#also really channeling that tumblr post that says humans are just meant to hold each other | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

epicmoonintensifies · 4 years

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What of a Wing?

Requested Anonymously Here's something short to hold y'all over while I figure out how to breathe and do a task at the same time! And also I hate literally every change tumblr has made since I've been gone. It was nearly impossible to post this.

🖤

You weren't a faunus. That wasn't usually something that you had to explain to people, because it was rather obvious that your wings weren't natural. They weren't the right size to really get a person off the ground, and yet, you flew. They were shiny, metallic, and their strange texture brought to mind something otherworldly, not smooth and familiar like the feathers of a bird's wing. That, and, a faunus couldn't channel aura through their animal anatomy anymore than they could through a human part. But your wings were a manifestation of your semblance. The benefits of having one's aura unlocked at such a young age: your semblance got to build and grow into something far more than most people's would ever be, and all before you were an adult. So. When the multi-colored glint of metal shone off your wings, and when the sun made the strange feathers glitter like cut diamonds, it was very obvious that they were not the wings of a faunus. And yet, most people never realized that, like any semblance, it was adaptable. That is to say, not just for flying. Well. That was fine by you. That just meant you had a few tricks up your sleeve. Qrow didn't ask many questions about your wings. He didn't usually bring up semblances, if he could help it, and you didn't blame him. You didn't mind, either. Your wings had been a source of curiosity to other people for most of your life, and it was nice, really, to not be questioned about only those, as if they were the most important part of you. (And there was some bitterness in you about that, because the attention was entertaining when you were small, but as you got older and you realized that everyone you met thought your wings were the most interesting thing about you, some part of you began to hate them.) You knew that he thought your wings were beautiful, and that was good enough. He liked to hug you from behind and rest his head on your back, between your shoulders. He was so gentle with your wings when he did that, even though you had told him that they were tougher than anything he could do to them. But you supposed that he could hardly bring himself to treat your wings any differently than he treated the rest of you. Gentle. Kind. Admiring. He didn't put you on a pedestal but he always treated you like you deserved more. But Qrow had never seen you in a fight before today. It was odd that he hadn't, really. You both hunted, and you both supported each other at every turn, but you just hadn't hunted together. Until today. You were distracted, mostly by Qrow. He was beautiful in a fight. You were used to seeing rough-and-tumble fighting; rolling in the dirt and spitting blood and coming away in shreds. But that might have been because you had been trained in Vacuo. Qrow moved like a dancer. He was magnificent. You know that he would be, but Oum, it was incredible to finally see it with your own eyes. But you needed to focus. You had handheld weapons, of course, but your wings were incredibly effective. In a fight, your feathers sharpened to obsidian-sharp edges, and your wingspan allowed you to cut down most Grimm before they came into range of your actual blades. Thankfully, your swords were also guns, and while your wings kept anything from throwing off your aim, you could provide Qrow with some firepower. But you moved when you realized that bullets wouldn't be enough. Your wings provided you with incredible speed. But you knew it wouldn't be enough, not with– Not with that Grimm closing in, bigger and faster than the others, smart enough to stay in Qrow's blind spot, tough enough the you couldn't shoot it down from a distance, so fast and so close too close– Your wings folded around Qrow, bladed feathers interlocking to become impenetrable, and wicked claws scraped along your primaries with a sickening shriek. Qrow turned, fast, and you only had a split second to take in his startled expression before he honed in on the Grimm you had just shielded him from. And then he was moving, the beauty of Harbinger's swing arcing over your shoulder not lost on you as Qrow took advantage of the wall your wings provided and attacked from a more defensible position. You heard the distinctive 'shnnk' sound of Harbinger making its mark, and Grimm ash filled the air for just a moment before dissipating, leaving a gray stain on the ground and nothing more.

Little beowolves, barely armored, were easy pickings after that.

That night, Qrow nuzzles and flutters soft kisses at the base of each wing, activating sparks of your aura as your wings soften into something less like blades and more like down feathers at his touch. You allow it, not minding genuine appreciation of your wings. It's well-deserved after today, you justify to yourself, feathers curling as Qrow digs his fingers into your primaries and holds tight.

"I love what you do with these," he laughs into your skin, tired and gentle and happy.

"I love that they kept you safe," you admit. That's one of the kindest compliments you've given your wings in the past few… years.

"Ehh, no they didn’t," he says, kissing from feather to feather and then to your lips. "You did."

#qrow x reader #qrow #rwby qrow #qrow branwen #imagine rwby #rwby imagine #rwby #qrow imagine

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eruwaedhiel-iso · 6 years

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How Korrasami Saved Me

I read the initiative for sharing personal stories or experiences of the way Korrasami, well, saved us, when I was scrolling through @threehoursfromtroy‘s Tumblr. Really, thanks to everyone involved in this initiative.

Well, here’s my story, my experience, because, no kidding, Korrasami/Korra/Asami/the entire Avatar universe truly saved me and the impact this animated series in particular has had in my life is beyond any words I could find. But at least I’ll try...

I watched The Legend of Korra’s series finale long after it aired on December 19, 2014. I was familiar with the Avatar universe since I watched The Last Airbender when it aired on Nick and I liked it but I must confess I was never a big fangirl. That’s why I didn’t know anything about Korra when it aired. All my knowledge of Korra was because my brother kinda watched it sometimes and because of Tumblr post here and there.

