope, both practically and emotionally; because harm to children is, to us as a culture, worse than harm to adults, for a lot of very valid reasons; and because they constitute betrayal of trust the victim should have been able to put in their abuser as well as rape--but they are all rape scenarios, and that’s why they’re awful.

These things are bad. It is good for us to have a social immune response system that recognizes these things when they’re happening and insists we step in. That is a good thing to develop! It helps us, as a society. It can help the people being victimized. It’s the same reason educators and childcare workers in the US are all mandated reporters, why we do background checks on people working near kids. These things happen, and they’re terrible, and it’s good that we try to be aware and prepared for them. (Though obviously studies show we’re a lot less good at protecting the vulnerable than we’d like to pretend we are.)

The question is: why does that same social immune response trigger, and trigger so angrily, in response to fiction?

Anti culture is fundamentally an expression of that social immune response. Specifically, it’s that social immune response when it is set off by a situation that, while it has some similarities to the very bad real-life crime of sexual predation including pedophilia and incest, is in and of itself harmless.

If you’re instinct is to flare up in anger or dismissiveness because I’m calling these things harmless, I want to ask you to just take a deep breath and bear with me for a bit longer. What you’re feeling right now is an allergic reaction.

Humans tell and read and listen to stories about “legitimately fucked up shit” all the time. It’s part of the human condition. It’s part of how we process those things happening, not just to use, but to other people in the world around us. It’s part of how we process completely unrelated fucked-up shit, playing with fears and furies and insecurities that we all have, through so may layers of fiction that we don’t even recognize them any more, playing with power dynamics in metaphor and making characters suffer for fun. Aside from the fact that literally all stories do this to some extent or another; aside from the fact that drawing lines between ‘ok that’s good storytelling’ and ‘that’s too fucked-up to write about’ is arbitrary, subjective, and dangerous in its own right; aside from all of that, these stories are stories. All of them.

Even the ones about rape, about incest, about pedophilia. They’re words on a page. No real children were harmed, touched, or even glanced at in the making of this work of fiction. This story, pornographic though it may be, is part of a conversation between consenting adults. (And if a teenager lies about their age to consent, that is a different problem altogether.)

Stories in and of themselves, no matter what they’re about, are no more dangerous than a crate full of oranges. Which is to say: utterly harmless, unless all you have to eat is oranges, all day every day, and you find yourself dying slowly of nutrient deficiency--which is why representation matters. Or unless someone wields one deliberately, violently, as a tool to cause harm, and someone gets acid in their eye--which is the fault of the person holding the orange. And unless you happen to be allergic to citrus.

The key here is this twofold understanding: First, the thing that hurts you can also have value to others. Real, legitimate value. Whether you’ve undergone trauma and certain story elements are straight-up PTSD triggers or you just don’t like orange juice, that story, those tropes, that crate of oranges may be somewhere between icky and fundamentally abhorrent--but we understand that that is still your reaction. Even if you don’t understand how anybody could ever enjoy it; even if every single person you surround yourself with is as sensitive and disgusted and itchy about this thing that makes your eyes hurt and your throat stop working as you; that doesn’t make it true for everyone. That doesn’t make oranges poisonous. No real children were involved in the writing of this story. It is words on a page.

But, secondly: the thing that has value to others can also hurt you. Just because a story isn’t inherently poison doesn’t mean it can’t cause you, personally, pain. That’s what a PTSD trigger is: an allergic reaction, psychological anaphylaxis, a brain that’s trying so hard to protect its own from a threat that isn’t actually present (but was once, and the brain is trained to respond) that it causes far more harm and misery than the trigger itself possibly could. And no, it’s not just people with PTSD who sometimes get hurt by stories. There are many, many ways a story can poke the part of your brain that says, this is Bad, I don’t like this, I don’t want to be here. The story is still, always, every time, pixels on a screen and ink on paper. The story causes no physical harm. But it can poke your brain into misery, it can stir up your emotions, it can make you want to cringe and run away. It can make you want to scream and fight and go after the author who brought this thing into existence. It can make you hurt.

