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aweebwrites · 5 years ago

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Move on Dragons Ch20

“Jay!” Cole’s furious yell echoed from the Bounty and said half serpentine, part dragon and part human peaked his head into their room where Cole was laying in bed, glaring up at the ceiling, unable to move.

Jay burst out laughing then, falling over on the ground and clutching his stomach as the paralyzed Cole swore up a storm.

“Easy on those f-bombs there…” Kai slurred nearby- then blinked. “Jay you mother-”

“That’s enough.” Zane cut Kai off as he walked in, glancing down at Jay who was laughing uncontrollably on the ground with an unimpressed expression. “Jay, I thought we discussed no pranks with your venom.” He scolded, crossing his arms.

“Lighten up Zane. I didn’t even use much- or bite them this time.” Jay grinned as he wiped his tears of laughter away, sitting up now with his tail pooled in his lap.

“That might be true but you still broke a rule. You’ll get to mop the deck today.” Zane told him and Jay sputtered while Cole laughed, slowly getting back his movement.

“Serves you right!” He grinned, slowly working more movement into his hand.

“Zane, come on! It’s cold out there! Worse with water!” Jay whined. “I might start hibernating on the spot!” He pointed out.

“Nice try Jay but Serpentine, Dragons nor humans hibernate in the winter- and it’s only fall anyway. Oh and Rux and Nix made a muddy mess out there on their visit last night so make sure the deck is spotless.” Zane told him as he headed out and Jay pouts, glaring at his lap.

“Who made him mom of the team again?” Jay asked, looking towards Cole as he sat up slowly, Kai still getting movement in his limbs.

“Someone had to be. Sensei Wu isn’t here as yet and aside from Nya and Pixal, Zane’s the only other one with his head set on right. But they’re managing dragon reports across Ninjago so that leaves Zane to babysit.” Cole says as he rolled his shoulders then hung his feet off the bed, not about to get up just yet.

“Ugh. He’s been gone for a solid five months now. Five! Maybe we should have been the ones to track down Lord Garmadon. I bet it would have been quicker.” Jay says as he flopped back on the ground on his back with his arm spread out.

“I don’t know about that… I mean, we’ve been active after the whole Oni fiasco and we haven’t seen any signs of him being around.” Kai says as he flicked his tail back and forth to shake more of his paralysis. “Plus, I think it’s a bit personal. You know, like family matters. Sensei will find him. Eventually, but he will.” He shrugged.

“Jay!” Zane called from the outside and Kai huffed.

“I’m coming, I’m coming…” Jay grumbled as he got up.

____

Lloyd slowed then stopped outside of the Dragon Tower from where he had been doing his usual morning run, pushing himself up on his hind legs as he spotted both elders just outside, discussing something. Wu had actually gone out to explore Ninjago yesterday and to collect a few things from Ninjago’s wildlife outside of the labyrinth. Wu specializes in herbs and medication- which they had run out of a long time ago actually. It was just something short of a miracle why no-dragon needed medical care. But Wu liked to be prepared, so he had accepted lessons to understand written Ninjagan language- which he says, was rather similar to theirs- and had taken the time to read as much as he could about Ninjagan Fauna and Flora via a projector, as books were far too tiny for him to read from.

He wasn’t alone in his lessons however. Any dragon who was interested came for lessons, as they have come across several signs in their language they weren’t able to properly decipher. In fact, the dragons were getting along very well with Ninjagans, several of them already making friends with the locals. They found children particularly interesting and are protective of them. Though they were dragons still and they sometimes got themselves into trouble, which was why Nya and Pixal opened a line specifically for incidents like that where they could repair something they broke or get them out of a sticky situation. That aside, he found it strange that no-one heard him returning- it’s next to impossible to miss those heavy wing beats from the distance they were. He walked towards them as Little G skittered up his neck to nest into his hair, his shiny red eyes just as curious as Lloyd’s.

“Ah. Lloyd. Good morning.” Wu greeted once he spotted him.

“Morning to you too, Dad.” Lloyd says with a nod then spotted the large bag Wu had fashioned all but overflowing with common- and rare- plants. “Did you find everything you need?” He asked and Wu nods once.

“And then some. This world has rather curious and awing wildlife.” Wu told him then reached into his bag. “These are especially curious. Sunny flowers. Their energy are the exact same as the sun.” He says, pulling out a paw full of sunny flowers that floated just above his paw itself.

“Yeah, they are. Ninjago’s wildlife is pretty but also pretty dangerous to us.” Lloyd told them, his tail swishing side to side. “It’s kinda the reason why most of our population built a city in the middle of the desert.” He shrugged.

“These could prove quite useful for our world. Especially during winter.” Garmadad rumbled as he took a blue one. “These could keep us stationed at the Mountain all year round…” He says, feeling the heat of them warming his paws.

“My thoughts exactly.” Wu nods at his brother. “I’ve managed to gather some seeds. Perhaps once our world’s air is breathable once more we can integrate some of Ninjago’s flora into our world. After all, by then, the plants we had previously known may cease to exist or evolve into something very different…” He spoke as he gathered the flowers again.

“But will our flora be able to survive in your world? They were tailored for ours after all…” Lloyd pointed out.

“That is true, but we won’t know for sure until we try.” Garmadad told him, reaching a warm paw down to gently brush his cheek and Lloyd couldn’t stop his purr at the contact.

Little G couldn’t stop his grumbling hiss either, slipping down to coil himself around his neck jealously.

“Come on, there’s no need to get all jealous.” Lloyd laughed, running the back of his finger over his father’s head.

“It’s alright.” Garmadad huffed, amused. “Ah. Is Jay awake yet? Nix has been restless for most of the night without him. I suppose he’s too young to understand that Jay can’t always be with him- even if this is the first night in months he’s slept away from him.” He murmured and Lloyd subconsciously looked towards where the Bounty was parked.