That December 19 I was like a distant observer in a moment that meant so much for so many people and that, in many ways, paved the way for a better representation in kid’s shows.

The Avatar series always dealt with different issues: disability, mental health, politics, dysfunctional families... the human condition. There’s no denying that it’s a groundbreaking series. But the issue of sexual orientation was always out of the table. After all, it was a cartoon, airing in a kid’s channel and even though it always dealt with complex and mature issues, there was no possible way that the writers and creators could go that way, no matter how much the fandom shipped certain characters. The possibility of those ships becoming canon was slim.

I think that’s why something changed for so many people thanks to Korra and Asami becoming canon after holding hands, facing each other while entering that new spirit portal in the middle of Republic City. I could use a thousand metaphors of what that particular moment meant but all of them seem so small compared with the reality. At last, someone dared to break with the usual writing, the usual storytelling... just that, breaking the usual and give a lot of people something to identify with.

I thinks that’s what it means for me: an identity. What the journey of Korra and Asami mean for me was the way I finally acknowledged myself and what I am.

For many years, I navigated the waters of heteronormativity. I thought that recognizing that some women were good looking was because of the permissibility that society sometimes allows women to think other women are attractive, or kiss each other on the cheek, or have sleep overs without other people thinking they are necessarily lesbians or bisexuals or pansexuals, etc.

Boy, how wrong I was. Now I identify myself as a proud bisexual and finding the courage to accept it, in many ways, was thanks to The Legend of Korra.

After binge watching the entire series in less than three days and fangirling (very lately) about Korrasami, one thing stayed with me: I recognized many of my traits both in Korra and in Asami. I recognized myself in Korra because of her impulsiveness and her vulnerability. In her insecurities, in her self-doubt but also in her strength. In her loyalty and sometimes in how much of a dork she is. Particularly, in that feeling of being “too much”: too intense, too much to handle, too sensitive, too emotional, too intense, too wild. But also, I recognized myself in Asami, in the way she always tried to help others at her own expense. In the fact that both of them were driven by kindness and generosity... they were both so selfless. They became, instantly, an inspiration.

When the two of them became canon, I also recognized myself as what they were: bisexuals. The confirmation of Bryke only ended up echoing in the bottom of my heart. For me, it was like finding the perfect answer to a question that had been lurking in the back of my mind all my life, a question I never truly dared to acknowledge. I was afraid. I was confused. I never thought the possibility of someone being bisexual could exist.

Growing up, everything was confusing. I was never the perfect example of what a girl “should” be. I was never fond of dolls and other “girl toys”. I was never fond of dresses. I loved playing football with boys and playing with Batman action figures, Hot-Wheels and other “boy toys”. I loved wearing over-sized boy’s shirts. My mom always scolded me because I loved getting in trouble and being dirty for playing too much outside, in the mud or climbing trees, getting my knees scraped. I used to play imaginary wrestling matches with my brother and I always ended up bleeding somehow. When puberty knocked the door, I was never a fan of make-up or nail polish, tight clothes or other things that are considered “girly”. That’s why I identified myself with Korra as well. But also with Asami, because I realized that I could be another kind of “girly”. I could like “boyish” things and that didn’t necessarily made me less of a girl.

One time, in Middle School, a boy told me I was a “lesbian” because I was holding one of my friends and she kissed me on the cheek, because I loved playing football during recesses (I know, I was like a walking stereotype). That was the first time I heard that word and I didn’t know what it meant since I grew in a rather traditional family. My parents are both Catholic and though they always taught my brother and me to be respectful towards others, the words “homosexual”, “gay”, “lesbian” (”bisexual” was never a word I heard when I was growing up) and everything they entailed, were like a taboo. After all, Mexican society is very traditional, Catholic, prejudiced, narrow-minded and, sadly, very discriminating.

Growing up, I always accepted the fact that I liked boys but at the same time, I never recognized that I felt the same towards girls. I never knew how to call that. So I kept quiet about it.

I must say that the Internet was like a safe space, it helped me research about what I was feeling, what I always felt but I was never truly able to name it, to identify it. One of my best friends also helped me and I must say that I don’t know how I am going to ever repay him for just listening, hours and hours of just sitting there and listen. I also saw celebrities like Evan Rachel Wood being very vocal about being bisexual. That’s why, because of my best friend, because of what I found on the Internet, because of Evan Rachel Wood... because of Korra and Asami, watching and reading about these two characters being bisexual, meant so much for me. I finally discovered the word bisexual, and I discovered it and saw it in a positive way.

I saw a couple of characters whom I identified with rather deeply, having a happy ending together and for the first time in my life I was sure of who I was, of how I wanted to live my life. It was like a reassurance. Korra and Asami became that, along with everything else. They were a fundamental part of my process, of the way to truly find myself. And it must seem corny and ridiculous, but honestly, representation truly matters. And even if some people STILL deny the fact that Korrasami is real and it’s canon, they can’t deny the fact that they mean so much for so many people out there, people like me, people like you, that see themselves in both of them, that see some meaning in these characters, some purpose, something that speaks to them.

Since then, both Korra and Asami (and the entire Avatar universe, really) have become a refuge, a balm, a salvation.

