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mrsemilybartrum · 7 months

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As promised... this is the first rough draft of my play on the continuance of the Golden Girls. In these pages, we meet the four people who will be called back from retirement to fill the house on Richmond Street.

The Golden Guise:

“OPERATION TY4BAF”

“TY4BAF. Wonder what THAT means... Hmm.” Agent Collins said under her breath. The crackling noise coming from her outdated earpiece preceded her superior’s stern voice.

“For the love of all things holy, stop talking to yourself! I get you’re over the hill and old people do that, but chances are we are being surveilled. If I could read your lips, they just did, too. You’re a seasoned veteran, Collins! Now ACT LIKE IT! Don’t reply verbally. Just listen.”

Normally, Collins would’ve told her superior where to stick it before throwing her old-timers earpiece into the closest body of water. She didn’t appreciate bureaucracy or hierarchy – which was odd, because she was an avid British Royal Family watcher. Yet, she could tell by the tone of Deputy Director Franklin’s voice that something was seriously wrong. A little too late wrong.

“Your next assignment. All the information you need is already inside that envelope. There will be no Q and A or follow-up Ted Talk. You will receive addendums as needed, and those will be very rare. Once you leave here, verify you are alone before opening the envelope. I am serious on this one. Make sure you are completely alone. The details of this operation are top-level secret. Now GO on your way! We are already behind on the timetables!!”

Agent Collins took a deep breath and appreciated the gravitas. Normally, she would have at least a breadcrumb to go on when it came to selecting or receiving missions. This time was different. Bauz, as Collins often called Deputy Director Franklin, wouldn’t even hint about the impending weather forecast. Everything about this case was top of the line, by the book kind of stuff. No expense or detail was spared. If Bauz was that wound up for the first point of contact, then something was going on behind the scenes. It’s bad whenever you may be under lipreading surveillance.

The digital car clock was flashing 8:34 AM. It was the perfect time to grab a bite at the marina. Collins had the same routine every single day for the last three years. She always went to the marina directly after the morning rush to get her favorite meal. The envelop wrapped up in newspaper in her favorite Coach tote meant today was the last time she’d have her favorite meal for a while. Instead of heading back to her house, she turned left to head toward the Connector.

Agent Collins saw no need in rushing. After all, she went to the Marina for breakfast just about every single day. If Bauz was worried about lipreading and surveillance, one would argue NOT going to the Marina for breakfast would be a red flag. Why should that day be any different? If someone else wasn’t watching her, there was a chance Bauz was. Either way, breakfast was being had!

Joshua was working the counter that morning. He was the original owner’s son and shared the family business with his two sisters. Carla and Mallory are amazing people, but hard working they are not. Collins realized she would miss these people almost as much as she would miss their family’s generations’ old recipes. Before she could open her mouth, Joshua pointed to his own ear, tugged at it, and then shrugged. She realized her old Cold War dinosaur was sticking out. She immediately pulled it from her ear and dropped it into her bag.

He looked confused, but he went on with the day. He started making Collins her usual breakfast. In a matter of five minutes or so, not one word was ever spoken between the two of them. Yet both knew everything about each other’s morning. Collins always appreciated that more than anything about Joshua; comfortable silence is a hard thing to find.

Joshua spoke. He asked Collins what was wrong with her. She realized she was out of practice and immediately questioned whether she was truly up for this mission. Then she realized she still had to answer Joshua. She looked him dead in the eye and said, “If I told you, Mr. Joshua, I would then have to kill you by order and authority of the federal government. And that would make me even sadder than I am now. So, I am not going to be sad anymore, K?”

He looked completely shocked, yet he looked completely sure she was being honest. Collins could read people. It was her profession. She knows what true reactions should be, and he believed every word she ever told him. Well, except for that once.

Nothing else was said that morning between the two of them. She didn’t even say goodbye before she went to leave. Collins would come to regret that later; she was sure of it.

She walked out to the picnic area and looked out at the water before going down the stairs to the parking lot. One of the phones in her pockets was ringing. She could tell by the annoying ring tone who was calling.

“What do you want, Craig? I’m in the middle of something here, alright? Craig, are you there? Listen, I know what you are about to say. Listen closely here, okay? Get a pen, and I will give you 29. 28. 27. 26.”

“I got a pen, Val. Go.”

“I know you are about to tell me we are still married, that our divorce was somehow never properly filed. Send me the paperwork now. Like right now. If I do not have them by 2000 hours, we will always be married forever. Your favorite color is orange, and the weather is nice this time of year in Madrid. Do you understand me, Craig?”

“Vacation? Really? I thought you retired from – uh, taking vacations? What are you doing? Is this a midlife crisis?” Craig asked before he confirmed his understanding. He and Val were married for years, and he knew the drill. But now? She was done. The awkward silence reminded him that time was ticking away. Something in his brain was triggered, and he was back to the old days writing code phrases and secure line passwords.

“I’ll email the docs to your Gmail. Good luck out there. I am always here if you ever need me. Even if you need someone to help you keep up appearances.

“That’s sweet Craig, but I’ve been on vacation for the last three years. I don’t need anything from you anymore. Good luck.”

“MINNESOTA”

Betty hit the ignore button as she got her supplies from her trunk. She was on a mission right then, and nothing could be more important than cleaning off the graves of our fallen veterans. She pulled out her little hand brush, her rubber gloves, and her little trash bags from the cardboard box marked “Operation Hero Marker”. She closed the trunk and walked over to the final resting place of Staff Sergeant Lester Turner, World War II veteran.

The sun was beating down on her, but she enjoyed the feel of its rays warming her fair skin. Minnesota wasn’t known for its wonderful weather, but today was something the state could be proud of. She sat her box of supplies on a concrete bench. Betty usually put her phone on silent or vibrate before starting, and she usually would wear a headphone in her ear to listen to her favorite Pastor, Doctor John Barnett. But for some reason, she decided not to. She, did however, decide to turn down her ringer.

She already had 6 missed calls from not hearing her phone while driving. Betty hated a phone. She saw it like a ball and chain. And she didn’t care who was calling her right then, either. She was there on a mission to restore the headstone of Staff Sergeant Lester Turner, World War II Hero, back to its lustrous wonder. She enjoyed helping people, but she missed really helping people the way she did in her prime.

After about twenty minutes in the cemetery, the music in her headphones stopped. She looked at her phone to see what stopped her music, only to see fifteen missed calls from the same “Unavailable” caller ID. As much as she wanted to pretend it was something else, Betty knew exactly what it was.

Finally, Betty faced the music and answered the phone the next time it rang.

“For the love of all things holy, what have you been doing??!?” A familiar voice barked through the headphone speakers. Betty told the caller to give her a few minutes and then call her back.

She immediately hung up the phone and rushed to pack up all of her supplies. The grave stone will have to wait, it seems. She threw the supplies back into the “Operation Hero Marker” box and closed the trunk. She then did a quick walk-around the car with what looked like a Walkman radio. After a few minutes and finally being satisfied, Betty got into the driver’s seat of her car.

Betty locked the door locks and started the car. She was being paranoid; but Betty was a firm believer that sometimes paranoia is really intuition. She never took any chances, even if it made her feel silly. She checked all of her mirrors first before throwing the car in reverse to see through the back-up camera. After another minute or so, she finally pulled out of the cemetery.

Betty didn’t want to bring any attention to herself just in case she was being followed. She had no reason to think she would be followed, but she'd never risk it. She decided to stick to her usual routine and headed back to her farmhouse on the outskirts of St. Paul. She loved that farmhouse. Some of her best times were had at that place. And she loved being a farmer. Even with the tanking industry issues.

Betty thought about the happy life she had made for herself there. Even though her husband had been gone for about fifteen years or so, Betty felt closest to Alan on the farm. She never understood why it was that way. Alan had never lived with her, there at the farm; they had only visited there over the years when it was a Bed and Breakfast.

Betty had bought the property and turned it back into a functioning farm a couple years after she partially-retired. But even then, that was long after Alan had passed away. She didn’t want to answer the incoming call she was about to answer. She already knows it means giving her life up for a while. And she’s not ready.

But, if anything meant more to Betty, it was serving her country. As much as she wanted to avoid taking the impending call of doom, she would never do such a thing. She will always answer the call to serve her country whenever that call comes. Even if she doesn’t want to.

She pulled into the driveway and immediately ran inside. The old farmhouse still had some of the leftover layout from the Bed and Breakfast. But Betty couldn’t bring herself to remodel the place. She was afraid to change anything there, really. As if by remodeling would release whatever leftover energy of Alan that was trapped there. Who knows? All Betty knew was that change was coming.

She went into her office and shut the door. She secured her line, and then waited for the ring. That dreaded ring that will take her from her happy place. And then it came.

“Agent Ludden, while you were busy playing pussy-foot, we were en route to your location to extract you. This matter is that urgent, Ludden. As we speak right now, the other three are either being notified or already packing. You’re slowing us down. Your packet is in your locked desk drawer. All of the details are inside. Time is of the utmost importance. You have your instructions. Now secure your residence and ensure you’re alone before opening your envelope. Now, GO!”

Betty hated how that woman barked at her whenever she was worried about something. Deputy Director Franklin could manage to ruin even the best day. She was the type of person who enjoyed pissing in people’s Cheerios. Betty heard that many people called her “Bauzz” but didn’t know how that started or if it was true.

Betty had her orders. Now, she had to make sure she was safe to open them. She was dying to know what was inside. Most of all, she was dying to know who else got the same exact envelope.

“WELL, I DO DECLARE!”

“IIII… Want to dance with somebody! I want to feel the HEEEEEEAAT with some-BOOOOOODY… I wunnnnnna dannnnce with suuuuuumbooody… with somebody who looovess meee!!!” Rebecca belted as loudly as she could sing. She was in the shower, and that was when she came alive as a singer. Of course, there are some circles out there who would say that Rebecca came alive in a whole different way when she was in the shower.

Rebecca had the reputation of being a gentleman’s lady of the night. She was feminine, delicate, and she was completely in-tuned with her sexuality. For most women of a certain age, the concept of being in-tuned with one’s sexuality meant one of two things. Either someone was hanging onto their thirties or forties with a death-grip, or they were always promiscuous. Rebecca was a little bit of both, and she didn’t care who knew it.

“Incoming call. Caller Unknown.” Interrupted Rebecca’s Whitney Houston shower show. She didn’t think much of it and finished her shower. By the time she was drying herself off, the phone was ringing again. She answered the phone and spoke before her caller could get a word out.

“Yes, I know I am late. But I ended up having a meeting run over… into the floor I dare say, and I had to freshen up before I left the house. I will be there when I get there. As much as I do hope and pray that you would understand the dire straits of being a southern lady, and that certain protocols are met and in place to prevent certain disasters from taking place, I do consider that you lack the proper upbringing to understand this traditional etiquette.-“

Rebecca was interrupted by a loud, angry voice.

“You listen here, Rebecca! What you essentially just said was that you decided to have a romp in the hay with yet another strange man, that it went on for longer than you anticipated, and you’re running late because you had to shower in between your slutcapades! Get your skeeting ass in gear and get to the contact point, now!” Deputy Director Franklin screamed through the line. She must’ve been in the office with a desk phone because Rebecca could hear the phone physically slam down as it clicked.

Rebecca went to her closet and picked out one of her favorite outfits. She didn’t let her age influence how she dressed. She dressed for how she wanted to feel. Regardless of whether other people might think her attire be less than appropriate sometimes. She never faltered in the idea that she was a true Southern Lady entitled to, and deserving of mind you, everyone’s love and admiration.

She chose a white silk top that had pink magnolia blossoms printed all over it. The front of the top was carefully and strategically cut to wrap ever-so-carefully around a fully-busted figure. She paired the low-cut wraparound with a pair of black leggings that had pockets easily hidden by the bottom of the top. She decided to wear her thong-jelly sandals; after all, what’s the point of paying for pedicures?

Rebecca grabbed her latest bag and double checked the house was locked up tight before leaving. She got into her car and opened the garage door from the driver’s seat. An envelope fell from the driver’s side visor. It had “TY4BAF” on the front of it. The phone rang inside of her car. It was the same “Unknown Caller”.

Rebecca sighed a heavy sigh and answered the phone.

“Never mind, I had the team put your packet in your car. We don’t have time to waste. Everything is in motion now, so time is too important for theatrics. Just go inside and read the packet. Bye”

Rebecca wanted to laugh; Deputy Director Franklin wasn’t barking that time. She was actually kind of nice to do that for her. Wonder what the catch will be. And what is “TY4BAF”?

“BROOKLYN WAS SUPPOSED TO BE HOME”

“The time of day is Two-Fifty,” said the strange man in the oddly-apparent hipster clothing.

“Oh my word, are you for real right now? You never speak to the mark. You only look at my watch to make sure the hour hand is pointed at the two and the minute hand is pointed at the ten. You idiot. If we’re being watched, you could’ve just revealed everything. You idiot. Get out of here!” screamed the deputy director.

Kate winked at the young kid in the horrible clothes and sat down on the park bench. She did a quick look around the place to see if anything was out of place. She grabbed the New Yorker paper with an envelope inside marked with “TY4BAF”.

Kate got back up, almost as smoothly as she sat down, and was gone before the deputy director could even put a tail on her. She was irate that Kate got away from her first.

#golden girls #fanfiction

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somuchyoudontknow · 10 months

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Yes, I have changed because I learned from my mistakes. And you know the biggest mistake I made was I followed breadcrumbs for a supposed BUA at the time of Ghosted.

It’s good that you’ve learned from your mistakes and people are only angry with you because you’re posting stuff that may change their point of view. They continue to call me a troll because of the beach pics when I have stated that I am not team real or a troll just a person that can see both sides and I am not blind to certain things that might make this real. I did not come here saying I had proof of anything so it is still quite possible that he was in PT however I feel if he was he would have posted with Joana, they’ve shown us when they are in the US and personally I think he was letting us know he was still here and they were leaving(again just a personal opinion). If you’re mad that Sophia is posting things that go against your narrative maybe it’s time for you to move on because I’m sure you would also be mad if she wasn’t being transparent like other blogs. I know many of you don’t want to believe in the possibility that it may be real and to be honest neither do I but I am not blind and can see how people can believe it is (it still does not mean they are getting married though). If you can’t have calm conversations about what is going on without attacking other people with different views then maybe you need to step back for a while.

Tbh I feel fighting with each other on dumb PR done by a male celeb is not okay :) I am not the kind of a person who likes to fight with anyone :) It's just not me :) Even in real life, I don't argue or fight with anyone and I like to listen to everyone :)

I still believe it's PR but I am trying to find balance here so we don't get disappointed :)

#chris-evans #chris evans pr

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phenomanemone · 2 months

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november 12, 2023

time unknown

Why do I feel like a part of me is trapped in this music? I only feel here when I listen to it, and she's hurting so much.

I feel like she made a home in Ruki's voice because that was literally her only comfort.

I'm sorry I did this to you. I've found you. I want to help. I feel like there are breadcrumbs in my life leading to all the parts scattered to my memory, and i do want to help them all but i'm drawn to you.

You're weak and pathetic. You're hiding. Are you influencing my perception of you? Is that why you hide? As soon as we sync up, everything becomes venomous.

We can reach out. We can get help when needed.

I'm not afraid. I'm not afraid of going to hospital. I'll rip my hair out, lose my memories. I'll do whatever I have to just to make sure you're seen.

You're constantly seeking evidence of your existence. It's right here. I'm acknowledging you. I know you're frightened. Scared. Frozen. Alert.

Vulnerability was punished. Not anymore. You're the heart, the crux. You are life. You're more real than I am. I will pull you out.

i want mama i want mama why is she broken i just want to feel real. please stop arguing. don't try to comfort me i dont want comfort i want to fix this.

you keep saying you can help me but you're not real i'm not real maybe we weren't cut of out right maybe we don't belong feeling like belonging makes this worse.

i always fall back on "how others react in this situation" but im tired im tired this isn't about anyone else it's about me i feel so fake i don't know what's real about me why am i so surprised when i enjoy things why does everything feel like a threat i feel like my housemates will kick me out any day now because they'll know i'm SHIT i don't know how to be a person. im supposed to be on standby until there's a role for me to fill THAT is my purpose i have no drive outside of being useful.

fuckin THERE. i said my piece. leave me alone.

I'm sorry.

Now, the waiting game. We overbalanced, and I can't do anything like this.

I will do something. I had the drive before, it will come back.

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botaniia · 4 years

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Chapter 128 was packed with details, but the final two pages of the chapter are some of the most important in the whole series to me because they tie up a loose end that’s been there for quite some time in just two small pages.