“I’m sure he is by now.” He told the large black dragon thoughtfully. “I can probably take them back to the ship for a little while. We can bring them back when we’re done with our morning routine.” He offered, looking up at him.

“I’ll come with you.” Garmadad decided, opening his wings in preparation to fly back up to the top of the tower. “It’s a certain someone’s turn to watch over the tower anyway.” He huffed, playfully smacking Wu with his wing.

“I’m well aware of that, brother.” Wu says dryly, using a paw to lower his wing from his face. “And I have to make medicine anyway.” He added in the same tone as Garmadad before flying off.

The latter chuckled then flew off behind him too. Lloyd watched them as they did. They had a really good relationship with each other, huh.

“Is that what you and uncle Wu were like? Before you turned evil?” Lloyd asked quietly, stroking the shiny black dragon’s head still.

He only gave a low, barely audible chitter but Lloyd didn’t need to understand him to know he was telling him that they were like that… And that he missed it…

___

Jay grumbled as he mopped the deck, needing to mop extra hard to get out all the muddy paw prints off the deck so Zane won’t be on his ass. He sighed once he finally finished, dropping the mop in the bucket.

“Jeeze. Zane’s such a-”

“He’s such a what?” Jay jolted, landing on all fours with his back arched and electricity building along the column of short horns that ran down his back to the tip of his horned tail.

He relaxed, releasing a huge sigh to see Nya there.

“I think I just lost 10 years off my life.” He breathed out as he got to his feet again.

“That’ll teach you a lesson for talking behind Zane’s back.” She smirked then looked up once heavy wing beats sounded. “Looks like we have visitors.” She says, just as the large black dragon came into view.

“Hey. I’d invite you all to breakfast but we’ve already eaten and I don’t think we have enough to feed you guys.” Nya says with a smirk as they landed, the others joining her soon after.

“Don’t worry about it. We already grabbed a bite.” Mist says, waving her wings dismissively.

An excited chirp interrupted anyone from saying anything and Jay found himself being pinned by the rather heavy baby dragon who was rubbing up against him insistently.

“Hey Nix, missed you too…” Jay says breathlessly, said dragon placing most of his weight against his chest.

“Getting him to sleep without you last night was a nightmare.” Wisp murmured around a yawn, his head resting heavily against the ship.

The other dragons gave tired murmurs of agreement.

“Did you try using lightning?” Jay asked his dragon self, sitting up and hugging the wiggly dragon close.

“I tried that for hours. He’s taken too strong of a liking to you to be fooled by me.” Wisp rumbled, eyes blinking slowly.

“You guys should probably take a nap then. We moved the Bounty into the labyrinth’s space so you don’t have to worry about becoming human whenever you visit.” Kai says as he lowered to all fours then spread his wings and flew up, perching on Garmadad’s nose where Lloyd already was, giving a happy purr once he reached a paw up to gently stroke the side of his face.

“Good luck getting him to leave now.” Blaze huffed, watching Nix as he settled down in Jay’s arms. “He might not understand most of what we’re saying but he knows how tones.” He says as he straightened then stretched.

“Oh boy.” Jay huffed, not minding that at all, getting attached as he had to the dragonling.

“Sit tight little guy. I’ll get my game real quick. I’ve gotten some new ones I know you’ll love.” Jay told Nix as he set him down and Nix perked up, his chubby tail wagging quickly as he shifted restlessly.

With that, Jay headed down below deck to fetch the device.

“I’ll take up that nap offer.” Rocky murmured as he walked away from the ship to a nearby spot, huffing as he dropped down on the ground.

“Sounds good.” Shard hummed as he too followed along with everyone but Garmadad and Lloydie.

“Rux looks like he could use a nap himself.” Cole chuckled, watching the dragonling blink at him slowly from his place occupying his lap.

“Well, he did have to work just as hard as the rest of us to get Nix to sleep.” Lloydie huffed as he rested his head against his father’s side, a low rumbling purr leaving him as a large black wing draped over him, both of them moving to lay on their stomachs just beside the ship.

“Poor guy. A brother’s work is never done, huh?” Cole murmured softly, stroking along Rux’s side as he began to slowly drift off.

“It never is.” Kai hummed then glanced at Lloyd. “Speaking of, did you drink water after your run?” He asked Lloyd who blinked then looked sheepish.

“Uh. No actually.” He says as he got to his feet and spread his wings. “Be right back.” He told them then glided down to the ship’s deck.

“I got it!” He heard Jay call out and Lloyd chuckled as he headed to the lower deck.

“Lloyd!” He startled, hearing his name being yelled from several different angles.

He wiped his head around- then paled at the blast of amber energy coming right for him. There’s no way he’d be able to dodge in time- and he didn’t need to luckily. The black dragon around Lloyd’s neck hadn’t paused to think, only launched himself off the second he spotted the energy, intercepting it.

The amber energy hit the small dragon and he hit the deck hard.

“Dad!” Lloyd yelled as he dropped to his knees, reaching for the sluggishly writhing dragon- only to have his eyes widen- along with everyone else witnessing this- as the dragonling grew in size, scales receding, skin lightening, paws turning into hands and feet…

Lloyd stared with wide eyes at the man on his hands and knees before him. He lifted his head, dark eyes meeting red, gray hair falling into them. Lloyd’s mouth worked uselessly for a moment before he managed to utter a single word.

“D-dad?” He whispered, looking over the gray haired man he hasn’t seen in years now.

Said man blinked at him then shifted his weight to his knees and looked at his hands. They were… Human… He was… He looked up at Lloyd again.

“Son.” Garmadon whispered, a smile tugging at his lips.