I’m not going to tell you my sad and rather pathetic relationship record, because, well, it really is sad and pathetic. But last year, when I hit rock bottom after a very bad break-up that left me questioning myself and everything I am, I remembered the words Aang tells Korra when she loses her abilities in the season one finale: “When we hit out lowest point were are open to the greatest change”.

I’ve been dealing with that, not as successfully as I wish, but when in doubt, when I find myself wanting to end everything, when I think my life sucks, I remember these words, I remember everything this series and its characters mean for me and I dare to try again. I dare to stand up once again and be better.

So, yeah, thank you, Korra and Asami, thank you Avatar universe, thank you Bryke, for saving me.

#How Korrasami Saved Me #Personal #Excuse my English #Sometimes I get corny and you have to stop me #Korrasami

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rose-of-pollux · 7 years

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The Beast of Broadway Affair (MFU fic), part 5/5

Title: The Beast of Broadway Affair Rating: PG13 (for action/danger) Chapter summary: Illya and Gaston force each other to put their cards on the table, and Napoleon is faced with a difficult decision. Notes: This version of the fic (cross-posted to AO3) is slash; if you prefer reading gen, there is a gen version on ff.net, but I can’t link to it with tumblr’s new linking restrictions

Act V: As the Sun Will Rise

Illya had practically dashed back to the office he shared with Napoleon as though a pack of wolves had been after him. He paused to catch his breath as he saw Napoleon reclined on the couch, still human, still petting the purring cat.

“How’d the interrogation go?” Napoleon asked. “Did Fisk talk?”

“Da…” Illya said, wondering how to break the news to him. “He did. And I have good news and bad news for you.”

“OK, what’s the good news?”

“I have enough of a sample of the drug to analyze it—and hopefully create and antidote from it.”

“That is excellent news,” Napoleon said, grinning. “…But, ah, what’s the bad news, then?”

Illya pondered for a moment, and then sighed.

“Napoleon, I will tell you this because it is your right to know,” he said. “But you must not get excited or upset – anything that will set off an adrenaline spike. You must stay calm, and if you do not, I will tranquilize you.”

“…This doesn’t bode well…” Napoleon said, sitting up now. “I don’t get it; if you’ve got the means for an antidote, then why would it make a difference if I get into another transformation or not?”

“Because that new version of the drug that Fisk gave you, according to Gaston, is a permanent version—after it metabolizes with the adrenaline, it re-forms the drug in your system, so if you transform again, you won’t change back.”

Napoleon looked as though he’d run smack into a brick wall.

“I… Ah…”

“You must stay calm,” Illya instructed, gripping Napoleon’s shoulders. “I am serious about the tranquilizing--”

“I have no doubts about that,” Napoleon said. “In fact, I almost wish you’d just go ahead and do that.”

“Are you certain?” Illya asked.

“Why take chances?” Napoleon shrugged. “I mean, I’m already living ‘Beauty and the Beast.’ I might as well pull a ‘Sleeping Beauty,’ too. Wake me with a kiss once you’ve got the antidote…” He trailed off as he saw the look on Illya’s face. “What’s that face for? This was your idea…”

“It was, but I was thinking more along the lines of a last resort rather than an immediate plan,” Illya said. “You do not usually lie down and admit defeat.”

“Yeah, that was before I found out the next transformation would be permanent,” Napoleon said. “Changing temporarily is one thing. I don’t want to be the Beast forever. Everything I’ve worked for, fought for – including you… I’d lose it all in an instant if that happened.”

“Napoleon, I promise you, you will never lose me,” Illya insisted. “But if it is truly what you want, then I will give you a tranquilizer dart.”

“Yeah, I think that is what I…” Napoleon trailed off, the word triggering something in his memory. “Darts…”

“Napoleon?”

“Darts… Darts…” he murmured. “That’s important. Something about darts…” His eyes widened as a flash of memory returned to him. “Darts—that’s it!”

“Stay calm!” Illya reminded him again. “What’s this about darts?”

“Professor Gaston has some sort of contraption set up somewhere Midtown; he wants to use it against the people of New York by using darts loaded with the beast serum, and now that the formula is perfected, he can! That’s what I was looking for as the Beast—I was trying to take out that machine!”

“Do you know where exactly it is?”

“No, I never found it,” Napoleon said. “We have to look!”

“Ah, I beg to differ,” Illya said, gently pushing him down onto the sofa as Baba Yaga meowed in protest. “You are not to set foot outside of this building. THRUSH will be after you the moment you do. I will go look for it.”

Napoleon exhaled, but admitted that Illya had a point.

“I’d been looking around the Broadway theatres,” he said. “But I was getting nowhere—and when I saw you that night near the Majestic, I must have thought that we could work together, but you got in the cab, and I lost track of you.”

“I doubt there would be any sort of device in or on the theatres,” Illya said. “For a THRUSH plot like this, they would choose the darkest, most underground place they could find that would still have the most people—to maximize both the success and impact of their nefarious plans.”

The two partners looked at each other.

“Times Square,” they said, in unison.

“It’ll be on a rooftop somewhere,” Napoleon went on. “I remember that distinctly—that’s why I was on the Majestic’s marquee!”