This is an allergic reaction. This is your brain and body, your reflexes and instincts, trying to protect you from something that isn’t really happening. And just like a literal allergic reaction, it can do actual harm to you if it gets set off. This is real. The fact that stories can upset you to the point of pain and mental/emotional injury is real, even though it’s coming from your own brain and not the story itself. There are stories you shouldn’t read. There are stories I shouldn’t read, regret reading, will never read, because they hurt me. That doesn’t mean they’re the same stories that would hurt you. That doesn’t mean they don’t have value.

And, finally:

If getting upset about stories is fundamentally an individual person’s allergic reaction, their brain freaking out and firing off painful survival instincts in the face of a thing that isn’t, in and of itself, a threat? Then the anti movement is a cultural allergic reaction.

Fandom as a whole has a pretty active immune system, which doesn’t mean we have a good immune system. We try very hard to be aware of all the viruses and -isms and abuse and manipulation and cruelty, both systematic and individual, that exists around and within our community. We’re primed and ready to shout about things at all times. The anti movement is that system, that culture, screaming and shouting and fighting at a harmless thing on a grand scale. It wants to stop that thing, that scary awful thing that trips all of its well-primed danger sensors, at all costs. It’ll swell up and block off our airways (our archives) if it has to. It’ll turn on the body it came from. It’s scared and protective and trying to fight, and it’s ready to fight and destroy itself.

Luckily, fans and fanfic and fandom and fan culture are a lot bigger and older than they often get credit for, and it’s not like these cultural allergies are anything new. We could talk about shippers and slashers in the X-Files fandom in the 90s. We could talk about the birth of fandom in the days of Star Trek. We could talk about censorship and book burning going back centuries. We survived that and we’ll survive this, too.

But god, does the anti movement my throat and eyes itch. Man is it irritating, and sometimes a little suffocating, to realize how many stories just aren’t getting told out of fear of what the antis will say. And that’s the real danger, I think. What are we losing that would have so much value to someone? What are we missing out?

#fandom #anti culture #anti-anti #I guess?#asked and answered #you are not WRONG or BAD or BROKEN if a story hurt you #but neither is the story #Anonymous #anti discourse day

1K notes · View notes

cuttoothed · 3 years

Text

Fic for day 3 of @jonmartinweek for the prompt "Healing & Recovery". We've all been saying jmart need a lot of therapy after the finale, so...yeah.

Disclaimer: I have never been to couple's therapy. I have done some reading on it, but this is not intended in any way to accurately reflect real world therapy practices. Please just assume that anything "off" is due to the way couple's therapy is practiced in AU-land (though of course feel free to let me know if you spot anything egregious).

“Why don’t you start,” Judith suggests, “By telling me about the incident?”

The two men on the sofa give her identical startled looks, as if she’s uncovered something incriminating. Martin seems to regain his composure first; he clears his throat, and his hand moves to cover Jon’s, unconsciously protective.

“Sorry, wh-what do you mean by “incident”?”

“For most couples who come to see me, there’s an...inciting incident,” Judith explains. “Something that makes them realize they could use some professional support to work through things. Of course any couple can benefit from seeing a therapist together on occasion, to deal with small issues before they become big ones. But, well, it’s the same way that everyone knows they should go for regular check ups with their GP rather than waiting until they actually get sick—it’s just not something most people get around to until they need it.”

She pauses to give them time to consider that, and after a moment Jon nods, looking mildly embarrassed.

“Right,” he says. “That’s, ah, I think that’s fair.”

“There are pretty strong extenuating circumstances, though,” Martin huffs defensively. “We didn’t exactly have the option for therapy in the a—wh-where we lived before.”