______________ (Look at this! Plot! Dw, more details on what happened here will be put in the next chapter. That and some explanations [or ninja theory rather] on why there's two Garmadons [lord g and little g] in one dimension. Ik I said every other day but my sleep schedule is fucked already- after one whole ass day. I'll still try for that interval but it might end up coming out a little late or a little early sometimes. Thanks for reading!!!

Edit: I’m a sleep deprived idiot. Red is supposed to be amber. Sorry!)

#ninjago #kai ninjago #cole ninjago #jay ninjago #zane ninjago #lloyd ninjago #nya ninjago #garmadon #Sensei Wu #aweebwrites' work

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justgotham · 7 years ago

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This past weekend gave us the third annual edition of Brooklyn, NY's Flame Con, an LGBT-themed comic convention where you can attend some cool panels, ogle some amazing cosplay, and--most relevant to my own particular experience--spend more money than you probably should on the show floor. There's also a quiet "AFK Lounge" where you can step away from the hubub, something that I personally think all cons *coughNYCCcough* should invest in.

But it wasn't just buying art prints when you have no more wallspace, why in God's name do I do this to myself? Ahem. Saturday night saw actor Robin Lord Taylor, who plays Oswald Cobblebot/The Penguin on Fox's Gotham, put in an appearance to talk about LGBT representation, the Penguin's relationship with Ed Nygma/The Riddler... and even to drop a few vague hints about season four, premiering on September 21.

For those who haven’t been watching Gotham—and seriously, I get it, we’re in the era of Peak TV and there are 492 shows to catch up on at any given time, but Gotham is a damn fun show to binge watch while you’re doing laundry, and I thoroughly recommend it—their version of Oswald Cobblepot is a queer man, who in season 3 realized his love for friend-turned-enemy Edward Nygma (Cory Michael Smith). To quote Taylor, it’s less “love” than “[Oswald’s] ideas of what love are”—a somewhat warped idea of romance brought about by decades of bullying, friendlessness, and just generally being an awful human being. (Hello, supervillain!)

“They had not told me when they started the show” that Oswald was queer, Taylor told moderator Kevin Gilligan, board member of Geeks OUT. “We didn’t really discuss his sexuality beyond the fact that he was somewhat divorced from it because of the bullying and experiences he had as a child.”

When the writers told Taylor and Smith about the romance storyline, it was Taylor’s decision not to “go back and write some sort of history with this character and say he always had these feelings. I’m treating this as though he’s opening his eyes. The first person he sees is his mother, and then his father. The only people that he ever loved.”—played by Carol Kane and Paul Reubens. Bow down. After the two of them, “the first person that ever shows him any sort of respect, and someone that he is equally challenged by, was the Riddler. And who also, you know, was kind to him. And that’s the first time he experienced that, outside of his parents. So obviously, for Oswald, because he’s a very manipulative and stunted person, he’s going to glom right on to that. And that’s going to be where we start with these romantic feelings.”

Taylor is careful not to label Oswald’s sexuality, noting that “I would be ascribing labels to someone who’s… coming from a place of such darkness and manipulation and abuse. And I don’t want to ascribe any of that to anyone who’s part of the larger LGBTQIA community… .This character is not an example of any sort of queer experience that anyone in the world should have or really should look up to, because again, he is a very tortured, manipulative, conniving person… He gloms only Edward because, obviously, he wants someone who understands him and also [who] he feels safe with. But his way of dealing with that is to kill Edward’s girlfriend! You know what I mean?” (RIP Isabella - you looked exactly like Kristen Kringle, and it was weird. Are we going to get into that,Gotham writers, or nah?) “This is the person that we’re dealing with here. I want to be sure that context is constantly understood when you see him go forward, especially his relationships with Edward and other people that are coming in season four.” Speaking of season four, Oswald’s taking the lesson that Nygma taught him—that loves makes you vulnerable—and running with it. Taylor admits, though, that as a philosophy “you can’t sustain that… Somebody’s going to come into his path that is going to change his idea of how he should behave and how he should act. That happens in this season.”

So… probably no lovey-dovey endings for Os and Ed, then. No worries. That’s what fanfic is for.

Other season four tidbits: Lee Thompkins (geek royalty Morena Baccarin) is “going to go through a major change this year and really break out of [being] the romantic foil of Jim [Gordon, played by Ben McKenzie] to become her own presence in Gotham City… She’s a badass bitch.” And Poison Ivy, played now by Maggie Geha, will be the Luke Skywalker to Oswald’s Yoda in the world of organized crime. “She wants to have her own agency and be in control of herself… She doesn’t have any interest in being a good person, being a righteous person. She’s like, ‘Yeah, show me the nasty stuff. Show me how to get things done the way you do them.’”

Finally, Taylor spoke about LGBT representation on Gotham in a more general sense, noting that—for all Gotham City is an awful dystopia in many ways—there are other ways “in which it is actually a utopia. In our show, never ever once in Gotham City is anyone discounted because of their race or their sexuality.” (Oswald isn’t the only queer characters on the show, Barbara Kean [Erin Richards] and Tabitha Galavan [Jessica Lucas] having engaged in an on-again-off-again relationship of their own. Renee Montoya [Victoria Cartagena] was a character in season one but hasn’t been heard from in years.) “In that way, Gotham City is almost exemplary. It’s a place where horrible, horrible shit happens, but fundamentally every human being is treated equal.”