The warriors’ morality has been a long-discussed topic, but out of RBA I think Bertholdt’s is the most interesting, simply because he’s been discussed so little and the reader actually has to extrapolate to explore him instead of getting it all spoonfed to them. There was no reason for the story to discuss him because Reiner was still alive and he was used to explore RBA’s reasoning and history. And because it was shown through Reiner so well, I’d long given up on the narrative ever revisiting Bertholdt again.

But even if it makes sense, that doesn’t leave me satisfied. I am all for seeing Reiner’s (and Annie’s) growth, but that’s only possible because they are still alive and active players in the story. Readers get constant new info on them and see how their actions and perspective have changed, and get the chance to recontextualise them. And for many people, that allows them to sympathise with them.

The same can’t be said about Bertholdt.

To plenty of people, he’s the previous holder of the colossal titan, Reiner’s shadow, and ultimately the guy who made peace with the fact that he’d kill lots and lots of former allies and Survey Corps alike before he was punished with a gruesome karmic death. He not only got what people believed was due, but readers were also never again challenged to rethink their position on him like they were with Reiner and Annie. It was easy to form an opinion on him in Return to Shiganshina and never have to adjust that opinion as new info came.

There was no need to see how terrible his life was before he died, or how he was in the same boat as Reiner, or to speculate what he’d have done were he alive in the current arc because it simply wasn’t raised to the audience. So he remained despicable, and it was a good thing he was dead.

And that stance is understandable. Because no matter how good a motive someone has, murder is murder, and what happened to Shiganshina, Trost, Marco, the SC, and Armin was still murder no matter how terrible Marley was to these child soldiers. I reject the idea that their strong alleviating circumstances change nothing, but I understand why people are unable to find compassion for him after he said he was okay with killing them all on his own volition (which I still think was a coping mechanism to deal with how little he was in control of his life at that point and not a factual statement, but that’s a discussion for another day).

In short: a story that so powerfully made many people do a complete 180 on what they thought of Reiner, someone they previously wanted to see die a violent death, doesn’t at all invite the reader to consider the same for Bertholdt, and it felt missing.

That is until these two pages show up and change everything.

See, the thing I said about murder applies to anyone. Bertholdt’s death was still murder, no matter how you spin it. A necessary murder where the SC had no other choice, but still murder. But emotionally, it was never framed that way. We don’t really see the 104th’s opinion on RBA, but I can’t imagine they felt all too much compassion for Bertholdt.

Because he had it coming.

Because he would’ve murdered them had they not murdered him.

Because he betrayed them like the heartless bastard they learned he was.

Because he was all talk about no one wanting to do what he did, but in the end he still carried through with it.

Because it’s easier to feel no guilt over killing someone when you decide that he was never worthy of your compassion in the first place.

He died without a shred of humanity. The people who would mourn him didn’t know if he was truly dead and the people who knew he was dead didn’t want to mourn him.

That’s kinda it for him. Suddenly, radio silence. Reiner’s depression largely stems from losing him, but he’s never actually mentioned. Porco gets angry learning about his death at Liberio and charges into combat, and that’s about the only on-panel reaction we see to his death.

And then, four years later, the 104th suddenly land themselves in a situation where they are the traitors. Two of their comrades stand between them and their goal, and their lives are directly threatened by them unless they choose to act right now.

“You betrayed us, didn’t you?”

“Weren’t we gonna reclaim the land and eat meat together?”

“You traitors! Why? Aren’t we comrades?”

Hey, aren’t those words Connie and Armin have heard somewhere before?

They are indeed their comrades. And Connie pulls the trigger twice.

It’s emotional. It’s painful. It doesn’t feel right, Connie doesn’t want to do it, and he knows he’ll have trouble looking himself in the mirror from the moment he shoots Daz. He’s the first one of the 104th to gain insight into how terrible it is to have to harm friends for a goal he truly believes is worth fighting for.

But he did it anyway because he had to. And that’s the moment where he understands, crystal clear, something he has been struggling for four years to understand: how could Reiner, Bertholdt, and Annie do something so selfish, so gruesome to their comrades? How could they do this to him?

How could Connie and Armin do this to Daz and Samuel?

I don’t wish what Connie and Armin are currently feeling upon them in any way, just like I didn’t wish it upon RBA when they were experiencing it. But it’s undeniable that they currently have an understanding unlike any other of what a dreadful situation their enemies had been in when they infiltrated Paradis. This may even help them understand the position Eren is currently in.

Killing a former friend who turned enemy out of necessity is one thing. Learning his motives can change one’s perception of him, but doesn’t necessarily change the animosity still felt for him. But to live the exact experience he lived and gain an emotional understanding that wasn’t there before?

It’s hard not to relate to an experience you now understand.

So what’s that loose end I was talking about?

Back in Clash of Titans, Bertholdt begged for someone to find them. I interpret this as being about understanding how hopeless their situation was from the start, seeing the good through the overwhelming abundance of terrible, wanting to be understood but knowing it wasn’t possible.

Ymir ended up being the person to respond to that call, leading to her going back to Marley with them to face certain death in order to spare them. Back then, she was the only one who could find them, but she never quite gave the type of understanding he was looking for. He wronged the Paradisian Eldians, it was them he needed to reach.

Even though it’s long after his death, Connie remembering his words in the situation he did is the first time that someone actually did see, did live his perspective while explicitly linking it back to him. Someone finally understands the pain they went through, and Isayama made a conscious effort to make readers think about that fact by showing that one panel of Bertholdt breaking down all those years ago. It’s no longer implied by extrapolation, it’s explicitly shown, the reader has to think about it.

It’s doesn’t look like much, but that is the exact type of closure I’ve wanted to cap off his story.

Someone whom he didn’t want to harm but harmed anyway finally understands how human his situation was.

There wasn’t actually a heartless bastard, just a conflicted one who made his choice. Just like they did.

Someone finally found him.

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mybunnyparadenme · 3 years

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chaossanthebae replied to your post “Graphic design is NOT my passion and all I have is...”Listen to me listen to me, B1, we have some...

Sorry it took so long! OTZ I hope you like it, I made sure that Kenny’s 100% just a civilian here. Long live Chaos/Kenny supremacy :D

B1 - Professor Chaos/Kenny

Kenny's mind felt so hazy as he slowly made his way into consciousness.

He blinked, not recognizing his surroundings, and felt his eyebrows furrow together when he tried to move and found that his arms were bound behind his back. Seeing as he wasn't naked, he figured this wasn't the fun version of being all tied up, but he couldn't think of any other situation that would leave him in this position. The last thing he remembered was leaving the store after picking up a gallon of milk for breakfast the next morning. There had been... a loud noise, maybe an explosion? Then a flash of light, and then here he was in this high-tech room, feeling like he'd been hit by a bus. But he wasn't alone, he quickly realized as he noticed movement from the corner of his eye. A handsome guy in a ridiculous outfit was walking towards him, his blue eyes seeming to spark with electricity with every step he took.

"Ah, sleeping beauty's finally awake." He said, a grin slowly rising on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. Damn, he had nice biceps. "I didn't zap you too hard, did I?"

"Who the fuck are you?" Kenny asked, feeling his lips twist into a scowl. "And what did you do to my milk?"

"Oh, I put it in the fridge to keep it from spoiling." The guy said, his expression turning sheepish for a moment before his smug mask fell back into place. "And as for who I am, well... you'll know soon enough."

Kenny was ready to tell this guy off for being overly vague (and for abducting him of course), but before he could get the first word out, the large screen on the wall in front of them lit up. An overweight guy about their age took up most of the screen, the top half of his face hidden behind a black raccoon mask.

Great, now he had to deal with furries on top of everything.

"Chaos!" Raccoon Boy bellowed, his voice so gravelly Kenny wondered if he had a cold. "Show yourself!"

"Right on time." Chaos took a few steps into view and grinned up at him. "Why if it isn't The Coon! So nice of you to join us, did you need Call Girl's help to hack into my frequency, or were you able to follow the breadcrumbs this time?"

"Cut the banter Chaos, what have you done to the hostage?"

"He's fine." Chaos said, gesturing to Kenny behind him. "Though for how long, I can't really say. It's amazing how high you can turn up the voltage before the human body starts to lose control."

"You've sunk to a new low, haven't you?" The Coon growled, his eyes darkening as he stared at Chaos. "Electrocuting civilians is barbaric!"

"Oh, like clawing up my minions is any better?" Blue electricity crackled in the air around Chaos, making the hair on Kenny's arms stand on end. "You think you're so heroic, but really you're hardly any better than I am!"

"I am better than you!"

Things were starting to click in Kenny's head, and he tuned out the arguing to really think things through. Electricity, minions, Chaos... oh he remembered now! The guy in front of him was Professor Chaos, the new villain in town who was quickly building an empire of crime in South Park. Kenny felt a bit comforted by this realization, strange as that might be. He could handle being used as a pawn in some superhero political bullshit, no problem. There were worse things to be kidnapped over, like being used for organ harvesting or being part of a serial killer's sick fantasy. This was nothing.

He watched the two of them argue for a minute, frowning when he saw that neither one of them was really getting anywhere with this... negotiation? That was probably what this was supposed to be, but it was looking more and more like a petty squabble between childhood frenemies. He leaned forward in his seat as far as he could and whispered, "Hey, Chaos?"

Chaos jumped, looking like he'd forgotten that Kenny had been in the room at all. "Y-Yes, what is it?"

"If you really want to intimidate him, give him a deadline." Kenny said, nodding at The Coon, who seemed to be in the middle of a long monologue about the difference between good and evil. He also didn't look like he was paying any attention to him, the person he was supposed to be saving. God, the guy must really like the sound of his own voice. "Tell him he's got a day, that should shut him up for a bit."

Chaos gave him the most bewildered look, but composed himself enough to call out, "Coon, I'm tired of this! You have twenty-four hours to meet my demands or the hostage... the hostage dies, you hear?"

The look on The Coon's face was more than worth the indirect death threat. "What the fuck? You don't kill people, Chaos."

"Now end the call," Kenny whispered. "Make him sweat a little."

"Things have changed, hero." Chaos let out an evil laugh and gathered sparks in the palm of his hand. He sent the lightning straight into the screen, causing the whole thing to start short-circuiting. The Coon's angry face lingered for a moment, just long enough for Chaos to grin and give a snappy, "Time's tickin'!" before the screen finally died and went black.

The room was silent for a long moment, save for the crackle of lingering electricity in the air, but it was quickly broken by the sound of Chaos groaning loudly into his hands, all of his bravado disappearing. "Oh god, why'd I have to go and do that for? That's gonna cost a fortune to replace!"

"On the bright side, you looked really cool doing it." Kenny said, grinning when Chaos lifted his head up to look at him. "What? I'm a guy who can appreciate good theatrics."

"Yeah, I guessed that when you didn't freak out after I threatened your life." Chaos said, tilting his head like he was trying to see him in a different light. "Don't you... want to live?"

"Well obviously." Kenny said, shrugging his shoulders. "But this is clearly your first time taking a hostage, so we might as well do it right."

"How do you know this is my first time?" Chaos asked, his cheeks huffing out indignantly.

Kenny lifted a leg in the air, a loose piece of rope dangling from his shoe. "This right here. You secured my hands, but left my feet loose enough for me to wriggle them free. You didn't notice because you were too busy with Raccoon Boy."

Chaos flushed and crossed his arms defensively over his chest. "W-Well it's not like you would've gotten very far! My secret base is rigged with booby traps, you would've been a goner if you left this room."

"Is that right?"

"Of course!" He said, his cheeks turning pink as he puffed his chest out proudly. "I might've let you trick me into ruining my monitor--"

"Hey you did that all on your own!"

He pursed his lips but powered on. "--but that doesn't mean you have any power here. I'm a dangerous man, you know. You're stuck here until I say you can leave."

Kenny considered this, tapping his foot against the floor as he took in the villain in front of him. Chaos had some wickedly strong powers, and even with his legs free he really wouldn't be going anywhere without the use of his hands. The only real option he had was waiting for that tool, The Coon, to come rescue him, and that didn't sound appealing at all. He leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. "Well since I'm not going anywhere, I should probably introduce myself to my host. Hi, I'm Kenny."

"Nice to meet you, I'm Bu-- um, I mean, I'm Professor Chaos!" He said, his cheeks turning a deeper shade of pink at his almost slip-up. He cleared his throat and tried to look serious as he continued. "And wherever I go, destruction's sure to follow. So you'd be smart to get on my good side, Kenny."

A shock went through his spine at the sound of his name, and Kenny was sure it had nothing to do with the villain's electrical powers. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling, but he could already feel his lips curving up in anticipation. He'd always been a sucker for trouble, and it looked like Chaos was just the right combination of danger and adorable awkwardness that would make all of this worth his while.

No matter how this went down, he had a feeling this was only the first of many encounters between him and Professor Chaos.

#south park #sp bunny #Butters Stotch #kenny mccormick #bunny sp #my fics #south park fic #answered #god i hope the grammar's okay it's so hot today that i'm a little dizzy lol

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therealvalkyrie · 3 years

Text

Through the Mirror: Part 1

my body, my music

Pairing/setting: Detective!Levi Ackerman x Female!Ghost!Reader, modern!AU within the Walls

Summary: When you’re murdered one Tuesday morning, can Levi piece together the true circumstances of your death with your help from beyond the grave?

Word Count: 2.6k

Warnings: dead body, descriptions of blood, swearing, mentions of violence

AN: Welcome to my new series because I have no self control and can’t finish projects before starting others! Lemme just start off by saying updates may come pretty irregularly because I do have a lot of other WIPs to work on, but! I’m really excited about this idea and have a whole lot planned:) I seriously hope you enjoy. After all, who doesn’t love a good murder mystery? Drop into my DMs/askbox/comments/reblogs to let me know what you think! Be kind to yourselves and others. ~valkyrie

“Ah, shit! Hello!? I’m standing right here!”

The woman completely ignores you, stepping carefully over the puddle of blood and across your tiny living room. You cross your arms and pout. She ignores that, too.

“‘Scuse me, boys, let the experts take it from here,” she quips, gently pushing past the two detectives and crouching next to your body on the ground.

It’s ugly, but she’s probably seen worse, you muse from where you’re leaning against the door jamb. It’s only been lying there for a couple of hours, so at least you haven’t bloated to something out of an NCIS episode. Must smell horrid, though, judging by the mask the head detective has pulled over his face.

“So, you said the landlady called at about 7 am?” the ME inquires, cocking her head up to look at the detectives, nylon gloved hands held at the ready.

“7:07 exactly. Said a neighbor made a noise complaint, she came up to check it out, found signs of a forced entry, and called us.” It’s the taller blonde who speaks up, reading from an off-brand pocket notepad in his left hand. The kind you’d find on sale at Staples after Back-to-School season.

Interesting. You lean your head against the wall, eyes trained on the trio. You’d pegged the ill-tempered shorter one as in charge. Maybe he’s just the quiet type.

“Hmm, alright. Moblit, get off your ass and come take the pictures before we move her,” the woman calls to someone behind you, and you turn just in time to get a face full of Moblit’s chest as he walks towards you.

You cringe back with a “God, seriously?” to no response.

“Yes, sorry, right away, Hange!” Moblit hurries past- no, through -you, sidestepping the ottoman and the blood. It feels weird, like a strong wind, but not altogether unpleasant to have someone walk through you, you suppose. You look down at your chest to watch your misty body re-settle into itself before looking back at the group in your living room.

Were it not for the gruesome accents of blood flecked up the walls and your body riddled with stab wounds, you’d chuckle at how all four of them struggled to navigate the space. It’s cramped enough when it’s just you, fitting only a couch, a chair, a coffee table, your fern (Boris), and a narrow IKEA bookshelf. With the four of them plus a dead body, it’s like watching a freaking clown car.

“Sorry, excuse me, Captain, oh, was that your toe—?” Moblit’s struggling the most, having to move to capture different angles with his bulky camera. When he steps on the shorter man’s toe, he positively blanches, fumbling over himself to apologize while the ME laughs openly.

“God, alright, just,” the Captain pinches his delicate nose between a thumb and forefinger, then decides it’s better to wait in the kitchen. “C’mon, Gin, let’s chat in there.”

The Captain and the blonde detective both pass through you on the way back to the kitchen, but you only sigh and shake the tingly feeling of being incorporeal out of your fingers before following them.