“Duly noted. You wait here for me,” Illya instructed him again, as he grabbed his Special from the desk drawer. “I won’t be going alone.”

“But be careful!” Napoleon called after him.

Illya responded with an assurance and left, and Napoleon sighed to himself as he sat around and waited.

He was remembering more and more—remembering Gaston’s frustrations that Napoleon couldn’t be controlled during his transformations, and that they had wanted him to be wild and dangerous so as to give him—and U.N.C.L.E.—a black eye. But with Napoleon still holding on to his heroic nature even when transformed and being received by the public as a hero, they had to change their plans—and decided on this plan to spread panic among the city by transforming random people into beasts.

An hour ticked by, and then another. And another. Napoleon was tempted to call Illya over Channel D, but didn’t want to distract him, or worse, alert THRUSH to his position with the communicator going off.

He was soon distracted, however, by his own office intercom going off.

“Solo,” he said, answering it.

“Mr. Solo?” Waverly’s voice came over the intercom speaker. “Report to my office immediately.”

That was it—brusque and no-nonsense. And Napoleon was aware of two very important things—that Waverly’s voice had an edge to it, and that he had summoned Napoleon there personally, rather than having Lisa page him over the intercom as he usually did. Based on prior experience, neither of those meant anything good.

He placed Baba Yaga on the couch and headed to Waverly’s office, where the Section I leader regarded Napoleon with a searching look.

“You wanted to see me, Sir?” Napoleon asked.

“Yes, Mr. Solo. I want you to tell me exactly what’s been going on.”

“Sir…?”

“I distinctly remember give both you and Mr. Kuryakin the weekend off. Instead, I find that you had a blood test in Medical this morning, that you and Mr. Kuryakin were waylaid by THRUSH in the afternoon, and this evening, you both came in with your neighbor as a prisoner, and Mr. Kuryakin interrogated him before running off three hours ago with Mr. Petros, saying they had to stop a THRUSH plot! Now, I ask you again, what exactly has been going on around here?”

“Well, Sir, you know how it is,” Napoleon said, with a shrug. “Just because you’ve given us the weekend off doesn’t mean that THRUSH does. And you know Illya and myself, Sir—we’re always ready to clean up THRUSH’s messes, whether or not we’re officially on duty.”

“Yes, I do know the two of you,” Waverly said, folding his arms. “I also know that, under normal circumstances, you and Mr. Kuryakin are inseparable unless I split you two apart on a mission.”

“…Ah.”

“Indeed, Mr. Solo. Now, I could call Mr. Kuryakin and ask him what is going on, but I would not like to interrupt him if he is in the middle of something. So, the blood test, the attack, the arrest, the interrogation, this sudden mission, and your lack of participation in it—what is the explanation?”

Napoleon sighed.

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you, Sir.”

“Try me.”

Napoleon was about to when a piercing whistle filled the room; someone was reporting in.

“Open Channel D!”

Napoleon’s heart skipped a beat; it was Andreas Petros, and he sounded worried.

“Yes, Mr. Petros?” Waverly said.

“We destroyed THRUSH’s device, Sir, but as we were leaving, Gaston and his men captured Agent Kuryakin--”

“What!?” Napoleon exclaimed, and then forced himself to calm down.

“There are too many of them for me to free him--” Petros began, but Waverly cut him off as Illya’s communicator rang.

“Mr. Kuryakin?” he asked, hopefully.

“Afraid not,” said a voice who Napoleon recognized as Gaston’s. “Kuryakin is with us—and if you wish to ensure his safety, we demand that Napoleon Solo—and only Napoleon Solo meet with us here at Times Square at sunrise—that’s in about one hour. If anyone else attempts to recover Kuryakin, or if Solo doesn’t arrive alone, Kuryakin will die.”

The transmission was cut off after that.

“Sir…?” Napoleon said. “Tell Andreas to come back; I’ll meet with them.”

“This is most certainly a trap, Mr. Solo. I really cannot allow--”

“With all due respect, Sir, this is my day off. And I will be approaching this problem purely as a civilian, so that nothing that happens will reflect upon U.N.C.L.E. in any way. …I, ah, suspect very strongly, Sir, that I will not be coming back, but I will do my best to see that Illya does.”

“I suspect that very strongly, too,” Waverly said, bluntly.

“And on the off chance that I do return, it will not be in a state that will allow me to properly continue my career as Number 1 of Section II—or as an U.N.C.L.E. agent of any rank,” Napoleon added, also bluntly. He took out his credentials, communicator, and Special, and placed them on Waverly’s desk; Waverly seemed surprised at this.

“Mr. Solo?” he asked, his tone of voice asking a dozen questions at once. “Exactly what are you intending to do?”

Napoleon averted his gaze for a moment before gathering his courage and looking Waverly right in the eyes.

“Rest assured, Sir, that I have no intentions of turning rogue. But it will be practically impossible to perform my duties as an agent after what THRUSH intends for me, even if I survive this,” he said. “It has been an honor working for this agency, Sir, and working with you.”

He left, much to the confusion and consternation of Waverly. He pondered for a moment before leaving his inner office.

“Miss Rogers?” he asked. “Arrange a meeting for me with the prisoner that Mr. Kuryakin and Mr. Solo brought in earlier this evening.”