If everyone in Gotham City’s OK with the wide, varied spectrum of human sexuality, the same cannot be said of people in our world. Though Taylor affirms that most of the comic book community is very accepting, he nurses a particular irritation for those who reacted negatively to his character’s sexuality on some hella specious grounds. Monologue presented in its entirety:

“People would be like, ‘I love you. I love your character. I just hate that they made the Penguin gay, not because I don’t like gay people, but because it’s not canon.’ And I’d be like: “Fuck you.” It’s not canon?! OK, excuse me! You’re watching our fucking show. When ever did Bruce Wayne and Catwoman hang out when they were tweens? You have a problem with that? No? Oh, OK. Did you have a problem when the Joker killed Batman’s parents in the first Tim Burton movie? Oh, no, you didn’t? Both of these are not canon issues. What’s the outlier here? Oh, it’s a queer storyline. OK, thank you so much, really glad to know that you’re homophobic. Actually, I am glad to know that. I like to know when people are homophobic and they’re completely missing the mark and are completely blind to their own prejudice. ‘It’s not because I don’t like gay people. It’s because it’s not canon.’ Are you kidding me with this canon shit?”

Can I get that printed on a t-shirt?

#Gotham #Oswald Cobblepot #Robin Lord Taylor

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wiseabsol · 8 years ago

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Excerpts from a Prompts Project

For those of you who read my Pokemon fanfic back in the day, you’ll know that my favorite ship was Mewtwo/Sabrina (for those of you who didn’t know that, try not to judge me too harshly). The following prompt is a fluff piece with some suggestive material in it.

Prompt #5: Relaxation, featuring Mewtwo

Relaxation:

Despite his careful preparations, it took three days for Sabrina to start relaxing. Mewtwo would have felt exasperated, if he hadn’t also been expecting that. His lover wasn’t accustomed to doing nothing. Between her work at her gym and her school, her training sessions, her psychic research, and the social functions that the League required her to attend, she always had something taking up her time and energy.

The one time he visited her in her office, he noticed that her calendar was highlighted in seven different colors and that her to do list was three pages long. When he pointed out that she might be taking on too much, she said that it had to be done, and then started correcting another one of her students’ essays.

It was obvious to him that she was burning herself out. She was sleeping heavily in his arms lately, even though he knew that she, like him, was normally a light sleeper. So he decided to do something about it.

“How many vacation days have you built up?” he asked her, fumbling with the buttons of her blouse one evening.

“Quite a few,” she said, helping him out.

“Good. Take a couple of weeks off. Come with me somewhere nice.”

She blinked at him. “You know I can’t. I have to—”

“Do a thousand and one things, yes, I know.”

“Then you know that I—”

“Delegate,” he insisted, while running his finger along the cusp of her bra. “Please. You need some time off. And I need you.” He drew her against him. “I am tired of hiding.”

She sighed. “We’ll have to hide wherever we go, you know.”

“Not everywhere.” At her puzzled looked, he said, “That is part of the surprise.”

She studied his face. “Alright. Two weeks, then.”

He showed her how grateful he was afterwards. When she dived into delegating during the next few days, he went to New Island to make sure that everything was ready. He’d spent months on the project and was rather pleased with how it had turned out. Rather than making another castle, he’d constructed a manor like the one she was currently living in (where her parents also lived, which meant that he had to visit her during the night, which wasn’t ideal). His island manor had more windows, though. They looked out onto the gardens and the groves of trees he’d hired a group of plant pokémon landscapers to grow for him. There was also a lake a short walk away, with sandy beaches that Sabrina could lay out on. He wasn’t certain if she would want to—she was a very cleanly person, so she might not like getting sand on her skin. But the option would be there, as it should be on an island, even one like this, which had sheer cliffs on all sides.

Furnishing the manor and getting supplies here had been tricky. He hadn’t had any money for it. If there was one advantage to knowing a crime lord, though, it was in skimming his bank account. The fact that Giovanni’s technicians couldn’t trace the source of the hack and had never caught Mewtwo picking up his deliveries had made the process even sweeter. So Sabrina would have everything she needed here, including a library. That was the first thing he’d decided they needed to have, before even their bedroom. Its shelves were filled with books on psychic theory and poetry and whatever else he could think of that might interest her. It overlooked the eaves of wisteria he’d set up, which she could go and sit under if she liked.

He’d wanted to make her someplace beautiful. Someplace where she would be comfortable and could be herself—where they could be themselves. And where they wouldn’t be interrupted. That was part of it, too. Mewtwo knew he couldn’t take her away from her normal life, but if he could coax her here on occasion—maybe over the weekends—that would be enough for him. They could indulge in each other as much as they liked for a few days, then go back to their responsibilities. That was his plan, anyway.

But it still took her three days to relax.

On the third day, he found her in the library. Or rather, he found her asleep on the couch in the library, with was wide enough to fit both of them on it, even with his tail. There was a book on the coffee table next to her and a cold cup of tea, both halfway finished. The sunlight pouring through the window teased a green gleam out of her black hair. He smiled at the sight and took the cup back to the kitchen. She was still napping when he returned, so he pulled one of the books down from a shelf and began to read.

When she stirred an hour later and fumbled for the book she’d set down, he asked her, “Did you sleep well?”

She blinked at him, then sat up and nodded. “Yes. It’s a little strange,” she admitted, “that I can take a nap if I want to. That there’s nothing pressing that I have to get to instead. That hasn’t been the case in….” She shook her head. “…in as long as I can remember.”

“That is why you’re here,” he pointed out. “To rest.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Is that all?”

“That’s mostly it,” he amended, setting his book aside and going over to her. He stroked her cheek. “But I wanted to be able to do this, too.”

“Touch my face?” she asked, purposefully misunderstanding him.

“Touch you whenever I wanted, without having to worry about anyone walking in and seeing,” he elaborated.

She turned her head and kissed his palm. “That is nice.” Then she stood and walked over to a nearby table. “I had a question about this, by the way.”

He followed her. “Did you?”

“Mmhm. I’ve noticed that you didn’t put any chairs here. Or stools. You prefer stools,” she noted. “It’s not low enough to sit at without one, but it’s not tall enough that you wouldn’t have to bend over while writing something. So,” she said, tracing her fingertip along the edge of the wood, “does that make it decorative?”