“So,” the man called Gin takes the initiative, flipping back through his notebook and standing by the fridge. “I got statements from the landlady and two of the neighbors, numbers 303 and 304 down the hall. 301, directly across the hall, didn’t answer, but I got contact info from the landlady.” He pauses to read and scratch at his whiskery beard. “It was 304 who made the noise complaint, said she heard yelling this morning at around 5:45, and that she normally wouldn’t’ve said anything but it was, quote, the fourth goddamn time this week and I work the goddamn night shift, I deserve some fucking rest, unquote.”

You grin. Mrs. Sheffield was never one to mince words, something you appreciated when your ex-boyfriend got too loud and she took it upon herself to give him a piece of her mind. You catch a glimmer of a smile on the ornery Captain’s face above where he’s pulled his mask down before he gestures for Gin to keep going, keeping his thoughtful gaze fixed on the floor and his back against your countertop.

“Then after she called the landlady, she went to bed, only to be woken by us two hours later.”

“You said she called the landlady at 5:45 and that she works the night shift?”

Gin double checks his notes. “That’s right.”

“And she works at the hospital?”

“Yes, as a scrub nurse on the night shift.”

“But the night shift at the hospital ends at 6:30.”

“It was her night off,” you and Gin say at the same time before you catch yourself. They can’t hear you, anyway. This’d be a lot easier if they could.

Gin plows ahead. “But she says she keeps the same sleep schedule so she doesn’t, ah, fuck up her circadian rhythm.”

The Captain practically snorts at this, itching for a second under his silk cravat (can someone say pretentious) before settling back into a listening silence.

“303 says he didn’t hear a thing. College kid, looked exhausted. Said he was asleep the whole night after he got in at,” a page flip, “11 o’clock last night. Wasn’t much help, but looked genuinely upset when we told him about the murder. Wanted to know if there was anything he could do. Oh, but he did, uh, hang on,” more page flips, “He did tell us that he heard her and her boyfriend arguing a lot. Which is consistent with what Mrs. Sheffield told us.”

“Ex-boyfriend,” you correct into thin air.

“A lover’s spat gone wrong, then,” Mr. Pretentious Captain muses. You huff in annoyance. A lover’s spat. If that’s all that this is written off as you’ll have some serious PD haunting to do. Chris may have been an angry, loud, disruptive manipulator, but he wouldn’t murder you. He didn’t murder you. “Any info on the whereabouts of the boyfriend?”

“Ex-boyf—!”

Blondie cuts you off, “Not currently, but we do have a name: Chris Henderson, works in admin down at the University. Lives across town closer to the Bridge.”

“Send some uniforms to bring him in for questioning. No arrests yet, tell ‘em to keep it friendly.”

“Right, I’ll put Dreyse and Bodt on it.”

“Dreyse, really?” Captain Cravat gives Gin an incredulous look.

“Hey, she may look like a ditz but she gets the job done. And she might get him to let down his guard,” Gin argues, grinning.

“Fine. I’ll meet them at the station, you stay here and make sure that mousy-haired dunce doesn’t fuck up my crime scene.”

“Hey, who’re you callin’ mousy-haired, short stack?” Hange actually sticks her whole head through yours this time, to butt into the conversation, and you shriek and jump away to the other side of your tiny kitchen, now sandwiched between Blondie and Shortstack. The latter twitches and swats at the air by his ear, as though to dislodge a fly, narrowly missing yours. You give him a weird look then turn back to listen to the ME. She’s leaning into the kitchen at an alarming angle, one hand on the doorframe and the other on the end of the gurney you assume is carrying your body. You shudder at the thought of being toted around in a dark, musty, humid glorified coat bag. Ugh.

“—takin’ this baby”-she slaps the gurney twice and you flinch-“back so I can get started on the autopsy, Moblit’s staying to take more pictures and collect forensics. If Eld’s stayin’ here with Mob, does that mean you’re catching a ride with me, Levi?” The question is addressed to Captain Grump on your right, who gives a heavy sigh and pushes off the counter.

“I guess so. I get to choose music though.”

“Ah, ah, ah,” she’s wagging a finger, grinning. “My body, my music!”

“How about my body, my music?” you suggest, following Levi. “I deserve it after the day I’ve had.”

Again, Levi twitches and swats aggressively by his ear, nearly hitting you full in the face this time.

“You hear that, Gin? This place got a mosquito problem or something?”

“I do not have a mosquito problem!” and “No, sir, I don’t hear anything.” overlap in the air.

Captain Levi only grunts, then starts spouting instructions, which Gin notes down. “I want footage from any cameras in the building, and from the shops next door and across the street. I want statements from residents both upstairs and downstairs. I want names, addresses, and numbers of next of kin on my desk by noon, and lastly, I want no one, save for myself, you, shitty glasses, and mousy-hair, in or out of this apartment. Are we clear?”

“Crystal clear, sir.”

“Good. I’m leaving you Braus to help and to show her the ropes of this kind of thing. Even though she’s on the case, she will not set foot in this apartment. I don’t trust her not to leave breadcrumbs in the bloodstains.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expect an in-person report before shift-change this evening. See you then.” Then, he’s sweeping out of the kitchen in pursuit of Hange and the gurney, leaving you to scurry after. As you exit your home, he shoots a young auburn-haired woman in a crisp white blouse and wool slacks a look. “Braus. You’re with Gin. Don’t go in the apartment.”

She straightens up from leaning against the wall with a jolt and brushes croissant crumbs off her front. “Yes, Captain Levi, sir!” It’s slightly muffled by the pastry stuffed into her mouth.

“Tch.”

It’s fascinating watching how Levi and Hange manage to navigate the gurney down the narrow, twisting stairs of your walk-up apartment building. They’re both clearly used to this sort of thing, communicating only in short phrases and grunts when they encounter an obstacle. Occasionally, you offer up a pointer and watch as Levi becomes increasingly irritated.

“Watch out for Mr. Laslow’s cat, he likes to sneak up on ya!”

“Hange, do you hear— shit!” Levi hops to the side, narrowly avoiding the tabby tail as Tubbins McGee whisks past.

“It’s only a cat, Levi, dunno what’s got you so worked up today,” Hange teases, grin echoing your own as you chortle from the landing above them.

Eventually, they spill out onto the sidewalk and into the bright mid-day, and Hange groans loudly, stretching with both hands on her back.

“Ugh. Remind me not to die in there, I’d hate to put someone else through that.”

“Boof, tell me about it,” you commiserate.

“Noted,” Levi snarks.

Hange removes jingling keys from her pocket and unlocks the ME’s van parked along the sidewalk with a beep, then opens the back doors and steps in. You follow, leaning against the cool metal siding to watch.

When they both load into the front seats and the engine turns over, you lean forward between them to listen in.

“So,” Hange starts, smoothly pulling out into the road behind a silver minivan. “I’ll be able to give you a more solid answer in a couple hours, but my initial estimated time of death would be around 5:45 this morning.”

Levi nods, staring out the passenger window while he answers. “That lines up with the neighbor’s story.”

“Theories so far?”

“Well, there’s the boyfriend,” he muses, lifting a hand to rub his chin.

“Too obvious,” you say dully, not bothering to amend the lack of “ex” yet again. “Next theory.”

He’s quiet for a moment, then mutter, almost too quietly for you to catch: “Too obvious, hmm? Next theory....”

You’re momentarily flabbergasted, hand falling through the faux-leather seat back in your shock. Can he actually hear you? You shake out your hand while it re-materializes, tuning in to the conversation as Hange’s responding.

“—a little far-fetched, don’t you think? I mean, has there been any of that activity in this area recently?”

“Mm, I’ll have to touch base with Petra. If there has been, I think it’s worth looking into.”

“What is? Wait, go back,” you frantically plead, leaning further into his airspace. But Hange plows on.

“Oh, it’s Petra, now, hmm? Not Raggedy Anne anymore?” Her tone is teasing, and she glances over to Levi for a reaction.

He doesn’t give her one, just stares out the window pensively before reaching for the radio dial. The stereo blares up into an Oldies station, and you make a disgusted face along with Levi.

“You listen to this shit?”

“Hey, my dead body, my music, sweetcheeks. Don’t like it, you can thumb it back to the PD.”

“How about my dead body, my music?” you suggest again, reaching for the dial at the same time as Levi does. Just as his slender fingers touch it, your hand passes through the whole front console and the oldies are replaced with a terrifyingly loud static screeching.

“Christ, Levi, what’d you do?” Hange shrieks, lunging forward to punch the radio off as you remove your hand.

“Nothing! It just went berserk!”

They bicker while you stare at your offending palm. “Huh. Didn’t know I could do that.”

If you can actually interact with objects, at least to some degree, and if it turns out Levi can hear you.... This whole thing might be easier than you thought.

#levi ackerman x reader #attack on titan #shingeki no kyojin #aot fanfic #snk fanfic #aot x reader #snk x reader #captain levi x reader #female!reader #hange zoe #moblit berner #eld gin #sasha braus #through the mirror #valkyrie writes #tw:murder #tw:violence #tw:dead body #tw:blood

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ablogthatishenceforthmine · 3 years

Text

My Thoughts On Titans Season 3 Trailer

Overall

So, the trailer was pretty much what I expected (and I don’t mean that disparagingly); mostly focusing on Red Hood and new Gotham setting, but with a fair amount of other stuff, with most character getting at least one moment that emphasized them.

The characters who I felt got the most focus were Red Hood/Jason, Dick, Babs, and Kory (in that order). No, this isn’t based on a quantitative analysis of screen time in the trailer, just a general feeling of who was emphasized that I came away with. But overall, it didn’t feel that unbalanced to me, and felt like is tried to give at least something to most of the characters.

Kory

Kory looks so good! Like so so good! I can’t get over it. I know people were hoping to see more of her (and I for one could always take more Kory), but I didn’t feel like she was sidelined. As previously stated, I felt like she got the fourth most focus/emphasis (and Titans has a lot of characters). And she got the final line of the trailer, which I don’t think is insignificant.

Blackfire

I know people are also disappointed by the amount of Blackfire in the trailer. But, I don’t think that necessarily reflects her role in the season. And I don’t necessarily mind. There are many possible reasons that she was only in a few shots. They could want to keep her role and what she is doing under wraps (if this is the case then I support it, because I kind of want to be surprised with her story). Or the trailer could only be from the first few eps, and her role in those may be smaller. Or a lot of other reasons. Based on how much she’s been filming, I’m not super worried about Blackfire’s presence in the season.

Dickkory

I, like a lot of fans, were disappointed with the lack of Dickkory in the trailer, but, I didn’t really go in with any expectations of what we would see of them in the trailer. So, I’m not upset or angry; it’s just something I would have liked to see. I also think you can’t tell anything about Dickkory this season from the lack of them in the trailer. They might get together this season, they might not. This trailer doesn’t say anything in regards to that; it’s totally neutral. I don’t think the lack of them in the trailer says that they won’t happen or that they won’t have that many scenes together. I’ve seen some people convinced that they will never happen or that they won’t have scenes this season because of this trailer, and I think that is WAYY too much to extrapolate from a trailer. A trailer only tells you a very limited of stuff, and doesn’t always mean that much. While I have no idea if we will get romantic Dickkory this season, I do really think we’ll at least get some scenes, based off things one of the writers and the Titans account said on twitter. Now many scenes they’ll be or if it will be building to a romance, I have no idea, and I don’t think anyone else can reasonably say so either based off the small amount of info about them and this season that’s been released.

Also, on this subject, while the writer’s and Titans twitter’s account responses about Dickkory have been encouraging, I also don’t think that means we will necessarily see them in a romance this season. For one, for some people using a shipname might not necessarily using or seeing it in a romantic way. They might see Dickkory as referring to Dick and Kory and their general relationship, and not as referring to a romantic relationship. I’ve definitely seen that happen with other fandoms, where people behind TV shows would respond to or use shipnames just to refer to a dynamic between two characters. Now, I’m not saying that’s the case here (I actually lean more towards that it’s not), but it is still a possibility that I think a lot of people overlook. I’m not trying to discourage anybody or rain on anybody’s parade, I just don’t want people to feel they have been definitively promised something. I’ve seen this a lot in fandoms (people feeling they were promised something and getting angry when they don’t get it) and often it comes from a miscommunication between the creative teams and fans. That being said, I am still pretty confident we’ll get more scenes between them in season 3 than we did and season 2, and am also hopeful about their romantic future in the series; nothing in this trailer changed that.

Dick

I so a lot of people fearing that Dick will take up the Batman mantle, and again I don’t think that’s NECESSARILY the case. It might be! But it might not. For one, we didn’t see Dick’s response to Bruce’s request. And second, it’s unclear what Bruce even means by telling Dick he needs to be a better Batman. He could be referring to literally being Batman, or he could referring to “Batman” just as a superhero who protects Gotham. In the latter case, Bruce could just want Dick to protect Gotham as Nightwing. Like most things in this trailer, and most trailers, it’s unclear. Overall, despite his prominence in the trailer, I didn’t get a good feel of what Dick’s story would be this season, so I don’t really have any judgements on his character this season yet.

Babs

I’m excited to see Babs this season. I’m intrigued (although I little worried) to see her dynamic with Dick. I’m diehard Dickkory, so I hope it doesn’t turn romantic. But if it happens, it happens. While I definitely see tension between them in the trailer, I didn’t get the impression that they hate each other, like some people did. For one, there’s only like two or three scenes between them, and one is delivering exposition. And the other seems tense, but not hateful. The writer said on twitter that their relationship would be one of respect, so I don’t think they will be hating each other. I hope that their dynamic is one where they disagree and argue with each other, but there’s still that respect there and that it doesn’t turn romantic again. But we’ll have to see!

I’m also curious to see how much of the season she is in. I’ve heard it thrown around online that she is only going to be in 5 or 6 episodes. But I have no idea where this idea originated. Does anyone know? I think it might be from IMDB, in which case it might not be accurate. IMDB is very inconsistent when it comes to the accuracy of information posted there. And given that she is on the poster, it might be more than that. But again, I guess we’ll have to wait and see.

Trailers in General

In fandom in general, I think people really overestimate how much they can gleam about the actual show or movie from trailers and other marketing materials. First and foremost, trailers are intended to advertise a show or movie, not give an accurate representation of what the movie or season will be. Trailers can often be misleading, but even when they are not, they are only giving viewers limited information, and without context. Often, trailers aren’t even made by the writing or directing team, but by an in-house marketing team at the company that produced the show/movie or an outside.

Really, trailers are just giving viewers breadcrumbs; sometimes accurate breadcrumbs, sometimes misleading breadcrumbs. But that thing is, it’s impossible to know how accurate a trailer is until you see that actual show/movie it’s advertising. So, you can never really know ahead of time how representative what you’re seeing in a trailer is of the actual movie/show.

Not to mention, there is very little context for the scenes, images, and lines of dialogue you are seeing. And in understanding scenes, and characters, context is EVERYTHING. And for TV shows, you also don’t know how much of the season the trailer is using. This titans trailer could only be using a few episodes, or it could be more. There is no way of knowing unless we’re told. There is just so much uncertainty with trailers.

When it comes down to it, trailers are just scenes, lines, and images completely removed from their context.

But unfortunately, I think fandom can sometimes treat trailers as a lot more than this, believing they have a better understanding of what they season/movie is going to be than they possibly could given the nature of trailers. Sometimes these impressions are right! But i just find it so hard to ever know.

#titans #kory anders #blackfire #dick grayson #dickkory #red hood #jason todd #barbara gordon #titans season 3 #my posts #ablogthatishenceforthmine #otp: maybe we can figure it out together

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imgoingtohellsofuckit · 3 years

Text

Christmas Cookies

Spencer Reid x Reader

Warnings - uh none?

summary - Reader tries to convince Spencer that christmas isn’t all that bad

Spencer was all about Halloween. The costumes, the decorations. He loved every single part of the holiday. He was having the most fun on Halloween enjoying his traditions. However, like most Halloween people he didn't exactly love Christmas. And his girlfriend is more than happy to help change his mind about the holiday.

"Isn't this all a bit much?" Spencer asks as you balance yourself on one of the dining room chairs to try and hang the stockings. "I mean it's just gonna be us."

"That doesn't mean we can't enjoy ourselves," You tell him. She smiles lightly as she steps off the chair to look over your work. "Alright, do you like it?" He smiles lightly.

"Yeah- you do know there are no written records of the origin of the Christmas Stocking?" He tells you. A dorky smile across his face. "people have tried to write the legend or match stories up to explain the lore- the most accepted one is about St. Nicholas wanting to help a poor family but because the father was so stubborn he couldn't just hand over anything to help. So he dropped gold into stockings that were hung by the fireplace to dry." You nod along to the words. Enjoying the fun fact.

"And now they are normalized for most countries," You add, "well- do you like these? The embroidery kinda got a little sloppy." Spencer gives you a soft comforting smile.