***************************

Napoleon didn’t have trouble finding where Gaston was holding Illya; a crowd of onlookers of all kinds—good, bad, and ugly—were looking up at one of the buildings, and Illya was there, with Gaston and his men. Napoleon could overhear some police offers saying that there was a delicate hostage situation, but it did nothing to dissuade the crowd.

Napoleon managed to slip past them, into the building, and emerged onto the roof; he saw Illya’s eyes widen in horror.

“Nyet! Napo--!”

A gag had been pulled around Illya’s mouth, and it took every bit of strength for Napoleon to stay calm.

“Let him go, Gaston,” he said, firmly. “I’m the one you want. Release Illya—that is what we agreed.”

“The agreement was that he would live,” Gaston quipped. “And so, he will live. I never once said anything about him being free.”

Gaston’s men blocked the entrance back into the building.

“Come stand beside your partner, Solo,” Gaston said. “I want you to be seen by everyone down there.”

Napoleon had known this was coming. He would have to stay calm—stay human as long as he possibly could. He sighed and stood in front of Illya, whose blue eyes were filled with sorrow.

“‘m sorry,” he said, muffled through the gag around his mouth.

Napoleon shook his head and gave him a wan smile.

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” he assured him. “And… You just remember that I love you, alright?”

Illya was struggling to remain stoic, but managed a small nod, but then flinched as he was struck with a billy club. Gaston’s other assistants now surrounded the Russian, silently and emotionlessly striking him. From below, the crowd gasped and shouted.

“Stop it!” Napoleon ordered.

“Oh, you know what will make it stop, Solo,” Gaston said. “There’s only one way. We aren’t going to stop; you’ll have to make us.”

Napoleon moved to pull Illya away, but two of Gaston’s men held him back, forcing him to watch as Illya’s beating continued. Napoleon had never felt this helpless—he had to stay human, but he couldn’t let Illya suffer…!

“…Do you care so little about your partner that his pain does not move you?” Gaston taunted. He was trying to get a rise out of Napoleon. “You’re just going to watch? Well, then, it’s clear to me that Kuryakin is no longer of any use to us.”

He snapped his fingers and four of Gaston’s flunkies held Illya’s limbs so that he couldn’t move—a fifth now approached the struggling Illya with a dagger.

“You said you wouldn’t kill him!” Napoleon snarled.

“I lied,” Gaston said. “What does it matter, anyway? It’s clear that you think so little of his life.”

He snapped his fingers, and the crony drew back the dagger. And Napoleon lost it.

As the transformation began, his strength grew rapidly, allowing him to break free of his captors; he then launched himself at the men holding Illya, swiping the man with the knife out of the way and then grabbing Illya in a protective hold as the transformation finished. As the Beast of Broadway once more, Napoleon let out a mighty roar that sent the THRUSHies scurrying back and earned him gasps from the crowd.

Napoleon ignored them all, using a claw to cut the gag from around Illya’s face. Illya just clung to him, unable to hide the sorrow in his voice.

“Oh, Napoleon…”

He trailed off as Gaston started clapping, standing on the edge of the rooftop, a few feet from them. His men didn’t look as thrilled; they all seemed to be eyeing the rooftop exit.

“Well done, Solo,” Gaston said. “You won the battle. But look at you, eh? Forever the Beast of Broadway? It would appear I have won the war.”

Napoleon bared his teeth, growling. He gently placed Illya down and now advanced on Gaston, and as Illya looked down at the crowd, and then at the smug look on Gaston’s face and at the gun in his hand, Illya put two and two together. Gaston had gone back to his original plan.

“Napoleon, don’t!” he ordered. “Don’t you see what he’s doing!? He’s trying to goad you into attacking him so that you’ll be classified as dangerous—he wants you to attack so that he’ll be justified in killing you—or have the city officials do it for him!”

Napoleon stopped in his tracks, but still growled.

“Even if you survive, what kind of future awaits you?” Gaston sneered back at him. “Do you think U.N.C.L.E. will keep you on their payroll like this? Don’t kid yourself; you know the truth. Everything you have strived for—your purpose in life—is now out of your grasp forever! You can no longer save innocents from THRUSH! You can’t stay in that cozy apartment of yours anymore, either—I understand that your landlady doesn’t allow animals! You’ll have to live alone off the land, like the Beast that you are—for that’s a face that not even a mother could love!”

Napoleon roared and the frightened flunkies stampeded into the building, abandoning Gaston, who didn’t seem to notice—Gaston grinned maddeningly at Napoleon, trying to egg him on further.

“Napoleon!” Illya cried, rushing forward to try to hold him back; it was a futile effort—as the Beast, Napoleon’s strength was several times Illya’s. “Please! You know that is not true—and no matter what anyone else may say or think, I will never leave your side. You know that!”

“Oh, sure, he won’t leave your side,” Gaston sneered. “But that’s all he can do, isn’t it? I know how you two are, Solo—or, in this case, were. He can’t be your partner anymore—and I mean that in any meaning of the word! Face it, Solo, I have taken everything from you! You’ve got nothing left—except a chance at revenge! Come and get it!”