“I would have put flowers on it if it had been,” he said.

“That’s what I thought. So what is this for? There are others around the house just like it.” She turned around and leaned back against it, a familiar gleam in her eyes.

“I think you might have guessed,” he said, pressing her back against it.

“It is at the height of your waist,” she said. To his delight, she hopped up onto the table. As he unzipped her pants, she added, “You’re becoming a bit of a pervert, you know.”

“Says the woman whose first sexual encounter was giving a pokémon a hand job,” he said—but then, what did that say about him, when he’d urged her on? Hers was the only touch he’d ever know and she was a human. If she was a deviant, then so was he.

That thought didn’t dissuade him from undressing her, or caressing her, or enjoying how good it felt to sink into her. It didn’t dissuade him from smiling as how she gasped his name as they moved together, coaxing each other towards their peaks. It didn’t dissuade him from nuzzling her neck after they were finished, either. She laughed and slapped his shoulder, complaining that that tickled. He didn’t stop for a few more seconds, then sighed and lifted himself off of her. He helped her get cleaned up and dressed again, even though he was lousy with buttons and probably hindered her more than he helped her. She never complained, though. She just gave him a look that made him feel warm and buoyant. He checked his feet to make sure he wasn’t levitating from it.

They went out for a walk after that. It was an odd experience for him, to feel her hand wrapped around his and the sunlight on his fur at the same time. This was what he’d hoped for though: to enjoy these days with her. He led her to the lake and teleported a blanket from the manor for them to lay out on. She stared up at the sky as he settled down next to her.

After listening to the birds chirping and the waves crashing against the nearby cliffs, she asked him, “Do you suppose anyone can see us from up there?” She pointed to a white dot in the sky, which was leaving a line of clouds behind it. He was about to say that the plane was much too high up for them to see anything in detail down here, when she added, “It seems like people can see anything these days, with the help of a satellite and a search engine.”

He stroked her hair. He understood her concern, but he’d learned his lesson about that danger on Mt. Quena. “Do you see that shimmer in the air?” he asked, gesturing to a rainbow smear less than a mile above them.

She looked closer at it. “That one there?” she asked, pointing to it.

“Yes. I’ve raised a light barrier around us, to alter how the island appears to outside observers. When they look at it, they will see a barren island with jagged rocks around it. I can’t imagine anyone will be tempted to pay us a visit.” He ran his finger down the line of her jaw. “You don’t have to worry. No one will find us here.”

“You’ve thought of everything,” she murmured.

He frowned and stroked her lips with his thumb. He couldn’t kiss her properly, like a man could, but he could do this, and she’d told him she was certain it felt just as good. “I wanted this to be perfect for you,” he told her. “I know your life can be stressful at times, and our relationship doesn’t always make things easier.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he added, “But I wanted to give you a place where things could be easy—where we can go when everything else feels like too much.”

She studied his face, then smiled. “I think you’ve succeeded at that.”

He sighed with relief. “That is good to hear.”

She placed her hand on his chest. “You worry too much.”

“You are not much better on that count,” he teased her.

“No, I’m not,” she agreed, “but I’m trying.” She leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Thank you for bringing me here.”

“You will always be welcome here,” he promised, while the sun baked into his fur. Feeling faint from the heat, he sat up and asked her, “Would you like to go swimming?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You like to swim?”

“Not all cats dislike water. Jaguars are known to be fond of it.”

“So you’re a jaguar now, are you?” she asked him before stripping off her clothes, until she was down to her undergarments.

“If I were one, I would be tempted to eat you,” he told her, licking his lips.

She took a couple quick steps towards the shore. “You would have to catch me first,” she said suggestively, then ran and plunged into the water.

He followed her. She was a more agile swimmer than he was, but he eventually caught up to her and caught her around the waist. They tussled, with her trying to squirm out of his grip, while he tried to hold onto her, despite her slippery skin. The struggle ended with him getting water up his nose and cursing at the sting of it, while she floated back from him and laughed. They swam together after that until the sun started to set. When they returned to the manor, Sabrina went to take a shower, while he worked on their dinner. By the time she rejoined him, the food was ready and he’d brewed her a cup of her favorite red tea.

“You’re spoiling me,” she told him, accepting the cup with a smile.

“Is that such a terrible thing?” he said.

Someone should spoil you, he thought. Someone should make you feel appreciated and adored. Someone should make you feel loved. You have spent too many years believing that no one ever would.

Her cheeks colored, as if she had heard his thoughts. Perhaps she had. “I love you,” she whispered to him.

She didn’t say it often. She was still scared to say those words, as if she thought they would hurt him, like they had her parents. But unlike them, he wasn’t afraid of her, and he didn’t think that her love was so frightening, either. After all, it was the sweetest gift he’d ever known.

“I love you too,” he told her, drawing her into his arms and pressing his cheek to hers in the pokémon version of a kiss. He remembered that he’d once been scared to say those words to her, too. But he would say them as many times as she needed him to, until she believed in them as much as she did in their psychic powers….

When their hungers were sated, they returned to their bedroom. Its eastern and western walls were made of glass, giving them ocean views on either side. He watched her watch the waves, then look up at the stars, which were burning brighter than they ever did in her city. Then Sabrina turned to him, took his hand, and led him to the bed. When they were curled up together under the blankets comfortably, she murmured something into the fur of his chest.

“What was that?” he asked her.

“I said I could stay here forever,” she repeated sleepily.

“You could,” he said, tracing the shape of a constellation into her nightgown. He could get her anything she needed. He would be happy to.

“I couldn’t,” she said, opening her eyes to gaze into his. “But I could stay here for a while.”

“For a while, then,” he agreed, lifting his hand to stroke her hair.