"I love them," He assures you. You nod lightly. Moving back to the tub of decorations. It was mostly leftovers of things that just didn't fit with everything else. "It's very winter wonderland in here."

"I love it," You smile, "alright I'm gonna start making cookies- which do you prefer chocolate chip or sugar cookies?"

"Sugar Cookies are more seasonal," Spencer starts, "am I supposed to be helping you?"

"Yes spencer," You tell him. He chuckles. You move to take his hand. Pulling him along to the kitchen. He groans slightly. Once in the kitchen, the two of you start pulling the ingredients out of the pantry. These were clearly your addition to the household. Spencer maybe cooked a handful of times and year and he baked even less than that. So when you moved in you filled the shelves with things to make it almost seem like the people in the house take care of themselves. You both set everything on the counter. "Alright let's do chocolate chip first- they are easier to make anyways."

"Who decided that?"

"Me- why Spence are you gonna argue it?"

"No no just wondering," He says as he pulls down the mixing bowl, "this thing hasn't been touched since my birthday."

"Is that your way of saying you want me to bake more?"

"I mean I wouldn't be opposed," He says chuckling lightly, "it's always a good time for cookies made from scratch." You nod as you grab the measuring cups. "I mean if it isn't too hard."

"Maybe I'll make more but only because you're cute," You say as you pull his hands into yours, "and I love seeing that smile." He chuckles lightly. You move to pull him into a quick kiss. After you break the kiss you move to start measuring out the flour. "Do you have something else you want? Maybe something to take to work with you?"

"We work together-"

"I know that but you travel- I just sit with Garcia," You tell him, "if you don't want any that's fine I just figured I'd offer-"

"No no- I want some," He assures you, "maybe those pumpkin cookies? I know you only really make them around Halloween." You nod lightly. "But they are my favorite."

"Pumpkin cookies it is," You tell him pouring the sugar in, "but I'm sending you with Peppermint candies. You'll have something festive." He chuckles. "I'll make you like this holiday damn it."

"By buttering me up with sweets?"

"If that's what it takes," You say at once, "can you hand me the chocolate chips?" He moves to hand them over. You add them into the bowl then hand it over to Spencer to stir. He takes it and moves.

"I don't know why you always give this to me it's not like I'm any stronger than you," Spencer says as he starts to stir the dough, "it's counterproductive."

"It's busywork," You tell him, "when you do stuff like this I get to hear you talk and I love listening to you talk." He smiles lightly. "So pretty boy tell me some more facts?"

"Alright- Modern Christmas cookies can trace their history to recipes from Medieval Europe biscuits that's when many modern ingredients such as cinnamon, ginger, black pepper, almonds, and dried fruit were introduced into the west," Spencer starts, "the 16th century they were popular around Europe. Each country tended to have one traditional biscuit. For Germany, it was called that Lebkuchen. It's mainly made from honey-"

"Oh speak more Germany to me, love," You say with a bright smile.

"Oh you're testing my knowledge," He says running through his thoughts to remember the translation. "Ich denke, du bist so schön." You smile. Not knowing what the words mean but just knowing that you love watching Spencer like this. Watching him show off how smart he is. Other people thought he was a show-off when he did this. You always loved watching him use that big brain of his. "Wanna know what it means?"

"Hmm depends."

"On?"

"If I'll think it was more romantic when I couldn't tell what you were saying," You tell him.

"I said that I think you are so beautiful," He tells you. You smile at the words.

"Thank you, Spencer- but that sounds like you're trying to score," You chuckle. A cocky grin covers his expression. You move to pull him closer to you. Tucking a strand of his hair behind his ear. "Is that what you want? To get in my pants, pretty boy?"

"Well, I'm never opposed-"

You chuckle loudly. Turning back to start placing the cookies on the baking trap.

"Think you can take over this part?" You ask him. He nods. Lining the trap along with the balls of cookie dough while you start on his pumpkin cookies. "can you hand me the flour Spence?" He moves handing over the bag. You give him a quick mischievous smirk as you grab a pinch full of flour and toss it at him.

"Really?!" He asks at once, "and you call me a child."

"You look so pretty- even covered in flour," You chuckle.

"Hmm let's see if that works both ways," Spencer says. He moves to grab a whole fistful of flour and tosses it over at you. You chuckle in a slight offense as you attempt to wipe off the flour from your clothes. "Beautiful even covered in flour." You roll your eyes lightly as you move to dump the cup of flour into the second mixing bowl. "You wanted my help love."

"Oh, I'm enjoying this," You tell him, "you having holiday fun. Absolutely amazing." He chuckles lightly. "wanna get those in the oven?"

"Sure," He says. He places the tray into the oven. Moving to set the timer. He turns back to see you working on getting his pumpkin cookies together. "I'll wash the bowl so we can work on the sugar cookies next."

"Doing the dishes- wow Spencer that is seriously hot."

"I do the dishes!"

"I never said you didn't- but by the way, I do them way more than you do," You say as you stir the dough, "you think the waters gross so you whine-"

"I wasn't whining-"

You nod lightly. Moving to cute the cookies into the shape of sweaters. Hoping to add some festive flair to them. Spencer moves placing the now clean mixing bowl onto the counter. He starts on the sugar cookie batter.

"Sweaters huh?" He asks.

"Like little Christmas sweaters- or your little sweaters," You tease. He nods. A light smile across his face. "I assume you remember the recipe?"

"Even if I didn't have an eidetic memory with how many of these we had to make last year I don't know how I could forget," He says as he moves through the recipe. You chuckle lightly.

"Hey all of our coworkers loved it," You point out. He nods lightly.

Last year the two of you made about 10 batches to hand out around work. It made your coworkers day. Plenty of smiles and laughs with the baked goods.

"Besides stuff like this means I get to spend more time with you," You smile.

"Always a good thing," He says moving to start stirring the batter, "why haven't we got a mixer yet?"

"Because I asked you for a mixer for Christmas," You chuckle lightly, "besides we always forget how much we want one until we bake anything which is only on birthdays and holidays."

"Okay well- I'm going to make sure that you get your stand mixer," He chuckles, "mostly because I hate all of the mixing." You laugh loudly. "But also because I love you." You roll your eyes playfully as he sets down the ball of dough. He moves to roll it out to cut out the shapes as you set the second batch of cookies in the oven. "Do you want more facts about Christmas cookies?"

"How dare you even ask- of course, I want more Christmas cookie facts," You say as you turn to Spencer. He laughs lightly. Always excited to share is knowledge. Especially when someone wants to know. Even more so when someone as beautiful as you asked.

"Gingerbread originated in the Crusades and was originally made using breadcrumbs, boiled with honey and seasoned heavily with spices," He starts, "It was pressed onto cookie boards which then was nothing more than carved slabs of wood with religious designs and dried. People were said to only be allowed to make the cookies themselves around the holidays because the rest of the year laws restricted its baking to guildsman."

"Guildsman?" You ask, "hmm well I guess that's one way to protect jobs. And cookie boards- kinda like cookie cutters."

"Yeah, that's how it evolved," Spencer tells you, "cool right?"

"Very," You tell him, "God I love that big brain of yours. Seriously Spencer." He gives you a big smile. You move cupping his cheeks.

"You love my brain?"

"I love all of you," You tell him, "but I adore your brain. I love listening to you talk."

"I knew you were perfect," He teases. You laugh lightly as you move into his arms. He wraps them around you tightly. "I love you so much."

"I love you too Spence," You tell him. He moves to tuck a strand of your hair behind your ear.

"Du bist die Liebe meines Lebens," He says softly.

"Mm, what does that mean?"

"You are the love of my life," He says quietly. You smile moving to pull him into a soft kiss. His hands fall to your waist. Placing them carefully. Making sure not to move them without permission. Your hands tangle in his hair. Pulling him into an eager kiss. He moves backing you up against the counter. Careful not to be too forceful that he hurts you. Still, he takes the chance to deepen the kiss.

You move back at once as the timer blares. You move to grab the cookies from the oven at once then shoves the other tray inside. Spencer helps set them on the cooling racks. Y/n chuckles as he yanks his hand back.

"Spencer, you okay?"

"Yeah the cookies are hot- you think I would have known that." You both chuckle lightly. He smiles. "I've got another cookie fact-"

"Oh well, please share my love," You tell him.

"Another place in history where we see the cookie shapes being significant for the holidays is in colonial areas where the Church of England was influential. They call it mumming Christmas stories were acted out and food was used to help depict the stories," He explains, "am i boring you?"

"Not at all," You reply as you watch him carefully.

"Alright well in the 1800s, Pennsylvania Dutch children created large cutout cookies as window decorations now they were made with tin cutters and shaped like people, elaborately decorated with icing the closest to gingerbread men since they weren't religious," Spencer explains.

"We should make gingerbread men then," You tell him, "go traditional... Spencer, we could make gingerbread cookies of ourselves!" He chuckles lightly.

"That's dorky-"

"You're calling me dorky?" You ask him, "really? Are you kidding me?"

"It's dorky!"

"You break my heart," You tell him, "we could make gingerbread people for all of our friends. Tell me that wouldn't be adorable."

"Yes it would be cute but I don't even think we have the supplies for gingerbread cookies-"

You look to him pouting lightly. He sighs.

"I'll run to the store," Spencer gives in.

"Thank you, baby," You say brightly.

He's quick about getting to the store. Working through the aisles quickly to gather everything his girlfriend needs.

"No Penelope he's at the store," You tell the blonde on the other line, "gathering cookie ingredients."

"Oh baker Reid," She starts, "awe I love when you two bake. You always get such cute pictures."

"And it's so nice to spend time with him," You tell her, "normally we get days like this every couple of months at best... I'm waiting for JJ or Hotch to call me and ruin my fun."

"Don't speak it into existence," Penelope says, "Kevin is on his way over with a bottle of wine and a good time- and if I lose that I might go berserk." You laugh lightly as you place the sugar cookies on the cooling rack. Before turning back to the homemade icing. "I need a night in my prince's arms."

"Tell me about it," You chuckle, "Between the cases and Spencer almost dying every other week I really need this time with him. Even if it's just us making cookies." Penelope chuckles.

"Don't you dare tell me there won't be more," She teases.

"I don't know for sure," You say honestly, "depends on if Hotch lets me have my boyfriend for the night." She laughs lightly. You could hear the door open. Spencer calls to let you know he's home. "That's him Pen."

"Oh please give me all the juicy details on our Doctor Reid later!"

"Bye Pen-"

"Bye Y/n!"

You hang the phone up and move to toss it onto the counter. Spencer hands over the bags.

"Who was that?"

"Garcia," You tell him, "she was asking me to share some juicy details about our sex lives."

"People actually talk about that stuff?" He asks clearly a little embarrassed.

"I mean yeah," You chuckle, "I don't tell her everything if you are worried about that."

"No, I'm not worried about it-" He's starting to get flustered. You take his hand gently. He sighs. "Did you tell all the girls at work?"

"Just Penelope," You tell him, "and it's only small things. Like romantic gestures. I try not to say anything that I know you wouldn't want me to." He nods lightly. "Now wanna start making the cookies while I get your pumpkin cookies iced."

"Of course Malady," He says brightly. You move carefully icing the cookies as he starts on the cookies.

"You never told me what you want for Christmas," You point out.

"I want a whole day just the two of us," Spencer tells you.

"That is out of my hands," You tell him, "but I'll try my best to make it work." He nods lightly. "Anything else you want?"

"Uh- books," He tells you.

"Books? Any book?"

"No - I'll make a list," He says at once. You nod turning back to the cookies. "Anything you want that isn't the mixer?"

"Your love."

"You already have that," He chuckles. You turn to finish icing the cookies before starting on the sugar cookies. Spencer watches you carefully as he works on the gingerbread cookies. "Come on you have to want something else."

"I want you to take me to go look at Christmas lights," You tell him. He smiles lightly.

"I can do that," Spencer tells you.

"I knew I picked you for a reason," You say brightly. He moves setting the dough on the counter so you both can cut out the shapes. After you get them cut out he tosses them in the oven. You look over to him eagerly.

"What?"

"You're so handsome," You say brightly, "and I love you." He chuckles lightly. You take his hand carefully. "Christmas movies?"

"Depends... Which one?"

"Hmm, Polar Express?"

"Perfect," He says softly. You move to pull him along to the living room. He gets the movie set up as you climb onto the couch excitedly. Wrapping your arms around him the second he lays back down. You move resting your head on his chest. Feeling the rise and fall of his chest. As you keep your eyes on the movie Spencer gently plays with your hair. "You're beautiful."

"Thank you, love," You say softly. He moves pulling you closer to him.

"You know if we get to be like this then maybe I'll start to like Christmas," Spencer starts.

"Oh we can be like this all the time for Christmas," You tell him, "even better- we can have matching pajamas."

"Matching pajamas?"

You stand moving to the bedroom. Digging through the bags until you pull out matching pajama sets.

"I was going to wait until Christmas eve to get these out but I think we can manage getting them now," You say as you toss a set over to him, "you like them?"

"I love them," He says.

"Perfect because I told JJ we'd wear them to her Christmas party," You chuckle.

"Pajamas?"

"Her and Will are wearing their own matching PJs," You tell him, "it's just a cute thing... We don't have to."

"No no I like it," Spencer tells you. You aren't convinced he's telling the truth but you don't mind. This stuff is more your speed anyway.

"Well then let's get them on," You tell him. He nods. moving to pull off his sweater and replace it with the red Christmas top. You smirk slightly as you look over him. "You're so pretty."

"You always call me pretty," Spencer says as you toss away your top.

"Because you're pretty," You shrug, "sorry love." You move pulling on the pants. Spencer adjusts his slightly. You were a little worried it wouldn't fit right considering how tall and lanky the bastard is. "Please tell me that fits. They didn't have anything that was longer the wasn't also bigger and I didn't want it falling off of you."

"It fits fine," Spencer assures you. You move to take his hand carefully. He smiles widely.

"Come on we have to get the cookies," You tell him. He nods as you lead him out to the kitchen. Spending the rest of your night baking and watching holiday movies.

Spencer was sure that as long as you were by his side he'd give the holiday a chance.

#spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #spencer reid criminal minds #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #criminal mind oneshots #christmas with spencer reid

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lady-divine-writes · 3 years

Text

Good Omens - “Angel’s Christmas Wish” (Rated NC17)

Summary: Crowley doesn't know what to get his angel for Christmas. It becomes such an issue, it creates a time-loop, forcing Crowley to re-live the day until he gets it right. (2263 words)

Notes: Written for @theantichristmaszine 2020 :)

Read on AO3.

“Oh, Aziraphale … darling …” A soft pause. A hard swallow. “Look at me, angel … please …”

Aziraphale’s eyelids flutter open - nerves and self-doubt fighting to keep them shut. And they almost win. It’s hard to be seen this way - vulnerable, open, full of this beautiful demon who’s doing his level best to please him, to fulfill his every desire.

And he’s succeeding.

Which is why opening his eyes is so hard.

Opening his eyes would mean letting Crowley see into him, expose the fact that he wants this, everything about it - the sacred connection between hearts and souls.

The carnal connection between skin and skin.

But Crowley’s pleas to him are so sweet, Aziraphale can’t deny him.

He stares up at his demon, eyes glistening with tears.

“There you are,” Crowley whispers. “I thought you might have disappeared on me.”

“Never, my dear. I’m right here. I’m with you. And I always will be.”

Crowley sweeps a thumb underneath Aziraphale’s eye and collects a single tear. He brings it to his lips and kisses it away. Then he leans in and kisses his angel again.

Aziraphale didn’t know he’d started crying but he can’t help himself. It’s not a habit of his. He’s not a ninny. But this moment, this one right here, with Crowley hovering over him, arms wrapped around him, moving with him in a slow rhythm, is the most magical moment of his entire existence.

From where this night began to where it ended up, this is nothing short of a miracle in Aziraphale’s eyes …

***

“Dearest? Why do you look so glum?” Aziraphale asks, handing Crowley a glass of champagne. “It’s Christmas!”

“Of course, it’s Christmas!” Crowley grumps, grabbing the glass from Aziraphale’s hands and knocking the alcohol back in one go. “It’s always Christmas!”

Aziraphale stutters a laugh, staring at Crowley as if his demon has suddenly gone bonkers. “What on earth do you mean it’s always Christmas? It isn’t always Christmas. Christmas only comes around once a year!”

“Not for us, it doesn’t,” Crowley mutters. “For some strange reason, we’ve been through this over a hundred times!”

“We as in the world? Or we as in you and me?”