“Nyet! Please!” Illya exclaimed, still holding onto Napoleon out of desperation as he roared furiously again. “He hasn’t taken everything from you—not yet! The Beast of Broadway is a beloved vigilante, remember? The people of New York still trust you—and you can still help them, but only if you prove to them that you are not controlled by primal rage! You may be the Beast of Broadway, but you are still Napoleon Solo—paragon of mercy, and that is what people need to know you as! I agree that Gaston needs to die—I have no hesitation in saying that. But you cannot be the one to do it! You cannot give him or anyone justification for killing you! Revenge is not worth that—especially when I still need you in my life! That can never change, no matter what has happened to you.” He felt a tear fall from his eye; Illya could count the number of times he had cried on one hand, and yet, he was letting a tear slip by him now. “We have each other, remember, Napoleon? I love you.”

Napoleon’s posture softened, and he turned away from Gaston to face Illya now hugged him. Napoleon gently hugged him back. It was a moment of bliss and relief—until the crowd below started screaming.

Illya saw why quickly; realizing that this plan had failed, as well, Gaston had raised the weapon, aiming to just kill Napoleon without any justification. Illya broke away from the embrace and rushed at Gaston in a flying tackle—the momentum of which sent them both off of the roof as onlookers screamed.

Napoleon leaped from the rooftop, grabbing onto a lamppost with one arm and grabbed the falling Illya’s leg with another, stopping his fall in midair. Illya took a moment to catch his breath before looking down at the still-screaming crowd. It was quite clear from their reaction that Gaston hadn’t survived his fall.

Illya looked back at Napoleon and shrugged.

“Well, I did say that you couldn’t be the one to kill him,” Illya reminded him. “Naturally, I wanted to…”

Napoleon responded with a snort.

As the duo now reach the ground, they found the crowd dissipating as U.N.C.L.E. agents suddenly started swarming in from all directions, moving in to arrest the THRUSH agents inside the building and sealing off the area. Napoleon and Illya both stared as Waverly himself stepped out of one of the cars.

“I had a talk with your prisoner,” he said, looking from one to the other. He took a moment to observe Napoleon’s new form. “He explained everything. In the future, I would hope that you will not keep things like this from me again.”

Illya gave a glum nod, but then blinked as Waverly now looked at Napoleon for a moment before handing him back his credentials, communicator, and Special.

“I expect you to report back to work Monday morning as usual, Mr. Solo,” he said, sternly. “Given the circumstances, you will be temporarily reassigned to Section VIII—helping Mr. Kuryakin develop an antidote for this serum.” He glanced at Illya. “I trust you will put your very best efforts into it.”

Without even waiting for a response, Waverly moved on to check the status of the arrests. And Napoleon took a moment to look wistfully at his human photo on his credentials until Illya placed a gentle hand on his arm.

“I will put more than my very best efforts into it,” Illya promised.

Napoleon just held him close. That, he knew very well.

Epilogue: Ever as Before

Illya practically lived in the lab the next week, and Napoleon with him, helping him with retrieving chemicals and anything else that Illya needed help with. Baba Yaga stayed with them; though she had been initially alarmed at Napoleon’s appearance as the Beast, she soon realized it was him, and would often spend long hours attempting to groom his fur.

Finally, one evening, Illya held up a finished liquid.

“I think I’ve got it,” he said, breathlessly. “At least, I hope I’ve got it. Theoretically, this should break down the drug in your system, meaning that it will stop reacting with the adrenaline your body produces—and that should return you back to your human self.” Illya’s face fell. “Assuming it works.”

Napoleon gently nudged Illya with his forehead; he wasn’t going to blame Illya for anything—not when it was Gaston’s fault for making the drug, and Napoleon’s fault for allowing it to be slipped to him. Illya nodded and took a syringe, filling it with the antidote.

“Ready?”

Napoleon nodded, and didn’t even flinch as Illya injected the serum into his arm. Illya removed the needle and held his breath. There didn’t seem to be any change, however, and Illya exhaled in defeat, sitting back on at the counter.

“I thought for certain that would be it,” he said, ruefully. Baba Yaga meowed at him, and Napoleon gently nudged him again, but that didn’t seem to raise the Russian’s spirits at all. He drew a vial of Gaston’s red serum from his pocket, staring at it. “Then, there is only one thing left for me to do…”

He didn’t even respond as Napoleon nudged him once more; he just stared forlornly at the vial.

“I thought I had taken everything into consideration,” he said, feeling Napoleon’s grip on his arm. “Did I miss something? Or is there truly no way to reverse it? Or perhaps, it is simply beyond my level of understanding. I know I have limits; it will have to be up to someone else to try, then…”

“Illya…”

“But you needn’t worry, Napoleon. I swore to you that you would not be alone in this, and I will keep that vow--”

“Illya!”

“What?” he asked, distracted.

“Illya, you blockhead, it worked—and I’m freezing over here!”

Illya stared, dumbfounded, at his partner, human again and shivering. Wordlessly, Illya handed him his lab coat and Napoleon gratefully threw it around himself as Baba Yaga walked figure eights around his ankles, rubbing up against his shins as she purred away.

“You…” Illya began, stunned. “It worked…!?”

“Ah, yeah, it did,” Napoleon said. “So… thanks?”

Illya still seemed out of it, and so Napoleon gave a shrug and took it upon himself to give his partner a kiss of gratitude. The kiss brought Illya out of it, and the Russian returned it; they were lost in the kiss until they both froze at the all-too-familiar sound of Waverly clearing his throat.