“It’s not intended as a criticism,” Judith tells him. “You’ve chosen to talk to a therapist, and that’s a big step—one that many people never take. You’re ahead of the curve, Martin.”

Martin looks mollified at that; he’s clearly a bit touchy about perceived criticisms of their relationship, and Judith doesn’t want to get him on the defensive. She gives them both an encouraging smile.

“So,” she says. “Is there an incident you’d like to talk about?”

The two of them look at each other expectantly, as if each is waiting for the other to start. After several long moments of silence, Jon raises his eyebrows meaningfully, and Martin sighs.

“Fine,” he says. “So, we, uh, we recently realized that our...garden was a-a bit of a mess. So we—Jon and I—we get together with our...housemates, to figure out what kind of flowers we should plant. Fuschias or—or hydrangeas. ”

He pauses to glance nervously at Jon, who gives him a reassuring nod, squeezing his hand.

Right, Judith thinks, This is probably not about flowers.

“We agree we all want fuschias,” Martin continues, “Except Jon—he wanted hydrangeas. But we took a vote, and it was fuschias.”

“Except of course most of our—our housemates weren’t there for that meeting,” Jon interjects, folding his arms across his chest.

“Yes, but we agreed we couldn’t wait to ask every single person,” Martin says sharply, back on the defensive. Jon’s brow furrows and his mouth opens as if to say something, but he changes his mind and shuts it again. Conflict aversion is one of the most common dysfunctions Judith sees in the couples she treats; very few people want to disagree with the person they love, and even fewer know how to have a constructive conflict. She makes a mental note of it for later.

“Go ahead, Martin,’ she suggests gently. Martin looks unhappy, but continues.

“So we agree to plant the fuschias the next day, but Jon—Jon sneaks out in the middle of the night and starts, uh, planting hydrangeas. Without telling anyone.”

Without telling me, Judith hears in his hurt tone. Jon’s arms are still folded, and he’s almost squirming in his seat with the effort to not interject; Judith decides it’s a good time to invite him into the story.

“Jon, why did you feel so strongly about the hydrangeas?”

“It’s—it wasn’t that I wanted hydrangeas, I just couldn’t a-accept the idea of—of fuchsias.”

“Couldn’t allow it, you mean,” Martin grumbles. Judith lets it pass and continues to focus on Jon.

“Why is that?”

“They, uh, they spread…” Jon waves his hands vaguely. “Their—their...roots? They would get into the, uh, the neighbors’ gardens, completely take over, destroy everything.”

“Potentially,” Martin insists. “There was no guarantee—”

“There was no reason they wouldn’t,” Jon snaps.

By now Judith is not only sure that this has nothing to do with gardening, but suspects that neither of these men has ever seen a fuchsia in their lives. It’s fine, though. This is far from the first time a client has invented a story out of whole cloth so they can work through something uncomfortable without actually describing it. And this is their first session; Judith hopes in the future they’ll trust her enough to give her the real story.

“Remember,” she tells them. “We’re not here to decide that someone was objectively right or wrong, we’re here to help you understand each other and improve your communication skills.”

“Right,” Martin mutters, unconvinced. Jon’s expression is distressed, but he continues.

“There was no other choice,” he says wearily. “The only other option was—was azaleas, and I know you didn’t want that, Martin.”

“Absolutely not.” Martin sounds horrified. “But hydrangeas, Jon? Do you really think that was a better option?”

“You have to see the difference.” Jon’s tone goes stiff and incredulous, as if he’s winding up for a lecture, and Judith decides to cut that off before it starts.

“So what I’m hearing,” she says, “Is that you both had very strong, conflicting opinions on this topic. And that’s okay—it’s okay for you to disagree, even on something important. You’re not always going to agree on what the right thing to do is. Often there is no single “right thing,” so it comes down to how the different choices make us feel.”

“That doesn’t seem like a good way to make a decision that affects the wh—a lot of people.” Jon clearly considers that his opinion on not-flowers was the objectively correct one. Judith smiles.