“The world! And no matter what, I still get it wrong!”

Aziraphale watches Crowley rearrange his legs underneath him on the sofa. He gets up and paces, then sits down again. Aziraphale waits a moment longer before he comes up with a response. It’s not Crowley’s words that give him pause. It’s the tone of his voice, his body language. What he’s saying may sound ridiculous, but from the way he’s behaving - taking an anxious lap around the room with his shoulders tensed and his hands shoved into his pockets, as if waiting for a bomb to drop - Aziraphale can’t do much of anything other than believe him.

“You’re going to have to forgive me but I don’t understand,” he says, fishing for clarity. “This is the first Christmas we’ve spent together. Well, spent together as a couple. There was that one year …”

“No! No, it isn’t!” Crowley interrupts before Aziraphale can derail the conversation. “I don’t know what’s going on, Aziraphale, or how! I honestly don’t! But this is the 132nd Christmas we’ve spent together! We exchange gifts, have dinner, go to bed, wake up, and it’s Christmas all over again! And I can’t figure out why!” Crowley drops onto the sofa and buries his head in his hands.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, topping off his demon’s glass, then taking the seat beside him. “Well, that … that is a puzzler … isn’t it?”

***

“I love you, Aziraphale,” Crowley utters. “I love you, I love you, I love you, I …” He doesn’t necessarily have Aziraphale’s attention, but it’s like the words aren’t for him to hear. Just for Crowley to say. But in the quiet of the room, Aziraphale does hear them.

“You know, my dear,” he says into the crook of Crowley’s neck, “if you had told me a year ago that we would finally get to this point, I would have thought you’d gone mad.”

“I was going mad,” Crowley admits. “Every time I saw you, I dropped hints like they were breadcrumbs and you … well, you never seemed to notice.”

‘Hints?’ Aziraphale’s brow wrinkles, thinking back on their every interaction, every conversation, trying to discern when Crowley had dropped any hints of any kind. Aside from saving those books from that church bombing (which may have made up for any hints Aziraphale missed) he is pressed to remember a single one.

“They must have been subtle,” Aziraphale deduces out loud.

“I was trying not to be too forward. Demon, you know.”

“Yes, my dear,” Aziraphale says with a fond sigh for his ridiculous lover.

Crowley chuckles. Then his brow wrinkles as well. “Wait … did you say finally?”

“Yes. I did.”

“But that would mean you thought we would get to this point eventually.”

“You did, too. What with all your hint dropping.”

“No, I didn’t know,” Crowley argues. “I hoped.”

Aziraphale pushes lightly on Crowley’s shoulders, tilting his head to look into his eyes. “I knew,” he says softly. “Deep down inside, I have always known.”

***

“Do you have any leads?” Aziraphale asks, getting caught up in the excitement of this mystery, even as his poor demon wallows in the angst.

“I think …” Crowley begins, tapping his heel on the floor as he thinks “… it’s the present.”

“What about the past? And the future? If we’re repeating time …”

“No no no!” Crowley interrupts. “Not the present present! The present present!”

Aziraphale frowns. “What?”

“Present as in gift. My gift to you.”

“But I love my present!” Aziraphale gushes, putting a hand to his waistcoat pocket and retrieving the gift Crowley gave him. “This is a perfectly beautiful pocket watch! No little screens or beeping buttons. Just a simple, elegant piece of machinery.”

“That’s just it! It is a perfectly beautiful pocket watch! And it’s just the kind of thing you’d appreciate. But it’s obviously not the thing! Not the right thing! Yesterday, I gave you a perfectly beautiful book of poetry …”

“Oh! Who wrote it?” Aziraphale asks, eyes gleaming.

“Wat? Uh … Byron, I think.”

“Oh,” Aziraphale replies, slightly disappointed.

“Wat? Wat’s wrong with Byron?” Crowley asks, curious if this could be the reason why they’re here today. If he can find out what’s wrong with his presents, then he can get Aziraphale the right one and the two of them the Heaven out of this mess!

“Nothing’s wrong with Byron. It’s simply that … well, I like your writing better.”

Crowley scoffs in frustration.

Nope. That didn’t help him at all.

“And the day before that, it was a perfectly beautiful bottle of 1947 Cheval-Blanc. Every gift I’ve given you has been perfectly beautiful in your own words. But it’s not, because I wake up every morning and here we are again, celebrating Christmas! And I want to move on from here, Aziraphale! I want to go forward with you! How do I do that? How do I break the loop?”

***

Crowley’s body is exceptional.

Simply exquisite.

If Azirapahle didn’t know for a fact that Crowley had refined his corporation himself, he would say that Crowley’s body is the Almighty’s best work.

Aziraphale knows things like physical beauty aren’t supposed to be important, but the fact of the matter is Crowley has created a facade that is not only pleasing to the eye, but which fits his personality to a T.

If one wanted an accurate first impression of the demon Crowley, they would not want to look to his true form, but into the eyes and winning smile of this glorious creature.

Unlike Hastur. That rotting, maggot-ridden, gray-skinned ghoul with the soulless black eyes?

That’s who Duke Hastur truly is.

Aziraphale can’t stop looking at his demon’s body.

Not to mention the things he can do with it.

Aziraphale supposes that’s part and parcel with being a demon - knowing how to inspire lust.

But the things Crowley is doing to him, the way he makes him feel …

… Aziraphale, with his vast knowledge of human linguistics, can’t seem to find the words for.

There are no words powerful enough to describe the sensation of Crowley’s lips on his skin, or his hands feeling out erogenous zones Aziraphale never realized existed. These corporations they use to fit in on earth, they are so frail. So delicate from the standpoint of a supernatural entity. When he first got his, he had to take great care always not to harm the thing.

But that became easier the more he grew to love it.

Apparently God made up for the frailty of the human body by giving them this incredible gift of physical intimacy. And for humans especially, an intimacy with no purpose other than for two beings to simply enjoy one another.

And Aziraphale is grateful that he gets this opportunity to sample it.

***

“If you ask me, I would say that we’re stuck in a loop you’ve created, since you’re the only one who seems to know it exists,” Aziraphale says, sounding utterly nonplussed by the whole sticky affair. “Therefore, only you can break it.”

“But how!? What am I missing? What is the right thing? What do I need to give you that I haven’t given you already?”

Aziraphale looks down into his flute of bubbling alcohol and smiles a wistful little smile. “Oh, my dear, that’s just the thing.”

“Wat do you mean?” Crowley asks, poised on the brink of desperation. He may have created this loop, but he very much believes that angel holds the key to shattering it. “Wat’s the thing?”

“You don’t need to give me anything. Nothing you would purchase in a store, at least.”

“Wat … wat else is there?” Crowley asks, perplexed.

Aziraphale turns his body towards him, leans in a hair closer, and looks deep into his eyes. “Think,” he says. “A little harder.”

***

“I’m yours, you know …” Crowley whispers through a veil that sounds like tears..

“What’s that, dear?”

“I’m yours.” He sniffs. “Have been. For as long as we’ve known one another. No …” Crowley wipes his left cheekbone with the back of his hand. “No, since the moment I saw you standing on that blasted wall. It’s the most ludicrous, most inconceivable thing in the world for me to say. There were so many times I thought I was lying to myself. But it’s true. Ever since then, Aziraphale …” Crowley stops, looks at Aziraphale to make sure he hasn’t lost him in his confession.

The smile on his angel’s face tells him that’s not likely.

“I’m yours,” he repeats.

“How come you never told me?”

Crowley shrugs. “Would it have made any difference? You’re an angel. I’m a demon. We aren’t exactly a perfect match.”

“Oh, but that’s where you’re wrong, my love,” Aziraphale says, putting a hand to his demon’s cheek. “We are a perfect match. And I know this because I’ve been yours as well … you foul fiend.”

***

Crowley shakes his head. “I don’t understand.”

“Well, my dear …” Aziraphale clears his throat but tightens his jaw, what he’s about to say making him a bit uncomfortable “… at the end of any of these loops, have you made love to me?” He clears his throat again, his cheeks warming, glowing pink.

“Oh …” Crowley hadn’t expected that. He sits up, which moves him away from his angel - which wasn’t his intention “… uh … n---no. No, I haven’t.”

“Then you’re right.” Aziraphale dares to shimmy closer with his cheeks burning now. “You haven’t found the thing yet. Because, to be quite honest … that’s what I wanted. Th---that’s what I was hoping for.”

“You want me … to make love to you? For Christmas?”

“O---only if you want to. I would never assume … or imply … which is to say, I wouldn’t want to force you to …”

***

“Oh Gahhh …!”

“Don’t say it!” Aziraphale hushes, giggling. “The consequences of that could be disastrous!”

“I know, I know. It’s just … I think I understand.”

“Understand what?”

“Why humans call out her name … during sex, I mean. Making love … it’s kind of like praying, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale swallows hard, fear pooling in his stomach with the thought that now that Crowley has come to that realization, he’ll never want to do this again. “Do you hate it?”

“No. Not at all. Not so long as I’m with you.”

***

Aziraphale doesn’t finish his sentence.

Not because he falters.

But because Crowley’s mouth on his takes his breath away.

“I am … so stupid,” Crowley says against his angel’s lips, unwilling to leave his mouth. “I never realized. I should have told you,” he confesses between kisses - to Aziraphale’s mouth, to his cheeks, to the soft curls surrounding his face, “so many times. I should have told you how I felt. How much I loved you. And I tried. I tried so hard to think of something I could give you that would let you know …”

Aziraphale puts a hand to his demon's cheek, stares into amber eyes he has seen - and admired - hundreds of times. But now, he feels like he’s looking into them for the very first time. “You don’t need to give me anything. All I want for Christmas ... is you.”

#good omens #good omens fanfiction #ineffable husbands #ineffable lovers #aziraphale x crowley #crowley x aziraphale #aziraphale #Crowley

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kindredhearts13 · 3 years

Note

I honestly don’t think they were going to have Matt leave with Gabby. If she actually came back, she definitely would’ve been a roadblock for Brettsey but Matt wouldn’t leave with her. I don’t think anyone on the show knew of Jesse’s plans to leave the show until S9 concluded filming (or was close to concluding), so that storyline wouldn’t work.

I don’t think that the cast at large knew until closer to the end of the season, but the writers gave large hints that they were wrapping up his storyline about early midway through the season. Much like they did with Otis. For example, Otis told Stella that she could drive the truck: “when I’m dead.” This conversation took place a few episodes before he died.

A good team of writers cover their tracks and prepare you for the departure of a major character by leaving breadcrumbs. Specifically, the decision to have Matt’s sister return seems to be a pretty large clue. Her handing him the watch and the conversation about holding onto an old love was clear foreshadowing of something. But my focus is on what can be argued as the actual meaning of this visit, because it wasn’t meaningless. There is no functional point to have his sister come onto the show in the capacity that she did just to have him end up with Brett (and by way, continue the storyline of Matt), and if this was the point- then it wasn’t the strongest decision as a writing team. Especially because her scenes served as a closure to her character. She mentions their mom and gives a long awaited update and then does something that is a major arch for her character, she declines $40,000. A large part of her storyline involved not only struggling for money and independence after her divorce (though, Matt ensured she was getting proper child support); it also involved trying to distance herself from the life she led growing up. Wardrobe hinted at it by her clothes, down to the very material used in picking out her pieces- hinting at someone who wanted to look expensive- while Matt was always dressed in a way that hints at a more humble person. The set/homes chosen for her storyline were also aides in expressing this and her major financial shift felt so sharp once we witnessed the change in her home/wardrobe/general appearance until back on her feet. Her turning down that money showed that she’d gotten past the need to feel like she was owed so much from her family for her childhood. She wanted answers, but by the end- having her brother was enough. She was stable in who she was.

Sophia Bush left PD by breaching her contract. I doubt Jesse did that. Depending on the contract he signed, he would’ve had to let production know. Bringing Gabby back after all of this for just a minor roadblock but for him to ultimately choose Brett and then for him to leave the next season doesn’t make much sense. I get people love Brett and Casey and I am not trying to detract from that, but frankly, it feels like the writers genuinely didn’t know what was going to happen once they had issues with being on set and then made their decision based off of what was available to them. It happens in the industry more often than you’d think. And I may very well be wrong. I’m just making inferences off of the information that I have and the clues from the show. I could be completely off, but this seems like a strong possibility to me.

#chicago fire #one chicago #brettsey #dawsey #brett x casey #sylvie brett #matt casey #gabby dawson #stellaride #firehouse 51

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anonniemousefics · 4 years

Text

Stars In The Darkness

Originally posted on AO3

Fandom: Six of Crows/Crooked Kingdom | Kaz + Inej

Word count: 9,042

****Rating: NSFW (aged up characters)****

This is the conclusion to The Trouble With Wanting series, companion piece to Wildfire

TW for PTSD, heavy angst. An obligatory quarantine fic cuz I was in quarantine when I wrote this, lol.

KAZ

No mourners. No funerals.

Kaz Brekker leaned over the new porcelain sink in the bathroom attached to The Slat. He clutched both sides, sweat pouring from his forehead.

No mourners. No funerals.

He’d been saying the phrase so long, it had started to lose its meaning. For that he hated himself. Did anyone at all even understand what it meant? Had he ever even told anyone?

No mourners. No funerals.

Jordie had died alone, forgotten. No funeral. Not a single mourner. And he’d loved Jordie. His big brother had been his hero, his whole world, and no one else knew what the world had lost.

This alone should have crushed him. It would have. Instead, he made it his calling card. Jordie Rietveld, the original Crow. He didn’t need mourners. He didn’t need a funeral. No one did.

Because if the world hadn’t mourned Jordie, why should it mourn anyone else?

His stomach was threatening to heave again, and he white-knuckled the sink, breathing hard. Fuck. It had been years since it had been this bad. He stared at his bloodshot eyes in the mirror, demanding he get a fucking grip on himself.

No mourners. No funerals.

He thought he had been free. He’d spent well over a year on the puzzle of Inej Ghafa, and he thought that could have been enough. She loved him, she’d said so. And, gods, he loved her.

He’d been a fool to think that would be enough.

Now reality was sinking in with every toll of the plague alarm. He hadn’t banished any ghosts. He hadn’t buried any bodies. All he’d managed was to condition himself like a dumb lap dog, performing a trick so he could get a treat. And all the while, the dead had waited. And all the while, Jordie had watched.

And now Ketterdam would have its pound of flesh. Because he could blame Pekka Rollins until he was old and grey, but what had killed Jordie Rietveld had always been the plague. And there was no fighting the plague.

No mourners... No funerals…

It sounded insane now, because what the fuck was he supposed to do when the plague took Inej, too? Was he really going to stand there, stoic and unmoving, while the bodymen took her away? Was he really going to go on living, knowing her final resting place was a mass grave?

He’d been a fool. Such a damn, stupid fool.

And now he really couldn’t breathe. He was a fish out of water, his vision blurring as his throat closed around every inhale.

“Kaz!” Someone was pounding on the bathroom door. “Kaz, let me in.”

How many days until the bodies started piling up? How long did he have? Was there any way to get them out of the city? They all needed to get out. Inej, Jesper, Wylan. Anika, Pim, Rotty, Roeder. It was the only way. The only way to keep from losing everything again.

“Kaz, I will break down this door. Answer me, damnit.”

The king of Ravka owed him favors. Maybe it wasn’t too late to call them in—

INEJ

Fuck it.

Inej threw all of her weight into a massive kick, just above the bathroom doorknob. The door rattled and bowed, and the flimsy lock ripped through the doorframe as the door swung open.

Inside, Kaz staggered back from the sink, pale and perspiring. She’d never seen him looking so sloppy in her life. He hadn’t changed out of his dark sleeping trousers from the morning, but had managed to throw on a white undershirt that was now sweat-stained. And if he was startled, it lasted only a moment before he glared at the broken doorframe.

“Did you forget how to pick a lock?” he growled.

“Did you forget how to unlock a door?” Inej retorted. “I’ve been here almost an hour – how long have you been in here?”

But when she took a step towards him, he flinched back, holding a hand out to keep her away, and it was like they were nothing but street trash teenagers all over again. A knife twisted in Inej’s chest as she saw how his breathing labored, his gaze wouldn’t meet hers. For nearly a year, he’d made slow, steady progress with touch – so much so, she’d almost forgotten what his suffering looked like.

Now, it was worse than ever. He was pressing himself back against the far wall, clamping a hand over his mouth like he was trying not to be sick.

“Breathe,” she told him, calmly. “Just breathe, Kaz. We’re here, together, safe in The Slat. Breathe.”