She sighed and nestled herself against him, falling asleep soon afterwards. He held her and closed his eyes, content in the knowledge that he had finally, finally put her at ease. It may have taken three days and months of preparation, but in the end, it had all been worth it.

#WiseAbsol #My Fanfiction #Psishipping #Pokemon #Prompts Project #I am trash you guys #I am utter trash

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ghanaspiritualecho · 8 years ago

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AFTERLIFE COMMUNICATION, PSYCHICS, MEDIUMS AND SCEPTICS

There are all kinds of ways in which the dead differ from the living, psychology professor Richard Wiseman told me recently. “And one of them,” he said, “is that dead people tend to be rather particular about who they talk to. The dead,” he added, “prefer chatting to people who are imaginative. Creative. Highly sensitive.” The professor gives a barely perceptible nod in my direction. “You know: the credulous, the gullible and the deluded.”

Wiseman is an unusual academic: a former professional magician, he is now Professor of the Public Understanding of Psychology at the University of Hertfordshire, and recognised as Britain’s most eminent psychic sceptic. It was possibly an error of judgment to tell him that communication with the dead is an area in which I have had some personal experience. Or – to use a phrase that tends to recur whenever we discuss this subject – so I believe.

It happened six years ago, during an interview with the British medium Sally Morgan: a psychic who, on the strength of having seen both her televised and theatrical shows, I had concluded was not just a strikingly prolific channeller of spirits, but also the biggest charlatan on the block: a title which, in this area of human endeavour, is not easily gained.

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Since then, Psychic Sally, who was unavailable for interview, has established herself as the most popular medium in Britain, playing to capacity audiences at venues across the country. Earlier this month I saw the former dental nurse perform at Brighton’s Grand Theatre. A peaceful demonstration outside the sold-out 950-seat venue, was led by two men carrying placards which read, “Equal Rights For Gay Ghosts.”

This slogan referred to a contretemps with a critic called Mark Tilbrook, who had been handing out leaflets before a performance by Morgan in London this April. Tilbrook only recently released video footage of the encounter, in which Morgan’s husband John, a former greengrocer whose ample physique means that he strikes as imposing a figure on the terrestrial plane as his wife does in the ether, approached Tilbrook. Standing shoulder to shoulder with his son-in-law, Daren Wiltshear, he asked the sceptic: “Are you on drugs? Or has one of your boyfriends shagged you too much? . . . I’m gonna knock you out sooner or later. So fuck off before I do you.”

Morgan is, according to his wife’s 2008 book, My Psychic Life, “the reason the sun rises.” In a statement released shortly after this grotesque footage appeared on YouTube, and just before the Brighton show, Sally Morgan asserted that she was, “utterly ashamed and devastated at the behaviour of my husband John and my son-in-law, and neither will have anything to do with my work . . . right now I have no idea what is going to happen to my marriage."

Meeting Psychic Sally

My own encounter with Morgan, now 63, was less confrontational and yet equally disturbing. In those days the medium, who now occupies a large property outside London, was living in New Malden. Walking up the path to the suburban house, where there were no visible lights, no open windows and no signs of recent occupation, I recalled what Sergeant Bilko says to Rupert Ritzik, in an episode of The Phil Silvers Show, as they approach the apartment of a psychic who, they hope, might enable them to make their fortunes at roulette. “It’s very quiet,” Silvers says. “The blinds are all closed. Nothing is stirring. She must be in.”

The reading that Morgan gave me, though, was far from comic, even if, in the long-standing debate over mediumship, she hardly represents an obvious choice as a witness for the defence.

In one to one readings, Morgan works – or did at that time – from photographs. I’d taken a few along, including one of my father, who died while I was a student. A few weeks earlier, in a conversation with my brother, I had raised the possibility that my dad might have been claustrophobic: he was clearly uneasy in crowds, for instance, at packed football stadiums.

Morgan picked up a photo of my parents taken many years ago. “Your father is showing me something in his left hand,” she says, “A chain. Could be a key-ring.” As I recall thinking at the time, this sort of stuff is the classic material of so-called cold-reading, whereby generalities are dispensed until the sitter blurts out precise information. Then: “Your dad would like you to know that he was claustrophobic but he didn’t realise that at the time. They weren’t sure what that condition was called.”

The evening before I met the psychic, who ran a small laundry before experiencing an epiphany in her local Wimpy Bar, I had been whining to friends about how ill-at-ease I felt in the flat landscape of the southeast, having grown up within striking distance of the Peak District. Pretentious and absurd as this may sound, I had been advancing the theory that I somehow found it easier to write fiction in a place with a view of mountains. Morgan took a sheet of paper and drew four or five undulating lines on it.

Morgan describes having a psychic experience when she was nine months old, and claims to have seen her first ghost aged four. As an adult, she turned her talent into a career as a professional medium.CORBIS

“You would be very, very happy living in an area which is hilly,” she said. “Or mountainous. Mountains would inspire you. Your work would flow more easily if you had a vista. This knowledge calls to you. And until you relent and accept that . . . well, if you do, that will change your life for ever.”

Years earlier I’d had a conversation with the late Lord Soper, the prominent Methodist minister. He described mediumship as “spiritual fascism. People are looking for answers outside their known world,” he’d said, “When what they should be doing is taking responsibility for their own life.”

“You know,” Morgan said, after I mentioned this, “it’s not easy, living with this ability. I am not a bad person. I am not mad. I am not unhinged. I happen to do an extraordinary job as well as I can.”

It was when I handed her a photograph of an ex-girlfriend – again without mentioning whether this person was alive, dead, or a relative – that I felt Morgan really caught fire.

“There is a mental side to this girl.”

“I’ll say.”

“Some people might describe her as a nut. There is a very strong sadness in her, and a sense of having been abandoned. Some people destroy relationships before they have run their course because they think they are going to end anyway. She has that feeling.” Then, informing me that she has my late father at her side, she picks up the family picture again.