“People aren’t computers, Jon. Even the most logical minded person in the world is influenced by their feelings—about important issues, about other people. You’d be surprised at how much of our decision making is rooted in emotion; either how we anticipate the outcome of our decision will make us feel, or how we are feeling in the immediate moment of the choice.”

A spasm of something that might be grief or pain flashes across Jon’s face, and he leans unconsciously in Martin’s direction. Martin’s arm instantly goes around him, offering comfort without thought. It’s clear that these two love each other deeply, unquestioningly—and that’s also part of the problem. When someone you love thinks that you’re wrong about something that’s important to you, it can feel like a rejection of your entire self.

“I’d like to pause this discussion for now, and try a little exercise,” she says. Jon nods, sitting back up and disengaging from Martin’s embrace; Martin looks attentively at her, though his expression is unsure.

“One of the biggest challenges we face with people we love is recognizing that they are separate from us. I know—” she says, raising her hands to stop the objections she can already see forming on their lips. “Of course you know that you’re separate people. We all know that, rationally. But emotionally, it’s natural to see the people you’re close to as extensions of yourself—it’s an evolutionary impulse to aid group bonding. It happens with friends and family, and it’s an even stronger impulse between partners.

“We have to do a lot of work to truly internalize the idea that the people we love have their own inner emotional lives that drive their opinions and decisions. But once you are able to fully grasp that truth, it makes disagreeing with the person you love feel less emotionally fraught; it’s a powerful tool for navigating conflict constructively.”

Jon is frowning, but it’s in consideration rather than disapproval. Martin still looks skeptical, his body language defensive, though he doesn’t say anything. That’s probably the best she’s going to get for now, Judith thinks.

“So,” she says. “The exercise is this: I’d like each of you to take a few moments to think, and then tell the other person something about yourself. Not a fact, but something that you feel. And I would like you to listen without interrupting when your partner tells you their feeling. Can you each do that?”

“I, ah—” Jon’s frown deepens. “That’s...rather difficult to do on demand.”

“I know,” says Judith with sympathy. “That’s why I’m here, to support you both in doing the difficult things. If it was easy, you wouldn’t need a therapist to facilitate.”

“Right,” says Jon. “Okay.”

“Martin?”

“Fine,” he says, but his tone is reluctant. Judith gets it; vulnerability is hard enough in front of someone you love, never mind with a stranger in the room. It’s easier to pretend that it’s pointless, that you’re not really putting yourself out there to be hurt. She has the feeling that Martin is someone who would rather avoid being hurt, even if it means closing himself off.

“All right,” she says. “When you’re ready, Jon, would you mind going first? No rush, take all the time you need.” Hopefully, seeing Jon take the first step might help Martin get over some of his defensiveness.

“Oh,” he says, and for a few moments his expression devolves into one of intense concentration. Then he nods, turning towards Martin.

“Start with “I feel”,” Judith suggests.

“All right,” he says, breathless with nerves. “I, uh, I feel...responsible. For—well, for everything, basically. And for everyone. Bad things have happened to people, and it’s my fault, because I should have done something. Everything that happened, back there, it was all because of me.”

“It wasn’t you, Jon!” Martin protests. “Annabelle told us—”

Judith is about to remind him that he’s supposed to just be listening, but he cuts himself off first. Jon laughs, an ugly sound that’s more like a sob.

“And how is that supposed to help? Knowing that the—that they were using me my whole life, how does that absolve me of any responsibility for what I did? For the fact that I failed to do anything to stop them? I couldn’t even go through with the one thing that could have actually meant something, because—”

He clamps his mouth shut, his jaw locked tight; Martin looks down at his hands, his expression distraught.

“Because of me.”

“Martin—” Jon’s tone is wounded, and he reaches for Martin’s hand. Judith sees reflections of a shared pain in both their faces, though she doesn’t understand why; this would be a lot easier if they’d just tell her the truth.