Kaz clenched his fists at his sides and drew in a stubborn, fighting breath through his nose. Outside, the plague alarms tolled.

“Those goddamn bells,” he rasped.

“I know, they’re awful,” Inej agreed. “When you’re feeling better, I’ll climb up and dismantle them.”

He opened his eyes long enough to shoot her an irritated glance.

“They serve a crucial function, Wraith.”

“Ok. I’ll leave them alone.”

“They’re preventing the spread of disease.”

“I said I’d leave them alone! Take a breath.”

And Kaz slid his back against the wall until he came to sit on the floor, defeated and spent.

KAZ

He was equal parts relieved she was back and terrified she was here with him. When he’d told her to get as far away as she could, he’d meant it. If she could get away from the necrotic infection that was his Ketterdam, she could live, and he could live knowing at least she was safe.

And now he was angry because why couldn’t she just listen to him? What did she know about firepox? What did she know about surviving a mindless, faceless killer?

He tried to heave a deep breath, but his throat felt like it was closing in. Bloated, dead flesh crowded against his ribs, his arms, his face, dragging him deeper toward the cold, unyielding darkness. He couldn’t stop shaking.

“I went to the docks,” came Inej’s calm voice. He was aware that she’d sat on the tile floor across from him, and he wasn’t sure yet if it made it better or worse. Just that morning, he’d had her bare and in his bed, writhing in his sheets and calling his name, and now he could hardly look at her without imagining her dead.

“You went to the docks,” he echoed, trying to find the present.

“Made sure the crew could find safe lodging for the foreseeable future,” Inej went on. “They’re saying it started in West Stave. Twelve new cases since yesterday. But I think our chances are pretty slim at this point. You’ve been chained to your desk for weeks, and I only docked yesterday. And we spent the evening arguing and pouting instead of going out.”

“I don’t pout.”

“It was me. I was pouting.”

“This is helping. Keep talking.”

“Bad news is they’ve shut down all businesses, so The Crow Club’s empty.”

“Fuuuck.”

“Good news is you and I now have unlimited liquor for the duration of this quarantine. And you look like you could use some. I’ve wanted to learn to mix drinks anyway. I could make you that fruity pink thing Sturmhond got sloshed on.”

“Dirtyhands doesn’t get sloshed on fruity pink things.”

“No one needs to know.”

His throat had opened up, and Kaz drew in a long, deep, shaking breath. The darkness had stopped its impending approach, and he was suddenly exhausted. His eyelids felt swollen when he opened his eyes again and looked over at Inej. His brave, brilliant girl. She was cross-legged in front of him, still dressed for the sea: tight olive-green trousers and a loose white blouse, her hands in her fingerless gloves and her long, oil-black braid resting over one shoulder. She was beautiful and commanding and alive, and it made his heart ache.

“Can you tell me what’s going on?” she asked. Her voice was softer now; she’d exchanged her light-hearted ribbing now that Kaz was no longer a gasping mess.

Kaz rubbed at his eyes. His mind was a fog, every thought spread out in disarray. He could only say the first thing that bubbled to the surface.

“You deserve so much more than this.”

“An admirable deflection, but that’s not it.” Inej slit her eyes at him, reading him like a book. Annoying. This wasn’t something he’d considered when she’d told him to take off the armor. He’d wanted to get laid; he didn’t want a damn mind reader.

That wasn’t exactly true, though, was it? But maybe it was a necessary lie. He was too attached, and this loss would not be one he could survive.

“You’re being a fool, Wraith,” Dirtyhands rasped.

INEJ

“Am I?” Well, well, well. So, this is how it was going to be, was it? Inej knew Dirtyhands when she saw him. She could tussle with this bastard all day. Sometimes she even liked it. “How so?”

Kaz’s pale face was set in a glare; he wanted a fight. And if he hadn’t tried this before, it may have even rattled Inej.

If anyone had seen their first kisses, they might have mistaken Kaz and Inej for an old married couple. The only kind of kiss either of them could handle was merely a brief peck on the cheek or the lips, as chaste as a greeting between relatives. Their bodies wouldn’t even brush. It had to look ridiculous, but Inej told herself it was good practice. Someday, they could have something like a real kiss, she told herself. For now, this was enough.

The last night before Inej was to set sail again, they sat opposite each other on the windowsill of The Slat, propped up against the frame, while Inej coaxed crows with breadcrumbs and made sure Kaz didn’t fall out the window. He’d had a couple drinks too many with Jesper and was more than a little amusing.

“I have a secret,” he slurred. He leaned his head back against the open window frame, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Just one?” Inej quirked an eyebrow. Kaz gave a drunken chortle.

“Good point.” He pointed at her. “Clever, clever Wraith.”

“What’s your secret?” Inej asked, with an amused smirk. Kaz gave a sloppy nod.

“It is terrifying to me that you live on a boat,” he confessed with a slow blink. Inej frowned.

“You bought me the boat,” she said. Kaz kept nodding, wide-eyed.

“I did,” he said. “A whole damn boat. And it looks so good on you, Inej. So good.”

“Thank you.” Inej tried to hide a laugh.

“But I spend every day trying to convince myself that you’re not drowning. It’s – it’s not fun, Inej. It’s the opposite of fun – what’s the word?”

“There are many to choose from,” Inej shrugged. “Is this fear because of…?” She wasn’t sure how to bring up the subject. The night he’d told her about nearly drowning, of using his brother’s body to swim to shore from Reaper’s Barge, had been the first time she’d ever seen tears in his eyes. She wasn’t proud of it, but it had startled her. It had thrown the balance of her world off so harshly that she’d tracked down Pekka Rollins that very night and carved his skin until she felt the scales tip again.

“Probably,” was all Kaz would admit, and he rested one cheek against a gloved fist.

Inej considered this while she threw crumbs to the crows. She cared for him, so very much. And any time she thought of him as that abandoned little boy in the harbor, her insides crumbled.

“You should come out on the water with me,” she told him. “Let me show you it’s not what you remember.”

“Pass,” Kaz announced, a little too loudly.

“We could start small,” Inej persisted. “Take a little skiff on the canals.”

“The canals are disgusting.” Kaz practically looked petulant, like she was forcing vegetables on him. “Do you have any idea how many drunks piss in those canals? I’ve taken a piss in those canals.”

Inej grimaced with a groan, but she wasn’t giving up on this idea now that it had seized her.

“I’m a sea captain, Kaz,” she said. “I’ve got you. You will not fall into the canals unless I decide you’re going to fall into the canals. And I haven’t decided yet; it depends on how nice you are to me.” She gave a prim little tilt of her chin as she shot him a coy glance. He was smiling like a silly fool.

“I want to kiss you,” he declared, and even though she knew he was drunk, her face still burned.

“Maybe you should,” she dared.

And for a moment, he sat still and stiff against the window frame, and she thought he would change the subject. But then, he swung his legs back inside the room and limped to where she sat. He towered over her, leaning against the window frame as he gazed over her face, and Inej watched the darkness in his eyes, holding her breath, praying that this time it could go differently.

Then, slowly, he lifted one gloved hand to her chin, tilting her face up just slightly. She shivered at the brush of leather, missing the warmth of his hands but conceding this for now. And it hardly mattered considering the way he looked at her, his eyes like languid pools of chocolate, melting her.

He cupped her cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing her bottom lip, and she drew in a breath. His Adam’s apple bobbed with a nervous swallow, and she hardly dared to move as he slowly bent down, the tip of his nose brushing hers for a brief moment, before he brought his lips to touch hers.

And Inej wanted to pull him closer, to taste his mouth, to know that he burned for her just as she burned for him, but instead she waited, terrified this time that she could spook him with any sudden movements. And for a moment, it seemed to work.

For a moment, his eyes slid closed. For a moment, he held her there, brushing his lips over hers, dipping in to meet her mouth completely. Thank the Saints, she thought, her eyes closing, giving in. Thank you, thank you.

But only for a moment.

Because a moment later, his whole body went rigid, and he startled the crows away when he wrenched away with a gasp. Inej had to grab the window frame to keep from falling and really destroying the evening. And Kaz staggered backwards, crushing his eyes closed tight with a hand clamped over his mouth. Inej leapt after him before he could tip backwards, as unsteady as he was with drink.

“Don’t,” he growled, pushing her back instead as he swayed and regained his balance. “Stay back.”

And as harsh as it sounded, it was still improvement. It was more than they’d ever had before, and he wasn’t vomiting or fainting, even with a fair amount of kvas in him. The kiss, as small as it was, left Inej dazzled. She stepped back from him, holding her hands out so he knew he had his space.

But Kaz wasn’t as satisfied. Far from it. In fact, he gave a frustrated roar and then turned and put his fist through the wall.

Inej barely had time to give a startled yelp. If he hadn’t have been wearing his gloves, Kaz surely would have torn his hand to shreds. As it was, he was holding it gingerly in the other hand, and Inej couldn’t be sure if he’d broken fingers or not.

“Why do you come back here?” Kaz shouted when he whirled back at her, his teeth bared in fury. Inej clenched her fists.

“We have a deal,” she said, coldly. It was the language Dirtyhands understood.

Kaz scoffed as he tried to move his injured fingers.

“To what end?” he spat, and ground his teeth in pain. “How long will it take you to realize there is nothing here for you to save?”

“If you weren’t interested in being saved, you wouldn’t have struck the deal in the first place,” Inej shot back. If he was trying to push her away to save face, she wasn’t going quietly.

“I have nothing to offer you,” Kaz gritted. “I can’t even--” but he couldn’t look at her.

Inej held out her hands toward him, offering to take his injured fingers in hers. He hesitated, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

“All I have ever asked of you was your honesty and your time,” Inej said. “All I’ve ever wanted was for you to try.”

And slowly Kaz turned, shuffling his weight off his bad leg, and put his wounded hand in hers, the leather dusted in plaster. She slowly started to pull back the leather to inspect the damage, and Kaz sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth.

“I’m very drunk,” he complained.

“I know you are.”

“This hurts.”

“Don’t punch walls next time.”

His knuckles were already swollen and bruised, but nothing looked broken. Nothing ice and a good bandage couldn’t fix.

“Mati en sheva yelu,” he slurred in Suli. This action will have no echo. And the sincere, painful look he was giving her when she looked up at him in surprise made her want to kiss him all over again. “You know—you say it,” he tried to wave off her adoration.

“I do. I didn’t know you were listening.”

“I’m always listening, Inej. Inej.” He sighed hard, looking longing at her lips. “It’s going to hurt so much worse than this when this is over.”

Inej looked up at him in surprise.

“Why would you say that?” she frowned.

“You wanted honesty.” Kaz swayed a little on his feet. “I’m giving you honesty. Nothing survives the Barrel. Not even me. Not even you. And now look at me--” He squared his wide shoulders, taking a shuffling step closer, close enough that she could feel his body warmth, smell the tang of wine on his breath. She found herself staring up at the painful depths of his dark eyes, the ache he let her see. “No armor now,” he said, his voice low.

For a moment, Inej’s knees felt weak beneath him, but it was that smell of the red wine that brought her back.

“You’re drunk,” she reminded him. He gave a petulant frown, and maybe that was the reason she found the courage to say the rest. “And if you’re trying to blame me for some unforeseen pain that may or may not even happen, in some misguided attempt to protect yourself from actually feeling something, well, then you’re far crueler than I took you for. And I will not tolerate your cruelty, Kaz Brekker.”

And so she knew this strategy Kaz Brekker’s demons employed. And she stared him down on the bathroom floor, daring him to go on.

“How so?” she said again.

KAZ

Jordie would have been twenty-five. Jordie never got to dream, to build a name for himself, to live comfortably. Jordie never got to have a girl, to know what it was like to be adored, to wake up next to the same face you dreamt of.

Because of the firepox.

Why did I live? Why did I live?

Kaz was pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Jordie was there, bloated, covered in sores, his vacant eyes glassy.

“How so?”

“The ship was your ticket out,” he rasped, finally, looking up at her. “I gave you the ship. I gave you your family. You were supposed to get far away from here before this happened again. You were supposed to leave.”

“I don’t believe you.” Inej shook her head.

“What do you want from me?” his voice strained, savagely. “Is it not enough to know that I love you and want you to live? You have to keep coming around here, endangering yourself and my crew--”

“Your crew?” Inej raised an angry, skeptical eyebrow.

“Look at me.” Somewhere under the fog of paranoia and haunted memory, Kaz knew he was nearing hysterics. “You are my weakness, a liability--”

But at that, Inej shot to her feet, and the very real threat of actually losing her was enough to shut even Dirtyhands up. She stared down at him, a glare laced with ice and pain and empathy all at once.

“I know you are hurting,” she said, “and I know this isn’t the reason. I know how impossible it can feel to find the source when the pain is all-encompassing. But that gives you no right speak to me this way. We have fought too long and come too far for this.”

The wash of guilt that followed crushed his chest, and Kaz sunk into the heels of his palms once again. She asked only for honesty, came a reminder from somewhere in his frenetic thoughts. Find the source, find the source. She was turning to leave the bathroom, and the dread of not having her voice, pulling him out of the dark, was far worse than any other horror his imagination could conjure up.

“Inej,” he said in a harsh scratch. His throat felt thick. She turned at the broken bathroom door, leaning her head against the frame. Waiting. Expecting.

He had to try.

“I can’t,” he started, and there it was. The source. His mind been twisting it all around in the fog, fumbling with it like a lock in the dark, when it was simple, really. “I can’t do this again,” he said at last, his voice breaking.

“Do what again,” said Inej, though she seemed to understand. She was going to make him say it.

He swallowed hard, his throat constricting.

“I can’t,” he pushed again, “I can’t lose everything to this again. I can’t do it.”

“You are not going to lose everything, Kaz,” Inej said, firmly, and she began to cross the tile back to him again.

“I can’t lose you to this.” He dared to look at her as she sat next to him, their backs against the wall. “Any of you. Jesper. Wylan. I can’t. I have so much more to lose this time.”

“You are not going to lose us.” Inej remained adamant, but Kaz gave a bitter, crooked smile even as he felt hot tears like pinpricks in his eyes. Jordie had made similar promises once. Jordie would have liked Inej.

“You can’t promise that.” His rasp was becoming a whisper. “You can’t promise any of that.”

And to her credit, Inej didn’t try to fight. It was firepox. It wasn’t a rival gang. There was no strategy. There was only the gamble. Outlast. Outlive. That’s all you could do.

Inej set her hand on his knee. He knew she would have liked to have done more, but he was grateful she didn’t try. This was enough.

“Then for tonight,” she said, “we’ll be scared. And we’ll be sad. And then tomorrow, we’ll pick up the pistols and the knives again. We’ll fight again another day.”

We. He didn’t deserve to be a We, but he feared the loss far more. And with a deep breath to summon his courage, he put his hand over hers. He had to wait a moment to allow the shudder to pass through him, but then he gave her fingers a squeeze in agreement. When he looked over at her, her big, brown eyes were glassy with tears.

“Kaz,” she said, softly, “tell me about Jordie.”

Kaz rested his head against the bathroom wall. There was so much to say about Jordie. He could have told her about the games he made up or the jokes he liked to tell or the useless toys he bought Kaz, just to see his little brother grin. He could have told her about his dangerous optimism or his blind ambition or his stupid hubris. He wanted to tell her how riding on Jordie’s shoulders had made him feel like an invincible giant, and what good were gods or Saints or Grisha if they couldn’t even protect a boy as deserving of life as Jordie?

Instead, Kaz Rietveld broke down and wept.

INEJ

It was a long night, the first of many long nights. Inej wasn’t sure when Kaz finally fell asleep, but she awoke first and shuffled out of the attic in Kaz’s nightshirt, down to the empty kitchen of The Slat to percolate a kettle of strong black coffee. When she brought up cups, she found him sitting on the edge of the bed, bleary-eyed and disheveled. He couldn’t have slept more than two or three hours.

She handed him a cup of coffee without a word and noticed he avoided touching her fingers when he took the mug. She understood all too well how the tide of war against the demons of memory could shift dramatically with so little warning, and she was ready to tell him so when he let out a small, defeated sigh and leaned to rest his head against her stomach.

Had anyone ever seen the Bastard of the Barrel so broken? No one would ever know, the Wraith determined. She ran her fingers through the thick, soft hair at the top of his head, avoiding his scalp, and held him there against her. He gave no protest.

“I thought I had defeated this,” he said, after a long silence.

“The past can be tricky like that,” Inej replied. The dawn was golden over the tile rooftops of Ketterdam. “It has teeth, and sometimes it demands attention.”

“Suli proverb?”

“No.” Inej sighed. “Just the story of my life.”