“I wanted to see how it was going,” he said, flatly. “Evidently, rather well.”

“Ah, yes, Sir,” Napoleon said, tightening the lab coat around him. “I, er… I was wondering, since my transformations were the cause of a THRUSH plot, does it mean that I can get reimbursed for my ruined suits and silk pajamas?”

Waverly rolled his eyes.

“Yes, you’re definitely back to normal, Mr. Solo,” he sighed. “You know the procedure—take it up with Accounts. …But, preferably, after you’ve had an extended rest. I’d like for Medical to examine you, and after they have cleared you, I would like for you to rest at home. And this time, stay out of trouble!”

“Yes, Sir,” Napoleon mumbled.

“Mr. Kuryakin, you will look after him again, and this time, you will keep him in bed by any means necessary!”

“Understood, Sir,” Illya said, fighting back a smirk that caused Napoleon’s eyebrows to arch.

Waverly immediately regretted the choice of words.

“Never mind, I don’t want to know!” he said. “Just be here next Monday morning, and you’ll both be reassigned back to your positions in Section II.”

They nodded, and Napoleon cleared his throat.

“Sir?”

“Yes, Mr. Solo?”

“Thank you,” he said.

He didn’t elaborate, and he didn’t need to; Waverly nodded and left.

**************************

Medical cleared Napoleon to leave, and soon, he, Illya, and Baba Yaga were home. Baba Yaga decided to nap in an evening sunbeam while Illya put Napoleon to bed and soon found himself staying there with him.

“I never thanked you,” Napoleon murmured, as he wrapped his arms around him. “For everything you did.”

“You would have done the same for me,” Illya insisted. He hugged him tightly, almost as though he was still trying to convince himself that this was real.

“And you were ready to try to make the antidote again from scratch,” Napoleon marveled.

“Hmm?” Illya asked.

“When you thought the antidote had failed. You were going to try again, weren’t you?”

“…To be honest, I would have admitted defeat and let someone else with more experience try…”

“…Then why did you take out that vial of Gaston’s serum if you weren’t going to try to analyze it again?”

Illya hesitated.

“I was going to take the serum myself and transform,” he admitted, at last.

“…What!?”

“I was thinking about what Gaston had said—that being by your side was the only thing I could do. But it wasn’t true. I wanted to share your fate.”

“Illya--”

“Napoleon, try to understand… It wasn’t only that I didn’t want you to be alone in this. You mean everything to me, Dorogoy… I wanted to live life with the one who knows and loves me most of all.”

Wordlessly, Napoleon kissed him, and Illya returned it. Thankfully, it hadn’t had to come to that, but it still meant the world to Napoleon that Illya would have been willing to make that sacrifice.

Then again, perhaps, he shouldn’t have been so surprised. As Illya said, they had each other.

And that would always be the secret to their success.

The End

#Napoleon Solo #Illya Kuryakin #napollya #the man from uncle #mfu fic #The Beast of Broadway Affair

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bambamramfan · 7 years

Text

Just Language

Neil uses the term Lacanthropy to describe “The transformation, under the influence of the full moon, of a dubious psychological theory into a dubious social theory via a dubious linguistic theory.”

Which is a fair assessment of the bad opinion most well-read people hold of the works of psychoanalyst Jaques Lacan (@raggedjackscarlet ‘s interest non-withstanding.) Lacan had some bold, un-tested theories of the mind, after all. But what he, and the other mid-century French existentialists, was really obsessed with was “semiotics” which was sort of like linguistics but was more about “how symbols worked.”

Language was a system of symbols that worked, whether you understood what the word meant correctly, or believed in it or not. It was separated from your mind and intent, and yet, words certainly have a life of their own that is coherent and sensical. They fit into a broader system, one which the speaker may be utterly unaware of.

And since we don’t have access to each other’s inner minds, all of society can best be understood as the emergent effects from this substrate of language.

In modern parlance, we would talk about how memes can spread across twitter, independent of whether you are RTing them ironically or seriously or double-reverse-ironically, the meme doesn’t care it just spreads under a logic of its own. Then CNN reports on the meme and how many times it’s been RT’d or mutated and asks “what does it all mean?” Words are just more fundamental memes that way.

This means we are not interested in what the word means, what a dictionary says about a word or what we think when we say it, but about how it functions. What does the word do.

When I was young my father advised me to avoid the word “just” when talking about myself. Look at these two sentences:

I was trying to help.

I was just trying to help.

They mean pretty much the same thing. But the function of the second sentence serves to limit the conversation to my intent, delineating it as the only relevant thing. (Common parlance would be that it’s “defensive language”.)

The literal meaning of the word “just” does not capture what is going on here. But neither does appealing to the intent of the speaker, accusing them of some cowardice or malice based on how they used the word. They probably meant it innocently, or just do not consciously parse every single word for how it will come off.

What matters is what the word has done to the conversation, attempting to limit its scope, and positioning any resistance to limitation as a conflict now. That was the function of the word.

I did not take the simple advice and never use the word just from then on, but rather whenever I am about to say “just” I think for a second. Do I really mean that? What is the difference in effect between the first sentence and the second sentence, and which do I prefer?