But you didn’t get into this profession because it was easy, did you?

“Thank you for sharing that, Jon. I think there’s a lot more for us to explore there, but let’s give you a break and give Martin a chance to share, okay?”

Jon nods, clutching Martin’s hand in his. Martin gives a long, slow exhale.

“Righto,” he says with false, brittle cheer. “”I feel,” wasn’t it? Right. Jon, when you do something stupidly self-sacrificing for other people, I feel like everyone else is more important than me.”

Jon flinches.

“Martin,” Judith says, keeping her tone level. “Let’s keep the focus on what you feel, not on what causes you to feel that way, okay?”

“Right,” Martin mutters, and glances at Jon. “Okay. In that case, I feel...like I’m not important. Like the only thing I can really do is—is take care of you. And if I can’t even do that, then what bloody use am I? That’s it, I suppose.”

“Martin…” Jon says again, softly. His eyes are wet, and he’s clinging to Martin’s hand like a drowning man to a plank. Martin swallows hard and shakes his head, but he makes no move to extract his hand from Jon’s grip.

“Thank you, Martin,” Judith tells him. “I know that wasn’t easy to share, for either of you. But this is the kind of honesty that we need, in order to build strong communication. Let’s all take five minutes—if either of you want to take a bathroom break, or get some water—and then we can talk about where to go from here. All right?”

Martin disappears to the loo, while Jon wanders around the office, looking with polite interest at the shelves of books and ornaments. Judith writes a few notes for herself, to follow up in future sessions. She hopes there’ll be future sessions. Both of these men seem deeply hurt, traumatized by events that they’re just barely alluding to, and have clearly been struggling through as best they can with less than ideal coping mechanisms, trying—and likely failing—not to hurt each other in the process. They both need individual counselling as much as couples’ therapy—maybe more. She’s certainly going to recommend it..

They clearly love each other, though. And they want to make it work. If they’re willing to put the effort in, they have better than even odds in their favor.

Martin’s eyes are red-rimmed when he returns; he sits on the sofa as near as he can to Jon, who presses their shoulders together. Judith can’t help smiling at the sight.

“How long have the two of you been together?” she asks. She always asks new clients at the end of the first session, rather than at the beginning; that way she can get a feel for the relationship without preconceptions based on longevity. The two of them look at each other properly, for the first time since Martin came back in, and matching, sheepish smiles break out on both their faces after a moment.

“So it was three weeks in Scotland,” Martin begins, ticking it off on his fingers. “And then—how long?”

“Uhh, it’s...let’s say half a year, give or take?” Jon makes a face that says he’s really not all that sure.

“Right, and then we’ve been here nearly six months. So...about a year, all in all?”

“But we knew each other for over three years before that,” Jon insists earnestly.

“It sounds as if the two of you have been through a lot,” says Judith. “And not all of it gardening related?”

“No,” Jon says with a self-deprecating chuckle. “Mostly not.”

“We barely scratched the surface today—and that’s normal. Relationships are complicated, and it takes a lot of time and hard work to build understanding and communication. But I promise you, it is worth all the effort. You both made a really strong start today—it takes courage to be that honest, even with your partner.”

The two of them give each other a long look, and the smile they trade is tentative, but genuine. They haven’t solved anything today, have only just begun to reveal their hurt and their insecurities; they have a long journey ahead to get to a truly honest, healthy place both for themselves and their relationship. Judith has a feeling they’ll persevere, though—that losing each other simply isn’t an option.

“So,” she says, “Should we make this a recurring appointment?”

Jon glances questioningly at Martin, who bites his lip and then nods firmly, taking Jon’s hand in his.

“Yeah,” Martin says. “We’ve done much harder things. We can do this.”

“Together?” says Jon, and Martin smiles.

“No matter what.”

#the magnus archives #tma #jonmartinweek2021 #my fic #jonmartin

946 notes · View notes