Kaz was silent a moment as they both sat with their demons at the door. He lifted a hand like he wanted to hold her closer, but ended up tugging absentmindedly on the rolled-up sleeve of her nightshirt instead.

“You were ready.” The self-loathing in Kaz’s voice was palpable and twisted in Inej’s gut. “Yesterday, you wanted me to--”

“Kaz.” Inej stopped him and gave the back of his head a little tug so he’d look up at her. “Are you forgetting the terms of our deal? I want you. Mind, body, and soul. Those were your exact words. This,” she brushed back his sleep-disheveled hair with tender fingers and he closed his eyes, “this is all part of the deal. Your past, your memories, your fears – they are all a part of the man I love. I wouldn’t have you without them.”

Kaz was still beneath her fingers in his hair, but after a moment, his chest rose and fell with a sigh and he gave a little nod.

With the streets outside silent and abandoned, they spent the rest of the day in bed, sometimes sleeping, sometimes talking, always a safe distance from each other. When night fell, however, Inej woke up briefly to find Kaz’s bare hand fitted to her the slope of her waist as he slept, curled on his side. She smiled to herself in the dark.

KAZ

The plague bells continued to toll every day, a regular reminder of the reaper that spread like wildfire through the streets. The first three days were near-constant torment. Inej did her best to try to distract him with card games and books. She even got desperate and showed him knife tricks that made even him feel uneasy that she was going to hurt herself.

“Seriously, that’s enough,” he finally told her at one point. “I can’t go out and bring back a Tailor for you if you lose a finger today.”

“I am not going to lose a finger.” But she stopped anyway. He was grateful. Every moment of the day, his heart was pounding and his mind was racing while he watched for telltale signs. She’d grow tired first, then lose her appetite when the fever began to rise, and then would come the sores that would erupt all across her perfect body. It would rot her beautiful face. Sometimes, lying in bed, eyes closed, was all he could manage to do to keep himself from losing it completely.

But as the end of the first week drew near, they were both still healthy, and Kaz found he could go an hour without imagining her death. Each day grew a little more normal, and each day brought a little more freedom. He could show her card tricks and live entirely in the moment her face lit up in delighted wonder, no fear of the future. Each night, Inej would flit across the rooftops of Ketterdam to the Van Eck mansion, returning to The Slat with news that Jesper and Wylan were well and bored and sent their regards, and Kaz’s unease settled a bit more. By the second week, he could lie across from Inej at night, and his mind would fill with tender memories instead of horrors. Instead of her dying face, he thought of the sun shimmering on her golden brown skin, the harbor winds in her black hair, the rose petal-softness of her lips against his cheek.

How she convinced him to let her paddle him through the canals of Ketterdam, he’ll never know. Maybe it was partially his own fault. He was growing desperate to make progress, to hold her how he wanted to hold her, and it was becoming apparent to him that he had to confront what the waters brought up in him.

She’d stashed away her own money and bought herself a skiff, the first boat she’d purchased on her own, and her eyes dazzled when she spoke of it, and Kaz knew he wanted to see her captain it. He’d walked the decks of The Wraith with her, his heart soaring with pride as he watched her in her element. Kaz loved to see Inej happy. He loved nothing more.

But all of that couldn’t prevent him from sitting in the exact center of the skiff with his arms crossed in defense – against what? – and his body so rigid, the first harsh jostle of the skiff could snap him in two.

“You hate this,” Inej observed. She’d stopped rowing and came to sit next to him, facing the opposite direction. The canal waters were still as the skiff drifted forward. They were in a quiet part of town where the narrow streets were largely ignored. A shopkeeper swept the cobblestones in front of their shop; an old man smoked a pipe on the steps of a pub.

“I never said that,” but Kaz didn’t look at her.

“You didn’t have to.” Inej raised an eyebrow. “I’ll take us home.”

“No--”

“I’m glad you tried. That means a lot--”

“Inej.” He touched her wrist, his hands bare, and looked up at her face as she was about to move back to steer the boat. Her skin shone in the sunlight as the breeze swept strands of her hair across her face. Her eyes in the sunshine were like caramels. Kaz didn’t want to go back. That was the last thing he wanted.

“I need new memories of the water,” he rasped. “That’s all.”

“Better memories,” Inej agreed, and she turned her hand, fitting her fingers through his. He closed his eyes while he took in the warmth of her palm against his, alive and perfect.

And then it happened. His eyes still closed, he felt the soft brush of her lips against his cheek. His heart stuttered and warmed. It hadn’t felt revolting at all. It had surprised him, and he’d liked it. He’d actually liked it. He opened his eyes to her sweet smile, and he wanted more.

This was what he would always consider their first real kiss. He turned his body and wrapped one hand at her waist, holding her close. She didn’t flinch, didn’t shrink back. No, she leaned in. She wanted. He tilted his head to meet the slant of her lips and lost himself in her sweetness, with the sun bright overhead and the lazy lapping of canal water against the sides of the skiff.

INEJ

“They’re lifting some quarantine measures,” Kaz told her over coffee one morning. Inej looked up at him, eager, as he scanned the headlines of the Ketterdam Ledger. The days had become routine in the microcosm of their world, and she desperately needed to tend to The Wraith.

“The harbors?” she asked.

“They’re not opening the harbors yet,” Kaz shook his head, then shot a glance at her, catching her frustration. “Not that that should stop us,” he said, folding up the paper.

A smile began to creep along Inej’s lips.

“Are you sure?” she questioned. In the first days of the quarantine, Kaz didn’t even want to leave the room. He’d laid rest to many demons since then, but his exhaustion was still fresh in her mind.

But the smile he gave back to her was a Dirtyhands smirk, and her stomach fluttered pleasantly.

“Figure out the quarantine guard shift change at the harbor,” he told her. “We’ll go tonight.”

The Wraith threw back the last of her coffee and made a mad dash for the rooftops, like a bat out of hell.

That night, they dressed the part. It was a little silly, Inej realized, strapping on her knives over her leggings, when this wasn’t anything like a real job. But a forbidden midnight dash into the cordoned harbor was far more entertaining than the same old card games, and Inej was mad for some excitement. As she watched Kaz suit up out of the corner of her eye, she suspected he felt much the same way. They were both ready for some semblance of normality.

They tied makeshift masks over their faces before slipping into the abandoned shadows of Ketterdam’s alleys. Kaz’s limp was more pronounced after weeks of being holed up in The Slat, and while Inej didn’t point it out, she still kept to the darkness so he didn’t have to rush. After a few blocks, his muscles loosened, and their pace quickened, and when they neared the harbor, Inej stopped them, her back against the brick wall of a building, and held out a hand for Kaz’s pocket watch. The chain clinked as he handed it to her, and she checked the time.

She pulled the mask down to her neck as she handed the watch back.

“We’re early,” she whispered up at him. “Few minutes still.”

Kaz nodded beneath his mask as he pocketed the watch. Suddenly, Inej’s heart thudded as she looked him over. It had been weeks since he’d worn one of his tailored black suits, and the thrill of seeing him looking like himselfagain overtook her.

When her eyes traveled up to his face, she saw that he’d noticed her staring, and he lifted his dark eyebrows.

“See something you like?” he asked, his rasping voice muffled behind mask. Inej pressed back a smirk.

“Cheeky bastard,” she shot back.

“You’re the one who likes cheeky bastards,” said Kaz, and took two shuffling steps closer, leaning on his crow’s head cane, so close their bodies were nearly touching.

“Just this one,” Inej replied, and gave a little tug on his mask to reveal his crooked half smile.

Inej drew in a breath as Kaz took one more step and she felt the brace of his body against her. She’d never say it, but she had ached for him all these weeks – so close to her, and yet so out of reach. To her delight, he leaned his cane against the wall and wrapped both gloved hands around her waist. She held on to his shoulders as he pressed against her, taking her lips, softly at first, and then with insistence.

Thank the Saints, Inej thought, not for the first time, and let herself melt into him.

She ran her hands up his shoulders and around his neck, crossing her wrists behind his head, and let him press her back against the wall. It was as if he was making up for lost time, and his touch drove her mad, in the best way possible. He parted her lips with his tongue, and a soft moan escaped her throat as his fingers twisted in the fabric of her vest.

“Gods, I’ve missed this,” Kaz rasped when they broke apart finally, lungs aching. His chest was heaving, breathless, as Inej dragged her fingers under the lapels of his jacket, over the hard muscle beneath, pulling him closer.

And she gasped as he dipped his head and pressed his lips to the soft bit of skin just below her ear, and she was ready to forget the world entirely when his teeth grazed her neck, his hands roaming her hips, except at the last minute, she remembered the time. While he cupped her ass, she slipped her fingers into his waistcoat pocket.

“Now,” she said, pulling back, suddenly. “We have to go now.”

“Did you just pick my pocket?” Kaz realized, a little dazed, as Inej replaced his pocket watch. But she was already soundlessly running for the docks.

The Wraith waited at Fifth Harbor, looking no worse for wear, as they scaled its sides in the dark and leapt aboard. Inej walked its decks in the moonlight, shining full beyond the tall masts. She knew that weeks in the water with no maintenance, the list of chores that needed to be taken care of had grown long. For one thing, the decks were covered in bird shit. There were sails that needed mending, hulls that needed shucked of their barnacles, cannons that needed cleaning. She at least needed to take stock of the work ahead, so she could quickly divvy up the load among her crew when the quarantine was lifted.

She could sense Kaz’s eyes on her, almost hungry since their exchange in the alley. And now that they had evaded the quarantine guards, she found she liked it. She gave him a provocative glance the next time she noticed his predatory gaze.

“You picked my pocket,” he repeated, slitting his eyes. His dark eyes in the silver moonlight made her heart skip. She turned to face him at the base of the mizzenmast.

“And whatever will you do about it, Brekker,” she challenged.

He tapped his cane against the wood of the deck three times.

“I have some ideas,” he rasped, a quirk of a smile on his lips, and Saints she wanted him to press up against her again.

It was as if he read her mind. He let his cane drop with a clatter as he took her in his arms, pressing her back against the wood of the mizzenmast, and she lifted onto her toes to hungrily take his lips with hers.

He wasn’t slow and methodical now. He was like a drowning man gasping his first breath of air. He was kissing her as much as he could, her lips, her cheeks, her throat, his hands digging into the back of her shirt, nearly lifting her off her toes. She brought her hands to either side of his face to hold him still, to kiss him deeper, to breathe in his scent like she hadn’t in weeks. Her Kaz. He wasn’t gone. He could fight his way out of any hole, no matter how black. And how she loved him for it.

One of his hands slid from her back, raking up her rib cage to cup her breast, and she gasped into his mouth as he kneaded it with his long fingers. There was warmth pooling between her legs, desire like a steady tide rising in her veins. She pressed her hips against his and found he was already hard. Her cheeks warmed. More, she needed more.

“I want you,” she gasped. She’d let go of his face, running her hands over his shoulders, as he left a train of kisses down her neck.

“You have no idea how much I want you,” he groaned. And it was all the permission she needed: she started pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat, his white shirt, tearing some, pushing her fingers through to his hot skin and muscles underneath.

He wasn’t running. He tore at her shirt, his lithe fingers dancing through buttonholes as her blouse fell open to him, and he bent his head, pulling at the center of her back, to bring his mouth to her cleavage.

“Take those damn gloves off,” she demanded, and, as he did, she threw off her shirt and the useless mask from her neck and undid the bindings that held in her breasts. Kaz’s shirt was still hanging open, his hair he’d finally worked hard to put in place now falling in his eyes, as he stepped back to her, running his bare hands up her back, over her neck, to caress her breast.

She nipped at his earlobe, raking her hands down his torso, to that fine line of hair at his beltline. And as he kissed her again and again, she undid the black leather belt. He drew back with in a sharp breath as she pushed past his wiry curls and wrapped her fingers around his hard length.

“Is this what you want?” he rasped, as she began to stroke him. He released a low breath and leaned a little harder against the mast at her back.

“I want everything,” she told him in a husky voice, and he looked at her with those half-starved black eyes, lips slightly parted, before slipping his own careful fingers into her leggings.

Her head fell back against the mast and she tightened her grip on his cock as she felt his clever lockpick fingers slid over her clit. Her breasts heaved with a deep sigh, and Kaz let out a stuttering breath when she did, his eyelids fluttering.

“Careful,” he groaned with a gasp. “I don’t know if I can – shit, Inej, really, you could end this too soon.”

“I want you to feel what you make me feel,” she breathed, slowing her strokes.

“But I don’t want this to end,” Kaz gritted out, and looped his spare hand around her wrist, pulling her hand back. And just as she was about to protest, he slid both hands beneath her leggings at her waist. He wanted her bare again, she realized, and she was desperate for release.

She helped him slid her leggings to the deck, and before she could wonder what he was going to do next, he knelt before her, one hand on either thigh. With his careful eyes watching her always, he took one of her legs over his shoulder, bringing his soft lips to kiss her folds.

His breath was hot against her, and Inej raised her arms over her head to grab the mast behind her to keep her knees from crumbling under her.

“Where did you learn this?” she gasped, her heart racing. She shivered as he ran a hand over her core and her navel, stroking her tense muscles.

“A magician never reveals his secrets,” Kaz mumbled against her cunt, and the harsh rasp of his voice sent a wave of pleasure through her.

“I have to know--” Inej could hardly finish her sentence as he stroked his tongue slowly up the strip of her pussy. She would know, but it certainly didn’t matter now. Her legs were giving out under her, and he wrapped his strong arms under her thighs as she held onto the mast, his hair, anything to ground her.

“Don’t stop,” she begged, and he certainly seemed to have no intention to. He used one thumb to caress her clit as he sucked and stroked her folds, and her whole body was alight at his touch. The tension was building low in her abdomen, and she couldn’t hardly believe this was happening right here on her own ship. She gazed down at her Kaz, his perceptive eyes trained on her, the eyes that saw her and saved her and endlessly loved her, and she brushed his hair back as she felt the wave of orgasm nearing.

The trapped girl she’d been in the Menagerie could never have dreamed this could be her life. The trapped girl in the Menagerie might have slept easier knowing this day was coming.

“Kaz,” she breathed out his name in a soft moan as she came, wave after wave of sensation rolling through her core. “Thank you,” she was whispering, again and again. “Thank you.”

She was catching her breath as he straightened himself to his feet, kissing her softly while she came down from her high. His belt buckle was still undone, and she ran her fingers around the bare skin at his waist.

“How did you learn how to do that?” she asked him as she looked up at him, dreamily. He just shook his head with that sneaking, crooked smile. Well, fine. She could get him to talk.

She looped her hands through his belt and turned him so that his back now pressed against the mast, and then dropped to her knees.

“Fuck,” she heard Kaz whisper, and she quickly undid his trousers, dropping them to his ankles.

She’d seen him naked many times before, but this was the first time she’d decided to do something about it. His length stiffened just from her proximity, and when she glanced up at him, he looked like he was hardly daring to breathe.

She slowly brought the tip to her lips. Kaz drew in a breath.

“Tell me where you learned how to do that thing with your mouth,” she whispered with a smirk.

“Oh, that’s how this is going to be?” Kaz looked confident, but she saw how he already gripped the mast behind him. She dragged her tongue up his length, and he cursed again.

“You should tell me.”

“Holy fuck, Inej.”

This was going to be fun. Inej wrapped her lips around him, and he let out a low sound she’d never heard from him before. She worked her mouth up and down his length, relishing the pleasure she brought him, how she could turn this dangerous man into a gasping mess.

His thighs were already tensing as he struggled to hold himself upright. He’d been right; this wasn’t going to last long. He’d leaned his head back against the mast, chest heaving, and once he looked like he was going to cry out something, but instead he came with a grunt and a shudder, his fingers curling in her hair. She swallowed the heat that filled her throat, watching him quake and moan as she did, and only then did she release him.

“Nina told me.” Kaz was gasping, eyelashes fluttering as Inej stood up. “I wrote Nina for advice, and she told me about the thing I could do with my mouth. Holy shit, Inej.”

“You wrote Nina?” Inej wasn’t sure if she should be horrified or laugh. “I wrote Nina.”

Kaz opened his eyes at last, looking unconcerned.

“Well, I wasn’t about to ask Jesper for advice. And Wylan’s never even seen a vagina.”

“We will never hear the end of this.”

“She’ll raise us from the dead just to talk about it again.”

Inej thought for a moment before concluding: “Worth it.”

And because they were bored of The Slat, they curled up for the night in Inej’s captain’s quarters, the full moon filling the porthole window and lighting up the night. Sometime in the night, Inej awoke, caught a glimpse of the sea from the window, and poked Kaz in the side until he woke up.