This is what it means to study how a word functions, independent of the intent of the speaker. Or as the anti-crit crowd says “Death of the Author”. The broader system of how all these words (and symbols and memes) function is semiotics.

People from all over the political spectrum continue to use the term “SJW” despite it’s extremely insulting origins (and vague boundaries) because, well, it delineates a group that’s useful to delineate, and the usefulness of the word is more important to the semiotic system than the purity of its definition.

Or you might have heard the quip about ideological debate: arguments are like soldiers - you don’t stab them in the back. This acknowledges that it doesn’t really matter whether an argument is true or ethical, just whether it is serving the function, of helping attack the other side.

Let’s look at insults for a minute.

Most of you read the twitter post and tumblr commentary when some transactivist threatened Caitlyn Jenner that if she continued to support Donald Trump, activists would go back to calling her “Bruce.”

It was mean. And also a little boggling. Doesn’t the activist, as part of social justice doctrine absolutely believe that Caitlyn Jenner is a woman? Isn’t that the exact belief system they are fighting for? Unless you have some really weird epistemology where anyone who votes for Trump is definitionally male, the insult seems only to invoke “if you do not support the cause, we will not support your gender identity.”

As a factual belief, it is a complete hash. But as a threat, it’s pretty clear. And certainly as something that hurts Caitlyn, it’s utterly plausible “Your self-respect as a woman is always conditional on our political support for you. You’re not independently and authentically a woman.”

This is all extremely effective even if it’s completely non-credible that the speaker believe it. Even when the listener considers it factually untrue with zero doubt. What matters is “what the insult is doing.” There are fears we have, and the insult is touching on them to create pain and panic.

More prosaically, anyone reading this should not believe that being overweight is an accurate measurement of their moral character, worth as a human being, or virtues in any other field. We all just know this, and don’t think someone is bad because they are fat.

And yet, if you have a friend who is overweight (or just not the magazine cover image of thin), even a friend who knows everyone in their social group doesn’t judge based on weight… holy shit is insulting them over their weight devastating. Maybe you would do it ironically, or maybe you’re really drunk, maybe they misheard a word you said (you meant phat!), who fucking knows. It doesn’t really matter what you meant by it, or what you really believe… you have channeled the threat of the Big Other judging them into this insult.

This is true for most offensive insults: racial stereotypes, accusations of being a sexist, your lack of intelligence, your pretentiousness, a slur about your sexual orientation. We get upset at them from the enemy, we get upset at them from a stranger, we get upset at them from a friend for whom we have overwhelming evidence that they do not believe this.

(And even if they do believe this, why is the insult so bad? It’s much better to get the toxic belief out in the open and deal with it, than to let it lurk. And why would a second insult be bad after that, once we know they disdain us? Instead we strongly want them to keep insults to zero or a minimum. Because the function of the insult, ie a social attack from the Other, has not changed.)

And it’s important to note that even if in individual conversations an insult’s power may be limited and dismissed as not particularly upsetting, on the internet people like clicking on the posts about witty insults or passionate denunciations of them. So the insults get shared. And once they are leaping across the reblogs and hate-shares then they have an independent, one-dimensional life of their own.

(Mein Gott, am I tired of well-intentioned critics like Freddie deBoer agonizing over how every liberal only makes simplistic or navel-gazing arguments. No, people make all sorts of arguments, including thoughtful ones, or factually-rigorous ones, or just compassionate ones. What gets shared are the simplistic in-jokes and denunciations. The problem is not the people, it’s the system their words are evolving in. If there were not capitalistic pressure for outrage and glib quips, then @theunitofcaring would be most popular blogger on the planet after all.)

***

So for instance, the eternal debate about whether some liberal is “racist towards white people.” The denotation of racism is pretty clear about this (and it’s weird of a movement that insists it is fighting privilege and classism, to so often fall back on “well you should know this is what academics mean by that word.”)

(Or if we are coming from the other direction, liberals who say you are racist for discussing whether it’s okay to wear certain costumes on Halloween, or because you’re a low level admin for a company that has an all white boardroom, or because you made an awkward television ad.)

And yet, if we are talking about the word racism does, it’s function is to refer to a system whereby the powerful simplifies and denigrates the minority. “Racist” is usefully pointing to someone who defends this system.

Our attitude towards “a black person who says all white people dance funny” or “that bro with dreadlocks” is simply not the same as it is towards Jeff Sessions or Jefferson Davis. The word racist best functions as a rallying cry against gross defenders of the racial hegemony.

When you see these words as more building blocks in the system of language (and less, reflections on what the speakers internally mean) then it’s easy to see how they form a web that has certain patterns and rules.

Exiling someone with the argument “We don’t support racists” is of course non-sensical as a factual statement based on any thoughtful definition of the words involved. You could attack that argument from a dozen angles after all -- but it’s a very effective meme at silencing debate, isn’t it? No one publicly really wants to be on the other side of that argument (at least, no one polite.)

Similarly, all the problems the rationalist community has had with terms like virtue signalling and motte-bailey. They do define relevant concepts. But the use of such terms is “a phrase to dismiss whatever someone just said without interrogating its truth.” And so even though there are correct definitions for the terms, bigger blogs have just stopped or banned using them altogether, because they just end conversation.

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