“Who is Joan?”

“My mother.”

“And Michael John?”

“My brother.”

“Is your mother in spirit?”

“No, she’s in Manchester.”

“Well,” Morgan says, “your mother’s mother lost a small child.”

“Not so far as I know.”

“You’d have to ask her about that.”

And when I did, as I later tell Wiseman, my mother told me that she had had an older brother who died very shortly after being born.

The Art of Cold-Reading

As I explain to psychic sceptic Professor Wiseman, I had approached Morgan as a sworn unbeliever.

Before her stage shows, two glass orbs are left on display outside the auditorium. Audience members are invited to fill the globes with messages to, and photographs of, loved ones. These vessels appear on stage with her. Does Morgan read them beforehand? She says not, and we trust her. Yet there is famous footage of “Psychic Sally” giving readings on television shows that gave many viewers the definite sense that the spirit of Google was present.

But the internet, both Wiseman and I agreed, was unlikely to have explained any of the observations she made to me. The names she gave were just about retrievable from an obscure site if you knew what they were in advance and had several hours to spare, but even Wiseman said his sense was that Morgan had not accessed the information in that way. She had certainly mentioned details that meant nothing to me, but not with the scattergun approach that is the hallmark of the true fraud.

Professor Richard Wiseman.REX

Before I met Morgan, I had interviewed other mediums, such as the thirsty Liverpudlian motorist Derek Acorah, as a result of which I’d had quite a bit of coaching in avoiding being “cold-read” either by word or by body language.

For a definitive lesson in the techniques of cold-reading, watch the first part of the 2010 Channel Four series Derren Brown Investigates entitled, “Talking to the Dead." The episode, posted on Youtube, is an excruciating demolition of the self-professed medium Joe Power.

In the course of the broadcast, Brown’s expert adviser, the same Professor Wiseman, examines in detail the skills involved in cold-reading. The medium begins by persuading the sitter that a dead relative is present: an effect commonly achieved with a statement such as “I have a John . . . Johnny . . . Jack, Jake . . . Jackie, Jacqueline . . . could be somebody living in a town that begins with a J.”

At this point many sitters relate detailed information that the psychic relays back to them later in the sitting. Blatant “misses,” such as meaningless names or dates, become the client’s fault. (“Think about it later. It will come to you.”)

Flattery is a big part of the process. A medium will never say: “I have your father here. He’s telling me that you are a feckless little creep with abject personal hygiene. He is saying that he remembers you mainly as having been ‘a waste of food.’ He says he could continue, but since he knows you’ll be dead in six days he’ll carry on this discussion once you join him in hell.”

“The main question about your reading with Sally Morgan,” Wiseman told me when we met again, with a transcript of the session, “relates to how best you can test mediums.”

In controlled experiments, he says, conducted with several sitters facing away from the psychic, subjects have proved to be poor at identifying their own reading. “If you’d had to pick your reading out of six others,” he asks, “would you have been able to?”

“Definitely. Even without the small matter of my brother’s full name.”

“That is interesting,” Wiseman says. “We do, undeniably, have an issue with that. Which is why it would be so interesting if Sally Morgan would agree to be blind tested. As far as I know, she has always refused.”

Bad psychics cheat in two ways: so-called ‘hot reading’ (gathering information on the sitter via friends or, these days, via the internet) and the skill of ‘cold reading’ outlined above.

It is astounding what performers can get away with. Recently I visited a long-established spiritualist church, whose name, out of respect for the other members of the congregation, I will omit. I sat through a 90-minute performance by a psychic, who told me at one point that I had “a close link to the letter P." I was impressed, naturally: but what exact connections from my personal life had he channelled from the spirit world? Peroni? Paula? Prawn dhansak? Pernod? Pamela? Preston North End? Then he entered into the following exchange with a man of about 70, named Harold.

Medium: “I have your mother here.”

Harold: “Good. Thank you.”

Medium: “Yes. She is cooking. A big stew.”

Harold: “My mother never cooked.”

Medium: “It is not your mother. It is your grandmother. She cooked big casseroles. There is a dog here. It’s white.”

Harold: “Black.”

Medium: “And the dog’s name is . . . Stu.”

Harold: “Flossie.”

Medium: “Ah. No. The dog is begging for the stew. That’s why I got the name Stu.”

A Dog Named Stu

And that, I suggest to Sue Farrow, editor and managing director of the journal Psychic News, shows just how very bad things can get. Farrow offers something of a contrast with some who work in this field. She is a highly intelligent, articulate woman, who spent 25 years as a professional musician before taking up her current post in 2007. The “dog called Stu” inspires a snort of derision.

How on earth did a former conductor from the English National Ballet come to be involved in this field? “My motivation derived from a sense that most people are interested in whether there is life after death,” she replies. “I feel it is a subject of such importance that it deserves all the scrutiny you can give it. Intellectual curiosity drew me to it.”

“So what do you make of Flossie begging for the stew?”

“Of the hundreds of mediums operating in this country,” she replies, “there are only three that I would risk recommending to a bereaved person.”

To set yourself up as a medium, there is no requirement equivalent of a driving instructor’s licence or a football coach’s training badge. Anybody can do it.

I travelled to the Arthur Conan Doyle Centre in Edinburgh. Doyle, famously, was a passionate believer in spiritualism and was ridiculed by many, including the magician Houdini, Doyle’s one-time friend, who mutated into his Moriarty.

I am welcomed in to a room where there are 13 other trainee mediums, nine of them women (all of whose names have been changed). The session, hosted by a woman called Yvonne, begins with a 15-minute meditation after which, somewhat to my horror, I realise that I, like others in the room, am required to perform a reading myself.