KAZ

“What is it?” he whispered.

“The sea,” she told him.

He wanted to whine. He rarely slept soundly, and had she really just woke him up to look at the damn sea?

Of course she had.

She brought him above deck and shimmied down the ropes to The Wraith’s rowboat, gesturing for him to follow. Kaz felt like he was moving through a dream, but even in dreams, he would follow his girl to the end of the world.

She took the oars of the boat and told him to lie down in the center of the little craft. Kaz gave a relinquished sigh and did as he was told, letting her row them out into the dark harbor, slipping past guards’ watch lanterns, and out into the still waters of the open sea.

He’d long past given up on worrying about Inej’s decisions. If there was a reason she wanted them out in open waters in the middle of the night, it had to be a good one. He closed his eyes and listened to the lapping of the water, willing back old memories and thinking of Inej. His sea captain. He wouldn’t fall to the waters as long as she had him.

Eventually, she stopped rowing, dropped an anchor, and came to lie beside him in the center of the boat.

“It seems like I’m supposed to understand what’s happening,” Kaz said, their shoulders next to each other.

“I wanted you to have a new memory,” Inej said. “Just be still and look around.”

And Kaz raised himself up onto his elbows to look at the sea around him. It was at that moment he understood her love of the sea.

The black sky wrapped around them as far as the eye could reach, glittering with countless stars from horizon to horizon. The surface of the water stretched out all around, a perfect mirror of the sparkling lights in the heavens. Kaz drew in a breath in wonder, suddenly without words. If there was ever magic in the world, this was it.

He looked down at Inej, her hands under her head, as she gazed up at the sky, the picture of contentment.

“Maybe now you’ll think of this, too, when you remember the firepox,” she said, as she gazed softly up at him.

He would. Oh, he would.

He bent over, cupping her cheek, and kissed her fully. His girl. His Inej. His magic. His whole heart. She turned to him on her side, wrapping her arms around his waist, pressing her breasts against his chest, unbound beneath her thin shirt. Desire coursed through him as he felt the puckered drag of her nipples across his body. His fingers slid through her loose hair, deepening the kiss, and blood rushed to his cock for the second time that night. What surprised him more was her hand dipping down, pressing against it through his trousers, as if she could coax it out.

“Again?” he wondered aloud, and kicked himself for it immediately. But Inej smiled against his lips and touched her nose to his.

“Better memories,” she whispered.

She slipped off her leggings while giving him a pointed glance at his tented trousers. It took a moment to understand her meaning. She wanted him to take them off.

He slid out of his trousers and then the rest of his clothes as Inej did the same, the cool night air brushing against her nipples and hardening them. He wanted to lose himself in them again, kiss them and taste them and –

Just as he was imagining the many things he was about to do to her breasts, Inej pushed him down again onto his back at the center of the rowboat. Slowly, she crawled on top of him, and his cock throbbed, begging, pleading.

This had to be a dream. Surely this was a dream. He only ever had dreams this good.

But the sigh she let out when their bodies connected was very real. And her tight heat sliding over his cock had never felt so good in his sleep. She guided herself down slowly, her hands on his torso, and Kaz released a shaky moan.

He’d convinced himself for years that this was impossible. The angry monster he’d been had locked every fantasy of this away. The broken boy he’d been was sure he’d never deserve this.

Here he was anyway.

Inej rocked over his length above him, taking her time, leaving slow, languid kisses on his mouth. He fitted his hand to the curve of her waist, her long hair brushing over his fingers. The desperation he’d felt on the decks of the ship had passed, and now he could float among the stars, his mind blank, giving his body wholly to the girl who loved him.

Every grim eventuality Kaz had conjured in his mind about the future seemed to dissipate there beneath the stars. He could be wrong. They would have time. They could live like this for years. There was nothing in their way. He had time. He had time.

When Inej quickened her pace, she was as slippery and wet as a minnow, and soon Kaz couldn't help writhing beneath her, arching, exulting, her name on his lips, his heart in her hands. He loved her; he’d love her til the end of time, and he said so, and he was nothing if not true to his word. And when he crumbled beneath her, he was unaware of anything but her her her, and when the wave subsided, there were stars all around her.

She kissed him again and again before lying beside him and mussing up his disheveled hair, grinning up at him with eyes that glittered in starlight.

“That was unexpected,” he panted, and looked over at her. “You’re not worried about – you know--” He gestured at her womb, fumbling for words.

“Nina told me how to prevent it, don’t worry.” Inej was breathing hard, too.

“We have got to stop talking about Nina when we’re naked. It’s getting weird.”

“Agreed.”

And though they knew they’d have to return to the ship before first light, Kaz tucked her close to his body anyway, tracing her curves with his fingertips, watching the stars above them. As he did, he thought of the future once more, only this time, he didn’t see death.

He saw an expanse as limitless as the infinite, starry horizon, as open to him as the sea.

#six of crows #soc #crooked kingdom #kanej #kanej fanfic #smut #kanej smut #fanfic #fanfiction #kaz brekker #inej ghafa #kaz x inej #kaz brekker x inej ghafa

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rametarin · 3 years

Text

‘Super Straight’ is a terrible thing.

It fails conceptually to convey the argument it’s trying to make, and as a result, it serves as having the same sociological vulnerability in the discourse that, “reverse-racism” had back in the day.

The entire concept of reverse racism came about because for a brief window there, the radicals had groomed the shallow liberals into more and more extreme in what counted as racism, whom the term applied to.

So eventually, someone complained and argued they were being focus fired and their motives questioned, not because of the outcomes or their intentions in doing it, but because they were being accused and attacked for being white. And that was, “reverse racism.” The discourse of the era really hammered down on racism, but always using language, much like how domestic violence would always gender the abuser as he and the victim as she, that incriminated the white people of racism and bigotry and prejudice, never using examples of a black, or Asian, or indigenous American, as the perpetrator of racism.

This deliberate shaping of the discourse from people above was obvious. But, they also pretended, while deliberately using examples and terms of white bigotry and prejudice against other groups, that racism was just racism. That universally, racism was a problem, and the phenomenon was just bigotry and prejudice based on race.

You needed asterisks and clarification and to actually ASK whether that applied to people that weren’t white, and people either were afraid to ask, or if they asked, they were ignored, or if they demanded an answer and determination, were brushed off. Because it became obvious SOME so-called “progressives” believed racism was exclusively the phenomenon of white oppression against non-whites.

And if you pressed further and harder for clarification instead of “just putting the pieces together yourself” and taking your conclusions for granted, without questioning or making trouble, sometimes you’d get the liberal definition and sometimes a radical feminist would give you the real definition. Depending on if they felt they were in a place of impunity where there’s nothing you could do about it whether you knew or not, or they trusted you and believed you were on their wavelength.

If someone naturally concluded, by reading the room and seeing the examples in action, just coming to the conclusion themselves that racism was only considered racism when levied BY whites DOWN on black people, Asians, indigenous people, etc., then they’d say, “You’re just picking on me/antagonizing me for this because I’m white!! That’s racism!”

It’s at this point the radicals, if they were feeling bold and empowered- and many times, they were. Because they select and choose their social battles wisely, would pipe up:

“It’s not racism. You don’t get to say it’s racism. There’s nothing racist about trying to change a racist society by advocating this.” When, yeah, if you antagonize and harass and overindulge in haranguing the shit out of people in little Struggle Sessions, embellishing the offense caused by the background of a person, not based on the crime committed, you are being a racist shithead. It is racism to consider the background of the person that did the crime as to whether the crime was especially heinous, or not.

“FINE,” said the person being accused, “Then it’s reverse-racist!”

And it was. They’d been called out. The early Intersectional Feminists that belied something was exclusively and only ever racism when it was either white individuals or white society levied down on black, Asian or Indigenous People of Color, knew that something was happening. People were becoming aware that this discrimination was coming for white people, in specific and exclusion of anyone else. And while they were absorbing the sentiment in the void of actually indoctrinating them in plain english, they were rejecting it and created a word for their rejection.

Rejecting the idea racism was only racism when and if it was specifically BY a white person, TOWARDS anybody else.

Then came Liberal Progressive Damage Control.

The Liberal and Radical Progressive both said, in unison:

“There’s no such thing as reverse racism.”

The Liberal then clarified: “Racism is simply the phenomenon of racial discrimination and prejudice and bigotry, levied BY anybody on the basis of race, TOWARDS anybody on the basis of race! It applies to everybody equally!”

And they had to. Because these people’s reputations and ability to infiltrate and influence live or die based on how well other people are willing to tolerate them preaching their social doctrines. If their messages are rejected, they can’t control them.

The Radical Progressive/Feminist, however, maintained: “Racism is purely the phenomenon of white people or white society oppressing or discriminating detrimentally towards someone for being black, or Asian, or indigenous non-white. A non-white person cannot be racist, and a white person cannot experience racism.”

But the radical that said and believed that in the 80s and 90s, slunk away to the halls of academia. And they kept quiet, while liberal progressives breadcrumbed the people closer to university, where they’d have to pay to be steered further along in their, “social development.”

But the radical definition was always going to be the end-game for them. Liberal anti-racism was, in their eyes, just a step towards advancing society towards their radicalism. Not about actually ending racial discrimination and equality on a civic level, irrespective of race.

So. ‘Reverse Racism’ became a faux talking point, where liberal progressives would take this term, act as if it was a misconception purely born of overcompensating and insecure white people, and then speak as if the truth was, “it’s not reverse racism.. It’s just racism! Reverse racism doesn’t exist.”

Wholly ignoring the fact that people had experienced this nameless phenomenon of supposedly anti-racist people being intolerant or accusative towards those that had never committed any actual racism or bigotry, but were being singled out, focus fired and made public example of by their peers. They were experiencing SOME form of racial intolerance that treated them as if they were either perpetraotrs of racism by action, or by their background. Which is no different from expecting that a black person, just by being black, has either committed crimes like theft and assault, or will, because they’re black.

It was just generally accepted that if white people could be guilty of racism, then so could anyone else. Liberal progressivism, much the same way as they dissent when hate crime legislation is used to punish people for attacking white people on the basis of their race, “because those laws are meant to protect at risk minorities from white oppression,” didn’t like it. But, they had to maintain the illusion of impartiality and benignity. And so, they smiled and nodded and approved of the idea that racism was able to be applied universally to and by anyone. Even if, internally, they disagreed.

And so, they spun the discourse that had introduced “reverse-racism” purely as something insecure white people made up to squeal bloody murder about if they were getting called out heavy handedly or they felt unfairly for perpetrating racism. Speaking as if it only existed as a blubbering cope against the mean ole people that, “just liked equality and fairness and justice.”

Do you see how the evolution of this term and its perception shifted throughout the course of this story? How it came about, how it was created and why, how it was received and responded to, and ultimately what it became?

They took a word and concept used to define the outrage of the heavy handedness and made it into a point of mockery and profiled those most likely to use it as people like Rush Limbaugh.

After that, they used it as a tool of assumed intent and mockery if a situation ever arose in which a white person was talking about a situation in which they felt like the other person was being short or dismissive of them, and their assumed intentions, because of their race.

“Ohh? Am I being ‘reverse racist’ at you? Awwwww. Waaaaaaah. There’s no such thing as reverse racism. Cry harder.”

etc.

No one even had to accuse someone of it. But if you tried to explain the very real and very probable phenomenon where a person was treating you like shit or assuming the worst of your intentions on the basis of you being a white person doing it, and you attested the other person was discriminating against you racially for it, they whipped that out as if just by anticipating you were about to say it, you fit the profile of someone that was guilty of it and just trying to feel oppressed and outraged.

I see this exact outcome happening with the term, ‘Super Straight.’ Only, rather than the subject being racism and race discourse, it’s transgenderism and social constructionism.

And to be honest, it feels like this was surgically implanted into 4channer boards and perpetuated to make it LOOK like a “neckbeard altright dudebro” meme. The fact many are perpetuating it doesn’t help, but it feels... ingenuine.

It almost feels like those fake egg accounts on twitter and other social media that supposedly sent Sarkesian and Zoe Quinn that hate. And those 4chan posts that they oopsied over posting, revealing it was them giving themselves anon-hate and trying to get the mob to attack them just for victim clout points.

Super Straight as a concept and a joke feels like weaponized, “It’s Okay To Be White,” but put into 4channer mouth specifically to then use against them.

First, Super Straight cedes the idea that being straight includes any context in which a cishet man wants to suck a penis. It goes, “Okay, we will accept being straight includes sucking the penis of transwomen and seeing them as women sexually, so obviously to be SUPER STRAIGHT means to not do that!” Inherently doing that, you admit defeat and bow to social constructionism that says to be a man or woman is purely gender, and sexuality hinges upon gender, not sex. To be Super Straight creates a new definition that says straight isn’t exclusive to cishetero, but Super Straight is.

If you wanted to mock their expectation that all gender not just shift its definitions to make room to validate and legitimize the trans, but redefine sexuality and gender itself to make both cis and trans equally validly male and female with absolutely no credence or relevance paid to biology or chromosomes whatsoever, then this is not the way to do it. It’s not clever, it’s not succinct, it doesn’t force them into a logical or linguistic dead-end.

The argument put forwards by those giggling about, “super straight,” is that a cishetero person, in this case, a man, won’t be attracted to a transwoman, and creating a word to make that a valid thing is no different than using words to validate other things. Such as, “Grey ace demiguy.” Trying to use the same system of assumed validation for sex and gender against itself, without the tangential institutional control in place in academia, just doesn’t work. For it to work you have to assume whatever absolutism coming out from on high from the academic class can be respected equally without coming from that academic class, whom insist they define standards and norms, now.

Instead, they should be arguing for something like, “Cis-orientation.” If a homosexual is a term for a valid sexuality where a person is not attracted to the opposite sex, be they male or female, and that’s not considered, “heterophobia,” and arbitrarily acceptable just.. because... then obviously there’s SOMETHING that makes sexual attraction to the same sex valid, but sexual attraction to only someone of the opposite sex regardless of their gender somehow invalid and a phobia.

Yet, these people will defend homosexuality as valid, while arguing to not want to see transgendered people as viable candidates for romance or sex are transphobes.

They miraculously will not insist a lesbian just has, “phallophobia” or “cisphobia” if she won’t even at least ATTEMPT to, “get used” to it. They will acknowledge to be gay is simply to be unchangable oriented how they are, and they should not try and make them straight.

But bizarrely they WILL expect a lesbian to suck girldick, as, “that’s a female. You’re a lesbian, you like girls, so you should consider sucking female penis.”

Lysenkoism but for socio-sexual theory. That you can use words and self-identification to ignore or bypass someone’s sexuality. And it’s, “totally not -phobia or oppression, because it’s not being used to hurt a minority and you can’t oppress the majority.”

If there was any genuine interest in the rights and fairness and equality for the respect of people based on their gender orientation and sexuality, they would not be so queer-centrist in execution.

Instead, they would recognize that they cannot just redefne the universal words of man, woman, gay and straight, to suit an agenda that treats there as being no distinction between a trans or cis person. We simply cannot have that, unless of course the intention is to invalidate the biology of all parties involved, and remove the material, physical components for consideration.

That would mean devolving all gender and sex and orientation merely to arbitrary classes, which are imagined, not real. That would mean there being no difference between thinking you can forcibly convert someone’s sexuality from gay to straight, or straight to gay, as those things no longer would be considered to be concrete based on indivisible aspects of your biology and self, merely attitude and beliefs.

Not only would it do that, but it’d insist that chromosomes and reproductive role are arbitrary and absolutely detatched from a person’s identity, no different than assuming their blood type or astrological sign was attached to their gender.

This is quite literal denial of science and physical reality in the name of ideology. This isn’t trans rights, it’s masquerading as such. And keeping very tight lipped about anything outside the purview and real meaning behind how they’re selling their model of trans rights.

For Super Straight to be a recognizable talking point, it basically just creates a sacrificial lamb. Something that any social constructionist can attack in effigy and then say, “Well I’ve already debunked the popular idea that ‘super straightness’ exists, so stop clinging to the idea a cishetero person that DOESN’T date trans people is anything other than a bigot.”

Something they can “totally PWN with LOGIC and REASON”, broadcast how they’ve “defeated” the argument that a straight man would not suck a penis, no matter how much glitter and perfume on it, and invalidate any suggestion to the contrary by saying it has already been thoroughly debunked so they’re just going to yell “KUNG POW PENIS LOL” until their opposition gets bored and leaves.

I can’t help but feel like the whole concept was deliberately constructed allegedly by their ideological opponents in order to perform smugness and superiority over them.

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