Having been on the receiving end of a lot of cold readings, I find I’m actually quite good at it. My sitter, who I will call Ellen, is an older woman who, without the benefit of spiritual assistance, I sense might have been the victim of physical challenges, possibly involving a male partner, and strong drink.

“I feel that you have had to be the rock, while bad things have been going on around you,” I venture, with my first flattering generalisation.

“Yes.”

“Bad things done by a man?”

“Sometimes.”

“I see you in a bar.”

“I don’t like alcohol,” Ellen says. But her first husband, it transpires, drank heavily and was physically violent.

“You have some connection to Ireland.” [Who doesn’t?]

“Yes.”

I get away with it purely thanks to the truth that, as Wiseman testifies, faced with a flagrant charlatan such as myself, it’s the subject, not the “medium”, that does the work.

But the Edinburgh class is interesting to observe and not without its merits. These are vulnerable people who visibly draw comfort from this meeting. Their hospitality to outsiders is generous and touching. With the possible exception of a trainee I’ll call Laura, a woman whose appearance (not unlike a younger Chrissie Hynde) and forthright attitude make me wonder if this amiable circle has inadvertently admitted another journalist.

“Just what is the point of connecting with spirits?” she asks Yvonne. “They connect to us, then we die. Then we talk to the ones who are left. Why?” Yvonne replies that “Spirits, like people, evolve. But, of course, if someone was a miserable person on earth, they’re going to be exactly the same on the other side.”

At this point I notice Sheila, a woman on my immediate left, beginning to look emotional. “My father,” she says, “had Parkinson’s disease for the last 12 years of his life. He was in a terrible state. Are you saying that he’s still like that now?”

“No,” Yvonne says. “Because he is in spirit. Earthly pain is left behind.”

The Psychic Barber

When I asked people – both sceptics and enthusiasts interested in this field – about “good” mediums, the same few names recurred. I chose one, Gordon Smith, the so-called Psychic Barber.

Smith, 52, is an improbable medium. An unpretentious Glaswegian who, as his soubriquet would suggest, began life as a hairdresser, has proved (contrary to the belief apparently harboured by Sting) that it is possible to establish an international reputation without changing your name from Gordon. Smith gives public shows, but does not charge for individual readings. His house – comfortable but not ostentatious – is on the coast near Helensburgh, 30 miles north-west of Glasgow.

Gordon's 'gift' was reawakened when the ghost of his friend's brother, who died in a fire, appeared before him one night.REX

“I think there is only a value to mediumship,” Smith says, “if it can help people heal. If somebody dies horrendously, you cannot undo that. Good mediums can help people to move on, by giving them a vision of those individuals in spirit.”

“When you give somebody a reading,” I ask Smith, who has said he will only do so for me if something, in his words, comes through, “what is going on? What are the mechanics?”

“Something happens between me and that person,” he says. “There is a vibration that means there is somebody here. As soon as you walked in the room,” he adds, “I saw a very bright light behind you. I have only had it once or twice in my life before. To me it felt good. But I can’t really say what it means. It was something, but not to do with my mediumship. I can’t say what.”

“When mediums say, ‘I have your grandfather here’ and so on. Are you really communicating through spirits?”

“Yes. Although I think everything we do is connected to telepathy. As a medium, if you don’t get a message from spirit then you read the person. I would say that all mediums are psychic. But not all psychics are mediums.”

A pause.

“Alright,” Smith says, “let’s take your mother. She is recently dead [not information I have volunteered] but her spirit is very close. As I speak to you, I get this lady and what I felt was a deep tiredness.” Smith switches to the first person, though does not alter his voice.

“‘My body just gave up. It almost became like a prison to me. This is what I feel.’ But she knew she was loved, and that made it easier for her to die. And now she is at peace.”

Smith embarks on what I would say was an accurate character sketch of my mother, which differs from an orthodox medium’s reading in that it is not uniquely bland.

“Her temperament was not always the best. She hated how she was at the end. She had such sadness in her own life. And a lot of that sadness, she didn’t understand. And now she does. And she doesn’t want there to be any anger or guilt.” He then gives the first name of one of her very few close surviving relatives.

Smith fell into mediumship, as many seem to, after attending a spiritualist church. He was 24. “I’d never been to that sort of a place. The medium in the church told the person I was with: that guy sat next to you; he’s a medium too. Has he not told you?”

I tell Smith that I am concerned by psychics who are trousering vast sums from never-ending tours. Having dismissed one prominent psychic as “cheesy” and “peddling nonsense,” Smith adds: “I don’t see why this shouldn’t be a living. It just was never in me to take money from the bereaved. I’d always worked. Then I got a publishing deal; I did talks. It just escalated.”

Some people might argue that were there any real power in spiritualism, Smith should be living on Mulholland Drive in a mansion with a swimming pool in the shape of a racehorse. “You cannot predict the future,” he says. “Neither can you cold-read the character or name of somebody who has died. No matter how hard you stare at the sitter. When that happens, it’s coming from somewhere else . . . I believe there is a part of you that, after death, somehow endures. I have never thought of the spirit world as heaven as such.”

Wasn’t it Jonathan Miller, I ask Smith, who said he was surprised when he looked at the complexities of the human eye that people could become obsessed with what he called “so suburban a miracle as telepathy." Does being a medium help the medium?

“It does, yes. Hugely. Because I don’t have a fear of dying, I don’t have a fear of living. I believe that is very important. So many people are hindered in their lives by a fear of their own death, or the death of their kids. And that’s why that sense of a spiritual connection is so very significant and rather beautiful. And you know why that’s important? Because if you are not afraid to die,” Smith says, “you are not afraid to live.”

Robert Chalmers's ebook, Talking With the Dead: Psychic Journeys to the Other Side, is available now through Newsweek Insights.

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